The Rancher's Christmas Promise Page 13

  Michael stared back at her, unmoving.

  Her jaw was so tight it ached. “I see.” She aligned the chair neatly where it belonged. She felt blindsided. She’d never lost a job in her life. But she knew that if she didn’t accept the reassignment, that was what would happen. “When do you need my decision?”

  “End of the week.”

  She supposed it was better than at the end of this little tête-à-tête. Unable to get out a polite response, she nodded and left his office.

  She returned to her own. It was a closet of a space. But whether she’d been feeling frustrated there or not, it had been hers.

  Her eyes suddenly burned. Blinking hard, she emptied her briefcase of files and loaded it up for the following day. She scrolled through her email and sent a few brief replies.

  Then she shut down the computer, shouldered her briefcase once more and looked up at the clock above the door. As usual, it was a few minutes behind.

  She set down her briefcase and moved the chair so she could stand on it to reach the clock. She pulled it off the wall and adjusted the time.

  She started to hang it back in place but hesitated. It would just continue to tick along, losing time along the way.

  She inhaled deeply and held the clock against her chest as she exhaled.

  Tick. Tick.

  She climbed off the chair. Moved it back against the wall.

  Then she tucked the clock inside her briefcase and left.

  * * *

  Ryder barely heard the knock on his front door above the sound of thunder. The clouds had been building all afternoon. But it hadn’t helped with the heat. And aside from the noise, there hadn’t been any rain.

  The knock sounded again. He closed the logbook he kept on his livestock and went to the door.

  Greer stood on his front step.

  Her windblown hair gleamed in the porch light. She was still wearing the closely fitted white blouse and black skirt from this afternoon. But she’d unbuttoned a couple of the buttons and rolled up the sleeves. She had bright orange flip-flops on her feet.

  And a bottle of whiskey in her hand.

  She held it up for his inspection. He looked from the familiar label to her face. It wasn’t the finest whiskey on the planet. But in his experience, it did the job pretty well. “Does the occasion call for it?”

  “You tell me. I think I quit my job today.”

  Without asking, she stepped inside, brushing past him.

  Another low rumble of thunder rolled through the night. Greer’s car, parked on the gravel, was little more than a shadow.

  Layla had been asleep for the last few hours. Hopefully she would sleep all the way through to morning, though with the thunder he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

  He closed the door.

  Greer had sat down on one side of his leather couch and propped her feet on the coffee table. The fluorescent orange flip-flops looked more like they belonged on a teenager. But the slender ankles and long calves belonged to a grown woman.

  He sat down on the other side of the couch—one full cushion between them—and took the bottle from her. He, too, propped a bare foot on the coffee table. He peeled off the seal on the bottle and pulled out the cork. “Ladies first.”

  Her dark eyes slid over him as she took the bottle. She lifted it to her lips and took a sip.

  He expected a cough. A sputter. Something.

  She merely squinted a little, obviously savoring the taste as she swallowed.

  When he’d ridden rodeo, the girls had tended toward beer. Daisy had liked a strawberry daiquiri, sweet as hell and topped with hefty swirls of whipped cream. Eliane—the model, not the nanny—had given him his first taste of red wine before Adelaide caught them. Instead of firing Eliane, his aunt had sat down and poured herself a glass, too. Then made him finish the bottle.

  To this day, he couldn’t drink wine without thinking about that.

  It occurred to him now that there was something a little dangerous about being turned on by the way Greer drank a shot of whiskey straight from the bottle.

  She handed it to him.

  Their fingers brushed. Him, taking. Her, not yet releasing.

  “When Daisy first left, I spent a fair amount of time in Jax’s company.”

  Her fingers slid away from his. Away from the bottle. “You must have loved her very much.”

  “I thought I did. Enough to give her a wedding ring.” Just not the ring. His grandmother’s ring. The one his aunt had kept in safekeeping for him since he’d been a kid. Since she’d taken him in when there was no one else to do so.

  He took a drink, squinting a little at the familiar burn and savoring the warmth as it slid down his throat. “Adelaide says I’ve got a hero complex. That marrying Daisy was more about trying to save her than loving her.”

  “What do you think?”

  He thought about his mother, who’d been just as troubled as his erstwhile bride. He took another drink and handed Greer the bottle.

  She cradled it, running her thumb slowly over the black label. Her nails were short. Neat. No-nonsense. “I’ve never loved anyone like that,” she murmured. “I think it might not be in my makeup.”

  “Just don’t tell me you’re a virgin,” he muttered.

  If he’d thought he would set her off guard, he was mistaken.

  She made a dismissive sound. “Sex and love don’t have to be the same thing.”

  “Adelaide would agree.”

  “I think I’d like your aunt. You talk about her, but you don’t talk about anyone else in your family.”

  “There wasn’t anyone else.”

  Greer studied him for a moment, then looked away. She took another sip. A longer one this time. She tilted her head back a little and her eyelids drifted closed.

  He got up and opened the kitchen door. The breeze was finally cooler. He stood in the doorway for a long minute and felt the base of his spine prickle when she came up to stand beside him in her silly orange flip-flops.

  “D’you think it’ll actually rain?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Finished haying this morning. It can rain for a week straight, as far as I’m concerned.”

  She pressed her fingertips against the wooden frame of the simple screen door. “Layla?”

  “Asleep.”

  She pushed open the screen door and went outside, taking the whiskey bottle with her. Ryder hadn’t turned on the back porch light. Her blouse showed white in the light coming from the kitchen, but the rest of her melted into the darkness.

  He caught the door before it could snap shut and followed her out, holding the screen until it sighed silently closed.

  He sat on the end of the picnic table, watching the gleam of her blouse moving around as she swished her feet through the grass. Her restlessness was as palpable as the weight of thunder overhead.

  “How old are you, Ryder?” Her voice sounded farther away than she appeared.

  “Thirty-four.” He cupped his hands around the edge of the table. The wood felt rough. It would be full of splinters if he didn’t sand it down sometime soon. While he was at it, he could slop a coat of barn-red paint over the whole thing. Cover up all the flowery stuff.

  “I’m thirty.”

  “Are we trading statistics? Want to know my boot size?” He listened to the grass swishing and wasn’t sure if it was from her feet or from the breeze. But the gleam of her blouse was getting closer and then she stopped a few feet away from him. “Thirteen.”

  “Did you give Eliane the word?”

  “No.”

  She took another sip from the bottle, then stepped close enough to set it next to his hip. “Why?”

  He moved it down to the bench seat. “Why do you think you quit your job today?”

  She started to move aga
in, but he reached out and caught her hands and she went still. Her palms were small. Her long fingers curled down over his. He could see the faint sheen of moisture on her lips.

  “Because I don’t want to drive eighty-five miles to work every day. Or move eighty-five miles away from my home. Because.” She took a step closer. She exhaled a shaky-sounding sigh. “Because.”

  He let go of her hands and slid his palm behind her neck. Her skin was warm. Silkier even than his imagination had promised. But that was as far as he went. He didn’t pull her forward. Didn’t make another single move.

  It was one of the hardest attempts at self-control he’d ever made.

  “Were you really joking the other day?”

  He didn’t have to ask what she meant. He didn’t have to think about the answer. “No. Are you tossing your name in the pool?”

  After a moment she took another step forward and stopped against the edge of the table, between his thighs. When she drew breath, he could feel the press of her breasts against his chest.

  “If we do this—” his voice felt like it was coming from somewhere way down inside “—I know what I get out of it. What do you get out of it?”

  “Are we talking about marriage?” Her fingertips drifted over his knees, slowly grazing their way higher up his thighs, leaving heat in their wake even through his denim jeans. “Or this?”

  He pressed his hands over hers, flattening them. Stilling their progress. “Counselor, I know what you’ll get out of this.”

  She leaned closer, bringing with her the seductive scents of warmth and whiskey and woman. The breeze blew over them, and her hair danced against his neck. Her lips brushed against his jaw, slid delicately across his chin. Then she found his mouth for a moment that was strangely endless but much too brief. Her fingers pressed into his thighs. “I get the assurance that Layla will be part of our lives. Permanently. If you want to marry to give her a mother, then I want to be her mother. Legally.”

  He caught her behind the neck again, pulling back so he could see her face. But it was too dark. The sky too black with clouds. Her cheekbones were a faint highlight. Her lips a dark invitation. And her thickly lashed, deep brown eyes...they were the most mysterious abyss of all. “You want to adopt Layla.”

  “Is that so strange?”

  He wasn’t sure what it was, except that it made something inside his chest feel strange. “I’ll consider it. What else?”

  “Our wills. Anything happens to us both, then Layla goes to Grant and Ali. Those are my terms.”

  “What about starting your own legal firm?”

  “Maybe someday when I’ve won the lottery and can afford it, I’ll have one.”

  He moved his hand along her neck and over her shoulder. The gleam of white fabric looked crisp but did a poor job of hiding the heat radiating from her. “I could stake you.”

  “It’s not just money. An office. Equipment. All that sort of thing. It’s time. Time I won’t have much of, if I’m out here taking care of Layla.”

  “You’re a lawyer. Your greatest equipment is your brain. And you can turn that fancy-ass Victorian house you’re supposedly renovating into an office.”

  Her hands slid out from beneath his as she stepped back from him. Cool air seemed to flow between them. “You’re full of ideas all of a sudden.”

  “I’ve given it a thought or two.”

  “Why does it matter to you? I’ve already said that Layla is what’s important.”

  “Because I’m never going to be the cause of a woman giving up her dream.” He reached for the bottle of whiskey and cradled it in his hand.

  She was silent for a moment while the thunder rumbled. “Is this about Daisy?”

  “The only dream that Daisy claimed to have was being married to me.” He scratched at the edge of the bottle label with his fingernail. “Whatever her real dreams were, she obviously never shared them with me.” He figured it was progress that he could make the observation without feeling much of anything.

  “What’s your dream?”

  He spread his arms. “This place.”

  “The Diamond-L.”

  “Named for my mother. The original Layla. You want me to talk about her?” He felt the label tear. “She was born here. In Wyoming.”

  He felt her surprise.

  “Her dad—my grandfather—was a minister. Moving his family from one small town to another every few years. They died before I was born. But my mom dreamed of adventure. Of seeing more of the world than a string of tiny towns needing a preacher. Finding the end of the rainbow. And she gave it all up because she got pregnant with a baby she wasn’t at all equipped to handle.” He took a last burning sip of whiskey before tossing the bottle away into the dark, even though it meant a waste of perfectly good liquor. “She was an alcoholic. One night, she got behind the wheel of a car, drunk, and killed herself as well as two other people.”

  “Oh, Ryder.” Greer’s sigh was louder than her words. “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  “Your father?”

  “She never said who he was.”

  “And your aunt?”

  “Adelaide didn’t know who he was, either. She was the only one left to take me in. She’s not my real aunt. She was my grandmother’s best friend. She was there when my mother lost her mother. And she was there when I lost mine. Adelaide gave me a home.” He felt a raindrop on his hand. “I asked her why once. She said it was the right thing to do.”

  Greer stepped close again and slid her arms around his shoulders. “The Victorian would make a good office,” she whispered. “I’ll consider it. Put your arms around me.”

  He didn’t need to be told, though it was a novel enough occurrence that it appealed to him. Her waist was so slender, his fingers could span it. But as he slowly ran his hands down over the flare of her hips, he discarded the notion that he’d ever considered her too skinny for his tastes.

  “If we do this, it doesn’t change anything.” She arched slightly when his hands drifted down over her rear. “Layla will have two parents. We’ll raise her together. But the deal between us stays—”

  “—business.” He’d discovered the zipper on the back of her skirt and slowly drew it down. The skirt came loose and slid down her thighs. All she wore beneath was a scrap of lace.

  “That’s right.” She angled her head and brushed her lips against his ear. “Business,” she breathed.

  He slid his fingers along her slender neck. Felt the pulse throbbing at the base. The way she swallowed when his fingers curled beneath her chin. He nudged at it slightly, lifting it. “You saying this is a one-and-done, Counselor?”

  “I’m saying let’s not call this marriage something it’s not. It’ll be a marriage of convenience. Pure and simple.”

  He lowered his head and slowly rubbed his lips across hers. Felt the softening. The parting. The invitation.

  He lifted his head again. Eased his fingers behind the nape of her neck once more. “I’m not thinking too many pure thoughts at the moment.”

  Her breasts rose and fell, pressing against him. Retreating. “Neither am I. As long as we don’t confuse this with something it’s not, I don’t see the problem. Just because marrying would be convenient doesn’t mean it has to be sterile. It’d be a different matter if we weren’t attracted to each other. But we are.” Her lips were close to his, her whisper soft yet clear. “So we might as well be realistic from the start.”

  “Realistic. Works for me.”

  She took a deep breath again. Her breasts pressed against his chest and stayed there. “And...and if...when it stops working, when Layla’s older, we’ll end the deal. No fuss. No muss.” She waited a beat. “As long as I’m just as much her legal parent as you. My family—all of my family—becomes her family. That means Grant, too.”

  He felt another plop of wa
rm rain. This time on his arm. “If I agree to you adopting her, you have to agree about your own practice.”

  “Negotiation?”

  “You told me you were good at it.”

  “Okay. Agreed.”

  The second she said the words, he closed his hands around her hips again, pulling her in tighter. She was warm. Soft. “It’s going to rain.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it can rain for a week.” He felt her words against his lips.

  He smiled slightly and pushed her away. Only a few inches. “Take off your shirt, Counselor.”

  She made a soft sound. He sensed more than saw her dark eyes on him. “I’d rather you take it off me.”

  There were invitations to ignore.

  There were ones he couldn’t.

  His fingers brushed against her skin as he found the tiny buttons on her shirt. Impatience raged inside him, but he took his time. One button. Two. All the way down, until it took only a nudge of his fingers and the shirt fell away, too. The bra and panties she wore were as white as the shirt had been. But lacy. Stretchy. No protection at all when he tugged them off.

  And then she took a full step backward, giving him enough room to push off the table and pull his shirt over his head. He unfastened his belt and jeans and shoved them down his legs.

  Then she crowded close again, slipping her hand under his boxer briefs. She inhaled audibly when she closed her fingers around him. “Perfect,” she breathed.

  He looked up at the sky, dragging in an audible breath of his own. Another raindrop hit him square on the face. His shoulder. His back. “I should take you inside.”

  “I’m not sugar.” She dragged his briefs down, bending her knees, going down with them, setting them aside when he stepped out of them. But she didn’t stand back up. “I’m not the Wicked Witch. I won’t melt from some water.” Her hair brushed his knee. His thigh. And her lips...

  “Maybe not,” he said. Her mouth closed over him and he exhaled roughly. He slid his fingers through her hair. He couldn’t help himself. She had a lot of hair. The strands were silky. Slippery. He wanted to wrap his fingers in it and hold her. His hands were actually shaking from resisting the urge. “But what you’re doing feels damn—” another oath slid through his teeth “—wicked.”