by Leanne Banks
He dipped his head. “Good night, Felicity Chambeau.”
“Good night, Brock Logan.”
He closed the door behind him, and she was alone again, an all-too-familiar feeling. She glanced at the bed and promised herself to sleep for twenty-four hours. She vowed not to dream about anything that would disturb her, such as a disapproving financial attorney, a cockroach former financial advisor, or a tall rancher with sexy eyes and a humor deficit.
Brock still smelled her perfume after he’d showered in the master bathroom and drunk a shot of bourbon. She wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured. With a name like Felicity, he’d expected a more frivolous-looking female. Instead, her black pantsuit had whispered over her slim curves with understated ease. Her straight blond hair was pulled back into a clip at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was minimal, and he hadn’t noticed any rocks on her fingers.
She’d looked like a woman who was deliberately playing down her attributes. He frowned, wondering why. She’d almost appeared to be grieving. That wasn’t possible, Brock thought, since her parents had died a few years ago. The sadness in her green eyes had tugged at him. It still did. The erotic sight of her parted lips inches away from him when she’d fallen stirred long-buried needs. Needs best denied, he thought, feeling too aware of how long he’d been without a woman.
Damn, he didn’t need this. He poured another bourbon. He shouldn’t have asked that last question. He’d seen the glint of pain in her gaze and her brave attempt to cover it, and in that one strange moment, he’d sensed a kindred spirit. That was impossible.
Felicity slept soundly until she heard heavy footsteps outside her door. Glancing at the clock, she winced at the afternoon hour and pulled her pillow over her head. Way too early. Not twenty-four hours. She willed herself to return to sleep.
“Sheep,” she muttered, counting fluffy white animals as they jumped over a fence. She heard more heavy footsteps and pictured Brock Logan’s boots. Following the image of his boots up his long legs and muscular thighs to the rest of his impressive physique, she moaned and kicked off the sheet. She tried to think of sheep, but they morphed into cows and reality began to sink in. She was not in Manhattan. She was on a cattle ranch.
“And why are you here?” she wryly asked herself. “Because you said you wanted to think about it when your financial advisor asked you to marry him.”
The knowledge rubbed over her like a wire brush. Unable to remain still one second longer, she tossed her pillow against the wall and rolled out of bed onto the floor. Her nightgown, hair and limbs in disarray, Felicity shook her head. She’d always had a little problem with her coordination.
“A robe,” she murmured. Shoving her hair from her face, she scrambled to her feet and opened one suitcase, then another. She rustled through the contents until her hand encountered something hard, a picture frame. Her heart caught. Her housekeeper Anna had packed the treasured last picture taken of her and her parents.
Felicity pulled out the picture and stared instead into the weasel face of her former financial advisor, who had almost been her fiancé Doug.
Standing in the upstairs hallway with his daughter Bree, Brock heard a scream followed by a thump and shattering glass. He narrowed his gaze at the guest-bedroom door. “Go on to your room, honey,” he said to Bree, nudging her down the hall.
“But something broke,” she said, wide-eyed and curious despite her low-grade fever.
“I’ll take care of it. You get to bed,” he told her.
Brock waited until Bree went into her room then slowly opened the guest-bedroom door. “Miss Chambeau?” he began, then stopped abruptly at the sight that greeted him.
Felicity stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, her hair tousled over her shoulders and her slim curves covered by a soft satin nightie that plunged low enough to hint at the shadow of her cleavage and was short enough to reveal most of her shapely legs.
All it would take to lose the nightie would be to push the tiny straps over her shoulders. He could see the outline of her nipples. He wondered if she was totally naked beneath the garment. His mouth went dry.
Impatient with his response, he forced his gaze upward to her flushed face. Her green eyes sparked with temper, but her expression held a tinge of guilt that made him curious. He glanced at the busted picture frame.
“Miss Chambeau?” he repeated.
Felicity shrugged, drawing his gaze to her breasts. She was too feminine for his system at the moment, he thought, with resentment. Locking his gaze on her eyes, he stared at her expectantly.
“It’s a picture,” she said.
“Of my former financial advisor,” she continued when he remained silent. “I—uh dropped—” She broke off. “I didn’t expect to find him in my suitcase! The dirty sleazebag left the country with my money. And it’s not the money. I have enough money, but I trusted him. I trusted him. I almost—” She broke off. “I can only hope he’ll be eaten by a giant cockroach in the South American country where he’s hiding with Chi Chi the exotic dancer and die a horrible, painful death.” She finally took a breath and visibly composed herself. “But this probably isn’t the best time to discuss it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
Brock blinked at the change. There was obviously more to this story. More than he wanted to know, he emphasized to himself. “Don’t move. You might cut your feet. I’ll get a broom and dustpan from the linen closet.” He stepped into the hallway and shook his head in disgust. This was all he needed. A kooky rich lady with a body designed to whip every male in west Texas into a state of frenzy.
Grabbing the broom and pan, he returned to find her gingerly putting shards of glass into the wastebasket. “I told you not to move.”
She briefly met his gaze, then returned to her task. “My tantrum. My mess. My clean-up.”
Irritation burned through him. “Listen, I’ve got a sick kid, and a cow ready to drop her first calf. I don’t have time to take you into town for stitches.”
She glanced at him with her head cocked to one side. “Oh. Who is sick?”
Brock knelt down beside her and quickly swept the glass into the dustpan. He tried not to inhale her subtle feminine scent. “My daughter Bree. I just picked her up from school. Do you want the picture?” he asked, looking at the photo of a smoothly handsome man with a weak chin.
“To burn it,” she said, reaching for it.
Brock snatched it back. “Not in this room,” he said, visions of a house fire filling his head. “I’ll take care of it for you. More than friends, huh?”
“No, but I thought we were at least friends.”
The loneliness and betrayal in her voice and eyes grabbed his gut. Brock brushed the response aside. He had no time or space for this. “I need to get my daughter to bed and get back to work.”
“Thank you,” she said. “How sick is she?”
“Probably just a virus, but my pediatrician brother is in Blackstone. I keep waiting for the time I reap the benefit from his medical school tuition. My housekeeper’s off today, too. That calf’s ready to drop. You look okay, so I’ll leave,” he muttered, and headed out the door, his mind on the three hundred pressing issues facing him.
Halfway down the hall, he heard her footsteps behind him. “Excuse me,” she said.
Fighting impatience, he looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”
She laced her fingers together, her prim stance at odds with her skimpy attire. “How old is your daughter?”
“Seven. Why?” he demanded, unable to keep the irritation from his voice
“I could stay with her,” she offered, “if you think that would help. I would like to help.”
Stunned, he stared at her warily. “Wearing that?”
Felicity’s cheeks bloomed with color. “No. I’ll change my clothes.” His expression must have revealed his doubt. “I can pour juice and water,” she told him. “I can read books.”
Bree would like the reading part even though she could read circles around
most kids her age. For that matter, Bree might like Felicity. Brock wasn’t sure that was a good idea especially since he was hoping his silent partner would be packing her impressive rear end back to New York where it belonged as soon as possible.
“You sounded busy. If you’d rather I leave her alone…”
“No,” he said, flexing his fist in frustration. “Thank you,” he said, the words sounding grudging to his own ears.
She met his gaze, looking as surprised with herself as he was. The corners of her mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll change my clothes and be right out.”
Did he really want his daughter influenced by such a woman? Brock frowned. It was just for a few hours, he told himself. The housekeeper would be back soon. Deep in his gut, however, he had a strong feeling about Felicity Chambeau. And it wasn’t good. It would be easier if he could say his discomfort was due to something about her character, but he suspected it had more to do with his libido.
He swore under his breath and walked down the long hallway to Bree’s room. He told his daughter Felicity would stay with her and was immediately bombarded with questions.
“Where’s she from?”
“New York City,” Brock said, adjusting Bree’s pillow. “She’s no cowgirl, but she can read to you.”
“Is she old?”
“No.”
“Is she pretty?”
Brock tugged at his collar. “I’ll let you decide.”
“But what do you think?”
Thankfully, Felicity appeared outside Bree’s open door, her face scrubbed clean and her hair pulled back. She wore black jeans and a white silk shirt, but he couldn’t banish the image of her in the skimpy nightie with her hair in sexy disarray.
He inhaled and drew in her teasing elusive scent. Grinding his teeth at his susceptibility, he introduced the two females, then turned to Bree. “You know my cell phone number and my pager,” he told his daughter. “Call me if there’s any problem.”
“Cell phone, pager,” Felicity echoed. “I didn’t know there was cell coverage in Texas.”
Brock’s lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “We may talk slowly, but we have a few modern conveniences like running water and cell phones. What were you expecting?”
Felicity shrugged. “A bell?” she suggested.
“We have one of those, too. The cell’s faster and doesn’t upset everyone on the ranch.” He adjusted his hat, feeling an odd twinge of discomfort at the look of curious fascination on Bree’s face. “Call me if you need me, baby.”
Brock left the room, and Felicity felt his departure like a physical force. Odd, she thought, that a man’s absence could be so strong when his presence was so imposing. Shaking off her strange sensations, she glanced at Bree and found Brock’s daughter staring back at her. Felicity felt another little twist of inadequacy. She didn’t have much experience with children. She’d offered to help Brock because she could see as a single father and head of the ranch he had too much to do, and she’d added to the list by arriving last night. If she’d told him that, however, she suspected he would have died before he would ask for help, especially from her.
Okay, she might not have much experience caring for a child, but she had experience being one. Felicity returned Brock’s daughter’s gaze. The little girl’s cheeks were slightly flushed with fever, but her blue eyes were curious and assessing.
Felicity smiled. “You have your father’s eyes.”
Bree smiled and nodded. “I’ve got his hair, too,” she said, tugging at her long ponytail, “but you can’t tell because he won’t grow his long like mine.”
“And you smile a little more often?” Felicity asked.
Bree nodded again. “Uncle Tyler is always telling Daddy to lighten up and he takes himself too seriously.” She rolled her eyes. “My brother does that, too.”
“Your brother, Jacob,” Felicity clarified, immediately liking this warm, outspoken child.
“Yes ma’am. Jacob. We’re twins.” She cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. “You talk funny.”
“It’s because I’m from New York City,” Felicity said.
“Oh, well you can’t help it that you’re not from Texas,” Bree said sympathetically. “You’ll be much happier now that you’re here.”
Felicity couldn’t help chuckling. “What makes you so sure?”
“Texas is the best place in the world to live,” Bree said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everybody wants to live here,” she said, then her face turned thoughtful and she rubbed her fingers over her quilt, “except my mom. She moved to California because she wants to be in the movies.” She lifted her chin, another gesture that reminded Felicity of Brock. “My dad says me and Jacob are more fun than movies.”
The mixture of pride and vulnerability in Bree’s eyes scored her heart, reminding Felicity of the dozens of times her own mother had sought a more exciting party or exotic trip in lieu of spending time with Felicity. She thought again of Brock. An honorable man? She’d believed that species was extinct.
She met Bree’s proud gaze. “You and Jacob are more fun than movies? I bet your dad is right.”
“He’s the best dad in the world,” she said, again in the matter-of-fact voice and gave Felicity an assessing glance. “Aunt Martina says all he needs is a good woman to drive him crazy on a regular basis. We don’t get many women around the Triple L. You wanna do it?”
Felicity blinked. Absolutely not, she thought, but managed a smile. “What an interesting idea. I’ll have to think about it. For now, let’s read a book.”
Two
“There’s another one ready to drop in the north pasture. I’ll check on her tonight,” Brock said to Chuck, his assistant foreman. His brother Tyler and son Jacob listened while they waited for Addie to put the dinner on the table. “Tomorrow, I need you to—” Brock broke off when he noticed none of them were paying attention. All three, instead, were gaping at something behind him. He frowned and turned around. “Hey, what—” Dressed in a pink sweater dress that caressed her curves the way every man would want to, Felicity Chambeau stood at the entrance to the informal dining room with a tentative expression on her face. “You said dinner is at six. May I join you?”
Her sophisticated appearance was at odds with the casual room. The oak dining-room table and chairs had served the Logans for at least three generations and bore crescent marks from teething babies, scars from forks jabbed into the surface, and though the table still gleamed, the polish wasn’t as shiny as it once had been due to countless spills of milk and juice. Currently it was set with stoneware plates and bowls, stainless flatware, napkins and a pot of coffee. With her cashmere dress and golden champagne hair, Felicity clearly didn’t belong here.
Brock watched Chuck suck in his gut while Tyler stepped across the room and offered his arm. “Please join us. I’m Tyler Logan. You must be Felicity Chambeau. We’re delighted to have you.”
Brock nearly barfed at his brother’s enthusiastic greeting. “Why doesn’t he just get down on his hands and knees and howl?” he muttered.
“If he doesn’t, I will,” Chuck said, his gaze still fastened on Felicity.
Brock exhaled in disgust. “You would think you two hadn’t ever seen a woman.”
“I haven’t seen any that looked like her in a long time,” Chuck retorted. “Just because you’re dried up, disinterested and bitter doesn’t mean the rest of us are.” He stepped forward and tipped his hat. “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Chuck Granby. Pleasure to meet you.”
Felicity smiled at both men, then looked at Jacob, Brock’s painfully shy son. “You must be Jacob. Bree told me about you this afternoon. She said you can already rope a calf.”
Jacob stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “My dad taught me.”
Grudgingly appreciative of her attention to his son, Brock glanced down and ruffled Jacob’s hair. “Bree would speak for all of us if you gave her the chance.”
“Oh, she did.”
Brock could just imagine the family secrets his daughter had spilled. “Great,” he muttered darkly.
“Don’t worry,” Felicity said. “She could easily be a PR person for the Logan family and the state of Texas. She’s determined to teach me how to speak Texan.”
“Maybe we can make a permanent resident of you,” Tyler said with a teasing grin. “You might like it here so much you want to stay.”
“Great,” Brock muttered under his breath as he thought about wrapping Tyler’s tongue around his throat.
His tall, sturdy housekeeper carried a steaming pot into the dining room. “Well, are y’all gonna stand around the table and look at it or sit down and eat?” She glanced up at Felicity. “You must be Miss Chambeau. I’m Addie, and I’ll warn you I don’t do much fancy cooking like you’re probably used to in New York. Seems like these men want the same ol’ thing every week or so.”
Brock approved of Addie’s brusque tone. She wouldn’t be bowled over by a pretty woman in a pink dress.
“It smells delicious, Addie,” Felicity said.
“Let me help you with your chair,” Tyler smoothly said at the same time as Chuck pulled one out from the large table. After Felicity had murmured her thanks, the two men sat on either side of her like adoring bookends.
“What brings you to Texas?” Chuck asked as Addie served the beef stew.
Felicity glanced uncertainly at Brock. “I—uh—”
“She’s here for a short visit,” he said. He didn’t want the whole crew to know she was a silent partner. He preferred that the crew not know she existed.
“She’s silent partner of the Triple L,” Tyler announced.
Brock fixed a glare on his brother and Tyler plastered an innocent grin on his face.
“A silent partner,” Chuck echoed in amazement.
“Very silent. I’m so silent I couldn’t tell the difference between a dairy cow and a steer,” she emphasized as if she sensed Brock’s displeasure. She was intuitive, Brock had to grant her that much. “One of my great-great-grandfathers had a little agreement with one of Mr. Logan’s great-great-grandfathers. The only thing I’m entitled to is a place to sleep when I visit.”
