“Just a wild guess.” He smiled, a slow and sensual turn of his mouth. “We’re also going to place a little side bet.”

“You don’t think I have a chance of winning do you?”

“Nope.”

He was probably right. “What’s the side bet?”

Dylan leaned his gun against the booth. Then, without a word, he stepped behind her and positioned her gun against her shoulder. He placed his warm hand over hers and positioned his finger over the trigger. “Now squeeze the trigger,” he said next to her right ear. She did and the BB hit the tarp behind the first squirrel. He folded her within the warmth of his solid chest, and the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as she fired again. The shot hit a bushy-tailed target happily munching on an acorn. “The secret to a steady shot is knowing how to handle a loaded weapon,” he said just above a whisper as he cocked the gun for her. “It takes a smooth motion of the wrist… and a slow, firm squeeze of the trigger.” The third shot hit the third squirrel with a loud ping that sent Hope’s nerves pinging through her body. “You look like a girl who’d be good at nice, smooth strokes and a firm squeeze.” The fourth target fell, and then the last. “Are you, Hope?”

Hope glanced at the carnie standing several feet away. He was watching them, but he couldn’t hear anything. She chose to ignore Dylan’s question, but that didn’t keep her insides from heating up and her nerves getting jumpy. She looked up into Dylan’s face and asked, “What’s the side bet?”

He stared into her eyes for a moment and then lowered his mouth closer to her ear. “When I win,” he said, “I get to lick you up like you’re ice cream.”

His breath on her ear warmed the side of her throat. “What happens if I win?”

He didn’t answer right away, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility. “You won’t.”

“What if I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

She tried to think of something to lighten the sexual tension, but her words came out sounding more sensual than she’d planned. “Like I could order you to come over and mow my yard?”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Naked,” she added.

“Naked is good. Take out the part about mowing your yard and I just might let you win.” He brushed her arm with his hot palm and thought for a moment. “Nah, I like mine better. Maybe you should admit defeat right now and save yourself some embarrassment.”

“Do I have a choice?”

He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Hope, you always have a choice. I’d never make you do anything you don’t want to do. What’s the fun in that?”

She believed him. “I get to go first.”

He picked up his BB gun and handed it to her.

She waited until Neville had reset the targets. Under Dylan’s watchful eyes, she shot two of the five squirrels. “That was pretty good,” she said, proud of herself.

Dylan laughed, three low “huh-huh-huhs.” Then he raised his BB gun, squinted down the barrel, and knocked out all five targets in less than five seconds. He had that smooth squeeze motion down real good, an obvious expert at handling loaded weapons.

“I think I’ve been set up,” she said.

“You never stood a chance, city girl. I got my first BB gun when I was about four years old.” He lowered the barrel. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. All or nothing, and in the next round, you only have to hit three, but I have to hit every shot to win.”

“You’re on.” As soon as the squirrels were once again standing, she took aim.

“Look down the sites.” Neville stepped forward to advise her.

Dylan turned a narrow gaze on the carnie, and Neville went back to his position at the side of the booth. At the end of the barrel, she noticed what Neville was talking about. She lined it up on a squirrel with a green bow tie. “Take that,” she said as the target fell. She missed the next two targets, but hit the fourth. She sited the last squirrel, wearing a pair of pink pumps. “I’m going to nail her good.”

“Now, there’s an interesting choice of words.”

She glanced over at Dylan, then back at the squirrel. “Don’t think you can distract me.”

“I’m not”-he paused to lower his voice a fraction-“but if I were trying, I’d probably just come right out and tell you I’m wondering about the color of your panties again.”

She shook her head. “Not even your juvenile attempt to distract me is going to work.” She hit the target, then blew on the end of the barrel as if there were smoke coming out. “Worried, Sheriff?”

“Honey,” he drawled as he shot and hit the first squirrel, “you’ve got me shakin‘ in my boots.”

Hope decided it was time to do a little distracting of her own. She leaned her behind against the edge of the booth and crossed her legs. Her beige skirt slid up her thighs, and she ran her gaze from his big belt buckle up his chest to his face. “Why don’t you tell me again how to handle a loaded weapon?” She licked her lips and lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “Tell me about that smooth stroke and gentle squeeze.”

He shot and the second target fell. “It was ‘firm squeeze.’” The third squirrel went down and Hope straightened. “There’s a difference.”

“Pink,” she said, loud enough for his ears only.

He cocked the gun and looked across his shoulder at her. “Pink?”

“My panties are pink.” She raised a seductive brow. “Silky pink with little red chili peppers and the words ‘Warning: Hot Stuff ’ embroidered on the front.”

His gaze dropped to her crotch. “Really?”

No, not really. “Yeah.”

Ping. Ping. Ping. The rest of the targets fell and Dylan leaned the gun against the booth. “Well, look at that. I guess I win.”

Neville offered Dylan his choice of a rubber chicken, an assorted selection of fake vomit, a Corvette mirror, or a plastic hard hat that held a beer on each side. Dylan took the hat and placed it on her head. “For your next twofer night,” he said.

It was the first time in Hope’s life a man had given her a cheap carnival prize. The gesture touched her more than it should have, which she supposed was just one more reflection on her life. It was a pretty sad commentary when a beer helmet could make a woman feel sort of weepy.

“Time to choose,” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back. They stepped away from the light of the booth and were wrapped up in the rapidly falling darkness. “No more games, Hope,” he said as they walked away the carnival booths. “I either take you to your home or take you home with me. If I take you home with me, I’m taking you to my bed.” They moved in the opposite direction of couples heading toward the edge of the lake, where the town would shoot off fireworks. “I doubt you’ll get much sleep,” he added.

“I rode here with Paul and Shelly.”

“I know.” He stopped at the entrance to the parking lot, giving her time to make her decision. “I already told them I’d take you home.”

“When did you do that?”

“When I first got here.”

She gazed into Dylan’s dark face. Could she go through with it? Could she spend a night with him and feel good about herself in the morning? “Were you that sure of yourself?”

He shook his head. “No. I was hoping you’d let me sweet-talk you out of your clothes, but I wasn’t sure of anything. I’m still not.” His hand moved from her back to her bare shoulder. “I wasn’t planning on coming here today. I wasn’t planning on coming back to town for a couple more weeks.”

Could she? Could she get past all the emotions and treat an affair like men did? Could she be a man?

“Remember when you asked me if I have an uncontrollable desire?” he asked, sliding his palm down her arm to squeeze her hand. “Well, I do. I have an uncontrollable desire for you.”

Yes, she could, and the last of her pitiful restraint melted right there in the middle of the Idaho wilderness. Right there in her fake tattoo and beer helmet. “Okay,” she whispered. “I want to go home with you.”

“Thank you, God,” he whispered back.

She thought he might kiss her. A romantic little kiss under the moon and the stars, but he didn’t. Instead, he about jerked her out of her sandals. They walked through rows of cars, station wagons, and Jeeps. He pulled her behind him until they reached the passenger side of a dark blue truck. Opening the door, he practically shoved her inside. In under a minute, he had fired up the engine, shoved the truck into drive, and they were heading away from the grange. Complete darkness filled the cab, and only the weak dash lights illuminated the bottom half of Dylan’s face. Hope looked across the bench seat at his profile. He stared straight ahead, deadly serious about something.

He had a death grip on the steering wheel, and she wondered if he was having second thoughts.

“Dylan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you staring straight ahead?”

“I’m just sitting over here trying to keep the truck on the road, but it’s damn difficult because I keep thinking about sliding my hand down your panties.” He glanced at her, then turned his attention back to the black highway. “I don’t want to pull over and jump on you before we make it home.”

She laughed and he shook his head. “It’s not funny,” he said.

“Maybe you should recite something in your head.”

“I’ve tried that. It never works.”

“I’ll help you.” Hope tossed her helmet on the floor and slid across the seat. “Let’s try something that isn’t sexual.” She rose to her knees beside him. “Like, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation.’ ” She tossed his cowboy hat next to her helmet, then tugged at the front of his shirt, popping the snaps one at a time until the shirt lay open. She slipped her hand inside, and he sucked in a breath. His muscles flexed and turned hard beneath her touch. “ ‘Conceived in liberty. Dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.’ ” She ran her finger through the short hair on his chest. Abraham Lincoln had been wrong. Not all men were created equal. Some just possessed more. More than charm and good looks, they had that certain elusive something. Whatever it was, Dylan had more than his share.