by P. Dangelico
Shutting my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. An involuntary reaction. Much like the urge to get in my truck and make a run for the border at the mere thought of marriage. “Sydney hates me––”
“Good news, Sydney wants the job more than she hates you. Your part is to convince her you’ve changed. That you’re not the same degenerate fool you were when she met you. And fair warning, that may be an insurmountable task.”
Something didn’t feel right––apart from the fact that I was being blackmailed into marriage. A stretch of silence continued with no end in sight. With it, my unease grew. “Dad, you okay?”
“Hmm.”
The noncommittal answer did nothing to allay my suspicion. I pushed it aside and chose to focus on the disaster-in-the-making I had on my hands. The walls were closing in; I could feel them bearing down on me. “And if she decides against it?”
One could hope.
“I love the girl. I’m not about to willingly torture her to make a point. If she can’t tolerate you, give her a divorce.”
I hadn’t realized how deep my father’s affection for Sydney ran until this moment. Or how little faith he had in me, which, frankly, was a letdown. “What about the living arrangement? How’s she running the company from here?”
“She’ll do two weeks on and off for now. Unless you’d like to move back to New York and take the job yourself?”
A humorless bark of laughter rose up my throat, edged with scorn and sounding like defeat. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“I always do.”
“I stay here, or you can forget it.”
“Fine. She’s boarding the company jet as we speak.”
“For shit’s sake, don’t I get any time––”
“To do what?” my father cut in. “Change your mind? You should’ve thought of that when you didn’t return my calls. One more thing. Keep your hands to yourself, Scott. This isn’t one of your bimbos. Don’t fuck this up.”
The soft click of the call disconnecting might as well have been as loud as a shotgun blast. The quiet peaceful life I’d built was over.
Sydney
A four-hour plane ride wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my Friday afternoon. It did, however, offer me the opportunity to hammer out all the issues with the Wilson & Bosch contract and more importantly thwart any plans Damon Hastings had to steal my thunder. Short of bringing him the heads of his competition, Hastings had been doing everything to get into Frank’s good graces, to replace me as Frank’s second-in-command. No bigs. Damon was just one more in a long line of testosterone-jacked bullies I’d dispatched over the years.
Frank had emailed me that the conversation with Scott had gone according to plan. It was anyone’s guess what that meant and calling Frank to clarify didn’t hold any appeal. I’d know soon enough anyway. Despite what Frank believed––that the marriage was a done deal––it wasn’t. I needed to gather intel on the enemy. To get a firsthand assessment of what I was dealing with. If Scott was still as horrible as I remembered, I’d be forced to decline. Nothing was worth my mental health. Not even the job opportunity of a thousand lifetimes.
By the time the Gulfstream touched down in Jackson Hole, I had a room booked at the Four Seasons. Clean sheets, a comfortable bed, a hot meal. These were the things that made me happy, gave me pleasure, and since I could afford it, I never went without. And going without was something I was intimately acquainted with. My grandparents had seen to that, the memories still as fresh as a third-degree burn.
The ranch where Scott lived was located half an hour out of town. That nugget of information was met with some serious freaking side-eye. Because…Scott? On a ranch? C’mon. This was the same Scott Blackstone who had beauticians from Frederic Fekkai come to his penthouse apartment to style his hair. The same Scott who didn’t launder his Tom Ford boxer briefs. He threw them out and wore new ones at seventy-five bucks a pop.
The same Scott who I had loosely agreed to marry––God help me.
I knew all this because I’d hired his cleaning lady when he moved out of town and Thea and I had hit it off. Over the years we’d become friends, and Thea loved nothing more than to share “Scott stories” over cocktails. At some point I’d asked her to stop because the more I learned about Scott, the more it turned my stomach.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I stepped into the hotel lobby wheeling the overnight bag I always kept at the office for emergency trips and headed for the front desk. My head was spinning from all that had transpired, and a hot shower and cool sheets would go a long way to fix that. A good night’s rest would give me the strength to face…whatever it was I was facing.
And whatever it was, it was going to be handled either way. How could I possibly convince the board of directors that I was the right person to fill Frank’s considerable shoes, able to run a Fortune 500 company with subsidiaries all over the world, if I couldn’t manage one overgrown, spoiled manchild.
The back of a very large cowboy caught my eye as I strolled past the lobby bar. He must be a cowboy. Who else would wear one of those corny checkered shirts with a tooled belt? Despite the fashion emergency, I couldn’t help admiring broad shoulders that tapered down to a lean waist. A muscular butt that perfectly filled out the faded Levi’s he wore. This man did not neglect his squats.
It had been a long time since I’d admired a man’s body. Too much work. Not enough time to daydream. Maybe it was the crisp clean air clearing out my clock that made me notice. Maybe this three-day trip would do me some good. Minutes later I was sliding my keycard in the door of my south-facing room. The bed was a fluffy masterpiece that put a smile on my face. I had a feeling I’d be dreaming about cowboys tonight.
Chapter Three
Scott
She stood at registration looking at her phone as she spoke to the girl who worked behind the desk. She was taller than I remembered. More beautiful too. Bringing the IPA bottle to my lips, I tried to act casual about spying, to be as inconspicuous as much as any guy measuring six foot three and two hundred and ten pounds could. Though, I didn’t think she’d recognize me that easily. Last time she’d seen me, I was carrying party weight, the telltale sign of too much booze and too little exercise. No facial hair either.
Jimbo had called from the airport as soon as the Blackstone company jet landed. I had eyes and ears everywhere. The permanent residents of Jackson Hole were a close bunch. After that, it didn’t take much to track her down. There was no doubt where Little Miss Junior League would be staying. Which is how I ended up in the lobby bar of the Four Seasons, doing recon on the wannabe Mrs. Blackstone.
Sweet Jesus, was this really happening? Darth Vader’s voice clamored in the back of my mind and a clammy chill rippled over my skin.
“Hey, handsome.” A familiar female voice yanked my attention forward. Misty’s smiling dark eyes met mine while she wiped down the bar. Misty with her curves for days and laughing eyes and curtain of black hair. My kind of woman. We’d hooked up a few times, but she was more wary of repeat performances than I was, so it never went past a few casual encounters.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she said, smiling coyly.
Misty had always been an easy read for me and right now her eyes questioned whether I was there for a hookup. The last time had been several months ago, seven to be exact, when calving season started at the Lazy S. I’d barely had time to shower and sleep from March to September. And with the new turn of events, I definitely was not here for that purpose now. Another wrinkle that needed to be ironed out with my new bride. I figured we could come to some agreement; both get what we needed elsewhere as long as we kept it discreet. Regardless, I liked Misty a lot and treating the situation with care was paramount.
Finishing my beer, I placed the bottle down gently and leaned forward, elbows on the bar as I rubbed the lingering shock and confusion off my face. “Ryan wanted to meet for a drink, but I’m getting the impression I’m being stood up.”
; I hadn’t told a single soul yet. Not Laurel. Not Ryan Sutter, my best friend and ranch manager. Not even Devyn. Though she’d be my first call tomorrow. First, I needed to talk to Sydney, feel her out. Then I’d decide how to proceed.
In the marked pause, Misty jumped in without any prompting, “I’m seeing someone.”
As her bright gaze held mine, I felt a stitch of discomfort in my chest. I wasn’t jealous. That’s not how I rolled. But I’d be lying if the look on her face didn’t needle me because for the first time since I’d met her eight years ago, Misty looked…vulnerable. She’d never looked that way over me. And that’s when the lightbulb went on. There went any chance of a future hookup.
“You really like this guy.” No need for questions when I could see it for myself.
Her brows drew together. Misty had never liked being such an easy read. “What makes you say that?”
I shrugged, the answer a foregone conclusion. “Your face.”
Exhaling roughly, she leaned back against the counter of the bar with her hands tucked under her ass. The black tank top she wore showcased her athletic biceps, her strong thighs stretched taut her gray jeans. Misty had sex appeal in spades. “I guess so.”
“Don’t look so happy,” I teased, and chuckled when a dishtowel hit me in the face. She smiled awkwardly, reluctant to accept this strange new condition.
At the opposite end of the bar, a new customer motioned for service and we both glanced over. “Gimme five,” she said.
“Take ten,” I told her.
As soon as Misty walked away, I stole another glance over my shoulder. Wearing a severe black coat over an equally severe black suit, my soon-to-be wife stood out like a sore thumb. Nobody in Jackson Hole wore suits unless they were going to a funeral. And, hey, it wasn’t too far from the truth. You could say the death of my carefully constructed life was certainly cause for one. I was certainly in mourning.
The physical changes were noticeable. The Swiss milk maid thing she had going on a decade ago had transformed into cold elegance, her beauty unapproachable. Not a drop of sex appeal to speak of. She’d lost the fullness to her cheeks, highlighting sculpted cheekbones and a stubborn chin. It made me curious to find out if her personality had changed just as notably––softened, with any hope––then reminded myself that curiosity could kill, not to stir shit up or meet the same fate as the cat.
The fact remained that she hadn’t cracked a semblance of a smile since walking through the sliding glass doors, her expression blank and faraway. So still a major buzzkill one would have to determine. For a fraction of a second, I even considered packing up my truck, loading the dogs, and tearing out of town.
She crossed the lobby on her way to the elevators, stride assertive––like the rest of her. An image of her goose-stepping crossed my mind and I had to swallow the urge to laugh. The different shades of gold of her neatly parted blonde hair caught the overhead flickering light of the chandelier. Damn shame that a woman so beautiful could have such an awful personality.
Oblivious to being watched, she marched past me with her small bag in tow, the heels of her Manolo Blahniks click, click, clicking annoyingly against the marble flooring. Each one a stab to the sac. I’d give her a few minutes before knocking on her door. I’d be nice about it. But that’s all I’d be nice about. Time to put the plan in motion.
Sydney
A loud banging on the hotel room door jolted me out of bed. One minute I was lying spread eagle in my fluffy hotel robe, staring at the ceiling while contemplating the lunacy of my life choices––specifically my impending marriage––and the next I was practically hanging by my short fingernails from the pickled oak beams on the ceiling.
“Who is it?” I called out, clutching the top of my robe closed in a false sense of security. Dashing to the door, all I could see through the view hole was a blue and white checkered shirt.
The cowboy? Had he followed me up and I hadn’t noticed? How creepy. I looked again and this time a dark blue eye peered back…surrounded by a set of thick paintbrush black lashes. Oh. My stomach sank. I knew those lashes. Those lashes left an impression on a woman.
“Damn,” slipped out. On the tail end of it, a wince. Not even a night’s reprieve. “What do you want, Scott?”
A low masculine chuckle seeped through the door. “Let me in, wife.”
I cringed. I physically cringed at the sound of his husky voice. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t possibly go through with it. Within a week, I’d end up on The First 48 for making pie out of my new groom.
“Go away. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“We need to talk now, Sydney.”
“I’m tired. Tomorrow.”
A sigh. “Please.”
Please? I would’ve bet good money that Scott’s vocabulary did not extend that far. And yet I’d heard it distinctly.
“Ten minutes. Then you leave without me having to call security.”
He chuckled. “We’re off to such a great start.”
I was surprised to feel a smile grow on my face. Ripping the door open, I was even more surprised to find what was standing in the doorway. This Scott Blackstone was not the same Scott Blackstone I’d last seen at his sister’s wedding strip down naked in front of seven hundred guests, get in the pool which was decorated with lily pads, and then emerge from said pool with only a few of those poor unfortunate lily pads held to his privates. This was a different man.
I always thought Scott handsome. Was he intolerable? Of course, he was. But empirically speaking, there was no denying he’d been gifted with beauty. Now though…holy hell.
If only the changes extended beyond the physical.
My eyes took in all the changes one piece at a time. The broad muscular chest under the checkered shirt, the thick thighs encased in worn jeans. The longish black hair and short beard. The tan made his eyes look an unnatural shade of indigo. The lashes, though, they were the same. It was the first thing I’d noticed about him all those years ago. Mine were so blonde that if I didn’t have them dyed, they disappeared off my face. His had mesmerized me, invoked envy even.
His smirking expression gave little away other than to find humor in the way I was examining him. “What’s up, babydoll,” he said as he shouldered his way into the room without invitation.
Ugh. Maybe not so different. Those were the exact same words he’d said to me more than ten years ago and that night ended with me almost de-nutting him. Although to be fair, the kiss that preceded the almost de-nutting was a perfect ten.
Walking to the middle of the room, he turned abruptly, his gaze raking up and down my person without an ounce of shame. He paused when he reached my face and something strange passed between us, something indescribable that made my cheeks burn and want to look away. I didn’t, however. I’d sooner live with my grandparents again––a fate worse than living in the Hermit Kingdom––than let Scott Blackstone believe he intimidated me. Exhaling, he looked away first. Turns out, to gather himself up for some big pitch that started with yet another intense staredown.
“You’ve gotta tell Darth you can’t go through with it.”
His tone grated. It was harsh and bossy, and I was tired and cranky. Not a good mix. “Darth?”
“Franklin––the sooner the better. Tonight works for me.”
The eye roll couldn’t be helped. Imperial jerk. I was too tired to even pretend at cool indifference. I tapped my ear. “I’m sorry, I must be getting an ear infection. I could’ve sworn I just heard you issue an order.”
“You want to be married to me less than I do you.”
“True,” I agreed, nodding. Probably the only time we would ever agree on anything.
“Then what’s the problem? Make the call. Free us from this bullshit arrangement. He’ll only agree to it if you do it.”
This situation was complicated by many factors. The job I desperately wanted. The promise I’d made to Frank. And if there was one rule that governed my life, it was that I would never do any
thing to betray Frank’s trust.
Arms crossed, I drew myself up and clutched at the robe for reassurance. “I gave your father my word.” That’s when my voice faltered. A suffocating sadness came over me whenever I thought about Frank.
“Sydney…” Scott’s stare was intense. The kind of intensity you find on the faces of trapped animals. He looked willing to chew off a limb to be free of this trap––of me. For unknown reasons, that burned a little. “You don’t want to be married to me. Trust me, you don’t. I swear and drink and stay out till all hours of the night…”
I already knew this about him and more. Plus, Scott’s ability to shock me with his antics had waned over the years. When my expression didn’t waver from mildly displeased, he continued.
“…I bring home strange women.”
He’d thrown down the gauntlet, issued a challenge. At least he thought he did. Silly fool. I continued to stare blankly. Thea had told me (over one too many happy hour cocktails) that he’d once brought home a woman in a clown costume. A bona fide clown costume. With her, she had a miniature donkey wearing a tuxedo on a leash. A miniature donkey…a tiny ass, for heaven’s sake. For weeks, whenever Frank mentioned his name, I was haunted by the image of Scott, the woman in the clown costume, and the miniature ass boarding the elevator to get to his penthouse apartment. I hadn’t been worried for the welfare of the donkey because I knew Scott to be a devoted animal lover. The clown I wasn’t so sure about. After the clown slash donkey incident, “strange women” was conservative by his standards.
“…at all hours of the night,” he continued. His eyes flashed desperation, his color high. “Sometimes I have orgies…at the house.”
That one garnered a surprised widening of the eyes, in morbid curiosity more than anything. Had it been anyone else I would never have believed it. But this was Scott.
“Really? People do that in real life?”
Scott’s hands went to his hips and his jaw pulsed with tension. He looked angry. Which grated some more. What did he have to be mad about? Considering the circumstances, I thought I was being very understanding.
