Vicki Thompson - The Heart Won't Lie

The whole setup was ridiculous. If she’d met Michael while on some business trip to New York and they’d hit it off this well, she would have considered a sexual relationship. Maybe not tonight, because that was a bit fast. Tomorrow night wouldn’t have been out of the question.

But they weren’t in New York. They were across the hall from each other in the Chance family’s ranch house, where she was an employee and Michael was a guest. No matter which way she sliced it, that put him off-limits.

So she should be patient. He would leave at the end of the week, and she would leave in a couple of months. She’d get his contact information and give him hers. If the chemistry between them was more than a passing fancy they could get together later, once the barriers had been removed.

Since they were from similar backgrounds, and apparently had both yearned for a more unfettered lifestyle out West, they’d probably have many traits in common. She admired him for throwing himself into this setting with no experience. That took guts, and she appreciated a man with courage. Yes, he’d be worth tracking down later on.

Figuring out that a possible hookup was being postponed, not abandoned, should have made her feel less frustrated, but it didn’t. Blowing out a breath, she levered herself off the bed and changed into her pajamas. Then she washed her face and brushed her teeth.

Unfortunately, she spent all that time straining to hear Michael moving around in his room. At one point she caught the sound of footsteps in the hall. Like a teenager with a crush, she pressed her ear to the door.

He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Calling herself crazy, she listened until he came out and started back down the hall. He paused, and she held her breath. What would she do if he knocked on her door?

She had two choices—to answer it, which might lead to the forbidden pleasures she dreamed of, or to ignore it, which was the wisest course of action and sounded dismal and sad. But he took the choice away from her by continuing into his room and closing the door. Damn.

With nothing exciting on the horizon, she climbed into bed and picked up the paperback by Jim Ford lying on her nightstand. One of the ranch hands she’d dated last fall had loaned her a Jim Ford Western to help teach her about ranch life.

She’d never read that kind of book before, and it had helped her feel more at home here. She’d liked the story, too. She’d ordered all of the Jim Ford books online, which had given her a stack of more than twenty.

Her nightly reading habit was her little secret, her stealth method of taking a crash course in all things Western. After going through them once, she’d started over, which probably qualified her as a fan.

She’d nearly finished this one, Showdown at the Wildcat Saloon , for the second time. Within twenty minutes she’d arrived at the last page. The good guys won, the bad guys lost and the cowboy hero ended up with the girl. The plot was more complicated than that, but the structure was similar in all the books.

That worked for Keri. She liked knowing the stories would turn out well, and the details about cowboys and ranch life had taught her many things she might not have learned otherwise. The hands at the Last Chance were too busy being cowboys to stop and explain the process to a transplant from Baltimore, but Jim Ford did a fine job.

Her only complaint was that the love scenes weren’t hot enough to suit her. Maybe Western writers weren’t expected to have spicy romance in their books, but she would have liked more sizzle. She’d considered writing to tell him so, but hadn’t taken the time.

After finishing the current book, she glanced at the author photo on the inside back cover of the paperback. In it, Jim Ford leaned against the weathered side of a barn. She knew the photo well after seeing it in twentysome books.

But tonight it reminded her of someone else. When she’d stared at the picture for a few minutes and couldn’t place where she’d seen the guy, she turned out the light and slid down under the covers.

Lying there quietly, she could hear noises from Michael’s room—the sound of his booted feet on the wooden floor, followed by the clump of the boots as he pulled them off and dropped them. She imagined him undressing, and then stopped imagining it. A sexual buzz right now wasn’t going to help matters any.

Surely he was exhausted by now. He’d flown eastto-west, so his body clock was probably out of whack. It was much later for him than for everyone else on the ranch.

But he wasn’t going to bed. Instead, he turned on his laptop. That chime was unmistakable. If Jack had given him the ranch’s Wi-Fi password, he could be checking his email. Or his portfolio.

Though she’d told him a lot about her life tonight, she was woefully ignorant of his, other than Jack mentioning that he was loaded. He could have inherited his money or earned it himself. She had no idea which.

Usually a person gave some indication if they had a job. They’d reference it somehow, but Michael had been curiously mum on the subject. So maybe he lived off his investments, or his parents’ investments. She’d known plenty of people who did that.

She could choose that route herself, but she wouldn’t. Now that she knew what hard work was, she’d discovered that she liked it. She enjoyed ending the day feeling pleasantly tired and satisfied with what she’d accomplished.

When she left this job, she’d continue to cook and clean for herself, at least most of the time. She didn’t want to lose her newly acquired skills. The life she used to have, with minions handling every routine maintenance task, had lost its appeal.

Sleep began to pull her under, but in that hazy moment before she drifted off, she realized who Jim Ford reminded her of. Michael. The two men looked very much alike, except Michael was clean-shaven and Jim Ford had a mustache. Talk about a crazy coincidence. Michael Hartford knew nothing about being a cowboy, and Jim Ford was an expert on the subject.

Maybe she should loan Michael a few of her Jim Ford books. They might help him the way they’d helped her. Jack’s lessons were all well and good, but Jim Ford provided the lingo. Michael also might get a kick out of knowing that if he grew a mustache, he could impersonate a well-known Western writer.

Tomorrow she’d leave a book in his room, along with a note to check out the author photo on the inside back cover. That should make him laugh.

BY LATE MORNING on the following day, Michael was hating life, and he hadn’t even made it out of the corral. If he’d had some image of galloping across a meadow on Day One, he could kiss that fantasy goodbye. He’d spent at least an hour, probably longer, learning to saddle and unsaddle his assigned horse, Destiny.

Destiny had stood patiently while Michael practiced over and over under Jack’s supervision. Mastering the bridle application had taken another big chunk of time. Jack had insisted, and legitimately so, that a rider needed to know these basics before climbing aboard. Jack was also a perfectionist in this regard. No student of his would get away with sloppy habits. No, sir.

Michael couldn’t very well bitch about Jack’s exacting attitude, either. The guy was offering his house and his services for free, out of the goodness of his heart. If Michael had been paying him, the dynamics would have been different, but under this program Michael kept his mouth shut.

Lack of sleep hadn’t helped his concentration any, either. He’d planned to work on his current manuscript for an hour or so the previous night because his deadline loomed. Usually, working helped him wind down, except the chapter he’d faced had included—of course—a love scene.