Mr Taken. Danica Winters
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wasn’t ready to hear that though her office was a disaster, it was cleaner than it had been in nearly a month.
As she walked out the door toward the parlor where they received guests, she was stopped when she ran into a man. Well, not any man, but Colter. The well-muscled, ridiculously handsome Fitzgerald brother who was nearly as reclusive as she. “Oh, hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She took a step back from him as she realized she was so close to him that she could smell the traces of smoke on his skin even though it was masked by the heady aroma of his cologne.
It struck her that no matter how many showers a person could take or how much perfume he used to cover up the smell of a fire, it wasn’t something that could be fully erased—just like her memory, it had a way of nearly permeating into a person all the way to the soul. Or maybe it was just the fact that she knew what he did for a living, the risks he took and the panic he had to face each and every day, which brought the scent back to the front of her mind. It was almost like one of Pavlov’s dogs except firefighter equaled smoke, and smoke equaled...fear.
She took another step back. Though he was one sexy hunk of man, with his dark black cowboy hat and whiskey-colored eyes, he was the living embodiment of danger.
“You’re fine,” he said, a giant, almost comically large grin on his face. “But you know if you wanted to touch my body, all you had to do was ask.”
“Ugh. You really are full of yourself. Aren’t you, Colter?” She couldn’t help the heat that rose in her cheeks as he teased her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t imagined running her fingers over the lines of the muscles that adorned his chest. Every staff member at the ranch had a fantasy about at least one of the Fitzgerald brothers—who, of late, had been getting scooped up by women prettier and far more accomplished than her.
“I’ve been called full of something, but it ain’t usually myself,” he said, his Montana drawl kicking into an even higher gear than his smile.
“Well, if no one has had the guts to call you on it, then I’m more than happy to step up to the plate. You, Mr. Colter Fitzgerald, aren’t God’s gift to women. In fact, in case you didn’t know, you are the last man I would ever think about dating. I’d rather date...” She paused as she tried to come up with a man in place of him, but none came to mind. As the seconds ticked by, her heart rate climbed. He couldn’t see her like this. She had to be cool, calm, collected and, above all, witty—and she had nothing.
“You’d rather date whom?” he asked, with that all-too-cute grin and a wiggle of the eyebrow.
“Dang it, you know what I mean... I would rather date anyone than you.”
“As long as it’s no one else in particular, I think I like my odds.” He laughed, the sound as rich and full of depth as his eyes.
She groaned, but the sound didn’t take on the edge of real annoyance like she had wanted it to; in fact, to her ears it almost sounded like the awful noise a woman made when she was trying not to fall for a man. And she was definitely, absolutely, categorically never going to fall for the infamous jokester Colter Fitzgerald. Nope. Not gonna happen. She would never let him win her over as long as she stayed in her right mind. Not that she had a left mind, but...well... She sighed.
No.
The bell tinged to life again from the parlor, reminding her of the guests who were undoubtedly growing more impatient by the second with her absence.
“Excuse me—I have work to do. Unlike some of us,” she said under her breath as she pushed past him, careful not to touch him again.
His laughter followed her into the parlor until she shut the door to drown him out. The last thing she needed to do was spend a moment thinking about that man.
Standing at the front desk was a man and a woman. They looked to be in their midthirties, and based on the woman’s coiffed hair, to-the-sky black stilettos, and brown Louis Vuitton purse, they were definitely among their elite clientele. They had probably come here to spend their trust-fund money on some idealistic and romantic getaway that involved a horse-drawn sleigh and a bearskin rug in front of the crackling fireplace.
The woman was carrying what looked to be a slightly oversize fur ball, or maybe it was just one of those New York rats everyone talked about. Yet, as Whitney drew closer walking to the desk, the rat-looking creature picked up its ears and growled. Dog. Definitely a dog. It probably had one of those stupid names like Fifi or Fredrico. It was funny, but most of their elite guests had a dog just like that one, an accessory to their outfit—but most were cuter than the one this particular woman held.
“How may I help you folks?” Whitney said, using her practiced service-industry charm.
“It took you long enough,” the woman said, nearly spitting the words.
“Dear, I’m sure she was busy,” the man said, patting the woman lightly on the hand and drawing Whitney’s attention to the massive diamond that adorned the woman’s ring finger.
For a moment she wondered if they had drawn her attention to it on purpose, some well-practiced motion that drew even more attention to their status and wealth. Whitney forced herself to smile just a little bit brighter, but the truth in Montana was simple—no one really cared about how much money anyone had or the number of things a person owned. Respect and honor were only given to those whose character merited such accolades. It was one of the reasons she had picked this state as her home instead of staying in Kentucky.
“I don’t care if she was busy or not. We have flown halfway around the country to be here. The least she could do is be present when we arrive,” the woman said, continuing her rampage.
Whitney bit her tongue instead of telling the woman that Dunrovin Ranch was a beautiful and majestic place, but it was a long way from the Four Seasons. If the woman had wanted to be catered to hand and foot, she should have picked a resort that would have done that—and not come to a guest ranch.
“If you like,” Whitney said, forcing herself to behave, “and are interested in relaxing, there is a spa about ten miles back down the road. I can set up an appointment for you.”
“Ten miles? Where are we, on the back side of Hell?” The woman glared at her husband, who must have been the one to book their trip.
The man smiled at Whitney, clearly embarrassed by his wife’s atrocious behavior. “Is there any way we could have the masseuse come here?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Whitney said, though she was fully aware the local masseuse, Jess Lewis, would throw a holy hissy fit at the request. Yet if they gave her a few extra bucks she would quiet down in no time.
She took down the couple’s names and got them the keys to their room—the nicest private cabin at the ranch, a two-story, nearly three-thousand-square-foot log home with marble and leather everywhere. “Let me know if there’s anything further I can assist you with,” Whitney said, the forced niceties like sand on her tongue.
“Actually,” the woman said, handing over the rat creature, “I don’t want Francesca to be a bother to me this weekend. I need you to handle her.”
Whitney balked at the woman as she stuffed the dog into her hands.
Handle her? The last thing on her long list of duties was dog handler or kennel master. Whitney had work to do. She slowly lowered the dog to the floor behind the desk. “I... Uh...” she stammered.
“That’s great. Perfect,” the woman continued, clearly not used to her requests being denied no matter how asinine they might have been.
The man opened the door and waited as his wife pranced out, her stilettos clicking on the floor like the shrill impatient cadence of fingers. Whitney just stared at the computer screen for a moment as she reminded herself these kinds of people played a big part in why she had left her home state, and she took some level of comfort in the fact that they were outsiders and going to leave just as quickly as they came.
A cold wind kicked up and spilled through the door, whipping dry fragile