Millionaire Cowboy Seeks Wife. Terry McLaughlin
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currents. Her heart easing at the sight of him, she grabbed his lead and slipped into his stall. “Gonna make you even prettier than you already are, big boy.”
She leaned against the warm, solid body and smoothed a hand over his neck. So soft, so supple and powerful. So gentle, with her. “Come on out and let me fuss over you a bit.”
She soothed them both with pieces of a song as she secured him with leads fastened to both sides of his halter. Hannibal enjoyed a good grooming, but he could get ornery about the application. He didn’t much care for getting his mane or tail trimmed or his whiskers shaved, and he’d been born too big to wrestle.
She ducked into the tack room for supplies. When she emerged, electric razor kit in hand, Fitz Kelleran stood at Hannibal’s head, sneaking him an apple. He flashed one of those movie-star smiles, and she braced to take the hit to her equilibrium.
The fact was, he was simply stunning to look at, and having all that male beauty aimed in her direction was something akin to intoxication. Those looks of his, and the liquored-up sensations they induced, were a monumental inconvenience. But she had to look at him, and accept the tongue-tying, spine-tingling impact he had on her, because they had a job to do.
He’d changed his outfit, though somehow the pleated slacks and stylish shirt didn’t seem any more out of place than the work clothes she’d seen him wear before. It struck her that he always seemed to fit, always seemed the same. Must be some actor’s trick.
She rolled her shoulders and started toward Hannibal, feeling slightly off balance and a little resentful because of it. Why should she stumble over a disadvantage in her own place? Someone like Kelleran was bound to pick up a kind of polish when he spent his life in the kinds of places that layered on the shinola. She’d never been to those places, didn’t even know the way. All she knew was the more his smooth, easygoing way bumped up against hers, the rougher she felt by comparison.
But not so rough as to forget her manners. “Evenin’, Fitz.”
“Evenin’, Ellie.” He waited for Hannibal to lip the last bit of apple off his palm and then wiped his hand across his pants. “I understand this horse is sort of special to you.”
“He’s stock.” She set the razor down on the grooming bucket and picked up a wide-toothed comb to tug through Hannibal’s mane. “Good stock as it turns out, and that’s the sum total of his value. Sentiment’s got no part of it.”
“Still, I suppose it might sneak up on a person, sometimes.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She was surprised by his diplomatic approach to the request that had already filtered down through Trish. More evidence of those smooth ways of his, she supposed, but…considerate. He didn’t have to be concerned with her feelings in the matter or take the time to pry them out of her.
She shoved her confusing thoughts aside and concentrated on her task, combing Hannibal’s mane and gauging where to make her first cut. The moment he felt the tug of the razor, she’d have to work fast.
“Tell me about his name.” Fitz tucked a shoulder against a support post and slipped his hands into his pockets, looking as if he were settling in for some conversation. “Hannibal. Not a typical name for ranch stock.”
She shrugged. “Not much to tell.”
“Why Hannibal?”
Keeping one eye on her horse, she made a swipe at the edges. Hannibal flinched, but didn’t seem to mind the tugging—for now. “I had to name him something. That’s the first thing that came to mind.”
“Hannibal?”
She shrugged again and hoped he wouldn’t read too much into her embarrassed blush.
“Most people might think of the Hannibal in the movies,” he said. “You know, the cannibal.”
“Is that your only frame of reference?” She couldn’t resist the urge to tease at him, just a bit. “The movies?”
“I wasn’t including myself in the ‘most people’ category.” He shoved away from the post and stepped in close to run a hand down the horse’s face. “Besides, you’re here to do that for me.”
She slanted a narrow-eyed glance at him over her shoulder, annoyed that he wasn’t taking offense or her hints to back off. And that he was getting to her. “Another item on my job description?”
The smile that spread over his features was positively wicked. “Care if I add some more?”
If this were any other man, she’d think he was flirting. But this was Fitz Kelleran, one of People’s Sexiest Men Alive. And she was…nobody a man like him would ever flirt with. She turned back to her task.
“Wasn’t Hannibal an ancient general?” he asked.
“A Carthaginian. He fought the Romans.”
“And lost, right?”
“Yeah.”
Fitz rubbed his knuckles over Hannibal’s nose. “Sorry, fella. You’re named for one of history’s losers.”
She smiled and realized she was enjoying herself, enjoying the company and the conversation. Maybe she was a sucker for that notorious charm, after all. Or maybe her relatively mellow mood on this pretty evening was smoothing out some of her rougher edges. Or maybe, just maybe, she was starting to like Fitz Kelleran. Just a fraction of an inch’s worth. It was hard holding petty grudges against someone who seemed to appreciate her horse as much as she did.
“Hannibal wasn’t really a loser,” she said. “Well, in the end, maybe. But he was a brilliant tactician, one of history’s best. A dreamer and a fighter. A powerful combination. Anyone determined enough to take elephants over the Alps—now that’s someone with a whole lot of spirit.”
She evened up another section of mane, and then swept her hand along her horse’s long, warm neck. “This Hannibal’s got a whole lot of spirit, too.”
“Why, Ellie Harrison.” He shifted to stand behind her and lowered his voice to a seductive singsong of a whisper. “You’re a romantic.”
“No, I’m not.” Another wave of warmth crept across her cheeks, and she hunched her shoulders in mortification. She hoped he couldn’t see the pink creeping over the back of her neck. She suspected the man saw too much for comfort.
She sensed him leaning in closer, closer, until his breath washed the scents of coffee and mint over the side of her face. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”
She was on fire, trapped between two large, warm bodies. She swallowed and steadied, and then tugged again at Hannibal’s mane. The horse quivered and snuffled his impatience with her clumsy moves, and her elbow accidentally connected with Fitz’s surprisingly solid midsection.
“You don’t know me well enough to say something like that,” she said.
“I know you’re a romantic. That’s a start.”
“A start off on the wrong foot, maybe.”
“I like that ‘maybe.’ It’s full of possibilities. Like taking elephants over the Alps.” He moved away, and a chill raced down her spine in the cooling night air.
She sucked in a deep breath and turned for the comb. Fitz was still there, standing too close, studying her face with those sky-blue eyes, famous eyes she’d sighed over on the screen a dozen times. Eyes that locked on hers and darkened in pure and potent male consideration.
Oh. My. God.
She swallowed a fizzy brew of disbelief and panic and primitive female response. “Excuse me.”
He stepped back and shoved his hands into his pockets, and then whistled some tuneless nonsense as he strolled down the breezeway. He paused in the wide doorway, turned and flashed her one of his dazzling smiles. “Elephants over the Alps, Ellie. Elephants over the Alps.”