Jeanne Allan - One Bride Delivered

His mouth tightened and all color left his face, but when he spoke, his voice was coolly impersonal. “I don’t have the advantage of your rose-colored glasses.”

A person needed years of practice to learn that kind of iron control over his emotions. Cheyenne studied him. “I don’t understand how you can be so heartless.”

“What’s heartless about trying to find a qualified person to take care of the boy?”

“His name is David.”

He looked past her. “His father’s name was David. The boy’s name is Davy.”

The way the muscles beneath his jaw tightened made her teeth ache. She’d never seen a man so in denial of his true feelings. Whatever those feelings were. “Then call him Davy,” she said, in a gentler tone than she’d intended.

He was quick. One haughty eyebrow identified and mocked her compassion. “You call him Davy. Call him anything you want. All I want is a baby-sitter. Name your price. I’ll pay it. I’m not interested in haggling.”

Had she been mistaken? You had to be skin and flesh and blood to feel pain. Rawhide and iron and steel formed this man. She questioned the vague plan stirring at the back of her mind. How could words of hers reach him? She should give up now. Walk out of the suite. She couldn’t. Davy needed her help. They both needed her help. “I’m not haggling. I’m—”

“Punishing the boy—Davy—because you don’t like me.”

His accusation angered her. “The world doesn’t revolve around you. Your despicable behavior has no bearing on anything.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve made much of a success at this little business of yours.” Unexpectedly he grinned. “You must find your appalling candor and lack of skill in dealing with people to be terrible handicaps.”

Cheyenne snapped her jaw back into place. It wasn’t fair that a man who’d thus far displayed the warmth and compassion of a stone wall could have such an engaging—and sexy—grin. “You’re not a customer,” she managed.

“I’m trying to be. I want you to take Davy.”

“I get to go with her?” Davy popped out of his room, his face as hopeful as his voice.

“Ms. Lassiter doesn’t want you.”

“Oh.” Davy disappeared back into the bedroom.

Stunned, Cheyenne stared in disbelief at Thomas Steele. “Is having your own way so important you’d trample a child’s feelings?”

“You’re the one who refused to take Davy.” He jammed his fists in his pockets.

He was going to ruin the line of his expensive suit. He’d said Davy’s name. She doubted he’d noticed. If Thomas Steele had any feelings, he’d buried them so deep, he made her think of a tightly-wound spring about to fly out of control. Giving in to impulse, Cheyenne made up her mind. Two lonely people. A little boy who was ready to reach out and a man who apparently could not reach out. All they needed was a little help finding each other. “There might be a way,” she said.

Thomas Steele reached for his billfold. “I knew you’d find one.”

What was she getting herself into? “How long are you in Aspen?”

“Two more weeks.”

Two weeks. By her estimation, the man had had over thirty years to grow an iron shell, and she expected to pierce it in two weeks? Worth, Allie, Greeley—they’d all shake their heads and accuse Cheyenne of sticking her big nose in other people’s business. Again. We all gotta do what we do best, she thought with a grim sense of humor. “As I said, we run personalized tours. I can’t thrust Davy in with strangers doing things which wouldn’t interest him. However, Allie’s next group canceled because of an illness in the family. I can see if—”

“No,” he cut her off. “I don’t want Davy shunted off on somebody else. I want you.”

He’d said Davy again. The name almost came naturally to him. Maybe there was hope for Thomas Steele. “Most of the families I have booked for the next couple of weeks haven’t used us before, and they didn’t request me specifically. My sister could take most of them.”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll baby-sit Davy.”

“I’m not a baby-sitter, but I’ll take Davy. On one condition. You come along.”

He slowly returned his billfold to his pocket. “My first guess was correct, wasn’t it? It is me you’re interested in.”

So much for any idealistic plans to turn Thomas Steele into a human being. She gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I can’t fool you, can I? All my life I’ve wanted to be the plaything of a rich, egotistical, sorry excuse for a human being who is absolutely devoid of any kindness, canng, warmth or sensitivity, and I’ve failed. Let me guess. It’s the frizzy bleached hair which turns you off.”

Her angry gaze holding his, she called loudly, “Davy, get dressed. You and I are going to go do something fun. Do you like to fish?” She gave Thomas Steele a disgusted look. “I’ll need to phone Allie so I can throw her and everyone else’s plans into total disarray. Of course, that’s nothing to you, as long as you get your way.” Without waiting for a response, Cheyenne marched over to the armoire, picked up the phone and dialed for an outside line.

Allie answered on the first ring.

Thomas had had her right where he wanted her—she’d agreed to take the kid out of his hair—and he’d backed down. Thomas Steele, hot-shot businessman with a reputation for driving a hard, fair bargain, who could sit eyeball-to-eyeball for hours over a negotiating table without blinking first, had blinked. The hell of it was, he didn’t like any of the possible reasons for why he’d conceded her the victory.

Turning his head, he checked his back cast.

Maybe it was those damned eyes of hers which registered a river of emotions. Anger and contempt. Both better than the disappointment and sadness she’d had the nerve to feel. As if she expected better of him. Not that he cared about hers or anyone else’s opinion of him. Even a man scrupulously fair in business dealings stepped on a few toes. A nice fat check took care of hurt feelings or bitterness.

One minute he was patting himself on the back for ridding himself of the kid and the next he was standing thigh-deep in the icy Roaring Fork River wearing hip boots borrowed from Frank McCall. The reason he’d come had nothing to do with Cheyenne Lassiter or the boy He’d heard her tell Davy they were going fishing and had succumbed to an urge to lay down a line. He’d brought his fly rod with him to Colorado in case an opportunity for fly fishing presented itself. He hadn’t actually expected to use the rod. Since he’d bought it five years ago—or was it six, maybe seven?—he’d seldom removed it from its aluminum tube. Running the Steele hotels allowed a man little time for fishing. Or for having a woman in his bed every night. Despite what certain tall blond females thought.

He glanced toward the bank where she sat with the boy. Even from a distance he could tell she still steamed. Ms. Lassiter was easy to annoy. A host of things annoyed her. Not calling the boy by name. Calling her hair bleached. He knew it wasn’t, in spite of those dark brows and ridiculously long, black eyelashes. No dark roots.

Bossy blonde. She might have terrific legs, but he detested strong-minded, aggressive women who felt compelled to prove they could be tougher than men. He cast to a likely-looking riffle. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize Cheyenne Lassiter in a man’s bed. She’d issue such a stream of orders and directives, a man would despair of getting a word in edgewise.

A man could take forever kissing her into silence.

He toyed with the idea of those shapely lips used for something other than lecturing. Those long legs wrapped around him.

He’d always welcomed a challenge.