Page 5

Man, he must really want one of the ladies he’d seen disembark from that plane. After working with Shaw for over a year, he knew his type. Shaw liked the soft types, the ones with curves and a certain look in their eyes. The first woman they’d ever shared had been a buxom brunette with curvy thighs, and an innocent beauty that pulled them all in.

With that thought fixed in mind, Dylan could guess which woman Shaw planned to fight for.

And she already belonged to Dylan.

Or rather, she was assigned to him.

When the lights came up, he tried to catch Shaw’s gaze again, but his buddy wasn’t looking his way.

The distinct click of the microphone turning on for the announcer had Dylan leaning forward in his plush leather seat. If he was going to beat out the others, he had to be quick on the draw.

Five generations of cowboys filled his family tree to the top branches. His ancestors were rough and rugged. They’d kill a man for stealing cattle back in the old days, but he didn’t have any need to be so primal, unless it was on the back of a bull.

His belt buckle was proof of his talent in sticking to the back of a bull for eight full seconds. Competing as a professional bull rider had earned him a lot of notoriety and more than a little confidence in his skill.

He had no doubt of his instincts when it came to women either.

The announcer’s voice flooded through the loudspeakers. As soon as the client walked onto the stage, Dylan’s cock stirred with arousal. She really was stunning.

Shaw struck his button.

Damn. Dylan had missed his chance. He slammed his palm over the button too, as did several men seated in the row.

Shaw hit his over and over again.

A loud laugh echoed through the auditorium, the announcer’s amusement clear. “Guys! You hardly let me get her name out before you hit those buttons! This is an eager bunch, Ms. Sloane. And it looks like Dylan was fastest on the draw this time. Dylan, if you’ll come up and escort your lady offstage…”

Shaw punched the button with a violent crack, loud enough to break it. Every Boot Knocker turned to look at him. Ignoring them all, he shot to his feet and stalked to the stage.

What the hell?

Dylan exploded out of his seat and jogged after him, catching him before he reached the steps leading onstage.

“Shaw. Shaw! Stop. What the fuck, man?”

His fellow Boot Knocker never even glanced his way. His gaze was locked on Sloane. He set a boot on the bottom step.

Dylan gripped him by the shoulder, holding him in place. “What do you think you’re doing? I won her.”

Green and gold eyes sliced his way. “My button was broken.”

Pitching his voice low, Dylan tried to talk sense to his friend. “What’s going on? You never act like this. Is it part of the act?”

“No act. I want her.”

Sticking out an arm, he yanked Shaw backward, and though he topped Dylan by a couple inches, he dragged him away from the stage. “What the hell’s come over you, man? She isn’t yours. You’re on the dry spell this week.”

Shaw brought his fist to his forehead. The gesture knotted Dylan’s stomach.

“My button was broken. They won’t let me have her. Fuck!”

“Look, I don’t know why you were sidelined this round, but you were. Your attitude isn’t helping your case right now.”

Shaw started toward the stage once more. Dylan issued a low growl and threw himself between him and the steps. Times like this he saw the fighter in Shaw, the guy who dropped his stick on the ice, threw down his gloves and went for his opponent.

“Back off, Sheridan. I admire your determination, but go back to the lodge. Have a drink and settle the fuck down.”

Sheridan jerked his gaze off the stage—off Sloane, who was still standing there alone and probably confused as hell. His stare landed on Dylan’s. Chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides, he gave Dylan the impression he planned to win this round no matter what.