Her New Year's Fortune Read online

  All of the nervous tension inside her turned to one big bowl of quivering goo at the sight of him. He was wearing jeans and an untucked blue-and-white plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, over a plain white T-shirt. And he had on a cowboy hat that looked as if it had taken as much wear as his leather boots.

  If she were a brave woman, she’d just wrap her hands around the lapels of that loose shirt and yank him toward her. Instead, she wrapped her hand around the doorknob next to her and tried not to make a complete fool out of herself. “You’re very prompt.”

  He was wearing that crooked grin that never failed to charm her. “You’re very beautiful.”

  Heat spread from her cheeks down to her toes, stopping to fill all the points in between. Remembering Felicity’s words, she managed a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

  His grin widened a little as his gaze travelled down to her toes. “Do you have boots?”

  “Um, yeah.” Was she not dressed up enough, after all? “The ones I wore when we went to San Antonio. Do I need to change?”

  “Those had high heels. And no. Don’t change.” His gaze roved over her again, giving that heat coursing through her no chance to cool. “Definitely, do not change. Any other boots?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  He thumbed his hat back an inch and his eyes crinkled. “Sarah-Jane, you are the furthest thing from sorry that I have ever seen.”

  There was nothing but warmth in his gaze and for once in her life, she didn’t feel like slouching her shoulders in a futile attempt to minimize her plump breasts. “That goes likewise,” she said a little breathlessly.

  His smile deepened a little. “You ready to go? We’ll be gone all day.”

  All day. Her breath went short just thinking about spending an entire day with him. “What’re we doing?”

  “You’ll see.” He stepped back, giving her room on the landing when she stepped through the door and pulled it closed to lock it. Then he touched his fingers to the small of her back and started for the parking lot. “It’s a surprise.”

  Logically, she knew her tennis shoes had to be in contact with terra firma as they walked to the parking lot, but it seemed more like they were floating a few inches above ground. Instead of leading her to his rental car, though, he headed toward a huge, black pickup truck.

  “If I’m gonna be a Texan, figure I ought to drive the part,” he said when she gave him a questioning look.

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Wyatt, I’m a native Texan and I drive a tiny little hybrid sedan.” She looked at the truck that appeared to have been designed on steroids. “This is just a big ole toy for a man with money to burn, far as I can tell.”

  He gave a grunting laugh. “Strangely enough, that’s pretty much what my mother said when I told her I’d bought a truck.” He opened the door for her and waited until she’d stepped up on the running board and hitched herself on to the luxurious leather seat before letting go of her arm and closing the door.

  Sarah-Jane hauled in a hasty breath and let it out noisily while he rounded the front of the truck. When he got in beside her, the truck no longer seemed overwhelmingly big. It obviously fit him so much more comfortably than the rental car. Even a very luxurious rental car.

  His blue gaze landed on her face. “Everything good?”

  How could it not be? “Mmm-hmm.” She concentrated on fastening the safety belt so as not to start babbling. “So when are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”

  He laughed softly. “Bugging you, is it?”

  She shot him a look. “Well, frankly. Yes.”

  His eyes sparkled wickedly. “Good.” He drove out of the lot, handling the truck with enviable ease, and soon they were heading through the middle of Red Rock. She still couldn’t figure out his plan, even when he pulled into a parking spot in front of the string of shops where Charlene’s was located. “Come on.” With the push of a button he released her safety belt and then his own. “Got a stop to make first.”

  She looked out at the shops. Just seeing the sign for Charlene’s reminded her all too well what she’d chosen to wear for the day. On the outside and underneath. When Wyatt took her hand and tugged her directly toward Charlene’s, she wondered rather hysterically if he was able to read her mind.

  But instead of Charlene’s, he turned into the Western wear shop directly next door. They were greeted immediately by a middle-aged man who seemed to be the only one tending the place. “How can I help you?”

  “Boots,” Wyatt said. He was still holding her hand and when the clerk led them toward the back of the store, Wyatt pulled her along with him.

  “We have a wide array,” the clerk said, waving his arm to encompass the entire wall that held what seemed to be a hundred styles of cowboy boots. “A very fine selection for men and women.” He gestured for each. “Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”

  Wyatt finally let go of her hand as he headed toward a particular display of boots that was set off from all the rest. “Castletons,” he murmured. “These should do.”

  She realized with a start that he wasn’t looking at men’s boots, but at women’s. “Um, Wyatt?” She hurried up behind him, keeping her voice low. “Castletons are probably the most expensive boots in this place.” She could pay both halves of her and Felicity’s rent for several months for what she suspected was the average price of a Castleton boot. “I can’t afford—”

  “You don’t need to afford ’em. I can.” He plucked a tall black boot with intricate turquoise stitching spreading from the toe on up to the leather shaft from the very top of the display. “Man with money to burn, remember?” He held up the boot for the clerk to see. “Are these stocked or a custom order?”

  “Custom, sir.”

  Wyatt made a “hmming” little sound that she found distinctly alarming. Then he suddenly turned toward her. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  It wasn’t so much the size of her shoe that she was worried about, but fitting her calf into that tall of a boot. She’d long ago given up on ever finding a tall pair of boots that fit. The dress boots she’d worn that night in San Antonio had been much shorter and forgiving of her calves than the cowboy boot he was holding up. “I usually wear a seven and a half,” she said. “But—”

  Wyatt looked at the clerk again. “What size is this one?”

  “It’s an eight, sir, but it is a sample only.”

  “Do you have the mate?”

  “Of course.”

  Wyatt handed the boot to Sarah-Jane. “You want to try it on just to see if it fits?”

  She no more wanted to stick her leg down that beautiful, slender boot than she wanted to stick her head in a noose. “It’s a sample,” she reminded under her breath.

  Wyatt gave her a steady look. Shifted his attention to the clerk once more. “You can get another sample, if this one fits and she decides she wants to take them, right?”

  The clerk blinked a little. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Probably calculating his commission, Sarah-Jane thought sourly.

  Obviously satisfied, Wyatt handed her the boot. “Just try it, Sarah-Jane.” He waved a hand carelessly at the display. “Or one of the others if you like something else better.”

  Naturally, he’d selected the most beautiful boot from the lot. And as far as she could see, none of the other boots on display looked any more forgiving than this one. “It won’t fit,” she told him, but she carried it with her over to one of the wooden seats situated opposite a series of tall, narrow mirrors.

  “Allow me to assist you,” the clerk said quickly, moving to crouch in front of her as she toed off one of her tennis shoes and pulled up her pant leg.

  Looking anywhere but at Wyatt, she pushed her stocking-clad foot into the boot, down, down, down.

  “You can use the ear pulls to help tug,” the clerk suggested.

  As if that was going to help. But Sarah-Jane slid her fingers through the stitched loops on either side of the
deep scalloped top, and pulled.

  Her foot, ankle and calf slid as neatly into the boot as Cinderella’s foot had fit into the glass slipper.

  “A fine selection. Very fine,” the clerk was telling Wyatt. “Castleton makes exceptional boots. They can rarely be matched for the quality of their materials or their construction.”

  Sarah-Jane was barely listening. She was busy looking at her reflection in the mirror across from her.

  The boot had fit. The beautiful, slender looking boot had fit. And she could seriously imagine how Cinderella had felt.

  She stood up experimentally. The angled heel was well over an inch, but she could still tell that the foot portion of the boot fit her own foot like it was a comfy, knitted bootie. “Can I try on the mate?”

  The men stopped talking and looked at her. Wyatt smiled, looking ridiculously satisfied with himself, and she was pretty sure the clerk’s eyes had dollar signs blinking inside them. He immediately headed through a swinging door in the corner.

  “I’m only trying it on,” Sarah-Jane told Wyatt sternly. “Because I’m curious what they’ll both feel like. Not because I’m going to let you spend money on me like this.” She’d seen the discreet sticker on the display where the boot had stood. Five months worth of rent, easy.

  “You know, it’s not polite to question the price of a gift.”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave him a stern look. “It’s not seemly for a woman to accept a gift that is this pricey from a man.”

  He gave a choking laugh. “Seemly?”

  “Proper!”

  He suddenly pulled off his hat and tossed it on one of the wooden chairs as he stepped behind her and put his hands on her waist to pull her in front of him. Their reflections were directly opposite and Sarah-Jane couldn’t drag her gaze free of his in the mirror as he angled his head lower until she not only could see his lips near her ear, but feel his breath as well, especially when he slid her hair behind her shoulder and tucked it behind that ear. “I could buy out the entire inventory of this place and give it to you, and still be more proper than if I were to tell you what I think of you in these jeans and this sweater.”

  She saw her lips part, her eyes widen and rosy color spread across her cheeks.

  But mostly, oh, mostly she felt his fingers spreading as he slid his hands slowly from the waist of her blue sweater down over her hips where the hem of the sweater ended and then beyond. What do you think? She badly wanted to ask for details but couldn’t seem to make her lips work.

  “Here we are,” the clerk’s voice preceded his return through the swinging door and Wyatt smoothly stepped away from Sarah-Jane, though she could still feel the impression of his fingertips when he’d pressed them warmly against her thighs. He calmly picked up another Castleton boot and studied it while Sarah-Jane waited in vain for the planets to realign themselves.

  She plopped more than sat down on the hard wooden seat and flipped off her remaining tennis shoe to pull on the boot’s mate when the clerk handed it to her.

  It slid on just as easily as the first. She tugged the legs of her jeans down over both boots. “It seems a shame to think someone will be hiding that beautiful stitch work under their jeans,” she said as she stood.

  “Your jeans,” Wyatt said.

  “Wyatt—”

  “You want to argue about this?” The faint smile was on his lips, but the look he gave her was wickedly dangerous.

  He’d already given her one expensive gift—the shawl. “I can’t possibly return such an extravagant gesture.” She kept her voice close to a whisper. A firm whisper.

  “That’s the thing about gifts,” he whispered loudly back, obviously finding her attempt at subtlety amusing. “They’re supposed to be given without expectation.”

  “Something I’m sure they taught you at that charm school of yours, but something that doesn’t really apply all that often in real life.” In her exasperation, her whisper disappeared altogether.

  While that grin of his seemed to be permanently fused to his lips. “If it makes you feel better, knit me a sweater or something. Or model a crocheted bikini for me.” Then he raised his voice so the clerk could hear. “We’ll take ’em.” He didn’t look away from her face. “And she’ll be wearing them out.”

  “Very good, sir.” The male clerk was beaming as he scooped up Sarah-Jane’s tennis shoes. “I’ll wrap these up as well,” he said. “Is there anything else I can help you find? Perhaps a cowgirl hat for the lady?”

  She was too bemused to do anything but shake her head, though Wyatt’s eyes had turned speculative again. “A hat would be good,” he murmured. “What d’you have?” He raised his voice for the clerk’s benefit.

  “A fine selection,” Sarah-Jane muttered in the instant before they heard the clerk call back those very same words. Wyatt was already heading off to follow the clerk, and she snatched the loose fabric of his plaid shirt, tugging him back. “Wyatt, it’s really not necessary to spend all this money on me. I’ll look silly dressing up with a cowboy hat on. I’m not one of those women who can carry off this sort of thing.” She hated, seriously hated, having to point that out to him.

  “Those women?”

  She gestured at one of the posters on the wall of a curvaceous celebrity flirting out at them, wearing fancy boots and a hat and shockingly short Daisy Dukes.

  “And I disagree,” he said calmly, barely giving the poster a glance. “I think you’ll look very unsilly. And I’m finding it quite necessary.”

  “Why?”

  “Has anybody ever spoiled you in your life, Sarah-Jane? And I don’t mean spoiled in the negative sense. But spoiled as in—” He broke off, obviously thinking.

  “Pampered,” the clerk provided, disgustingly helpful as he returned with several hats stacked one on top of another.

  She frowned at Wyatt and tugged on his shirt again until he followed her around the tall kiosk of rolled posters for sale. “I don’t need pity pampering, either,” she muttered.

  “Oh, for God’s—” His white teeth bit off his words. “Have a little pity on me, would you please, and let me do this?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Stay here.” He went back around the kiosk and returned a moment later with an off-white wool felt hat with a narrow leather hatband that he planted on her head. Then he practically dragged her back to the mirror by the boots and turned her to face it. His fingers were hard on her hips. “Look at yourself,” he said gruffly. “What do you see?”

  All she could see was him.

  He made a rough sound in his throat and pressed himself hard against her as he angled his head down until his mouth was as close to her ear as the wide brim of the hat allowed. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might not be responsible for what happens.”

  She’d gone hot all over. Maybe it had been a long time since her one and only experience with an aroused male, but she certainly knew what one felt like when he was pressed up against her. There was just no mistaking some things.

  “Look at yourself, Sarah-Jane,” he murmured and despite herself, her gaze moved from the reflection of him to her own face. “And tell me. Do you honestly believe you look silly?”

  She looked. The surplice cut sweater hugged the full jut of her breasts, outlined her waist and accentuated the swell of her hips. Besides that, her painfully tight nipples were standing out against the royal blue cashmere, and her eyes looked dark and needy.

  She looked as aroused as he felt against her.

  “I didn’t expect this,” she said faintly, and wasn’t even sure exactly what she referred to. The boots and hat. Or the heat from him that she could feel burning right through her clothes.

  He exhaled audibly and carefully stepped away from her. “I know you didn’t,” he murmured. Then he started toward the front of the store. “Ring it all up,” he said loudly so the clerk would hear.

  “Wyatt.”

  He stopped. Turned back toward her. “What?” A muscle was flexing rhythmically in his jaw.
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  She let out a breath, and before she could talk herself out of it, she settled her palm lightly on his chest, leaned up and pressed her lips quickly to his. Her heart was rabbiting around inside her like a mad thing as she went back down on the heels of her ridiculously expensive, impossibly beautiful boots. “Thank you.” For the boots. For the hat. For making her feel beautiful and wanted, even if it didn’t last. “But will you answer me one question?”

  His lashes narrowed, but that only seemed to make the blue of his eyes even more potent. “If I can.”

  “What do you have planned that I’d need boots and hat for?”

  “Riding, of course.”

  “Horses?” She was surprised, but in hindsight, realized she shouldn’t have been.

  He, on the other hand, let out a sudden bark of laughter. He scooped up his hat from where he’d left it on the chair and settled it on his head, the brim pulled low over his eyes. “Yes. Horses.” His smile looked unholy. “Unless you have riding something else in mind.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sarah-Jane still felt flushed an hour later.

  After Wyatt had paid for their purchases, they’d driven out to the Double Crown ranch, owned by his distant cousins, Lily and William Fortune, where she’d been torn between gawking at the size and scale of the Southwestern buildings. He’d stopped in at the main house, a multiwinged structure that struck Sarah-Jane as surprisingly modest in style which was surrounded by a sandstone wall and a glorious garden bursting with native colors.

  Before Wyatt had even had a chance to use the knocker on the massive wooden door, Lily had appeared around the side of the house, hailing them. She’d been wearing faded jeans and a denim shirt plus work gloves and dusty boots, carrying a basket full of wild roses and had looked just as exotically beautiful as she had years earlier when Sarah-Jane had first interviewed with her at the Fortune Foundation.