At The Playboy's Command. Robyn Grady
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than her parents’ misfortune. That she might have confided in her situation with regard to that condition of their will.
Which was crazy. Abigail wouldn’t break that kind of confidence, and he couldn’t have found out anywhere else—Chad Tremain, for example. Obviously her thoughts—those sensations he stirred—were running away on her, filling her head with fancies.
Elizabeth set her mind back on the conversation.
“New York has some incredible restaurants.”
He ran an appreciative eye over his plate. “None that serve food like that.”
“Is your mother a good cook?”
His smile froze for a heartbeat before he reached for his wine. “Mom could cook.”
“Do your parents still live in Carolina?”
“No.” He pushed back his chair and glanced around as he took a mouthful of red and swallowed. “The decor in here is interesting.”
“Early American,” she replied, thinking not of furniture but the fact he’d avoided talking about his family. Before dinner he’d hesitated when she’d inquired. Although she and her parents had been close, estrangement between generations wasn’t uncommon. But she wouldn’t push. Private was private. Even if she was more than curious.
They were talking about decor.
“My mother redecorated parts of this house, but not this room. She liked it homey. The dinner table is where the family comes together, she used to say. Not only to eat, but to talk and listen and plan.”
Daniel’s smile held. “A wonderful, traditional concept.” His attention wandered to the far wall. “Those dark wood panels are almost identical to the club’s.”
“Might’ve been cut from the same tree. Heck, the ranch and the club have both been around since Buffalo Bill was a boy.”
He pretended to pull his head in. “Do I detect a hint of impatience?”
Amused, she blinked twice. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“That resigned note in your voice.”
“That wasn’t a resigned note.”
“Sounded pretty clear to me—”
“You were mistaken.” She lifted her chin. “What you heard was respect.”
“So you don’t harbor any secret plans to turn the ranch into a casino or suburban lots like some others down this way?”
She coughed out a laugh even as heat crept up her neck again, this time for a different reason. Was he serious?
“What a curious thing to say. Of course not.”
“But you would like some change,” he went on. “Am I right?”
With a practiced smile, she set her elbow on the chair’s arm and fiddled with her diamond drop earring. “Is your sideline mind reading, Mr. Warren?”
“It’s Daniel, remember?”
Knowing an edge had crept into her voice, Elizabeth played up her smile. She didn’t like his line of thought. His questions. Her ideas on tradition—when, where and how to tweak—were her business, just as whatever prickled Daniel about his family’s past was his.
But she’d answer his question—in her own way.
“While it’s time the Cattleman’s Club challenged some of its older trappings, I can’t see Milton Ranch changing. My parents wanted tradition to live on here.” She reached for her glass. “So do I.”
Regardless of the will, she would never sell, especially to developers.
Still, truth was, she wished she had some middle-of-the-road option. Just a little more freedom …
“Who’s up for dessert?”
Elizabeth snapped back from her thoughts. Nita had entered the room, ready to clear the plates. Daniel held his stomach, which Elizabeth wouldn’t mind betting was a six-pack.
“I might let that delicious roast settle first,” he said, handing over his plate. “That was a big helping.”
“A man deserves to be satisfied at the end of the day.”
At the housekeeper’s last comment, Elizabeth shot her a glare. Nita only returned an innocent grin. The Milton Ranch housekeeper was a well-known matchmaker, but if she was hoping to set up the toll of wedding bells tonight, Nita could put her scheming mind to rest. As far as sexual attraction was concerned, Daniel Warren was a big fat ten, but he was passing through. He might even have a girl back home in New York. Maybe two. And while marriage was a definite in her future, Elizabeth wasn’t after long-term just now. Hell, she was only twenty-five.
Plates in hand, almost at the doorway, Nita suggested, “You ought to go for a walk. Help work off that meal.”
Elizabeth pushed to her feet. “I’m sure Daniel would prefer to take in more of the house.” See if anything inspired ideas for his project.
But as her guest unfolded to his full height, he gifted her with a deliciously sinful smile. “I like Nita’s idea.” He offered his arm. “Let’s go work it off.”
Ten minutes later, as he and Elizabeth made their way down a graveled path that led to the Milton Ranch stables, Daniel stole a glance at his companion’s dusty yard boots—the Jimmy Choos had been deemed unsuitable—and the bulky work coat thrown over her stunning black evening dress. Then he studied her perfect profile, highlighted by the rising moon’s silver beams, and decided Elizabeth Milton would exude panache wearing a brown paper bag. “Eclectic” suited her, like he couldn’t imagine it suiting any other. She achieved real style effortlessly when, in his experience, females often tried too hard to look their best, be the best. That last wasn’t a gender-specific phenomenon, particularly amidst the never-ending bustle and hustle of New York.
Daniel’s focus lifted to the sky.
But Milton Ranch was a long way from those city lights. Damn, he’d never seen so many stars.
“How much land have you got here?” he asked.
“Three thousand acres,” Elizabeth replied, pride evident in her voice as she dug her hands into her coat pockets.
“Must be a challenge.”
“One I’m prepared to face. Although rising costs and lack of trained hands make it difficult,” she admitted.
“But you’re in for the long haul.”
“My parents left money enough to keep the tradition going. Ranching is in my blood.”
A vision of Elizabeth at five years of age wearing an Annie Oakley costume, charging off toward an endless horizon on her very own pony, made him smile.
“So you grew up learning how to rope a steer?” he asked as they crunched farther down the shadowed path.
“I was a cowgirl but only in between attending boarding school.”
“A school close to home?”
“Initially in Houston. In my teens, overseas. Switzerland, France.”
“Where you dined on sautéed mollusks.” Snails.
“Helix pomatia, to be precise,” she said with mock authority.
He lifted an eyebrow. “My, sounds like those boarding schools didn’t waste your parents’ money.”
“I received a great education. Had some wonderful experiences. Made some lifelong friends.” And in her faraway expression he could see she wouldn’t say no to a sojourn to Europe right this minute. He could well imagine her expertly skiing Alpine slopes, wandering around the history and culture of the Louvre.
“Bet