The Millionaire's Club: Jacob, Logan and Marc: Black-Tie Seduction / Less-than-Innocent Invitation / Strictly Confidential Attraction. Brenda Jackson
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after the feed is tested, then maybe we’ll consider looking into it.”
“Consider?” Her eyes snapped with fire. “Thanks. Thanks so much for nothing.”
She stomped out of the club in as much of a huff as when she’d stomped in.
“That’s one upset woman,” Logan remarked.
“Can’t blame her,” Jake said. “She’s stubborn and outspoken and I’ve known her to go to great lengths to get her way, but I’ve never known her to lie about anything. This is her livelihood that’s being threatened. I’m sure she’s scared.”
“Let’s keep our ears open for word from the elevator regarding the feed,” Mark suggested.
“What about the fences?” Logan asked.
Jake shrugged. “Who knows? Could be kids. Could be any number of possibilities. What do you guys think of checking with Tom Devlin to see if he has any ideas on what’s going on?”
“He’s out of town right now. Business trip,” Gavin said.
“When he comes back, then,” Jake said. “We’ll find out what he thinks. Man, when old Jonathan was alive, he loved to stir the fire on the Windcroft-Devlin feud every chance he got. I thought maybe after he died that this stupid feud business would die a quiet death, too.”
“I should be so lucky,” Gavin said on a weary breath. “See you boys. I’d better get down to the station before Nita raises hell with my officers.”
“But I was about to get into you for some serious coin,” Jake complained, thinking about his pair of queens.
“You can break my bank another night, buddy. I’ve got a mad woman waiting and it’s not going to do any of us any good if I keep her that way too long.”
Didn’t it just figure? Jake thought. These days there always seemed to be a woman complicating things for him. Nita was leaning on the club members for help, and his pair of queens hadn’t shown up until after he’d dropped a bundle and the game was over. Then there was Chrissie. Lord. She had materialized this afternoon as a different woman, then issued a challenge he couldn’t see his way clear to walk away from.
Chapter Eight
“My place. Tonight. Midnight. Wear jeans and boots.”
Christine’s heart knocked her a couple of good ones in her chest when she listened to the message on her answering machine.
That the message was from Jake was without question. She’d recognize his barbed-wire-and-velvet voice anywhere. That he’d answered her challenge so soon—the day after she’d lain her metaphorical cards on the table—was a big surprise.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Christine looked at Alison, who had dropped by after work to check out Chris’s sports car.
“I’m going to go. It’s what I want.”
Alison eyed her with appreciation. “You are serious about this personal alteration, aren’t you?”
“Like I said—” Christine made a concentrated attempt not to chew nervously on her lower lip “—I’m tired of playing it safe and dull. I know it sounds funny given our history, but I trust Jake not to hurt me.”
“Jake is it? He’s not the evil twin or the insensitive jerk anymore? My, my. That must have been some dinner date Saturday night.”
“Let’s just say the evening opened me up to new possibilities.”
“Well, I say, you go, girl. Just…well, be a little careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’ll be fine,” Christine assured Alison even though she wasn’t one hundred percent sure herself. “I know what I’m doing.”
Six hours later, however, as Christine pulled into the drive of Jake Thorne’s ranch south of Royal, one burning question kept surfacing like a stubborn cork in a choppy sea: What am I doing?
She eased her convertible around the circular drive, then stopped in front of a portico that flanked a pair of massive double doors framed in a stucco structure the color of sand.
Money. The place reeked of it with its understated elegance and style. The house was new—one of many in this area where land was sold in five-hundred-acre parcels of rolling hills and the occasional thicket of timber. Only the wealthy and privileged could afford the property here.
Lot of house for one man, she thought as her gaze roamed over the impressive facade. A light mounted under the portico came on and the front door swung open.
Make that, a lot of man for one woman.
Neither the businessman nor the tease strode out to meet her. A cowboy did. And Jake Thorne as an icon of the American west personified the cowboy mystic in resounding three-dimensional color.
His boots were a rusty-brown color. His Wranglers looked soft and worn and tight. On his head was a black, well-shaped Stetson—black for bad guy, she thought—and his shirt was as white as snow with mother-of-pearl snaps running down his torso and on the breast pockets. The blue bandanna he’d tied around his neck lay in stark contrast against his white shirt and tanned throat. Spurs jingled with every long, purposeful stride.
The only thing missing was a pair of six-shooters strapped on his lean hips. Still, she got the feeling that he was gunning for her.
“Nice wheels,” he said by way of greeting as he looked her car over.
“It’s new,” she said inanely.
One corner of his mouth turned up. Not a smile. Not a sneer. Small clue as to what he was thinking.
“Got your boots on?”
She got out of the car and showed him. And his nota-smile-not-a-sneer expression turned into a frown. Big clue as to what he was thinking.
“Let met guess—those would be new, too?”
She glanced away from his look of disgust at her pretty red boots. “What’s wrong with them?”
“I was thinking cowboy boots.”
“These are cowboy boots.”
“If you’re strutting down Rodeo Drive in California maybe. Not if you’re planning to ride a horse.”
She’d suspected he had a midnight ride in mind, even though she’d held out hope for something else. She didn’t ride. In fact, she’d never ridden—guess the choice of boots might have given that away. Somehow she figured he already knew that, too, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
“These boots will do just fine,” she said.
He grunted and shook his head. “Come on.” Then he walked away from the house toward a mammoth, pristine white barn.
“This is Cletus,” he said opening a box stall.
Inside was what Christine considered to be a very big—strike that, an exceptionally huge—brown horse.
“Does he bite?” She could have kicked herself, but the question was out before she could stop it. Talk about sounding green.
“Only blondes,” Jake said, leveling her a look. “But since you’ll be on his back, you should be safe.”
Her stomach sank toward her knees as she looked up the broad length of him. But she smiled. “Oh. Well. Good.”
Jake studied her face. “You have ridden, right?”
“Sure. Lots of times.” Why was she playing this game? What did she think it was going to net her?
A broken neck, probably, but something about his smug attitude just wouldn’t allow her to let him see that she was