Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress

She led him into a reception room, furnished with evergreen and crimson window dressings and impressive Jacobean furniture. But his interest soon slid back to the way his hostess filled out that dress. Frankly, the sight of her legs in sheer black stockings made his head swim a little, foxtails or not.

“Can I interest you in a predinner drink?” she asked, leaving him to cross to a mile-long timber bar. Beneath the lights, tiny diamantés sparkled in her hair. With a teasing grin, she held up a bottle of whiskey and suggested, “A Manhattan, perhaps?”

Grinning, he sauntered over. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”

When in Rome … Didn’t all Texans love their ale?

“In that case—” she pulled a frosty beer from under the counter “—a local coming up.”

“Will you join me?”

“I’m more a bubbles gal.” When she lifted an opened bottle, nesting in a nearby silver ice bucket, he studied and openly approved the label.

“A very fine vintage.”

“You know wines.” It was more a statement than a question.

“I know what’s good.” Clearly so did she.

“Two glasses then?”

“I’ll pour.”

She found a pair of cut-crystal flutes. He filled one, handed hers over then filled his own. When she tilted her head and raised her glass, diamonds seemed to sparkle in her eyes as well as her hair.

“A toast,” she said. “To your design helping Abby bag the election.”

His chest tightened and the glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “Only if I put it through a massive overhaul.”

Understanding shone in her eyes. “Abigail didn’t like it?”

“She was too polite to say but I’m sure she hated it. Turns out I took a bit of a bum steer regarding the theme, courtesy of a plant from her opponent’s camp.”

“Brad Price doesn’t mind playing dirty.”

Her growl sounded more like a kitten than a bear, although he didn’t doubt that beneath all that feminine grace lay the heart of a tiger.

“What did Abby say?”

He wouldn’t go into details. “Suffice to say her expression was enough.”

Images of his design rolled through his head, his thoughts working through the exterior structure then the overly rustic properties of each room. He could see where he’d gone wrong now.

“Too many textures and dimensions harking back to the good ol’ days,” he admitted. “Too stereotypical.”

Damn it, too cheesy. His fingertip began to draw geometrical shapes over the counter. Helped him to think.

“I get that the committee wants to retain the club’s original flavor,” he went on, “while positioning it firmly in the twenty-first century. I need to find that balance.”

Elizabeth rounded the timber counter and didn’t stop until her heavenly scent had claimed his personal space and was hijacking his bloodstream. The impulse to edge closer and breathe a little deeper was something he had to work at to contain.

An eyebrow arched, she rested her crystal flute on her chin while those dazzling smoky-shadowed eyes searched his. “You sound as if you might have a few ideas.”

“Earlier today, so did you.”

“I confess, I do possess a fascination for design.”

“You studied it?”

“Not officially.”

She rotated to lean back against the counter. With her weight preferring one shapely leg, elbows propped up on the counter on either side, she looked so sultry, so classic … Hell, if he’d been an artist, he’d have begged for an easel and brush.

“I have majors in psychology and literature,” she told him.

“I’d have guessed a business degree would’ve been the logical choice, given one day you’d be running all this.”

Besides other things, when he’d inquired, Abigail had told him Elizabeth was an only child.

Some of the light in her eyes waned at the same time her gaze dropped to the original polished timber at her feet. “I wasn’t that interested in the ranch back then. When my folks passed away, I began to see things differently. There’s always time for more study.”

He set his glass carefully down. “Abigail mentioned about your parents.” A tragic automobile accident. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded then shucked back her slender shoulders. “How about you, Mr. Warren? Do you have family?”

Daniel’s insides knotted. Given the thread of their conversation, it was an obvious question. Now he would avoid giving a straight answer, because he didn’t discuss that facet of his life. His past. Not with anyone.

Before he could maneuver the conversation in another direction, they were interrupted.

“Sorry to barge in, folks.”

Daniel rotated toward the accented female voice. A woman, late sixties in a printed apron and matching slippers, was taking her time crossing the room.

“Just wanta say,” the woman said, peering at Daniel through lenses that covered a good deal of her face, “dinner’s on the table.”

Elizabeth moved to join her. “Nita Ramirez, this is Mr. Warren. The architect from New York City I told you about.”

“Please, Elizabeth, Nita, the name’s Daniel.” Making his way over, he extended a hand, which Nita Ramirez readily shook—and for quite a time. “I hear you’re a fabulous talent in the kitchen,” Daniel added.

Nita patted her jet-black shoulder-length hair. “That compliment’ll earn you a second helping of my specialty dessert, Daniel. How does caramel apple cheesecake sound?”

He almost licked his lips. “My sweet tooth and I can hardly wait.”

Pleased, Nita sent over a hearty wink then spoke to Elizabeth. “Dining room’s all set, Beth. I set a match to the fire, too.”

As Nita strolled off, Elizabeth offered her arm to her guest. “I sure hope you’re hungry.”

At the end of the meal, Elizabeth dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, to hide her grin more than anything. A man of Daniel’s means would dine at the best restaurants around the world, and while guests regularly swooned over Nita’s culinary triumphs, her current guest’s reaction to rib eye roast and baked potato salad was priceless. No question. Daniel Warren appreciated good home cooking.

“I’m sure there’s more,” Elizabeth offered, “if you can fit it in.”

He set his knife and fork down on the gravy-smeared plate. “I’m tempted. But I need room for that dessert.”

“Be warned. Caramel apple cheesecake is addictive.”

“I’m an advocate of the saying, you can never have too much of a good thing.”

When his gaze held hers a moment longer than was necessary, heat climbed up Elizabeth’s neck and she had to drop her gaze, catch her breath. She wasn’t one to titter. She didn’t normally blush like a schoolgirl when a man flirted. But, sitting here with Daniel, she felt something new, unexpected and highly pleasurable playing tag with her senses.

As they’d talked through dinner—about music, politics, how cool the weather was for this time of year—her awareness of every facet of his presence had grown until the buzz she’d felt from the moment they’d met had cranked up to high. Whenever he looked at her the way he had just now, all over her skin, through her blood, she tingled. Frankly, she wanted to surrender to a long sigh and fan herself.

With Daniel Warren she felt as much like a teenage girl as a woman.

When the tips of her breasts began to harden and heat, clearing her thoughts, Elizabeth set down her napkin and inhaled a leveling breath. Get back on track. He was looking forward to dessert.

“I’m guessing you don’t cook,” she said, fighting the urge to cross her arms, contain that heat.

“Not much.” Sheepish, he tugged his ear. “Not at all.”

“And there I was, imagining you sweating over a gas cooker, tossing the escargot.”

His mouth turned down. “You like snails?”

“I’ve indulged, but only when I visit a particular café on the Rue de la Villette.” As his eyebrows knitted and he gave a curious grin, she cocked her head. “You’ve been to Paris?”

“Me? Sure. Beautiful city. Although it’s always good to get back home.”

“To the States?”

“To New York.”

Elizabeth almost forgot herself and frowned. Nothing wrong with being precise. Still, if she hadn’t known better, she might think that reply was pointed. That perhaps Abigail had clued him up on more than her parents’ misfortune. That she might have confided in her situation with regard to that condition of their will.

Which was crazy. Abigail wouldn’t break that kind of confidence, and he couldn’t have found out anywhere else—Chad Tremain, for example. Obviously her thoughts—those sensations he stirred—were running away on her, filling her head with fancies.

Elizabeth set her mind back on the conversation.

“New York has some incredible restaurants.”

He ran an appreciative eye over his plate. “None that serve food like that.”

“Is your mother a good cook?”

His smile froze for a heartbeat before he reached for his wine. “Mom could cook.”

“Do your parents still live in Carolina?”

“No.” He pushed back his chair and glanced around as he took a mouthful of red and swallowed. “The decor in here is interesting.”

“Early American,” she replied, thinking not of furniture but the fact he’d avoided talking about his family. Before dinner he’d hesitated when she’d inquired. Although she and her parents had been close, estrangement between generations wasn’t uncommon. But she wouldn’t push. Private was private. Even if she was more than curious.

They were talking about decor.

“My mother redecorated parts of this house, but not this room. She liked it homey. The dinner table is where the family comes together, she used to say. Not only to eat, but to talk and listen and plan.”

Daniel’s smile held. “A wonderful, traditional concept.” His attention wandered to the far wall. “Those dark wood panels are almost identical to the club’s.”

“Might’ve been cut from the same tree. Heck, the ranch and the club have both been around since Buffalo Bill was a boy.”

He pretended to pull his head in. “Do I detect a hint of impatience?”

Amused, she blinked twice. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“That resigned note in your voice.”

“That wasn’t a resigned note.”

“Sounded pretty clear to me—”

“You were mistaken.” She lifted her chin. “What you heard was respect.”

“So you don’t harbor any secret plans to turn the ranch into a casino or suburban lots like some others down this way?”

She coughed out a laugh even as heat crept up her neck again, this time for a different reason. Was he serious?

“What a curious thing to say. Of course not.”

“But you would like some change,” he went on. “Am I right?”

With a practiced smile, she set her elbow on the chair’s arm and fiddled with her diamond drop earring. “Is your sideline mind reading, Mr. Warren?”

“It’s Daniel, remember?”

Knowing an edge had crept into her voice, Elizabeth played up her smile. She didn’t like his line of thought. His questions. Her ideas on tradition—when, where and how to tweak—were her business, just as whatever prickled Daniel about his family’s past was his.

But she’d answer his question—in her own way.

“While it’s time the Cattleman’s Club challenged some of its older trappings, I can’t see Milton Ranch changing. My parents wanted tradition to live on here.” She reached for her glass. “So do I.”

Regardless of the will, she would never sell, especially to developers.

Still, truth was, she wished she had some middle-of-the-road option. Just a little more freedom …

“Who’s up for dessert?”

Elizabeth snapped back from her thoughts. Nita had entered the room, ready to clear the plates. Daniel held his stomach, which Elizabeth wouldn’t mind betting was a six-pack.

“I might let that delicious roast settle first,” he said, handing over his plate. “That was a big helping.”

“A man deserves to be satisfied at the end of the day.”

At the housekeeper’s last comment, Elizabeth shot her a glare. Nita only returned an innocent grin. The Milton Ranch housekeeper was a well-known matchmaker, but if she was hoping to set up the toll of wedding bells tonight, Nita could put her scheming mind to rest. As far as sexual attraction was concerned, Daniel Warren was a big fat ten, but he was passing through. He might even have a girl back home in New York. Maybe two. And while marriage was a definite in her future, Elizabeth wasn’t after long-term just now. Hell, she was only twenty-five.

Plates in hand, almost at the doorway, Nita suggested, “You ought to go for a walk. Help work off that meal.”

Elizabeth pushed to her feet. “I’m sure Daniel would prefer to take in more of the house.” See if anything inspired ideas for his project.

But as her guest unfolded to his full height, he gifted her with a deliciously sinful smile. “I like Nita’s idea.” He offered his arm. “Let’s go work it off.”

Ten minutes later, as he and Elizabeth made their way down a graveled path that led to the Milton Ranch stables, Daniel stole a glance at his companion’s dusty yard boots—the Jimmy Choos had been deemed unsuitable—and the bulky work coat thrown over her stunning black evening dress. Then he studied her perfect profile, highlighted by the rising moon’s silver beams, and decided Elizabeth Milton would exude panache wearing a brown paper bag. “Eclectic” suited her, like he couldn’t imagine it suiting any other. She achieved real style effortlessly when, in his experience, females often tried too hard to look their best, be the best. That last wasn’t a gender-specific phenomenon, particularly amidst the never-ending bustle and hustle of New York.

Daniel’s focus lifted to the sky.

But Milton Ranch was a long way from those city lights. Damn, he’d never seen so many stars.

“How much land have you got here?” he asked.

“Three thousand acres,” Elizabeth replied, pride evident in her voice as she dug her hands into her coat pockets.

“Must be a challenge.”

“One I’m prepared to face. Although rising costs and lack of trained hands make it difficult,” she admitted.

“But you’re in for the long haul.”

“My parents left money enough to keep the tradition going. Ranching is in my blood.”

A vision of Elizabeth at five years of age wearing an Annie Oakley costume, charging off toward an endless horizon on her very own pony, made him smile.

“So you grew up learning how to rope a steer?” he asked as they crunched farther down the shadowed path.

“I was a cowgirl but only in between attending boarding school.”

“A school close to home?”

“Initially in Houston. In my teens, overseas. Switzerland, France.”

“Where you dined on sautéed mollusks.” Snails.

“Helix pomatia, to be precise,” she said with mock authority.

He lifted an eyebrow. “My, sounds like those boarding schools didn’t waste your parents’ money.”

“I received a great education. Had some wonderful experiences. Made some lifelong friends.” And in her faraway expression he could see she wouldn’t say no to a sojourn to Europe right this minute. He could well imagine her expertly skiing Alpine slopes, wandering around the history and culture of the Louvre.

“Bet you’re on and off jets, visiting all the time.”

Before the moon disappeared behind a cloud, he saw her smile waver but, a moment later, her shoulders in that big coat rolled back.

“There’s a lot to keep me busy here.”

Daniel’s step faltered. Here was a beautiful, obviously intelligent woman with mega funds at her disposal. She’d beamed speaking about that Parisian café, about her experiences overseas and the friends she’d made there. She was young, which translated into plenty of energy and enthusiasm, the kind she showed for this ranch. Had he misinterpreted or had she as good as confessed she didn’t get out much?

Just how much of her time did this ranch take up?

“I guess the responsibility of three thousand acres is a lot,” he prodded as the silhouette of the stables loomed before them.

“I have people to manage matters, although more and more I’d rather handle things myself.”

He shot over a glance. “Really?”

A strand of blond escaped its upsweep and danced in the breeze as she frowned. “Why so surprised?”

“To be honest—” he shrugged “—practically everything about you surprises me.”

She sent him a saucy grin. “Good.”

A moment later, a whinny sounded as they approached the stable’s single side door.

“This building replaced the original stable a decade ago,” she said, shifting the catch. “We had a fire. No horses lost, thank heaven. When Dad upgraded, he made sure it was with the best materials and safety features.”

Stepping inside, she flicked a light switch then pointed out a framed photograph, hanging on the wall, of a grand turn-of-the-previous-century red timber barn.

“This one doesn’t smell the same,” she said, “doesn’t have the same feel, but it’s easier to keep clean and has loads more space.”

As the smell of fresh hay and horse filled his lungs, Daniel concurred. This was a clean wide structure, with two-dozen individual stalls, as well as windows and a skylight that would allow in an ideal amount of natural light during the day. Not the personality of the old post-and-beam barn with its massive hayloft, but far more practical.

Times change.

Elizabeth crossed to the first stall on the left. Hooves pawed at a straw floor, then came a welcoming snort, a sound that made Daniel smile and wish his father had listened to him for once and let him learn how to ride. Hunting was Judge Buck Warren’s passion. Daniel still hadn’t forgiven his father for that.

Elizabeth arrived at the stall gate. A regal-looking horse, with a glossy black coat and mane, greeted her by nudging its muzzle against her shoulder. Elizabeth, so small against this other’s height and might, seemed to come alive as she scrubbed her palm over its cheek and murmured words that had Daniel longing to be on the receiving end.

Her face filled with adoration, she looked over. “This is Ame Sœur.”

“Kindred Spirit.”

For the first time he noticed a delicate dimple either side of her smile. “I’ll have you eating escargot yet.”

He pretended to shudder. “You two seem good friends.”

“The best,” she said, and the horse blew through his lips as if to agree. “We try to saddle up every day.”

“Unless you’re away.”

The motion of her hand stroking his muzzle stopped while she fished into her coat pocket and extracted a huge red apple. Her horse’s head reared back as his lips wobbled, searching out the treat. He was crunching into the fruit when she replied in a somber tone.

“Daniel, did Abby say something to you?”

“Say something? About what?”

Searching his eyes, she seemed to consider his response before she dropped her gaze then refocused on the horse, which was chomping and nudging for more. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

When he moved closer, she pulled another apple from her pocket. “Want to feed him?”

“Maybe later.”

“We mostly use trucks and bikes these days.” The horse bit into the second apple. “But if I check the stock and fences, I like to do it with Ame.”

“Right now I’m interested in what you think Abigail might have told me.”

He couldn’t believe it was anything sinister. So what was it that had this normally poised woman looking suddenly flustered?

Still, whatever it was didn’t concern him … unless she wanted it to.

He tilted his head. “And if you want me to back off, say the word.”

With those diamond drops sparkling beneath the fluorescents, she looked him square on for a deliberative moment then finally blew out a breath.

“My parents included a caveat in their will,” she said. “I’m obliged to stay here, in Royal, a good deal of any given year.”

He frowned. “What do you mean—a good deal?”

“I get two months to travel outside of Royal.”

He took a moment to digest the ramifications. “And if you’re gone for, say, two months and one day?”

“I forfeit my inheritance.”

He wanted to laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You lose the ranch?”

“There are reasons—”

“The reason is called blackmail.”

Disgust flooded her face. “My parents didn’t blackmail me.”

“What do you call it when someone threatens to take away what you care about if you don’t do exactly what they want?”

Hell, he was an expert on the subject. How many times growing up had he heard one or the other of his divorced parents say, “Daniel, you won’t see your mother/father again if you don’t …” Fill in the blank. By the end of it, he didn’t care if he ever saw either one of them again.

Her fists plowed into those coat pockets at the same time her chin kicked up. “It’s not blackmail. It’s called handing down responsibility.”

Poor, misguided Miss Milton, Daniel thought, and slowly shook his head.

“You are young, aren’t you.”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m as much an adult, and in charge of my life, as you are.”

“That’s why you’re still doing what your parents tell you.”

She studied him with eyes that burned.

“Do you come from this kind of background?”

His shoulders went back. “I refused to have anything to do with my parents’ money.” Their bribes. He was a self-made man.

“You shunned your parents?” Her tone was pitying. “No. Of course you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re in charge of your life,” he said. “Way I see it, you’re walking around in chains most of the time.” To a homebody, the caveat might not seem like a hardship. But Elizabeth made no secret of the fact she loved to travel. Explore new lands. Meet new people. She was energetic and, God knew, she had the means. But what good was money if she was forbidden from using it the way she’d most like? Elizabeth hadn’t been given a choice, like he hadn’t been given a choice when he was growing up. Being helpless—voiceless—had to be the worst feeling in the world.

“Is that why you don’t see your parents, Daniel?” she asked calmly. “Because you don’t like chains? Don’t like ties? Because you wanted to be in charge?”

He gave a jaded smile as emotion filled his chest. Elizabeth Milton knew nothing about him. He was wrong to have pushed. Wrong to have wanted to get involved.

“It’s been a great evening,” he told her in a level no-hard-feelings tone. “It’s time I got back.”

Her mouth uncharacteristically tight, she nodded. “I’m sure you need to rise early, as do I.”

“Thank Nita for the meal.”

“Good luck with your future endeavors.”

“I’ll walk you back to the house.”

“No need. I’ve walked that path so often, I’d know it in a tornado.”

She was welcome to it.

He moved out of the stables, heard her close the door. Head down, he’d taken a half-dozen steps when she called out.

“Daniel. I want you to know, I’m happy staying here,” she told him as he turned around. “Sometimes it’s a little … inconvenient. But I’ve come to see this ranch is my future.”

“That’s fine.” Totally her business. He tipped his head. “Good night.”

He’d begun to turn away when she interrupted again.

“You don’t believe me.”

“It shouldn’t matter what I believe.”

“It’s only until I turn thirty.”

By thirty he’d been well on his way to being successful, and happy, in his own right. But, again, not his concern.

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“I don’t want you to leave feeling sorry for me,” she pointed out. “I have everything any person could want or need.”

“Just make sure you don’t include freedom on that list.”

She growled, “It’s not a restriction.”

“No?”

“No.”

As she stood before him, defiant in the moonlight, his skin heated, muscles clenched, and as his gaze held hers, a dark, deep urge overwhelmed him, a primitive impulse that set his heart pumping all the more. She didn’t want his pity and, God save him, he didn’t want to show her any. But she wanted him to believe she wasn’t interested in too much beyond this parcel of land?