A Man of His Word

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “The pleasure is mine.” Again, this was not what she expected. A pristine mansion and kindly hired help? Maybe she had Cecil Armstrong all wrong.

  “Dinner is in the oven, señor. Do you need anything else?”

  Dan patted her arm, and Rosebud saw the girlish blush rise up. “No, Maria, it smells wonderful. You can head out—give my best to Eduardo and the boys, okay?”

  “Sí, señor.” Maria held out her hand to Rosebud. “Señor Daniel is a good man, señorita.”

  As opposed to…his uncle? The statement opened the door to about twenty questions. Dan couldn’t have been around that long, or she would have heard about his arrival before he showed up at her office. How long had Maria worked for Cecil? Clearly, Dan was working his charm on more people than her. That wasn’t a bad thing, either, she decided. This wasn’t any different than judging a date by how he treated the waiter—except, she reminded herself, this wasn’t a date. Now that Maria was out of the house, Rosebud had to remember that.

  Dan pulled out a stool at the huge kitchen island and motioned for her to sit. She felt a little silly about the formality, but she couldn’t say no to that smile. “We’re eating in the kitchen?”

  “The dining room is Cecil’s headquarters.” Dan got busy with plates and forks before he opened the oven. The scent of Mexican—good Mexican—filled the air. “The kitchen is a much nicer place, trust me. I hope you like tamales.”

  Sounded like the dining room was the place she needed to be. Something occurred to her. “You call him Cecil?”

  Dan paused, a sheepish smile on his face. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

  “Not many people do.” He dug out some cheese and proceeded to garnish the tamales. A good-looking man who knows how to garnish, Rosebud thought in amazement. No, she caught herself. She would not be impressed. “You don’t like him.”

  That was putting it mildly. “I’ve never actually met him. He’s your uncle.”

  “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about that.” He sounded lighthearted, but the tension in his voice was unmistakable as he set her dinner before her. “I’d offer you a beer, but that suit says I’d be wasting my breath.” Here, just the two of them in a kitchen that smelled of warmth and goodness, she allowed herself to smile. His eyes latched on to her smile, and she froze. Did he think he recognized her from the valley? Or was he just staring? “Lemonade?” he finally said into the silence.

  Disaster averted, she thought with a mental sigh. “I’d love some.”

  “Tell me about your name.” He set the lemonade down in front of her, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he stood in the space between touching her shoulder and not touching her shoulder.

  She looked up. No, there wasn’t any of that wariness she thought she’d caught a glimpse of. His eyes weren’t so stormy, she decided. They were more like the palest jade with just a hint of gray. A precious stone. “Is that the nice way of asking if I’m named after a sled?”

  Jade probably didn’t sparkle as much as Dan’s eyes. “My mother loves Citizen Kane,” he said and then headed back to the stove to scoop out Spanish rice. “I bet you get that question a lot.”

  Her mouth watered. Whatever else happened tonight, at least the food was going to be good. “Only from white people.”

  His shoulders shook with laughter. “Guilty as charged.”

  At least he had a sense of humor about it. That was a rare thing in and of itself, especially considering the past three years. She was used to dealing with that man’s lawyers, who held her in obvious contempt. When she was in college, she’d become familiar with white people who had an overdeveloped sense of liberal guilt. And the locals? They mostly treated her—or any Indian, for that matter—like dirty, dumb Injuns. Dan didn’t fit into any of those categories. “You don’t have to be all politically correct, either—Indian is fine. I think of myself as a Lakota Indian.”

  He regarded her with a look that was between frank curiosity and open respect. “Duly noted. So are you named after a sled?”

  She couldn’t help but grin widely at him. “I’m named after a distant relative who moved to New York in the ’40s, Rosebud Yellow Robe. Family legend is that Orson Welles named the sled after her—they both did radio shows for CBS back in the day.”

  “Interesting.” His voice dropped a notch as he served dinner with a flourish. “And the Donnelly?”

  She wasn’t much of a cook, and this was, hands down, the most delicious meal she’d had in ages. She forced herself to focus. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was a pretty slick way of asking if Donnelly was her maiden or married name. “A grandmother married a white man after the Civil War, and they had nothing but sons for a while.”

  “Until you.”

  She froze, the fork halfway to her mouth. Her appetite disappeared, leaving only uneasiness in her belly. Carefully, she lowered the fork back to the plate and cleared her throat. “I had a brother. He was one of the deaths deemed a suicide by the FBI.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand flex. Way to go, Rosebud scolded herself. Way to play the pity card. Way to use Tanner’s memory. Suddenly, she felt dirty. This whole situation was wrong. There had to be better ways to get to Cecil Armstrong. If she thought real hard, she was sure she could come up with something. Anything would be better than this intimate dinner with his nephew.

  He finally spoke into the silence. “I’m goin’ to look into it.”

  “You said that.” She tried to shrug this whole awkward conversation off but failed miserably.

  He pivoted on his stool, put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “I mean it.”

  She wanted to believe him, but she’d had too many men—white and Indian—break too many promises. Still, something about the way he met her gaze made her think that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

  She was getting warmer. Just like when he’d shaken her hand, she could feel the slow burn moving from where he was touching her shoulder down her arm and across her chest. Despite the confusion that swirled in her head, she still felt the pull of sexual tension. She tested out a small smile and got an honest one in return as his hand drifted down to her arm and gave it a little squeeze. That burn got a lot less slow. Oh, boy. If she wasn’t careful, all this promising and smiling and touching would pull her right under. She was already a mess right now. She couldn’t afford something as distracting as sexual tension to further unscrew her head. “A man of his word?”

  “Always.” His fingers trailed down her arm, leaving scorch marks under her jacket. He motioned to the food. “It’s goin’ to get cold.”

  Luckily, dinner was still warm—and delicious. Eating it gave her a little time to get her thoughts organized, because the last thing she wanted to do was add the embarrassment of spewing half-chewed tamales across the kitchen island. Finally, the plates were nearly empty and she’d moved on to the lemonade. She decided to start with the least dangerous topic she could think of. “You’ll have to tell Maria that I said this was wonderful.”

  “She’ll like that.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “About a week.”

  Okay, that answered her question about how long he’d been here. No wonder she hadn’t heard about his arrival. “Really? You seem like old friends.”

  Maybe that grin wasn’t arrogant. Maybe that grin was just confident. “My mother raised me to be nice to everyone, regardless of whether they were the maid or the king of the world.” Then the grin slid right on over into arrogant. “Plus, I gave Maria a—what do they call it these days? A retention bonus. My uncle was still paying her the same wage he hired her at five years ago.”

  That didn’t surprise her. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman,” she said, hoping she was using the right tense.

  “She is. She’s the executive vice president. We run the Texas division of the company as a team—before this thing with Cecil pulle
d me up here, that is.” He began to rummage through the fridge. “I think Maria left a cake—interested?”

  “Yes, please. Will your mother be visiting you here?” Because she’d kind of like to meet the woman who produced this charmer.

  “She wouldn’t be caught dead in the same state as Cecil.”

  It was interesting to watch him drift between hot and serious, chatty and silent. Dan didn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve, but she got the feeling he didn’t win a lot of poker games. “Sounds like a long story.”

  “It’s not so much long as it is old. Mom picked Dad instead of Cecil. Cecil never forgave either of them. He didn’t even come to Dad’s funeral.”

  “And you work for him?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  Dan set a piece of cake in front of her, pulled up his stool and sat down. Only then did he turn to her, his eyes going right past serious and straight on over into dangerous. She wondered if other people made him look this dangerous, or if it was just her. “Let’s get something straight,” he said, sounding very much like a man who would take all comers. “I don’t work for Cecil. I inherited my father’s stake in the family business. I own half of this house, the water rights and the dam project. This is my company just as much as it is his.”

  That nerve she’d hit was huge. She wondered if Cecil had the same interpretation of the situation. “But you’re helping him.”

  He glared at her. All the charm was gone. “I’m helping my company.”

  She had pushed this just about as far as she could, but she couldn’t quit. This was her in—Dan didn’t like his uncle, and he didn’t like the job the old man was doing. The chance that she could convince Dan to abandon the whole thing was small, but it was a chance she had to take. “Well, your company is going to flood my reservation.”

  He looked away, like she’d won and he’d lost. But then he said, “Eminent domain.”

  So he’d been doing his homework, and they both knew who the loser here was going to be. The government would give the reservation to Cecil because lower electricity rates were good for politicians and their reelections. It was a new twist on the old story—the white people needed the land more than the Indians did. And yet, she felt like she needed to comfort him. He actually looked miserable about the whole damn thing. Leaning over, she touched one of those forearms and said, “I won’t go down without a fight.”

  Moving slowly, he set his fork down and took her fingers in his hand. Calluses rubbed against the length of her index finger, then moved on to her palm. If she hadn’t been sitting, her knees would have buckled. “I’m counting on that.” Oh, that wasn’t a threat—that was a promise, pure and simple. “But the question is, what kind of fight?”

  She couldn’t help it. Three long years of loneliness threatened to swamp her altogether. She leaned into him, close enough that she could see a faint scar above his cheek, close enough that his short hair could tickle her nose. “You can check my briefcase. I don’t have a gun.”

  He turned to her as he pulled her hand into his rock-solid chest. “Not here, anyway,” he murmured as his lips brushed hers. “You’re too smart for that.”

  Huh? She was smart? She was the one sitting in Cecil Armstrong’s kitchen, kissing Cecil Armstrong’s nephew—a man she barely knew, a man she’d shot at, for God’s sake!

  But how was he being any smarter? He knew—or thought he knew—that she’d put a hole in his hat, less than two inches from his skull! What kind of man came on to a woman he believed to be armed and dangerous? What kind of man worked for—with—Cecil Armstrong? What kind of man was Dan Armstrong?

  Oh. My. God. The kissing kind, that’s what.

  His touch wasn’t an act of aggression or domination, but more like he was asking for permission. Not the kiss of an enemy, but of something…different. Even though his fingers tightened around hers, he hung back, waiting for a sign. His other hand came up and stroked her cheek with the lightest of touches. Tension—the good sort—hit her like a small jolt of electricity, pushing her into him. That must have been what he was waiting for, because his tongue brushed her lips, and she forgot all about being smart. Instead, she remembered being a woman, remembered the feeling of desire as it surged from her mouth, flamed to her breasts and scorched down farther until she wanted nothing more than to see exactly how far this kiss could go.

  Six

  He really hadn’t meant to kiss her—not before dessert, anyway. But she’d touched him, and promised that she’d fight him every single step of the way. The way she’d said it…. She’d said it not like she was about to serve him a subpoena, but like she was suggesting they continue their discussion in bed.

  He was supposed to be getting to her, breaking down her defenses, finding her weak spots and exploiting them. But that wasn’t what was happening.

  What was happening was that she was getting to him.

  He couldn’t give less of a damn about whatever business pretense he’d used to get her here. What mattered was that she was here, now, kissing him. He wanted to taste more of her. Hell, he wanted to taste all of her. She had a honeyed sweetness that was tempered with a hint of tart lemonade. Her fingers tightened around his shirt, pulling him into her. She opened her lips for him, and he felt her jolt when his tongue touched hers. For a second, he knew he was about to get lucky. His body was aching for it, too.

  Then, suddenly, he was puckering up to nothing but air. She jerked back, yanking her hand away from his chest so hard that she just about took his shirt with her—but not in the fun way.

  What the hell? She went right past a pretty pink and straight on over to hit-with-a-tomato red, her eyes fastened on the forgotten cake in front of them. Just as much as her hands and her mouth had been telling him “yes” a second before, the rest of her was screaming “no,” loud and clear. The buzzy hard-on he’d been working on slammed right back up into his gut. Gritting his teeth, he tried to get his eyes to focus. It didn’t help. She looked more miserable than a woman he’d been kissing ought to.

  And that cold shoulder she was giving him said nothing but mistake and regret. It left a bad taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the lip-lock. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he offered. It sounded weak, even to his own ears.

  She jumped at the words and was off the stool before he knew what was happening. “I should go.” Her eyes cut back to him. The softness there was disappearing faster than a puddle in August. “Now.”

  No use arguing with that. She’d made up her mind, that much was clear. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She didn’t offer any resistance, but she made sure to keep her distance from him as she stomped down the hall, out the front door and into a deepening dusk. It was only when she got to the gate that she pulled up. “Thank you for dinner.” She put both hands behind her back. “Please tell Maria I enjoyed the food.”

  Just the food? Ouch. The woman’s claws were razor sharp. “I’m still coming by your office Monday at nine.” Even though the dusk was settling, he could see the flash of anger in her eyes. But she’d said it herself—he was a man of his word, and he needed to know more about her brother before he started digging around. “If it’s all right with you.”

  She let the question hang for a long moment without so much as a blink. No wonder Cecil had already gone through three lawyers. A pissed Rosebud Donnelly was an intimidating Rosebud Donnelly. His eyes darted back to her ugly little car, but thankfully he saw no gun propped up against the window or anything.

  “Of course,” she finally said, her chin jutting out in a way that said it was anything but okay with her. “You’re just doing your job.”

  Once she was in her car, the rear tires spun out on the gravel before she got enough traction to peel out, but her words hung around. Just doing his job.

  He felt lower than a rattler’s belly in a wagon rut, all because he was just doing his job.

  As he turned to go back into the house, an orange light caught
his eyes. Just a small dot of bright color that had no business being about six feet off the ground behind some bushes. As quick as he’d seen it, it was gone. He couldn’t see anything else amiss.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. “In fact,” Thrasher’s voice sneered in his ear, “I doubt you’ll ever see me again.”

  His uncle was having him watched. A deep rage threatened to break free, the same rage he’d felt shortly after Dad had died, when his uncle had showed up and informed Mom that if she didn’t marry him, he’d take the company away from her. Dan had only been sixteen at the time. He hadn’t let Cecil call the shots then—he and Mom had gotten enough stock to keep the board firmly on their side—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Cecil call the shots now.

  Screw it, Dan thought, forcing himself to walk calmly back into the house. No need to let Thrasher know Dan suspected anything. Screw Cecil Armstrong. Screw this whole job.

  Except for the kiss.

  Dan had just one thing he could do. He spent the rest of his Saturday night taking the kitchen apart, looking for hidden cameras and microphones.

  He knew whose side he was on.

  “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong.”

  Dan didn’t even have one foot in the door, and already the receptionist was coming at him with a cup of coffee. Today, he was going to hold steady at two cups, max. “Ms. Donnelly is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you…Judy.” Her friendly smile told him he’d gotten that right.

  She led him back to the sorriest excuse for a conference room he’d ever been in. To his surprise, Rosebud was already settled in with a banker’s box of files in front of her. “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong.” She didn’t even look up. “You’re on time.”

  She sounded exactly like the receptionist and nothing like a woman he’d kissed two nights ago. “Rosebud.” To heck with this mister and miz stuff. “I thought you would appreciate punctuality.”

  That got her to look up, and even earned him a small smile. Man, how did she manage to shine in a room this ugly? The walls were the color of overcooked oatmeal, and he thought he deserved a buckle for managing to make the eight seconds on that chair last time.