Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress. Robyn Grady
small and warm but her grip defied the term weaker sex. “And this is Chadwick Tremain.”
Her escort offered a curt nod and, without accepting Daniel’s extended hand, wound his arm through Elizabeth Milton’s.
“Mr. Warren,” he muttered in acknowledgment. Then to Elizabeth, “Our table’s waiting.”
She glanced over her shoulder as his team disappeared through the headquarters’ opened doors. Then, looking back at her companion, she angled her head, sending that blond waterfall cascading like a sheet of silk over one shoulder. “Y’all go on ahead, Chad. I’ll catch up.”
The man’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows knitted. “I told Michaels we’d be—”
“Chad.” She unwound her arm from his. “I’ll meet you inside.”
Daniel thought he heard the older man growl before he straightened the Windsor knot at his throat and sauntered away.
Daniel grunted. “Your boyfriend doesn’t like me much.”
“Boyfriend?” Those emeralds sparkled as she laughed. “Chad’s my financial advisor. He keeps an eye out for me.”
“You need looking after?”
A faint line creased between her eyebrows. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion,” she said, before placing one cowboy boot in front of the other and heading at a leisurely pace up the path. “You sound like a Yankee, Mr. Warren.” She grinned at his custom-made black wool overcoat. “You dress like one, too. But I detect a hint of South Carolina in your accent.”
While Daniel’s throat swelled, he maintained his unaffected air. It had been years since his move. His escape. Few picked up on the remnants of a drawl anymore.
“These days, home’s a long way from Charleston,” he offered.
“You don’t miss the—”
“No,” he cut in with a quick smile. “I don’t.”
New York was just far enough away from the South and its memories. The only reason he was down this far was business, and as soon as that was concluded he’d roll his sleeves back down and red-eye it home to the life he’d built and loved.
“I hope you plan on seeing a little of our state while you’re here,” she went on as they strolled side by side.
“Famous for the Alamo, ten-gallon hats and, uh, longhorns.”
Her lips twitched at his leading look and inflection on his last word. “Oh, your design’s not entirely bad.”
He wanted to ask her what, in her opinion, would make a good design. Which was crazy. Firstly, he was the guy with the credentials and, secondly, he didn’t need to complicate his limited time here by musing over someone who was, perhaps, ten years his junior and whose loyalty no doubt lay in her daddy’s oil fields and memories of the wild, Wild West.
Definitely not his scene.
Entering the club’s foyer, which was all dark wood and old-world smells and charm, he stopped to bid his little-known companion goodbye. But Elizabeth Milton’s attention had drifted elsewhere, to a sign hung over the entrance door.
“Abigail would’ve told you about this?” she asked.
He examined the iron-studded plaque and read the words burned into the wood. “Leadership, Justice and Peace.”
“The Texas Cattleman’s creed,” she explained reverently. “The words are strong enough without the legend that brought them together.” Her gaze caught his, so wide and innocent that something in his chest swelled to twice its size then fisted tight. “You ought to get Abigail to tell you the story. It might give you something to work with.”
Daniel’s jaw shifted. He could take that comment as a slight. And yet every cell in his body urged him to put pride aside and listen up. If there was an anecdote behind the plaque that might help with his design, who better to relay it than someone who could combine those boots, which were only missing their spurs, with a ten-thousand-dollar coat and somehow make it work.
Only now Elizabeth Milton’s attention, as she wound out of her fur, had veered toward the dining room. Mr. Tremain, and the lasso he liked looped around his client’s waist, was waiting.
“Perhaps I’ll see you around,” Daniel said.
Her beautiful smile was wry. “I’m around most of the time.”
When she tipped her head, preparing to leave, that something lurking in Daniel’s chest looped and tugged all the tighter. In another time and place, he’d have asked if she’d care to join him for a drink. Instead, he merely returned the smile when she said, “Good luck, Mr. Warren. Hope you enjoy your time in Royal.”
He watched those sinful jeans sashay away beneath a dark timber lintel. That woman might be Texan to her core, but she sure as heck didn’t walk like she spent most of her time on a horse. In fact, she moved with the finesse of a runway model, with the fluid grace of a cat.
A smile hooked one corner of his mouth.
Yeah. Elizabeth Milton sure was something.
A heartbeat before she disappeared around that corner, he said to hell with it and called out, “Miss Milton!”
Shimmering blond arced out as she spun around and stepped back into his direct line of sight. Winding out of his own coat, he stepped forward.
“I wondered if you can recommend a good place to eat. Aside from here, I mean.”
Those gorgeous green eyes flashed. “I could recommend several, Mr. Warren.”
“In that case, would you consider joining me for dinner? I’d be interested to hear that story.”
Her teeth worried her lower lip as one hand went behind and, he imagined, slid into a back jeans pocket.
“On one condition,” she announced.
“That we don’t discuss building plans?”
She laughed, a melodic sound that soaked into his pores and eased his smile wider. “To the contrary. I’d very much like to discuss possibilities for your design.”
“Then we simply need the venue.”
“Twenty miles down the main road on your left at, let’s say, seven?”
“The name of the establishment?”
“Milton Ranch.”
He did a double take. “You’re inviting me to dinner at your house?”
“Trust me, Mr. Warren.” She pivoted around and, hand still cupped low in that pocket, spoke over her shoulder as she moved off. “I believe you’ll find the experience most rewarding.”
As Elizabeth entered the Cattleman’s Club dining room, a few people nearest the entrance glanced up from their meals or pre-luncheon drinks. She’d grown up knowing a great many of these folk, and anyone whose eye caught hers offered a warm smile.
At one time she’d rebelled against the idea of spending the majority of her time in Royal. Now, that seemed so long ago. In reality it had been only four years since her parents’ deaths and her own life had taken a sharp turn. But, frankly, she was grateful for the legal roadblocks her mother and father had erected to help steer her against a course she would likely have taken—a course that would have led her away from her roots.
If she breached the terms of their will by spending more than two months away from home during any twelve-month period, she would forfeit the majority of her inheritance, not merely the ranch but also, she’d come to realize, a good portion of her identity—who she was and continued wanting to be.
Still she couldn’t deny that meeting Daniel Warren just now had more than rekindled her interest in places beyond these borders. Daniel was different, Elizabeth decided as she