Never the Twain by Judith B. Glad

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What do an archaeologist from Back East and a cowboy from the empty corner of Oregon have in common? Not much, except the waterhole that Rock McConnell needs for his cattle and Genny Forsythe must approve. First she has to make sure there are no prehistoric petroglyphs near the site, and that could take months of study. Now Rock isn't against preserving the past, but his cattle are gettin' mighty thirsty. Genny's youthful dreams were filled with cowboys, tall, lean, laconic, and Levi'd. Rock is all of them rolled into one gorgeous, virile man. Trouble is, she's had her fill of dominant males, and Rock is about as dominant as they come. Rock knows that delicate, feminine women can't last in the harsh environment of Owyhee Country, pretty women like Genny, with silvery hair and painted fingernails. But his body sings another tune, one of immediate, demanding hunger for her kisses--and more. Love will not be denied. Someone's got to bend, but who, and how much?

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Genny's pointing finger reminded him of another woman who'd worn pink polish and had smelled like tropical flowers. She had no business trying to pretend she could adapt to Owyhee Country. The only women who survived out here were tough, with no time for paintin' and prettyin' up. The weak and fragile ones didn't last, like she wouldn't, as soon as she saw how hard life could be out here.

Why did he have a vision of delicate bitterroot flowers blooming in the desert pavement?

Genny couldn't put her finger on just when he tightened up. They'd been getting along so well, laughing and joking together. Then he'd started to withdraw, until finally he was barricaded behind a wall of angry iciness.

The farther he withdrew, the harder she tried to pull him close.

So she flirted.

God help her, Genille Enderby Forsythe flirted! She batted her big brown eyes and pursed her pink little mouth. She waggled her bottom at him in a shameless manner. She even contrived to brush her breasts against his elbow as they walked.

Despite generations of New England restraint bred in her bones, Genny behaved worse than the most brazen hussy in a nineteenth century dance hall. She removed her shirt, ignoring the goosebumps as the still chilly May breeze hit her bare arms. Had he noticed the effect that same breeze had on her nipples, not at all concealed under the light knit tank top?

He had!

His glare grew as hot as it had been cold an instant before. Before she knew it, Genny was captured in the vise of his arms, wedged between unyielding barn siding and an equally hard body.

"Teasing bitch."

One hand caught her chin, forcing it up, while the other cupped herbottom in the most outrageous ... the most lascivious ... the most...

His mouth slanted over hers and his tongue demanded entrance. Genny met him with equal desire, pulling him within her mouth until her lips felt bruised against the sharpness of his teeth. Eyes open, she watched his face darken, shared the contagion of his desire.

He tasted of coffee; he smelled of sagebrush. The two blended and mingled, filling her mouth and her nostrils with his essence. Probing, sipping, gulping, and seeking, his tongue explored her mouth while his hands roamed over her body. Fleeting pressures on her buttocks, on the sides of her breasts, on shoulder blades and spine left a trail of heat that spread inward until her whole body ignited spontaneously.

"Soft. So soft, like silk," he murmured against her mouth. "I've wanted my hands on you ever since..."