Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance
Page 1
Table of Contents
Book Description
Epilogue
Prologue
Epilogue
Books by Alix Nichols
Nathan
Clarissa
Cowboy
Author’s Note
Playing for Keeps
Lucas
Isabelle
About the Author
Clarissa and the Cowboy
Alix Nichols
Contents
Books by Alix Nichols
Book Description
1. Nathan
2. Clarissa
3. Nathan
4. Clarissa
5. Cowboy
6. Cowboy
7. Clarissa
8. Nathan
9. Nathan
10. Clarissa
11. Clarissa
12. Nathan
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Playing for Keeps
Book Description
Prologue
1. Lucas
2. Isabelle
3. Lucas
4. Isabelle
5. Lucas
6. Isabelle
7. Lucas
8. Isabelle
9. Lucas
10. Isabelle
11. Lucas
12. Isabelle
13. Lucas
Epilogue
Books by Alix Nichols
About the Author
Books by Alix Nichols
The Darcy Brothers
Find You in Paris
Raphael’s Fling
The Perfect Catch
Clarissa and the Cowboy
Game Time
Playing with Fire
Playing for Keeps
Playing Dirty (Fall 2017)
La Bohème
Winter’s Gift
What If It’s Love?
Falling for Emma
Under My Skin
Amanda’s Guide to Love
Copyright © 2017 Alix Nichols
All Rights Reserved.
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Details can be found at the end of the book.
Book Description
Clarissa & the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance
*Clarissa & the Cowboy is a hot and hilarious standalone within the Darcy Brothers series.*
~ Nathan ~
Right now Clarissa, our tour guide, is talking about prehistoric cave paintings.
In a moment, she’ll point at the mammoth… Wait for it….
“Look at the mammoth on your right,” she says.
Told ya! I’ve done her tour six times in two months.
Everyone gawks at the mammoth.
My eyes stay trained on Clarissa’s lovely face.
After the tour, I’ll ask her out, fully expecting her to say no.
I mean, why would a hotshot Parisian archeologist go on a date with a dairy farmer from the sticks?
But I need to hear Clarissa’s no.
Maybe then I’ll be able to forget her.
~ Clarissa ~
Nathan, aka Cowboy, is here again. Staring at me again.
I ignore him.
Just as I’ve ignored the hot, disturbing dreams I’ve been having lately.
Dreams in which a handsome cowboy undresses me.
Kisses me.
Pleasures me into oblivion.
Crazy dreams!
In real life, I’m going back to Paris to start a new job in a big museum.
The one thing I don’t need during my last week in Burgundy is a roll in the hay with Nathan.
Even if that roll turns out to be better than my craziest dreams…
For a VERY LIMITED TIME, this edition comes with a BONUS standalone: Playing for Keeps.
1
Nathan
Anne-Chantal gives me a knowing smile and pushes my ticket across the counter. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.”
My tone is polite and hopefully formal enough to discourage any comments she might be tempted to make.
“The tour starts in five minutes,” she says.
I nod and, exhaling a sigh of relief, move to turn away.
“You’re really into prehistoric cave art these days, aren’t you?” she says, tilting her head to the side.
“What’s wrong with enjoying—”
“Nathan,” she butts in, arching an eyebrow. “This is your fifth tour of the Darcy Grotto since January.”
Not that you’ve been counting or anything, I itch to say, but decide against it.
Anne-Chantal is one of Ma’s bosom friends and a frequent guest at the farm. Even though she sometimes boxed my ears when I was a kid, I owe her respect.
Anyway, busybodies are inevitable when you live in a village where everyone knows everyone.
“Fifth, you say?” I feign surprise. “I guess I am really into cave art.”
With that, I shove the ticket into the pocket of my jeans and march to the area where two dozen visitors are waiting for our guide, Dr. Penelope Muller, to show up and start the tour.
Her scrawny assistant Nina arrives first and delivers her introductory spiel. “It’s going to be chilly inside the Grotto. So, if you left your coat or jacket in the car, you might want to go get it now.”
Several people dash out.
As before every tour, I can’t help wondering if Nina ever eats anything beyond the occasional lettuce leaf. If I wasn’t wary of giving her false hope, I’d take her to the farm and make her sample our dairy products.
If Girault cheese and butter don’t transform her into a foodie, then nothing will.
“Nathan, hi! You’re back.” Nina smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
We cheek kiss.
Like her boss, Nina isn’t a local. But she claims she loves Burgundy with its lush vegetation, gentle rivers, and hills. She also loves country life. And, above all, she loves farm animals. Especially, cows. Nina’s most cherished dream? To settle down in the region and become the wife of a dairy farmer.
At least that’s what she told me when we bumped into each other about a month ago, in early February, at the opening of the cattle fair in Auxerre.
I asked her if her boss shared her aspirations.
“Clarissa?”
“Um… I thought her first name was Penelope?”
“It is.” Nina played with a lock of her hair. “Clarissa is her middle name. She doesn’t care for her first name and only uses it professionally.”
Clarissa.
I took a moment to adjust my go-to fantasy in which I whisper “Penelope” while pushing hilt deep into her welcoming heat. As sexual fantasies go, this one is as much vanilla as it is a pipe dream. Thing is, I’ve never been with a woman—let alone someone as refined and far removed from my world as Dr. Muller—who could fully accommodate my length.
I wouldn’t call myself a freak of nature, but there’s no denying I’m larger than average. A lot larger. My neighbor and friend Celine once suggested I should book an appointment with a specialized surgeon to see if they can “trim” my “thingy” a bit.
“I know a woman who had her breasts reduced from an F cup to B cup, and it changed her life,” Celine said.
No way in hell was my answer.
Then she came up with another idea. Why not try full penetration with a professional first? To be honest, I’d toyed with the idea a few years back, but I couldn’t bring myself to pay for sex.
“That’s because you aren’t desperate enough,” Celine offered when I rejected her second scheme. “Unlike the average farmer, you never h
ad any trouble getting laid.”
My guess is that by “average farmer” she meant herself.
Anyway, when I asked Nina what Clarissa thought of Burgundy, she rolled her eyes. According to her, Dr. Muller will get out of here as fast as lightning the day her research at the Grotto is done.
Of course, she would.
I don’t know where Nina gets her romantic notions about country life from, but running a big farm is one of the hardest jobs I can think of.
A cheerful “hello” uttered in the world’s most pleasing voice brings me back to the present moment.
Clarissa has arrived, sharp on time.
Dressed in a silky white blouse, black pants, a tailored black jacket and a pretty scarf around her neck, she’s as classy as ever. Another friend of mine, Danny, who came along on my third tour, claimed she wasn’t beautiful. Then again, Danny’s standard for female beauty is Pamela Anderson from Baywatch.
Clarissa’s breasts are pert little handfuls, nowhere near Pamela’s cup range. The tip of her thin high-bridged nose looks down. She wears glasses, very little makeup, and has naturally brown hair.
And yet… to me, she’s the sexiest thing alive.
Maybe I have a hand fetish.
Clarissa’s delicate, long-fingered hands are out of this world. But they aren’t the only thing she has going for her. On my first and fourth visits, she wore a skirt, giving me a chance to see her shapely long legs. Not just see them—study them, caress them with my gaze, and commit their lines to memory.
Then, there’s her voice. It’s clear, velvety sound makes my heart beat faster. Her intelligent gaze turns my brain to pulp. So much so that I still haven’t plucked up the courage to ask her my prepared questions during the tour and ask her out after the tour.
Clarissa’s competence and subtle humor leave me in awe.
As for the grace with which she carries herself, it has my cock on speed dial.
“Stop staring. You’ll burn a hole through her,” Anne-Chantal whispers with an amused smile on her face as she sails past me.
Great.
I can see her calling my mother the moment I’m out of earshot to tell her what she thinks about my sixth visit. Blanket denial combined with insinuations that the woman is so bored with her job she sees things that don’t exist will be my best line of defense.
Anne-Chantal unlocks the heavy door and ushers everyone in before closing it behind us. I guess the animals painted on these walls are too precious to risk some moron creeping in at night and spraying his own version of a wild beast over them.
“Bone fragments and tools made by the Neanderthal man who lived here some 60,000 years ago were found in the Bison Cave and Hyena Cave,” Clarissa explains as we begin the tour.
Having taken it five times already, I know what comes next, even though she does improvise a lot. The group hangs on her every word, staring at the masterfully painted reindeer, mammoths, rhinos, and horses.
“The beautiful Paleolithic art you’re looking at,” Clarissa says, “is the work of the Cro-Magnon—the modern humans—who moved in here some 40,000 years ago.”
As she takes us to the Mammoth Hall, the largest of the interconnected caves, she explains that until two decades ago, no one knew about the existence of the paintings. Tourists came to the Grotto to admire its stalactites, stalagmites, and underground lakes. They were given a piece of stalactite as a souvenir at the end of the visit, and they left unaware that these caves held an extraordinary human-made treasure hidden under a layer of calcite.
As we progress from cave to cave, I keep staring at Clarissa. She doesn’t look at me, not once.
All too soon, the tour is over.
Several visitors surround Clarissa to ask their questions.
I hover by the entrance for a few minutes, and then stride out and get into my car. As I drive off, I decide that I should forget about her. It’s foolish to expect Dr. Muller, a lady and a scholar, the young and ambitious curator of the Darcy Grotto Museum, to care for a local farmer.
She could also be frigid.
Alternatively, she could be only interested in older men.
Or women.
Or group sex.
And even if I did manage to get under her skirt, what would be the point? I’ll give her my heart—she practically has it already—but the moment there’s an opening in some fancy museum in Paris or another big city, she’ll zoom out of here like a meteor.
Ah, the voice of reason!
Thank you.
I’m giving up.
2
Clarissa
After dessert, everyone moves to the drawing room, splitting into small groups. The butler serves a selection of sweet wines for ladies, whiskey and eau-de-vie for gentlemen, coffee for me, and a spiced chai tea for the mayor’s wife.
Genevieve sits down by my side on the sofa and spends a few moments watching me watch Sebastian and Diane.
“I’m sure he’s brought her here with the sole purpose of making you jealous,” she says, pointing her chin toward the couple.
Oh, I doubt it.
For the first time in months—make it a year—young Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice has come to a house party at his family estate in Burgundy with a woman on his arm. And, to make sure there was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to her status, he introduced her as “Diane, my girlfriend.”
A tomboyish checkout clerk, Diane is nothing like the regal heiress he dated last year. Nor does she have much in common with the overachieving me, or any other woman I’ve ever seen within flirting distance of Sebastian.
Perhaps that’s why he’s into her.
Because, he is into her.
There’s no way the desire in his eyes when he looks at Diane is fake. Besides, why would he bother scheming when he knows he can have me anytime? Nothing has been said between us, but I’ve dropped enough hints and given him more than enough seductive smiles and glances over the last year.
He knows.
And I know that he knows, even if my self-proclaimed friend Genevieve seems to believe I’m a nerd with zero emotional intelligence.
Last time Genevieve and I crossed paths was at Raphael’s birthday party here at Chateau d’Arcy. I had too much to drink, which had the unfortunate effect of blunting my instincts and loosening my tongue. Genevieve confessed to me she was in love with the middle d’Arcy brother and her childhood friend, Raphael. I admitted I had the hots for the oldest brother, Sebastian.
“Here’s to snagging the two most eligible bachelors in France!” Genevieve raised her glass. “Sebastian is worth a billion, and Raphael isn’t far behind.”
“It’sh not about his money,” I slurred.
“Naturally.” She gave me a wink. “I would never imply something so vulgar.”
My ears still burn with shame every time I remember that exchange.
Truth is, it is a little bit about his money.
Not in the sense that I’m eager to lay my hands on one of the country’s oldest and biggest fortunes. Even though I like nice clothes as much as the next woman, I’d rather make enough to buy them myself than latch onto a man with deep pockets.
No, the way money affects my feelings for Sebastian is subtler than that.
Never mind that he owns a huge fragrance company, multiple houses in France and abroad, a Greek island, a private jet, and one of the largest estates in Burgundy. What matters is that said estate includes the Darcy Grotto and the adjacent museum that I curate. And that makes Sebastian the lucky owner of one of the most ancient and remarkable Paleolithic rock-art caves in Europe.
It’s as if owning those cave paintings were his personal achievement, as if he’d created them or, at least, discovered them himself.
Sebastian is handsome and cultured, albeit aloof. I decided he was very attractive the day I first met him. But I can’t help wondering if I’d be just as impressed if he were a local librarian or a mail carrier.
Or a dairy farmer.
Wait a second! Why is she looking at me? What did Genevieve say?
Panic seizes me as I consider the possibilities.
Apart from inviting me to dinners and house parties at the castle—along with the mayor, his wife, and a bunch of other people—Sebastian has never said or done anything to suggest he was interested in me. What if Genevieve told Diane otherwise? What if she told Diane he and I were seeing each other?
As I sit there, petrified, embarrassment warming my ears and dampening my palms, Sebastian takes Genevieve’s place on Diane’s right. The next moment, he’s kissing her in a way that’s too intimate to watch.
That’s it, I’m out of here.
Easier said than done.
Sebastian intercepts me before I have a chance to sneak out of the room. He says I should stay, for my safety. He hates the idea of me driving home alone on poorly lit countryside roads.
“You’ll sleep at the castle,” he announces in a tone which makes it clear the matter is closed.
Next, he calls the housekeeper and asks her to get one of the guest rooms ready.
I mumble thank you and sit down again, not daring to look at anyone—especially, Diane—and bracing myself for more mortification.