His Enemy's Daughter. Sarah M. Anderson
to face her nemesis, accidentally hip-checking Yardley. “Whoops,” she said, working hard to keep her eyes innocent when Dustin stumbled. “Why, Mr. Wellington,” she cooed. She’d once heard Flash call him that and Pete had snapped that Mister Wellington was his father and she absolutely wasn’t above using every single weapon at her disposal. She batted her eyelashes and shifted so her breasts were at their best before finishing, “I didn’t see you join us!”
She looked up at him through her lashes—a move that usually gave her total control over the situation. But Pete Wellington wasn’t distracted by a pretty face. If that were possible, she would have had him eating out of her hands for the last ten years.
Instead, he said, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Princess of the Rodeo.” His tone was only slightly mocking. “You’ve got things well in hand, I see. As usual.”
Chloe refused to react. She didn’t even allow her cheeks to heat as the old farts around her started chuckling. She’d been performing in public as the Princess of the Rodeo since she was sixteen, three years after her dad had taken over the circuit. Every weekend, at the featured All-Around All-Stars Rodeo, Chloe opened and closed the show by riding a horse into the arena and carrying a huge American flag.
The All-Stars was the big leagues for cowboys who wanted to demonstrate their skills at calf-roping, bronco-busting, team roping, steer wrestling and bull riding. It didn’t bring in as much money as the Total Bull Challenge, which was strictly bull riding. But Chloe had plans to change that.
The first step was to find her breakout star—who was absolutely not her brother Flash. She’d love to find a female rider, a positive role model to bring in younger girls. After all, that strategy had worked wonders for the Total Bull Challenge’s bottom line when June Spotted Elk had worked her way up through the ranks. Why shouldn’t Chloe replicate that success?
Pete smirked down at her while Dustin chortled behind her. They were the reason that, at this very moment, she wasn’t replicating any success.
She hated Pete Wellington and his smug attitude and his built body, not to mention his freaking amazing jaw that only looked better with a five-o’clock shadow. And his eyes! They were almost gray when he looked down at her from under the brim of his brown cowboy hat but, depending on the light, changed to either light blue or green. Oh, how she hated Pete’s eyes in particular. They were simply the most beautiful color she’d ever seen and some days, all she wanted to do was stare into them endlessly and watch them shift with the changing light.
But more than that, she hated the way he looked at her. Would it kill him to acknowledge that she was a damned good steward to his beloved rodeo? That she ran a tight ship and got things done—like television distribution and increased revenues?
Apparently, it would kill him because she only saw mocking contempt in his eyes. His lips curved into something that could have been a heart-stopping smile on a man with a soul but on him was nothing but a taunting sneer.
He was in Missouri for one reason and one reason alone—to knock her down in front of the very men she most needed to buy into her new plans.
If that’s how he wanted to play this, fine. It wasn’t her fault his father hadn’t been able to hold his liquor. Nor was it her fault that the man had been a lousy poker player who hadn’t known when to hold ’em or when to fold ’em. But Pete acted as if she’d stolen his rodeo. As if she’d been there, pouring Davey Wellington another shot of whiskey and whispering in his ear.
Basically, he looked at her like she was the devil incarnate and he treated her accordingly.
She was only too happy to return the favor.
“It’s true I have much more to get my hands around than you do,” she replied easily, keeping everything light, as if she weren’t intentionally insulting his manhood. “But it’s so nice to see you getting out and about again.” She patted his upper arm, pointedly not noticing the way his hard biceps tensed at her casual touch. “You let me know if you need any help dealing with the crowds. I know it can be overwhelming if you’re not used to it.”
Any hint of a smirk on his nice, full lips died, which only made her smile broaden. But instead of launching a counterattack, Pete swallowed hard and said, “Big night?”
“Been sold out for weeks.” Of course, part of that was because Dwight Yoakam was the closing act. It’d been a huge get, bringing a country star of that magnitude to this tiny corner of Missouri.
But she was going to put on a hell of a rodeo while she had butts in the seats. She had to. If this didn’t work...no. There was no if here. It would absolutely work. When the rodeo took off, she’d be the one holding the reins.
She braced herself. Now he would come up firing. Now he would try to destroy her with a witty comeback. She could see the cords on his neck straining as he ground his teeth. No matter what he said, she wouldn’t let him get to her.
Now. Surely now.
“Pete, maybe you can make the little lady see sense,” Mort said.
“About what?” Pete replied, but he didn’t look away from her.
“About women,” Dustin said. He whipped his hat off his head and slapped it against his leg. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Pete stepped back and looked Chloe up and down, his gaze traveling the path over her blinged-out cowgirl shirt and customized jeans—both from her Princess of the Rodeo clothing line—way too slowly for her taste. “I don’t know, guys. She looks pretty qualified in the woman department, if you ask me.”
Chloe blushed. She didn’t want to, didn’t want Pete to know that his words could affect her at all—but she couldn’t help it. Was he...protecting her? Or just ogling her?
What was going on?
“She wants to let women compete!” Dustin all but roared.
“Don’t get us wrong,” Dale went on in his pleasantly condescending voice, “women can ride the hell out of barrels.”
“And they’re good-looking,” Mort unhelpfully added.
Chloe managed not to lose her ever-loving mind. But she couldn’t stop herself from gritting her teeth and closing her eyes. Their words shouldn’t hurt. They wouldn’t.
“But you put a pretty little thing out there in the arena with a man and he’s gonna get distracted,” Dustin said, disgust in his voice. “And a distracted cowboy is a hurt cowboy. You know that, Pete.”
Pete cleared his throat, making Chloe open her eyes again. He had to be loving this open rebellion. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d orchestrated this whole scene. She glanced around—yep. They’d amassed a crowd of about twenty people. Lovely. There would be plenty of witnesses to her humiliation.
At least Flash wasn’t here. There wasn’t a single bad situation her brother couldn’t make worse.
Then the weirdest thing happened. Pete Wellington—a man who had never bothered to hide his hatred of her—lowered his chin and, from under the brim of his hat where no one else could see it, winked at her. Before she could figure what the hell that was supposed to mean, he stepped back.
“You’re right,” he said to Dustin in particular and the crowd of cowboys in general. “I happen to know firsthand that, because we don’t have mixed competitions, no one has ever been injured in the All-Stars rodeo.”
Chloe blinked. Was that...sarcasm?
In her defense?
What the hell was going on?
There was a three-second pause while Pete’s words settled over the crowd before the first chuckle started. Another joined it and soon, all the guys who’d ridden in rodeos, past or present, began to laugh.
“Face it, boys,” Pete went on, “we’ve all been stepped on by a