Читать книгу One Bride Delivered - Jeanne Allan, Jeanne Allan - Страница 7
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
“SAY something,” Cheyenne said furiously when Thomas Steele did nothing more than imitate a garden statue.
He flicked a stony look at her before saying in a stilted voice, “Your parents died because their plane crashed in bad weather. You had nothing to do with it, and I don’t hate you. Don’t be dramatic.”
So much for sensitivity: Giving Davy another squeeze, she told him to wash his face while she spoke to his uncle. Outside the bedroom, Cheyenne said, “Some reassurance and a hug would have been more appropriate than telling him to quit being dramatic.”
A steel beam showed more emotion than Thomas Steele. He stared unblinkingly at her. “I spoke with Frank McCall and he assures me you’re legitimate.”
“My mother has always said so.”
“I’m referring to your business. McCall said you run individual tours for people who don’t want to sign up with the usual group tours. He gave you a sterling rating and said he could come up with references if I wanted them.”
Cheyenne easily interpreted the begrudging note in Thomas Steele’s voice. “Would you have preferred I have a criminal record?”
“You answered the ad for a wife to drum up business.”
“I did not.”
“Don’t waste my time denying it. I admire enterprise. You saw an opportunity and went for it. It worked. You’re hired.”
“Hired? For what?”
“The women I employed obviously aren’t working out. You can take charge of the boy while we’re here.”
“I run a tour agency, not a day care center.”
“McCall said you take kids.”
“I take families.”
“Drag the boy along.”
She’d like to drag someone. Behind a speeding car over a pasture full of cactus. “We run individualized tours for families. Each family pays us to cater to their particular needs and interests. I cannot, as you so crudely suggest, drag a seven-year-old along on a tour personalized for others. It wouldn’t be fair to them or to Davy Aspen has a number of options for day care or activities and tours geared toward children. Frank McCall can steer you to one.”
“You came looking for me, Ms. Lassiter, not the other way around. The advertisement brought you, but it was for a wife. Either you came to answer the ad or you came to drum up business. Which?”
The insufferably snapped question enraged her. Cheyenne gave him a cold smile. “I came to see if the child who wrote the ad was being knocked around, battered and physically abused. I came to check for the kind of bruises and broken bones a child receives when someone bigger hits him.”
Thomas Steele sucked in air as if she’d kicked him in the solar plexus. “He told you I hit him?” For a second the gray eyes staring at her darkened with baffled hurt. Then he blinked, and his eyes turned cold and empty. “I don’t hit people. If he told you I hit him, he lied.”
“He didn’t tell me. I didn’t like the ad.”
“I’m not crazy about it myself, but I see it for what it is. A kid with too much imagination and too much time on his hands.”
Davy had no bruises, but there were other ways to batter down a child. Believing his family didn’t want him ranked right up there. “Is that what you see?” Cheyenne looked directly into the expressionless eyes across from her. “I see a little boy crying out to be wanted and loved.”
His mouth tightened and all color left his face, but when he spoke, his voice was coolly impersonal. “I don’t have the advantage of your rose-colored glasses.”
A person needed years of practice to learn that kind of iron control over his emotions. Cheyenne studied him. “I don’t understand how you can be so heartless.”
“What’s heartless about trying to find a qualified person to take care of the boy?”
“His name is David.”
He looked past her. “His father’s name was David. The boy’s name is Davy.”
The way the muscles beneath his jaw tightened made her teeth ache. She’d never seen a man so in denial of his true feelings. Whatever those feelings were. “Then call him Davy,” she said, in a gentler tone than she’d intended.
He was quick. One haughty eyebrow identified and mocked her compassion. “You call him Davy. Call him anything you want. All I want is a baby-sitter. Name your price. I’ll pay it. I’m not interested in haggling.”
Had she been mistaken? You had to be skin and flesh and blood to feel pain. Rawhide and iron and steel formed this man. She questioned the vague plan stirring at the back of her mind. How could words of hers reach him? She should give up now. Walk out of the suite. She couldn’t. Davy needed her help. They both needed her help. “I’m not haggling. I’m—”
“Punishing the boy—Davy—because you don’t like me.”
His accusation angered her. “The world doesn’t revolve around you. Your despicable behavior has no bearing on anything.”
“I can’t imagine you’ve made much of a success at this little business of yours.” Unexpectedly he grinned. “You must find your appalling candor and lack of skill in dealing with people to be terrible handicaps.”
Cheyenne snapped her jaw back into place. It wasn’t fair that a man who’d thus far displayed the warmth and compassion of a stone wall could have such an engaging—and sexy—grin. “You’re not a customer,” she managed.
“I’m trying to be. I want you to take Davy.”
“I get to go with her?” Davy popped out of his room, his face as hopeful as his voice.
“Ms. Lassiter doesn’t want you.”
“Oh.” Davy disappeared back into the bedroom.
Stunned, Cheyenne stared in disbelief at Thomas Steele. “Is having your own way so important you’d trample a child’s feelings?”
“You’re the one who refused to take Davy.” He jammed his fists in his pockets.
He was going to ruin the line of his expensive suit. He’d said Davy’s name. She doubted he’d noticed. If Thomas Steele had any feelings, he’d buried them so deep, he made her think of a tightly-wound spring about to fly out of control. Giving in to impulse, Cheyenne made up her mind. Two lonely people. A little boy who was ready to reach out and a man who apparently could not reach out. All they needed was a little help finding each other. “There might be a way,” she said.
Thomas Steele reached for his billfold. “I knew you’d find one.”
What was she getting herself into? “How long are you in Aspen?”
“Two more weeks.”
Two weeks. By her estimation, the man had had over thirty years to grow an iron shell, and she expected to pierce it in two weeks? Worth, Allie, Greeley—they’d all shake their heads and accuse Cheyenne of sticking her big nose in other people’s business. Again. We all gotta do what we do best, she thought with a grim sense of humor. “As I said, we run personalized tours. I can’t thrust Davy in with strangers doing things which wouldn’t interest him. However, Allie’s next group canceled because of an illness in the family. I can see if—”
“No,” he cut her off. “I don’t want Davy shunted off on somebody else. I want you.”
He’d said Davy again. The name almost came naturally to him. Maybe there was hope for Thomas Steele. “Most of the families I have booked for the next couple of weeks haven’t used us before, and they didn’t request me specifically. My sister could take most of them.”
“Then it’s settled. You’ll baby-sit Davy.”
“I’m not a baby-sitter, but I’ll take Davy. On one condition. You come along.”
He slowly returned his billfold to his pocket. “My first guess was correct, wasn’t it? It is me you’re interested in.”
So much for any idealistic plans to turn Thomas Steele into a human being. She gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I can’t fool you, can I? All my life I’ve wanted to be the plaything of a rich, egotistical, sorry excuse for a human being who is absolutely devoid of any kindness, canng, warmth or sensitivity, and I’ve failed. Let me guess. It’s the frizzy bleached hair which turns you off.”
Her angry gaze holding his, she called loudly, “Davy, get dressed. You and I are going to go do something fun. Do you like to fish?” She gave Thomas Steele a disgusted look. “I’ll need to phone Allie so I can throw her and everyone else’s plans into total disarray. Of course, that’s nothing to you, as long as you get your way.” Without waiting for a response, Cheyenne marched over to the armoire, picked up the phone and dialed for an outside line.
Allie answered on the first ring.
Thomas had had her right where he wanted her—she’d agreed to take the kid out of his hair—and he’d backed down. Thomas Steele, hot-shot businessman with a reputation for driving a hard, fair bargain, who could sit eyeball-to-eyeball for hours over a negotiating table without blinking first, had blinked. The hell of it was, he didn’t like any of the possible reasons for why he’d conceded her the victory.
Turning his head, he checked his back cast.
Maybe it was those damned eyes of hers which registered a river of emotions. Anger and contempt. Both better than the disappointment and sadness she’d had the nerve to feel. As if she expected better of him. Not that he cared about hers or anyone else’s opinion of him. Even a man scrupulously fair in business dealings stepped on a few toes. A nice fat check took care of hurt feelings or bitterness.
One minute he was patting himself on the back for ridding himself of the kid and the next he was standing thigh-deep in the icy Roaring Fork River wearing hip boots borrowed from Frank McCall. The reason he’d come had nothing to do with Cheyenne Lassiter or the boy He’d heard her tell Davy they were going fishing and had succumbed to an urge to lay down a line. He’d brought his fly rod with him to Colorado in case an opportunity for fly fishing presented itself. He hadn’t actually expected to use the rod. Since he’d bought it five years ago—or was it six, maybe seven?—he’d seldom removed it from its aluminum tube. Running the Steele hotels allowed a man little time for fishing. Or for having a woman in his bed every night. Despite what certain tall blond females thought.
He glanced toward the bank where she sat with the boy. Even from a distance he could tell she still steamed. Ms. Lassiter was easy to annoy. A host of things annoyed her. Not calling the boy by name. Calling her hair bleached. He knew it wasn’t, in spite of those dark brows and ridiculously long, black eyelashes. No dark roots.
Bossy blonde. She might have terrific legs, but he detested strong-minded, aggressive women who felt compelled to prove they could be tougher than men. He cast to a likely-looking riffle. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize Cheyenne Lassiter in a man’s bed. She’d issue such a stream of orders and directives, a man would despair of getting a word in edgewise.
A man could take forever kissing her into silence.
He toyed with the idea of those shapely lips used for something other than lecturing. Those long legs wrapped around him.
He’d always welcomed a challenge.
But he’d never been stupid. It was stupid to seduce a woman merely because she disagreed with you.
The fly floated unchallenged over the riffle. The law prohibited using bait in this section of the Roaring Fork and any fish caught had to be returned immediately to the river. Not that he’d caught any.
Ms. Lassiter hadn’t wanted to stop here. She’d argued it wouldn’t be fun for Davy. That was her problem. They didn’t have to hang around. Thomas had found Davy a playmate. It was up to her to entertain him.
He false cast, drying the artificial fly. Tomorrow he’d tend to business.
And forget self-righteous crusaders who held him in contempt because he didn’t behave according to some juvenile, preconceived notions.
Cheyenne Lassiter spent too much time in his head.
A situation he refused to allow. He’d force her out A woman like her wasn’t for a man like him.
Something sharp stung his arm. Rubbing the tender spot, he looked around for biting insects. Another stabbed his back, then a little geyser of water erupted near his legs. A second geyser splashed up. Suspiciously Thomas looked toward the bank, but not in time to evade the sharp object striking his shoulder. He barely avoided the small missile which plopped in the water beside him.
Cheyenne Lassiter dropped her arm when she saw him looking her way. “Hey!” she shouted. “Come over here.”
He’d do what he damned well pleased. Thomas carefully waded upstream at an angle to the current, feeling his way around the treacherously smooth rocks. Here, the water ran too fast and deep for Davy’s short legs.
A much larger geyser exploded in the water beside him. She’d switched from pea-size gravel to rocks. The woman needed her head examined. A boulder flew through the air, landing harmlessly several feet from him. Effectively scaring off any trout in the vicinity.
Thomas moved a couple of feet closer to the bank so he wouldn’t have to holler like someone calling pigs. “I’m trying to fish.”
“If you were any kind of fisherman, you’d have caught a fish by now.”
He scowled across the water. “No one could catch a fish with you two around. You’ve done everything but use a bullhorn to frighten the fish away.”
“What a self-centered jerk you are.”
“When fishing, a man appreciates a little peace and quiet. There’s nothing selfish about that.”
“You could let Davy try the hip boots.”
“I came to fish, Ms. Lassiter, and I intend to fish. Despite your childish behavior.” Turning his back, he cast his line upstream.
The rushing river drowned out whatever reply she made. Sunlight sparkled on the water and aspen leaves danced in the breezes, unknotting his muscles. He ought to get away more often. From the office. The hotels. From his family.
Overhead, a commuter jet climbed into the sky from the Aspen airport. Laughter, loud enough to be heard over the river’s roar, came from the bank. Thomas looked over his shoulder. Davy, holding the tops of the large rubber boots he wore, splashed in the shallows. The boots must belong to the woman. The boy waded toward the middle of the river. Ms. Lassiter thought she knew everything, but obviously she knew nothing about boys and rocks. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Thomas angled his way downstream toward his nephew.
He’d moved to within several yards of Davy when the inevitable happened. A large, flat rock proving irresistible, the boy scrambled up on it and stepped to the edge furthest from the bank. The fast-moving river had scooped the sand and gravel from beneath the far side of the slick rock, creating a large hole. Davy’s weight tipped the rock into the hole and he slid into the river. Thomas dropped his fishing rod and rushed toward his nephew as quickly as he could in the clumsy, borrowed hip boots. Davy was almost in reach when Thomas stepped on a moss-slicked rock and windmilled wildly in the air in a futile attempt to maintain his balance. Falling, he managed to keep his head from slamming onto the river rocks, but icy water cascaded over his shoulders, down his body and poured into the boots. Setting his jaw, Thomas watched Davy splash over.
A big grin covered Davy’s face. “I fell in, too, but I didn’t get all wet.” His grin faded and he took a step back. “Are you mad at me ’cuz you fell in?”
He couldn’t look at the boy without scaring him. “I’m not mad at you.” It wasn’t Davy’s fault. Thomas knew who deserved the blame. He sat up, belatedly noting the river was less than six inches deep where Davy had taken his plunge. The only danger Davy had been in, was getting wet. A danger Davy had obviously circumvented much more effectively than Thomas had.
Thomas closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. He could have counted how many dollars the handcrafted bamboo fly rod speeding downstream to the Colorado River had cost him, but somehow he didn’t think that would alleviate his annoyance.
“Are you all right? Did you bump your head?”
He opened his eyes. “No, I did not bump my head,” he said coldly to the shapely legs in front of his nose. She’d come in the river wearing her hiking boots. It was her own damned fault if she ruined them.
“Are you hurt? Do you need a hand up?”
“I do not need your help.”
“Says you.”
“Listen, Ms. Lassiter...” His angry words died away as he looked up. She held his fly rod. Water dripped from the bottom edges of her shorts. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.
“Worth would skin me alive if I let an expensive rod like this get away.”
Meaning she’d done it for some character named Worth, not for him. Thomas struggled to his feet, taking half the river-with him. If she made a single wisecrack, he’d toss her in the middle of the Roaring Fork.
“I have an old pair of Worth’s jeans in the car. They’re clean and dry. I’ll get them.” She scrambled up to the parking area, returning seconds later with the jeans.
He grabbed them. “Do you plan to watch me change?” he asked as she stood there.
“Nope. I’ve seen your knobby knees. C’mon, Davy, let’s fix lunch.”
Halfway up the bank she slipped and grabbed a clump of weeds at her feet. The sight of her khaki-clad bottom waving in the air momentarily took Thomas’s mind off his cold, wet misery.
The jeans were ripped in one knee and threadbare in the other. They were at least a quarter inch too short for Thomas. A fact which, inexplicably, satisfied him immensely.
Cheyenne manfully swallowed her laughter as she poked around in the large basket sitting on the riverside picnic table. Thomas Steele failed to share her amusement at his mishap even after she’d loaned him Worth’s dry jeans and given him an old blanket to drape around his shoulders. Admittedly the river was cold. And wet. She clamped her lips to hold back a giggle.
After he’d changed into Worth’s dry jeans, Thomas Steele had marched up the bank on bare feet and ranted and raved, accusing her of all kinds of folly, including recklessly endangering Davy. A person would think Davy had fallen into the middle of the Mississippi River the way his uncle carried on. Cheyenne had kept her mouth shut, not even pointing out that, not only had she never taken her eyes off Davy, she knew to the centimeter the depth of the water where she’d allowed him to play.
Her family would have been astonished at her restraint, Cheyenne had barely listened to Thomas Steele’s recriminations. The man could snap and snarl and growl all he wanted, but he’d betrayed himself. Deny his feelings all he wanted, he cared enough about Davy to rush to his rescue. There might be hope for Thomas Steele.
“I’m hungry enough to eat a bear,” Davy said.
“A disgusting notion.”
Now the man was pouting. “I’m afraid all I have is peanut butter and jelly,” Cheyenne said. “No bear.”
“Peanut butter and jelly.” Thomas Steele grimaced. “I thought you went to the delicatessen.”
“Changed my mind. I felt like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich so I went to the grocery store.”
“I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” Davy said.
“I hate peanut butter and jelly.”
“More for us,” Davy said with a gap-toothed grin.
“What did you say, young man?”
The snapped question erased the grin on Davy’s face. “That’s what you said when I told the lady I didn’t like fish eggs.”
“Those fish eggs were extremely expensive Russian caviar,” his uncle said in an overbearing voice. “It would have been more polite to keep your mouth shut. No one forced you to eat caviar.”
“What your uncle is saying, Davy, is he holds himself to different standards than he holds you. Children should be seen, not heard.”
“I said no such thing, Ms. Lassiter.”
“You’re absolutely right. All you said was you hated peanut butter and jelly.”
“You don’t like anyone disagreeing with you, do you?”
“Not when they’re wrong, which you are.”
He uttered a harsh laugh. “At least you’re honest.”
“That’s me. A frizzy, honest, bleached blonde.” More honest than he was. Thomas Steele hid behind so many layers of masks, she questioned if he knew who he was. A cold, selfish uncle or a man hiding from his true feelings? She didn’t like the mask he’d shown her. How would she feel about the real Thomas Steele? If one existed.
“If it would make you feel better, I’ll admit I rather like your hair, okay?”
As if she cared one tiny bit whether he liked her hair. “It’s better than okay. It’s better than winning the Colorado lottery. It’s better than sunshine and rainbows and chocolate chip cookies.” Smearing peanut butter and jelly on two hunks of white bread, she slapped them together and handed him his sandwich.
“I get the picture,” he said dryly. “You don’t give a damn about my opinion.”
Ignoring him, Cheyenne ate her own lunch. A team of wild horses couldn’t have dragged from her the admission that peanut butter was not her favorite food, but she’d spent enough time around kids to know what they liked to eat, and she refused to sink to the level of bologna. Chewing resolutely, she used apple juice to wash down the peanut butter gumming up the roof of her mouth. Davy shoved down his lunch and took off to investigate the small gray squirrel scolding them from a large rock beside the river.
Thomas Steele pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and turned to lean back against the table’s edge. His eyes closed in the warm sun and his head gradually sank to his chest. Cheyenne sipped juice and studied him. His well-groomed hands were nothing like her brother’s. Worth’s work-roughened, calloused hands were strong and capable. As was Worth. She wondered about Thomas Steele.
His oblong face softened slightly in repose, although the chin remained as square-cut, the cheekbones as sharp. Not a curl disturbed the blue-black hair laying sleekly over his well-shaped head. A dark, straight brow slashed across his forehead, and a tiny patch of premature gray edged the temple she could see. She approved of the ear lying flatly against his head. His nose fit his face, but his mouth betrayed him with a bottom lip too full for a man. Especially a man who boasted he didn’t believe in love.
An urge to touch that lip surprised her. How did he feel about passion?
A hummingbird whistled shrilly past. Thomas Steele stirred, looked up and caught her watching him. His gaze locked on her mouth. Darn him. Was she so transparent?
“Have a boyfriend?” he asked.
“What business is that of yours?”
“You flung around accusations about my social life. Turnabout’s fair play. I’ll bet you don’t. You’d scare off any sane man.”
“Do I scare you?”
“Nothing scares me anymore.”
“What used to scare you?”
He looked down at the juice bottle in his hands. “Nothing. Where’s Davy?”
“Trailing the squirrel. Don’t worry. I’ve been keeping an eye on him while you slept.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You lie about everything, don’t you?”
“Do you have a trust fund or something?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m trying to figure out how you live. No one could support herself with these so-called tours.”
“Wait until you get your bill.”
“You can’t have many repeat customers. People don’t care to be lectured to, made fun of, or told they’re liars.”
“Have I hurt your feelings?” she asked lightly.
“Would you care?”
“No.” Maybe poking and prodding him would dislodge his mask. She wanted the real Thomas Steele to stand up.
“Why do I have the distinct impression you want me to lose my temper, Ms. Lassiter?”
“Are you in the habit of losing your temper, Mr. Steele?”
“I don’t lose my temper.”
“Everyone loses their temper. Do you become violent when you lose yours?”
“Are you deliberately irritating me to see if I’ll get mad enough to haul off and slug you?” he asked slowly.
“Will you?”
He gave her a long look. “Don’t you think finding out might be a little on the dangerous side?”
“For me? Or for Davy?” After the episode at the river, this man held no terrors for her. He’d fallen, gotten soaked and miserable, and almost lost his fishing rod. He could have blamed Davy for his mishap. Instead he’d lashed out at Cheyenne. That kind of anger grew out of fear. Fear over Davy’s safety.
Thomas Steele exhaled impatiently. “I admit the boy and I aren’t close. My family isn’t exactly your apple pie kind of family, but no one is harming Davy. He’s fine.”
“He’s not fine. He needs parents.”
“I can’t do anything about that, and I doubt it’s true. These days, children are raised by employees and by television. They do fine. Just because your father tucked you in at night doesn’t mean every kid needs that.”
“I know he’s lost his parents, but a child needs someone who cares about him.” Cheyenne made a snap decision to tell him a little about herself. “My father didn’t tuck me in. At first he was off rodeoing, then he was just—off. I was ten the last time I saw him.”
“Is that why you hate men? Because you hate your father for abandoning you?”
“I don’t hate men and I don’t hate my father. He’s dead now anyway. Tangled with one bull too many.” Seeing his blank look, she explained. “He rode bulls and saddle broncs in rodeos. He was good.” She flashed a quick smile. “If he’d been ugly, Mom said even if he could ride anything with four legs, she wouldn’t have fallen so hard for him. Or if he was good-looking, but couldn’t ride. She claims the combination did her in. Tough, reckless riding and a smile to charm the birds from the trees. When Beau would hobble back with broken bones and his crooked smile, Grandpa would say ‘handsome is as handsome does,’ and Mom’d laugh and say ‘handsome did pretty darned good.’ Grandpa always laughed, which made the rest of us laugh. A person couldn’t help but like Beau, even if he did shed responsibility the way Shadow sheds water.” She added, “Shadow’s Allie’s black Labrador retriever.”
“You call your father Beau?”
“He didn’t like being called Dad.” Cheyenne made a face. “Rumed his image.”
“Yet you loved him? How charitable and forgiving of you.”
She heard the sarcasm. “There was nothing to forgive. Beau never tried to be other than he was. He never promised to come see us or write or phone. He came around when he needed a place for broken bones to heal. He was like an unexpected guest. We’d enjoy him, then he’d leave, and life would return to normal.”
“No resentment at all?” He clearly doubted her.
“No. We had Grandpa and Mom. And Worth, of course. Beau used to say fate picked Worth’s name because Worth was worth ten of Beau.” She half smiled. “Beau never lied, not even to himself.”
“And you found that admirable, even lovable?” he asked in disgust.
“I’m not stupid, Mr. Steele. I know Beau used his weaknesses to evade responsibility. I liked him. Everyone liked Beau. But love?” She shook her head. “Love is for men like Grandpa and Worth. Men you can depend on. None of us kids loved Beau. We accepted him.” She drew in the dirt with a stick. “That’s sad, don’t you think? Beau had excitement and glamour and women and a certain amount of fame. He never had kids who loved him.”
“Sounds as if he had what he wanted.”
“Beau didn’t know what he wanted. He grew up in a series of foster homes. Beau never saw his mom, but for some reason, she never signed the papers which would allow him to be adopted. As a result, he never connected with anyone. He didn’t know how to love.” Cheyenne watched Davy standing beside the river looking up into the branches of a small aspen. “A child has to be loved to learn how to love.”
“I had a feeling your true confession was leading somewhere. Forget it. I’m no more interested in your opinions on child-rearing than I am in hearing your family’s history.”
“Why do you deny Davy what you had? Parents and family who loved you?” Cheyenne asked in a quiet, intense voice.
“Don’t forget the hundreds of gorgeous women who are madly in love with me and nightly grace my bed.” He paused. “Considering your appalling naiveté, I ought to assure you they grace it one at a time.”
His patronizing smile went no further than his lips. His eyes told her nothing. He hid his secrets well. He hadn’t answered her question. His jaw tightened. Her scrutiny bothered him. She wondered what kind of parents he’d had, but knew better than to ask.
Thomas gave a low laugh. “The next time you start on one of your dreary little sermons, I’ll remember that mentioning my sex life shuts you up.”
The triumph in his voice saddened her. Life was about winning and losing to him, and he thought he’d won. Perhaps he had. Only an idiot would believe she could turn this man and Davy into a family. Allie was nght. Cheyenne couldn’t save the world.
She could give Davy a friend for two weeks. After that... Cheyenne wrapped her arms around herself and watched Davy stalk a butterfly through a small patch of fuchsia-blooming thistles. “I’ll pick Davy up at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”
Thomas Steele said nothing. The silence grew. She wanted to cry and scream and throw things and kick her feet in frustration. Why couldn’t he understand? Tiny prickles crawled down her spine. Raising her chin, she turned her head.
He was studying her, an enigmatic look on his face. “He’ll be ready.”
She’d missed something. He seemed almost disappointed. As if he’d expected something else from her. Something more. Surely not jealousy at the thought of other women in his bed. So what her knees went a little weak at the sight of the chest he’d exposed to the sun’s rays? It took more than blatant masculinity to offset bony knees.
He closed his eyes, shutting her out. Silly thought. When had he let her in? The feeling he’d wanted something from her and she’d failed to deliver wouldn’t go away. Maybe she hadn’t been clear enough. Surely he understood she’d agreed to take Davy for the next two weeks. Didn’t Thomas Steele realize she was letting him off the hook?
An incredible thought almost knocked her off the picnic table bench. Perhaps Thomas Steele didn’t want off the hook. The outline of a brilliant plan sprang into being. What if she refused to let him off the hook?
Deciding to put her theory to the test, Cheyenne spoke before sanity prevailed. “I’ll take Davy to the Aspen Center for Environmental Studies in the morning. We can kill a couple of hours at the nature preserve watching the hawks and ducks, look for a muskrat or beaver Will that be enough tune for you to get things ready for the party?”
Thomas Steele’s eyelids snapped up. “What party?”
“Davy’s birthday party. I’ll order the cake tonight and you can go shopping for presents and decorations in the morning.”
“His birthday has passed.”
“A late party is better than no party.”
“Fine. Give him a birthday party and send me the bill. I don’t care how you entertain him.”
Cheyenne chose to misinterpret his words “If you don’t care what kind of party, I have a better idea. Mom and Worth would think it great fun to throw a birthday party at Hope Valley I’d planned to go out to the ranch tomorrow afternoon, but we can go earlier. Mom loves to bake birthday cakes. I’ll take Davy with me to buy the ice cream and decorations and tell him they’re for Worth. You’ll be in charge of the presents.”
Thomas Steele looked at her as if she’d grown several extra heads. He opened his mouth, but Cheyenne had no intention of giving him an opportunity to refuse. “A couple of hours should give you enough time. We’ll come back to the hotel for you and Olivia. She’s booked with Allie for tomorrow, and she’ll love a party.”
“Ms. Lassiter.” He stood. The blanket fell to the picnic bench. “I’m not—”
“You’ll like Olivia,” Cheyenne said quickly, trying not to stare at the sculpted male torso shining in the sunlight. “She’s filthy rich, and she always stays in Steele hotels.”
He moved to stand in front of her. “I’m not interested in meeting this woman no matter where she stays or how much money she has. Or how beautiful she is.”
“I’m not fixing you up.” If he moved much closer, her nose would bump the bare skin above Worth’s old jeans. He wanted to make her nervous. He couldn’t. “Olivia’s eighty-three.” The day had grown warmer. Cheyenne resisted an urge to fan her face with her hat. The sun was going to burn his broad shoulders and blister the wide expanse of skin. Not that she cared. He could strip stark naked and it wouldn’t bother her.
“Definitely not my type.”
Of course she wasn’t his type. “What is your type?”
“A woman younger than eighty-three.”
He was talking about Olivia. She knew that. “You’re Olivia’s type.” He was leaner than Worth. The jeans hung low on his hips. She tried not to stare at his flat stomach. “She’s crazy about men who are tall, dark, handsome and devastatingly sexy.”
Hands came to rest on her shoulders. “How about you, Ms. Lassiter? What kind of men are you crazy about?” He laughed, low in his throat, and pulled Cheyenne to her feet. “I’m flattered you think I’m devastatingly sexy.”
