masculinity encased in worn denim. He smelled of clean musk and leather. He was unabashedly male, and Felicity was accustomed to men who cloaked their gender in gentler, more ambiguous, contemporary ways. She closed her eyes to get her bearings. Heaven help her, this was not a good start.
His hands lifted her, pulling her up, almost skimming the length of his frame. Felicity’s heart pounded with apprehension and something else she couldn’t name. His hands were firm yet gentle. There would be no bruises from his touch.
For one sliver of a second, she felt the rare impact of controlled strength in his fingers and glimpsed something even more rare in his eyes. Honor. Felicity hadn’t thought that quality existed anymore. Her stomach took another dip.
“Thank you,” she managed in a whisper.
He shrugged and released her, then, grabbing the three suitcases, he swept through the door. “This way,” he said.
She forced her feet to move, climbing a curved wooden staircase with a brass banister. She moved quickly, catching blurred impressions of the house; space, soft light, polished wood, warmth. Photographs and portraits lined the walls of the stairway, and Felicity immediately absorbed the strong sense of family tradition.
“Breakfast at 6:00 a.m.,” Brock said, “dinner at 6:00 p.m., lunch on your own. If you make a meal in the kitchen, clean up after yourself. My housekeeper’s touchy about messes she doesn’t make.”
In other words, don’t expect chocolates on the pillow, she thought, following him into a small bedroom with an antique double bed, dresser, bureau and nightstand. He flicked on the bedside lamp. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”
“Your home is lovely.” She stroked the cherry wood of the dresser. “The furniture isn’t western.”
“My ancestors were from Virginia.”
Felicity nodded. “Your wife or decorator did a marvelous job with—”
“I don’t have a wife,” he said bluntly, his eyes turning hard. “I do have two kids, though. Bree and Jacob aren’t known for being quiet, but I’ll tell them to stay out of your way. My brother Tyler is a doctor, but he’s here as often as he is in town. My sister Martina is in Chicago working for a computer company, but she can stop in at any moment. Our housekeeper’s name is Addie. She keeps things running smoothly, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset her.”
Felicity digested the information and nodded. “I’ll try not to get in the way,” she said.
His gaze, full of doubt, fell over her. “If you decide to go for a walk, stay away from the bull pen.” He paused a half beat. “And the men’s quarters.”
Felicity nodded and glanced around the room. Was there anywhere she could go? She smiled. “I’m glad I’ve got a window in my room.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Yeah.”
The man clearly did not have a Texas-sized sense of humor. She felt an odd flutter in her stomach at the intensity in his blue eyes.
“How long are you staying?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It depends on my lawyers’ recommendation and what I decide. I had thought the quarters would provide some needed solitude, but…” She shrugged.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Your lawyers’ recommendation?”
“Yes.” She thought of the mess she’d left behind in New York and felt suddenly tired. “Too complicated for this hour. Thank you for your hospitality. You’ve truly extended yourself this evening.”
He watched her for a long uncomfortable moment. “Do you have any family at all?”
Felicity felt the all-encompassing aloneness close in on her again. She stiffened herself against it. “No, but I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m okay.” If she kept saying it, it would one day be true.
He nodded, but didn’t looked convinced. That was fine, she told herself. It was far more important that she convince herself.
She met his gaze and felt a strange undertow of recognition, as if something inside her recognized something inside him. She would almost swear she saw that same recognition in his eyes. Her heart shifted.
“Just a minute,” he said, breaking the moment and stepping into the hallway. A moment later, he returned and set bath towels and washcloths on the dresser. “If you want to take a shower, you can. The kids are asleep.”
Felicity smiled and finished his thought. “So don’t sing in the shower.”
His lips twitched almost to a grin. “Yeah.” He looked at her again, and she wondered what he saw; wondered, but wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Restless, she clasped her hands together. “Thank you for opening your home to me at such short notice.”
He dipped his head. “Good night, Felicity Chambeau.”
“Good night, Brock Logan.”
He closed the door behind him, and she was alone again, an all-too-familiar feeling. She glanced at the bed and promised herself to sleep for twenty-four hours. She vowed not to dream about anything that would disturb her, such as a disapproving financial attorney, a cockroach former financial advisor, or a tall rancher with sexy eyes and a humor deficit.
Brock still smelled her perfume after he’d showered in the master bathroom and drunk a shot of bourbon. She wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured. With a name like Felicity, he’d expected a more frivolous-looking female. Instead, her black pantsuit had whispered over her slim curves with understated ease. Her straight blond hair was pulled back into a clip at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was minimal, and he hadn’t noticed any rocks on her fingers.
She’d looked like a woman who was deliberately playing down her attributes. He frowned, wondering why. She’d almost appeared to be grieving. That wasn’t possible, Brock thought, since her parents had died a few years ago. The sadness in her green eyes had tugged at him. It still did. The erotic sight of her parted lips inches away from him when she’d fallen stirred long-buried needs. Needs best denied, he thought, feeling too aware of how long he’d been without a woman.
Damn, he didn’t need this. He poured another bourbon. He shouldn’t have asked that last question. He’d seen the glint of pain in her gaze and her brave attempt to cover it, and in that one strange moment, he’d sensed a kindred spirit. That was impossible.
Felicity slept soundly until she heard heavy footsteps outside her door. Glancing at the clock, she winced at the afternoon hour and pulled her pillow over her head. Way too early. Not twenty-four hours. She willed herself to return to sleep.
“Sheep,” she muttered, counting fluffy white animals as they jumped over a fence. She heard more heavy footsteps and pictured Brock Logan’s boots. Following the image of his boots up his long legs and muscular thighs to the rest of his impressive physique, she moaned and kicked off the sheet. She tried to think of sheep, but they morphed into cows and reality began to sink in. She was not in Manhattan. She was on a cattle ranch.
“And why are you here?” she wryly asked herself. “Because you said you wanted to think about it when
