contract? Why did Jensen feel as though he’d just walked into a movie theater, only to find that he’d missed the integral opening scene?
Using his best “lord of the manor” voice, Jensen said, “No, I’m not her solicitor. I can assure you I’m more to her than that.”
“No kidding?” Dunstan raised his brows and looked first at Amber, then at Jensen. “My bad. I didn’t expect a saucy cowgirl like Amber to have a stiff suit as a boyfriend. No offense, buddy.”
Buddy? Didn’t this guy know who Jensen was? And who in the bloody hell was he calling a stiff suit?
“Thanks for stopping by,” Amber said. “You have yourself a great night, Mr. Dunstan.” Then she waved him off, dismissing him as graciously as Queen Elizabeth would have expelled a naughty dog from the throne room.
As Dunstan walked away, she tipped her shot glass of tequila to her lips as if it were a porcelain cup of Earl Grey.
Yet something told Jensen that she was unsettled by the whole encounter.
Well, he was more than unsettled. He was downright perturbed—especially at being kept in the dark.
“It sounds as though your gig with Cowboy Country USA is all but a done deal.” He’d tried to tamp down the accusatory tone of his voice, but without much success.
“I was going to tell you about the contract tonight.”
“Tell me what? That they offered you one? Or tell me that you signed one?”
“That I signed one.”
“But I thought you were just going to ride in their pretend cowboy show. I didn’t know about the dancing-girl business or the photos and publicity.”
He hadn’t meant to sound so petulant, like a child who didn’t get a sticky bun for supper. She didn’t owe him an explanation. But for some damn reason, he still hurt like hell—way down deep. And the thought of her parading around in some skimpy costume, modeling for photographers and seeking the limelight was the exact thing that he’d spent his life avoiding.
“This wasn’t the way I’d wanted to tell you, but I don’t need your permission or approval anyway.” She straightened her spine, and he realized she was no longer embarrassed or worried about what the locals were thinking. Or him, for that matter. “When you go back to London, I’m going to stay here in Horseback Hollow and go on with my life the way I see fit.”
“I didn’t know that performing in a trashy, two-bit saloon-girl costume was on the top of your list for life achievements.”
“First of all, it’s not trashy. Gram sewed that for me. And second of all, I like performing. Not necessarily in a skimpy dress, but on a horse and in an arena. I miss the rodeo and I miss the thrill of riding. I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“Nobody is asking you to apologize.” He wished she would lower her voice. They were making a scene, and he hated the way the patrons were now looking at him as if he’d insulted one of their own. “I guess I was just taken by surprise. I didn’t realize you were into all that celebrity rubbish like the others. I thought I knew... Oh, never mind.”
“What did you think you knew? Me?” She gave a little snort. “Because if you really knew me, you’d know that I’m not doing this for any other reasons than the ones I already mentioned. The last thing I want is to be a celebrity living out my life publicly on the front page of every gossip magazine. But I guess you have that British nose stuck too far up in the air to see that life is more than hiding out in your sister’s house and dating all the wrong people, just so the world will see you the way you want it to—and not the way you really are.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a few bills, leaving them on the bar, before she got to her feet. “That should cover the cost of my drink. I wouldn’t want you to add gold digger or moocher to the list of unflattering qualities you think I possess.”
With that, Amber turned around and stormed out of the cantina.
Jensen reached into his pocket, removed the watch and glanced at it. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he’d certainly made a damn mess of everything.
* * *
Well, what had Amber expected—a profession of undying love and unconditional acceptance? It took all she had not to burst into tears before she reached the dark and safe confines of her pickup.
Of course she looked like some sort of fame-hungry celebrity wannabe. She could see why someone like Jensen, who’d spent his entire life avoiding the cameras, wouldn’t want his precious family name linked with the new face of Cowboy Country USA. But that didn’t make her a bad person or somehow beneath him.
But then again, she had no one to blame but herself. She knew where this relationship was going—nowhere. And she’d known that all along.
The two of them were like night and day. Their worlds and their paths never should have crossed.
Still, she’d let herself fall in love with Jensen in spite of all that. And her heart ached at the loss of something and someone she’d never stood a chance of having. She needed to have a good cry, but she’d be darned if she’d do it in the parking lot of the town’s most popular eatery.
So she started the truck and drove home, her anger soon replaced with tears and self-recriminations.
When she arrived at the darkened ranch house, she tried not to look at the romantic staging she’d carefully set up before leaving for dinner—the scented candles that would remain unlit and the Keith Urban CD that would remain unplayed.
Instead, she undressed and climbed into bed, where the soft and clean sheets had been scented with lilac.
She punched her pillow about ten times before succumbing to heart-wrenching tears and crying herself to sleep. But even then, she spent a fretful night, tossing and turning until dawn.
The next day, a cold sense of loss nearly swept her away when she woke at daybreak, alone in a double bed and in an empty house.
She showered and dressed in her work clothes, hoping that would help put a sense of normalcy back into her life. Then she went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
When her cell phone rang, her heart leaped in her chest. Hope rose, chasing away her sadness. Let it be Jensen, calling to apologize or at least to make amends.
Without taking time to check the number on the lit display, she slid her finger across the screen and answered.
“Hello, dear. This is Josephine Fortune Chesterfield.” Amber nearly dropped her coffee mug.
What could Jensen’s mother possibly want? Was she calling to gently reprimand Amber for engaging her son in a horrible public display of a lover’s quarrel last night?
“I’m sorry to trouble you this morning, but I was hoping you might know where I could find Jensen.”
“Not here,” Amber blurted out, embarrassed that the royal English aristocrat would think her son had spent the night with her. Of course, if Mr. Dunstan would have just kept his big mouth shut, that’s
