Cowboy Lessons (Harlequin American Romance)

by Pamela Britton

  “Flora,” one of the shorter, more compact ladies said. “He’s young enough to be your son.”

  “Who cares?”

  Scott almost smiled. Fact is, tonight he felt kind of handsome—a first for him, that’s for sure. Of course, two gushing saleswomen—one of whom swore he looked like Clint Black—had helped to boost his self-esteem.

  It was his newfound sense of self that made him strut a bit as he approached. No, not strut, swagger. He swaggered like a true cowboy, nodding to the ladies in Old West fashion as he came to a halt behind Amanda and said, “Woman, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  He saw her shoulders stiffen, saw telltale signs that she recognized his voice. He thought she might ignore him. It seemed like something she might do, but she slowly turned. And boy howdy did he like the way her eyes widened, the way she parted her lips. The rest of her body stiffened as she caught sight of the new-and-improved Scott Beringer, but then she narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “So you made it?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said right back. “I made it, no thanks to you.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think you wanted to go.”

  “Why in the heck would you think that?”

  “Because I thought you felt obligated to go.”

  “Obligated?” he repeated in amazement, but then he told himself to calm down. He hadn’t spent years reading body language not to know she was lying. And he didn’t need a master’s in psychology to know that she’d run away because she felt it, too, felt the snap and crackle that happened every time they were near. But it was more than that. It was the way everything had stilled around them for a brief moment after they’d kissed. The way they’d simply looked into each other’s eyes. The way they’d both been slow to draw apart. Something was happening between them.

  Scott was determined to find out what.

  He glanced at the two women behind her, the three ladies looking between them with various degrees of curiosity and amusement on their faces. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Sure,” they said in unison.

  “Hey,” Amanda protested.

  Scott held back a satisfied smirk.

  “Oh, sure,” she called. “Leave me. I’ll remember this.” She hissed in frustration before crying out, “Don’t call me when you’ve fallen and can’t get up.”

  Which almost made Scott laugh, but he settled for goading her a bit by saying, “Afraid to be alone with me?”

  She turned back to him, and he had to admit, she was the best-looking woman he’d laid eyes on in a long, long time, especially tonight. Her hair hung wild down her back once again. She’d brushed something on her lashes that made her eyes look even more blue. That was the extent of her makeup. No blush, none of that paste women smeared on, just Amanda in all her organic glory.

  “Of course I’m not afraid. Why would I be afraid?”

  “Because you’re attracted to me.”

  “Because I’m what?” she huffed, her hands going to her waist.

  “Attracted to me,” Scott said, and he wasn’t sorry he said it. According to the dating book he’d read, this was called “making the first move,” and while he wasn’t sure if putting his fate in the hands of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Dating would work, it was worth a shot. Hell, he needed all the help he could get.

  Unfortunately, all “making the first move” seemed to do was make her spitting mad.

  “Attracted to you? I am not attracted to you.”

  “It’s okay, you can admit it. I was a bit taken aback, too.”

  “A bit—” She clenched her jaw. “Admit—”

  People had started to file back in, he could tell because her eyes darted around. Behind him he heard one of the musicians pluck a fiddle string, a sure sign the music was about to start. He saw her try to gain control, and he had to admit, she was pretty good at it.

  “Listen, you,” she said in a near whisper, “I don’t know what gives you the idea I’m attracted to you, but you’re wrong.”

  “Then why’d you ditch me?”

  “I told you—”

  “Don’t give me that ‘you thought I felt obligated’ nonsense. Be honest, Amanda. You left because you were afraid of the way kissing me made you feel.”

  “Why, you—” She pointed a finger at him, the same way she’d done the first day they’d met. “I did not ditch you out of fear. I ditched you because I figured if you really wanted to come to the dance, you’d find a way to attend, which you did.” She crossed her arms in front of her again. “You’re likely the first person in Los Molina history to arrive at the annual barn dance in a helicopter.”

  “Impressed?”

  “No.”

  And that was what he liked about her. She really wasn’t impressed. She was perturbed. And that was good, too. They were doing the “flirting flamenco,”

  a least if he was reading her right, which he was. He hoped.

  “Dance with me?”

  The sudden change of subject made her blink. “What?”

  “Dance with me.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No,” he said.

  “I don’t dance at these things.”

  “Oh, sure you do.”

  They both turned to the woman who’d spoken, one of the ladies who’d been with her earlier, the one with a braid. “It’s the one time each year that you get to kick up your heels. You told me so yourself.”

  Amanda looked over at her friend, her blue eyes narrowing in a way that said “Die, die, die,” before she looked back at him again. “Ignore her,” she said. “She has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Do not,” the woman said.

  Amanda turned to her again. “Didn’t he ask you for some privacy?”

  “Sure, but I thought I better come over since you looked about ready to deck him.”

  “I was not going to deck him.”

  “Good.” The woman turned toward him. “Edith Montgomery.” She held out her hand. “Amanda tells me you’ve a real hard body. I see that she’s right.”

  “Edith Montgomery,” Amanda gasped in horror.

  “Hey, if you’re too frightened to go for it, I’m not.”

  Scott was having a hard time fighting his laughter. He held out a hand, saying, “Scott Beringer. And I’m flattered.”

  “You should be. I’m a hot commodity around here. Just ask the men at the Rosewood Community for Seniors. They all want in my pants.”

  “That does it,” Amanda said. “I’m leaving.” She turned to Scott. “Mr. Beringer, I hope you have a good time. Don’t stay out too late because we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “You can keep me from staying out too late.”

  “No, I can’t. I think it only prudent to keep things on a professional level, Mr. Beringer. Edith, tell the other members of your coven good-night.”

  She turned on a heel and darted through the crowded building.

  “Did she just call me a witch?”

  Scott bit back another laugh. “I think so.”

  “Why, that little snot. I should have let her drown in her bathwater when she was an infant. Ungrateful brat.”

  To which Scott found himself smiling. He didn’t know why, because the fact of the matter was, he’d just been rejected…again. Only it didn’t bother him. Funny how that was. Instead it kind of made him feel, well, happy.

  The three-piece band started up then, the square-dancing tune instantly making his left foot bounce in time to the music. He even bobbed his head a bit.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Edith asked. “Go after her.”

  To which Scott looked at her, smiled even more, and said, “Thanks. I think I will.”

  Chapter Seven

  Amanda should have fled from the building, but she just couldn’t bring herself to run away from Scott Beringer. Ditch him, yes, but actually run? She had her pride.

  But the minute she felt a hand on her arm, a breeze from the open double do
ors just ahead stirring fine hairs that clung to her face and made her nose twitch, she knew she should have obeyed her first instinct.

  “Not so fast,” she heard Scott say. “You still owe me a dance.”

  She turned on him, about to give him a piece of her mind, then she noticed all the covert glances they were getting. Not to mention the quickly approaching Stephanie Prichart.

  “I don’t owe you anything,” she muttered in a low voice. “And I am not dancing with you, Scott Beringer.”

  “Please,” he asked with a boyish yet endearing smile.

  “No.”

  “Pretty please.”

  The man didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer.

  “Do you even know how to two-step?” she asked.

  He stiffened, and his look of momentary chagrin made her gloat. “Ah-hah! I didn’t think so.”

  “Teach me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ever since I was a little boy, I’ve wanted to swing to your pa’dner round and round. You’re not going to disappoint me, are you?”

  It amazed her the way he could make her forget he was a billionaire. And that he hadn’t had the best childhood. And that she’d had dreams, too, as a kid, that had never been answered.

  “One dance,” she said.

  He looked overjoyed, it all but melted her heart.

  But as she led him to the dance floor she heard more than one person murmur his name as they passed. Word was out. Scott Beringer, recently voted America’s “most eligible bachelor,” a kazillionaire, and, yes, she could admit it, a good-looking guy, was in town. Terrific. By tomorrow she’d have every single woman in Los Molina at her doorstep.

  She found the dance floor, scuffed from years of dancing feet—or more appropriately boots—which was placed at the end of the room. A platform about a foot off the ground held the three-piece band, all of whom were having a grand old time as they stomped their feet and swung their arms in rhythm to the beat.

  “Do you know anything about two-stepping?” she asked, turning back to Scott as couples danced by them on the floor.

  “I have two left feet, does that count?”

  She resisted the urge to smile. “Unfortunately, no. Okay,” she said, trying to be businesslike when, in fact, her heart had started to beat against her chest as if it wanted out. Now. “The rhythm is step-step-slow.” She repeated it just in case he hadn’t heard, dragging out the word slow. “Step-step, slo-o-ow,” she emphasized again. “Like that,” she added, indicating the couple who skirted the perimeter of the floor. It was Ben and Irene Perry, two people who’d been married for what seemed like an eternity, and who danced as if they’d been together as long, and who always made Amanda a little envious.

  “Step-step, slow,” Scott said, nodding. “I think I can do that.”

  He shouldn’t look so cute as he concentrated on her words, she told herself. A man who’d stolen the family ranch, who insisted on kissing her at the oddest moments, and who all but melted her heart with his smiles, should not be thought of as cute. He should be thought of as…dangerous.

  “Hold out your arms, like this.” She demonstrated the man’s position, her heart pounding in her chest in panic.

  He did as asked, a grin appearing up the side of his face as he held the stance for her approval. “I feel like a crossing guard without the stop sign.”

  Do not smile. Do not smile. “Now. I put my hands here.” She placed said hands, one on his left shoulder, the other near the crook of his right arm, which bulged with a surprising amount of muscle. Dang. “When you feel pressure, move against it. You’ll be going backward, which is harder, so it might not be easy.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.”

  She lifted a brow. “Put your money where your mouth is, hotshot,” she said, before pushing him backward and onto the dance floor.

  She knew immediately that she’d been had.

  He smiled.

  She narrowed her eyes as he executed the steps perfectly, even took the lead and flipped her so she was going backward.

  “Why, you—”

  He laughed, his head tipping back as he navigated a corner of the wooden floor like a pro. She moved her hands to his chest, pushing against him in outrage, only to encounter a surprisingly buff chest, which she tried to ignore.

  “Is your health insurance up to date, Mr. Beringer, because I have to tell you, I’d really like to trip you right now, and you might get injured.”

  He laughed again, grabbed her hands and pulled her toward him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s kick up our heels.”

  She wanted to. She really wanted to. And that scared her even more.

  “No,” she said, pulling her hands out of his grasp and stopping. “If you know how to dance there’s no need for a ‘lesson.”’

  “Watch out,” he said, pulling her out of the way of a high-stepping couple.

  She sidestepped, then looked up at him again, hands on her hips.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Quit with the laser eyes. I knew you’d say no to dancing with me, which is why I told you I didn’t know how to dance.”

  “You were right.”

  “People are staring.”

  She stiffened, looked around her. People were, indeed, staring.

  “Of course, if your object is to make a spectacle of yourself, by all means, keep fighting me. I am, however, not going to give up.” He reached for her again.

  She started to move away, but suddenly changed her mind. If she ran, he’d only follow. He’d already demonstrated that so instead she socked him with her eyes for a full five seconds—whap, whap, whap— before saying, “I should really tell you where you can stick it.”

  He smiled.

  “Fine,” she said, placing a hand on his arm, a part of her wanting to shake her head in exasperation, another part wishing she could come up with a good excuse not to dance with him. “Weasel,” she added under her breath.

  “Did you know weasels make good pets?”

  She flicked her head to face him, some of her hair hitting him in the face. “Really? I heard they were nasty, disease-ridden vermin who kill more than they can eat.”

  “The ones in the wild are. But the ones that you tame actually make better pets than cats.”

  And what was that supposed to mean? She almost asked him, but she pushed against him instead. He stepped into the rhythm immediately.

  “When’d you learn how to two-step?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “The gals at the store taught me. They also said if I do this—” He lifted his hand. “And this—” He twirled said hand. “You would—” She twirled beneath him. “Do that. Wow. Look. It works.”

  “You’re a low-down, dirty snake.”

  “I know,” he said, pulling her closer. “You should see me acquire companies.”

  SCOTT DIDN’T WANT THE DANCE to end. Frankly, when it did, he was going to try to keep her on the dance floor. But Fate took matters into her own hands—or feet as the case may be—because suddenly Amanda stumbled and cried “Ouch.” Suddenly she winced in pain, then hopped up and down on one foot.

  Scott narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I twisted it,” she said, hopping, hopping, hopping.

  “Let me see.”

  “No,” she said quickly.

  Too quickly, Scott realized. Ah-hah, just as he thought.

  “I need to get off the dance floor.”

  She was faking it. Scott would bet a percentage of his stocks on it. He thought about calling her bluff. Instead he decided to have a little fun. “Do you need to go to the hospital? I could have my pilot airlift you.”

  She stopped suddenly, her “injured” ankle held above the ground. “What?”

  “Maybe it’s broken.”

  “You would airlift me to a hospital?”

  “Sure.”

  “Unbelievable,” he thought he heard her murmu
r.

  “In fact,” he added for good measure, “I don’t think you should walk on it. Let me carry you—”

  “No,” she said, lifting her hand. “I’m fine.” She squeezed her eyes shut hard for a moment. “I mean, I’ll be fine. Just let me sit down for a sec.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No, no, no. I’m just going to go outside. You stay here.”

  He caught her as she was turning away, lifting her into his arms before she could tell him no.

  “Scott Beringer,” she cried, her thick hair cascading down around them, and from this view he could see she had a really narrow waist. And he could feel she had not an ounce of fat on her rib cage. “Put me down.”

  “No.”

  “Go get ’er, cowboy,” a bystander said.

  “Sweep her off her feet,” said someone else—Edith, he thought.

  He tried not to smile, even though Amanda wiggled in his arms like a freshly uncovered earthworm.

  “You’re going to make us fall,” he said.

  “Good, then I’ll sue you for bodily injury, win a million dollars, and buy my ranch back.”

  “I hardly think a judge would believe I meant to harm you by carrying you in my arms because of your hypothetical injury. And it’s your father’s ranch, not yours.”

  “Hypothetical? What do you mean, hypothetical?”

  They’d reached the entrance, the two doors still open wide. Some kids raced inside. Scott had to turn his body into a question mark to avoid hitting them. It was dark outside, and Scott couldn’t help but look up in awe once they were outdoors. The sky was unbelievable. Not red from the glow of streetlights like it was in the Bay Area at night. Just dotted with so many brightly twinkling stars that reminded him of Amanda’s eyes, eyes that were, well, he needed to be honest, glaring at him right now.

  “C’mon, Amanda. Your ankle is no more injured than my ankle is.”

  “Why don’t you let me kick you and we’ll find out?”

  “Temper, temper.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be mad at you?” she asked as he gently set her down in the gravel parking lot, their feet cracking the rocks beneath. Cars were their only company, that and the crickets, the sound mixing with the music from inside. “You stole my father’s ranch. And tonight you bullied me into dancing with you, and then I find out you lied about your dancing experience.”