When the deejay’s speaker set crashed to the floor as the first women to arrive rushed the tables nearest the stage, Tara Toomey scrambled for a replacement and chalked the mishap up to high spirits.

When one of the volunteers carrying a tray of Jell-O shots tripped, and cherry and lime gelatin slid in glistening trails down his face and naked chest, she laughed as eager women offered to lick him clean.

However, it wasn’t until one of her staff whispered in her ear that she knew she was in for a long night. The main attraction had yet to arrive.

She crushed her dog-eared copy of the “Hook-Up” program in her fist and headed toward the old-fashioned, double swinging doors, ready to stomp all the way to Redbone Ranch to drag his butt to town.

As she passed excited, tittering women, her smile felt strained, and her nerves stretched taut. The “Annual Honkytonk Hook- Up” had always been a good time, but this year she wished she hadn’t been so quick to volunteer her bar again. Sure, it was good for business, and many of the “blow-ins” from Houston, San Antonio, and San Angelo returned throughout the year because they enjoyed the event and Honkytonk’s authentic Western ambience.

But Tara wished she could return home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. The last thing she felt ready to do was watch one particular cowboy strut his stuff across the stage and land in some other woman’s clutches—even if it was just one night, completely innocent—right—and for a really good cause. The fact he might blow off the auction pissed her off almost as much as the thought of the spectacle he’d cause if he did finally make an entrance.

If anyone thought splintered speaker casings or a little spilled Jell-O were trouble, they hadn’t seen a roomful of women erupt in the wake of one seriously sexy cowboy.

The thought soured her stomach. Still, she had a part to play in tonight’s festivities. Everyone seemed to think it was her job to make sure that cowboy showed up because she was one of the few true friends he had. And after all, his picture in the auction advertisement had been the big pull.

Too many gussied-up women crowded the entrance to the bar, and the line wrapped twice around the narrow foyer. Not that anyone complained about the wait as bare-chested men wearing tight jeans, cowboy hats, and wicked smiles carried more trays laden with drinks down the long line.

Rather than wade through the cloud of perfume when all her “polite” was gone, Tara swept past the sign-in tables where volunteers busily took the women’s cash and handed out programs, shiny Mardi Gras beads, and wooden bidding paddles.

The combined scent of expensive perfumes made Tara’s nose twitch, so she pivoted on her heel and stomped toward the side entrance, reminded again about the cause of her agitation.

Perfume was like doe piss to this horned buck—irresistible bait. So where the hell was he?

“He’s late!” a high-pitched voice squeaked behind her.

Tara didn’t even bother trying to pretend she didn’t know who “he” was, or that she didn’t know he hadn’t shown. Any woman with an ounce of estrogen in her veins would feel the tingle the moment the cowboy sauntered into the room.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Tara muttered, pausing at the door to shoot a glance over her shoulder.

Meaghan Garrity, the event’s “man wrangler,” trotted toward her, her anxious gaze rising over the top of the clipboard she clutched to her chest. Spots of hectic color glazed each pale cheek. Her long red hair escaped the untidy knot at the top of her head in long, curling tendrils. “Didn’t you tell him he was second on the program? We can’t start until he gets here.”

“He’ll be here,” Tara bit out and then forced a smile. No use getting Meaghan more nervous than she already was. He wouldn’t stand them all up, would he?

Even as she said it, her stomach churned. There was only one thing that would keep the cowboy from his adoring fans— an easier fish to land—one he didn’t even have to bother moving his adorable tail to find.

Tara wondered what her name was, and the image of a beauty with her head snatched bald flashed through her mind. But she pasted on a smile to reassure her friend, while inside her anger began a slow, hot boil.

Leave it to Cody Westhofen to keep three hundred intoxicated women waitin’ on his sweet ass. Does the man think his sex appeal will forgive all sins?

Tara carefully ignored the little voice inside her that screamed an emphatic “Yes!” Instead she murmured, “Think that man would miss a chance at addin’ a hundred more numbers to his little black book?” Although she began the statement as a joke, anger scraped a sharper edge toward the end.

Tara caught herself before she began a rant, afraid Meaghan, whom she’d known since kindergarten, would wonder why one slow-as-molasses cowboy could get under her skin. After all, Tara was known for her ready smile and even temper, but especially her cowboy-proof armor.

She shoved her crumpled program into Meaghan’s hand. “Um... I’ll check outside and see what’s keepin’ him.”

“Or who! Better check backseats!” Meaghan whispered loudly. “That man can’t take a step without trippin’ over a droolin’ woman.”

With a wry twist of her lips, Tara pushed open the glass door to step out into the parking lot.

Outside, stars twinkled above the spotlight that illuminated the gravel lot overflowing with cars, SUVs, and pickup trucks. More vehicles lined the road leading to the bar for as far as she could see. Luckily the southerly wind that had whipped up the stink from the stockyards earlier had changed course. Although a little humid, the air was sweet and cool.

Muffled music and laughter sounded from the building behind her, but for a moment, a peaceful calm surrounded her. Tara closed her eyes and dragged in a deep breath, sure this would be the last time she’d get a chance to relax tonight.

Gravel crunched behind her, and her eyes shot open. Thick, corded arms encircled her waist, a cowboy hat held in one hand. The crisp scent of spicy cologne tickled her nose. “Hey, darlin’, afraid I wouldn’t show?”

Even if he hadn’t spoken first, she’d have known it was him. That telltale tingle raised goose bumps all over her body. Tara stiffened, and her eyes slid open, but she didn’t push the arms away. The snug pressure provided a moment’s reassurance, however empty the promise.

She slid her hands over the tops of his and squeezed. “Cuttin’ it a little close, aren’t ya, cowboy?” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “The natives are gettin’ restless.”