Читать книгу A Cowboy Under Her Tree - Allison Leigh - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Russ watched the faint tide of red climb in Melanie McFarlane’s lily-white cheeks at his flat summation.

“Yes,” she replied in her slightly crisp voice. “That’s the deal.”

He picked up her empty martini glass and gave it an exaggerated sniff. “My old buddy Grant must be telling his barkeeps to pour heavy these days.”

“I am not inebriated,” she enunciated with the exaggeration of one who pretty much was. “Nor am I…off my bean, as you so eloquently phrased it.”

“Nobody ’round here will believe we’re hitched.”

“Why not?”

He very nearly laughed out loud at that. “People know me, for one thing.” And he’d made it more than plain that he had no intention of following the path to matrimony that every one of his buddies had been taking lately.

“Which means what? That you’re not interested in women?”

“Not redheaded women with Boston in their vowels, that’s for damn sure.” Been there. Done that. Nobody who knew him would believe he’d repeat the experience.

“I’ve never lived in Boston,” she assured snootily. “My family is from Philadelphia.”

The moneyed part of it, he added silently, where he knew the headquarters of her family’s hotel empire was located.

“And besides, the only people we need to convince of anything are my family,” she continued.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, seduction is key.”

“What’s the key?”

“Discretion,” she repeated so smoothly it left him wondering if he was the one who’d misheard, or she was the one who’d misspoke.

Either way, he damn sure needed to keep his mind off seduction where this woman was concerned. “What are you hoping to prove here, Melanie McFarlane?”

Her long lashes swept down, hiding her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean. This is a business venture. Of course, I expect to succeed at it.”

“Business ventures that involve you playacting as someone’s wife. What’s the deal? You’d rather have them think you’re married to someone like me, than let them think you couldn’t manage on your own?”

Her lashes flew up and he saw a tinge of guilt in her expression. Enough to wonder if he hadn’t hit on some truth. But all she did was turn up her nose a little in that way of hers. “I would be grateful if you could keep your voice down.”

He wasn’t exactly yelling. Hell. He didn’t want any of his friends overhearing their conversation, either. At the rate that weddings and engagements were occurring around Thunder Canyon, God only knew what sort of rumors might be set into motion. “And you figure six months is all it’ll take for you to learn the ins and outs of running the H.” It was laughable, really. Either she thought he had superhuman abilities—which he doubted, given the uppity looks she usually gave him—or she had no clue what a huge bite she was trying to swallow.

“I should certainly understand the basics by then. At least enough to know whether my ranch hands are doing their jobs or not.”

If Russ saw Harlan or Danny Quinn any time soon, he’d have a few words to say to the dolts. It wasn’t as if hands didn’t come and go. They did. But leaving a woman—no matter who she was—high and dry like they had was pretty damn low. “And if it’s not enough time?”

She didn’t look away. “Then naturally I would expect to renegotiate our agreement.”

“You’d give me more than fifty percent?”

Her lips curved, revealing the perfect, gleaming white edge of her teeth. “I’m a businesswoman, Russ. What do you think? Not in this lifetime. But there could be some additional financial remuneration.”

“You’d pay me cold hard cash to play your hus—”

She leaned forward, closing her hand over his forearm. “I believe we understand one another.”

He understood that those long, slender fingers of hers might as well have been branding irons given the effect they had on his flesh. “Then understand this.” He shifted and caught her hand in his as she went to draw away, and spotted the flicker in her deep brown eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “I may be just a rancher, ma’am. But I know how to smell cow patties when I see ’em.”

She tugged at her hand and he loosened his grip enough for her to slowly work herself free. “You think this is some sort of game for me?”

“I don’t know what this is for you,” he admitted. “But there’s no way in hell that I’d agree to this nonsense on just a handshake.”

“I thought a man’s handshake was his bond. Particularly in this part of the country.”

“You’re not from this part of the country.”

She winced a little. “Are you suggesting that Easterners can’t be trusted to keep their word?”

“Not the Easterners I’ve ever known. You want my help, then we get hitched for real. No pretense.”

“But, but that’s preposterous!”

“Is it?”

She sat back in her seat, brushing her fingers through her deep-red, lustrous hair. It fell back, perfectly, in its sleek lines against the nape of her long, elegant neck.

Even disconcerted, she looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Not the faddish magazines filled with outlandish looks, but the expensive publications that only people of her ilk bothered to peruse.

Nola’s kind of magazine.

“Don’t worry,” he added, brushing away thoughts of his ex-wife. “I’m not just trying to get into your pants.”

The red that had risen in her cheeks drained away, leaving her looking pale, but no less stunning. “How reassuring.” Her voice was thin.

Oh, yeah. He was the one who’d misheard.

She looked at him as if he were something to be scraped off the sole of her undoubtedly expensive holly-berry-red high heels.

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” he goaded.

“No,” she assured hastily. “That is not on the table.”

He looked at the high-top beneath their empty drinks. “You sure now? This here table looks mighty sturdy—”

“Are you naturally odious or is that an acquired skill?”

He very nearly laughed. As far as he was concerned, Melanie McFarlane was the epitome of high maintenance. She looked expensive. She talked expensive. She smelled expensive.

But she did keep his mind moving.

And God help him, he’d always been taken in by leggy redheads. Not this time, though. The last time he’d lost more than he could bear.

“Maybe I’m a bit of both,” he allowed.

Her lips compressed.

The cocktail waitress appeared next to them, deposited a fresh round from her jam-packed tray and promised to return for the empties as soon as she could.

Melanie met his stare for an uncomfortable minute. Then she lifted her drink and gulped down half. She fiddled with her purse and drew out a slender gold pen, then pulled the fresh white napkin from beneath her drink. “I think your…idea…is overkill. Perhaps if we just put the terms in writing.” She began writing carefully, then lifted her pen, looking at him as she slid the napkin toward him. “Does that make you feel better?”

He looked down at the list as he took a pull on his beer and wished he’d ordered a whiskey, instead. But then again, they’d both already had plenty to drink.

They were still sitting together at the table, after all. That had to be the result of alcohol. There was no other logical explanation.

The first several items on the napkin were straightforward, considering the nature of the agreement. Act as her husband—for the benefit of her family—and teach her everything she needed to know without seeming to teach her.

“Better?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “This is pretty damn crazy.”

She didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.

Nerves? Alcohol?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.

Free and clear.

He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.

What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.

The offer that she’d trumped.

Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.

From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.

She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.

Imagination could be a pain in the ass.

He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.

“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.

She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”

He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.

At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?

He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.

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.”

“We’d better say good night to the Stevensons,” Steph murmured to Grant. “Looks like they’re getting ready to head out.”

“Right.” Grant covered the hand she tucked beneath his arm as if they’d been doing that all of their lives. “Catch you later.” His lips twitched. “Enjoy yourselves, now.”

“We plan to.” Russ watched the color rise in Melanie’s cheeks. “Supposed to snow sometime tonight, and the rooms here have outdoor hot tubs.”

“You know what they’re thinking,” Melanie said under her breath once Grant and Steph moved off to intercept the departing couple.

“Exactly what you’re wanting them to think,” he returned. He lifted the beer bottle. Found it empty. Eyed her empty cocktail. “Want another round?”

“I think I’ve had plenty.”

“Then we should hit the room. That is, if we’ve got a deal. A real deal.”

She seemed to steel herself a little as she rose to her feet. She swept a shaking hand down the side of her dress and turned toward the door. “Bring the napkin.”

“What for?” He caught her elbow in his hand, keeping her from sailing ahead of him as she looked prepared to do.

Her gaze swept down him from head to toe. The color in her cheeks bloomed even brighter. “Consider it a prenuptial agreement.”