Her Last Chance

“She’s here now.”

“Oh.” The word was small, precise and cautious. “The house isn’t a mess, is it?”

“What do you think?” Chase snapped. “It’s a ranch house, not a guest house.”

Bob coughed, letting a second of strained silence slip away. “Didn’t mean to inconvenience you,” he said finally, “but I figured we could use at least one client who wouldn’t quibble over the price.”

Chase snorted. “I’ve got forty Morgans that need my attention. I haven’t got time to serve up a little luxury, like brunch at eleven and tennis at four. Sorry.”

“Well, you know,” Bob went on, “the thing about Mallory is, she likes cowboy boots and leather jackets just fine. Put her to work. She won’t be in the way.”

“Put her to work,” he repeated. “Is that before or after the beluga caviar, Brie cheese and vintage wine?”

Bob guffawed. “Chase, you got it wrong. This is one woman that doesn’t need to be waited on. She won’t be any trouble at all.”

“Right.”

“Hey, I’m telling you. Money’s no object, not to the Chevalles of Narwhal. They’re loaded, but you’d never know it. And Mallory might be an heiress, and a hands-off woman, but she’s a real fine gal to spend some time with.”

“I’ll file that away for future reference,” Chase said unpleasantly.

“Do that. Keep her happy, Chase. It’ll be in the best interests of the Bar C.”

Knowing he had no other choice but to give in, Chase ended the call. Although Mallory had discreetly turned her back, Chase regretfully wondered how much of the conversation she’d heard.

She swiveled, her sandaled foot pivoting on the gravel. With her head down, she glanced up at him demurely, the corners of her almond-shaped eyes lifting slightly in amusement. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“My partner has a little trouble with some organizational skills. Like being on time, forwarding messages or paying the taxes when they’re due. It plumb slipped his mind to warn me that you were coming to look at stock, Miss…um…Chevalle.”

“Mallory. Just call me Mallory.”

He nodded tightly. “Narwhal,” he said thoughtfully. “Is that somewhere up near Monaco, or that neck of the woods?”

“Close. At least it’s on that side of the ocean,” Mallory said, fighting the urge to grin at Chase Wells’s discomfort. American men were so peculiar when it came to Europeans and Old World money. They simply did not know how to handle it, how to behave or what to say. So, instead, they always swaggered a little and slipped into a “don’t mean nuthin’ to me” demeanor. A perverse thought went winging through her head, and Mallory gave in to it. “Did I hear you say something about tennis? We really should play a set. I’d love to see you in your whites on the court later this afternoon.”

Chase stared at her. Not one muscle in his handsome face twitched—and he did have a handsome face. A shock of Cherokee-black hair swept back from his wide forehead and feathered away from his temples. It was cropped in neat arcs over his ears, with a scruffy little fringe riding his shirt collar. He had a thick jaw, blunt chin and a mouth that just managed to wander a little higher on the right side. Beneath a slash of dark lashes, his eyes were gunmetal gray.

“Tennis? I thought you came out here to look at horses.”

Mallory swallowed a giggle and carefully arranged her face for the rugged cowboy, feigning innocence. “Oh, I did. But tennis is such a great stress reliever, don’t you think?”

He sucked in a deep breath, pumping his brawny chest up another intoxicating notch. Mallory could barely tear her gaze away. Considering her words, he hung his thumb over his pewter belt buckle while the toe of his boot swiped at a rock on the drive. “The thing is, ma’am, this here’s Wyoming. We don’t play them silly little games out here. And the only thing I got that’s white is my underwear.”

Mallory laughed, even as a touch of pink stained her cheeks. “Then we should get along just fine. Because I haven’t had a racket in my hand for five years, and I never do brunch. The day’s half gone by then, and I like to get up early.”

Chase hesitated, then his mouth curled and the corners of his eyes slightly crinkled.

Mallory innocently lifted her shoulder. “Bob said you could put me up for a week or so. Until we settle on the horses.”

Chase didn’t reply. He just looked at her, his eyelids narrowed, his brow furrowed.

“I can sleep anywhere. Really.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, he just kept looking at her, in that disturbing cowboy way, as if something else was going on in his head.

“If you’ve got an extra pillow and a blanket, I can sleep on your sofa.”

He barely inclined his head.

“I promise not to be any trouble.”

“Persistent little thing, aren’t you?” he said finally. “Ma’am, you don’t understand. This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast. It isn’t a resort.” He rocked back on his heel, and for a flickering instant Mallory was certain she saw him grimace. “It’s a business. I sell horses, I don’t offer a weekend getaway at a dude ranch.”

“Perfect. Because I don’t want one,” she said. “I want the perfect horse. I want something special and unique. For my father. And, from what Bob tells me, you have it. I’ll pay well for what I want, and I guarantee I’ll make this worth your while.” Mallory didn’t intend to sound haughty or pretentious. But she wanted the mare Bob told her about—and she felt driven to bring it home to Narwhal, where it belonged. Her father’s health was failing quickly and time was of the essence. “A week,” she bargained. “One week out of your life for a business deal…that’s not so difficult, is it? If I don’t see what I’m looking for I’ll be on my way. On the other hand…”

“Yes?”

“Narwhal has a wonderful summer camp for children. One of my favorite charities is to donate horses for their riding program. Maybe you’ll have something they could use. If I don’t find one thing, maybe I’ll find the other.”

Chase, his features tightening, looked away and made that fascinating whistling sound cowboys make, by crimping his lips and blowing air between his teeth.

“I don’t want to intrude. I could sleep in the bunkhouse,” she offered. Then she glanced over the assortment of barns and outbuildings. “You do have a bunkhouse, don’t you? They always have them in the movies.”

He turned back, arching a disbelieving brow at her. “Yes, and I can see it now. You, and Lewt, and the rest of the boys, hanging out and playing poker and drinking beer till midnight.” He drew a hand over his face, scowling down at her. “Listen, Mallory, I think it’s nice that you want a good-looking little pony to take home as a souvenir. For your daddy, or your projects or whatever. But I do more than sell horses. I look for a good fit. With my animals, I make a solid match with the buyer. I’ve got a reputation to protect—and that means I don’t sell to just anybody.”

Mallory stiffened, drawing back. Her pride suffered, but self-control was necessary. She had to see that animal, she had to bring it home to her father. “I understand,” she replied coolly. “But I’m not just anybody. I’m Mallory Leatrice Chevalle of Narwhal, accomplished equestrienne.” She paused for emphasis. “That’s horsewoman, to you. In Wyoming language.” The muscle along Chase’s jaw thumped, giving Mallory indescribable satisfaction. “I’m equal to any mount you offer me. And I know my horses.”

A flicker of interest sparked in his steely gaze. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay. Then you can have the guest room,” Chase grudgingly allowed. “Breakfast is on the table at 6:00 a.m. The rest of the day is catch-as-catch-can. And it’s nothing fancy. We do plain food and plain hard work. We’ll start this afternoon, because I’ve got some spirited mounts I’d like to show you. In fact, we’re working with one right now that you might want to take a look at.”

Chapter Two

Chase watched Mallory lean over and reach in the back seat of her flashy convertible. The subtle shift of her hips, the gentle swing of her breasts enticed him.

Bristling at his own human reaction, Chase strode over to the flatbed truck and yanked his hat off the bed, then jammed it on his head. Mallory effortlessly hauled out two small suitcases.

A smidgen of guilt niggled into his subconscious. He didn’t mean to treat her poorly, but he had more to do than nursemaid an heiress on holiday. Particularly in the vague hopes she’d find some little trinket—in the nature of horse-flesh—to carry back to Narwhal.

Maybe it had been memories of his daughter, Skylar, that provoked him into agreeing to this nonsense. Since she’d been gone, he’d thought a lot about what was important, what wasn’t. If this summer camp for kids was legitimate, he didn’t want any regrets.

Huh. When he got up this morning, he sure never figured he’d be discussing sleeping arrangements with some European highbrow. Imagining her sacked out on his couch was a stretch. It offered up a disturbing vision that taunted…like the innocuous vulnerability of Snow White, prone, before a bevy of rough-edged, hard-talking, tobacco-spitting cowboys. It just didn’t equate.

“Here. Let me help you with those,” he said gruffly, coming to her side.

She half turned, a protest on her smiling lips, when he reached over and snagged the suitcases from her.