The Billionaire's Baby Negotiation

by Day Leclaire

  “I believe you forgot something.” He held out her Stetson.

  He’d disconcerted her, breaking through the barriers she’d been swift to erect. “Thanks,” she murmured. She took the hat from him and crammed it down on her head, hiding every scrap of hair.

  “You’re welcome.” He reached around her and pushed a button that brought the elevator to a smooth halt.

  “What are you doing?” He could hear the hint of trepidation in her voice and the breathless awareness of his proximity. “Why did you stop the elevator?”

  “I’d like to make you another offer.”

  She cut him off with a graceful sweep of her hand. “Please, don’t. I’ve heard your offers and I’m not interested.”

  “You haven’t heard this one.”

  She jerked her head in his direction and then away again, fixing her stare on the control panel. If he were a betting man, which he was, he’d be willing to wager a cool million that it took every ounce of self-control in her possession to keep from jabbing at the buttons in order to get the elevator moving again. Her hand inched toward the control panel before she dropped her arms to her sides in clear surrender.

  “How many ways do I have to say I’m not interested?” she asked with quiet dignity. “I wasn’t interested in any of your previous offers. I won’t be interested in this one, either.”

  “I thought I’d give you the chance to convince me of your disinterest over dinner.”

  That caught her attention and she turned to confront him. “Dinner?”

  “Right. That’s the meal that comes after lunch and before bedtime.”

  Instead of laughing, a hint of a frown crept across her brow. “Why would you want to take me to dinner? You know I’m not going to agree to any offer you might make.”

  He flicked his thumb against the brim of her hat. It knocked the battered felt toward the back of her head and gave him an unobstructed view of her face. So much character, he marveled. So much strength and determination. And the passion. She smoldered with it, thickening the air with ripe feminine power. What would it be like to ignite all that? To kindle those banked flames into a raging wildfire? He wanted to find out. Needed to. But, first things first.

  “How do you know I won’t be persuaded to change my mind about buying your ranch? Think about it. You’ll have all evening to argue with me. Uninterrupted time where you’ll have my full attention. Hours in which you can explain why I should just go away and leave you alone.”

  “Tempting.” She studied him and he saw a wild animal’s wariness in her gaze. “What’s the catch?”

  “What makes you think there’s a catch?” he countered.

  “Because you’re Joc Arnaud and you want something from me.”

  Smart woman. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

  “And if it’s something I can’t give?”

  “You say no.” He gave her a verbal shove. “You do know the word, don’t you?”

  She surprised him by absorbing his comment with equanimity, confining herself to a single comeback. “Be careful or you’ll find out how well I know it.” She took a minute to consider. “Dinner and talk. That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Unless more happened. Because this wasn’t just about business, anymore. There was more between them, something elemental running beneath the surface. It was that something that had Joc coming to an instant decision. Her ranch was of secondary concern, mainly because he’d have that before long, whether she acquiesced to his demands or he wrestled it away with her fighting him over every inch of land. Right now other needs were of far greater urgency. No matter what, he’d have this woman in his bed. Have her until he was sated, regardless of how short or long the taking…or how much she resisted.

  “Okay, I agree,” she said at last.

  “I thought you might,” he murmured. He reached around her and released the elevator, allowing it to continue its downward plummet.

  No doubt it was taking them both straight to hell.

  Rosalyn stared at the elevator doors and fought to regain her self-control. Joc had knocked her Stetson to the back of her head and now she crushed it low on her brow. Okay, so she was hiding her expression from him. So, what? That didn’t matter anywhere near as much as the fact that he had her acting like a total idiot. A rock dumb, bat blind, total idiot.

  Arnaud had already warned her that he always won. This give and take between them was nothing more than a game to him, an avenue toward another check in the win column of his playbook. For her, the stakes were far higher. Her ranch was her life, keeping its legacy safe for future Oakleys her sole ambition. She’d promised to do just that, a deathbed vow that left no maneuvering room for negotiation or personal preferences.

  Granted, Arnaud didn’t care about her reasons for resisting his business proposition. Still…What if she could explain that sort of emotion to him in language he could understand? What if she could talk him into going away and leaving her alone? It wouldn’t solve all her problems, but it would solve her most immediate one.

  She spared him a swift glance from beneath her lashes. He was staring at her, his lazy grin warning he knew what she’d been thinking. Not that it mattered what counteragenda he might be working on the sly. She’d committed herself to going out to dinner with him and she would. She’d even try to change his mind about buying her out, though she doubted she’d succeed.

  Nevertheless, he was right about one thing: spending a little time with him would give her a better handle on his strategy and what her chances were of winning—though at a guess that would be somewhere in the neighborhood of zero to none. She weighed that against the feminine intuition that warned that he wanted far more from her than her property. It filled her with the urge to change her mind and run home to safety, the protective instinct for flight eclipsing the desire to fight. She opened her mouth to give instinct a voice.

  “You can’t.” His voice came from just behind and above.

  How had he gotten so close without her noticing? “I can’t what?”

  “You agreed to dinner and you can’t change your mind.”

  “How did you know—” She closed her mouth with a snap and glared at the elevator doors. “Okay, I get it now.”

  “Get what?” Laughter. Arnaud was laughing at her!

  “I understand why you’re so successful. You can read minds.”

  “Only when the thoughts are strong. Or the emotions,” he added.

  She winced. Was that his subtle way of telling her he’d picked up on her reaction to him? She needed to get off the ranch more. Date. Get a better grip on the male psyche and how to handle men like Arnaud. Because Mr. Big Bad had quite the grip on the female end of things, which put her at a distinct disadvantage.

  “I promised I’d go to dinner with you, and I will.” If she sounded reluctant, that couldn’t be helped. He’d boxed her in and she didn’t like it. “When I give my word, I stick to it.”

  “As do I.”

  She turned and studied his expression. Not that it helped much. He had “inscrutable” down to a science. “You’ll give me a fair shot at changing your mind?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to pin him down further but didn’t have a clue how to do it. They were so mismatched, it was downright pathetic. Still, she’d try her best. What other choice did she have? “Are you open to changing your mind?”

  “In my business it pays to be flexible.” His expression hardened. “It also pays to go after what you want with every strength, skill and asset at your disposal.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll do just that.” An idea occurred to her, one that might put her in a better bargaining position. “And I’d like to start by adding an addendum to our agreement.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “A negotiation?” he asked, intrigued. “My favorite pastime. What’s your addendum?”

  “You come to my place for dinner.”

  He nodded in complet
e understanding. “You want to negotiate on your own turf. Good move.”

  He leaned in and it took all her concentration just to inhale and exhale in a normal fashion. His deep-set eyes were the most intense she’d ever seen, the black so absolute she couldn’t tell pupil from iris. But it was his mouth that drew her, that stirred something she hadn’t felt in years. For such a hard man, his mouth was broad and full and sensual and she couldn’t help but wonder what those incredible lips could do to her. Her own lips softened in anticipation. How would it feel to sink into them, to lose herself in their heat? Did he kiss as well as he made money? Chances were excellent he did, which made her all the more curious to find out.

  “My turf or yours, it doesn’t matter,” he was saying. “I don’t play softball, Red. My pitch is low, fast and inside. If you don’t watch out, it’ll put you in the dirt.”

  It took her a moment to register his comment. Once she did, she took a hasty step away from him. What was wrong with her? She’d been daydreaming about kissing the man, while he’d been figuring out how to steal her land out from under her. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’re out of your league.”

  She didn’t know whether to feel outraged or apprehensive. “You’re offering me pity advice?”

  “Stow your pride and take it,” he suggested. “It’s the only help you’re going to get. From now on, you’re on your own.”

  No question about that. But maybe, just maybe, by having him on her home turf it would give her just enough of an advantage to uncover his weakness. A tantalizing thought occurred, one that opened all sorts of fascinating possibilities.

  What if his weakness was her?

  Two

  Normally, Joc would have used his car and driver for the trip to Longhorn Ranch so he could utilize the time to work. On this occasion, he refrained. Somehow, he didn’t think showing up in a limousine would go over well, so he drove himself, arriving at the ranch precisely on time.

  He was greeted at the door by an elderly woman who wore a sour expression he’d lay odds she’d spent most of her life cultivating. She gave him the once-over before reluctantly admitting him. “You must be Arnaud.”

  He offered his hand. “Joc Arnaud.”

  She gave him a firm handshake in return. “Rosalyn’s in the kitchen putting the final touches on your meal. She should have been working on bookkeeping. But since she invited you, she felt obligated to do the cooking. I’m Claire, by the way, the Oakley housekeeper.”

  He gave her the wine he’d brought. “My contribution to dinner.”

  She eyed it with suspicion. “This the kind that needs to breathe?”

  “After nearly twenty years of being corked, I’m sure it’ll be grateful for the opportunity,” he answered gravely.

  She gave a snort of laughter. “Come on, then. I’ll show you the way.”

  He looked around with interest as she escorted him to the back of the ranch house. It was a beautiful place, with polished wooden floors, beamed ceilings and generously sized rooms in an open floor plan. The kitchen proved equally impressive, with a brick hearth and cast-iron stove from a different era mingling with modern-day appliances. Rosalyn stood at a butcher block chopping vegetables with practiced ease.

  “I’ll finish up here,” Claire said in a tone that clearly stated that this was her domain and she wanted all invaders out of it. “Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

  Rosalyn shot Joc a look of amusement before crossing to the sink and washing her hands. “Thanks, Claire. I appreciate your help.”

  “I gather she doesn’t like feeding the enemy?” Joc inquired as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Mostly she just doesn’t like people in her kitchen.” Rosalyn opened the door to a snug parlor, complete with a love seat in front of a hickory-scented fire and decanters of liquor arranged on a silver tray. “But she also considers this meeting a mistake.”

  “She could be right.”

  In more ways than one. When Rosalyn had first approached him, they’d been in an office setting, both wearing work attire, even if hers had been a battered Stetson, faded jeans, scarred boots and a flannel shirt. But here, in a more intimate setting, the barriers between them had slipped, blurring the line between business and pleasure.

  This go-round, she wore her hair loose, the rich waterfall sweeping past her shoulders in a cape of auburn silk. She’d traded in her ranch gear for tawny slacks and a simple ivory blouse, while a plain gold necklace drew attention to the pale length of her throat and the hint of cleavage that peeked from the shadows of her neckline. A touch of makeup emphasized the startling shade of her violet-blue eyes and made her lips appear fuller and softer. Kissable.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “If you think this is a mistake, then why did you suggest dinner in the first place?”

  He fought his way back to reality, struggling to regain his focus. He was here on business. That he had to remind himself of that fact didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening. “I hoped we could come to an agreement in a more relaxed setting.”

  “Speaking of which…” She gestured toward the sideboard. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Single malt, if you have it.”

  “Oh, we have it.”

  Something in her tone snagged his attention. “You don’t care for whiskey?”

  “On the contrary.” She poured them both a drink and joined him by the fire, handing him one of the glasses. “I indulge on rare occasions.”

  They sat next to each other on the love seat. To his amusement Rosalyn buried her hip against one end of the narrow couch in an attempt to keep as much distance between them as possible. “What occasions do you feel warrant a drink?” he asked, genuinely interested.

  “Anniversaries.” She flinched from some memory, and the firelight flickered across the elegant planes of her face, revealing a heartbreaking vulnerability. “And when I’m working on the ranch accounts.”

  What anniversaries? Judging by her drawn expression they weren’t celebratory ones. He’d have to recheck her dossier and dig into her past a bit more in order to discover what had caused such a deep hurt. He deliberately kept his response light. “I assume bookkeeping isn’t your favorite task?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it requires serious fortification.” Her gaze grew pointed. “Sort of like when dealing with you.”

  “I know a few people like that.”

  “There are actually people out there who drive you to drink, Arnaud?” His comment had distracted her and some of the pain and tension ebbed. She also relaxed into the cushions so they almost touched. “Sounds like my kind.”

  “It’s my sister. And she is your kind.”

  “MacKenzie?”

  He shook his head. “MacKenzie is my half sister. Same father, different mothers. She drives me to drink, but for different reasons. And I sure as hell wouldn’t waste a good single malt on her. No, I’m talking about my full sister, Ana, as well as her husband.” He sipped his whiskey. “Or should I say His Highness, Prince Lander Montgomery of Verdonia.”

  Rosalyn buried her nose in the glass. “Not my kind, after all.”

  He stretched his legs out toward the fire and smiled. His sister was also a fiery redhead, while his brother-in-law was one of the most protective and honorable men Joc had ever met. Lander had initially become engaged to his sister in an attempt to protect her reputation. He’d even given up a shot at the throne of Verdonia for the good of the country.

  “They’re both very much your kind. Direct. Down-to-earth. Protective. And they both enjoy flaying a strip or two off my hide whenever the mood takes them. We’ve had some interesting run-ins.”

  “Huh. I’d have said your hide was too tough to flay.” She swiveled to inspect him, causing a strand of hair to drift across her face. She gave him a swift, searching glance that made him want to pull her into his arms and discover if she tasted as good as she looked. “Maybe I should call them for suggestions.”r />
  “I think you’re managing just fine on your own.”

  The strands of hair continued to cling to her face and he reached out without conscious design, intent only on brushing it aside. It was a simple contact, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the fine-boned curve of her cheek in order to sweep the spill of hair away from her eyes. And yet, his instantaneous reaction caught him off guard. Heat poured through him, as though he’d fallen headlong into the popping flames just a few feet away.

  The slight hitch in Rosalyn’s breath told him he wasn’t the only one affected. She stared at him, her eyes startled. He’d thrown her. Badly. He felt it rippling through her and saw it reflected in the tautness of her features. Her eyes darkened to a shade of blue the sky took on somewhere between dusk and nightfall. And her mouth—that plump, ripe mouth—trembled in a way that tempted him almost beyond endurance and made him want to kiss away her apprehension.

  One touch. It had been one casual, thoughtless touch, a touch that never would have happened if it hadn’t been for that rich red hair and those glorious eyes. But the instant he’d run his fingers across her creamy skin, he’d lost it. If they’d been anywhere else, he’d have tumbled her to the floor and taken her, and to hell with the consequences.

  What was it about the woman that reduced him to his most basic and primitive instincts? He was a man who prided himself on his self-control, who used that control, along with his innate intelligence and ability to see the big picture and get what he wanted. How was it possible to lose all that with a single touch? It had never happened before, not once in all his thirty-four years, nor with a single one of the women he’d taken to his bed.

  He tossed back the last of his whiskey before shooting her a hard look. “We’re in trouble. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Rosalyn shuddered. With that one single touch, wanton desire spilled across her skin in a wave as hot and humid and gripping as Dallas in August. With the heat came the sizzle, a buzz of sensation that went from her cheek straight to the pit of her stomach. She was barely aware of what he said after releasing her. Damn it! She was in deep trouble.