A Cowboy Under Her Tree

This was business.

But seriously. Hanky-panky?

“I’m a rancher, babe,” he said with the cocky wisdom of a ten-year-old poking a sleeping cat with a stick. “We call it by more basic terms.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Sex,” he said wryly.

The relief that crossed her face was comical. Did she think he was so uncultured that he’d drop something way more basic?

Probably.

“Here’s the deal.” He set the napkin squarely in the center of the table, his palm covering her neat little list. “You can list your terms like this all you want. We can sign it. We can flippin’ notarize it. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not pretending to be anything. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

A swallow worked down her throat, drawing his eyes to the hollow at the base of it. Just below that seductive indentation, a single sparkling diamond seemed to almost float at the center of a nearly invisible chain. “Evidently, I misjudged the level of your interest in the Hopping H.” She pinched her fingertips around the edge of the napkin. “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon your holiday spirit to keep this discussion between the two of us?”

He kept his hand on the paper, preventing her from pulling it free. “People ’round here would tell you I don’t have any holiday spirit.”

She looked insulted. “I don’t indulge in gossip, Mr. Chilton.”

“What do you indulge in, Miz McFarlane?” Below the sparkling diamond, there was another sweep of smooth, ivory skin, leading down to that wrapped dress.

She shifted in her seat, affording him another woefully brief glimpse of lace. “Quite obviously, wasting our time.” She tugged at the napkin again.

“I didn’t say you were wasting your time.”

She let out a faint sigh. “Then what are you saying?”

“I told you. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this for real.”

She leaned forward, the edges of her fine white teeth meeting in a smile that seemed remarkably close to a clench. “I am not looking for a real husband,” she assured under her breath.

He leaned closer, too, mostly to see how quick she’d back away.

Only they ended up nose to nose, because the infernal woman didn’t retreat.

“I’m not looking for a real wife, either,” he murmured. Her skin was just as fine this close as his imagination suspected. And her lashes were long. Not the clumped-up, mucked-up kind of long that came out of some tube. He didn’t kid himself that she went without cosmetics. Life with Nola had shown him just how effective that particular art could be. But he’d bet his favorite saddle that those lashes of Melanie’s didn’t have any need for artifice.

And those lashes suddenly flickered, dropping down to shield her dark eyes. “People are staring. Just give me the napkin and I’ll go.”

“Sugar, if you give up this easy, you might as well pack it in and move back to Boston.” His fingers covered hers, stilling her tug on the napkin.

“I told you. I’m not from Boston and I’m not giving up.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Knowing enough not to beat a dead horse,” she returned.

“Why don’t you just sell me the H now, and cut your losses? Go back and run one of those towering hotels your family’s famous for?”

“Why don’t you just take a flying leap? Did you not just hear what I said? A McFarlane doesn’t quit.”

He smiled faintly. “Right. So if you don’t want to fail, it’s like I said. We get hitched for real. Then we’ll have something to talk about.”

“A person might think your virtue were at stake.” Her voice was low and the smile on her lips didn’t extend to her eyes.

His fingers itched to wrap around another beer. At least that was an easier explanation than thinking that his fingers itched to wrap around something much more warm and animated.

With hair the color of mahogany set on fire.

He curled the itchy fingers into a fist. “I gave up on virtue years ago. But I want to make damn sure you can’t finagle your way out of giving me my cut when our little association ends.”

“Aren’t you two looking cozy?” The deep voice interrupted them.

Melanie’s head whipped up, but Russ had to give her credit for her quick recovery. “Hello, Grant. Stephanie.” Her smile for the couple was friendly. Warm. “Thank you again for inviting me to your party. It’s a lovely way to kick off the season.”

“We’re glad you could make it,” Steph assured. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a sparkly clip and her green eyes shined almost as much. “You, too, Russ.”

Russ was watching the expression on Grant’s face. Things had smoothed a lot between him and Grant in the past months, but they still hadn’t quite gotten back to being as tight as they’d once been. Grant was Russ’s oldest friend, but since Thunder Canyon had made the leap from being a bump in the road to the flavor of the year for the jet-setting crowd, they’d had more than a few differences.

Grant embraced the progress. He’d found a brand-new niche, managing the Thunder Canyon Resort. He fit in.

Russ didn’t.

But at least Grant hadn’t sold his family’s ranch, Clifton’s Pride, to the redhead, though. Of course, that had meant Russ lost out on the Hopping H when Melanie snapped it out from under his nose, instead.

“Yeah. Looks like you’re doing plenty of celebrating.” Grant’s sharp blue eyes took in the collection of empty glasses and bottles on the table that the busy cocktail waitresses hadn’t yet cleared away. “Why don’t I set you both up with rooms tonight? We’re almost at capacity, but there are a few cabins left.”

“Worried about keeping the roads safe?” Russ drawled.

Grant smiled faintly. “Something like that. Cab service isn’t exactly running swiftly tonight.”

Russ eyed Melanie. “One room will do, won’t it, darlin’?” No time like the present to start the townsfolk thinking that there was some hanky-panky going on between him and the Easterner.

He wasn’t so far gone that he could turn down a piece of the Hopping H. Business was business. She’d said so, herself.

Melanie swallowed again and slowly gave up her tug-of-war on the napkin. Her gaze—wide, brown, deep—focused on him. Her lips—soft, full, pink—parted softly. “One room is fine,” she finally agreed, sounding oddly shy.

And just that quickly, Russ’s damned imagination sidled into action again. His declaration had been pragmatic. His imagination was not.

Steph was doing a fair to middling job of hiding her shock. On the other hand, Grant didn’t look all that shocked. Just knowing.

After all. He and Russ did go a long way back.

“I’ve already alerted the desk,” his old friend said smoothly, proving one of the reasons why he was good at what he did. He anticipated things before they actually occurred. “You can pick up your key whenever you’re ready.”

Russ didn’t look at Grant. He ran his fingertips deliberately over the back of Melanie’s slender hand. Felt the tremble she couldn’t hide. “Appreciate that.”