Her Last Chance. Deanna Talcott
Chase still stood in the doorway. “If there’s anything else you need…” he trailed off. “Towels, soap…”
She shook her head and turned back to the suitcase.
“Extra blankets are in the hall closet.”
“Thank you.” She snapped the latch on her suitcase and threw open the lid. Her nightgown was on top, and she pulled it out, tossing the silk negligee onto the pillow. The spaghetti straps clung to the quilted shams, but the ivory silk slithered down the side of the bed, as if she’d issued an invitation.
Mallory was so anxious to dig out her boots that she never gave it a second thought—until she saw Chase staring at it. The gown was out of place and she knew it.
“I should have brought flannel, yes?”
He blinked, as if disturbed from his reverie.
“It’s cold out here at night, I suppose,” she said.
“Cold?” He looked confused. “No, not necessarily. Not in June.”
“Well, the way you were looking…at my nightwear…” she continued, lifting an innocent shoulder.
Chase cleared his throat and pulled himself off the door frame. “This is cowboy country, Mallory. We don’t see many of them things hanging on the line out here.”
Pursing her lips, she frowned. “The line? I don’t understand.”
“The clothesline. Outside, drying on the clothesline,” he explained. “We do wash and wear. Denim or dress shirts, it doesn’t matter. It all goes in the laundry and out on the line.”
“I see. Then I shall remember not to make that mistake,” she said lightly, smiling at him. “Perhaps I could hang my things in your shower instead? I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”
“Yeah. Okay, I guess.” Inside, Chase winced. “How about if I go fix us a bite to eat, and then we start looking at stock? You want to go home, and I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.” He glanced back at her open suitcase, where scraps of silk and satin seemed to bubble out over the top. “I keep you too long, and you may go cluttering up my bath with all those skimpy little…” Feeling like a fool, he let the sentence drift, fully aware he was too embarrassed to say the word panties in front of some highfalutin socialite.
Mallory pulled out a stack of knit tops, balancing them on the palm of her hand. “Don’t worry. I always travel light. I can’t possibly smother you in lingerie.”
Chase swallowed. Hard. His lips clamped together, and he tipped his head, backing from the door.
Mallory watched him leave, and the oddest awareness coursed through her, curling down into her middle and beyond.
It was disturbing to know that the man’s bedroom would be only two doors down, and that they’d share the same bath. While she didn’t expect the degree of privacy she had grown up with in Narwhal, the intimacy, the nearness of the ranch house disturbed her.
No. Chase Wells disturbed her. He had from the moment her gaze fell on him.
There was no logical explanation for her feelings. None. She’d dealt with men every day of her life, but she’d never let herself get too close to any of them. Her father had raised her after her mother had died of pneumonia at an early age, and she’d grown up around the men he’d surrounded himself with. Her background in history and international law often put her in challenging situations with businessmen who contracted with her father’s shipping company. Yet none of them fascinated—or provoked feelings in her—like this brief encounter with Chase Wells had.
Chase Wells was the proverbial man’s man, with shoulders as wide as wood and a stance that was daring, and devil-may-care. He had the most reckless, engaging smile, and dark, brooding eyes. His gray gaze could be as seductive as smoke or as striking as silver.
It was foolish, she knew, to even consider such things. She needed to guard her innocence, particularly until this issue with her father was settled. With his health deteriorating, he often reminded her that he expected her to run his vast shipping empire. Until then he wanted her, his only daughter, to experience freedom. Yet every day she was gone from him, she missed him terribly.
Her father, Hewitt Chevalle, was an honorable man. He chided her to be capable, not spoiled, intelligent, not dull, a peacemaker of the world, not an adversary to it. When she was strong-willed, he took full credit; when she was insufferable, he took her to task.
Yes, Chase Wells would sell her the horse she wanted for her father and then send her on her way. Her family’s estate, situated on the meadow where the legend claimed the unicorn once frolicked in Narwhal, was a hallowed place, with a maze of freshwater springs and flower-laden glens. Mallory was convinced that if she could bring one of the gifted animals back to its origins, her father, as caretaker, would experience relief from his debilitating disease—and she would be freed from the responsibility of running the gargantuan shipping fleet. If her father experienced respite for even a short period of time, it would be a blessing.
Chase Wells, without even knowing it, could have the solution to her problem. He may have affected her, in some strange and obtuse way that she didn’t understand, but she would rise above it. She had to rise above it.
She would smile at him, gently, and win him over. It was very easy, really. All she had to do was put her mind to it. She had no other choice—because time, and her father’s health—were slipping away.
Chase fed her tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and it was delicious, all of it.
“I suppose Bob told you none of the stock he’s showing is for sale,” he warned, rising from the table to clear away their emptied soup bowls. “Julep’s TeaRose is garnering so much attention right now, we’d be crazy to sell her. As for the other two—Ruger’s Opal and Ruger’s Delight—they both have offers pending.”
Mallory picked up their paper napkins and wadded them together, inordinately conscious of the way Chase moved. “I’m not necessarily interested in show stock,” she said carefully. “What garners interest in the world of show does not interest me.”
He waggled a brow at her, as if he didn’t believe a word she said.
“I’m more interested in stock for personal reasons,” she explained. “As I said, I’d like to get my father something special. The idea of bringing him home an animal with mustang blood fascinates me.”
A dagger of emotion thrust at Chase’s heart, then twisted painfully. Skylar had loved Peggy Sue’s wild beauty, she had related to the mare with childlike trust. “I suppose your father has dozens of Thoroughbreds.”
Her laugh was tinged with embarrassment. “His stock is dwindling,” she confided. “I keep confiscating them for the children’s summer camps. But he never refuses me.”
“So you’re spoiled.”
“Of course. Aren’t only children supposed to be?” Reminders of Skylar—the way she wheedled to get what she wanted, the lilt of her voice, the tilt of her eyes—torpedoed through his mind. “I don’t know,” he said stiffly, “I’ve got a working ranch here—I don’t dawdle around, indulging kids.”
She sighed. “You should. It’s a delightful pastime. And I don’t regret it. Not one bit. Of course, I’ll admit my father’s estate lends itself to my purposes,” she said. “It’s c’alle dunois denoire et Legina de Latoix.”
“Excuse me?”
“In your language it would translate to Valley of the Lost Legends. There are thousands of acres. Meadows as far as the eye can see, pools of fresh springwaters. And it’s protected by mountains on all sides.”
“Sounds like Wyoming, ma’am.”
“Not quite. To the west, beyond the tallest of those mountains, is the Atlantic Ocean.”
“You