A Cowboy in Manhattan

by Barbara Dunlop

  He came to a halt at the elevator and pressed the call button. It pinged in response, and the mechanism whirred behind the closed door.

  Reed peered down at her, his gray eyes narrowing for a moment before he finally spoke. “I didn’t come to New York to sleep with you, Katrina.”

  She held the gaze for a long moment, working up her courage. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “I think of you like that,” she dared.

  “Katrina,” he warned on a growl.

  “What? It’s not like you can take my virginity a second time.”

  “My brother is marrying your sister,” he repeated for what was probably the third time. “We’re going to be in each other’s lives from here on in. I wouldn’t feel right about having a fling.”

  “As opposed to having a one-night stand?”

  He didn’t seem to have an answer for that, and the elevator doors slid open to reveal a distinguished-looking sixtysomething couple whom Katrina vaguely recognized.

  “Good evening,” Reed offered smoothly, gesturing for Katrina to enter first.

  “Evening.” The couple nodded in response.

  Katrina moved into the elevator, turned and stood next to Reed. The doors closed, and the car descended.

  When the doors reopened, they crossed the compact lobby and went out through the glass exit door, where a massive, white stretch Hummer limousine waited at the curb.

  There was a trace of laughter in his voice. “Your ride, princess.”

  She stopped short, taking in the polished luxury vehicle from hood to trunk. “That’s a lot of money to shell out just to mock me.”

  “You think I’m mocking you?”

  “Absolutely.” Why else would he order such an expensive car? They were only going a few blocks, and he clearly wasn’t trying to seduce her.

  “I’m not mocking you,” he insisted. “The owner is a friend of Salvatore’s. I guess he’s trying to treat me well.”

  “Salvatore?” Reed knew someone in New York City?

  He tugged pointedly at the sleeves of his suit jacket and squared his shoulders. “A tailor I met in Brooklyn this morning.” He turned slightly sideways to give her a view.

  She took in the crisp outfit and straightened his already perfect tie, but it gave her an excuse to touch him. “You went all the way to Brooklyn to buy a suit?”

  The uniformed driver opened the door and stood back to wait for them.

  “I did,” said Reed.

  “You do know your hotel is mere blocks from Fifth Avenue?”

  “I do know that.” He gestured to the open limo door.

  She didn’t move. “And did you know Fifth Avenue is famous the world over for fine shopping?”

  He raised a brow. “You don’t like my suit?”

  “I like it just fine.”

  “Then don’t be such a snob about Brooklyn. You going to get in or what?”

  “I’ve got nothing against Brooklyn.”

  “Good to know.” He moved past her to stand opposite the driver.

  Katrina moved forward, accepting Reed’s hand and, sliding onto the limo seat, made room for him to join her.

  The driver shut the door and the inside lights dimmed. Subtle violet floor lighting glowed beneath their feet while tiny white lights glowed in a scattered pattern across a black ceiling. A small wet bar was illuminated powder-blue.

  “Is this how you normally travel?” Reed asked, a teasing note to his voice.

  Katrina crossed her bare legs. “Beats a battered pickup truck covered in mud.”

  “Anything beats a battered pickup truck covered in mud.”

  She bumped her shoulder playfully against his arm. “Are you coming over to the dark side?”

  “Maybe,” he allowed.

  “That was quick.”

  The limo pulled away from the curb, the lights of Fifty-Ninth Street changing the shadows inside.

  “Champagne?” He leaned forward and retrieved a tiny bottle of champagne from a recessed ice bucket.

  “Yes, please.” She gestured an amount with a small space between her index finger and thumb, deciding to relax and enjoy herself, even if Reed was going to keep his distance.

  He pulled off the wire holder and neatly popped the cork, taking two delicate flutes from the polished wood rack above the counter.

  She stopped him at an inch, wanting to save room for a glass of wine with dinner. And he poured the remainder of the bubbly, golden liquid into his own glass before discarding the bottle.

  He raised his champagne in a toast. “To…?”

  She let herself drink in his handsome features, her tone becoming reflexively husky. “To the finer things in life.”

  He touched the rim of his glass to hers, his warm gaze melding with her own. “To keeping them in context.”

  “What’s out of context?”

  “I am.”

  The stirrings of desire whirred through her limbs. As far as she was concerned, in this moment, he was in perfect context. “You worry too much.”

  “No.” He shook his head slowly. “I worry exactly the right amount.”

  She loved the way his mind worked, the practicality, the cool logic, his straightforward confidence. He wasn’t a maybe kind of guy.

  “What are you worried about now?” she prompted.

  “The dinner bill.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at that. “We’re not splitting it?”

  “As if,” he coughed out a laugh.

  “So it is a date.”

  His mouth twitched in a moment of uncertainty, and she laughed at him.

  “Got you that time.” She took a sip.

  “It doesn’t have to be a date for me to be a gentleman.”

  Katrina decided to leave it alone. They both knew she’d scored a point.

  “So, how do you like New York City?” she asked instead.

  “I like it fine so far.” He took a drink of his own champagne.

  “It’s a lot different from Colorado.”

  “It’s cleaner.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Noisier.”

  “True.”

  “Quite tasty.” He took another drink.

  “Don’t forget shiny.”

  His glance went pointedly to her shimmering red dress, the glossy beads and the glimmering jewelry. “You people like to be noticed.”

  She frowned. “Was that an insult?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t expect to be noticed in that dress?”

  Only by him. But she couldn’t very well own up to that. “It’s ordinary for New York City,” she lied.

  The car rolled to a halt in front of the brightly lit restaurant, and a doorman paced smartly across the sidewalk toward them.

  “I’m not sure there’s anything ordinary about New York City,” Reed mused.

  “An ordinary dress, in an ordinary city, for an ordinary evening,” she lied again.

  The doorman opened the door of the limo.

  Reed exited first and immediately turned to hold out his hand for her.

  Katrina took the hand, turning in the seat, feet together, knees tight, rising gracefully, just as she’d been taught by the Liberty PR staff.

  A flashbulb went off, and then another, and she glanced up to see a small crowd of people had gathered on the sidewalk. It was highly unlikely they realized who she was. The huge limo telegraphed a false sense of celebrity.

  “Just an ordinary night?” Reed muttered in her ear as his arm slipped protectively around her waist.

  “Smile and keep walking,” she mumbled back. “It’s the car, not us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Though she’d been on a billboard or two in the past month, she wasn’t particularly recognizable, certainly not by the general public who might happen to be on the sidewalk outside a midtown restaurant. It was the fancy car, that was all.

/>   Luckily, they were only steps from the glass entry doors. A second doorman swiftly ushered them inside to a compact, octagonal, high-ceilinged foyer where a maître d’ was positioned next to a set of oversize, oak interior doors.

  “Reservation for Terrell,” Reed informed the maître d’.

  “Of course, sir.” The man responded with professional deference, barely glancing at the small computer screen in front of him. “Would you care to dine inside or on the balcony tonight?”

  Reed looked to Katrina. “Were you serious about the balcony?”

  “Yes, please.” She nodded. She loved a warm evening, watching the bustle of the street below, feeling the breeze, hearing the sounds of the city.

  “You’re not worried about reporters with long lenses?”

  “Cute,” she drawled, giving him an eye-roll.

  “I can put you behind a privacy screen,” the maître d’ put in without missing a beat.

  “Not necessary—”

  “Katrina?” The voice from behind her was recognizable as Elizabeth Jeril’s, the Artistic Director of Liberty Ballet Company.

  Katrina turned to greet her boss, and was swept quickly into a light, expensively perfumed hug combined with two air kisses.

  A former ballerina, Elizabeth was slightly taller than Katrina, dark haired with dark eyes and close to forty-five. Though she didn’t dance professionally anymore, she was still trim and athletic.

  “We didn’t get a chance to talk after rehearsal today,” Elizabeth noted, pulling back. “But you looked fantastic. Did Dr. Smith check your ankle?”

  “He did. It’s fine,” Katrina assured her. It had been sore immediately after the dancing, but the pain was nearly gone now.

  Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Reed, curiosity clear in her expression.

  “Elizabeth Jeril,” Katrina obliged. “This is Reed Terrell. Reed is from Colorado.”

  “A souvenir?” Elizabeth teased, grinning as she held out her long-fingered, red-tipped hand.

  “It was either me or the tacky T-shirt,” Reed played along, taking Elizabeth’s hand gently in his larger one.

  “I like him,” Elizabeth told Katrina, eyeing Reed up and down.

  There wasn’t much about Reed a woman wouldn’t like, Katrina silently acknowledged. “Elizabeth is Liberty’s Artistic Director,” she finished the introduction.

  “You do choreography?” Reed asked Elizabeth.

  “Planning, logistics, business management. I get to worry about the money. What little we have of it.”

  “I understand that’s a common problem with arts organizations,” Reed acknowledged.

  Katrina wasn’t sure what Reed knew about arts organizations, but she was quickly distracted from the question as Brandon Summerfield arrived. He stopped next to Elizabeth and tucked his phone into his suit-jacket pocket.

  “There you are,” Elizabeth acknowledged his presence, placing a hand on his arm. The two weren’t officially a couple, but they’d been good friends and colleagues for years. There was an ongoing betting pool at Liberty over when they’d take their relationship to the next level.

  “Nice to see you back, Katrina,” Brandon told her. He gave her a perfunctory hug.

  When they separated, Reed offered his hand. “Reed Terrell. I’m in town to visit Katrina.”

  Brandon shook. “Brandon Summerfield. Good to meet you.”

  Elizabeth continued the introduction. “Brandon is the CEO of Seaboard Management, one of our most generous donors.”

  “Real estate,” Brandon elaborated, “mostly commercial and industrial.”

  “Ranching,” Reed responded, “mostly barns and toolsheds.”

  Brandon grinned, and Katrina couldn’t help but smile at Reed’s easy joke.

  “Will you join us for dinner?” Brandon offered, surprising Katrina. Liberty Ballet Company didn’t exactly operate on the class system, but dancers didn’t often mingle socially with the donors outside official functions.

  She was momentarily speechless.

  “Oh, please do,” Elizabeth echoed.

  Katrina tried to gauge the woman’s expression, not sure if she should accept or decline.

  Reed gave her a look that said the decision was up to her.

  “Okay,” Katrina decided.

  Elizabeth seemed sincere. And Brandon was an important player in the Liberty organization. With Quentin out there stirring up trouble, Katrina might need all the help she could get.

  Eight

  It turned out to be a wonderful dinner. Katrina was impressed with how Reed had held his own with Elizabeth and Brandon. He’d asked questions about the ballet company and had seemed genuinely interested in Brandon’s business ventures. She hadn’t realized he took such an interest in state politics or was so knowledgeable about international commerce and the impact of commodity and energy prices on global trade.

  The more she hung around him, the more depths of his personality became apparent. For a guy who’d barely left Lyndon Valley, he seemed surprisingly worldly.

  After dinner, they’d said goodbye to Elizabeth and Brandon and decided to take a walk along a pathway at the edge of the park. A canopy of trees arched over them, obscuring the streetlights and muting the sounds of traffic.

  “I assume this is the part where I give you my jacket?” Reed asked, even as he shrugged his way out of it.

  “This would be the time,” she agreed.

  He draped it over her shoulders, and the warmth from his body seeped from the satin lining into her bare shoulders and arms.

  He tugged the knot loose from his tie, popping the top button. “That was a nice restaurant.”

  “Danielle didn’t steer you wrong.”

  “I guess not.”

  Katrina couldn’t help but be curious. Though she told herself to shut up, she couldn’t seem to stop the question from pouring out. “Why was it that you called her to ask about restaurants? I mean, it’s not like she’s a New Yorker.”

  “The call was on an unrelated matter.” He removed the tie, turned to walk backward and looped it around her neck. “There. Now you’re accessorized.”

  “Unrelated how?”

  “As in, I didn’t call her specifically for a restaurant recommendation.”

  He sure wasn’t making this easy.

  “You called her on…business? Pleasure?” Katrina pressed as they made their way along the mostly deserted swath of concrete.

  “Business.” He pointed through a gate to a bench overlooking the tulip gardens.

  “Oh.” She shouldn’t feel so relieved. “Ranch business?”

  “New York business.”

  She altered her course. “You have business in New York?”

  “I own part of a tailor shop and part of a bakery.” He waited for her to sit on the bench.

  “Really?” Why hadn’t he mentioned that before? It seemed an odd thing to leave out, given their past conversations. “So, that’s why you’re here? To check on your businesses?”

  He sat down beside her, slow to answer. “I’m here for a lot of reasons.”

  The lamppost put him in light and shadow. His face was rugged, all angles and strength. His eyes were dark as they watched her.

  She tried not to hope he was also here for her, but she couldn’t help herself. She had it bad for Reed Terrell, and no amount of reason or logic was going to change that. “Tell me the others.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  She shifted closer to his big body, and his arm moved to the back of the bench, creating a crook of space.

  She tipped her chin to look at him. “Am I one of them?”

  “Not in that way.”

  “What way is that?”

  “The way where you blink your baby-blue eyes, and part those cherry-red lips and make me forget I’m a gentleman.”

  His words sent a hitch of desire through her chest.

  “Am I doing that?” she asked.

  “Don’t play coy.”

>   “I am coy. Or at least I was coy.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, lowering her voice to a tease. “Quite innocent, really. Until a couple of days ago.”

  He fixed his gaze straight ahead. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Why not?” It was only fair that he share her frustration. “I’ve been thinking about it constantly, reliving every minute, especially while I lay there alone, in my bed—”

  Reed swore between clenched teeth.

  “Tell me you miss it, too.”

  He swore again.

  She boldly put her hand against his chest.

  His arm tightened around her shoulders, tugging her close while his lips came down, covering hers possessively. Her body responded with instant desire, kissing him back, twisting and pressing against him. Her arms wound around his neck, anchoring her as she tipped her head to better accommodate his overwhelming kisses.

  After long, hot, sexy minutes, he rasped, “This is crazy. You’re crazy. I’m crazy. We’re playing with fire.”

  “We’re adults,” she pointed out.

  “Barely.”

  “I can legally vote, drink and make love in any state in the Union.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “Reed. Get real. A fling is no different than a one-night stand.”

  He went silent.

  She took it to mean he didn’t have a rebuttal.

  “I’ve had this fantasy most of my adult life,” she dared to say.

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  She took one of his hands between hers. “It was about losing my virginity. I imagined it happening in a big bed, with fine linen, maybe flowers and candles.”

  Guilt seemed to tighten his features. “Instead, you got me in a broken-down old line shack.”

  She nodded, faintly surprised at her own willingness to play that particular card. “The you part was fine. But I wasn’t crazy about the line shack.” She screwed up her courage again. “We did it on your turf, Reed. Don’t you think it’s fair we do it again on mine?”

  He gazed at their joined hands. “You think you can reason your way into making love again?” But his expression had softened. There was even a hint of a reluctant grin.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And you’re stubborn.”

  He came to his feet. “I’m trying to be respectful.”