At The Playboy's Command. Robyn Grady
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 handed her coat to the maître d’. Amusing. Dark and polished and New York cool. Abigail had said her visiting architect was extremely successful. He’d have traveled widely and often. A man of the world.
Not that she opposed good Texan stock, Elizabeth noted, heading for her usual table in a far corner by a row of windows. In fact, when the time came to start a family, her partner would more likely than not hail from these parts. At the very least he’d appreciate her situation and stand one hundred percent behind her commitment to keep the Milton Ranch. Which ruled out hotshot architects from up North.
Although, God knows, that boy was cute.
Chad pushed to his feet as she skirted around the remaining tables.
“I was about to see what was keeping you,” he said, retracting her chair.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied in a sweet but pointed tone.
“I was only—”
“I know you were only.”
She swallowed that spike of irritation and calmly collected the menu. But Chad wasn’t prepared to let it go.
“Elizabeth, it’s my duty to watch out for you.”
“I’m not a child,” she reminded him. She’d been twenty-one when he’d been handed, via the will, the role of her financial advisor. But she was older now, wiser and far more responsible.
“Your parents only had your best interests at heart when they included that caveat and put me in charge.”
He leaned closer, about to say more, when the waiter arrived and took their orders—steak for him, pecan and avocado salad for her. Chad was looking thoughtful, pouring iced tea, when he spoke next.
“That man—Mr. Warren …”
“Abigail Langley’s architect.” Relishing a grin, Elizabeth reached for her glass. “I can’t wait to see the results of that election come December.”
Chad scoffed. “If Abigail expects votes to swing her way because of an eyesore of a design like that, she’s dreaming more than I’d thought.”
Elizabeth wouldn’t touch his comment about the design. “I’m sure the majority commend the committee for awarding Abigail full membership privileges after her husband passed away. She has as much right as any member to stand for president. If it weren’t for her late husband’s ancestors, there wouldn’t be a Texas Cattleman’s Club,” she said.
“At the risk of sounding sexist, it’s not the Cattleperson’s Club.”
“Perhaps it ought to be.”
“Change