“Oh, my...” The box felt warm from the contact with his body. She glanced from it to him questioningly.
“Go on. Open it.”
Carefully she did, her breath catching as she saw what lay inside. Nestled against a bed of blue satin was a single, heart-shaped diamond on a gleaming gold chain. “Oh, Sterling, it’s beautiful,” she exclaimed.
“It’s for our one-month anniversary.” He picked it up and fastened it around her neck. He hesitated, then added quietly, “And so you’ll never forget that my heart is yours to keep.”
Tenderness washed through her. She slid her hand around his neck and tugged his head down to hers. “Thank you,” she whispered, her soft lips brushing his mouth.
His arms came around her and for a long, satisfying moment there was nobody in the world but the two of them.
Finally Sterling lifted his head, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re sure I can’t talk you into bed?” he asked huskily.
Susan smiled, knowing he was teasing and loving him for it. “Later,” she promised.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Because once I do get you there, I don’t intend to get out for a while.”
“That sounds perfect to me.”
Hand in hand, they walked out of the room and went to celebrate their marriage.
Don’t miss the next installment of the
Texas Cattleman’s Club—
when Forrest Cunningham attempts to make
good on his marriage pact to Becky Sullivan in
BILLIONAIRE BRIDEGROOM
by Peggy Moreland
Coming to you from Silhouette Desire
in October 1999.
And now for a sneak preview of
BILLIONAIRE BRIDEGROOM,
please turn the page.
Royal, Texas, 1987
Sweat poured down Forrest Cunningham’s face. After chasing steers through the scrub brush all afternoon under a hot West Texas sun, his boots—and his butt—were dragging as he led his horse to the rails of the corral.
With his thoughts focused on the beer iced down and waiting for him in a cooler propped on the tailgate, he tied his horse to the corral’s top rail, then cut a quick path to the rear of the truck. He fished a cold brew from the cooler, popped the top, then, with a sigh of pure pleasure, lifted the beer.
“Hey, Woody! Wait! I get first sip!”
He sighed and dutifully lowered the can. It was a ritual. Becky always got the first sip. And Forrest allowed it. Just as he allowed her to call him “Woody” and live to tell it. Five years his junior, and a neighbor for as long as he could remember, Becky Sullivan was like a kid sister to him, and, as such, enjoyed full rights.
He angled his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as he watched her charging toward him, her long legs churning, her hand flattened on the top of her battered cowboy hat to keep the wind from ripping it off her head.
She skidded to a stop in front of him and snatched the can from his hand. She bumped up the brim of her hat, knocking it off, and thick red hair fell to pool around her shoulders. Lifting the beer in a silent toast, she shot Forrest a wink, then tipped back her head and drank deeply. -
Forrest knew damn good and well he could kiss that beer goodbye. Becky Sullivan might be only eighteen, but she drank like a man.
Truth be told, Becky could do most things as well as a man. She could out-ride, out-rope and out-shoot just about any male in Ward county. He supposed she’d learned these skills out of necessity, being as she’d pretty much raised herself and was responsible for whatever work was accomplished on her family’s ranch, the Rusty Corral.
He fished out a new can from the cooler. After popping the top, be hooked an arm around her slim shoulders and headed her toward the shade provided by the trailer and plopped down.
Shoulder to shoulder they stared out across the pasture, sipping their beers, while the cattle bawled pitifully in the corral, the silence between them a comfortable one.
“The Texas Cattleman’s Ball is coming up in a couple of weeks,” Becky offered after a bit.
Forrest pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and settled in for a nap. “Yeah, it is.”
“Who’re you takin’?”
“Lyndean Sawyer from over in Midland.”
“Haven’t heard you mention her name before.”
Something in her voice made him nudge his hat from his eyes to peer at her. She was squinting hard at the sun, the corners of her mouth pulled down into a frown. “No. Just a date,” he said slowly. When her frown deepened, he asked, “Why do you ask?”
She lifted her beer, her movements tense and jerky, and took a sip. “Just curious.”
“Are you going to the ball this year?”
“Nope. Nobody asked me.”
Surprised by the splotch of red that suddenly appeared on her cheeks, he gave her a poke with his beer can. “Oh, come on. A pretty girl like you? Boys’ll be tripping all over themselves for the chance to ask you to the ball. Just you wait and see.”
As he stared at her, he was sure that he saw her chin quiver. And were those tears making her eyes sparkle? Naw, he told himself. Becky wasn’t the crying type. Yet, as he watched, a fat tear slipped over her lid and down her cheek.
He tossed aside his beer and slung an arm around her shoulder, drawing her against his side. “Aw, Becky. Don’t cry.”
She lifted her head and turned to look at him. “Woody, do you think I’ll ever get married?”
The hopelessness in her voice touched his heart and made him a little uneasy. The word marriage always had that effect on Forrest. “I don’t know, Becky. I suppose you will, if you want to.”
“I don’t think I will,” she murmured after a long moment. “All the guys just think of me as one of them, never as a female.” She choked back a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “I can see it now. Thirty-years-old, a dried up old maid and still working the Rusty Corral all by myself.”
Forrest heard the defeat in her voice, as well as the loneliness. “Tell you what, Becky,” he offered. “If you’re not married by your thirtieth birthday, hell, I’ll marry you.”
She turned to look at him, her eyes wide. “Do you mean it?”
“Damn straight.” He pecked a kiss on her cheek, then scooted back against the trailer, dipping the brim of his hat low over his eyes again. “Of course, by the time you turn thirty, you’ll probably be married and have a litter of snot-nosed kids hanging on to your belt loops.”
Or at least he hoped she did. Forrest Cunningham was a man whose word was as good as law...but he sure as hell wasn’t planning on getting married.
ISBN : 978-1-4592-5838-9
CINDERELLA’S TYCOON
Copyright © 1999 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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