fact, now that Rick thought about it, by this time tomorrow he intended to have proven to Princess Ashley that she didn’t really want to run a farm at all.
Chapter Two
Rick only had to open three doors in the convoluted maze of halls in the upstairs of Gene Meljac’s sprawling home before he found Ashley’s bedroom.
He flicked a switch as he stepped inside, lighting the two lamps on her bedside tables. Those, unfortunately, illuminated a ten-foot-tall tufted white leather headboard that led to yard after yard of crinkled pink material that looped around to create a canopy. A pink rosebud bedspread covered the small lump he assumed was Ashley. At least twenty pillows of varying shapes and sizes—and shades of pink—were scattered about on the bed to cushion her every move.
He shook his head. Wow. He’d certainly pegged this one right.
“Come on, princess,” he said, grabbing the thick rosebud comforter and yanking it off.
He instantly regretted that. The sight that greeted him took his breath away, and he couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling from Ashley’s pink-tipped toes, up her bare long legs, to the pink fur-trimmed hem of her tiny pink nightgown with some kind of top that looked like a fur-trimmed bra.
He sucked in some air. He should have left the cover on. But it was too late now.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing her foot to pull her off the bed but she was so silky soft he couldn’t get a grip. His hand slid from her heel to her toe and she giggled.
“Stop that!” She nestled into her pillow. “And come back to bed.”
Rick’s mouth fell open in shock, but his libido instantly decided joining her was a fabulous idea. He nearly slapped himself for even considering it. Never in a million years would he again be interested in another woman accustomed to creature comforts. Ashley might not be so spoiled as to abandon a child in favor of trips to the Mediterranean the way Jen had, but she was obviously pampered. All he had to do was look at the multiple doors on the right-hand wall. They undoubtedly led to a closet, dressing room and private bath, most likely with a spa. This suite was bigger than any bedroom in his parents’ home. Hell, this suite was bigger than any apartment he’d lived in since he’d struck out on his own. He didn’t want anything to do with another woman who needed an entire room for her clothes.
“Get up!” he yelled, resisting the urge to smack her butt to get her moving. “You want to run the farm, fine. Then I’ll teach you to run the farm. But that means you have to get up!”
She shifted on the rosebud sheets. “What?”
“Today’s the day you start learning to run the farm, remember?”
Her eyes popped open. She bolted up in bed, saw him, glanced down at herself and screamed.
“No one’s here,” he said frantically searching the room until he found a frothy see-through pink thing that he assumed was the “cover-up” to her little pink nightie. He scooped it up and as he released it to toss it to her, the pink fur tickled his palm. His blood began to hum through his veins. Wild thoughts scampered through his brain. Luckily he was smart enough to ignore all of it.
“So screaming won’t do any good. Besides, I’m here to get you for work, not for what you apparently offered somebody last night.” He shook his head. “I’ll bet you have some dreams in that getup.”
She snatched her cover-up in midair. “My dreams are none of your concern.”
“Except your dream about running this farm.” He crossed his arms on his chest. No matter what his percolating hormones thought, he didn’t intend to deviate from his plan to get rid of her. Not even for the various and sundry fun and games that automatically sprang to mind just looking at that nightgown.
“Now get up.”
She tied the belt of the pointless robe. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am up.”
He looked at his watch. “Great. And only twenty minutes after everybody else is in the barn.”
She gaped at him. “What?”
“What do you think? Horses sleep until noon? Fat chance. Kiss your late nights goodbye, sweetheart.”
She drew a breath. “If farm managers have to get up at—” she peered at the digital clock on her bedside table “—four-thirty! Are you insane?” She jumped out of bed and stormed over to him.
Rick forced his eyes away from her legs only to find himself staring at her breasts, then the long column of her neck, then her blazing green eyes.
“I’ll get up at five.”
“All rightie, then. When your dad calls I’ll tell him you must not want to learn because you refuse to get up when everybody else does.” He turned and strode toward her bedroom door.
“You wouldn’t!”
He faced her again. “I would. You think a farm is a big game?” he asked, motioning around the room. “With your pretty pink foo-foo stuff all over the place? But most of us live and die by whether or not this farm makes money and while I’m here, it will.” With that he pivoted toward the door again. “You’re in the barn in ten minutes or I’ll be telling your dad.”
He left the room and Ashley fumed. Not because he threatened her but because he’d had the audacity to come into her room. She ripped off her cover-up as she marched into her walk-in closet and searched for a pair of jeans suitable for a day in the barn.
He hadn’t merely come into her room, he’d come in and pulled off her covers. She glanced down at her basically see-through nightgown and groaned. It would probably take less than five minutes for her fetish for pretty nighties to get around the barn. She’d just handed Rick Capriotti the ammunition he needed to keep her from gaining the respect of the hands.
Damn! This was not at all how she had pictured this morning would turn out. She hadn’t exactly seen herself arriving at the barn, shaking hands with Rick and giving everyone in the barn a pep talk. She hadn’t even imagined herself and Rick Capriotti getting along. But she had envisioned some sort of compromise. This farm was her home and her heritage and she wanted to run it with the grace and dignity of a well-bred Southern lady. But right at this very minute, Rick Capriotti was probably robbing her of that chance by telling everyone she wore a little pink nightie trimmed in fur that made her look like one of Santa’s off-season elves.
She took a breath, told herself not to panic and decided the only way to handle the gossip would be to meet it head-on. That was the lesson she’d learned when she came home after her marriage crumbled. For four long weeks every room she had walked into had suddenly gotten quiet. Then she had realized that if she would talk about her disastrous marriage, admit she lost half her trust fund and answer any questions, eventually the gossip would die, if only because the townspeople would have nothing to speculate about. They would know everything.
So, she’d spilled her guts to Ellen Johnson, wife of the diner owner, who usually acted as hostess, and it worked like a charm. Within a week, everybody knew her story, and bored because there were no unanswered questions, they moved on to the next gossip topic.
And that was exactly how she’d
