A Cowboy Under Her Tree. Allison Leigh
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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