by Jeanne Allan
She went along. Doing so fit nicely with her plans. In a voice meant to reach Ms. Winston, Cheyenne said, “That wasn’t the woman Davy told me about, was it? Why didn’t you stop me? Thank goodness I didn’t repeat what you said.” Conscious of the woman watching them as they reached the elevators, Cheyenne angled around and wrapped her arms around his neck. Plastering an intimate smile on her face, she said softly, “If you don’t come with us tomorrow, I’ll toss you to her. Hog-tied and ready for branding.”
In spite of his hands resting on her hips, Thomas’s smile lacked warmth. “Threatening me, Ms. Lassiter?”
“Is it a threat?” She couldn’t resist. “Tommy.”
“Were you really named for a rodeo?”
Her breathing quickened as his thumbs drew slow circles over her shorts. “I thought Frank McCall gave you my life history.”
“He would have.”
“If you’d been interested.”
His thumbs stopped. “If I’d been interested”
“Do you know Ms. Winston’s life history?”
“Jealous?”
“Only of her plastic surgeon.”
“You are jealous.” Speculation filled his eyes. “Interesting.”
“We won, didn’t we, Uncle Thomas?” Running up, Davy gave his uncle a comradely grin. “Us guys beat Cheyenne.”
Thomas Steele went very still, his gaze locked on his nephew’s beaming countenance. “Yes, we won,” he said in a distracted voice.
“How cum Cheyenne kissed you?”
“Because she lost.” Thomas Steele reached down as if to touch Davy’s shoulder, then yanked back his hand and shoved it in his pocket.
His refusal to admit he cared for Davy made her want to cry. Clearing her throat, Cheyenne said the first thing she could think of. “I hate losing and I hate kissing. It makes me sick.”
Thomas Steele gave her a mocking smile. “Anyone who likes peanut butter sandwiches has a cast-iron stomach.”
His armor was securely back in place. Sighing inwardly, Cheyenne said, “For peanut butter and jelly. Not for kissing.”
The elevator arrived and Thomas Steele pressed her into the wood-paneled compartment, his hand warm against her back. Cheyenne stared at the flowery metal fittings near the ceiling and wished St. Chris’s had larger elevators.
Davy followed them in and the door slid shut. “Uncle Thomas, don’t kissing girls make you sick?”
“No. It’s like peanut butter and caviar. When you’re young you like peanut butter. When you’re older, you like caviar.”
“Cheyenne is old and she likes peanut butter.”
Cheyenne playfully socked Davy’s shoulder. “Thanks, kiddo.”
“Let me tell you about women, Davy,” his uncle said. “They don’t like it when you call them old.”
Davy turned to Cheyenne. “Why don’t you want to be old? I wish I was old like Uncle Thomas.”
“Why?” Cheyenne asked.
“’Cuz he’s tall and gets to do what he wants and he knows everything and nothing scares him.”
Cheyenne knew budding hero worship when she heard it. The uncomfortable look on Thomas Steele’s face told her he’d reached the same conclusion.
The elevator stopped, and the door opened. Cheyenne pushed the button to hold the door open. “Since you beat me, too, I guess I’ll have to kiss you,” she teased Davy.
“No!” Davy dashed from the elevator and tore down the hall.
“Aren’t you coming?” Thomas Steele asked.
She shook her head. “I’m going to Olivia’s room. She’ll want to hear what the four—” she accentuated the number “—of us are doing tomorrow. Tommy.”
“Blackmail, Ms. Lassiter?”
“Absolutely.” Cheyenne fluttered her eyelashes in a parody of flirtatiousness. “Tommy.” She pressed the button for Olivia’s floor. “See you tomorrow. I’ll fax you your shopping list, Mr. Steele.”
He stopped the door from closing. “If you’re going to blackmail me, Cheyenne, you ought to call me Thomas.”
“All right. Thomas.”
“And you might want to cool it with the flirting. I wouldn’t object to you in my bed. Be careful what you start. I won’t be adverse to finishing it.” He stepped back.
“If you’re trying to scare me so you can get out of going with us tomorrow, forget it.” The doors shut and the elevator started down. “You can’t scare me.”
He couldn’t.
What she wanted from him had nothing to do with kisses. She wanted him to take Davy into his heart. Not her into his bed.
Thomas knew that.
He was no more interested in her than she was in him, but he didn’t like her criticizing his treatment of Davy. She knew what he was doing. He considered her a pest, and the best way to get rid of pests was to chase them off.
He couldn’t chase her off with vague warnings of being physically attracted to her. Cheyenne stepped from the elevator on Olivia’s floor. Men like Thomas didn’t make her nervous. The unsettled sensations in her stomach came from the excessive amounts of cheese on the pizza. She’d weathered queasy stomachs before. Her stomach felt better already, and her recovery had nothing to do with leaving Thomas Steele one floor above.
She knocked on Olivia’s door. “It’s me, Cheyenne.”
After a few minutes the door opened. Bent over her walker, Olivia gave Cheyenne a broad smile. “I saw you in the lobby. Get right in here and tell me all about that handsome man you kissed.” She clutched her chest dramatically. “My heart is still palpitating just from looking at him. My granddaughter would call him a real sexy hunk. I’d swoon if he smiled at me like he smiled at you.” Her smile switched to a frown. “What’s the matter? All of a sudden you look a little funny.”
“The peanut butter I had for lunch is warring with the pizza I had for supper. That’s all it is.” Talking about Thomas Steele and his stupid hunkiness didn’t affect her at all.
Thomas strolled down the hall toward his suite. Remembering the panic in Cheyenne’s eyes made him want to laugh. She could deny it all she wanted, but she was definitely interested.
“I gotta go.” Davy hopped up and down in front of the door.
Thomas quickened his pace.
Once in the suite, he crossed to the armoire, checked his messages and looked over the stream of paper hanging from the fax machine. Nothing urgently required his attention. He poured himself a glass of wine and stretched out on the purple velvet sofa. Setting the stemmed glass on his chest, he closed his eyes, shutting out his surroundings.
He preferred checking into a different room each time he stayed at a Steele hotel. His grandmother claimed the only way to discover a hotel’s shortcomings was to stay in a room not preselected by the hotel staff.
Unfortunately, his mother didn’t share that wisdom, and since his grandmother’s death all Steele hotels had a suite set aside for family use. Each “done” by whatever New York decorator happened to be in vogue at the time. The St. Christopher Hotel’s other hotel rooms reflected the original owner’s choice of Art Nouveau architecture. Thomas couldn’t settle on the style of this suite. Maybe eclectic. Or decorator on drugs.
He took a sip of wine. It tasted surprisingly good. The wine had come from northwestern Colorado. A wine didn’t have to be European to be drinkable, but he’d questioned McCall’s judgment in stocking Colorado wines when they had so little history. This wine was eminently drinkable. He’d have to congratulate McCall. Tourists liked the idea of eating and drinking local products.
Thomas took another sip. Spicy. Slightly tart. Piquant. Unassuming, yet challenging. No pretensions to being other than what it was.
Like Cheyenne Lassiter.
Thomas prided himself on never lying to himself and he didn’t lie now. He wanted her.
Any number of women would happily jump into his bed. He toasted himself. “To the CEO of the Steele Hotels.” He owned a mirror. He knew what women saw when they looked at him. He also knew his ap
pearance wouldn’t mean a thing if the women didn’t sense an aura of power and money clinging to him.
Cheyenne Lassiter couldn’t care less about his aura. He didn’t come up to her standards. Not like this Worth character she set up among the gods. Thomas took a swallow of wine and considered whether she slept with this Worth. He didn’t think so. Something about her eyes. Her awareness of himself. Her shallow, quickened breathing when they stood close. He smiled. She wanted him.
Draining his glass, Thomas analyzed why he wanted her. He’d seen more beautiful women. Met more intellectual women, richer women, more powerful women. Known nicer, sweeter women. She didn’t even like him.
Sitting up, he reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. Sexual awareness wasn’t the only thing he read in her eyes. She wanted him to love Davy, and he couldn’t. Her condemnation of that failure spilled from her eyes.
Who was she to judge him? Even worse was the pity. Damn her for daring to pity him.
He poured another glass of wine. If he had her beneath him, nothing between them but skin, her bare, long legs wrapped around him, he’d soon make sure her eyes reflected nothing but the pleasure he gave to her.
Thomas discarded the fantasy. He had no intention of falling into bed with Cheyenne Lassiter. The hell with her. He wouldn’t go tomorrow. She and Davy could celebrate without him.
He didn’t want Davy depending on him. Growing close to him. He’d let him down. Steeles did that. He toasted the Steele legacy. Money, power, not love. Never love. People used love against you.
Cheyenne thought he’d used her. If necessary, he would, but not for protection from Stephanie. He could ward off the Stephanies of the world. He hadn’t been able to resist the urge to tease Cheyenne. Giving in to temptation wasn’t like him.
He could still feel the firm roundness of her hip against his palm. A good reason not to see her again.
“I saw the fish egg lady downstairs. Grandmother said you’re gonna marry her.”
Thomas looked up. Davy stood in his bedroom doorway fastening his jeans. “Did you wash your hands when you finished?” Thomas asked automatically.
“I will.” Davy hesitated. “Is she coming with us tomorrow?”
“No. And I’m not going to marry her.”
“Good Cheyenne is prettier.”
“Because she likes peanut butter?”
‘“Cuz she smiles a lot.” Davy fidgeted.
“What?”
“Do you think my mother smiled at me like Cheyenne does?”
Thomas wanted to ask how the hell he was supposed to know when he’d never met the woman Instead he asked, “How does Cheyenne smile at you?”
“You know. The fish egg lady looks over my head and smiles kinda like she doesn’t feel good. Cheyenne smiles at my face. She likes me.” Sidling over to stand by the arm of the sofa, Davy toyed with the snap on his jeans.
“Now what?”
“Do you think my mother liked me?”
Thomas stared in the ruby depths of his wine. How did he answer that question? Davy was as bad as his father. Asking unanswerable questions. Sticking to the truth was the safest. “I didn’t know your mother, so I don’t know how she felt. But your father...” He cleared his throat of a sudden hoarseness. “David loved your mother and he would have loved you. So I expect your mother loved you, too. Now go wash your hands.”
Halfway across the room, Davy turned. “Uncle Thomas, you don’t smile a lot, but you don’t tell me to go away when I ask you something. Is it okay if I like you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“HE’S just another client. The difficult kind. Your cat is on the counter.”
“Me thinks my sister protests too darned much. Amber doesn’t belong to me,” Allie said. “She lives with me.”
“Considering you paid the veterinarian’s bill when she was abandoned and hit by a car, I think we can say she’s now yours.”
Allie picked up the yellow, three-legged cat. “What do you think, Amber? Does Cheyenne think she can change the subject when we’re talking about a man who’s a walking hunk machine?”
“You haven’t even seen him.”
“Olivia called this morning while you were in the shower. When was the last time you kissed a male client over the age of eight? And in the lobby of St. Chris’s.”
“I lost a bet to Thomas, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Thomas.”
Cheyenne hated it when her sister thought she knew everything. “He’s selfish and thoroughly disagreeable.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stop saying, ‘Uh-huh.’ If you want to know the truth, I feel sorry for him.”
“Uh-huh.” Allie stroked the yellow cat. “And he’s a hunk.”
“Okay,” Cheyenne said, goaded into agreement. “He’s a hunk. If you like that type. I don’t.”
“Maybe he’s my type.”
“He’s not.”
“How do you know? You only met him yesterday. He might have hidden charms.”
“Believe me, he doesn’t.”
“Olivia mentioned he returned carrying the clothes he wore when he left.”
“Olivia must have spent the whole day snooping. I told you he fell in the river.”
“Fell in rushing to rescue his nephew.”
“He regretted it soon enough. You should have seen the look on his face when he realized I’d saved his fly rod. It was obvious he’d rather have strangled me with it than thank me.”
“You can’t hold that against him. There’s a long line of people who have wanted to strangle you at one time or another.”
“If you want to believe Thomas Steele is wonderful, go ahead. I don’t have time to argue,” Cheyenne said. “I’ll admit he’s drop-dead gorgeous, his smile is devastating and his gray eyes take on a kind of smoky-green cast when he—” She shoved a piece of toast in her mouth. Darn her runaway tongue.
Allie looked interested. “When he what?”
“Flirts,” Cheyenne mumbled around the toast.
Allie set Amber on the floor. “I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Steele.”
He ought to have his head examined. Standing in the middle of the lobby holding gaily-wrapped packages when he should be discussing with McCall new ways of marketing the St. Christopher.
“Mr. Steele?”
She’d butchered her hair. Chopped off the tousled curls practically at her scalp. The short cut completely altered her appearance. Even her eyes looked bluer.
She wasn’t Cheyenne. Thomas had never before seen the blond woman crossing the lobby. Cheyenne’s height, build, hair color...not her eyes. Cheyenne exposed her every thought and emotion This woman fenced hers off. “I’m Thomas Steele. I didn’t realize Cheyenne had a twin sister.”
“In twenty years I’ll hate you for adding a year to my age. Allie Lassiter.” She started to extend her hand, then noticed his package-laden arms. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“You’re here exactly when Cheyenne said.”
“I wouldn’t dare not be.” She led the way outside. “When Cheyenne plans something, woe to him who throws sand in the gears.”
“If you’re warning me she’s the managing type, you’re too late,” Thomas said dryly.
She opened the back of her sport-utility vehicle. “You don’t look like the type who rolls over and plays dead.”
“What do I look like?” He set the packages in the vehicle.
She slammed the back shut. “Cheyenne says you’re selfish and disagreeable.”
He was tired of being told he didn’t measure up to Cheyenne Lassiter’s standards. “How do you women run a successful business when you’re so damned outspoken?”
“Do you recommend being dishonest with clients?”
He waved off the bellman and opened the driver’s door for her. “I recommend remembering the customer is always right.”
“I thought your nephew was our customer. Cheyenne says he’s adorable.” Giving him an airy wave, Allie
Lassiter sped away from the curb. A dog Thomas hadn’t noticed hung its long head out the front passenger window and stared back.
Thomas walked slowly into the hotel. It wasn’t too late to back out of this excursion with Davy and Cheyenne and the Olivia woman. He must be getting soft in the head to let Davy’s question influence him. The boy had probably caught wind of his belated birthday celebration and was angling for more gifts.
The pathetic thing was, Davy’s ploy had worked. Thomas had taken care of the shopping list Cheyenne faxed him. And added an item here and there. What did a woman know about little boys? If Thomas was going to be part of this ridiculous charade of a party, he intended to do it right. He could spare one day. Tomorrow Cheyenne and Davy were on their own.
“I can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse the way those girls pick up strays.” The elderly lady sitting in a pale green club chair in the lobby looked straight at Thomas.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Wait until you’re my age to act deaf. People’ll believe you and say all kinds of things thinking you can’t hear them. Olivia Kent. You don’t remember me.”
He should have recognized the old harridan immediately. Fifteen years ago he’d been working the front desk in the Chicago hotel and Mrs. Kent had ripped out his guts because he’d ignored her while he flirted with a pretty girl who worked at the hotel. “I was surprised you didn’t say something to my grandmother.”
“You learned your lesson. I’ve kept up with your career. Your grandmother Virginia would be proud of you. Henry Jr. doesn’t amount to much.”
“Henry Jr. happens to be my father,” Thomas said stiffly.
“That doesn’t make him any more competent.”
“My father is president of the company.”
“Figurehead. Everyone knows you run things. Henry Jr. might have amounted to something, I doubt it, but your mother ruined him. At least she didn’t ruin you. I hear we’re celebrating the birthday today of a new generation of Steeles.”