didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.
Nerves? Alcohol?
He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.
Free and clear.
He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.
What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.
The offer that she’d trumped.
Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.
From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.
She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.
Imagination could be a pain in the ass.
He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.
“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.
She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”
He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.
At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?
He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.
This was business.
But seriously. Hanky-panky?
“I’m a rancher, babe,” he said with the cocky wisdom of a ten-year-old poking a sleeping cat with a stick. “We call it by more basic terms.”
Her eyes widened a little.
“Sex,” he said wryly.
The relief that crossed her face was comical. Did she think he was so uncultured that he’d drop something way more basic?
Probably.
“Here’s the deal.” He set the napkin squarely in the center of the table, his palm covering her neat little list. “You can list your terms like this all you want. We can sign it. We can flippin’ notarize it. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not pretending to be anything. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
A swallow worked down her throat, drawing his eyes to the hollow at the base of it. Just below that seductive indentation, a single sparkling diamond seemed to almost float at the center of a nearly invisible chain. “Evidently, I misjudged the level of your interest in the Hopping H.” She pinched her fingertips around the edge of the napkin. “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon your holiday spirit to keep this discussion between the two of us?”
He kept his hand on the paper, preventing her from pulling it free. “People ’round here would tell you I don’t have any holiday spirit.”
She looked insulted. “I don’t indulge in gossip, Mr. Chilton.”
“What do you indulge in, Miz McFarlane?” Below the sparkling diamond, there was another sweep of smooth, ivory skin, leading down to that wrapped dress.
She shifted in her seat, affording him another woefully brief glimpse of lace. “Quite obviously, wasting our time.” She tugged at the napkin again.
“I didn’t say you were wasting your time.”
She let out a faint sigh. “Then what are you saying?”
“I told you. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this for real.”
She leaned forward, the edges of her fine white teeth meeting in a smile that seemed remarkably close to a clench. “I am not looking for a real husband,” she assured under her breath.
He leaned closer, too, mostly to see how quick she’d back away.
Only they ended up nose to nose, because the infernal woman didn’t retreat.
“I’m not looking for a real wife, either,” he murmured. Her skin was just as fine this close as his imagination suspected. And her lashes were long. Not the clumped-up, mucked-up kind of long that came out of some tube. He didn’t kid himself that she went without cosmetics. Life with Nola had shown him just how effective that particular art could be. But he’d bet his favorite saddle that those lashes of Melanie’s didn’t have any need for artifice.
And those lashes suddenly flickered, dropping down to shield her dark eyes. “People are staring. Just give me the napkin and I’ll go.”
“Sugar, if you give up this easy, you might as well pack it in and move back to Boston.” His fingers covered hers, stilling her tug on the napkin.
“I told you. I’m not from Boston and I’m not giving up.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“Knowing enough not to beat a dead horse,” she returned.
“Why don’t you just sell me the H now, and cut your losses? Go back and run one of those towering hotels your family’s famous for?”
“Why don’t you just take a flying leap? Did you not just hear what I said? A McFarlane doesn’t quit.”
He smiled faintly. “Right. So if you don’t want to fail, it’s like I said. We get hitched for real. Then we’ll have something to talk about.”
“A person might think your virtue were at stake.” Her voice was low and the smile on her lips didn’t extend to her eyes.
His fingers itched to wrap around another beer. At least that was an easier explanation than thinking that his fingers itched to wrap around something much more warm and animated.
With hair the color of mahogany set on fire.
He curled the itchy fingers into a fist. “I gave up on virtue years ago. But I want to make damn sure you can’t finagle your way out of giving me my cut when our little association ends.”
