Romancing the Tycoon

“Welcome to the Wild Horse, ma’am,” the cowboy said in a deep, husky voice that sent goose bumps skittering across her skin.

“Th-thank you,” she stuttered in time with the stumbling of her heart. My God, the way he said ma’am gave her goose bumps.

“Miss Winterborne,” Beckman cut in, startling Amy all over again since she’d completely forgotten his presence, “this is John Calhoun. John, this is Regina Winterborne.”

“Come in.” The cowboy looked from her to Beckman. “Both of you.”

With that Amy was led into his home. Her breath caught again as her gaze traveled over the cathedral ceiling with its massive wooden beams, and the whitewashed stucco walls, and on to the terra-cotta-tiled floor.

Except for a leather sofa, the furniture clustered about the room consisted mostly of wooden pieces and all of it was dark and polished to a high sheen. Plaid and striped throw pillows accented the butter-soft leather of the sofa and proud wingback chairs.

But nothing in the entry hall or the enormous great room into which he led her took away from the real mind blower—the man. If Amy had ever laid eyes on a more gorgeous specimen of the male species she had no recall of it now.

John Robert Calhoun, IV, was definitely the perfect man.

Her gaze collided with his and she didn’t miss the same approval mirrored there. Judging by what she noted in his eyes he liked what he saw as well. Heat kindled low in her belly and her heart fluttered, but then suddenly sank like rock in a freshwater pond as did her smile. John Calhoun thought he was looking into the eyes of his future wife. And he liked what he saw.

Too bad she was just a stand-in—one who intended to uncover all his well-hidden secrets.

That goal suddenly felt all wrong.

But it was too late to back out now.

The game had already begun.

Chapter Four

She wasn’t what he’d expected.

It was true that John had only seen the one picture of Regina Winterborne and in it she’d worn dark glasses. The long, silky dark hair he’d anticipated. The petite frame softened by slight feminine curves he’d noted in the photo. But it was the sheer innocence and vulnerability in her eyes that startled him. That calf-caught-in-the-fence look of fear.

Surely a woman as experienced with the opposite sex as Regina Winterborne wasn’t afraid of him…

Marriage.

The epiphany kicked him in the gut with all the force of an ornery mule.

It wasn’t him she was afraid of…it was the idea of commitment. The new rules and boundaries she no doubt realized would rule her world.

John glanced at Nate who looked past ready to get this show on the road. Had he relayed John’s non-negotiable terms already? Dread knotted in his gut. He didn’t want this weekend to start off on the wrong foot, especially considering old man Winterborne wouldn’t be here to serve as a buffer. But John would be damned if he’d change his mind.

If he was required to take a wife to seal this deal, then she would be more than an in-name-only accessory. Their relationship would be the real thing.

John tensed as those lovely brown eyes swept down the length of him, then bounced back up to meet his. He’d have to have been blind to miss the startled amazement and undeniable approval reflected there. Miss Winterborne liked what she saw. Unexpectedly a flick of heat slid through him, making him tingle. Maybe this could work after all. It had been a long time since a woman, one he’d only just met, made him tingle. Were his father here, he’d insist that it wouldn’t be that way if John didn’t keep himself busy all the time with those danged horses.

His father was of the mindset that running one of the country’s largest oil businesses was enough stress for any man. He didn’t believe his son needed to take on the added pressure of single-handedly attempting to save the wild equines that roamed the few un-populated territories of the West. But John knew what he had to do…recognized his calling. Nothing his father said was going to change that.

Neither was the woman standing in front of him right now. His gaze raked her lean but feminine body once more. The low-riding slacks, funky belt and sweater that offered a little glimpse of flat belly appealed to him, that was for sure. But nothing would change his mind. She’d either accept his world for what it was or she could go back to Chicago and find herself another of those city slickers she appeared to prefer. Well, if all he’d heard was true anyway.

“Perhaps we could all have a drink,” Nate suggested, cutting into the thick tension.

John started at the sound of the other man’s voice and quickly shook off the irritation welling inside him. He had to get hold of himself here. It was only fair that he give Regina Winterborne the benefit of the doubt. And this weekend was far too important for him to go jumping the gun. There were assessments to make, and concessions too, most likely. He glanced at his wife-to-be once more. If her self-serving reputation proved true, which he suspected it would, since her own daddy had bemoaned her impetuousness as well as her petulance, she would want her own way on some things. Most things probably. Only time would tell if her way and John’s would mesh.

“That’s a mighty fine idea, Nate,” John said. A good, stiff drink was something he imagined both he and Miss Winterborne could use right about now. If memory served she preferred some sissy wine that Liam had special-ordered for this visit.

“What’s your pleasure, Miss Winterborne?” Nate asked their guest.

She blinked a couple of times. “I’ll have whatever you gentlemen are having,” she replied, her voice a little too high, her expression flustered.

John tamped down the need to frown. Liam had ordered that fancy white wine just for her. Maybe he should tell her that her preferred drink was available. Her daddy had said she drank nothing else. The frown nudged its way onto his brow. Then again, daddies didn’t always know what their little girls liked best. Deciding the idea merited no further contemplation, he gestured to the couch and suggested, “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Winterborne.”

“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Calhoun,” she said a little breathlessly as she turned around slowly to admire the room once more before taking a seat.

He tried to see the place as she would. He’d grown up in this house. Had personally overseen the latest remodeling three years ago. Somehow he’d managed to keep the scheme of things the way his mother had intended. He definitely hadn’t wanted to change that. It made him feel close to her. Damn. Even after a dozen years he still missed her.

“Call me John,” he said to the lady now perched stiffly on one end of his leather couch. He settled into one of the matching wing chairs. The soft, supple brown leather furnishings had replaced the old plaid jobs that had served his family in this room for as long as he could remember. But time and the rambunctious kid he’d been had long ago worn out the comfortable old pieces. Even the frames had been beyond repair leaving him no alternative but to replace everything. He’d picked out the new furniture himself. He wondered briefly if his guest liked his taste. This would be her home as well, after all.

She smiled and something shifted in his chest at the sweetness, the utter genuineness of the expression. “If we’re going to be on a first-name basis,” she ventured timidly, “I suppose you should call me…” She swallowed, looking suddenly ill at ease once more.