Let Me In Page 8

  He was the one who ended the kiss – amazed at the fact that he was having to fight himself to do so – leaving her leaning against him, struggling to find her balance in a world that was spinning out of control around her. "Damn, woman, you've nearly unmanned me here on the landing!" He reached down and grabbed her hand, bringing the back of it up to his lips. "You are dynamite, and I've always loved to play with explosives."

  His outrageous wink tempered the audacity of his statement and invited her to laugh with him at himself, and she did, if a bit tentatively. "C'mon. If we don't go now, I'm going to push you back into your apartment and have you under me on the floor."

  "You wish," she murmured, apparently louder than she'd intended, making him laugh. Apparently that little melting episode was a fluke, but that was okay. He thoroughly enjoyed a challenge.

  When they got down to her little parking area, she'd expected a limo. She'd expected a Jag or a Porsche or at the very least an Escalade. But the door he held open for her was to a disreputable old jalopy Ford truck that looked like it was from the Carter administration – or earlier.

  Miranda looked at the very high first step to get into the truck and attempted it gamely, but he preempted that, placing his firm, strong hands on her waist and lifting her into the passenger's side of the cab.

  "Thank you," she said demurely.

  He grinned and tipped his hat. "My pleasure, believe me." And it most certainly had been. He hoped she wasn't a crotch watcher – although she certainly didn't seem to be that type – or she'd get an eyeful about now. Her shirt had slipped up while he was holding her because her arms had gone up to reach for something to help haul herself in, which was entirely unnecessary, but then she didn't know that about him yet, really – and his fingers had brushed skin that was amazingly soft, sending his genitals into even more of an uproar than they had already been in.

  Mace settled in behind the wheel, happy on several counts. First of all, she was here. He had figured it was going to take at least three or four more invites to get her to go out with him. Secondly, she was ready when he'd knocked on the door. That, in and of itself was some sort of stupendous achievement; in his experience, women seemed to enjoy keeping him waiting, at least once. He would have preferred to get a look at her place, and thus an insight into her mind, but he couldn't really fault her for that. And, lastly, she had listened to him about what to wear and was in a pair of what looked like well worn jeans – they certainly fit her like a glove in all the right places – and a pretty pale blue striped knit top with bunches of big pink roses all over it. He would have said that the top was too pretty to get dirty, but what did he know?

  He kept her talking – and, he was glad to see, laughing on occasion – all the way to their destination – his ranch.

  He had debated taking her to a fancy restaurant and then maybe out for dancing or a movie, but he wanted time with her without tons of other people around. Time to get to know her. She didn't seem nearly as nervous as she had in the gallery or at work, which he was very glad of. He hoped he could keep that nervous tension at bay for her, the entire evening – he knew he was going to do his damndest to.

  When they drove through the gate, which displayed the Bar K brand proudly, she turned to him. "This is your ranch?"

  "Yes. I hope you don't mind that I wanted to have dinner with you here."

  "No, not at all," she said, perking up more than she had the entire ride, her head swiveling rapidly as she to tried to stare out all of the windows at once, as if she was a tourist and this was New York City. She seemed genuinely excited and interested in it, asking him pertinent, sound questions until they pulled up in front of the sprawling house.

  She didn't wait for him to open her door, as he would have preferred, but jumped down and stood in the smallish front yard, looking around with her hand shading her eyes.

  "We need to get you a hat before we go do what I've planned," he said, slipping her hand into his as he guided them to the house.

  She tried to tug her hand away, but he held on – gently but firmly, not letting go but not even acknowledging that she was trying to resist him, either. "I'll give you the grand tour later. For right now, let's get you outfitted in a manner best befitting what we're going to do before dinner." He brought her to a mudroom of sorts, which was lined with pairs of cowboy boots in all different sizes, with a long hat rack above them that was overrun with cowboy hats.

  "What size are you, darlin'?" he asked, using the endearment out of habit.

  "I'm a seven, precious," she said, hands on her hips, and she heard him chuckle.

  "I thought your manager was going to crap his pants when you called me pumpkin on my way out the door last week."

  "Me, too."

  He found what looked like a brand new pair of ladies size seven boots and motioned for her to sit down on one of the benches that were lined up on the opposite wall. She took her holey, held-together-by-threads-and-sheer-determination sneaker off and held out her hand for a boot, but he was already squatting down in front of her, crowding her badly, one big palm cupping her calf familiarly as he put the boot on her, resting the sole of it on his broad thigh, saying, "Push."

  They fit like they were made for her, as did the hat.

  Stepping back from her a bit, he perused her critically. "You are just too cute."

  Amazed that she felt comfortable enough around him to do so, she swatted his broad shoulder, barely able to hit it without standing on tiptoes, he was so damned tall. "Cut that out. I am not." She'd already turned to head out into the kitchen, where they'd come in, but he caught her arm and swung her back around, bringing her abruptly – and intimately – up against him and tipping his hat back on his head before those arms settled gently yet heavily around her. She found that she couldn't move unless he allowed it, which had alarm bells going off inside her head that she did her best to ignore with only moderate success.

  Mace saw them, too, and knew he was making her uncomfortable, but was unwilling to back down, in fact he pushed her just that much farther out of her comfort zone by using his hands to lay claim to her back, pressing her just that much tighter against him. "Miranda, you don’t know me very well, but I'll always be honest with you – perhaps more than you might want me to be at times. And, besides, I own this place. I'm the boss here. If I say you're cute, you're damned well cute."

  She would have chuckled, but he didn't give her time to as his lips descended on hers passionately, slanting his mouth and pressing her head back into his shoulder as his tongue delved past lips and teeth to dual with her much more tentative one.

  It wasn't a long kiss. He didn't want to overwhelm her – much, anyway – so he broke it off rather quickly, pressing his forehead to hers, relieved to realize that she, too, was breathing heavily. He thought it was a good sign. The wary look he'd seen flare in her eyes when he'd squatted down before her to touch her somewhat forwardly was tucked into the back of her eyes, despite his eager passion.

  "Are we going to snog in the coatroom all night?" she asked pertly when his head came down again because he was unable to resist kissing her again. "I want to see the ranch! I've read about them all my life, but I've never been on one."

  He knew he should be happy that she was interested at all, but he would have been just as happy to have snogged in the cloakroom all night, himself.

  As Mace showed her around the place, his pride in it shone through in every word he uttered, and even just in the way he looked at the place. He was interrupted a couple of times by his men, who very politely tipped their hats to her then launched immediately into a description of whatever their problem was, as if they were eager not to take up too much of his time. She listened to him talking to them even as she tried to appear not to be doing exactly that, but it gave her an insight into who he really was. His men called him by his first name – not Mr. or Sir, but Mace. He spoke to them as equals. She couldn't hear a condescending tone in anything he'd said, and these appeared to her
– at least – to be average cowboys, not foremen or anything like that. He did eventually introduce her to his foreman, a man by the name of Asa Cunningham, who was at least as big as Mace was and seemed to be very much of the same temperament.

  She had to admit to herself that she was impressed. He might be one of the most powerful men in the state, and he was the boss man here, but he certainly didn't seem to lord it over anyone – except her, she realized with a grimace.

  He apologized to her after every interruption, to which she always shrugged. It was no skin off her nose at all and she let him know that. "I understand that this isn't just your home, but an active business, too. It needs running, regardless of who's visiting."

  He liked that she was so easy going about that. Some of the women he'd dated weren't anywhere near as patient with all of the inevitable interruptions, and hadn't hesitated to let him know it. Those were the ones that he didn't usually see again.

  The first barn he took her into was a deliberate choice. It was where the expectant mares and foals were, and she'd melted just as he'd intended her to at the sight of a mamma with her baby. "Do you like horses, or are you afraid of them?"

  Her eyes were so soft and loving he had to swallow down a lump in his throat, and parts of him that shouldn't have at that kind of a look were swelling dramatically. "Oh, I adore them – and cats and dogs – but I've always had a soft spot for horses."

  "Do you ride?" he asked as they wandered slowly through the barn.

  She shook her head. "I've always wanted to learn to, but I never had the money."

  One mare in particular seemed much more interested in them than the others, and had her head over the stall door, her baby close at her side. She seemed to recognize Mace, and whickered to get his attention. He walked over and rubbed her muzzle and she seemed to melt as Randa had a feeling she would if he stroked her pretty much anywhere like that. "May I pat her?" She came to stand next to him, looking up at him, but without touching the horse, which was a very smart thing to do.

  He liked her asking him for something – for permission to do something, in particular – and those heavily swollen parts liked it more than anywhere else on him, clenching painfully to let him know that. Whether or not she intended it to, it kind of reinforced the submissive vibe he got from her – despite the fact that she acted all defensive and feisty. "Yes, you may. Lady here is an old hand at foaling and she's pretty easy going about her babies. Not that all of them are. Good girl for asking," he praised, watching her color brightly – and he would have sworn he'd seen her shiver, too, although he couldn't be too sure that that wasn't wishful thinking on his part.

  Since he knew she liked horses, they toured that barn as well as the stables, meeting even more cowboys who greeted him more like a friend than a boss. He caught one of them and asked him if he'd saddle two horses for them.

  "May I watch them being saddled?"

  He was again impressed at her interest in the basics. "Yes, you may. I'm sure Rusty'll let you help him, some, too, although I doubt you'll be able to lift a saddle."

  He stood off to one side and watched her, almost but not quite jealous of Rusty, who was the perfect person to teach her – patient to the bone, even with ornery cattle and horse – and apparently prickly women. She watched him saddle Mace's mount, who was a big gelding by the name of Balthazar, and when he was done with him, she asked if she could attempt to saddle her small mare.

  Rusty was impressed with her, too, Mace could see, and she did a very good job, proving that she had paid close attention. She even – almost – managed to get the saddle up on the mare's back, but she had to have a little help. Mace's heart was in his throat when she picked it up, worried she might hurt herself, but he let her do it without a word, although he'd remained tense and ready to rescue her the entire time and he knew Rusty was reacting the same way.

  The other man let her lead the horses out to where they would mount up, then nodded to the two of them and left with Mace's thanks.

  Chapter Nine

  When they were on their way – at a slow walk so that she could find her seat – out onto the range, Mace sidled his horse close alongside hers and said, "Well, you can have a job on the ranch any time you like, Miranda."

  She chuckled but she was flattered, too. "Why would you say that?"

  "Because I can already see that you have a good head on your shoulders, you listen well, and you learn quickly. All traits I like to have in the people that work for me."

  "Well, thank you."

  "It's a compliment, but it's true. If you ever get sick of the bank, you can come work for me."

  She was fire engine red now, she was sure. "Thank you."

  Their ride was beautiful – if slow and uneventful – and she got a view of the enormity of his family's holdings. When they got back to the stable, Rusty was still there, and he was the one who got to help her dismount, much to Mace's disappointment. "Is Rusty going to groom them now?"

  "Yes, probably," he answered, watching her eyes following after the horses as if Rusty was leading her, too.

  "May I help him with it?"

  When she kept putting things she was asking him that way, he was going to be hard pressed to deny her anything. "Yes, you may," he replied indulgently, realizing that he'd just agreed to be bored to tears at watching someone learn to groom a horse properly, but since it was her, he was going to get to spend this time watching her, so it really wasn't going to be a hardship in the least. And it wasn't. He got several wonderful views of every angle of her, so much so that he thought he was going to burst at several points.

  When she was finally done, and she'd thanked Rusty heartily, she returned to his side. "Happy?" he asked suddenly, and she gave him a flash of a smile that he had a good idea she didn't use very often.

  "Yes," she answered quietly, and, with her tugging so gently on his heartstrings, he fell in love with her right then and there, knowing that she was not even necessarily very fond of him, so he was going to have to play it very cool indeed.

  "Good, I'm glad," he said, while they walked back towards the ranch house. He'd put a proprietary arm around her waist, and didn't let her move away from him as she tried to almost automatically, as if she didn't even think about it, but just balked because he was holding her. "Hungry?" She had to be starving, he'd bet. He knew he was, and she'd done much more work than he had.

  But she just shrugged. "If you are."

  He almost stopped, but decided against it. He was their chef that evening, on the back patio where there was an elaborate kitchen, complete with a gourmet grill for cooking out. The tossed salad and several dressings were already on the table, along with the dinner plates and silverware and various other accouterment. Baked potatoes were in the small oven, and they were timed to be done when he pulled the steaks off the grill. He had, in the warming oven, a basket of very good French rolls he'd grabbed from the bakery in town last night before coming home, and there was fresh, artisanal butter he'd bought from a local woman who actually hand churned the stuff.

  She had tried to get away without eating any steak at all, not that she was a vegetarian, he'd clarified. But he wouldn't allow it. "Have a petite filet – they're only about six ounces, marinated in my secret herbs and spices. It's beef that's grown right here on the ranch."

  So when he put her plate down in front of her, it had the steak and a good sized baked potato, and she put a reasonable amount of salad on the smallish plate, completely ignoring the fresh, hot rolls he was drooling over himself.

  "So what changed your mind about going out with me?" he asked her at one point.

  She knew that honesty – even the kind that might possibly be insulting – was the best policy. "My boss told me that there was a distinct possibility of a promotion if I could get you to switch your accounts to my bank."

  To her surprise he laughed uproariously at that, as he smiled at her and said, "You're going to be hell on my ego, I can tell."

  He kept up a
steady stream of casual conversation after that, but as he did so, he also watched what she ate – which was a very few mouthfuls of the potato, one or so bites of the steak. What she'd eaten the most of – but not anywhere near all, even – was her salad.

  Mace decided right then and there both what he wanted from her and how he was going to get it. He had an instinctive feeling about her that had proven correct in a few other situations with different women, but then he'd never felt it quite this strongly with anyone else. He'd never felt anything for any woman as strongly as he felt it from her.

  And he knew that the decision he had just made was a dangerous one, in more ways than one. If he didn't handle this – or her – right, he could end up in court so fast it would make his head spin, but he didn't intend to do that. He took a bite of his own steak – a porterhouse that had come out just perfectly – then put his fork and knife down. "Miranda?" He kept his tone level and completely neutral, non-threatening.

  "Yes?" she asked, having already put her silverware diagonally across her plate, signaling that she was finished.

  But he didn't want her to be. "I want you to take five more bites of your steak, and then you may put your silverware away on your plate again and consider yourself done."

  Her eyes flew to his as she gave an aborted, nervous chuckle. "I'm full, thank you."

  Mace drew a deep breath. "Miranda." Just one word, said almost too softly.

  "What?" He could tell she wasn't finding this funny, but then neither did he – he found it excruciatingly titillating, but he knew she wasn't anywhere near that point.

  "What did I just tell you?"

  He watched her swallow hard and knew – knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – that she recognized the tone he was taking with her – recognized it in her bones, in her brain, but most of all, she recognized it where it homed into on women like her and set up housekeeping for the duration – between her legs.

  Miranda hated the way her body responded to him. She barely knew him, and yet the way he was speaking to her and that tone of voice – she was moistening her panties as they were speaking, and what was worse was that she had a feeling that he knew she was doing exactly that!