His Valentine Bride. Cindy Kirk

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СКАЧАТЬ Ryan was ready to go? But he assured her that he would leave whenever she said the word.

      It made sense, she supposed, to ride together. After all, parking was at a premium in downtown Jackson, especially on a weekend night. Luckily a big Ram 4x4 was just pulling out of a spot on the street when they drew close.

      Ryan shot a smile at her and stopped to wait. “Looks like this is our lucky day.”

      Our lucky day. Not his lucky day. Not her lucky day. But ours.

      Even though Betsy liked the sound of that—liked it a lot—it didn’t mean she’d lost all power of rational thought. She knew she’d simply been in the right place at the right time. Ryan had wanted to ditch the party and it looked better to be leaving with her than to leave alone. Still, “our lucky day” did have a nice ring.

      “I’m going to leave my coat in the car,” Betsy said as he pulled into the vacated parking spot. She unfastened her seat belt, then reached for the zipper to her parka.

      “Let me help you with that.” Ryan leaned over and assisted her with slipping the jacket from her shoulders.

      She looked up and their eyes met. Electricity filled the air. Betsy held her breath.

      But when he stepped from the truck without saying another word, she decided it must have been only her own overactive imagination conjuring up something that wasn’t there.

      “I’m glad we found a close spot,” Betsy said over her shoulder. She’d started hurrying along the sidewalk the second her boots hit the pavement. Although she knew it would be toasty warm inside the crowded bar, outside the wind held a bone-chilling bite.

      Despite her rush, Ryan still reached the door to the bar first. Like a proper gentleman, he pulled it open, then stepped aside, motioning her inside.

      Betsy slipped past him, taking one deep breath of his spicy cologne before the pleasing scent was lost in the smell of sawdust, French fried potatoes and peanuts.

      Ryan leaned close, shouting in her ear, “It’s packed tonight.”

      She nodded, unable to keep the smile from her face. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so happy. Okay, it had been Tuesday when Ryan had told her the job was hers. And again that day, when she’d learned that the salary was considerably higher than what she’d been making at her previous position.

      But this, well, this was different. This was a fantasy come to life. A night out with Ryan. She felt as if she was at a craps table in Vegas rolling sevens.

      “Ryan, ohmigod, someone said you weren’t coming tonight.”

      The sexy, breathless voice belonged to one of the blondes Betsy had seen him with last week. Her hair was tousled around her pretty face, but it wasn’t her bright smile that seemed to capture Ryan’s attention. It was her chambray shirt with pearl buttons hanging open, showing an amazing amount of cleavage. Even Betsy was impressed.

      Snake eyes, she could almost hear the craps dealer call out. Her luck had come to an end.

      “Who’s she?” The young blonde’s brows furrowed as she finally noticed the former bull rider wasn’t alone.

      “This is Betsy,” Ryan crooked a companionable arm around her shoulders. “She’s an old friend.”

      Old friend. Hmm. Better than saying she was his employee.

      The blonde looked her up and down, clearly not liking where Ryan’s arm was positioned. “I bet you don’t play darts.”

      Before Betsy could answer, the woman jerked a thumb toward Ryan. “Me and him are a winning combination.”

      “Actually I’ve tossed quite a few in my time.” Quite a few may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but Keenan had taught her how to hold and toss a dart. At one time she’d been pretty good at it, too, but that had been years ago.

      “I don’t think so.” The girl sniffed.

      Betsy felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She narrowed her gaze. “Are you calling me a liar?”

      “Ladies, ladies.” Ryan may have spoken to both of them, but it was Betsy who found herself on the end of his conciliatory smile. “There’s no shame in not playing.”

      He thought she was lying, too. Betsy pressed her lips together and counted to ten. When she finally found her voice, she pinned the young blonde with her gaze. “Let’s play a game. Then you can offer me an apology.”

      A momentary indecision filled the girl’s gaze. She shot a glance in Ryan’s direction.

      Someone handed him a beer and he smiled benignly at the two women. “Sounds like a good solution to me,” he said, taking a sip.

      Suspicion filled the blonde’s eyes. She glanced from Ryan to Betsy. “Is this some kind of setup?”

      “A setup?” Betsy asked, puzzled.

      Ryan simply grinned and took another drink.

      “It is.” The blonde tossed her head, sending her hair cascading down her back. “Well, you can forget it. I’m not playing along.”

      She turned abruptly and sashayed her way across the bar, her head held high.

      “What’s up with her?” Betsy asked.

      “Heidi doesn’t—”

      “Her name is Heidi?” Betsy bit back a giggle, the name conjuring up an image of a mountain girl frolicking with goats.

      Ryan began to nod, then paused. “At least I think that’s her name.”

      “She looks more like a Bambi to me.” The second the words left her mouth, Betsy wished she could pull them back. Even though the girl’s attitude rubbed her wrong, there was no need to stoop to her level.

      “Maybe that is her name,” Ryan said, her comment appearing to have gone straight over his head. “I don’t remember.”

      The fact that he wasn’t really on a first-name basis with the curvaceous blonde buoyed Betsy’s spirits. She couldn’t keep a smile from her lips.

      “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

      “Club soda with a twist of lime, please.”

      “Ah, so you’ve decided to be a little wild and crazy tonight,” he said teasingly. “I like it.”

      He’d barely left for the bar when Betsy saw her former employer, Chad Dunlop, making his way through the crowd. Dressed in jeans and a navy long-sleeved cotton shirt, he looked different than he did in the office. There he always wore a hand-tailored suit and shiny Italian shoes with names she couldn’t begin to pronounce.

      She supposed she could have moved or looked away, but she didn’t. When she’d walked out of his family’s law offices all those weeks ago, Betsy had vowed that she wouldn’t let anyone make her feel like a victim. If anyone should feel awkward about their paths crossing again, it should be him.

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