by Sheryl Lynn
Surprised, Tristan peered closely at his son. “You figure if I have another kid, I’ll forget about you.”
William lifted a shoulder.
“You’ll always be my boy. I’d never forget about you. Shoot, you like young’uns. You’re your cousins’ favorite baby-sitter.”
William opened his mouth, shut it, then frowned so deeply his eyes nearly disappeared. “Have a hundred kids if you want.”
Tristan swung a chair around and straddled it, facing his son. “Is it Megan?”
“She don’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“You wait, Dad, you’ll see. You go marrying her and she’ll be just like Toby Potter’s stepmom or the Thompson kids’. I’ll just be a pest to shoo out the door.”
Tristan straightened slowly. He’d heard the gossip about the Potters, working on second marriages and having battles over both their kids. He also knew the Thompson children weren’t allowed to visit their father because his new wife had a problem with another woman’s brood. “Megan isn’t like that.”
“She could tell you anything in a letter or on the phone. You go marrying her and the first thing she’ll do is get rid of me.”
Tristan pushed upright. This wasn’t settled, not by a long shot, but he’d seen William in this kind of mood before. The boy didn’t want to hear reason. Tristan hoped a decent meal would cheer the boy. “You’re talking like a knothead. Get your clothes unpacked. I’m hungry.”
Grumbling, the boy did as he was told.
As Tristan finished putting his clothes away, he examined the luxurious cabin with its soft colors and fancy furnishings. It suited Megan, all soft and pretty. He could only imagine what she’d think about his house.
They’d talked about her coming to the ranch for a visit, but he’d always made an excuse for her not to, and now he understood the meat of his reluctance. He feared she’d take one look at the threadbare furniture, never-too-clean floors and gear strewn all over the place, and consider him hopeless.
A groan slipped from his throat. He’d been lonely as the devil ever since Tina died, and it was getting worse instead of better. His father was getting up there in years. William would soon be going off to college. He envisioned himself growing old, alone, becoming one of those crusty old bachelors who hung out in front of the feed store, whittling, jawing tobacco and watching the world pass them by. The mental picture sat ill with him.
He wanted a wife, he needed a woman. But he was crazy for wanting a city girl.
“WELL?” KARA NODDED eagerly and gestured with her fingertips for Megan to speak up. “Where is he?”
“Unpacking. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” Megan sat with her sister in the lounge area of the lobby. Kara had gone on shift, but Megan insisted she sit. Although twenty-two, Kara looked like a teenager, and talked like one, too. Surely Tristan would see the difference.
“What does he look like?” She wrinkled her nose. “He isn’t short, fat and bald, is he?”
“Far from it. His son is…difficult, though. I don’t think he likes me.”
Kara pshawed the notion. “You get along great with kids. I still can’t believe you did this. Are you really going to many him?”
“I hope so. He writes wonderful letters. Nothing soppy or anything, but so—” She frowned, seeking the right word. “Clear-eyed. He sees things. We talk about everything. I love his sense of humor. He’s not afraid to laugh at himself. We like all the same things. He’s decent and kind. He goes to church and volunteers. He’s perfect.”
“What about his wife? Divorce?”
“She died a long time ago.”
Kara leaned back on her chair and tilted her head, her eyes narrowed. “So what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“C’mon, Meg, you’re about as subtle as a thunderstorm. What’s the catch? No chemistry? No sparks? Bad breath? His kid has two heads? What?”
“He kind of thinks I’m too young.”
Kara hooted a laugh, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “You aren’t too young. You’re practically an old maid!”
“Thanks a lot.”
“So how old is he? Fifty? Sixty?”
Megan mentally calculated her age plus fourteen years. “He’s thirty-eight.”
“That’s not too old. What’s the big deal?”
All Megan could do was shake her head. “I don’t know. I guess it’s a guy thing.” She eyed Kara, realizing her sister was as beautiful in her own way as Janine. “Maybe it’s an excuse because he thinks I’m funnylooking.”
“Get outta here! Guys always think you’re hot stuff.”
Yeah, right, Megan thought glumly. Only if hot meant being one of the boys.
The main door opened and in walked Tristan. Megan’s mouth went dry and a lump lodged in her throat. In the southwestern-style lobby with its high, exposed-beam ceiling and pine-paneled walls, he looked right at home, like a cattle baron lording it over his empire. William slumped along behind his father. He’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and had his hands crammed in his pockets. Wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead, he appeared unhappy.
Across the room, Tristan’s gaze met hers. She lifted a hand in greeting.
Kara whistled. “Good golly, Miss Molly, he is gorgeous! And that’s his son? I thought you said he’s a kid?”
Megan nodded as she rose and tugged at the ridiculously short skirt.
Kara jumped to her feet, smiling broadly. “He’s not too old.”
“Shh, not a word about that, okay? Just be cool. Tristan!” When he reached her, she extended both her hands and he took them. His hands were warm and rough textured; their weight promised untold strength. He glanced at their hands and his eyes widened as if surprised, then he squeezed her fingers gently and released her. Unwilling to accept his rejection, she hooked her arm with his and made the introductions.
He swept off his cowboy hat and nodded graciously. “How do, Kara. Megan tells me you just graduated from college.”
“Business degree. And she hasn’t told me anything about you.” She fluttered her lashes flirtatiously. The fluttering traveled to William, who gawped as if he’d been struck by lightning.
Tristan appeared amused by her sister, but Megan wondered what would happen when he met Janine, who was not only incredibly beautiful, but thirty years old to boot.
“You know, Tristan,” Kara said. “You remind me of somebody. Have you ever been here before?”
“No, ma’am. Passed through Colorado a few times and been up to the stock show in Denver, but never these parts.”
“You look so familiar. That actor, I think, the one that does those movies. You know who I mean, Meg. Never mind, I’ll remember eventually. So anyway, Meg says you raise horses. What kind?”
“Appaloosas.”
“My stud horse is a halter champion,” William rushed in to say. His voice cracked, turned squeaky on the word halter. He blushed to his earlobes and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You show a stud horse?” Kara asked the boy. “Aren’t stallions dangerous?”
“Well, yeah. Gotta know what you’re doing, that’s all.”
“Kara?”
Megan tensed at the sound of Janine’s voice arrowing across the lobby. Wouldn’t it be her luck to have her true love fall for her older sister.
Kara pulled a comical face and levered herself off the chair. “What?”
Janine approached them. “You’re supposed to be on the desk.” She gave her wristwatch a significant look. “Our Princess Amore people will be arriving any minute now.”
“Oh, all right. Nice meeting you, Tristan. Come on, William, I want to hear about your horses. I love horses.” Kara bounced across the lobby with William trotting behind her like a puppy after a bone.
Bless you, dear sister, Megan thought.
Megan watched Tristan’s face as he looked at Janine. Most men upon meeting her turned into mush-brained idiots. His eyes didn’t bug o
ut, however, and his jaw didn’t drop. She considered his nonreaction a very good sign. Janine’s reaction puzzled her, though. She gasped, then clamped her lips tight and backed up a step.
Janine began twisting a hank of hair around her finger. Not attraction, Megan mused. Something else, and whatever it was didn’t bode well.
“Tristan Cayle, this is my old—other sister, Janine.”
“Tristan Cayle,” she repeated slowly. She slid a glance at Megan. Question marked her eyes.
“How do you do, ma’am.” He offered a hand, but Janine didn’t so much as acknowledge the gesture.
Never taking her gaze off Tristan, she said, “Meg, may I speak to you for a moment, please.”
It sounded more like an order than a request. Megan shook her head. “We’re having lunch with Mom and the Colonel. Join us. We can talk then.”
“I need to talk to you. Now.”
Anger tightened her forehead and her belly. Janine usually acted as if she were queen and Megan was a lowly serf, but she’d never treated a guest rudely before. Tristan looked increasingly uncomfortable.
New arrivals entering the lobby offered a welcome distraction. “Looks like your Princess Amore people are here.”
“Megan? Please.”
“Oh, look.” Megan pointed to the woman leading the way into the lobby. “I bet that’s the princess herself. Better go make her feel welcome, Ninny.”
Janine shot Tristan a filthy look and turned away.
So angry she didn’t dare open her mouth for fear of what might pop out, Megan glowered at her sister’s stiff back.
Finally she trusted herself to not say anything stupid. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I just…I mean—she was rude to you! I can’t imagine why she’s acting that way.”
He scratched the back of his head then slid a finger under his shirt collar and tugged at it. “It’s peculiar, all right.” His smile reassured her somewhat. “Maybe it’s that reincarnation thing you were telling me about.” He caught William’s attention and gestured for him to leave the desk where guests gathered to check in.
“You made her mad in another life?” She giggled at the idea. Men never got Janine’s goat—not in this lifetime, anyway. “In any case, I hope you’re not too upset. My family is kind of weird under the best circumstances, but I don’t want you thinking we don’t have manners.”
He raised his big shoulders in a lazy shrug. “I’ve got a family full of characters myself.” Watching William sidle away from the desk, he added, “I’m traveling with the biggest one. He’s not too happy with the idea of me courting a lady.”
His old-fashioned speech gave her shivers.
William dropped onto a chair and sprawled out his long legs. “I guess this place is okay.”
“We’ve got some nice horses in our stable. The best way to see this country is on horseback.”
“It’d be okay,” he said, his voice and expression carefully masked. “Kara says she likes to ride.”
“She’s a wonderful rider. When we lived in Germany, she and I belonged to a riding club. We did some showing and competition jumping.” Megan watched his hands fumble and twitch, plucking nervously at his shirt. So, she thought, a crush on Kara. “Are you fellows ready to eat?”
“Purple suits,” Tristan muttered.
“Pardon?”
He nodded toward the desk. Eleven women were in the process of registering. All wore suits in various shades of purple. Megan turned on the chair in order to see better. “Princess Amore,” she said. “I think the tall lady with blond hair is the princess herself.”
“Princess?”
“Princess Amore is a cosmetics line. The company is run by Daniella Falconetti, who supposedly is the daughter of a Spanish duke or an Italian prince or something. Purple is her trademark. I saw a write-up about her in a life-style magazine. She lives in a mansion where everything from the furniture to the kitchen tiles is purple.” She snickered into her hand. “Looks like she makes her entourage wear purple, too.”
Tristan chuckled, following with his gaze a bellboy pushing a luggage cart laden to overflowing with purple leather luggage. William muttered about the weirdness of women.
Megan had been obsessed with her Olympic aspirations and obsessed by joining the army. A fixation on a particular color, however, seemed way too strange. She urged Tristan and William to follow her.
As they passed the desk, the blond lady glanced at Tristan, then did a double-take. Hot color flared on her cheekbones. She gasped, loudly.
Tristan Cayle had an unusual effect on women, Megan decided. The blonde thrust out her arms, parting her purple-suited followers like a lawn mower through tall grass. She pointed directly at Tristan’s face, and her ivory-tipped finger quivered. On stiff legs, her high heels clacking sharply, she stalked toward Tristan.
Tristan exchanged a puzzled look with Megan before returning the woman’s attention. “Ma’am?”
“You,” she said breathlessly. “All these years and it’s you.”
“Pardon me, ma’am? Do I know—?”
“You look at me as if I am a stranger! Me, Daniella? You dare deny me? Your wife?”
She slapped him.
Chapter Four
Women slapped men in the movies, not in real life. Or so Megan had always thought. Especially not beautiful, elegant women wearing thousand-dollar designer suits. But there was nothing elegant about the imprint of Daniella Falconetti’s perfectly manicured hand flaring fiery red on Tristan’s cheek.
Tristan stood rigid, his arms hanging at his sides and the whites showing around his pupils.
The woman drew back her arm to slap again and Megan grabbed her wrist. She squealed and struggled, but though taller, heavier and furious, she was no match for Megan’s strength. Megan pushed, forcing her to step away from Tristan or fall. She stumbled in her high heels before catching the edge of the registration desk.
“Are you out of your mind?” Megan dropped her hold on Daniella, glimpsing red marks she’d left on the woman’s wrist, and turned to Tristan. He gave himself a shake and tugged at his lapels while Megan fluttered her fingers over his reddened cheek. “Are you okay?”
Wife. Daniella Falconetti was Tristan’s wife?
She shoved against his chest. “You said your wife is dead. What kind of—?”
“Nicky!” The woman’s mouth twisted in a snarl. She shook a fist at Tristan, and a pair of purple cloisonné bangle bracelets rattled. “All these years. You think I forget? You think you can forget what you have done to me, Nicky? Daniella Falconetti? Me?” Her accent made her sound like Sophia Loren.
Megan thrust out a hand, keeping her at bay. “Wait a minute. His name isn’t Nicky, it’s Tristan. You’re making a big mistake, lady.”
Tristan touched his cheek, then glanced at his fingers as if expecting blood. Daniella’s purple-clad companions crowded around her, murmuring in hushed horror among themselves.
“I knew it!” Janine exclaimed. Head high, eyes flashing, she looked ready to find a rope and lead a lynch mob. “It is him!”
Megan exchanged a puzzled glance with Tristan. “Him who?” she asked. “What is wrong with you people?”
Shaking a fist at Tristan’s face, Janine exclaimed, “Don’t you see who this is, Meg? He’s lost weight and changed his hair, but it’s him. Quentin—Bradley, whatever name he’s using.” She snarled at Tristan. “That’s a crappy dye job. Your roots are showing. Did you really think it would fool anybody? You’ve got some nerve coming back here after what you did.”
Megan drew a total blank as to what her sister was babbling about.
“Nicky,” Daniella said. “Nicky Alonza, the love of my life. Thief! Reprobate! It’s been twenty years since you impoverished me, betrayed me, robbed me of my trust, but I see your face every night in my dreams. You know who you are. Dare not deny it.”
Megan looked between her sister, Daniella and Tristan. Comprehension slowly dawned. Janine thought Tristan was Quentin Bayliss, als
o known as Bradley Carter—and countless other names—a con artist who married wealthy women and stole their assets. Last year Carter had used the Duke family and Elk River Resort as part of a complicated scheme to bilk Megan’s sister-in-law out of more than a million dollars. Apparently Daniella thought Tristan was the con artist, too. Megan stared hard at Tristan’s handsome, confused face.
He held up a hand. “Ladies, pardon me, ladies. You all got me mixed up. My name’s Tristan Cayle, and I hail from Powder, Wyoming. I’m not this Nicky fellow or Quentin Bradley, either.”
Kara slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “That’s who he looks like.”
Megan stuck two fingers in her mouth and blasted a shrill whistle. It acted like a mute button on the crowd. “Thank you.” She smiled sweetly. “Janine, Miss Falconetti, you’re making a mistake. This is my friend, Tristan—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Meg,” Janine said. She clamped her hands on her hips and glowered at Tristan. “Did you think no one would recognize you? What is this? You’re after my sister for revenge? Huh?”
Touching his cheek again, Tristan looked around at the gathering of females. Everyone stared back at him, some in anger, some in confusion, but a few near the back of the crowd looked amused. His gaze settled on Megan. She saw confusion mingled with anger in his eyes. Hating herself for the doubts, she searched his face for any similarity to the con artist. Bradley Carter had wrought a great deal of damage against her family, and for a few seconds she wondered if somehow she’d been sweet-talked by a criminal.
Despite the anger, his eyes were warmly beautiful, lacking the faintest trace of guile. Her doubts vanished.
“You’re crazy, Janine,” Megan said. “Shut up.”
She spotted her father entering the lobby. She clamped her arms over her chest and smiled in triumph. One thing her father never, under any circumstances, tolerated was any member of the staff—including family—being rude to guests. Megan couldn’t imagine anything ruder than this situation.