A Cowboy Under Her Tree

Touché. She leaned over the table and slid the pen from between his fingers. Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed her name with a flourish, right beneath his.

Then she tossed the pen on the table and straightened. The bravado had a price, though, and it was called head rush. She gripped the back of the chair again, waiting until her vision cleared and the room stopped swaying. “I’ll make arrangements, then, for this legal marriage.”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”

He unfolded himself from the chair and smiled humorlessly as he very deliberately picked up the napkin, folded it in half and tucked it in his back pocket. “I shouldn’t have trusted the last woman I married. Why would you be any different?”

Leaving Melanie blinking at that, he headed through the cozy living area and into the darkened bedroom beyond. A moment later, a soft light came on and she saw the foot of an enormous lodgepole bed.

One bed.

Naturally.

Russ was out of her line of sight, but a familiar-looking ivory sweater was tossed onto the foot of that bed.

She chewed her lip and looked sideways at the leather couch.

“If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d offer to take the couch,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.

“Being fair doesn’t mean being a gentleman.” He appeared in the doorway and Melanie nearly wilted with relief that beneath his sweater he’d worn a white T-shirt.

A white T-shirt that clung faithfully to every line of his impossibly wide chest.

She barely had time to brace herself for the bed pillow that he tossed across the room to her.

“They keep extra blankets in that hassock thing,” he told her. “Lid lifts up and they’re inside. Get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Then he turned his back on her and closed the door between them.

Melanie squeezed the downy pillow between her hands.

She wasn’t sure if she were envisioning his neck or not.

She turned to the couch and tossed the pillow on it. The ottoman did, indeed, contain storage beneath the heavy leather-topped lid and she pulled out two blankets, which she spread out on the couch.

Eyeing the closed bedroom door, she nibbled her lip as she stepped out of her high heels. She needed the restroom. And not just to clean her face and her teeth. But she’d rather go out into the cold night and hide behind some bush rather than knock on that door.

The door that suddenly opened, as if the man behind it had, once again, been reading her mind. “Bathroom’s free,” he said abruptly.

The T-shirt was gone.

She dragged her eyes away from the dusty brown hair swirling across his chest and arrowing down a ridged abdomen that should have been winter pale, but wasn’t.

The last man she’d occasionally dated in Atlanta had been exactly six-one, worked out two hours a day, ran marathons and religiously waxed his chest. He’d been more beautiful than most women, utterly sophisticated and, amazingly enough, he’d been straight.

But for some ungodly reason, the appeal of Russ’s masculinity soared to a universe far beyond Michael’s. She’d never once contemplated becoming intimate with Michael, any more than she’d considered it with any of the other men who’d escorted her over the years.

That was, until she’d met this irritating man.

Now, she seemed to struggle with those unfamiliar thoughts every time she turned around and she knew if he knew that she’d managed to attain the age of thirty without sleeping with a man, he’d have a field day with the knowledge.

She was five-seven, but she still wished she hadn’t been so quick to remove her shoes as she sailed past Russ and all his appallingly glorious muscle and flesh into the spacious bathroom beyond the king-size bed, because he seemed larger than ever.

She closed the door and leaned back against it, stupidly feeling as if she needed to catch her breath. As if she’d just run some sort of gauntlet.

It was so ridiculous. Melanie didn’t get breathless over men, much less men who figured she wasn’t worth the time of day.

A mirror across from the door reflected her image and she stared hard at herself. Made herself remember just what she was working to accomplish here.

It had nothing to do with personal relationships, and everything to do with business.

That was who she was.

She let out a long breath. Ran her hand through her hair and straightened deliberately from the door. She was merely overreacting to the stress of the situation.

That was all.

Feeling more like herself, she reached for one of the twin robes that were provided by the resort. The shower was separate from the oversize, jetted tub and she turned it on, letting the rushing sound of water continue the job of soothing her jagged nerves. Moving more quickly than her swimming head was comfortable with earned her a stubbed toe and soap in her eyes when she washed her face. There were small complimentary tubes of toothpaste but no toothbrushes, and as she made do with a nubby washcloth and her finger to do the job, she vowed that the Hopping H would not be remiss in that area.

On the other hand, the soaps and lotions provided were about as heavenly as anything that McFarlane House hotels had ever provided. Showered and clean, she tossed aside the towel and folded herself into the smaller of the two thick terry robes. She rinsed out her lingerie and commandeered the robe hangers for them and her dress which she hung on the back of the bathroom door and opened it again, and acting as if she had blinders on, tossed the larger robe in the general direction of the bed as she strode back out to the living area.

Only Russ was stretched out on the couch, his ankles propped on one arm, his head on the other. He’d dragged one of the soft blankets halfway up his chest. One hand hung off the couch, propped on the ottoman. His other was thrown over his head.

Sound asleep.

She pressed her lips together, thoroughly disconcerted.

“Go before I change my mind,” he muttered softly.

Not sound asleep, she quickly revised.

She turned on her bare heel and fled back into the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.

His ivory sweater was still in a heap on the foot of the bed. Feeling very odd about it, she picked it up, laying it out over the bare pine dresser top.

His T-shirt was on the floor and she gave it a wide berth as she pulled back the thick red comforter that topped the bed. The linens were crisp and fresh when she climbed between them and sighing, she sank into the downy pillows.

By all rights, exhaustion and alcohol should have assured her of immediate sleep.

So, naturally, the moment she turned off the lamp next to the bed, all she did was stare, wide-eyed, into the darkness.

Dawn had barely broken when Russ gave up trying to sleep.

He tossed back the blanket and sat up on the couch, shoving his hands through his hair, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

He ought to be following his own advice of getting some sleep.