Redeemed By The Cowgirl. Silver James
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“So let Leo take care of him.”
“Uh-uh. Not happening. I have company comin’ and I won’t have time to be traipsing back and forth to let that creature out every time he thinks he needs to sniff the bushes.”
Roxanne turned those golden eyes on him. “Harley suffers from separation anxiety. You’re the one who is so insistent I move in with you.”
“Whoa! You’ve really been holdin’ out on me, Miss Roxie-anne.” If Leo leaned any farther over the railing, the man would fall into the very bushes Harley now sniffed.
As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, the big mutt lumbered over, sat right in front of Cash and put a massive paw on his thigh. The dog whuffed, a sound too similar to Roxanne’s echoing sigh. He resisted throwing up his arms in surrender.
“Fine, but that thing better be housebroken.”
Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, Roxanne leveled what he supposed was an insulted glare on him. “Good.” She turned away and muttered under her breath, “Oh, yeah? I bet you aren’t housebroken, Chase Barron.”
For the next hour, Cash sat on the couch with the massive furball. The dog sprawled next to him, huge head on his thigh. Roxanne puttered around, packing suitcases and grocery bags full of dog food, toys, brushes and other pet paraphernalia. He was far too amused by her, discovering he was smiling at odd times.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Cash checked her over. Roxanne had tucked her hair up into a messy ponytail and stood in the midst of a pile of stuff. He stared at her, then stared pointedly at the boxes and suitcases around her feet. “Should I call a moving van? We can load up your furniture, too.”
“Ha-ha. Not funny. I’m trying to be nice in a difficult situation.”
He eyed all the gear. “Nice?”
“Yes. I figured you wouldn’t want to be running back and forth between your place and mi—”
Cash’s cell rang, cutting her off. He shoved the dog away and stood, phone to his ear. He listened to Bridger without giving away the gist of their conversation, his gaze glued on Roxanne.
“Otto Baer is a whale, according to Tucker. He’s never stayed at any of the Barron casinos before the incident with the Rowlands.”
He considered that information. A whale, also referred to as a high roller, bet large amounts of money. Casinos offered them lavish “comps,” such as free private jet transfers, limousine access and use of the casinos’ best suites, to lure them onto the gambling floors.
“What was the deal?” Cash asked the question with careful words.
“That’s what’s really weird, coz. Tuck checked with Chase and with their concierge. They didn’t even know the guy was there.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought so. He stayed two days, lost some money but not a huge amount, won a little of it back and then took off for Tahoe.” Harley bellowed out a bark, and a startled Bridger added, “What the hell was that?”
“One of my new houseguests.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not. See what else you can find out. I’m headed to my place as soon as I can get all of Roxanne’s stuff loaded in the Rover.”
“Roxanne’s stuff. Loaded in the Rover. Uh...huh. Care to explain?”
“Executive decision.”
“Oh, boy. Can’t wait to hear this story. Will I see you at the office in the morning?”
“Yes.” Cash clicked off the call before Bridger could ask any further irritating questions. He centered himself and said, “Let’s go.”
Ignoring the huge wet spot staining his slacks—a splotch that resembled slug slime—he gathered up an armful of boxes and a suitcase. It took them two trips each to stow all of her odds and ends in the cargo area. When it came time to load Harley in the backseat, Cash balked.
“Those are leather seats. Claws and drool do not mix with leather.”
Roxanne harrumphed and rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She marched back inside and returned quickly with a blanket. “Here, Mr. Fuddy-Duddy.”
He was not a fuddy-duddy. He just appreciated fine things, and that included leather seats in his vehicles. “You already owe me a cleaning bill for these slacks. I figured you wouldn’t want to add replacement seats to your tab.”
“Replacement—” Roxanne’s jaw snapped shut and her golden eyes sparked.
Cash had a perverse streak, obviously. Pushing this woman’s buttons was far too much fun. He watched her avidly while she bent over, reaching into the vehicle to smooth the blanket over the backseats. He caught a few of her muttered imprecations.
“...made of Corinthian leather...male-chauvinist moron...cheapskate...cars that cost more than some people’s houses...hates my dog.”
He glanced down at the huge black dog sitting beside him. “Does she always talk to herself?” The animal gazed up with solemn brown eyes and sighed. Cash tilted his head to get a better look at Roxanne’s very lovely butt. She backed out of the vehicle and whirled, catching him in the act.
“Really?” she demanded, then muttered, “Add jerkface to the list.”
Biting his lips to stifle a burst of laughter, Cash snapped his fingers at the dog. “Get in the car, mutt.”
“He is not a mutt. Harley is a full-blooded, pedigreed Newfoundland.”
He figured the inside of his mouth would be bloody before they got to his place. “Fine.” He snapped his fingers again. “Get in the car, full-blooded, pedigreed Newfoundland mutt.”
Harley bounded into the backseat, apparently unconcerned that Cash was dissing him. Roxanne threw her arms up as her anger simmered. She clambered into the front seat and slammed the door. Cash could no longer hold back his laughter. She was cute and feisty and he was far more turned on by that than he should be, given their circumstances. He just managed to choke off his laughter as he got into the driver’s seat.
“It’s not funny,” Roxanne huffed.
“It is from where I’m sitting.”
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