One Winter's Night. Lori Borrill
her shoulder.
“Monica, if you’ve got a second, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Without hesitation, she turned and smiled, only to find herself staring into a set of familiar big brown eyes.
“Monica Newell, this is one of my favorite clients, Kit Baldwin.” John gestured to Kit. “Kit, meet our chief financial officer, Monica Newell.”
2
KIT GRINNED AS HE shook Monica’s hand, disappointed to see shock in those beautiful green eyes instead of the delighted surprise he’d hoped for, but he wasn’t deterred. Good fortune was following him tonight, and he was pretty sure that by the end of the evening, he’d turn that panicked expression into the sultry look he preferred.
“Ms. Newell, it’s a pleasure,” he offered brightly.
“Mr. Baldwin,” she replied, nervously darting her eyes between the two men.
“Kit’s been a long-time client of ours,” John said.
“A client,” she chirped, her grip tightening at the word client. She held her mouth in a tight-lipped smile that didn’t do much to hide the fright in her eyes, but only Kit seemed to notice. Without so much as a curious glance, John remained oblivious as he went on with the introductions.
“Kit owns Shelley Ranch.”
Her eyelids fluttered. “I’m familiar with that account.”
“It was named after my mother,” Kit explained.
Some of the color was returning to her cheeks but it wasn’t a friendly shade. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t explained his connection to Stryker & Associates when he’d met her in the lounge Monday night. By the time they’d gotten to the subject of their careers, he’d already been half-crazy about her, bound and determined to spend some quality time with the sharp and sexy brunette. So when she’d mentioned the company she worked for and he’d clued in to the coincidence, he decided against revealing any pesky detail that might have stuck a pitchfork in his plans.
Judging by the look on her face, it probably hadn’t been a good move.
“Kit called to say he was in town,” John went on, “so I invited him to come join the party.”
She pulled her hand away and fisted it at her side. “How lucky for us.”
The corporate smile pasted on her face had grown so taut Kit feared her lips might split apart. She was holding up a decent front, but he knew as soon as he got her alone, he’d be facing some sharp words. And that was okay by him. He had a few questions of his own, starting with why she’d pulled a disappearing act on him Monday night.
It certainly wasn’t because she’d been having a dull time. Kit didn’t claim to be a psychic between the sheets, but he knew a satisfied woman when he saw her. Ms. Newell hadn’t ducked out for lack of pleasure, so why she’d fled at all remained left to be explained.
As if luck kept answering his call tonight, a young man stepped up to John’s side and muttered something about a call, prompting John to turn to Monica. “I need to handle this. Do you think you could show Kit to the bar and see that he gets a drink?” He gestured to the buffet. “There’s food if you’re hungry.”
Kit grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I’m easily entertained.”
As soon as John stepped away Monica’s chiseled smile vanished.
“A client?” she choked out under her breath. “You said you were a ranch hand.”
“I said I worked on a ranch. You saw the scuffed boots and jeans and assumed that part yourself.”
“You own the ranch.”
He slipped her a friendly wink. “I hope that doesn’t ruin the fantasy.”
Her cheeks reddened and he almost thought she’d slap him, but he was saved by a couple who’d unwittingly moved within earshot, forcing her to step aside.
“You should have told me,” she snapped after they’d taken a few steps away. “You knew I worked here yet you didn’t say a thing.”
“Would you have still spent the night with me?”
“Absolutely not!”
He shrugged. “Then I’m glad I kept my mouth shut.”
Another group wandered into their space and in a huff, Monica gestured toward the bar. “I’ll get you that drink, then you can tell me what you’re doing here.”
He followed her across the room, making use of the opportunity to appreciate that fine figure of hers. It was especially sweet from behind. The woman was tall and slim, a bit thinner than he preferred, but he suspected that came from too much work and too little fun—something he intended to rectify if he got what he came for tonight. Even so, she had it all right where he liked it. Put that together with razor-sharp smarts and fiery Irish blood and Monica Newell was exactly the type of woman he’d been waiting for.
He only needed to get her interested. Not a small task considering she was mad as hell, but Kit always had loved a challenge.
He ordered a scotch and she settled for wine, then they stepped to the windows, away from the crowd but not so far as to appear too intimate. Before she could scold him some more, he casually leaned close and asked, “What are you wearing under those sexy white slacks?”
Her eyes popped wide as saucers.
“Tell me it’s not the white lacy thing you were wearing Monday night.”
A wisp of recognition crossed her features, coloring those wide eyes and hinting at raw desire, but she quickly tamped it down. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a repeat performance.”
“And you couldn’t have simply called? You obviously knew how to find me.”
“That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun.”
Those angry eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you enjoy watching me sweat.”
He flashed his sexiest smile. “No, but I enjoy making you sweaty.”
She opened her mouth then closed it, then opened it again but still didn’t say a word. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a distant glimmer of amusement strike the corner of her mouth but it was forced out by her stubborn determination.
“I want to see you again,” he said, opting to get straight to the point of this visit.
He didn’t know why Monica had taken off Monday night, but after the night they’d shared, he wasn’t going to let her go without an argument. Even before they’d hit the hotel room, they’d been having a good time. In a matter of a couple short hours, he’d grown intrigued by her smarts and sharp wit, the quirky contrast between her ingrained manners and confident authority. She was a rare type who could strike a strong man down without a flinch yet still probably know the proper way to address the Queen of England. A cobra disguised as a doe, curious, complicated, and about the only woman he’d ever met who’d interested him enough to go running after.
And now that he’d found her, he wouldn’t be quick to walk away.
“That’s impossible,” she said.
He took a sip of his drink and spoke over the glass. “On the contrary, I’ve got a hotel room downtown. Unless you’d be more comfortable at your place—though that would make it hard for you to pull another great escape again.”
“There will be no repeat,” she insisted under her breath.
“Why not? According to Stryker you’re not married.”
She gasped. “You asked Mr. Stryker if I was married?”
“I needed to know if I had a fighting chance. You still owe me