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It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Sarah’s spine stiffened. “Move away from the door. I’m leaving.”
“Running back to what’s his face?” His words were a definite sneer.
“My fiancé‘s name is Randall,” she stated with a conviction she was slowly beginning to doubt.
“I get it. You’re not up for grabs.” Another dose of hostility seemed to shine from his eyes. “You’re going to try your sweet little best to be faithful, because you think you belong to him.”
“I do belong to him.” She tried to sidle past him toward the door he stood blocking. Her anger rose to match his. “And even if I didn’t, I’d never belong to you.”
His callused hand reached out and snatched up her wrist and held it in a tight, controlling grasp. “Now don’t go challenging me like that, dream-girl.” His thumb swirled against her skin and then began pressing against her pulse point and his countenance darkened as his eyes ran down her length. “I can tell you one thing. If you did belong to me, you damn sure wouldn’t leave the house dressed like that.” His eyes focused on the length of her legs.
“No?” She punched the word out in a belligerent tone and she stiffened her elbow and used what force she could muster to put distance between their bodies.
“Not a chance in hell.” His voice was deep and laced with an inborn arrogance.
She raised her face to his and told him like it was. “I dress how I want and not you or anybody else will ever tell me what to do.”
She boldly met his stare as his hand stayed wrapped around her wrist in a vise-like grip. “You want me to let you out of this room or not?” he asked in a menacing voice.
“Yes!” she shouted.
“Then stop goading me into doing something we’ll both regret.” He snapped the door open with a flick of his wrist. “Go, while I still have a mind to let you.”
Sarah stared at him for a split second before she realized he’d let go of her wrist. Her body was still immobilized while her brain tried to compute he’d actually let go of her as she studied him. His eyes were so brown. A deep, dark brown. Her heart beat loudly in her veins as she wondered, against her will, if she’d ever see him again.
She memorized his face quickly, and then she turned and walked from the room with as much control as she could muster.
****
John banged his forehead against the closed door and barely suppressed a groan. One kiss. One goddamn kiss was all he’d gotten before she’d run. Aggravation licked down his spine. If he’d felt a burning need for her before tonight, it was only worse now.
The thought of those legs. The memory of her awkward but totally appealing dance moves. That sweet mouth and the wet, silky heat she’d given him so easily.
It was too much. He banged his head once more and let out a deep, frustrated groan. If he’d had hell not tracking her down after the first time he’d seen her, it would be almost impossible now.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself this time. He’d have to see her again. She couldn’t keep denying the attraction that burned like a wildfire between them.
He couldn’t deny it.
He wouldn’t.
And he’d be damned if he let her get away from him.
Chapter Three
Three days later, Sarah pulled through a black wrought iron fence that was divided by a set of high stone columns and marked the entrance to the ranch owned by Phillip Johnson Garrett. Everything around her shouted money, and lots of it.
The fields were succulent and green, and the long winding private road that led from the gate was blacktopped, as opposed to the red dirt track that ran through her own two-hundred acres. The difference from her almost-straightened circumstance was mind-boggling. Her rutted path at home had a fence running down the side of it that was falling down from weather and age. Her grandfather had built it himself. He’d used downed mesquite trees for fence posts, and the barbed-wire was rusted and loose from half a century of standing in the elements. The black wrought iron fencing used here was in stark contrast to what she was used to seeing every day.
As she slowly pulled up in front of the house on the circular driveway, she took a deep breath and cut her engine. She hadn’t spoken to the man himself yet, only to his housekeeper when she had called and asked for the appointment.
She stared at the wood and stone monolith that was his home, and silently prayed he was truly as generous as she’d been told.
She inhaled deeply, picked up her purse, and prepared to put her heart on the line for what she believed was right.
****
John tightened the spark plug on the old Jeep and grabbed a rag to wipe the grease from his hands before he answered his phone.
“What?” He asked in a tone that was meant to be rude.
“The lady from the school district is here,” his housekeeper, Beth Reynolds, answered. John knew she was all too used to ignoring his abrupt tone of voice.
“What lady?”
“I told you about her yesterday. She practically begged for an appointment,” she reminded him.
“Duluth school district?” Confusion creased his brow. He’d just visited the school last week. What the hell could they want this damn soon?
“No. Top Hill,” Beth answered him.
Frustration gripped him just from hearing the name of that damn town. He didn’t want any reminders right now. He gritted his teeth. “Get rid of her.”
“No sir, I will not,” Beth refused adamantly. “You get rid of her.”
“I’m going to fire you some day,” he said to the older woman who’d worked for him for ten years and who had been spoiling him so rotten, he knew damn well he couldn’t do without her.
“I’m going to quit some day,” she responded without hesitation. “Get your butt to the house and deal with her yourself. I don’t know why you agreed to see her if you didn’t want to.”
“Because I’m a nice guy,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
Beth made a doubtful noise. “Prove it. She seems pretty nervous.”
“Well, that’s one point in her favor. Usually they’re as ballsy as all get out when they’re wanting my money.”
“Be nice to her. You’d think she’s about to meet the Prince of Wales she looks so out of her depth.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” John cut the call and washed his hands in the sink. Aggravation swallowed him whole. If he had a damn foundation manager he wouldn’t have to be dealing with this right now. He wouldn’t have to deal with it at all.
As he walked a
cross the compound toward the house, he felt like he was trying to chew up and swallow nails his frustration was so high. Knowing his housekeeper was right and he couldn’t annihilate the school district rep with his opening salvo, he temporarily gave up and pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit a cigarette. As he inhaled the soothing relief of the tobacco, he wondered vaguely if he’d ever be able to quit.
It was the one thing in his life he’d failed at. Repeatedly. Well, that and marriage. His marriage had been the ultimate mistake, and one he never intended repeating in his life.
He clenched his jaw and tried to control the impatience running through his veins. He was already mad at the unknown woman. Just the fact she was from Top Hill and wanted his money were already two strikes against her.
All he needed was to find the third, and baby, she was out.
****
Sarah stood in Phillip Garrett’s office and tried to calm the nerves making her body tremble. She hadn’t been able to sit and calmly wait, so she looked around his office, and was now standing in front of a bookcase, studying his things.
There were no personal pictures around, but there were framed photographs of an oilfield. The pictures captured the process of tapping the oil from beginning to end.
So that was how he made his millions.
She ran her eyes over the myriad pieces on his bookshelf. He had a collection of very old tools on display. They weren’t polished and gleaming, most of them possessed a very old patina of rust and aged wood.
Many of the items were unknown to her, but she recognized a tape measure that had to be sixty years old. Her eyes skimmed past it and landed on a rectangular piece of wood about sixteen inches in length. It still carried dirt on it, where someone had probably dropped it in a field years ago and left it there. The wood was marked from years of use, and Sarah recognized the tool for what it was. A level. A simple carpenter’s tool. Except it wasn’t simple at all. It had to be almost a century old. Or older. She picked it up and studied it, even as a hint of guilt at touching his things went through her. She’d always loved old things. She loved old books, old furniture and old quilts. She didn’t really care if the things were actually antique or not, just holding them and thinking about the people who had used them in their everyday lives was fascinating to her. Every piece seemed to have a story to tell.
