Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress. Robyn Grady
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that she opposed good Texan stock, Elizabeth noted, heading for her usual table in a far corner by a row of windows. In fact, when the time came to start a family, her partner would more likely than not hail from these parts. At the very least he’d appreciate her situation and stand one hundred percent behind her commitment to keep the Milton Ranch. Which ruled out hotshot architects from up North.
Although, God knows, that boy was cute.
Chad pushed to his feet as she skirted around the remaining tables.
“I was about to see what was keeping you,” he said, retracting her chair.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied in a sweet but pointed tone.
“I was only—”
“I know you were only.”
She swallowed that spike of irritation and calmly collected the menu. But Chad wasn’t prepared to let it go.
“Elizabeth, it’s my duty to watch out for you.”
“I’m not a child,” she reminded him. She’d been twenty-one when he’d been handed, via the will, the role of her financial advisor. But she was older now, wiser and far more responsible.
“Your parents only had your best interests at heart when they included that caveat and put me in charge.”
He leaned closer, about to say more, when the waiter arrived and took their orders—steak for him, pecan and avocado salad for her. Chad was looking thoughtful, pouring iced tea, when he spoke next.
“That man—Mr. Warren …”
“Abigail Langley’s architect.” Relishing a grin, Elizabeth reached for her glass. “I can’t wait to see the results of that election come December.”
Chad scoffed. “If Abigail expects votes to swing her way because of an eyesore of a design like that, she’s dreaming more than I’d thought.”
Elizabeth wouldn’t touch his comment about the design. “I’m sure the majority commend the committee for awarding Abigail full membership privileges after her husband passed away. She has as much right as any member to stand for president. If it weren’t for her late husband’s ancestors, there wouldn’t be a Texas Cattleman’s Club,” she said.
“At the risk of sounding sexist, it’s not the Cattleperson’s Club.”
“Perhaps it ought to be.”
“Change isn’t always good, Elizabeth. Sometimes it can lead to discord. To ruin.”
And sometimes it was necessary. Even exciting. But she wouldn’t waste her breath. Instead, her cheeks warm from building annoyance, she took a long sip of cool tea.
“Have you and Mr. Warren met before?”
“No.” She set her glass on the table.
“He seems a smooth sort.”
She grinned again. “Yes, he does.”
“I don’t trust him.”
Enough. She met Chad Tremain’s gaze square on.
“You were a dear friend of my parents, I count you as a friend of mine, but drop it.” She forced a short laugh to temper her tone. “Okay?”
“It’s just … Elizabeth, you know that I care.”
His fingers edged over the table. Her stomach knotting, Elizabeth slid her hand away and locked both sets of fingers in her lap. Yes, she knew Chad cared, far more than she would have liked. He was too serious and staid and not her type at all. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested?
In fact, despite her parents’ wishes, if there were any way to dismiss him as her financial advisor she’d do it. However, for now at least, she was hog-tied. The terms of the will were set until her thirtieth birthday. Sitting here now and feeling inordinately constrained, it might as well be her sixtieth.
Needing to change the subject, she cast a glance around the buzzing room. “Where’s Mr. Michaels?” Her bank manager.
Sitting back, Chad nodded at his cell phone, placed on the other side of his cutlery.
“Detained. I thought we could review the figures of those larger annuities while we wait.”
Elizabeth sipped tea and listened as Chad spouted off strings of figures, but after a few minutes, his voice seemed to blend with other sounds—glasses pinging, cutlery clicking, people chatting, laughing. And suddenly, through the condensation of the pitcher that sat at the center of their table, a face swam up.
Glossy dark hair. A hint of Latin heritage, perhaps. Sea-green eyes full of questions and possibilities. Then there was the confident air that exuded strength but also cloaked a more vulnerable side, if she weren’t mistaken. She barely knew Daniel Warren and yet something very real about him made her heart beat faster than a piston hammering at full throttle.
What would Chad say if he knew she’d gone and asked him to dinner?
“Elizabeth?”
Starting, she snapped her attention back to her luncheon companion.
“I’m sorry, Chad. What was that?”
“I thought I’d mention that we received another offer to buy the ranch. Developers, of course. I took it upon myself to tell the gentleman the property was not for sale.”
She contained a sigh. “Thank you, but I can deal with those inquiries myself. Even if I were in a position to sell, I know where my heart lies.”
At least, now she did.
The words were barely out when movement beyond the nearby window caught her eye. Daniel Warren was strolling the manicured grounds with a concerned-looking Abigail. When he turned toward the window and Elizabeth imagined he’d noticed her looking through the pane, her stomach jumped and flipped over. Holding her breath, she lowered her head even as a runaway smile stole across her face.
She was looking forward to tonight like she hadn’t looked forward to anything in a long time.
“My dear? Are you all right?”
Crunching her napkin, Elizabeth focused on the older man’s face, which was lined with curiosity. Or was that suspicion?
“I was saying that I know where my heart lies.” She pushed thoughts of Daniel Warren aside, replaced them with an image of the Milton Ranch and affirmed, “And that’s right here in Royal.”
Two
That evening, as Daniel swerved his rental SUV around the top of the Milton Ranch graveled driveway, his breath caught in his throat at the same time his mouth dropped open.
Usually in this kind of situation, before anything else, professional instinct demanded an immediate once-over of the house—its position, angles, any interesting textures and touches. Tonight, however, the sprawling homestead, set on too many acres of prime land to imagine, didn’t come close to drawing his attention. Instead, his focus was riveted on the scene illuminated by recently triggered lawn lights. Easing out of the vehicle, he rubbed his eyes and looked harder.
Flamingos?
The pink-and-white imitation birds were strategically positioned beneath the benevolent arms of a glorious magnolia. Daniel scrubbed the back of his neck. Hell, maybe Elizabeth Milton’s success with that eclectic ensemble today was a fluke, after all.
“You’re on time.”
Daniel swung around to see Elizabeth standing, a shoulder propped against the jamb of the massive doorway of her home. The cowboy boots she’d worn earlier had been replaced by elegant black heels, which matched an equally elegant little black dress. The blond mane was swept up in an effortless, chic style. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and a mock curious smile shone from her face. Beneath the porch lights,