Redeemed by the Cowgirl (Mills & Boon Desire)

by Silver James

  When they reached the entrance, there was a dark gray Range Rover waiting, and a man in a black suit, starched white shirt and black tie held the passenger-side door open. He tucked his chin as he extended a hand palm-up and said, “Ma’am, we’ll need your keys.”

  “No, you don’t. I’m driving myself home.”

  The security guard quickly turned his attention to Cash, looking for guidance.

  “Give him your keys, Red.”

  “Gah! No. Get it through your thick head, Mr. Barron. Just because I agreed to help you does not mean you can tell me what to do.”

  Cash stalked around the vehicle toward her and she stepped back, right into the bulk of the security guard—who didn’t give an inch. “Give the nice man your car keys, Roxanne, and get into the Rover.”

  He glared daggers at her and his mouth was a tight line. This guy definitely meant business. She’d been an idiot to call him. Still, if she ever wanted control of her life back, she needed him. Darn it. She huffed out a breath, dug in her purse and pulled out her key chain.

  * * *

  Cash watched as Roxanne meticulously removed a key from the jumble of metal consisting of more keys, a flashlight, at least ten plastic loyalty tags for various restaurants and stores, and other dangly things like weird jewelry. She passed the key to the guard, then that mess of a key chain disappeared back into the bag hitched over her shoulder.

  “Get in the car, Roxanne.”

  She stuck out her tongue but settled into the front seat. He closed the door and gestured for security to remain there so she couldn’t escape. Once he was behind the wheel, he glanced at her.

  “Buckle up, buttercup.”

  Her upper lip curled into a kittenish snarl and he almost laughed. Roxanne Rowland was turning into something totally unexpected. Deep down, Cash wondered if he was getting played. The woman dressed in comfortable clothes and wearing no makeup with a sprinkling of freckles was not the woman he’d watched on the security monitors in Vegas.

  The trip from the south end of the metro to the northwest side was made in silence. If she was surprised when they turned into her apartment complex, she didn’t show it. He couldn’t wait to meet this imaginary roommate. Bridger had checked with the complex’s management. Roxanne had a one-bedroom studio and was the only one listed on the lease. If she’d sneaked in a boyfriend, she was in violation.

  He parked in a slot near her ground-floor apartment and watched her. She appeared irritated rather than nervous. “Getting out?”

  “I was waiting for you to open my door, but you obviously aren’t a gentleman.” With that, she popped her door open and started to get out—only she was snagged by the seat belt.

  Pressing his lips together to keep from laughing, Cash hit the release button to free her. Was she really this klutzy, or was it all an act meant to disarm him? Act or not, she was doing just that.

  Stomping up the walkway to her apartment, she inserted her key, pushed the door open and stepped to the side. Cash had about five seconds to prepare for the hairy monster launching in his direction. He braced himself, one foot forward, shoulders lowered, and found his arms full of furry energy intent on slobbering all over his face. He muscled the gigantic dog to the ground and glared at Roxanne. She was doubled over, laughing.

  “Thanks for the warning. I’m assuming this is Harley?”

  She inhaled deeply and bit her lips for a long moment while she regained her composure. “Yes.”

  “I’ll make arrangements to have him boarded.” He recognized his tactical error a second too late. Both woman and dog turned on him.

  “Harley is not going to some smelly old kennel! He goes where I go!” The dog barked, an echoing woof that rattled windows.

  “Oh? What did you do with him while you were in Vegas?” He had her there.

  Her face scrunched up into an adorably perplexed expression. “Um... Leo.”

  “And who is Leo?”

  “I’m Leo and girlfriend, you did not tell me you had a date with a fine, fine man like this one.”

  Cash looked up at the man leaning over the balcony above them before returning his attention to Roxanne. “So let Leo take care of him.”

  “Uh-uh. Not happening. I have company comin’ and I won’t have time to be traipsing back and forth to let that creature out every time he thinks he needs to sniff the bushes.”

  Roxanne turned those golden eyes on him. “Harley suffers from separation anxiety. You’re the one who is so insistent I move in with you.”

  “Whoa! You’ve really been holdin’ out on me, Miss Roxie-anne.” If Leo leaned any farther over the railing, the man would fall into the very bushes Harley now sniffed.

  As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, the big mutt lumbered over, sat right in front of Cash and put a massive paw on his thigh. The dog whuffed, a sound too similar to Roxanne’s echoing sigh. He resisted throwing up his arms in surrender.

  “Fine, but that thing better be housebroken.”

  Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, Roxanne leveled what he supposed was an insulted glare on him. “Good.” She turned away and muttered under her breath, “Oh, yeah? I bet you aren’t housebroken, Chase Barron.”

  For the next hour, Cash sat on the couch with the massive furball. The dog sprawled next to him, huge head on his thigh. Roxanne puttered around, packing suitcases and grocery bags full of dog food, toys, brushes and other pet paraphernalia. He was far too amused by her, discovering he was smiling at odd times.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Cash checked her over. Roxanne had tucked her hair up into a messy ponytail and stood in the midst of a pile of stuff. He stared at her, then stared pointedly at the boxes and suitcases around her feet. “Should I call a moving van? We can load up your furniture, too.”

  “Ha-ha. Not funny. I’m trying to be nice in a difficult situation.”

  He eyed all the gear. “Nice?”

  “Yes. I figured you wouldn’t want to be running back and forth between your place and mi—”

  Cash’s cell rang, cutting her off. He shoved the dog away and stood, phone to his ear. He listened to Bridger without giving away the gist of their conversation, his gaze glued on Roxanne.

  “Otto Baer is a whale, according to Tucker. He’s never stayed at any of the Barron casinos before the incident with the Rowlands.”

  He considered that information. A whale, also referred to as a high roller, bet large amounts of money. Casinos offered them lavish “comps,” such as free private jet transfers, limousine access and use of the casinos’ best suites, to lure them onto the gambling floors.

  “What was the deal?” Cash asked the question with careful words.

  “That’s what’s really weird, coz. Tuck checked with Chase and with their concierge. They didn’t even know the guy was there.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I thought so. He stayed two days, lost some money but not a huge amount, won a little of it back and then took off for Tahoe.” Harley bellowed out a bark, and a startled Bridger added, “What the hell was that?”

  “One of my new houseguests.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Probably not. See what else you can find out. I’m headed to my place as soon as I can get all of Roxanne’s stuff loaded in the Rover.”

  “Roxanne’s stuff. Loaded in the Rover. Uh...huh. Care to explain?”

  “Executive decision.”

  “Oh, boy. Can’t wait to hear this story. Will I see you at the office in the morning?”

  “Yes.” Cash clicked off the call before Bridger could ask any further irritating questions. He centered himself and said, “Let’s go.”

  Ignoring the huge wet spot staining his slacks—a splotch that resembled slug slime—he gathered up an armful of boxes and a suitcase. It took them two trips each to stow all of her odds and ends in the cargo area. When it came time to load Harley in the backseat, Cash balked.

  “Those are leather seats. Claw
s and drool do not mix with leather.”

  Roxanne harrumphed and rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She marched back inside and returned quickly with a blanket. “Here, Mr. Fuddy-Duddy.”

  He was not a fuddy-duddy. He just appreciated fine things, and that included leather seats in his vehicles. “You already owe me a cleaning bill for these slacks. I figured you wouldn’t want to add replacement seats to your tab.”

  “Replacement—” Roxanne’s jaw snapped shut and her golden eyes sparked.

  Cash had a perverse streak, obviously. Pushing this woman’s buttons was far too much fun. He watched her avidly while she bent over, reaching into the vehicle to smooth the blanket over the backseats. He caught a few of her muttered imprecations.

  “...made of Corinthian leather...male-chauvinist moron...cheapskate...cars that cost more than some people’s houses...hates my dog.”

  He glanced down at the huge black dog sitting beside him. “Does she always talk to herself?” The animal gazed up with solemn brown eyes and sighed. Cash tilted his head to get a better look at Roxanne’s very lovely butt. She backed out of the vehicle and whirled, catching him in the act.

  “Really?” she demanded, then muttered, “Add jerkface to the list.”

  Biting his lips to stifle a burst of laughter, Cash snapped his fingers at the dog. “Get in the car, mutt.”

  “He is not a mutt. Harley is a full-blooded, pedigreed Newfoundland.”

  He figured the inside of his mouth would be bloody before they got to his place. “Fine.” He snapped his fingers again. “Get in the car, full-blooded, pedigreed Newfoundland mutt.”

  Harley bounded into the backseat, apparently unconcerned that Cash was dissing him. Roxanne threw her arms up as her anger simmered. She clambered into the front seat and slammed the door. Cash could no longer hold back his laughter. She was cute and feisty and he was far more turned on by that than he should be, given their circumstances. He just managed to choke off his laughter as he got into the driver’s seat.

  “It’s not funny,” Roxanne huffed.

  “It is from where I’m sitting.”

  Five

  “You have white furniture?” Roxie’s voice squeaked. What man in his right mind would have white furniture—white leather furniture? Harley took one look at the big couch, jerked so hard she let go of his leash, and leaped. He romped all over it, snuffling, and then finally settled on one end. He sat there as proud as punch.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Cash had put down his load and returned to the car for a second one. Snatching the moment of privacy, she waggled her finger at the Newfie. “Harley, get down. Bad dog. Bad, bad dog!” The big goof rolled over on his back and offered his belly for rubs. “You are going to cost me a fortune,” she groused, but obediently petted the beguiling animal.

  “I’ll put the damage on your tab.”

  She whirled to face the other half of her torment. “It’s not my fault that you live in a sterile environment, and I will remind you, you are the one who insisted on this arrangement.”

  His dark brown eyes glinted and she was reminded of dark ale in a glass. “You’re laughing at me.”

  He arched one devilish brow and said, “Am I?”

  After nailing him with her most fierce glare, she gestured to the stuff piled in the entry. “Where am I supposed to put all this?”

  Roxie could almost see the thoughts whipping through Cash’s mind as he glanced down a hallway. She’d bet that way led to danger—in the form of the master bedroom. When she drew her gaze back from that precipice, her eyes collided with his. Her whole body ignited from the half-lidded look and sexy grin he lavished on her. She was far too young for hot flashes, but darn if this man didn’t make her want to peel out of her clothes and dance in the sprinklers to cool off.

  “Your room—” Cash cleared his throat and she wondered why he’d need to “—is that way.” He pointed to an arch next to the kitchen. “Guest bedroom. Attached bath.” He pointed to a curtain beyond the open dining room area. “Doors to the patio. There’s a little grass. You’re responsible for picking up after the dog. The kitchen is tiled. Leave his food and water bowls there. There’s a walk-in pantry to store the rest of his stuff.”

  She nodded at each instruction, half listening while she perused the room. Roxie wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected but this condo hadn’t even been a faint blip on her radar. Bricktown properties weren’t cheap, but this complex? It was one of the most expensive in the area—not that she was surprised. The Barrons were rolling in money. Still, this place was probably the largest unit, with its huge open living room flowing into a high-end chef’s kitchen and large dining area.

  The floors were hardwood and Harley’s nails would leave scratch marks, if not gouges. Rugs were scattered under the furniture. The place looked like the set for an HGTV series. Cash had mentioned that the condo also had outdoor space, and she could just imagine what she’d find out there. The guy probably had a private lap pool. In addition to all the public space, the condo contained at least two bedrooms and baths. And every piece of furniture and artwork was designer unique. That all added up to expensive with a capital E.

  This man was too rich for her blood. Not that Cash would give her a second look if her family hadn’t dragged her into whatever nefarious scheme they were working.

  Roxie jumped when Cash touched her chin and closed her gaping mouth. He’d caught her gawking at her surroundings and daydreaming about the man himself. She couldn’t afford to lose focus like that. She had to keep her wits about her. Cash Barron did not like her, and had a real issue with her family. Okay, she took issue with her family, too, but that was different. They were hers. He was an outsider and he was pushy. A jerk. Aggravating. Exasperating. Sexy. Hot. Smelled like heaven.

  “Earth to Roxanne.”

  “What?” She reacted sharply, embarrassed that she’d floated off again.

  “Your dog wants out.”

  “You can’t walk across the room, open your door and let him out into your backyard?”

  “Not my dog, buttercup.”

  Muttering dark thoughts under her breath, Roxie snapped her fingers and marched over to the curtained door. She had to fumble through yards of material before she found the handles for the French doors hiding behind the draperies. The lock took concentration and more than a little finesse to open. Of course, it would. The man was president of a major security company. This entire place was probably wired for sound and video. She froze.

  Harley, impatient to get out, used his 150 pounds to push her out of the way and she grabbed the curtain to keep from falling to the floor. Only the fabric ripped, and the whole wall of material cascaded to the floor, pooling around her where she sat on her tush.

  * * *

  Cash didn’t even try to hold in his laughter. All but slapping his knees, he was learning that a person could laugh so hard they cried. He had to wipe moisture from his eyes and every time he started to calm down, he’d look at Roxanne, and hilarity once again ensued. Once he convinced himself he was under control, he started across the room to help the girl up.

  Harley charged through the back door and must have decided that finding his mistress sitting on the floor was a new game. The giant dog pounced, taking Roxanne down, slobbering all over her face. Her shrieks of protest only incited the mutt to more mayhem. The dog fell off Roxie, tangled his feet in the yards of silk fabric and proceeded to roll up in it.

  There’d be no salvaging the curtains and Cash admitted to feeling a sense of relief. The condo had been decorated by one of his father’s mistresses and she’d used it as a showroom until Cash came home early from a trip to find her in bed with the guy who’d laid her tile. Glancing around, he discovered the place was sterile and stark. The walls were white, the furniture white, the rugs white. The only splashes of color came from the framed art photography on the walls. Most of the prints were black-and-whites but some had odd dashes of red—an umbrella in one rainy-day photo, lips on
the pouting female model in another.

  He contrasted his space with the one Roxanne had left behind. Her stuff was what some would call shabby chic, or thrift-store vogue. The place looked and felt lived-in—like the houses his older brothers all shared with their wives. Different styles but the same sense of...home.

  Jerking his thoughts away from that quagmire, Cash focused on the situation at hand. Roxanne still sat in the floor—either crying or laughing silently. He couldn’t tell. He edged around the large granite-topped dining table and stared at his houseguests. Harley pawed at Roxie with both front feet, paddling against her thigh. Her red-rimmed eyes didn’t bode well. He clicked his fingers. “Enough, Harley.”

  The Newf stood up and shook. Hard. Silk curtains and slug slime flew. Cash refused to laugh, though he had to turn around for a long moment to regain his composure. Not that Roxanne noticed. She’d pulled some of the silk over her head.

  “Just kill me now, okay?” Her mumbled words elicited a woof from Harley, then he danced around her, nosing through the material.

  “Harley!” This time he barked out the dog’s name and the beast came to sit obediently beside him. Cash glanced down at the woman. She was glaring at the dog. “Need a hand?” he offered.

  “No,” she snapped at him, pushed the material off and stood. She craned her head to look toward the ceiling where the valance and jalousies had once hung on a brass pole. She heaved a huge sigh. “Let me guess. Real silk, right?”

  Cash lifted a negligent shoulder. “Probably.”

  “Criminy. I’m going to owe you my firstborn at this rate.”

  Everything stopped for a heartbeat and he stared at her. His rational brain insisted she was simply borrowing a figure of speech to describe her predicament. But that part deep inside he hid from everyone—from his brothers, his twin, even himself—wondered for that brief moment in time what it would be like to hold his child.

  “Cash?”

  Reality crashed back. “Don’t worry about the drapes, Roxanne.”