Cinderella's Big Sky Groom

by Christine Rimmer

  Lynn murmured a thank-you; it seemed the safest way to go.

  Lily Mae spotted the ice bucket and the bottle nestled in it. “And what’s this? Champagne?” Her painted-on brows went so high, they threatened to vanish beneath the hard fringe of hair on her forehead. “A special occasion?” She waved a carmine-tipped hand, causing more clattering. “Never mind. Of course it is. It’s always a special occasion when an eligible man and a beautiful single woman enjoy a fine meal together…although I must admit, I had thought—” Lily Mae actually cut herself off. “But never mind about that.”

  “About what?” Lynn asked, regretting the question immediately.

  But Lily Mae surprised her. “Oh, nothing.”

  It wasn’t nothing, and Lynn knew it. She could see the truth in Lily Mae’s over-made-up eyes. The sweet-hearted gossip knew that Trish was after Ross. How could she not know? Who other than Lily Mae would Trish have been pumping for information about the new lawyer in town?

  “Really, hon. It was nothing at all,” Lily Mae repeated. “Sometimes I do run on, and that is a plain fact.” Then she chuckled. “And now I am going to leave you. I’ve a dear friend in town from Billings for the night. She’s in the Ladies right now. I’ll tell you what, I won’t even interrupt you again to introduce her, because I can see that the two of you want to be alone.”

  Lynn opened her mouth to protest that remark, but Ross caught her eye before she spoke. She read his look: What’s the point?

  She had to agree with him. Lily Mae Wheeler would think what she wanted to think. And anything Lynn said to her would only give her an excuse to stay and chat longer.

  “Enjoy those filets,” said Lily Mae. “Don’t they just turn right to butter inside your mouth?”

  “Yes,” Lynn agreed. “They’re delicious.”

  With a last jingling wave, Lily Mae trotted off.

  Ross watched her go. After a moment, he said, “You’ll be relieved to know the hostess is leading her to a table in the far corner, behind a pillar. She won’t be flashing all those capped teeth and shaking her bracelets at us through the rest of the meal, after all.”

  Lynn felt she had to speak up on Lily Mae’s behalf. “She has a good heart.”

  Ross shook his head. “But we’ll be an ‘item’ by tomorrow. When she gets to her regular table at the Hip Hop and starts spreading the news.”

  And what will Trish say when she hears?

  Lynn decided not to think about that. It would work out. She’d explain to her sister that they’d needed to talk about Jenny. Which was the truth.

  Ross picked up his fork again. “It doesn’t matter, does it, what Lily Mae Wheeler thinks or says? We know the real situation, after all. And it’s not as if we’ve been caught doing anything but enjoying a meal together.”

  Their eyes met. She sighed. “You’re right. There’ll be a little talk. And then, when we don’t see each other again, the talk will die down.”

  “Right.” He said the word very low. And then, for several nerve-racking seconds, he said nothing more, only looked at her, making her pulse pound too fast and her face feel overly warm.

  At last he shrugged. “Being talked about is the price you pay for living in a town like Whitehorn, where everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  “Exactly.” Carefully she cut a bite of meat and slipped the delicious morsel between her lips.

  Ross watched her. He liked watching her. Liked it way too much.

  Yes. Too much. Those were the operative words here. He liked watching her too much, was enjoying himself too much.

  He should call a halt right now.

  This was not going to go anywhere. Lynn Taylor might seem a temptress tonight, but he knew damn well that she was an innocent at heart.

  She didn’t want what he wanted, which was to sit here for another hour or so and look at her some more. To listen to her slightly throaty voice, to catch an occasional whiff of that enticing perfume she wore.

  Then, when they’d lingered over the meal for much longer than they should have, he wanted to take her home. To his bed. Where he would enjoy her all the more.

  Until the night was over. At which time, he would want her to go back to her own life and leave him to his.

  And she would want…what? He couldn’t say for sure. But hadn’t she just as much as told him she was looking for a prince?

  Ross Garrison was no prince. And nothing was going to happen between him and Lynn Taylor.

  Looked at from just about any angle, seducing her would be a fool’s move.

  He’d seen the way Danielle Mitchell treated her. And those two hairdressers, too. Even Lily Mae Wheeler. Everyone in Whitehorn loved Lynn Taylor. They all seemed to feel protective toward her.

  He had a practice to build here. And seducing the town innocent was not going to help him create trust with potential clients.

  He should eat his steak, ask his few questions about his young client, pay the check and take the woman back to her car.

  Unfortunately, though, for some insane reason, he couldn’t bear to let her go. Not quite yet.

  She glanced up from her meal and asked softly, “You do like it here in Whitehorn, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “You said you were raised in Billings?”

  “Right.”

  “Why didn’t you move back there, when you were…ready for a change?”

  “I have no family there anymore. My folks have been dead for several years now.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  “One of each. But we’re not close. And they’ve moved away, too. My sister lives in Salt Lake City. And my brother’s in Southern California now. Works for some electronics firm, I think.”

  She picked up her water glass. Her champagne flute was empty. He checked the bottle—empty, too. “I’ll order another one.”

  “No.” She drank, set the water glass down. “Better not.” He upended the bottle in its bucket of ice as she started to slide her napkin in at the side of her plate.

  He could see the end of the evening in those eyes of hers.

  “Dessert,” he said. “You have to have dessert.”

  “Oh.” Her eyelashes fluttered down, then lifted again. “No more. Really.” A busman appeared and whisked their plates away.

  Ross waited for him to leave before coaxing, “It is your birthday, after all. And they have something really special here. Dark chocolate truffle cake. It’s my own personal weakness, I have to admit.”

  “Truffle cake.” She considered. And she did it charmingly, tipping her head to the side, touching the tip of her tongue to the corner of her lip for an instant, as if she could actually taste a bit of chocolate there.

  What would it feel like, to touch his own tongue to those lips of hers? Good, he imagined. Very, very good…

  She drew in a breath. “No. I’m not hungry anymore. Not hungry at all.”

  He should have just let it go at that. But he didn’t. “So what? It’s chocolate. Eat it for…the pleasure of it. And because it’s your birthday.”

  She stared at him. Awareness, and of much more than the temptation of chocolate, seemed to weave itself around them like a net of silk—or like the silver threads in that dress of hers, subtle, but so damn seductive.

  Then she blinked. “No.” Her voice was firmer now. “I really don’t want dessert.”

  Time to call for the check. But he didn’t. “Well, you’ll wait for me, won’t you, if I want some?”

  “Of course.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I’d love some.”

  He signaled the waiter and whispered in the man’s ear.

  “What did you tell him?” she demanded when the waiter had hurried off.

  “Guess.”

  She laughed again. God, he really did like the sound of her laugh.

  “I know what you did. You told him it was my birthday, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Oh,
Ross…”

  It was the first time she’d called him Ross. He liked the way his name sounded on her lips. Liked it far too much.

  “You can blow out the candle,” he said. “And I’ll eat the cake.”

  Three waiters appeared, singing the birthday song.

  They marched to the table, and put the slice of cake with its single candle in front of her. The song ended. Delicately she blew out the flame.

  “Happy birthday!” the waiters chorused one more time.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, giggling like a kid and clapping her hands.

  The waiters served the coffee, then made themselves scarce.

  Lynn plucked the candle from the cake, set it on a side dish and slid the plate across to him. “There you go. Indulge yourself.”

  He picked up his fork. “You sure you won’t have any?”

  “Don’t you start in again.”

  “Just one little bite…?” He pressed the side of the fork down through the layers of chocolate shavings, snow-white icing, dark cake, and that impossible, silky whipped-truffle center. “I’m telling you, this tastes as good as it looks.” He held up the fork.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Do you ever quit?”

  “Never. It’s not in my nature.”

  She looked at the fork and the bite of cake balanced there. “If I taste it, will you leave me alone?”

  “Unless you beg me for more.”

  “I won’t.”

  It sounded to him like a challenge. An utterly erotic one.

  A challenge he had to keep telling himself he would not accept.

  “Yes or no?” he dared in return.

  And she did it.

  She leaned forward. He gave her the cake, watching those soft lips open to take it in.

  Her eyes closed. “Umm.” Her mouth moved as she tasted it, savored the heady mix of rich flavors. She swallowed.

  “More?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He held her eyes for a moment, that silken web of awareness spinning, dizzily now, all around them. And then he lowered the fork and took a bite for himself.

  Enjoy it, Garrison, he told himself. Imagine you can taste her, in the cream and the chocolate, on the silver prongs of this fork. It’s all you’re going to have of her. Because she’s not going to beg for more. And you’re not going to push her.

  You want only a single night.

  And she…

  She’s looking for a prince.

  Too soon, the cake was nothing but a few crumbs on a china plate. He signaled for the check and signed for it. The waiter brought her coat, started to hold it up for her.

  Jealous of every last touch, Ross rose from his chair. “Here.” The waiter handed it over.

  Lynn stood and he helped her into it, as he had once before, in that shop with all the women watching, taking longer this time than he needed to, because the scent of her, the reality of her, was right there—too close, and much too tempting. His knuckles brushed cashmere and burned.

  Silently he called himself a number of crude names.

  He was hard. Had been since the moment she took his fork into her mouth. Fully aroused, like some green kid who couldn’t keep it down even in public. At least his jacket covered the bulge.

  Once she had the coat on, he put his hand at the small of her back, under the pretense of guiding her toward the door. But she didn’t really need guiding. She knew damn well where the door was. He put his hand on her so that he could feel her, the softness, the womanflesh of her, under all the layers of clothing that protected her from him.

  The hostess murmured, “Have a nice evening, Mr. Garrison,” as they passed the reservation podium.

  He nodded. “Good night.”

  They were out the door, standing on the street in the darkness with the icy Montana wind blowing down from the mountains, before he remembered that he’d yet to bring up the matter of Jennifer McCallum.

  Chapter Four

  She turned to him, clutching her coat against the chilling fingers of the wind. “I wonder if you could drive me back to the school. I left my Blazer there.”

  “Wait a minute.” He sounded every bit as offhand as he’d intended to. Not at all the way he felt, which was way too aroused. Too hungry—and not for filet mignon or truffle cake. For her.

  He wanted to reach for her, right there. To yank her body against his, shove his hands into her moon-silvered hair—and finally taste that mouth that had teased him so thoroughly with throaty laughter and clever words. That mouth, which had taken cake straight from his own fork.

  “Brr…” She hunched her shoulders down into her collar. “Wait for what?”

  “We still haven’t talked about my client.”

  She started to speak, then saw the two cowboys ambling toward them on the street. The men were dressed in regulation Whitehorn: worn jeans, battered boots, sweat-stained hats and shearling jackets. Lynn smiled at them, murmured two names in greeting.

  The men stopped in their tracks. They stared at Lynn, mouths slightly agape. Ross would have laughed—if he hadn’t wanted to kill both of them with his bare hands. He knew what they were thinking. He’d thought it himself. She looked good. Too damn good. Like something a man could start in with and never get enough of.

  One of the cowboys gulped. “Uh, Miss Taylor?”

  She laughed that throaty, maddening laugh. “Yes, Eddie, it’s me.”

  “Well. Uh. Hi, there.”

  They both tipped their hats.

  “Hello yourself,” she said. She asked the other one, whose name was Tom, how his sister was doing.

  “Lindy’s feelin’ better now, Miss Taylor.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear that. You tell her to take it easy. Pneumonia’s nothing to fool with.”

  “I will, Miss Taylor. I surely will. And you have yourself a nice day…I mean, night.”

  “Thank you, Tom. Same to you.”

  They both tipped their hats again, this time in Ross’s general direction. He gave them a curt nod. And then—finally—they went on by.

  She turned to him. “It always makes me smile. This is only my second year as a teacher at Whitehorn Elementary, but still, everyone in town, even the people I went to high school with, call me Miss Taylor.”

  It didn’t seem all that damn funny to him. Those cowboys had better call her Miss Taylor, as far as Ross was concerned.

  She was still smiling. “Tom and Eddie work the Birchley place. That’s north of town, between the No Bull Ranch and the—”

  “I know where the Birchley spread is.” He didn’t, not really. And he also didn’t need to hear another word about Tom and Eddie, who should learn not to stare at a woman as if they damn well had never seen one before.

  She moved a step away from him. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He fisted his hands at his sides—to keep them from reaching out and pulling her back. “Not a thing.” He dragged in a slow breath and ordered the bulge in his pants to subside.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. And we really do still have to talk.”

  “Well, I know, but—”

  “We could stop by my house….” Once the suggestion was out, he could hardly believe he’d made it.

  And apparently, neither could she. “Your house?” Her enchanting face showed both dismay—and excitement.

  “It’s not that far. You can have one last cup of coffee. Then I’ll take you home.”

  “I…” She hesitated. He knew with heart-stopping certainty that she would tell him no. But then relief hollowed him out as she finished, “I’ll still need to get my Blazer.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll take you back to the school as soon as we’re finished.” He glanced at his watch. Still early. Good. “It’s only a little after seven. You’ll be home by eight-thirty—nine at the latest.” One more hour. Or two. No harm in that.

  Yes, all right. It was playing with fire. But damn it, he hadn’t felt like t
his in…

  Come to think of it, maybe he’d never felt exactly like this in his life. And he’d been alone for too long now. Had he been lonely? All right, maybe he had. He’d thought he wanted it that way. But tonight, just for a little while, he only wanted this magic to continue.

  Magic. Yes, that was the word. All the talk of fairy godmothers and spells had gotten to him. She had gotten to him, with those innocent blue eyes and that red dress, her tart tongue and that maddening perfume.

  He knew himself. Knew that whatever this feeling was, it wouldn’t last. But for right now, for an hour or so, he just didn’t want to let her go.

  Lynn’s thoughts were moving along similar lines. She knew as well as Ross did that going to his house was taking this risky flirtation one step too far. But still…

  It was her birthday. Her special, magical Cinderella birthday. Tonight, for the first time in her life, she was living a fairy tale. She was Cinderella at the ball, Sleeping Beauty awakened and ugly-duckling-turned-swan all rolled into one.

  Don’t let it end yet, she kept thinking. Not yet. Oh, not quite yet…

  He put his hand at her back, as he’d done in the restaurant. She felt that touch through every fiber of her being. “Come on,” he said. “It’s too cold to stand here on the street a minute longer. Let’s go.”

  The house was five miles northeast of town, perched on a rocky ledge that led down to Black Bear Lake. A soaring structure of rough-hewn spruce logs and tall, gleaming windows, it was surrounded by stately fir trees.

  Ross led her inside, took her coat and purse and put them in the closet near the front door. Then he ushered her into a massive great room, where the floor-to-ceiling fireplace was made of big smooth stones—collected from the eastern slopes of the Rockies, he told her. There was a mantel of sorts, a heavy wooden shelf, built into the stones. And a big clock on the mantel. A clock that said it was 7:36.

  Ross took a minute to open the fireplace insert and strike a match to the logs already laid over kindling within.

  As she waited for him to light the fire, Lynn admired the room. Overhead, huge logs formed the spokes of a giant arching wheel. The furniture around her looked inviting. It was upholstered in deep brown leather and jewel-toned chenille. Out the big windows, through the lacy branches of the firs, she could see the darkly gleaming waters of the lake.