Have Cowboy, Need Cupid. Rita Herron
expensive perfume.
A perfume that would make a rational man senseless. He slammed the hammer against the post to dig it in more securely. Why the hell had she stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong?
Would she take him up on his dare?
He hoped not. He hoped she climbed in whatever kind of fancy car she drove and hightailed it back to Atlanta, leaving him to deal with his troubles. He did not need a distraction like her around.
Yet, she was a Hartwell, and if he swayed her to his side, maybe she could convince the rest of the Hartwell clan to protest that developer’s ideas and keep that blasted mall away from Sugar Hill.
Not a bad plan.
He pounded the hammer again, but heard a motor and looked up, curious as to who owned the automobile zooming toward his place. With his ranch situated on the outskirts of town, he rarely had visitors. The composure he’d been trying so hard to assimilate disintegrated when he spotted sassy Suzanne Hartwell veering toward him in a sporty little silver Miata, her ebony hair blowing in the wind.
SUZANNE SCANNED the picturesque view of the mountain ranges that served as a backdrop for Rafe McAllister’s ranch, her mind already envisioning the hub of cars and visitors to the mall that would replace the old farmhouse and the shabby-looking barn. Adrenaline surged through her in a giddy roar as she imagined the designer shoe shops and dress boutiques. The barn would make a perfect location for the rustic outdoor company which would sell recreational equipment and clothing, camping, fishing, hunting and backpacking supplies as well as the climbing wall and skateboarding center already in the design phases.
And Suzanne’s favorite—an old-fashioned carousel with hand-painted horses and buggies, which would sit center stage to the eatery like a giant music box. In her mind’s eye she could see the beautiful swirls of color as the horses spun around, the excited shrieks of the children as they climbed onboard for a ride. And of course, the huge eatery would offer a wide variety of meals and refreshments to entice customers to spend more time and money, which equaled more revenue for the town. Everyone would benefit.
On closer scrutiny, the house’s wraparound porch—with its swing and rockers—looked idyllic, like a Norman Rockwell postcard, but the house obviously needed repairs. Perhaps the construction company could renovate the house, turn it into a restaurant that served country meals, adding small-town ambience to the tourist’s day of shopping. She made a mental note to add the idea to her list of suggestions to give James as she stopped in front of Rafe McAllister’s mailbox and the homemade sign advertising for boarders and offering riding lessons.
He must be seriously distressed over his finances or he wouldn’t have resorted to such lengths to make a dollar. She had to convince him that Horton Developers had come to rescue him not destroy his life. She pumped the brake, and the Miata rolled to a stop beside him. Tucking her windblown hair behind one ear, she smiled and said, “Hi.”
He tipped his battered black Stetson, those dark enigmatic eyes skating over her with less than approval.
Suzanne wet her lips. “I came to take you up on your invitation.”
“Excuse me?”
She jutted her chin up in the air. “To see your place. I believe it was a dare.”
A small smile tugged at his firmly set lips. Rafe McAllister might be attracted to her physically, but she sensed that for some reason, he didn’t like her or particularly welcome the attraction.
The realization stung, but she shrugged it away. She hadn’t come here to get him to like her, anyway; she would simply schmooze enough to parlay the heated discussion they’d begun at the town meeting into a congenial business deal that would leave everyone happy and satisfied.
And elevate her a rung on the corporate ladder.
“Then drive on up to the house and we’ll get started.”
Suzanne gestured toward the passenger seat of her car, stuffing the tags to her new designer Stetson lying on the leather seat into the console. “Climb in, cowboy, and I’ll give you a ride.”
He shot a skeptical look toward the gray leather. “Take longer for me to fold my legs in and out of that matchbox than it will for me to walk.”
And just like that, he expressed his disapproval of her car as well. Suzanne barely resisted the urge to gun the engine and spit gravel and dust in his face as she cruised behind him. He walked up the drive with long easy strides, ignoring her. However, she noticed the occasional tightening of his mouth and realized the slight limp she’d detected at the bar that night was real. It obviously still caused him pain.
Instead of retaliating against his rudeness, though, she opted for saccharine sweetness and pure male flattery. “You do have long legs. How tall are you, Rafe?”
He smirked as if he knew what she was doing and didn’t intend to fall for it. “Six-three.”
“With the boots.”
“Without.”
Big hands. Big feet. Big everything. Including a big bad attitude.
She was going to have her hands full with this one.
Seconds later she parked beside the house and climbed out, chasing after him as he headed toward the barn. The pointed toes of her spit-shiny, red-and-black handcrafted boots pinched her feet as she dodged the pockets of horse dung scattered along the fence and tried to keep up with him.
HOW THE HELL could one saucy little woman make him feel like horse manure? Especially one wearing too tight, brand-spanking-new designer jeans, and a fifty-dollar red-and-black-plaid shirt that matched those silly looking dress-for-show snakeskin high-heeled boots? She probably had a Porter Wagner fringed jacket in the trunk of that pea-size thing she called a car.
And while she smelled like sweetness and jasmine, he smelled like dirt and cattle.
Damn it, he’d seen the look of condemnation on Suzanne’s face as if she thought his home was an eyesore that should be bulldozed down and landscaped with cookie-cutter condos and manicured lawns. Lawns barely big enough to hold a lounge chair much less house a neighborhood barbecue. He’d read about cul de sac parties in the suburbs where the homeowners congregated with cheap grills so they could watch their kids play in the streets because they didn’t have anyplace else to do so. He would not allow his property to be turned into one of them.
No, the Lazy M wouldn’t become a cluster of department stores, chain restaurants, gas stations catering to endless yuppies stealing out to the country to pollute the air with the exhaust from their overpriced SUVs.
Had she noticed his limp?
Hell, it shouldn’t bother him. He didn’t care about impressing Suzanne Hartwell with his manliness. He simply wanted to prove to her she was wrong about what the town needed.
Trying to gather his wits and cool his temper, Rafe led her out into the pasture to show her firsthand one of the many wonders of ranch life—the beauty of horses running in the wild before a natural backdrop of lush green mountains covered with dogwoods and wildflowers. A palomino and a black-and-white paint galloped across the hills, their long manes dancing in the wind. His own black stallion raced behind them at a thunderous pace. Rafe stopped and leaned on the edge of the fencepost, a peacefulness enveloping him as he watched the animals chase across the open space.
“They are beautiful,” Suzanne said in a breathy voice that startled him. A voice that was breathy from running to keep up with his gait, not from wanting him, he reminded himself.
He steeled himself against a reaction. “Just got the palomino and the paint in to break. The Stallion’s mine. Name’s Thunder.”
“Figures.”
He arched a brow.
“Big man needs a big horse.”
He chuckled, but the breeze lifted her hair and tousled it across her face, bringing with it a softer fragrance