Betting On The Maverick. Cindy Kirk

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СКАЧАТЬ you see, your father put up the deed to the ranch in a poker game.” A sheepish grin crossed his handsome face. “He lost. I won. The Leap of Faith is now mine.”

      * * *

      Brad left the pretty redhead fuming in the downstairs parlor as he headed upstairs for his shirt and shoes. He was concerned about her father, too—if he wasn’t he wouldn’t have used some of his own money to hire a PI to search for the old man. But right now he had Boyd’s daughter on the brain.

      Sitting across from Margot Sullivan with that white shirt gaping open and those green eyes flashing fire had been a huge turn-on. Especially when he’d told her she could stay the night. It had been like tossing kerosene onto a burning fire.

      The hellcat had been so angry she’d sputtered and stammered, her breasts heaving in a most delectable way as she informed him that this was her house and if anyone was leaving, it was him.

      Damn. There was nothing that excited Brad more than a woman with spunk.

      That fact was firmly evident in the sudden tightness of his jeans. He grinned, more than a little relieved.

      Though he’d dated his share of women since his divorce four years earlier, in the past six months there hadn’t been a single female who’d caused his mast to rise.

      Not that his seeming lack of libido worried him. Not in the least.

      Brad had been more puzzled than anything by the occurrence...or rather the non-occurrence.

      Tonight had illustrated he’d been foolish to give the matter a second thought. Obviously it had just been that none of the women he’d taken out recently tripped his trigger.

      Odd, as the saucy redhead had only to step through the front door to capture his interest.

      Brad jerked on a flannel shirt, buttoned it but deliberately left the tail hanging out. Even being on a different floor in a far-removed room hadn’t, ah, cooled his interest. Still, there was no need to advertise the fact.

      Of course, he reminded himself as he pulled on his boots, that interest between a man and a woman needed to be a two-way street. The fact that, in her eyes, he’d—oh, what was the phrase she’d used—“stolen a grieving old man’s ranch” almost certainly ensured she wasn’t likely to get naked with him.

      At least not tonight.

      He clambered back down the rickety steps and felt one bend beneath his weight. After making a mental note to fix it before it collapsed, Brad traversed the last few steps, then crossed to the parlor.

      Margot stood at the darkened fireplace, her gaze riveted to one of the photographs on the mantel: a family picture of her parents and a skinny girl with rusty hair and freckles. But that gawky little girl had grown into a real beauty. Worn Levis hugged her slender legs like a glove and a mass of red-gold hair tumbled down her back like a colorful waterfall.

      His body stirred in appreciation of such a fine female figure. Brad tried to recall how old she’d be by now.

      Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Definitely old enough.

      All he knew for certain was that the spitfire who at age six had once tossed a bucketful of rancid water on him when he’d mentioned her freckles had grown into a lovely young woman.

      A flash of teeth from the dog standing beside her brought a smile to his lips. It wasn’t only the white-and-black coat tinged with silver or those large ears that alerted Brad to the breed. The protective stance was pure heeler.

      Rather than resenting the animal, Brad found himself grateful Margot had such a companion. A woman traveling alone could be a target for the unscrupulous. But first they’d have to get through—what had she called the animal... Viper?

      The name didn’t sound exactly right, but it certainly fit.

      Viper emitted a low growl as Brad entered the room.

      Margot didn’t growl like her dog, but when she turned her face was composed and icy.

      “I’m calling Gage Christensen first thing in the morning,” she said, referring to the sheriff of Rust Creek Falls. “You and I and the sheriff will hash out this matter tomorrow.”

      “Anyone ever tell you you’re pretty cute when you’re angry?” Ignoring the dog’s warning growl, Brad stepped closer. “You growed up real fine, Margot Sullivan.”

      Though Brad was a recipient of a solid education from the University of Montana, most of his days before and since graduation were spent with ranch hands who delighted in slaughtering the English language. When necessary, he could play the good-ole-boy card with the best of ’em.

      He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels and let his admiring gaze linger.

      Instead of blushing or simply accepting the compliment as her due, she glared at him.

      “You think you’re pretty hot stuff.”

      Brad waited, inclined his head, not sure of the point she was trying to make.

      “While you may have a face that doesn’t send children screaming away in the night—” she paused, whether for effect or to gain control of the emotions that had brought the two bright swaths of color to her cheeks, he couldn’t tell “—you don’t impress me. You showed your true character when you stole this ranch from my fath—”

      “Hey, I won it fair and square,” Brad protested. Crawfords might be many things—just ask a Traub if you wanted a laundry list of sins—but they didn’t cheat. Not at cards, or anything else, for that matter. Not even to protect an old coot from himself.

      It was obvious Margot wasn’t in the mood to listen to him, so it hardly seemed the time to divulge that he planned to sign the ranch back over to her father when he returned.

      Once he played that card, she’d kick him out immediately.

      And Brad was much too entranced to go.

      * * *

      The man had showed her to her own room!

      Margot held on to her temper when he insisted on carrying her battered suitcases up the stairs. They’d tussled briefly until Vivian became so distraught Margot feared the stress would push the dog into early labor. Gritting her teeth, she’d acquiesced, but not before letting go so abruptly the move had sent Brad stumbling backward.

      He deposited the suitcases next to her bed then just stood there like a bellman expecting a tip.

      “Thank you,” she murmured when he made no move to go. She told herself she should be grateful he hadn’t chosen her bedroom to make his own.

      Instead, on the way down the hall, he’d motioned to the room across from hers—the guest room—as being his.

      She was relieved—and a bit puzzled—he’d left her parents’ room undisturbed. The master bedroom was by far the largest of the four. Still, having him stay in the guest room was appropriate. He was a guest, albeit an uninvited and unwanted one. His story about winning the ranch in a poker game only managed to anger her further.

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