A Risky Affair

by Maureen Smith

  Rita, returning from the kitchen with a pitcher of orange juice, sputtered with indignation. “Crandall Thorne! Is that any way to treat a guest? I swear you wake up on the wrong side of the bed every morning! Just sit yourself down so I can fix you a plate. Ornery as the devil, that’s what you are. Lord have mercy. And for your information, I invited Dane over this morning. Gloria baked one of her raspberry truffle cakes for him to take to his aunt’s house this afternoon for Sunday brunch.”

  Crandall claimed a chair at the table, grumbling, “I’m sure you didn’t tell him to be here this early.”

  Dane shrugged, unperturbed by the old man’s rancor. “What can I say? It’s Sunday. There was no traffic.”

  “And you didn’t anticipate this?”

  Dane’s expression was one of wide-eyed innocence. “I’m from Houston, sir. There’s always traffic in Houston.”

  A muffled sound across the table drew his attention to Solange, who looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh, though the twinkling mirth in her dark eyes gave her away. Dane winked at her, and was rewarded by the flush that spread high across her cheekbones.

  Crandall, watching the exchange over the rim of his glasses, grunted and reached for the folded newspaper Rita had placed on the table beside him.

  “It’s such a glorious day outside,” Rita remarked once the meal was under way. While she, Solange and Dane enjoyed a lavish country breakfast, Crandall, for health reasons, had to content himself with a bowl of oatmeal, a serving of fresh fruit and a slice of dry wheat toast.

  In retaliation for the old man’s earlier rudeness, Dane asked Rita to pass him the plate of fragrant buttermilk biscuits, then took perverse pleasure in watching as Crandall’s hungry gaze followed the plate across the table. When Dane made an exaggerated show of biting into a hot, flaky roll, Crandall’s eyes narrowed on his face in a manner that promised swift retribution.

  Very deliberately, Crandall picked up his glass of orange juice, then paused, his head tipped thoughtfully to one side. “Speaking of beauty, how’s that young lady you’ve been seeing for the past month, Roarke? The dental hygienist?”

  Dane nearly choked on his food.

  “What was her name again?” Crandall pondered aloud. “Allison, Cynthia, Rachel—”

  “Renee,” Dane supplied hoarsely. “Her name is Renee. And, uh, we’re not dating anymore.”

  “Aw, that’s too bad. She seemed like such a nice girl, much classier than that exotic dancer you were seeing last month. As if there’s anything remotely ‘exotic’ about what those girls do for a living.” With a lamentable shake of his head, Crandall smiled wryly at Solange. “Dane here is quite the ladies’ man. If you’re not careful, my dear, you might be next on his Rolodex. He seems to be working in alphabetical order these days. Renee, Solange—”

  “Oh, hush!” Rita scolded. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassing the poor boy?”

  Crandall chuckled good-naturedly. “Nonsense, woman. It takes a lot more than that to embarrass Dane Roarke, isn’t that right, son?”

  Dane inclined his head, conceding the match point to Thorne, whose answering smile whispered of triumph. Dane made a mental note to remind his cousin Daniela not to discuss his love life with others—least of all a ruthless old man who had the keen memory of an elephant.

  When Dane finally chanced a look at Solange, she was frowning slightly, studying him through cool, narrowed eyes. If he could’ve strangled Thorne and gotten away with it, he would have.

  Rita reached over and gave his hand a gentle, conciliatory pat. “I meant to ask you yesterday, Dane. How are your parents doing?”

  Reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Solange, Dane answered, “They’re doing well, Ms. Rita. Dad’s finally scaling back at the shop and letting my brother Derrick take more of an active role in running the business.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” Rita said approvingly. “Your mother must be thrilled. I know she’s been pleading with him for years to cut back on his workload and spend more time at home with her.”

  “Yes, ma’am, she has been.” Dane grinned. “Last week she even convinced him to take pottery classes with her.”

  Rita whooped with delight. “Good for her! I don’t know how she managed that feat, but I’m glad she did.”

  “Me, too. Taking a class together will be good for both of them.”

  “Mmm, hmm. I know what else will be good for them. That cruise they’re going on next month.” Smiling broadly, Rita turned to Solange. “Dane is sending his parents on a Caribbean cruise for their fortieth wedding anniversary. Isn’t that awfully sweet of him?”

  Solange looked at Dane, a faint smile flitting around the corners of her mouth. “Yes, it is.”

  Dane shrugged dispassionately. “It’s no big deal. They’ve never been on a cruise before—they were long overdue.”

  Rita guffawed. “Pay him no mind,” she told Solange. “He’s being far too modest. His mama tells me he’s always done thoughtful things for her, ever since he was a little boy. Whenever she had to work nights cleaning office buildings, and she would drag her tired self home in the mornings after his father had already left for the shop, she said Dane would always be waiting for her with a hot bowl of lumpy oatmeal or a plate of runny eggs and burnt bacon.” Rita laughed. “She told me those were some of the best meals she’d ever eaten.”

  Dane couldn’t help but chuckle at Rita’s not-so-subtle attempt to undo the damage caused by Crandall’s underhanded revelation that Dane had an active love life. He was a little embarrassed by all the attention—until he glanced over at Solange and saw a new softness in her eyes as she looked at him.

  He wasn’t the only one who noticed. Scowling at Rita, Crandall grumbled, “For someone who plans to make a trip to the market before noon, you sure aren’t moving very fast, woman.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Rita said sweetly. “I still have plenty of time to get there before it closes.” When Crandall grunted and returned his attention to the newspaper he’d been reading, she winked conspiratorially at Dane. He grinned and forked up a bite of pancake.

  Rita turned to Solange with a mildly inquisitive smile. “What do your parents do for a living, Solange?”

  Dane glanced up from his plate in time to see a shadow cross Solange’s face. “My parents passed away in January,” she said quietly.

  “Oh, no,” Rita said sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, baby. I had no idea.”

  “That’s all right. You had no way of knowing.” Solange offered a tremulous smile. “To answer your question, they were farmers.”

  “You grew up on a farm?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So you know what it’s like to wake up at the crack of dawn to milk a cow, feed a coop full of noisy chickens, bale hay and muck out horse stalls—before going to school?”

  Solange grinned. “That about sums it up. Did you grow up on a farm, too, Ms. Rita?”

  “You bet I did,” Rita said proudly. “I was raised on a small farm right outside San Antonio. Lived there until I was thirty, when my folks sold the property to some land developers. Saddest day of my life, having to walk away from the only home I’d ever known.”

  “I would have felt the same way,” Solange ruefully admitted. “I once threatened to run away from home if my parents even thought about selling the farm.”

  Laughing, Rita reached over and squeezed Solange’s hand. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, child. I told Crandall he was doing the right thing by hiring you. No one understands the meaning of hard work better than a girl who was raised on a farm.”

  “Not that I’ve ever needed to consult you on my hiring decisions,” Crandall intoned dryly from behind the newspaper he was reading. “But if it makes you feel more important, then by all means, take credit for my decision to hire Miss Washington.”

  Rita rolled her eyes, drawing low chuckles from Solange and Dane. Their gazes met and held across the table before Solange quickly glanced
away, busying herself with pouring syrup over the remainder of her pancakes.

  Rita divided a speculative look between them. After another moment, she smiled and clapped her hands together. “I have a wonderful idea! Dane, why don’t you join Solange when she goes horseback riding this morning?”

  Solange’s head snapped up so fast it was a wonder she didn’t give herself whiplash. “Wha—?”

  “Dane has been to the ranch several times but has never gone riding,” Rita told her. “Today is a perfect opportunity to rectify that, since you’re already going. You two can keep each other company.”

  Solange’s eyes darted wildly from Rita to Dane. She looked like she’d rather be trapped in a very dark room with Jeffrey Dahmer than be forced to endure another minute of Dane’s company. He didn’t know whether to be amused or offended.

  Crandall was glaring balefully at Rita over the top of his newspaper. “Mr. Roarke isn’t here to go horseback riding,” he snapped.

  “I don’t see why not,” Rita said pragmatically, as if the matter were as simple as flipping on a light switch. “He has to wait until Gloria arrives with the cake, anyway, which won’t be until she gets out of church. What better way to pass the time than to go horseback riding with Solange? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind his company, would you, baby?”

  Solange looked like she minded very much, but was too polite to say so. “Um…no, not at all,” she mumbled.

  Rita gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Then it’s all settled,” she said briskly, confirming Dane’s long-held suspicion that it was she, not Crandall, who ran things at Casa Thorne.

  Lifting the porcelain carafe, Rita glanced innocently around the table. “More coffee anyone?”

  Chapter 11

  Half an hour later, perched astride a chestnut-colored sorrel named Aurora—handpicked for her by the stable boy because the color of her hair reminded him of the horse’s—Solange tried her best to concentrate on enjoying the scenic jaunt through the lush, rolling acres of Crandall Thorne’s property. A procession of large Spanish oaks flanked the dirt trail she was following, and patches of pale blue sky shone through the canopy of dry branches like slivers of stained glass. A cool, invigorating breeze, ripe with the scent of pine and earth, caressed her face and sifted through the strands of her hair, loosening her ponytail. It was a glorious day, perfect for being outdoors.

  All she could think about was the man riding alongside her.

  Seated astride a black, sleekly muscled Arabian, Dane looked relaxed and completely in control of his mount. Dressed in a ribbed black turtleneck, black jeans and black boots, he seemed an innate extension of the horse, as dark and powerful as a rebel warrior leading an army into battle. For someone who’d only been on horseback “once or twice” before, he sure could have fooled her.

  “I think that’s the longest you’ve looked at me all morning,” came his deep, amused drawl.

  Solange jerked her gaze away, heat suffusing her cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare at you.”

  Dane chuckled softly. “You won’t hear me complaining. I’ll take being stared at over being ignored any day of the week.”

  Solange felt a traitorous stab of guilt. “I haven’t been ignoring you,” she lied.

  “No? You’ve hardly said three words to me all morning.”

  Solange shifted slightly in the leather saddle, keeping her eyes carefully averted. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Hmm. Boyfriend trouble?”

  She bristled, whipping her head around to glare at him. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  His crooked grin was a slash of white in his dark, handsome face. “I figured as much. So where is he? You left him behind in Haskell?”

  Solange said nothing, staring resolutely ahead at the rugged mountain range that loomed in the distance.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Dane invited, undaunted by her silence. “I’m a very good listener.”

  Solange snorted derisively. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Not at all,” he said silkily. “Truth is, I don’t do much talking—or listening—with other women.”

  At the unmistakable implication, Solange’s mind was filled with an image of him, naked and glistening, clamped between some woman’s legs. Inexplicably, a knot of anger tightened in her chest. Without a word, she dug her heel into the horse’s side and spurred the animal into a full gallop.

  Dane thundered after her, pulling up beside her before she could get very far. Aurora, either yielding to the sudden proximity of the larger horse or the leashed power of its rider, slowed to a docile gait.

  Dane’s expression was grim. “Don’t pass judgment on my personal life,” he said curtly, “and I won’t subject you to crass innuendo about it. Agreed?”

  Solange swallowed, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Fine,” she bit off. “And the next time I tell you to mind your own business, please do so.”

  “Fine.” Dane regarded her in stony silence, a muscle working in his tightly clenched jaw. After another moment, he nudged his horse forward, choosing to lead the way instead of riding alongside her.

  Solange watched him sullenly, feeling like a chastened child. Truth be told, she felt small and petty. Dane had been nothing but kind to her, and she’d repaid his kindness by treating him like an unwelcome houseguest. It wasn’t his fault she found herself torn between a fierce attraction to him and her unresolved feelings for her ex-boyfriend. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that Lamar’s unexpected marriage proposal had sent her world tilting on its axis, shaking the very foundation she’d spent the past year trying to rebuild. She hated that she’d spent half the night tossing and turning, her mind churning with a thousand what-ifs and visions of the safe, happy future she could have with Lamar; yet the moment Dane had sauntered into the room that morning, she’d had trouble remembering her own name, much less her newfound resolve to keep her distance from him until she made a decision about Lamar.

  Her eyes traced the strong lines of his broad back, which tapered down to a trim waist and that firm, magnificent butt that actually made her envy the horse he sat upon.

  She could not get involved with him. Crandall Thorne’s tactless slip of tongue—if it could be called that—had confirmed her belief that having a relationship with Dane Roarke was out of the question. Although Crandall might have exaggerated about Dane dating women according to the alphabetized entries in his Rolodex, Solange had no doubt that Dane ran through enough females to fill several address books. He probably didn’t know the first thing about monogamy and commitment.

  Don’t pass judgment on my personal life, he’d told her. And he was right. What he did in private—or public, for that matter—was none of her business.

  Especially if she decided to marry Lamar.

  Solange was so absorbed in her thoughts that she lost track of her surroundings until Aurora came to a sudden stop. The sight that greeted Solange brought a soft gasp to her lips.

  They had reached a clearing that led them to the top of a ridge, and below them lay the ranch and surrounding valley, lush and green like a rumpled velvet curtain. And beyond the valley, the mountains rose toward the heavens—proud, majestic sentinels framed against an endless expanse of brilliant blue sky. The view was so stunning, so utterly spectacular, that Solange feared it would disappear, like a mirage, if she blinked.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

  “I know,” Dane murmured quietly beside her. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Breathtaking. I’ve never seen anything like it. Talk about God’s country.”

  “Yeah. In the hands of a devil.”

  Solange let out a choked laugh. Shaking her head, she shot Dane a look of mild reproach. “I thought I told you to stop badmouthing my boss.”

  His mouth curved in an unabashedly irreverent grin. “You did. I never actually agreed to comply, though.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t. What is it with you
two, anyway? You bicker worse than George and Florence on The Jeffersons.”

  Dane chuckled, leaning forward in the saddle. “I’m almost afraid to ask which one of us you think is Florence.”

  Solange laughed again, the tension between them all but forgotten. Gazing out across the valley and to the mountains beyond, she felt her breathing slow to an almost meditative state. She gave a long, dreamy sigh. “Crandall Thorne is very lucky to own this property. To have access to this incredible view anytime he wants. I hope he truly appreciates it.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Dane murmured. “According to his son, Caleb, the old man has learned to appreciate a lot of things he didn’t four years ago.”

  “What happened four years ago?” Solange asked curiously.

  “He was diagnosed with acute renal failure. It nearly killed him. He had to undergo a complete lifestyle change, which included cutting back on his workload and retreating to a quieter, more peaceful environment.”

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t get any more peaceful than this,” said Solange, gesturing to encompass their scenic surroundings. “Only a fool would question the healing powers of this place.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  She arched a brow. “Wait, let me guess. Crandall didn’t want to live here?”

  “Not at first,” Dane drawled. “He likened it to being banished to the wilderness. Once his health began to improve, however, he came to his senses and realized life was too damn short to waste it on looking gift horses in the mouth.”

  Hearing the trace of grudging respect in his voice, Solange hid a knowing smile. Something told her Dane would rather be tortured by an army of terrorists than admit to respecting anything about Crandall Thorne.

  “I’m definitely glad he decided to stay here,” she said. “Not only for his own benefit, but for mine, as well.” As Dane watched her, she lifted her face to the pale morning sun and exhaled on a deep, contented sigh. “I could just sit here forever and daydream.”