by Susan Fox
“I booked you for two weeks.”
“I said one.”
Angelica held up a hand. “The Crazy Horse only books in two-week blocks. You can always find an excuse for leaving early. Like fall off a horse and break a leg?” She said it straight-faced, but he thought he saw a twinkle in her eye.
“You’re a big help,” he grumbled.
“Mr. Vitale told me to bill everything to your card and he’ll reimburse you. He didn’t want anything put in his name, since you’re going undercover, as he termed it.”
She handed over a file folder. “Here’s your e-ticket and your confirmation number at the Crazy Horse. The price there is all-inclusive. At six thousand US dollars for a week, one would certainly hope so. I gather it’s a world-famous, exclusive spot. I got you a few hundred dollars in Canadian money in case you want to do some shopping, though I can’t imagine there’s much to spend money on there.” Her eyes were wide, and it wasn’t with envy.
“Nor can I.”
“The Crazy Horse e-mailed me their brochure and I printed it out for you. You should know . . .” She gave a little cough and he thought she might be stifling a giggle. It was a startling thought, because he’d never heard the all-business Angelica giggle. “Uh, with regard to clothing, you have to have . . .” She choked and this time he knew it was a giggle.
“Spit it out. This can’t get any worse, can it?”
She let the giggle go and it soared buoyantly between them. “It can,” she choked out. “Cowboy . . . boots. You . . . have to have Western . . . riding boots.” She spluttered for a few moments, then managed to say, “I’ve put together a list of stores in Manhattan that sell them.”
“Thanks, I think.” He studied her, so sleek and chic. “Have you ever been on a horse?”
“I had a boyfriend who rode in Central Park and I went along once. I broke a fingernail and came back with my clothes smelling of horse. Disgusting. How about you?”
“Not once in my life.” Yes, he’d lived ten years in horse country, and his best friend was the horse lover to end all horse lovers, but he’d refused to ever mount a horse. Partly, it was knowing that he, such an unathletic boy, would embarrass himself in front of Jess, but he’d also had a gut-level instinct that to ride would be to surrender. To accept that his life—his utterly miserable life in Hicksville—was all he’d ever know.
Riding. Damn it, this time he’d have to do it. But he was a big boy, and he could deal with it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to turn into a country boy, and even if he didn’t prove to be a skilled rider, there’d be no Jess to taunt him. Besides, he was no longer a klutz, and he would do his homework.
He was about to send Angelica to the bookstore when his brain flashed back to Jess teasing the shit out of him for trying to learn how to skate from a book.
“All right,” he said. “I guess I’m really going.” He glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. “First priority for tomorrow is to clear the calendar for next Monday and Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday. That should give me enough time to learn what I need to about Gianni’s proposed investment.” He rose and pulled on his suit jacket.
“You’re leaving now?” She looked stunned.
No wonder. He rarely left the office before seven, after putting in at least a thirteen-hour day. “Going shopping. Have to find those cowboy boots,” he said wryly.
She gave a hoot and departed in giggles.
Evan shook his head. Would wonders never cease? First, Gianni had persuaded him to do something that, had he been asked this morning, he would have said was inconceivable. Then, the ultrapoised Angelica had been reduced to giggles. And finally, Evan Kincaid, the quintessential New Yorker, was heading out to buy cowboy boots and a how-to book on riding horses.
On the way past Angelica’s desk, he asked, “Did anyone mention the nearest town?”
“Let me think. Something to do with deer. Or maybe moose. No, it was caribou. Caribou Crossing. Quaint, isn’t it?”
“Caribou Crossing.” The name had been on his mind ever since Gianni had started talking about horses, yet now it hit him like a sucker punch.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” he muttered, thinking things couldn’t possibly go any more wrong. Then he squared his shoulders. So the Crazy Horse was near Caribou Crossing. As he’d resolved earlier, there was no reason in the world for him to lay eyes on his mother. Or Jess Bly.
Not unless he wanted to. Which he most certainly did not.
Chapter Two
It was his butt Jess Cousins noticed first.
Monday morning, and the latest group of resort virgins bustled and chattered in her barnyard like a flock of nervous magpies. Amid them this one guy stood still, his back toward her as he studied the row of horses tethered to one of the hitching rails. She took in pleasant impressions of height, ranginess, breadth of shoulder, length of leg, and a truly outstanding butt. Many of the Crazy Horse’s guests were pudgy and a few were scrawny. It was rare to see an admirable physique and even rarer to see a world-class—
Jess snorted under her breath. What the heck was she doing, ogling a guest’s backside? Was it just because she hadn’t had sex in so long she’d almost forgotten what it was like, or was the backside in question really so outstanding? She was dragging her gaze away from the denim-clad object of her admiration just as the man turned around.
“Ev!” His name caught in her throat, emerging as a squeak. He’d changed a lot in ten years, but she recognized him instantly. Despite his pole-axed expression.
He strode toward her as his mouth formed her own name.
Her muscles locked her in place as he approached, and all her brain could do was repeat, Evan, my God, it’s Evan.
She pulled herself together to demand, “What are you doing here?” just as he spoke the identical words.
He grasped her by one shoulder and herded her away from the group. Dimly she was aware of the milling guests, but it was hard to care about anything other than the fact that this man stood in front of her, his hand burning through the cotton of her embroidered Western shirt. Her heart thudded so fast she could barely breathe and her mind was a jumble of thoughts. For the life of her she couldn’t pull a single one free and form a coherent sentence.
He gazed down at his hand as if only just realizing where it rested. Then he yanked it back as quickly as if he’d reached out to stroke a bull in a bucking chute.
Evan was at the Crazy Horse. Had he discovered her long-held secret? Was he here because he’d found out about Robin? The possibility stole what breath she had left. Finally, she managed to draw air and force out a few cautious words. “I work here.”
“Oh.” He seemed to be weighing the concept more carefully than it deserved. “They said the head wrangler would meet us here. TJ Cousins. That’s . . . not you?”
Her breathing settled a little. He really did seem surprised to see her. No, he couldn’t have known about Robin. And she mustn’t say anything to give away her secret.
She nodded. “I don’t use Jessica for my work. People kept making Man from Snowy River comments and it drove me nuts.”
He shrugged, clearly baffled. “Huh?”
Hadn’t she made him watch the movie, way back then? No, she must’ve had the sense to know Mr. City-bound wouldn’t be interested in a film about horses and cowboys in the Australian Outback. He wouldn’t know that the free-spirited, horse-loving heroine was called Jessica.
Now that she thought about it, they hadn’t watched many movies. When he wasn’t studying and she wasn’t outside with the horses, the two of them spent most of their time talking. Sharing dreams. The dreams they’d always known would take them in opposite directions.
And now he was back on her turf. Looking like a man rather than a boy. A striking man rather than a cute but nerdy kid. A kid she’d believed to be the love of her life, yet known she had to give up.
Robin’s father.
Jess had broken her heart over Evan Kincaid. How dar
e he come back?
He’d run away, and then—finally—e-mailed a couple of times from Cornell to apologize. E-mailed, didn’t even have the decency to phone! She didn’t remember the exact words she’d typed with such pain and deliberation, but she knew the essence of the message she’d sent: Get lost and stay lost.
“Cousins,” he said on a note of revelation. “Dave? You married Dave?”
She lifted her chin. “Yup.” No need to tell him they’d since divorced.
“You were friends in high school, hanging around with that in crowd ”—he said it as disparagingly now as he had back then—“but I didn’t think the two of you—” He broke off suddenly and she knew what he was thinking. She and Dave had been friends, but not romantically, or sexually, inclined.
Evan was remembering the night at Zephyr Lake—when she’d had sex with him, not Dave. Even after all these years, she could still read his mind.
No, of course she couldn’t, nor did she want to. But the lake was so obvious. A pink elephant in her barnyard. Would they both tiptoe around it, pretending it didn’t exist?
He cleared his throat. “I never connected TJ with Jessica.”
Yup, Evan was going to tiptoe. Well, that was fine by her because her tongue was hog-tied, bound up good and tight by strands of conflicting emotions. Her bruised heart urged her to rail at him for rejecting her all those years ago, yet if she was going to be fair about it, she had rejected him, too. She’d refused his overture of continued, long-distance friendship. How could she write chatty letters to him while nursing a broken heart and holding back the huge secret of Robin’s existence?
She’d done the right thing, and yet she’d missed him so badly. Even now, a part of her mushy heart yearned to envelope him in a gigantic hug.
But the strongest emotion, by far, was maternal instinct. She had to protect Robin, the product of that night at Zephyr Lake. Jesus, this is Robin’s biological father. She’d thought she’d never see him again, but here he stood, strong and solid and very male.
Again, fear caught her breath. Why was he here? Evan, who had his own investment counseling firm in New York City—and yes, she’d Googled him. Evan, who’d sworn to never set foot in Hicksville again. Had he somehow found out? Come to claim his daughter?
But why on earth would he do that? He’d never wanted children.
She couldn’t stand the uncertainty. “What in holy blue blazes are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice one notch south of a holler.
He shot a glance toward the dudes who chattered nervously as they eyed the horses tied to the hitching rails. She lowered her voice. “You’re not a guest?”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “Actually, yes.”
“Ac-tu-al-ly,” Jess parroted the word, exaggerating the cultivated accent he’d acquired since she last saw him, “you’re the last person I’d have expected. Back in school you couldn’t wait to shake the country dust from—” She paused, snagged on another memory. This one triggered a surge of affection, a response as unexpected as it was undeniable. “From those beautifully polished leather loafers you hitchhiked into Williams Lake to buy, back in grade twelve.”
Suddenly, the mess of unresolved issues flew out of her mind. All she could think of, in that moment, was that this was Ev, the guy who’d for years been her best buddy.
She smiled freely and, after his mouth fell open in surprise, he smiled back. “Good Lord, Jess, it’s actually you. You look”—he eyed her up and down—“just great.”
She read sincerity in his blue-green eyes. And something else, something that made her blood fizz.
Now came the scary memories. The memory of feelings she’d never experienced in the same way with any other man. Not even her ex-husband, Dave. She moistened lips that had gone dry. “You look good, too.”
The package-creased tan denim shirt and well-worn designer jeans hugged a fine body. She’d always found him appealing—a scrawny kid with beautiful eyes and ears too big for his head—but now he was a total hottie. His face was craggy and his eyes were devastating. To her chagrin she remembered those eyes perfectly, the mingled blues and greens of brook water flowing over gray stones, flecked by sparkles of golden sun.
She closed her own eyes briefly, then looked again. He was beyond handsome; he was compelling. And sexy.
An image flashed into her mind. Evan’s gangly young body rising above hers, the moon on his shoulder, as they made love on the lakeshore. She sucked in her breath and, afraid he could read her face, dropped her gaze.
Happily, the new image brought her down to earth. Literally. She saw exquisitely tooled chestnut leather Tony Lama boots. She cleared her throat. “They’re not loafers, but I see you haven’t lost your touch with the shoe polish. Hate to tell you, but the dust is going to stick. And we have far worse than dust to dish up at the Crazy Horse.” She tilted her head and dared to look at his face again.
He glanced down to where his feet were planted in a mixture of dirt and manure. His grimace of distaste was so typically Ev that she gave a snort of laughter.
“Okay, city slicker, enough of the chitchat. I have work to do.” Jess strode toward the other guests, trusting that habit would carry her through.
Evan Kincaid. At the Crazy Horse. This couldn’t really be happening, could it?
He hadn’t mentioned Robin. If he’d come about her, surely he’d have said something by now.
Jess had made the decision not to tell him when she found out that those few rushed minutes at the lake, combined with her too old condom, had resulted in pregnancy. A baby would ruin all his long-held dreams. It wasn’t fair to do that to him, and besides, it wasn’t like things could have worked out for her and Ev. He’d have spent his life resenting her and their child for tying him to the place he’d scornfully called Hicksville.
Her own dreams were more flexible, and could easily, joyfully, bend to incorporate a child. Her and Evan’s child.
No, not Evan’s. Robin’s father—the man who’d raised and loved her—was Dave Cousins.
Evan had never wanted kids. He wouldn’t have wanted to know about Robin all those years ago, and he didn’t deserve her. Not then, and not now. Nor could Jess have her daughter learn that her mom and dad had been lying to her ever since she was born.
To Evan it seemed like no time before Jess—he couldn’t think of her as TJ—had inventoried the guests as to their riding experience, goals, and fears, and matched them up with horses. He admired her ability to relate to each person, deal with questions, soothe anxieties, and still elicit the information she needed.
He tried to shove aside the guilt that had swamped him since he first laid eyes on her. He had, to use one of the country phrases he’d always shunned, “done her wrong.” First, by making love to her at all, for giving in to his crazy lust and betraying their friendship, especially when he knew he’d be leaving for university. Second, by panicking and abandoning her at Zephyr Lake when he realized the damned condom had split. Third, by heading off to Cornell early, without talking to her about what happened. Not only was he a jerk, he was a triple jerk.
Evan hadn’t known what to say to Jess, so he’d taken the easy road and not even tried. Except, that road hadn’t ended up being so easy. Once he was at Cornell he’d missed her so much, and known he was no better than—he lifted a foot and glanced at his once pristine boot—horseshit.
And of course he couldn’t get that split condom out of his mind. Surely one very hurried act of sex couldn’t have resulted in pregnancy; still, he had to find out. So, a couple of months after he left Caribou Crossing, he e-mailed, apologized, and asked how she was, hoping with all his selfish heart that she wouldn’t respond “pregnant.” Hoping, too, that they could get their friendship—the only friendship he’d ever known—back on track.
That was when she’d told him she was doing great, and they should each go their own ways. All right, he’d thought, she wanted him to grovel some more—and she was entitled. So he’d e-mailed back and sa
id he really hoped they could stay in touch and still share their lives and their dreams.
This time she responded, “Look, Ev, we always knew that this day would come. That you’d go to New York and I’d stay here. You’re the one who wanted to leave, so just leave, damn it! Make a clean break. Forget the past.”
He couldn’t believe it. They’d seen each other almost every day for ten years. How could she dismiss that so easily?
In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen this chilly side of her. They’d always promised that once he left for university they’d e-mail all the time. So he could only figure that she was totally pissed off at him for, quite literally, screwing up their relationship. When he’d taken their friendship to a place she hadn’t wanted it to go, he’d lost that friendship entirely.
Now his gaze followed Jess as she moved nimbly among the horses and guests, whipped into the weathered barn and returned with hats and sunscreen, and exchanged quick words with her assistant, a pretty Native Canadian teen with striking features and long, straight black hair under a cowboy hat.
Jess herself was trim and businesslike yet indisputably female and attractive—attractive enough that he felt disconcerting stirrings of his teen lust. She wore faded jeans, a snap-fastened white shirt embroidered with red stitching, and brown cowboy boots that were plain and battered from use. She’d grown up exactly the way he’d have expected her to—and it seemed she was still spinning those crazy dreams.
He should have guessed that TJ Cousins was Jess. Now that he thought back, he did remember that Jessica was her middle name and that her first was something she hated so much she never shared it, not even with him.
Barely glancing at him, she gestured him over to a huge beast with an oddly colored hide—pinky brown with a few white splotches. If he’d had any vision of himself atop a noble steed, Jess had certainly put the kibosh on it. No doubt she was getting revenge for the way he’d treated her when they were seventeen, and he deserved it. But did she have to give him the ugliest horse?
