Her Montana Millionaire

She adjusted her glasses back over her eyes, finally giving the time of day to her caller.

The first thing she noticed was that it was a man. Oh, grrrr, and a good-looking one, too. Eyes the brilliant blue of airport lights against the night, hair dark and thick, touched with just a splash of gray throughout. A strong chin, slightly dimpled.

Jinni rolled down the window, allowing in the ash-bitten October air. The recently doused fire that had damaged the surrounding area still haunted the atmosphere with a tang of smoke and charred wood.

“Well, hello,” she said, smiling.

The man stared at her as if she’d taken off her delicate lace brassiere and snapped him in the face with it. Then, after a moment, he stood to his full, impressive height—so high that Jinni had to crane her neck out the window to catch sight of his face again.

He motioned to his car, which was idling in back of hers, angled toward the parking place as if it could squeeze right on in and butt her out.

A Mercedes-Benz. In this speck on the map known as Rumor. Very interesting, indeed.

“You roared into my space like you owned it,” he said, his voice deep, rich and livid.

Jinni let his tone pour over her. Males. She loved the timbre of their words, the breadth of their hands. She batted her lashes, forgetting that she was wearing sunglasses. At least she could carry the flirty gesture over to her voice. It was a distinctive talent.

“Oh, did I goof? I didn’t realize that you Montana men defend your parking spaces with such territorial zeal. How excitingly alpha.”

She made sure that she didn’t sound rude, just cheeky. But this guy wasn’t getting it. In fact, he seemed even angrier.

“Listen, lady. The last thing I need is another confrontation, another thing to tick me off.”

Well. This wasn’t amusing at all.

With infinite care, Jinni rolled up her window, fixed a wide-brimmed black hat over her blond French twist, then opened the door and stretched out a stockinged leg, capped by a four-inch, black-and-white Prada pump. With clear fortitude, the man tried to keep his eyes on her face, but when she curled the other leg out of the car, he lost the battle.

But not for long. As she stood to her own five-foot, ten-inch frame—her height, oh, the misfortune of it since so many rich, famous men were deceptively short—she came up to just beneath his chin.

Jinni all but swooned. It wasn’t often she had to peer up at a man.

“Hey, studmuffin,” she said, her New Yawk accent emerging with a cheerful challenge, “you lost. Got it? I had the speed and the skill. Now, if your fragile male ego can’t accept that fact, I and the rest of the female nation apologize profusely.”

Was that a smile nudging at his lips?

No. Oh, no. It was a frown. Completely the opposite.

He nodded, as if each motion was another slashed pen stroke on a growing list of what he didn’t like about Jinni Fairchild.

“Hmph.” She turned around to lock and shut her door. Darn town. No limousine service, not even a nearby car rental agency.

When she faced him again, the man had taken a defensive stance, arms crossed over his heavy coat, crisp button down and classy tie. Looked like Armani, to Jinni. Even his wingtip shoes were polished, expensive, much like his linen pants with their dollar-bill-edged creases.

“You’re not actually from this one-horse town, are you?” she asked.

Mr. I’m-So-Natty ignored her question and ran another gaze over her body, especially her legs. “Around here, we don’t drive like bats out of hell and steal parking spaces. We’re slow and considerate, easy as summer at a swimming hole.”

Wait. She was still on the “slow” part. As in slow kisses, slow… Yow.

Now wouldn’t he make a great diversion while she was in Rumor?

“Slow is nice for a good deal of things,” she said, lowering her voice to a purr. “But driving isn’t one of them.”

He grunted. “Where’re you from?”

“New York.”

“Jeez, no wonder. I should’ve known that you fit in about as well as Cinderella’s stepsister trying to shove her foot into the slipper.”

That sounded like an insult, especially since the stepsisters were known to be warty, shrieky supporting players. “Mister, from what I hear, you people already have some big-city attitude around here. Like New York, you have your share of violence.”

She tilted her head in his direction, and he grinned. Not with happiness, really. It was the grin of the big, bad wolf slipping into the wrong fairy tale, only to find that wicked stepsisters were tasty morsels, too.

“Violence? Lady, remember when I said I didn’t need something else to chap my hide? Referring to our recent rising murder rate would be one of those matters.”

Jinni’s sense of a good story surfaced. After all, she didn’t make a fabulous living writing celebrity biographies without knowing how to ask questions.

With the most compassionate mien she could muster, she asked, “Is what they say true? That a man murdered his wife and her lover up on Logan’s Hill?”

He stared at her, as if not believing she’d pursued the subject even after he’d warned her about it.

Jinni continued. “And what about the stories going around town? That he’s, of all things, invisible?”

His silence stretched between them as Jinni raised her eyebrows in an open invitation to spill the facts. Somehow, through the years, she’d cultivated the ability to draw information out of people and transfer it to bestsellers.

But this guy wasn’t playing that game.

“Don’t ask again,” he said, boring a hard glare at her before starting toward his car.

Intrigued, Jinni watched him pause at his door, then turn to face her again.

He said, “And I’ll know if a long-legged stranger is strutting around town, nosing about. Curb your curiosity and learn to drive.”

“Wait.” She took a few steps toward him, making sure to wiggle while she walked. Just for effect. “I have to say that you’re the most fun I’ve had since coming to this place. I mean, really, no one knows how to yell about parking spaces like you do. And as far as shopping goes, this MonMart is the only store for miles, and there’s not a trace of DKNY or Versace to be found.”

He was assessing her again, wearing a miffed frown, almost as if she was a wild child who’d scampered out from the woods in a burlap sack. Yeesh. The image even gave Jinni the shivers.

She snapped open her handbag, retrieving a pad of paper and a pen. As she scribbled down her name and number, Jinni didn’t stop to think that he might not have taken a fancy to her.

Why wouldn’t he? She always got her man.

When she finished, she tucked her information in his jacket pocket. His disbelieving gaze followed her manicured hand.

“I’m Jinni Fairchild, and that’s my number. Call it.”

He chuffed, staring at her again.

“Really. I should’ve been in London this week, chatting with Prince Charles over dinner at a posh restaurant.” Don’t dwell on that, Jinni, she thought. It’s no use musing about the biography that should’ve been and never will be. The big fish you haven’t been able to catch. Just like Princess Monique of Novenia.