this Colt Raintree?” She knew it was. Tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired Colt, a man as fast and dangerous as the single-action revolver he had been named after.
“Yes.”
“Hi, this is—” Gertrude. Geeky Gertie. The other teenagers used to call me that. Remember? You never did, though. You were sympathetic and kind. “Melanie Richards.”
“Do I know you?”
Yes, but it’s been thirteen years. I use my middle name now and look different. You wouldn’t recognize me. “No. Gloria Carnegie told me you were hiring a surrogate, and I—”
He interrupted, his tone edged with suspicion. “Fred’s wife?”
“Yes. Gloria’s a patient of Dr. Miller and just happened to hear about your situation. She contacted me because she thought I might be interested in helping you out.” Melanie paused and gulped a breath of salty air, her heart threatening to beat its way out of her chest. “And I am, but I’ve never done anything like this before.”
His voice softened, just a little. “I’d prefer to discuss this in person. Are you free tomorrow?”
She gazed out at the ocean. As dusk settled over a summer sky, streaks of mauve painted a foaming wave as it crashed onto the shore. A pair of seagulls frolicked in the swell, dipping and gliding. Did you know that I was in love with you?
“I can’t meet with you that soon. You see, I live in California,” she said, then added quickly, “but I’m coming to Montana next week.”
He heaved a sigh and she imagined him raking his hands through his hair. Such beautiful hair. Thick and shiny.
“I suppose next week would be all right. We could meet at the Steer House. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes.” She had eaten at the Steer House many times. Mountain Bluff didn’t have many restaurants. “Any day you choose is fine.” Her only other commitment was visiting with Gloria.
“How about Wednesday? We can discuss the details over lunch,” he offered, sounding more reserved than she remembered.
But then why shouldn’t he? To him Melanie Richards was a stranger, a woman who lived over nine hundred miles away.
“All right. I’ll call you to confirm.”
“Fine.” Colt ended the conversation politely. “It was nice talking to you but I have to go.”
They exchanged proper goodbyes. The receiver went dead.
On the following Wednesday, Melanie arrived at the Steer House wearing a simple black dress, a linen blazer and understated jewelry. Her freshly-washed hair fell freely about her shoulders.
Within minutes she was seated at a candle-lit table where she was left to wait for Colt.
Melanie was accustomed to business meetings. Luncheons, dinners. She always wore black, arrived early, ordered a light meal and smiled charmingly. She had it down pat. Today, of course, was different. She wasn’t in L.A., selling a chic artistic design. This was her hometown and the cowboy due to arrive wouldn’t be interested in seeing her portfolio. In fact, she had no idea what Colt Raintree would be interested in seeing. She’d never been considered for motherhood before.
When she looked up, her heart leaped into her throat. Tall and strong and more handsome than she remembered, Colt strode behind the hostess. When the girl stopped and Colt moved forward, Melanie feasted her eyes.
His slim-fitting jeans looked new. A fancy black-and-white shirt, combining embroidery and a western yoke, stretched the boundaries of his broad shoulders. Long black hair, secured at his nape, boasted his heritage. Colt had always reminded her of a jungle cat, sleek and muscular with exotic-shaped eyes and a raw sensuality of which he seemed unaware.
He slid into a chair across from Melanie and smiled politely. Neither spoke until the hostess departed.
He reached across the table to extend his hand. The flickering candle shadowed the sharp angle of his cheekbones. He had aged well. The lithe, rakish boy had grown into a warrior. Dark eyes revealed masculine depth.
“Melanie, right?”
She nodded and accepted his hand. It was big, callused and warm. His touch spread through her like an ache. She still loved him. Not just the memory, but the man. She believed in second chances. This was hers.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Colt.”
Hands separating, their gazes locked. “Am I late?” he asked.
“No.” She smiled. “I was early.”
Apparently he didn’t recognize her, but then she hadn’t really expected him to. She bore little resemblance to the timid girl he had known so long ago. During her third year in California, she’d been struck by a car. The near-fatal car accident had resulted in a necessary surgical procedure. One that had altered her features.
The busboy reappeared with another glass of water. Colt opened the menu. “Do you want to decide on lunch first?”
“Sure.” Although too nervous to be hungry, when the waitress arrived, she ordered broiled chicken.
Colt decided on the steak and scampi special. Both chose salad over soup. They muddled through small talk; the weather, the Western artifacts in the restaurant. She waited for him to get down to business. He did, right after their salads were delivered.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said. “I pictured someone, I don’t know, more momish.”
She had no idea what his concept of momish was. “Like a fifties television mom?”
“Yeah, something like that.” He grinned. The same, slow dangerous grin that had melted her heart thirteen years ago. When it faded, a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Some of the women I’ve met with haven’t liked the idea that I’m single. How do you feel about that?”
Her stomach constricted. The interview had begun. “I can’t very well hold that against you. I’m not married, either.”
He reached for the bread basket. “No boyfriend to consult?”
She moved the lettuce around on her plate. “No. There’s no one.”
Colt tore a roll in half and buttered the center. “We need to be straight with each other. You tell me why you’re willing to be a surrogate and I’ll tell you why I’m looking for one”
The table was fairly secluded, for which she was grateful. She certainly didn’t want the other patrons to get an earful. She’d been rehearsing her speech all day. Being straight was out of the question. She’d have to combine bits of the truth with some creative story telling. California BS, she called it. Embellish your assets. Tell the client what they want to hear.
She started with the truth. “I’m a foster child. Consequently, I’ve learned to make my own way. When we were kids, Gloria and I lived next door to each other. We were best friends. As you know, she’s the one who mentioned your situation to me. The idea of a single man wanting
