Romancing the Tycoon. Debra Webb
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Stampede Lane was actually the driveway to the property, but it extended three miles so he had another moment or two.
He glanced around the room and wondered what a city dweller would think of his home. Not that he really cared. He’d loved this home his whole life. His mother had designed it and, as far as John was concerned, the southwestern villa was the most beautiful place in north Texas. If Miss Regina Winterborne didn’t like it, well that was her problem because this was where they would live.
His father had moved into a retirement community nearly three years ago. Not because John wanted him to, by God. He’d tried everything to talk his father into staying. But the stubborn old man had insisted that moving was what he wanted. Shortly after settling into the small but luxurious apartment community, John had realized why. J. R. Calhoun, as he was known to his friends, was in hog heaven. There were at least ten retired widows living in the community to every one retired widower. J.R. spent five nights out of seven having dinner with one available female or the other.
He did reserve Sunday nights for his one and only son. And Friday nights were for poker and catching his breath, he laughingly told John.
John really couldn’t blame him. His father had been incredibly lonesome since his wife of nearly forty years had died. John had the ranch as well as the business under control. What was there for him to do, J.R. had insisted? And he’d been right. He might as well enjoy his final days on this earth in whatever fashion he chose.
But John had a feeling that rugged old bucks like his father lived forever. Or, at the very least, long enough to see that his only son’s life was charted out just the way he wanted it.
John squared his shoulders and pushed the thoughts away. He had to stay focused this weekend. He had just seventy-two hours to determine if he could spend the rest of his life with Regina Winterborne.
AMY TRIED to stifle a gasp but failed miserably as the car parked in front of the house belonging to John Calhoun.
Mr. Beckman glanced at her, clearly surprised by her reaction.
The Calhoun home was no more ostentatious than the Winterborne place. But there was something more personal about it. Like the Winterborne mansion, the house was very large. But rather than a castle-like structure, this was a southwestern-style villa, complete with a red-tiled roof. Serving as a lush backdrop were north Texas’s vivid green pastures dappled with clusters of trees and horses. Acres and acres of white rail fencing closed in the pastures that went on for as far as the eye could see. The infinite beauty was interrupted only by the occasional barn.
There were no meticulous gardens as there had been at the Winterborne estate, but the grounds were nicely landscaped just the same. A couple of four-wheel-drive, crew-cab trucks sat near the house, and there was not a luxury automobile in sight. The limo that had brought them from the airport to the ranch was a rental, as had been the one back in Chicago.
Mr. Beckman opened the car door and gestured for Amy to get out first. He had chosen to sit in the passenger compartment with her on this leg of the journey. She’d at first thought he had grown suspicious of her since she’d asked so many questions, but he’d seemed completely at ease as the miles had rolled out behind them.
“Welcome to the Wild Horse Ranch,” he said as he emerged from the limo to stand beside her. “I’m sure you’ll find your stay here a pleasant one.”
Amy turned around slowly so that she could take in every detail without the obstruction of tinted glass. It was even more beautiful than she’d first thought. Even a city girl like her could appreciate the sheer natural splendor of it.
“It’s not what I expected,” she admitted, certain that Regina Winterborne would have said the same thing.
Beckman smiled. “Most people react that way when they first visit.” He escorted her up the walk while the driver removed the bag from the trunk. It was the first time Amy had thought about clothes. She sure hoped she and Regina wore the same size. As she recalled, the young woman who’d left her in this predicament looked about the same size as her.
“I’ll be going back into town once I’ve made the formal introductions,” Beckman explained, breaking into her wardrobe worries.
For the first time since this adventure began, Amy felt an inkling of uncertainty. “You won’t be staying?” That could mean that she and John Calhoun would be alone. Then again, she didn’t really like Beckman, why did she care if he left?
Because at least she knew him. She stopped on the portico and stared at the massive door that led into the enormous home. What lay beyond that intricately carved wooden door was the unknown. A man who had secrets…dirty secrets if the suspicions she’d read panned out. Secrets she wanted to reveal in order to thwart whatever evil plan he had in store for poor, unsuspecting Regina Winterborne. To do that she had to step through that door and stick to the ruse she’d been dragged into and ultimately decided to use to her advantage.
The only down side was that she was on her own.
What had felt like the perfect plan now seemed foolish and shortsighted.
But what could she do? She was here. This man thought she was Regina Winterborne. What choice did she have but to see this through?
None.
If she ever wanted to be a Colby agent, she had to prove her worth. Not to mention that if she blew it now without getting the goods on Calhoun, she’d have a heck of a time convincing Victoria that she hadn’t jumped in over her head.
Sadly though, Amy feared that she had done just that.
The door suddenly opened wide and the cowboy she had admired in the photograph stood before her.
He was taller than she’d imagined. His shoulders were even wider than she’d guessed. But the one asset to which the photograph had truly failed to do justice was the eyes. They were the bluest she’d ever seen. Piercing, startling blue. And right that second they were focused fully on her.
“Welcome to the Wild Horse, ma’am,” the cowboy said in a deep, husky voice that sent goose bumps skittering across her skin.
“Th-thank you,” she stuttered in time with the stumbling of her heart. My God, the way he said ma’am gave her goose bumps.
“Miss Winterborne,” Beckman cut in, startling Amy all over again since she’d completely forgotten his presence, “this is John Calhoun. John, this is Regina Winterborne.”
“Come in.” The cowboy looked from her to Beckman. “Both of you.”
With that Amy was led into his home. Her breath caught again as her gaze traveled over the cathedral ceiling with its massive wooden beams, and the whitewashed stucco walls, and on to the terra-cotta-tiled floor.
Except for a leather sofa, the furniture clustered about the room consisted mostly of wooden pieces and all of it was dark and polished to a high sheen. Plaid and striped throw pillows accented the butter-soft leather of the sofa and proud wingback chairs.
But nothing in the entry hall or the enormous great room into which he led her took away from the real mind blower—the man. If Amy had ever laid eyes on a more gorgeous specimen of the male species she had no recall of it now.
John Robert Calhoun, IV, was definitely the perfect man.
Her gaze collided with his and she didn’t miss the same approval mirrored there. Judging by what she noted in his eyes he liked what he saw as well. Heat kindled low in her belly and her heart fluttered, but then suddenly sank like rock in a freshwater pond as did her smile. John Calhoun thought he was looking into the eyes of his future wife. And he liked what he saw.
Too bad she was just a stand-in—one who intended to uncover all his well-hidden secrets.
That goal suddenly felt all wrong.
But it was too late to back out now.
The game had already begun.
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