The Maverick's Holiday Masquerade. Caro Carson
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his hands in his mystery woman’s hair and not have to politely avoid the anchors of fake hair extensions. So many women in Hollywood paid a fortune to look like they had the kind of hair that his boot-wearing beauty probably had gained through healthy living on a ranch.
In a flash, he saw himself burying his hands in her hair, holding her reverently as she gazed up at him from the pillow, her happiness a part of his pleasure as—
Get a grip, Ryan.
He needed to snap out of this. This day was turning strange, whether it was from the strain of work and travel, the strangeness of ruminating over his siblings’ marriages or the sight of a bride and groom, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was the higher elevation or the cleaner air or that damned syrupy wedding punch, but he felt off.
The mayor called the bride and groom to the stage for the best man’s toast. Ryan saw the three fairy-tale grannies circulating in the crowd, coming toward him with trays of paper cups, making sure everyone who didn’t already have a drink in hand accepted one of theirs.
Absolutely not. Ryan Roarke, attorney at law, was not going to drink punch and spin ridiculous fantasies about a cowgirl he hadn’t even met. He turned on his heel and headed away from the stage.
“Were you looking for this? I think you’re going to need it.”
Ryan stopped abruptly, face to face with the cowgirl herself. Had he been heading straight for her, or had she stepped into his path? Either way, she was right here, stunningly beautiful in denim and sunshine.
She held out a cup and nodded toward the stage behind him. “It’s time for the toast.”
From her, he’d take the punch. He’d probably stand here and drink water from the river Styx, as long as he could keep looking at her. She looked right back, her blue eyes and heart-shaped face framed by that hair he so keenly wanted to touch.
“I’m Kristen,” she said with a smile.
He nodded gravely, aware that this was an introduction he’d remember.
“Ryan,” he said, and he suddenly didn’t care about Montana or Hollywood, about mayors and law firms. The only thing he cared about was getting to know the woman who smiled at him in a green park on the Fourth of July. She was worth traveling a thousand miles.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.
“No, I’m not.” Now that he’d decided what he wanted, he could relax. He found himself smiling at her—with her—without any effort at all. “But I could be.”
The best man finished his toast. “To the new Mr. and Mrs. Braden Traub.”
The crowd around them cheered and raised their drinks to toast the happy couple. Ryan tapped his cup to Kristen’s, then watched her over the rim of his cup as they drank to the newlyweds’ happiness.
The band struck up a song, a country-western ballad for the bride and groom’s first dance, and the lovely Kristen turned to face the dance floor.
With the taste of that sweet punch lingering on his tongue, Ryan looked at the faces of the townspeople who were looking at the newlyweds, faces that were young and old and in between. He could practically feel the goodwill and best wishes being directed toward the center of the dance floor as the bride and groom danced alone. Where were the murmured whispers about the prenuptial agreement? The bets that this marriage wouldn’t last longer than the bride’s previous two or the groom’s last three?
Ryan glanced down at the beautiful woman beside him. Her profile was not only pure physical perfection, but the expression on her face looked to him to be genuinely pure, as well, as open and honest as her friends’ and neighbors’ faces. He rubbed his still-aching jaw in disbelief. He’d had to see this to believe it, the possibility that an entire town could be truly wishing this couple a lifetime of happiness. If he wanted to fit in here, he’d have to leave some of his skepticism in LA.
The song came to an end, and Kristen bit the edge of her cup in her perfect white teeth so her hands were free to applaud with the rest of the crowd.
“Allow me.” Ryan tugged the cup from her, charmed by her unselfconscious smile. He slid her empty cup inside his own, then turned to put them down on the nearest picnic table.
The lead singer of the band was doubling as the master of ceremonies. “Everyone is invited to join in for this next dance. For every couple who gets on the dance floor, the bride and groom will get another year of happiness, so don’t be shy. Find your partners.”
The fiddle player began the first notes of a country-western song in the clear one-two-three rhythm of a waltz.
Ryan didn’t know how to two-step or boot-scoot or do any kind of country dancing, but a waltz was a waltz, whether it was danced under the chandeliers of a ballroom or on temporary wood planking in a park. He could fit in here, on the dance floor with the citizens of Rust Creek Falls, and he could waltz with the prettiest cowgirl of them all.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
“You may.” Kristen took her place in his arms with a graceful swirl of her denim dress. They began to move as one.
There was nothing that satisfied Ryan’s sense of irony more than holding a beautiful woman in a ballroom dance. It seemed so civilized on the surface, when it was really a way to bring a man and a woman’s bodies in sync. While they performed the prescribed moves of the centuries-old waltz, he could touch the smooth skin of her upper back, left bare by the halter dress. He could feel the incredible softness of her hair brushing his wrist as they turned in smooth circles. He could hold her so close that they stepped between each other’s legs, graceful movements of her booted feet between his own.
“I love the waltz even more than the two-step,” she said, civilized small talk made while her thighs brushed against his.
“I do, too.” Of course, he only knew the waltz, not the two-step, but he’d watch and learn the two-step in record time today. He intended to dance as much as possible with Kristen. This was where he wanted to be, but more importantly, this was the woman with whom he wanted to be. She moved with him effortlessly, lightly, wonderfully. The moment in time seemed perfect.
As if this dance were destined to be.
No. He didn’t believe in things like destiny. Men and women had to carve their own lives out of the circumstances they were dealt. As beautiful as the woman in his arms was, as expressive as her eyes were and as easily as her smile came, it was still absurd to think she’d come into his life today because of destiny.
It was even more absurd that he was debating the possibility.
It had to be the wedding. The music. The damned effect of that punch. This was just an average town, a simple song, an average band. There was nothing special about this waltz, and the woman he shared it with was merely a pretty country girl. Those were facts, not fate.
He was an attorney, a man of letters. Like his parents, he believed in laws and rules, not in mystical interpretations of life.
But Mom, I’m not really a Roarke.
Oh, but you are. I think you were always meant to be my son, and I was always meant to be your mother.
The memory caught him by surprise. Did his analytical adoptive mother truly believe in fate, or had she said those words to comfort a boy who’d never forgotten being left behind?
“Are you okay?”
Kristen’s soft question brought him back to reality. He gave her a polite, reassuring smile that was little more than a reflex.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
How odd that she’d asked. He hadn’t changed the rhythm of their dancing or the way he was holding her as he’d remembered his mother’s words about destiny. On the surface, everything was the same, all smooth skin, smooth steps, synchronicity. And yet, Kristen had noticed