Charlotte Maclay - In A Cowboy's Embrace

They’d never had any more kids, either, and that still hurt almost as much as having lost his high school sweetheart.

Cliff peered into the guest room. Actually he’d been sleeping there since Yvonne died. At first there were too many ghosts, too many memories in the master bedroom. Then it simply became a habit to sleep across the hall.

“See, what’d I tell you,” Stevie whispered.

Yep, definitely Goldilocks and her mom, both of them sound asleep on top of the covers, a paperback novel open on the night table. The girl’s hair was tousled with blond ringlets, her face like an angel, but it was the woman who drew Cliff’s attention. Her hair spilled over the pillow like a waterfall made of white gold. At rest, she looked vulnerable. Approachable. Tempting as hell.

Thick coils of heat whipped through Cliff, and he had to fight an instinctive urge to flee…or to join the woman lying on his bed.

A grown-up Goldilocks far more alluring than a younger version. He must have made a sound because the woman stretched, arching as lazily as a sleek cat. Her eyes blinked open. Blue as a Montana sky. A slow smile curved lips specifically made with kissing in mind. She gave him an assessing look, then her gaze slid to his son.

“Hi. You must be Stevie.” A low, seductive voice, husky with sleep.

The boy nodded. “You’re sleeping in my dad’s bed.”

“I am?” She eyed Cliff again with a warm, blue-velvet gaze.

“Did you break any of our chairs?” Stevie asked.

A fascinating little inverted V appeared between her nicely shaped eyebrows. “Chairs?” Effortlessly, she rose to a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her skirt swirled into position, settling like silk across her lap, draping the quick flash of leg that he’d glimpsed. With easy grace, she picked up a silver hair clip from the nightstand, twisted her long hair a couple of times and piled it on top of her head, snaring it in place in a sexy, casual do.

“He thinks you’re Goldilocks’s mother,” Cliff explained, his throat strangely tight and his voice as husky as hers had been.

She glanced at her sleeping daughter, and her smile blossomed into something radiant. Madonna and child with a measure of laughter mixed in. “More like an overtired minx, I’m afraid. We’ve been driving for days and then I got lost.”

From the looks of her long fingernails painted a raspberry red, to her perfectly oval face and her flawless complexion, not only was this woman lost, she’d wound up about two thousand miles off target. Hollywood should have been her destination.

She slipped her bare feet into a pair of leather sandals on the floor beside the bed, her toenails the same bright shade of raspberry as her fingernails. When she stood, she extended her hand to Cliff. “I’m Tasha Reynolds, your new housekeeper. Temporarily, of course.”

Cliff’s jaw dropped to somewhere near his knees. His housekeeper? No way was this the sort of woman he’d expected to fill in for Sylvia Torres while his regular housekeeper was helping her daughter following the birth of Sylvia’s third grandchild. But he’d asked his sister-in-law if she knew anyone….

“Are you Ella’s sister?” he asked, belatedly noting a vague family resemblance to his brother’s new wife. But while Ella Papadakis-Swain was attractive, Tasha was…striking. Tall and willowy, she moved with a dramatic grace that only a man who could meet and beat her height could fully appreciate. A man like Cliff.

“Guilty as charged.” She slipped past him as smoothly as warm butter on toast, taking Stevie’s hand in the process. “Why don’t we let Melissa sleep a little while longer? Four days of travel were hard on her.”

He watched her walk down the hallway—no, she floated down the hallway, Cliff mentally corrected himself, noting the sway of her skirt. She left the scent of the tropics behind her, hot and sultry. No way could he let Tasha Reynolds stay around as his housekeeper. No way, unless she’d allow him to spend twenty-four hours a day in bed with her.

Given he had an impressionable five-year-old son—and she had a young daughter—that wasn’t a viable plan. The only other choice was to ask her to leave. Because no way could he be under the same roof with her for any extended length of time without bedding her.

He wasn’t going to do that.

Especially not when his reputation was likely to be under scrutiny because of his election campaign for county sheriff.

TASHA RELEASED Stevie’s hand when they reached the spacious living room, decorated in Western style with bright colors accenting the earth tones of wood and the native stone fireplace. “Your Aunt Ella tells me you’re five years old.”

“I’m almost six.” The youngster looked like a small replica of his father—close-cropped, sandy-blond hair that on the boy had gone slightly shaggy and was in need of a haircut; baby-blue eyes that on his father held a glint of mischief; a particularly strong jaw and lips that naturally curved upward in an invitation to return his smile.

“My Melissa’s almost seven. She’s looking forward to playing with you.”

“She really isn’t Goldilocks?”

“’Fraid not. But that’s always been one of her favorite stories, too.”

The little boy scrunched his forehead into a frown. “I thought the bears were gonna eat Goldilocks up and I got scared, but they didn’t. The bears around here will eat’cha up if you’re not careful.”

“Yes, well, I’m certainly glad Goldilocks found some friendly bears to play with, aren’t you?”

“I guess. Ricky Monroe kept wanting the bears to rip her head off.”

Tasha shuddered at the thought, and at the same time felt Clifford’s gaze on her. She was used to people looking at her. After all, she was a fashion model on the runways of New York and Paris and posed in front of the camera for cover shots. People admiring her—or at least the clothes she wore—wasn’t unusual.

The way Cliff looked at her was different. Not predatory. Certainly interested. But with a wary gleam suggesting she didn’t belong here.

Well, she didn’t. But every woman deserved a safe place to lick her wounds when she got dumped. Naturally, she’d called her sister, who’d suggested she fill in for Cliff’s missing housekeeper and play nanny to his little boy.

Even though she’d met Ella’s husband—Cliff’s twin—at her sister’s hasty marriage last year, Tasha hadn’t expected this version of the Swain brothers to have such an impact on her. With his narrow hips, broad shoulders and Stetson tipped back at a rakish angle on his head, he was so potently masculine, he made every man in New York City pale in comparison. The guys in Paris couldn’t hold a candle to him either.

If Tasha hadn’t been getting over her latest romantic involvement, she would have considered making a play for Clifford Swain. But she’d turned over a new leaf.

Lust was no longer enough to base a relationship on. And being a single mother was better than settling for something less, like playing second fiddle to an eighteen-year-old modeling phenom who was landing cover jobs by the handfuls.

“You said you got lost?” Cliff sauntered into the room, all long, loose limbs, cowboy boots and sexy hips.

Lost in lust, she thought before she could stop herself. “Ella gave me the directions to her place, but I must have made a wrong turn. More than once,” she admitted with a wry smile. “I swear I went by the same cow six times.”

His lips hitched up. “They tend to look alike.”

“About the seventh time around the loop, I recognized your name on the mailbox. Melissa was whiny and I was exhausted, so I thought I’d crash here and worry about Ella tomorrow. Your door was unlocked.”