Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress

by Robyn Grady

  “Your parents only had your best interests at heart when they included that caveat and put me in charge.”

  He leaned closer, about to say more, when the waiter arrived and took their orders—steak for him, pecan and avocado salad for her. Chad was looking thoughtful, pouring iced tea, when he spoke next.

  “That man—Mr. Warren…”

  “Abigail Langley’s architect.” Relishing a grin, Elizabeth reached for her glass. “I can’t wait to see the results of that election come December.”

  Chad scoffed. “If Abigail expects votes to swing her way because of an eyesore of a design like that, she’s dreaming more than I’d thought.”

  Elizabeth wouldn’t touch his comment about the design. “I’m sure the majority commend the committee for awarding Abigail full membership privileges after her husband passed away. She has as much right as any member to stand for president. If it weren’t for her late husband’s ancestors, there wouldn’t be a Texas Cattleman’s Club,” she said.

  “At the risk of sounding sexist, it’s not the Cattleperson’s Club.”

  “Perhaps it ought to be.”

  “Change isn’t always good, Elizabeth. Sometimes it can lead to discord. To ruin.”

  And sometimes it was necessary. Even exciting. But she wouldn’t waste her breath. Instead, her cheeks warm from building annoyance, she took a long sip of cool tea.

  “Have you and Mr. Warren met before?”

  “No.” She set her glass on the table.

  “He seems a smooth sort.”

  She grinned again. “Yes, he does.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  Enough. She met Chad Tremain’s gaze square on.

  “You were a dear friend of my parents, I count you as a friend of mine, but drop it.” She forced a short laugh to temper her tone. “Okay?”

  “It’s just… Elizabeth, you know that I care.”

  His fingers edged over the table. Her stomach knotting, Elizabeth slid her hand away and locked both sets of fingers in her lap. Yes, she knew Chad cared, far more than she would have liked. He was too serious and staid and not her type at all. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested?

  In fact, despite her parents’ wishes, if there were any way to dismiss him as her financial advisor she’d do it. However, for now at least, she was hog-tied. The terms of the will were set until her thirtieth birthday. Sitting here now and feeling inordinately constrained, it might as well be her sixtieth.

  Needing to change the subject, she cast a glance around the buzzing room. “Where’s Mr. Michaels?” Her bank manager.

  Sitting back, Chad nodded at his cell phone, placed on the other side of his cutlery.

  “Detained. I thought we could review the figures of those larger annuities while we wait.”

  Elizabeth sipped tea and listened as Chad spouted off strings of figures, but after a few minutes, his voice seemed to blend with other sounds—glasses pinging, cutlery clicking, people chatting, laughing. And suddenly, through the condensation of the pitcher that sat at the center of their table, a face swam up.

  Glossy dark hair. A hint of Latin heritage, perhaps. Sea-green eyes full of questions and possibilities. Then there was the confident air that exuded strength but also cloaked a more vulnerable side, if she weren’t mistaken. She barely knew Daniel Warren and yet something very real about him made her heart beat faster than a piston hammering at full throttle.

  What would Chad say if he knew she’d gone and asked him to dinner?

  “Elizabeth?”

  Starting, she snapped her attention back to her luncheon companion.

  “I’m sorry, Chad. What was that?”

  “I thought I’d mention that we received another offer to buy the ranch. Developers, of course. I took it upon myself to tell the gentleman the property was not for sale.”

  She contained a sigh. “Thank you, but I can deal with those inquiries myself. Even if I were in a position to sell, I know where my heart lies.”

  At least, now she did.

  The words were barely out when movement beyond the nearby window caught her eye. Daniel Warren was strolling the manicured grounds with a concerned-looking Abigail. When he turned toward the window and Elizabeth imagined he’d noticed her looking through the pane, her stomach jumped and flipped over. Holding her breath, she lowered her head even as a runaway smile stole across her face.

  She was looking forward to tonight like she hadn’t looked forward to anything in a long time.

  “My dear? Are you all right?”

  Crunching her napkin, Elizabeth focused on the older man’s face, which was lined with curiosity. Or was that suspicion?

  “I was saying that I know where my heart lies.” She pushed thoughts of Daniel Warren aside, replaced them with an image of the Milton Ranch and affirmed, “And that’s right here in Royal.”

  Two

  That evening, as Daniel swerved his rental SUV around the top of the Milton Ranch graveled driveway, his breath caught in his throat at the same time his mouth dropped open.

  Usually in this kind of situation, before anything else, professional instinct demanded an immediate once-over of the house—its position, angles, any interesting textures and touches. Tonight, however, the sprawling homestead, set on too many acres of prime land to imagine, didn’t come close to drawing his attention. Instead, his focus was riveted on the scene illuminated by recently triggered lawn lights. Easing out of the vehicle, he rubbed his eyes and looked harder.

  Flamingos?

  The pink-and-white imitation birds were strategically positioned beneath the benevolent arms of a glorious magnolia. Daniel scrubbed the back of his neck. Hell, maybe Elizabeth Milton’s success with that eclectic ensemble today was a fluke, after all.

  “You’re on time.”

  Daniel swung around to see Elizabeth standing, a shoulder propped against the jamb of the massive doorway of her home. The cowboy boots she’d worn earlier had been replaced by elegant black heels, which matched an equally elegant little black dress. The blond mane was swept up in an effortless, chic style. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and a mock curious smile shone from her face. Beneath the porch lights, her every inch glowed. The only anomaly was the double foxtail belt loosely slung around her hips.

  Daniel looked at it sideways but, after those pink birds, he couldn’t decide. Was the belt high or hillbilly fashion?

  “Are you going to stand there all night, Mr. Warren? It might be October but it’s chilly out.”

  “I was admiring your, uh, landscaping.”

  “The flamingos? Attractive, aren’t they?” When he found himself tongue-tied, she straightened to her full petite height and laughed. “They’re only on loan, silly. A gimmick to raise money for a very good cause. They show up one morning and you get to mind them until you make a donation, at which time they magically disappear and take up residence with a new and unsuspecting victim.”

  Closing the vehicle’s door, he blew out a sigh of relief. “Making that donation must be at the top of your to-do list.”

  As he joined her, his senses responded to that same sweet scent he’d enjoyed earlier today. His every extremity warmed, urging him to lean closer to her pulse points and inhale. But almost as captivating was another kind of smell, one that sent his taste buds tripping. Man, he hadn’t realized he was that hungry.

  “You’ve been busy in the kitchen?”

  She stepped aside and ushered him into a vestibule that was decorated with oak and a striking stacked-slate feature wall.

  “I’m under direct orders to leave all the cooking to the expert in this house,” she said, accepting his coat and slipping it into a hall closet. “Nita’s been a member of the staff, a member of the family, since before I was in pigtails. I couldn’t do without her.”

  She led him into a reception room, furnished with evergreen and crimson window dressings and impressive Jacobean furniture. But his interest soon slid back to the way his hostess filled out th
at dress. Frankly, the sight of her legs in sheer black stockings made his head swim a little, foxtails or not.

  “Can I interest you in a predinner drink?” she asked, leaving him to cross to a mile-long timber bar. Beneath the lights, tiny diamantés sparkled in her hair. With a teasing grin, she held up a bottle of whiskey and suggested, “A Manhattan, perhaps?”

  Grinning, he sauntered over. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”

  When in Rome… Didn’t all Texans love their ale?

  “In that case—” she pulled a frosty beer from under the counter “—a local coming up.”

  “Will you join me?”

  “I’m more a bubbles gal.” When she lifted an opened bottle, nesting in a nearby silver ice bucket, he studied and openly approved the label.

  “A very fine vintage.”

  “You know wines.” It was more a statement than a question.

  “I know what’s good.” Clearly so did she.

  “Two glasses then?”

  “I’ll pour.”

  She found a pair of cut-crystal flutes. He filled one, handed hers over then filled his own. When she tilted her head and raised her glass, diamonds seemed to sparkle in her eyes as well as her hair.

  “A toast,” she said. “To your design helping Abby bag the election.”

  His chest tightened and the glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “Only if I put it through a massive overhaul.”

  Understanding shone in her eyes. “Abigail didn’t like it?”

  “She was too polite to say but I’m sure she hated it. Turns out I took a bit of a bum steer regarding the theme, courtesy of a plant from her opponent’s camp.”

  “Brad Price doesn’t mind playing dirty.”

  Her growl sounded more like a kitten than a bear, although he didn’t doubt that beneath all that feminine grace lay the heart of a tiger.

  “What did Abby say?”

  He wouldn’t go into details. “Suffice to say her expression was enough.”

  Images of his design rolled through his head, his thoughts working through the exterior structure then the overly rustic properties of each room. He could see where he’d gone wrong now.

  “Too many textures and dimensions harking back to the good ol’ days,” he admitted. “Too stereotypical.”

  Damn it, too cheesy. His fingertip began to draw geometrical shapes over the counter. Helped him to think.

  “I get that the committee wants to retain the club’s original flavor,” he went on, “while positioning it firmly in the twenty-first century. I need to find that balance.”

  Elizabeth rounded the timber counter and didn’t stop until her heavenly scent had claimed his personal space and was hijacking his bloodstream. The impulse to edge closer and breathe a little deeper was something he had to work at to contain.

  An eyebrow arched, she rested her crystal flute on her chin while those dazzling smoky-shadowed eyes searched his. “You sound as if you might have a few ideas.”

  “Earlier today, so did you.”

  “I confess, I do possess a fascination for design.”

  “You studied it?”

  “Not officially.”

  She rotated to lean back against the counter. With her weight preferring one shapely leg, elbows propped up on the counter on either side, she looked so sultry, so classic… Hell, if he’d been an artist, he’d have begged for an easel and brush.

  “I have majors in psychology and literature,” she told him.

  “I’d have guessed a business degree would’ve been the logical choice, given one day you’d be running all this.”

  Besides other things, when he’d inquired, Abigail had told him Elizabeth was an only child.

  Some of the light in her eyes waned at the same time her gaze dropped to the original polished timber at her feet. “I wasn’t that interested in the ranch back then. When my folks passed away, I began to see things differently. There’s always time for more study.”

  He set his glass carefully down. “Abigail mentioned about your parents.” A tragic automobile accident. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded then shucked back her slender shoulders. “How about you, Mr. Warren? Do you have family?”

  Daniel’s insides knotted. Given the thread of their conversation, it was an obvious question. Now he would avoid giving a straight answer, because he didn’t discuss that facet of his life. His past. Not with anyone.

  Before he could maneuver the conversation in another direction, they were interrupted.

  “Sorry to barge in, folks.”

  Daniel rotated toward the accented female voice. A woman, late sixties in a printed apron and matching slippers, was taking her time crossing the room.

  “Just wanta say,” the woman said, peering at Daniel through lenses that covered a good deal of her face, “dinner’s on the table.”

  Elizabeth moved to join her. “Nita Ramirez, this is Mr. Warren. The architect from New York City I told you about.”

  “Please, Elizabeth, Nita, the name’s Daniel.” Making his way over, he extended a hand, which Nita Ramirez readily shook—and for quite a time. “I hear you’re a fabulous talent in the kitchen,” Daniel added.

  Nita patted her jet-black shoulder-length hair. “That compliment’ll earn you a second helping of my specialty dessert, Daniel. How does caramel apple cheesecake sound?”

  He almost licked his lips. “My sweet tooth and I can hardly wait.”

  Pleased, Nita sent over a hearty wink then spoke to Elizabeth. “Dining room’s all set, Beth. I set a match to the fire, too.”

  As Nita strolled off, Elizabeth offered her arm to her guest. “I sure hope you’re hungry.”

  At the end of the meal, Elizabeth dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, to hide her grin more than anything. A man of Daniel’s means would dine at the best restaurants around the world, and while guests regularly swooned over Nita’s culinary triumphs, her current guest’s reaction to rib eye roast and baked potato salad was priceless. No question. Daniel Warren appreciated good home cooking.

  “I’m sure there’s more,” Elizabeth offered, “if you can fit it in.”

  He set his knife and fork down on the gravy-smeared plate. “I’m tempted. But I need room for that dessert.”

  “Be warned. Caramel apple cheesecake is addictive.”

  “I’m an advocate of the saying, you can never have too much of a good thing.”

  When his gaze held hers a moment longer than was necessary, heat climbed up Elizabeth’s neck and she had to drop her gaze, catch her breath. She wasn’t one to titter. She didn’t normally blush like a schoolgirl when a man flirted. But, sitting here with Daniel, she felt something new, unexpected and highly pleasurable playing tag with her senses.

  As they’d talked through dinner—about music, politics, how cool the weather was for this time of year—her awareness of every facet of his presence had grown until the buzz she’d felt from the moment they’d met had cranked up to high. Whenever he looked at her the way he had just now, all over her skin, through her blood, she tingled. Frankly, she wanted to surrender to a long sigh and fan herself.

  With Daniel Warren she felt as much like a teenage girl as a woman.

  When the tips of her breasts began to harden and heat, clearing her thoughts, Elizabeth set down her napkin and inhaled a leveling breath. Get back on track. He was looking forward to dessert.

  “I’m guessing you don’t cook,” she said, fighting the urge to cross her arms, contain that heat.

  “Not much.” Sheepish, he tugged his ear. “Not at all.”

  “And there I was, imagining you sweating over a gas cooker, tossing the escargot.”

  His mouth turned down. “You like snails?”

  “I’ve indulged, but only when I visit a particular café on the Rue de la Villette.” As his eyebrows knitted and he gave a curious grin, she cocked her head. “You’ve been to Paris?”

  “Me? Sure. Beautiful city. Although it’s always good
to get back home.”

  “To the States?”

  “To New York.”

  Elizabeth almost forgot herself and frowned. Nothing wrong with being precise. Still, if she hadn’t known better, she might think that reply was pointed. That perhaps Abigail had clued him up on more than her parents’ misfortune. That she might have confided in her situation with regard to that condition of their will.

  Which was crazy. Abigail wouldn’t break that kind of confidence, and he couldn’t have found out anywhere else— Chad Tremain, for example. Obviously her thoughts—those sensations he stirred—were running away on her, filling her head with fancies.

  Elizabeth set her mind back on the conversation.

  “New York has some incredible restaurants.”

  He ran an appreciative eye over his plate. “None that serve food like that.”

  “Is your mother a good cook?”

  His smile froze for a heartbeat before he reached for his wine. “Mom could cook.”

  “Do your parents still live in Carolina?”

  “No.” He pushed back his chair and glanced around as he took a mouthful of red and swallowed. “The decor in here is interesting.”

  “Early American,” she replied, thinking not of furniture but the fact he’d avoided talking about his family. Before dinner he’d hesitated when she’d inquired. Although she and her parents had been close, estrangement between generations wasn’t uncommon. But she wouldn’t push. Private was private. Even if she was more than curious.

  They were talking about decor.

  “My mother redecorated parts of this house, but not this room. She liked it homey. The dinner table is where the family comes together, she used to say. Not only to eat, but to talk and listen and plan.”

  Daniel’s smile held. “A wonderful, traditional concept.” His attention wandered to the far wall. “Those dark wood panels are almost identical to the club’s.”

  “Might’ve been cut from the same tree. Heck, the ranch and the club have both been around since Buffalo Bill was a boy.”