The Cowboy (12 page)

“Why not? Why didn’t you just ask me out, if you wanted me so much?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t give my father the satisfaction and leave it at that.”

Callie could imagine what he wasn’t telling her. “A whole year,” she murmured. “A whole extra year we could have had together.”

“There’s nothing keeping us apart now,” Trace said. “You’re single, and so am I.”

“But you hate me!” she blurted.

“I’ve never hated you, Callie. I hated the choice you made.”

“I wasn’t the only one who made a choice, Trace.”

He nodded his head. “True.”

She waited for him to accept more of the blame for their separation. But he said nothing. “So what are you suggesting?” she asked. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” Trace said. “Maybe we can figure that out this weekend.”

She stared out the window at the wide open Texas sky, wishing Trace hadn’t revealed his high school infatuation. Wishing he hadn’t suggested a world of limitless opportunities just waiting to be seized. Wishing he hadn’t given her hope.

Did she want to get together with Trace? Was it possible
to marry him and live happily ever after? Oh, it hurt too much to hope. What if he only wanted a sexual fling? What if he made her love him again and then left her behind? The temptation to reach out to him was so great, she threaded her hands together in her lap, to keep them to herself.

She’d wanted a chance to settle things between them on this trip. She’d hoped for a truce, a cessation of the war of wills, that would last until Trace could return to wherever he’d come from. She hadn’t realized how dangerous it could be to talk as they used to do, and to discover that she still wanted him as much as he wanted her.

A limousine was waiting for them when they arrived at Houston’s Hobby International Airport. Callie asked Trace to drop her off at the stockyards where the auction was being held, rather than take her by the penthouse first. “I’d like a chance to look over the horses before the bidding starts,” she said. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

She’d expected Trace to argue, but he said, “Fine.”

To Callie’s delight, she was able to purchase two more fillies during the afternoon at a price she could afford. And she’d have the horses to convince her family that she’d merely attended the auction while she was in Houston.

Trace wasn’t in the limo when it arrived to pick her up. Callie was grateful for the opportunity to gather her wits before she had to do battle with him again. She had no doubt that a confrontation was coming sometime during the evening. Trace would make his move, and she would either have to accept his advances or rebuff them. Callie still hadn’t made up her mind what she wanted to do.

She got the key from the concierge at the front desk and took the elevator to the penthouse. She expected Trace to be there, but when she entered and called his name, there was no answer.

She stepped inside and gasped at what she found. The place reeked of gardenias. Callie laughed in delight as she ran from vase to vase sniffing the pungent flowers. “Trace, you idiot!” she said, grinning from ear to ear. She was more pleased by his gesture than she wanted to admit.

It took a moment longer to focus her attention on the penthouse itself. She had expected it to be furnished elegantly and expensively, and it was. What surprised her were the homey touches that gave the place personality. A photograph on the credenza of the four Blackthorne kids wearing T-shirts and cut-off jeans, with one of the twins grinning broadly as he held a catfish aloft. A collection of rodeo belt buckles, apparently won by Blackjack, displayed under a glass tabletop. An antique tricycle shaped like a horse, with a worn leather seat.

She found a note from Trace on the dining room table that told her to make herself at home, that her bedroom was the second one down the hall, and that he would be there to pick her up at eight sharp for the reception. Callie wondered where he was and what he could possibly be doing so late in the day. Then she realized she had only two hours to get herself ready. She would need every minute of it to make herself beautiful. And she wanted very much to be beautiful for Trace.

There were more framed photos hanging in the hall, and Callie took a few minutes to peruse them. Trace at nine or ten, standing between Clay and Owen, with an arm around each brother’s shoulders. Trace in his football
uniform. Clay and Owen in football uniforms. Summer on horseback. Summer sitting on Trace’s lap. Summer between Clay and Owen, her arms around their waists. They all looked happy. As though they hadn’t a care in the world.

Which was what had created the chasm between her and Trace in the first place. Could Trace really have changed so much in eleven years? Could they really make a life together when they’d come from such different backgrounds?

Callie glanced at her watch and realized she had to hurry. She opened the door to the bedroom Trace had given her and stopped dead. On the antique four-poster bed lay the most beautiful cocktail dress she’d ever seen.

“Oh, Trace, I asked you not to do this,” Callie whispered in a voice filled with awe.

She walked toward the dress, unable to resist touching it, then holding it up to admire it. It was red. Bright red. Made of heavy silk, strapless, with a fitted bodice, and a skirt cut on the bias which, unless she was very much mistaken, would hit her somewhere about mid-thigh. A fringed silk shawl lay on the bed beside a black merry widow, a lacy black garter belt, and black nylons.

“I can’t wear any of this,” she said aloud.

But she wanted desperately to wear it. She forced herself to set the dress back down on the bed. She opened her suitcase and took out the simple black wool sheath she’d brought with her. The style was ageless. The dress was old. It had been in her closet for years. She’d last worn it to Nolan’s funeral.

Callie hung the black dress up and headed for the shower. “First things first,” she said aloud. She could
make the decision which dress to wear after she’d taken a shower and put on her makeup.

Callie was just stepping out of the shower when the doorbell rang. She couldn’t imagine who it could be, unless there was only one key, and Trace was locked out. Hair dripping, she wrapped herself in a towel and trotted to the front door. She leaned her ear against the wooden panel and called, “Who’s there?”

“Mrs. Monroe?”

“Yes,” Callie answered.

“I’m here to give you a manicure.”

“I didn’t arrange for a manicure,” Callie said.

“Mr. Blackthorne made the appointment.”

Callie looked down at her rough hands, at the ragged nails and torn cuticles. How dare he notice! Some people had to work for a living! She was about to send the woman away when she heard a second female voice talking to the first.

“Mrs. Monroe?” the second voice said.

“Yes. Who is it?”

“I’m here to do your hair and makeup.”

Callie pulled the door open. “I don’t need—”

The two women marched in without invitation.

“He said you might resist at first,” the manicurist said. “But that we shouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“You can sit here,” the hairdresser said, pulling out a chair at the dining room table and pressing Callie into it. She set a tray containing combs, brushes, a hair dryer, and curling iron on the lacquered surface and dropped another, equally heavy bag of makeup, on the floor.

“Will this give you enough room to work?” she asked the manicurist.

“I’ve got a table I can set up in front of her,” the other woman replied, “if you turn her chair around.”

“I’m Wanda,” the hairdresser said as she angled the chair Callie was sitting in so the manicurist could set up a table in front of her. “Is there any particular way you’d like me to fix your hair?”

“I’d like you both to leave,” Callie said, crossing her arms over her chest and tucking her ragged nails into her armpits where they couldn’t be seen.

“Mr. Blackthorne said I should tell you that we work for a living, too,” Wanda said. “And that if we leave, we won’t get paid.”

Callie stared at the hairdresser for a moment in astonishment, then laughed and held her hands up in surrender. “I’d like my hair in a French twist.”

Wanda tipped Callie’s chin up and surveyed her features. “Good choice. That’ll show off those nice cheekbones of yours.”

Callie flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

“I’m Harriet,” the manicurist said. “If you’ll just put your hands in this warm water, we can get started.”

Callie had never felt so pampered. She couldn’t help wondering whether Trace had ever done this before—for some other woman. “Has Mr. Blackthorne ever employed you before?” she asked Wanda.

“Oh, no, but his sister has. Summer Blackthorne calls first thing when she arrives in town.”

Callie expelled a sigh of relief. Of course. Trace had asked, and Summer had told him who to call. She wanted to resent his high-handed behavior, but she was enjoying herself too much.

Harriet’s manicure was followed by a foot massage
and pedicure, a hedonistic pleasure Callie had never experienced.

“Mr. Blackthorne specified Ravishing Red polish for your toenails,” Harriet said. “Said it would match your dress.”

Callie looked down at her polished toenails, which would, indeed, match the cocktail dress Trace had bought. Callie realized that sometime during the past hour, she’d decided to wear the dress. Why not? If she was going to play Cinderella and go to the ball, she might as well be dressed for the part.

She and Wanda and Harriet were fast friends by the time Callie showed them out the door. When she returned to the bedroom, she discovered a pair of strappy, open-toed high heels in a box on the floor beside the bed. No wonder Trace had wanted her toenail polish to match! He’d even provided his Cinderella with glass slippers.

Callie wondered how Trace had known what sizes to buy, then realized her figure hadn’t changed in eleven years. He’d often helped her dress—and undress—in college. In any case, everything fit perfectly. Even the lacy—and extraordinarily tiny—French underwear she’d found beneath the merry widow.

When she heard the doorbell ring again, she hurried to answer it, expecting Trace to be there. While Callie stared in astonishment, a waiter wheeled in a magnum of iced Dom Perignon champagne, two crystal flutes, and a bowl of strawberries.

She was still staring at the strawberries when Trace arrived, tipped the waiter, and closed the door behind him.

Their eyes locked.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

He gave her a roguish smile, looked down at the tailored black Armani tuxedo he had on, and said, “In this old thing?”

Callie laughed. He was charming. She was charmed.

“Would you like some champagne?” he asked.

She nodded, no longer able to speak over the lump of emotion in her throat.

He uncorked the champagne in a way that made it plain he’d done it many times. She held the flutes while he filled them, then handed him his glass.

“Want a strawberry?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Guess I’ll have one,” he said.

She took the strawberry out of his hand and held it up to his lips by the stem. Gazing steadily into her eyes, he leaned down and bit it off close to her fingertips. Callie’s insides did a somersault when his tongue flicked out to catch a bit of juice that remained on his lips. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed the fruit, then met his gaze again.

“Callie.”

Nothing more. Nothing more needed to be said. She turned into his body and angled her head up for his kiss. His mouth was soft on hers, hesitant, searching. Callie slid her tongue along the seam of his lips, and he opened to her. She went up on tiptoe, leaning into him.

He tasted of strawberries and champagne.

“You taste sweet,” he murmured.

Callie laughed. “You’re the one who’s been eating strawberries.”

His lips caressed the left side of her mouth and then the right, before his tongue teased the seam of her mouth. When she would have opened to him, he lifted his head and said teasingly, “I’d like another strawberry.”

Callie set down her champagne flute. She realized her hand was trembling as she reached for the ripe red berry and held it up to his lips. His hand covered hers as he ate the fruit down to the stem, then took the stem away and kissed her fingertips.

“We can’t have you going out tonight with sticky fingers,” he said as he sucked each one clean.

Callie’s knees felt ready to buckle, and she laid her free hand on Trace’s shoulder to hold herself upright. The sexual teasing was something new, something they’d never done when they were younger, because they’d always been in too much of a hurry. His gaze was tender, and she felt the heat of it warm a cold place deep inside her.

She traced his ear with her fingertip, then leaned up to nibble on his lobe. She was rewarded with a satisfying groan. “Now, that’s what I call sweet,” she murmured in his ear.

“Oh, God, Callie,” he moaned as his mouth latched on to her throat.

She’d always loved it when he kissed her throat, always worried he’d leave a mark of passion, of possession, and always felt disappointed when she’d looked later to find he hadn’t. She let her head fall back to give him greater access to her throat and made a carnal sound as he pleasured her with his mouth and teeth and tongue.

“Trace, please,” she whispered as her hands slid up around his neck.

It was a plea for satisfaction. And for absolution. How could they have a future together, when she couldn’t find the strength to tell him the truth about his son? When she feared his anger and his vengeance? But that didn’t stop her from needing his hands on her, needing the succor she found in his kiss, wanting to join her body with his.

She let her hand slide down his chest, down across his belly, down his trousers until she was cupping him in her hand. He leaned into her touch and groaned.

Abruptly, he stepped back, his breathing tortured, his eyes heavy-lidded. “We’re late,” he said. “We have to go.”