Knight in Cowboy Boots: International Billionaires X: The Latinos Page 3

  This man made her feel delicate. Impossibly female and needy. He encircled her with his body, his shoulders looming above her, the top of her head barely reaching his chin.

  His gaze latched onto hers.

  “Don’t leave,” he husked, as if he honestly meant the plea.

  She knew better. She knew what this game was. This man played it better than others, she’d give him that. Except she still wasn’t fooled. “I’m not interested.”

  A twinkle appeared in the heavenly blue of his eyes. “Interested in what? Books? Talking? Me?”

  “All of the above.”

  He glanced at the book plastered against her chest. “Really?”

  A sly quirk pulled her gaze to those amazing lips of his. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help but be enchanted and excited and be right on the edge of a chuckle. Even though she knew his game, she had this uncontrollable urge to play along. “You’re impossible.”

  “I am.” The admission was said with a cheerful glee and a warm, winsome smile.

  The chuckle escaped her.

  “Ah.” Those eyes of his lit, turning the blue bright. Turning her insides to mush. “There. I’ve won you over.”

  “No, you haven’t.” Stubborn pride ran right behind her amusement. “Not at all.”

  “I made you laugh. Don’t claim I didn’t.” He took a step closer and the scent of him swirled around her.

  Earthy, musky, spicy.

  She preferred clean male scents, like crisp citrus and pine. Yet, something about his smell made her want to draw near and stick her nose into his chest.

  The thought made her straighten and take a step toward the door.

  “Now, don’t do that.” He followed her, his forceful presence pinning her down. “We’re getting close.”

  “Close to what?” Jess planted an unsteady hand instead of her nose on the middle of his chest and pushed. “Move back.”

  He did, in a light step so unlikely for a big man. “I’m not scaring you, am I.”

  It wasn’t a question, and the fact he knew she wasn’t intimidated by him shocked her. Throwing the book on the armchair, she turned toward the stairs leading up to the main floor. “I’m leaving.”

  “Hey.” He grabbed her hand before she could take even one step away.

  Another shock ran through her. His hand was hot, scorching through her like a brand. Instinctively, she yanked.

  He held on. “Jessica.”

  And she picked the slight accent up again. The husky ha at the start of her name, rather than the hard-edged J her father and everyone else she knew used.

  “Jessica,” he crooned near her ear.

  How had he gotten so close without her realizing it? His breath brushed her cheeks, another hot blast of him marking her.

  She started away from him.

  The man dropped her hand and pinned her with his stare once more. “Come have a coffee with me.”

  “I don’t know you,” she muttered, her stubborn will battling against her unwilling curiosity.

  “I told you.” He smiled his beautiful, impossible smile. “I’m Nick.”

  Turning, she faced him. And herself. She needed to stop this before she succumbed and did something stupid. She hadn’t been stupid about men since her last boyfriend had been paid off by her father. “I know what this is about.”

  “Do you?” He arched those dense brows and yet his grin held. “Do you really?”

  “Yes, I do.” She folded her arms in front of her and it all came back. Her nonexistent breasts. Her scrawny body. Her bony arms. The awareness of her inadequacy rose like a barrier between them. “I’m Clyde McDowell’s daughter, and that’s why you’re following me.”

  “I am following you. I’ll admit that’s true.”

  The confession stumped her. Every other time she’d confronted a man about his real interest, they would hide behind a muffled protest or pretend to not understand what she was talking about.

  “But it’s not what you think.” His gaze never left hers. “I’m not here to get your father’s money. Not one penny, Jessica.”

  She gaped at him, flummoxed. The roll of his slight inflection on the beginning of her name rumbled through her like an ancient claim. Then he compounded the confusion and fascination running inside her veins.

  “I’m here to win you over.” His smile blinded her once more. “Actually, I’m here to win you. Period.”

  Chapter 3

  Jessica McDowell reminded him of a young filly. All long legs and quirky movements. Like she hadn’t quite figured out how to run, how to move freely.

  As soon as he’d gotten used to ranch life, he’d always been very good with young fillies.

  “What do you want?” Nick kept the question light, because he could see she was still ready to bolt—it was apparent by the way she continued twisting her hands, and how she held herself away from him.

  She glanced at the chalkboard hanging behind the cashier. “I’ll have some tea.”

  Tea. He hated tea. His father drank tea. He made sure his expression remained bland. “What kind?”

  Her eyes widened, as if she were surprised he knew there was more than one kind. But his father was something of a connoisseur of tea, and he’d spent too many years being lectured about what should be drunk when. “I guess I’ll have Earl Grey.”

  “I’ll go order for both of us.” He pulled out one of the straight-backed chairs circling the table he’d found open in the crowded bookstore café.

  Pausing, she looked at him with that determined gaze she had. The one he already recognized as her signature don’t-mess-with-me look. He met it with one of his own don’t-mess-with-me-either looks.

  She plunked herself on the chair.

  Satisfied, he strode to the cashier and placed his order. As he waited for his black coffee and her tea, his mind plotted his next move. Instinct told him he couldn’t go after her like he usually went after women. Straight to the point, direct with his needs and what he would provide.

  I want my Jess to believe you’re in love with her.

  Nick grimaced as Clyde McDowell’s words rattled through his memory.

  “Sir?” The barista gave him an impatient look. “May I get you anything else?”

  “No.” Paying the bill, he swung around.

  Jessica McDowell was staring at him. It struck him again, as it had the first time he’d laid eyes on her out on that balcony.

  She blazed.

  He hadn’t been able to see many details last night in the gloom, yet he’d still picked up on the central quality she possessed.

  She burned.

  And it wasn’t just that hair of hers. Admittedly, the flame of her deep-auburn hair was glorious. Why she stuck it up in a bun on the top of her head, he had no idea. That kind of hair demanded to flow and fall and flash. It wasn’t that hard stare of hers, either. Quite to the contrary. He suspected that stare was an attempt to hide her essential quality.

  A hot intensity. About everything, he’d bet.

  Walking to the table, he placed the mug in front of her.

  “I need honey.” She peered into the cup, like she suspected he’d put poison in the brew.

  If it had been his father’s tea, her suspicions would have been accurate.

  “Cream as well,” she added.

  He stifled a sardonic laugh. Like his pa, she was particular about her tea. Was she as particular as his father about every other part of her life? If so, this marriage was going to be pure hell. For him. And eventually for her. Because he wasn’t good at putting up with particular people. He’d proven that with his father.

  She met his cynically amused gaze. For the first time, he caught the color of her eyes. Or one of the colors. Green, mostly, he’d say. Yet, there was something else, too—a blue or a brown.

  Shaking himself, because he never spent any time wondering about a woman’s eyes, he smiled. The smile that consistently dazzled. “I’ll go get them both.”

  “Um.
” Her lashes closed, then opened, an apparent attempt to blank him and his smile out.

  He stilled. There was a delicate beauty in the simple movement. Maybe it was the fact she wore no mascara, and every other woman he’d ever known, other than his pa’s housekeeper, caked it on.

  “Thanks.” She blinked again. Then that gaze of hers, direct and determined with eyes a mixture of deep and enigmatic, pinned him.

  He coughed and stepped away. “I’ll be right back.”

  Turning, he headed toward the cashier. For the first time since he’d made this deal, he realized this might be harder than he’d anticipated. What he’d expected was a spoiled woman who’d be suitably dazzled by his money and charm. A girl who flitted from gowns to jewels to parties. A female who wanted to be cared for, and didn’t much care who did the caring.

  He knew that kind of female. Extremely well. From his mamá to the string of beauties who had paraded through his life for the last sixteen years, they’d all fallen into that familiar category.

  Instead, what he suspected he had on his hands was a tough-as-nails-on-the-outside, and fragile-spirit-on-the-inside woman. A woman who stared right through him, and wouldn’t be fooled by his usual light play. A woman who had her father’s blunt manner and also his keen intelligence. A woman who could be hurt by this deal.

  “¿Qué demonios,” he muttered.

  Correct. He was heading right toward hell. Faster than he’d realized when he shook Clyde McDowell’s hand and signed the ugly contract in Tasmania one week ago. He hadn’t been thinking about anything else other than his ranch. He hadn’t spent more than a second thinking about the spoiled McDowell heiress.

  “Thanks,” the heiress said again, as he carefully placed the pitcher of cream and the sticky pot of honey in front of her. “I appreciate it.”

  Nick eased himself into the opposite chair and took a sip of coffee, trying to think himself through this morass. He might not have grasped the entirety of what he was getting himself into, but he’d gotten himself in and out of a slew of messes, and was still alive and still winning.

  He only had to come at this from a different angle than he’d originally planned.

  Her brows furrowed, as she poured the honey into her tea, drawing his attention. Like her hair, they were red, except unlike the thick strands on the top of her head, her brows were wispy feathers. They reminded him of the duende doll his mamá had given him when he was very young. The little fairy girl had been placed above his bed to ward off disease and demons. He’d lost it when he’d lost his mother, but by then he hadn’t believed in the duende. He hadn’t believed in much of anything.

  Jessica McDowell glanced up and her gaze narrowed. “What are you staring at?”

  Reflexively, he flashed her a brilliant smile. “I’m thinking you’re pretty.”

  She snorted, a husky sound that should have been off-putting. Instead, it made him want to laugh. This one wouldn’t take any of his bullshit. Which surprised him and delighted him.

  It also worried him.

  Because he was all about bullshit. That was what he was made of.

  “Don’t make me laugh.” She sipped at her tea before continuing. “I’m not pretty.”

  She wasn’t. Not in the least. Clyde McDowell hadn’t said much about his daughter, yet he’d said enough. Just the act of forcing a man to marry her was a red flag. So Nick had been prepared for anything from a screaming maniac to an ugly dog.

  She was neither of those.

  She was…different.

  “You got your way and I’m here.” Tucking her hands under her arms, she frowned those wispy brows of hers. “You said you had a proposal.”

  A proposal of marriage, quite frankly. If he said those words, though, she’d run as fast as she could. The word proposal was the only thing that had skittered through his mind after she’d reacted to his bold claim of winning her. He hadn’t the slightest clue where that had come from but it had been out of his mouth before he could catch it and make sure it was what he should say.

  He frowned too.

  It wasn’t like him not to be sure of what he was saying before he said it.

  Her frown deepened in reaction to his. “There isn’t any proposal at all, is there? It was merely a bunch of nonsense to get my attention.”

  Correct. His usual bullshit. The stuff that worked, whether it was with women or his staff. The stuff that only his pa had ever detected and rejected.

  “There’s a proposal.” Curling his hand around his mug, he forced the frown off his face and put his smile back on. “It’s just that I don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet.”

  She huffed, her cheeks billowing. Not for the first time, he noticed the freckles. They flitted across her pointy noise and onto her cheeks, like little amber dabs of sunshine on cream. He’d never dated a woman with freckles. Or maybe their makeup had covered that tantalizing detail.

  This woman didn’t cover up anything. Not her face, nor her attitude. Not even her emotions, he’d bet. She was so exactly opposite of everything he was and everything he was used to, it rattled him.

  “If you won’t tell me,” she barged into his train of thought. “Then I’m leaving.”

  Her direct gaze slid over his shoulder to zero in on someone else.

  He turned his head and met the stony inspection of a man in his fifties. He wore a black suit, and Nick was pretty sure that was a concealed weapon bulking up his side. Shifting his attention back to Jessica McDowell, he arched his brows. “Who’s that?”

  Her gaze snapped to his once more. “My bodyguard.”

  Who appeared as if he’d cheerfully break Nick’s neck given half a chance. “Security? In the middle of the day in Denver?”

  “My father requires it.” Long fingers with unpainted nails fiddled with her mug. “You get used to it.”

  Clyde McDowell had fenced his daughter in. The knowledge stirred inside like a restless snake. With it, came an idea. “My first proposal is to take you on a bike ride.”

  “Huh? First?” Her fingers paused. “What?”

  “A ride.” Out into the vastness of the Nevada desert, where a man could breathe. Where he could fly high and tall and forget what he was made of. Where maybe a woman could learn to run freely.

  “I haven’t been on a bike since I was fifteen.”

  He barked a laugh. “Not that kind of bike.”

  Her mouth pursed in puzzlement. And for the first time, it drew his attention. He’d been so fixated on her hair and skin, on those weird eyes, he hadn’t noticed.

  Her mouth was wide, too wide for her narrow face, and yet, completely right for her. Matching the rest of her face, it wasn’t painted. Except it didn’t need to be. The rich red of her lips compensated for the thinness of the top one, only highlighting the deep plushness of the lower.

  She coughed, bringing his focus back to her eyes. As he stared, a rosy glow flushed her cheeks, making her look all of ten.

  Something hot and tight twisted in the center of his hard, tough heart.

  Straightening in her chair, she glanced at her tea. “I should go—”

  “A motorcycle ride.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “What?”

  “Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”

  “No.” Those restless hands of hers fidgeted with the sticky honey pot. “Never.”

  “You won’t want to miss it.” He leaned forward, trying to catch the glance of those interesting eyes. “You’ll like it.”

  “Will I?” As he’d hoped, she looked at him. “How do you know?”

  Good question. One he would have never attempted to answer with any other woman. After living with his mother, he’d learned to never predict a woman. But something deep inside made him press on. “You’d like the wind.”

  “Would I?” Auburn brows rose in apparent dismissal.

  “You’d like the rumble of the engine beneath you.”

  “Is that so?”

  He thought for a second he was all
wrong about this. Then, just as he was about to take another angle, those wide lips of hers quivered.

  Into a smile. A slight one, but he’d take it.

  “Yep, that’s so.” His hand slipped under the table and, with unerring accuracy, found her knee. It quivered in his grasp, too. Like her smile—the smile that was fading. Couldn’t have that. “And Jessie—”

  “No one calls me Jessie.”

  “Now someone does.” The name fit her. The fighting-fragile spirit. The flame of her hair. The splendor of her tantalizing difference from every other woman he’d met in his benighted life.

  Her smile didn’t return, still, she didn’t stop his hand from slowly caressing her knee. “What else would I like about a bike ride?”

  He had her. He knew it by the way she let him touch her, and how she leaned ever-so-slightly toward him. A fierce joy rushed through him, even though ugly guilt followed behind. But he wasn’t a man to let a trace of guilt get in his way. Not anymore.

  He placed the lure in front of her. “You’ll like the feeling of being free.”

  “He’s a wanker.”

  Jess swallowed a chuckle. Peter Rickman had been part of her security detail since she’d turned five. For the last twenty-four years, she’d viewed him as a cross between a second father and her eternal scold.

  She loved him. More than she could express.

  A grunt of suppressed outrage came from behind her. “I knew it the moment I saw him. I’m telling you, Ginger Snap. He’s nothing but trouble.”

  Keeping her steady pace, she crossed Sixteenth Street and turned toward the Palace. Nick Whoever was certainly trouble. She had no doubt about that. And yet, he intrigued her as no man had…well, ever. There was no getting around the fact she’d allowed the man to touch her. Only on her knee, but she didn’t allow strange men to touch her, and the two men she’d taken as lovers had had to wait quite a long time to touch anything about her at all.