"No, she can't," Chan said firmly before Madeleine could say a word. "I'm not her problem. Thanks."
He hauled himself to his feet and started for the door, hoping he could lose Madeleine in the crush, but when he got outside she was right there next to him.
"Where's your hotel?" she asked.
He considered not telling her, but it didn't seem worth the effort. He gave her the name. She flagged another cab, got in beside him and accompanied him to the hotel.
"You know, you're a lot like a cattle dog of my dad's," he said as they hurtled across town in the late-night traffic.
"From you I suppose that might be a compliment."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Take it any way you want. Suit yourself."
"I usually do."
Probably she did, he thought muzzily. She sure as hell seemed to be getting her own way tonight. Why was she bothering? What was it she'd said earlier about proving something to their mothers? Something about being together?
"What'd you mean?" he asked now. "Proving what to our mothers?"
"I told you, I've been thinking."
"Sounds ominous."
She ignored him, going on. "I don't know about yours, but my mother seems to think I'm scared to have anything to do with you. She thinks my not inviting you in means I'm somehow afraid of you." She gave a short half laugh, which showed exactly how she felt about that notion.
Chan felt unaccountably nettled. "And of course you're not."
"I most certainly am not," Madeleine said forcefully. "I considered ignoring her, but my mother is hard to ignore." She sighed as if she'd had a wealth of experience trying to do just that. "So I thought if I spent some time with you, I'd prove it to her. And at the same time I'd be able to prove how unsuitable we are."
Chan tried his best to follow her thinking. It might have had something to do with being kicked in the head, but he wasn't sure he was accomplishing it. "So that's what this is? Trailing around after me tonight?"
Madeleine gave him a pained look. "Hardly. One evening would never prove anything. According to my mother, a truly reliable field study takes at least two to three months."
Chan stared at her. His head pounded. "Two to three months? What the hell are you talking about?"
Madeleine spread her hands. "Spending time together."
"Two to three months?"
"I'm not any more thrilled about the idea than you are, believe me," she said flatly. "But I don't see any other alternative. Anyway it might work now that you're injured…"
"I'm not injured."
"You have a concussion. You have a bandage. You look pretty injured to me."
"Well, I'm not. It's nothing. Not the cut. Not the concussion. I've had 'em before."
"The effects of concussion are cumulative," Madeleine informed him. "You need rest. You could stay and—"
"I'll rest on the plane. I'm riding in a rodeo in Texas on Wednesday. I'm going to New Mexico next weekend. It's the way I earn my living. I don't earn if I don't ride."
"I see." She was sitting very still, her hands folded in her lap as the taxi hurtled down Broadway.
Chan slanted her a quick glance. "Good."
She sighed. "Well, if you won't consider talking a couple of months off from getting kicked in the head and stay here in New York, I guess there's only one thing to do."
"What's that?"
"I'll come with you."
* * *
Chan thought Madeleine must've got kicked in the head, too. Nothing he said made the slightest impression on her. He told her she was nuts. She ignored him. He told her she didn't know what she was getting into. She said she could guess. He told her she wouldn't last a week.
She fixed him with a hard-eyed stare and said, "You want to bet?"
Finally, as the taxi arrived at his hotel, he thought she'd come to her senses because she agreed that it was perhaps not a great idea.
Then she looked at him and challenged, "Do you have a better one?"
He didn't.
Ideas were not Chan's strong suit at the best of times. He was a man of action, not speculation. And tonight he felt at a bigger disadvantage than ever.
He fumbled for his wallet and handed her twenty dollars.
"What's this?"
"My share. You can go home in the same cab."
She handed it back and got out instead. She stood on the curb, holding his rigging bag, waiting for him while he paid.
Dev and Denny passed them on their way out. "Hey, Chan!" they greeted him. They scrutinized Madeleine thoroughly, and their grins widened.
"Nice goin', Chan," Dev said, winking broadly.
"We won't be in early. We promise." Denny grinned.
Chan glanced at Madeleine, trying to gauge her reaction to their innuendo. Was that just possibly a faint scarlet on her cheeks? Whatever it was, her expression didn't change a bit.
Probably didn't even recognize sexual innuendo when she heard it, he thought glumly as they walked to the elevator. Probably preferred books to men. Books with footnotes and annotated bibliographies.
"Don't you think this is a little risky? Coming with me to my room?" he challenged her with as much rakishness as he could muster.
"Should I?" She said it in such a flat, disinterested tone that his own cheeks warmed.
Damn her self-possession, anyway. He scowled and looked away, staring at the doors, determined to ignore her. He could see the curve of her breasts out of the corner of his eye. His jaw tightened.
She didn't say anything else, simply came along with him until he'd unlocked the door to his room. Then he paused and looked down at her. "Coming in?"
It wasn't precisely an invitation, more of a dare.
"Is anyone else here?"
"Not a soul." He gave her a wolfish grin.
"Then I will."
And in she came, stepping carefully over the rigging bags, saddles and piles of all the dirty clothes that five men could accumulate, given a couple of days.
"They said to stay with you," she reminded him and started to move some of the clothes off the chair so she could sit down.
"I'll do that." Chan bent down to shovel some of the clothes off the chair, but his head throbbed and he stood up again, wincing.
"You shouldn't bend over," Madeleine said. "I'll do it. You go to bed."
He looked at her, nonplussed. "Go to bed? With you here?"
"You're afraid I might attack you?"
"Yeah, sure." He just wished he was feeling up to par. He'd enjoy it more.
"Then do I make you nervous?"
"Of course not."
"Well, then…?" She sat down and looked at him expectantly. When he still didn't move, she sighed. "The nurse said you needed someone to keep an eye on you while you slept, Richardson. Until someone else gets here, I'm staying."
"I'll be fine."
Madeleine didn't reply, simply folded her hands in her lap and sat there, looking placidly up at him.
Chan's fists clenched and unclenched. He didn't suppose, the way he felt, that he could pick her up and throw her out, but God knew he was tempted.
Finally he muttered, "Swell, stay. I'm taking a shower," and stalked into the bathroom and shut the door.
He needed a shower. He had dried blood on his hands, dust all over him, and though he was more or less immune to it now, he knew he reeked of dirt and sweat and essence of bull.
By rights the smell of him alone should've driven Madeleine Decker away. But he didn't have a doubt she was camped out in his hotel room for the duration.
In fact she was probably timing him and would burst in to rescue him from drowning, if she thought he was taking a moment longer than necessary.
If he didn't feel so lousy, that might be interesting.
* * *
He was taking forever. She had visions of him drowning, falling over, concussed, and perishing just feet away. She had visions of his strong-boned face capped by wet dark hair, visions of his lean, hard-muscle
d naked body, visions of…
She needed to stop having visions, that was certain!
Jumping to her feet, Madeleine paced to and fro, sidestepping the rigging bags, the duffels, the beer and beef jerky and potato chips and scattered piles of clothing, trying not to think of Chan Richardson's body, clothed or unclothed.
This was not the way she'd planned this evening at all.
And, whether it looked like it or not, she had planned it, had planned it well.
She'd fumed for hours after her mother's accusations. She'd denied both to her mother and herself that she could possibly be afraid of Chan Richardson. He was just, well, not the sort of man she knew or understood. Not that she was a connoisseur, but he was a cowboy, for God's sake!
But just because she wasn't used to men like him, it didn't mean she was afraid of him – or of spending time with him. She just couldn't see any point to doing so.
But the longer she'd thought about it, the more she'd realized that she would never convince Antonia of that.
Unless—
No. She'd rejected the notion out of hand. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. It was more than that. It was preposterous.
But in the end, it had been the only thing she'd been able to think of.
If she was ever going to be safe from Antonia's lingering doubts, speculative glances and knowing smiles, if she was ever going to convince Antonia – and herself – that Channing Richardson was not her perfect mate, she would have to offer to spend some time with him.
And walk away from him.
And there was only one way to do that.
She'd bought a ticket to the rodeo. Just to see him after, talk to him, convince him to go along with her plan.
She certainly hadn't intended to get stuck with him for the rest of the night!
But when the doctor had asked her to look after him, she hadn't had much choice. She knew as sure as anything that her mother would, one way or another, discover that she had been there. And there would be hell to pay if she left her mother's friend's son uncared for.
Plus, he hadn't agreed yet.
Maybe he wouldn't. She brightened at the thought. She hadn't considered that possibility. But if Chan said no, she'd be off the hook. She would have volunteered. She would have dared. He would have said no.
The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Surely he wouldn't want her tagging along after him for two long months, getting in his way, cramping his style with the women he really preferred.
She thought about what sort of women a man like Chan Richardson might prefer. Sweet air-headed women who would bat their eyes and tell him what a big strong man he was, undoubtedly.
Well, she wasn't good at that. Even when she tried. Just ask Scott.
Damn it, why was he taking so long?
Of course he'd been a mess, Madeleine was willing to grant that. Bloody and dusty, with a grimy streak of some unspeakable substance on his cheek, he had definitely needed a shower. But even if he'd fought every battle of the Thirty Years' War he ought to be clean by now.
She moved closer to the bathroom door, listening to see if, over the noise of the water, she could hear him moving around. She couldn't.
She tapped lightly. "Ahem."
No response. She chewed her lip a moment, then tapped again, louder this time. "Er, Richardson?"
Still nothing.
Another of those blasted visions assailed her. The naked body one. She pressed her fists against her eyes. The water drummed on.
A peek wouldn't hurt. Just one peek to see if he was upright and, presumably, breathing. Nothing more. If he wasn't, she'd call 911. If he was, she'd simply shut the door. It wasn't voyeurism; it was good sense. He had, after all, sustained a blow to the head. Besides, she'd seen a man's naked body before.
She turned the doorknob slowly, easing it open. Steam wafted out. She poked her head around the corner of the door. There was a translucent white shower curtain with a body behind it. The body was upright and, presumably, breathing. It was also lean, well-muscled and decidedly male.
She didn't shut the door.
It was fair play, she told herself. After all, he hadn't minded taking a good long look at her yesterday. So what if she'd had on a few more clothes than he did. He had a shower curtain.
Besides, it was research. Her mother wanted her to marry this man, for goodness' sake.
A woman couldn't even consider such a thing until she'd checked out the goods, could she?
But even Madeleine couldn't make herself believe that. In fact, she blushed just thinking it and shut the door as quickly and as silently as she could.
Then, wiping suddenly damp palms on the sides of her slacks, she went to sit back down in the chair. She tried to think about what she would do tomorrow, the run in the park she and Alfie would take, the bread she would bake, the chapter of her dissertation that she was working on.
She couldn't do it. Her mind seemed to have more free will than she did – or more determination. All it wanted to do was think about Channing Richardson naked. And there seemed to be nothing she could do to stop it!
She scanned the room for some distraction and grabbed a magazine that was falling out of one of the duffel bags, but naked women were not the sort of distraction she needed. Immediately she stuffed it back.
The water stopped running. She could hear him moving around now. He bumped into something, cursed. She half stood, then sat down again and knotted her fingers together.
"Are you all right in there?" she called and was annoyed at how shaky her voice sounded. She wondered what was the matter with her, then remembered she hadn't eaten any supper. She was probably weak from hunger.
"Terrific," came an answering masculine growl.
"You don't … need help?"
"No, I don't 'need help'." His voice mocked her. "I told you, go away."
"And I told you I'm … not going to." The last three words faded a bit as the door opened and Madeleine was confronted with Chan semi-dressed. He was barefoot, his jeans zipped but not buttoned, his shirt hanging open, treating her to a slice of bare, lightly furred chest. She swallowed carefully; her mouth seemed suddenly dry.
Chan looked at her wearily. "Well, I suppose I can't throw you out."
He sank down onto the bed, his feet on the floor, his forearms resting on his knees. He ducked his head, then straightened up quickly, as if the position had hurt him.
Madeleine steeled herself against feeling sorry for him. As he had pointed out, no one asked him to ride that bull.
"So," she said briskly. "What do you say? Shall I come with you?"
"I get a choice?"
"Well, I'm certainly not going to invite myself along. Of course you get a choice."
He didn't say anything. He didn't even move. She couldn't tell for a moment if he was thinking or if he'd fallen asleep sitting up. Then slowly he opened his eyes and fixed her with a fuzzy stare.
"No," he said. "I don't."
Madeleine looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, no, I don't get a choice. You're setting me up. You're willing to come along so you look good to your mother and to mine. I say no, I look like a chicken."
He was more astute than she'd given him credit for. "Well, I assume that means you want me to come then," she said airily, or as airily as she could through tightly clenched teeth. "It really doesn't matter to me."
He sighed and shut his eyes and was silent so long that she thought he really had fallen asleep.
"Richardson?"
He opened them once again and met her gaze. His face was absolutely expressionless, but his eyes were curiously bright. Slowly he nodded his head. "All right, Decker. You wanta go down the road with me. You're on. We'll do it."
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Wyoming, seven months later
He never thought she would.
When he'd said yes clear back last October, he'd thoug
ht at worst they'd get it over with right then, and it sure as hell wouldn't take two months. But if she wanted to come to Texas and New Mexico with him, let her, he'd thought. It might be good for a laugh. And when his head felt better, he was sure he could think of other things it might be good for. Compatibility tests, if you please.
The thought had made him grin even though his head still hurt.
But Madeleine had said no. She'd said they had to do it properly. Scientifically.
"Under controlled conditions?" he joked.
But she'd been absolutely serious. "If we want them to believe us, yes."
And coming with him then was out of the question. She had her dissertation to work on – research to do, data to collect, evidence to find. She could do it in six months, maybe seven.
"The end of May," she'd told him. "I should be ready by the end of May."
"Next summer? You're nuts. That's my busiest time of the year."
"The busier, the better. You'll be out of my hair, I'll stay out of yours. But Mother won't have a thing to complain about."
Mother had no right to complain in any case, to Chan's way of thinking. Mother was answerable for the whole mess.
But he hadn't said so then. His head ached. He wanted to sleep. And hell, in six or seven months chances were she wouldn't even remember.
When he called home for Mother's Day, he got the shock of his life.
"Madeleine Decker called," Julia told him, bemused. "She says she'll be at the ranch at the end of the month. She says you can pick her up here." She paused. "What are you up to, Chan?"
"Up to? Me?" His voice had changed when he was fourteen, but you wouldn't have known it to hear him then. "I'll call her," he promised.
He did. Right then. From a roadside phone booth in Idaho.
"Are you nuts?" he blurted without preamble as soon as she answered the phone.
"No, I'm sorry. I'm Madeleine," she said, absolutely deadpan. "And who are you?"
"This is Chan Richardson," he said through clenched teeth.
There was a sigh. "Why am I not surprised?"
THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING Page 5