Have Cowboy, Need Cupid

And James always got what he wanted.

She wouldn’t let him down this time, either.

Although she had joked with Rebecca about approaching Rafe McAllister, Rebecca had warned her that she’d heard he’d been a troublemaker in school. He was also stubborn and had staunchly refused James’s previous generous offers.

The rancher had fallen on hard times, though, and was in big trouble financially. As always, James had done his homework. He had full financial reports on the man as well as personal information that would tip the scales and convince Rafe to sell. Something about Rafe’s father’s shady past.

Suzanne sincerely hoped none of that information had to be used to persuade McAllister. She understood big business but she hated the dirty side of it. Still, selling the Lazy M to Horton Developers would not only benefit Rafe, but the development would help Sugar Hill’s economy. Once people discovered the charm the small town offered, coupled with its proximity to a major shopping mecca, they would flock to live there. Uncle Wiley’s business, Alison’s bridal shop and Mimi’s and Rebecca’s bookstore/café would all benefit.

Excitement bloomed in her chest at the possibilities. No matter how stubborn Rafe McAllister was, she had to win him over to her way of thinking.

RAFE’S MOTHER ALWAYS SAID that when it rained it poured. Well, it was hailing cats and dogs as far as Rafe was concerned. Before he’d left for the bank, two of his best steers had escaped. Finally he’d received a call from the sheriff’s department that his most prized animal was standing in the middle of a six-lane highway creating a ten-mile traffic jam. Before long he and his hired hand had lured the stubborn animal back to the pasture. It had taken two hours and two hundred dollars of fencing material to repair the damage. Not to mention what it had cost his leg. His old injury throbbed like the devil.

Then, when he’d finally arrived at the bank three hours late for the meeting, an already-ticked-off Slim Wallace had turned down his loan and given him thirty days to catch up on his payments—or else. Rafe had gone straight to the newspaper and placed an ad to sell the purple truck, but Georgiana Hamilton had laughed, knowing that selling the sissified vehicle was a long shot. Then he’d run into Old Man Perkinson who owned the drugstore and learned his credit had expired. No more of his mother’s medication without cash.

What else could go wrong today?

Deciding to nurse his troubles with a beer, he strode into the Dusty Pub. Country music blared from the jukebox, peanut shells discarded on the floor crunched beneath his boots, and the clatter of beer mugs and laughter rang above the hum of voices. All in all, it was a usual Saturday night. Old cowpokes hovered over the scarred wooden bar, three or four younger ranch hands shot pool in the back corner, cracking jokes and eyeing the women, and cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of perfume from the handful of females who graced the joint.

Johnny Wakefield, the thirty-something bartender, slid a cold mug overflowing with beer onto the counter. Rafe nodded his thanks, his gaze catching sight of a tall female in tight, crisp new jeans and platform shoes sauntering from the ladies’ room toward the bar. She slid onto a stool at a small round table in the corner, her sexy butt hugging the vinyl just the way a man would want to hug her. Her too-tight lacy shirt spelled sex appeal, her designer jeans and shoes spelled money, and the slight tilt to her dainty nose spelled sophistication.

What the hell was she doing in the Dusty Pub?

“Her name’s Suzanne Hartwell,” Johnny offered before he could even ask. “Her daddy’s some highfalutin doctor in Atlanta.”

And she probably lived off Daddy’s money. That explained the attitude. He’d seen it before.

“Every man in the place has been drooling over her since she strutted in.”

“I’ll bet.” Like she would give any of them the time of day. “What’s she doing here anyway? Come slumming in the country?”

“Her sister Rebecca lives in Sugar Hill. Wiley Hartwell’s her uncle.”

Somehow this woman didn’t look related to that outlandish uncle of hers, though. And he’d met her sister, Rebecca, in that bookstore. She was pretty but quiet, sort of shy.

Not like a siren waiting to be noticed. And Rafe had noticed. Any red-blooded male would.

Especially a bad-boy bachelor at heart. In fact, he liked slow country music, fast women and wild horses—not necessarily in that order.

She pivoted on the stool, and his gut clenched as if one of his horses had kicked him. Following on cue, his leg throbbed, a reminder of just how dangerous their kick could be, too.

A heart-shaped slender face with dark exotic eyes stared back at him, her small, pink lips curling into a sexy smile. Raven hair hung past her shoulders like a thick, silky mane, adding to the sultry enchantment of her almond-shaped eyes. She was trouble with a capital T, the kind of woman he’d normally avoid.

The kind who had burned him in the past.

“What’s the lady drinking?” his traitorous mouth asked.

“White wine.” Johnny chuckled. “’Course, first she asked for one of them fancy drinks, a Cosmopolitan or something. When I told her we didn’t have that, she wanted something called Sex on the Beach. Imagine her asking for something like that in Sugar Hill.”

Rafe’s mouth quirked up. Yeah, she might get more than she’d bargained for. Not that he knew exactly what Sex on the Beach was.

“Finally settled for wine.”

“Send her a glass from me.”

Johnny laughed again. “I figured you’d be the only one bold enough to actually try and pick her up.”

Rafe nodded, in spite of the fact that his brain was screaming at him to leave her alone. Bold or stupid? It was a fine line. The men in the bar would probably be laughing in a second when she snubbed her nose at him.

But to his surprise, Suzanne Hartwell accepted the drink, then shocked him even more by crooking one of her long slender fingers for him to join her. He tipped his Stetson in reply, then ordered a second beer and strode toward her, his heart pounding like a runaway stallion.

His day had just gotten a whole lot better. Maybe he could forget his money troubles for the night. After all, even if Suzanne Hartwell was out of his league, a simple flirtation might ease the sting from his godawful day.

Chapter Two

Suzanne’s fingers tightened around the stem of the wineglass as Rafe McAllister slowly strode toward her. She would do as James suggested—keep her part in the company a secret until she got to know Rafe. Thanks to James’s extensive report, she had known just where to find him. The Dusty Pub, a little honky-tonk on the edge of town.

She had never seen such a powerful man or one with such wicked intent in the bold set of his walk. Jet-black hair, shaggy and unkempt, curled around the bottom of his neck, and his high cheekbones accentuated his solemn expression. She tried to get a peek at his eyes, but they lay hidden beneath the brim of his black Stetson. Instinctively she knew they would be as dark and brooding as the aura of masculinity surrounding him. Rafe McAllister was a real-life cowboy.

A denim workshirt hugged his broad shoulders, the top two buttons undone so dark curls of hair whorled in the opening. His hands were large and callused, a testament to the fact that he worked outside, and even white teeth gleamed against his tanned face as he offered her a lopsided smile. A smile meant to seduce and disarm a woman from all her defenses.

She sipped her wine, working to swallow, as her gaze drifted south. Dusty, worn jeans strained against muscular thighs, and cowboy boots that looked ancient showcased his devil-may-care stride. There was no denying that he was a well-made man.

He cleared his throat, his voice a low, sexy rumble as he tipped his hat in a gentlemanly gesture, “Howdy, ma’am. Rafe McAllister.”

Suzanne fought a nervous chuckle at his drawl, but looked up into his eyes and stifled her laughter. Just as she’d imagined, they were dark and serious, but amber flecks streaked the irises, the golden brown the color of the whiskey her father drank at bedtime. With a shiver, she remembered that scotch went down as smooth as silk, but then sparked a burning all the way through your toes.

She uncurled hers where they had turned under from his hot gaze. “Hi, I’m Suzanne Hartwell.”

“I heard.” He gestured toward the bartender. “Every man in here knows your name, sugar.”

She did smile this time. “It’s always nice to be noticed.”

He laughed, a thick throaty sound that made her heart flutter. Mercy me, Suzanne thought, mimicking Grammy Rose’s favorite expression. Rafe McAllister was nothing like the rancher she’d expected. She could easily see how he’d earned his troublemaker image years ago. In high school, every mother within a hundred-mile radius had probably warned their daughters away from the man.

The country music continued to wail, a song about looking for love in all the wrong places that described her disastrous dating life in a nutshell, while Rafe slid onto the barstool, spreading his legs outward causing one of his knees to rest against her thigh.

Suzanne resisted the urge to move. Rafe McAllister was not supposed to affect her this way. After all, she needed the upper hand with him, not the other way around.

Plus she was almost engaged, wasn’t she?

He propped his elbow on the battered wooden tabletop. “So, what brings you to Sugar Hill?”

You. Suzanne bit back the truth. “I stopped in to visit some of my relatives. My sister, Rebecca, runs the bookstore, she just got married a few weeks ago. How about you? Do you live around here, cowboy?”

He nodded. “I own the Lazy M Ranch right outside of town. I’ve met your uncle Wiley.”

She grinned. “Everyone knows him.” She ran a finger along the rim of her glass. “Hey, didn’t you win that purple pickup truck on New Year’s Eve?”

“That would be me.” For the first time since he’d sat down, his smile faded slightly.

“You don’t like the truck?”

He lifted his broad shoulders into a shrug. “It runs great, and it’s loaded on the inside. But the color…”

“Not what a rancher would have chosen.”

“Exactly.”

“You could have it painted.”

“Probably will.”

He finished his beer and she waved to the bartender to bring him another. “My treat this time.”

“No.” He placed a hand over hers before she could reach for her wallet.

“It’s just a beer,” Suzanne said, surprised at the stubborn thrust of his chin. “It is the twenty-first century. Women buy men drinks all the time.”

“Maybe in the city,” Rafe said in a gruff voice. “But not in Sugar Hill.” Pride laced his voice. Now she understood him. He was the old-fashioned, Southern-bred type with barrels of macho pride that would make it difficult for him to admit defeat and sell out.

So, why did a seed of admiration stir inside her? Because she understood about pride. Still, most of the men she’d dated thought nothing of going dutch or letting her buy dinner and drinks. In fact, in some ways, sharing the bill had become the norm.

He shoved a twenty on the counter and indicated for Johnny to freshen her drink, as well. Suzanne tried to drag her eyes away and focus on the patrons. Locals were heading to the dance floor, two-stepping and line dancing to the popular melody, laughing and flirting. Rafe’s knee jerked up and down in time with the music as if he enjoyed the country tunes. Suzanne had always thought country music too twangy. Songs about cheating wives and sick dogs howling in the back of pickups with sawed-off shotguns lodged over the cab were just not her cup of tea. Give her Elton John or Dave Matthews any day.

Forget the music. Make chitchat, Suzanne. You’re here to get him to talk about himself. He has no idea you already know half of his life story. “So, Rafe, you have a big spread around here?”

He nodded, tilting the beer mug up for a sip, once again drawing her attention to the strong muscles in his jaw. “A few hundred acres. I raise some cattle. Got a few cutting horses, too.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn to ride.”

“Really?” A chuckle rumbled from his chest, mischief dancing in his eyes as he angled his head and swept a look over her. “Well, sugar, come on out to the Lazy M. I’ll be glad to saddle a mare and teach you.”

She met his challenge with a teasing look of her own. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Do you want to dance?” Suzanne clenched her glass in midair, hardly able to believe she’d just blurted out that invitation. But dancing with the man might ease her tension and help her refocus. She’d come to Sugar Hill on a mission; she couldn’t let this sexy bad boy sidetrack her. He probably collected women like a little boy collected toy cars, then threw them away the minute the paint faded.

Hunger flared in Rafe’s eyes. Good. At least she wasn’t the only one feeling flashes of desire. The realization sent need soaring through her like an aphrodisiac.

The music mellowed from a fast tune to a slow, sultry melody, and several more couples joined those on the dance floor, their bodies tucked tightly together. Still, he hesitated. His gaze caught her ring. “That depends. I don’t encroach on another man’s territory.”

Suzanne bit her tongue. “No one owns me, Rafe.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “All right, then.” He offered a massive hand and she slipped hers inside, then allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. His hard boots clicked on the wood planks as he pulled her into his arms and began to lull her into the rhythm of the song. She thought she’d detected a slight limp for a minute, but it disappeared so quickly she decided she’d imagined it.

Suzanne had gone clubbing with her girlfriends and James at the trendiest spots in the city, but she had never been as hypnotized by a song as she was in Rafe’s arms. They circled the dance floor, his big body moving seductively against hers, denim-clad legs brushing denim, the warmth of his breath whispering against her neck as he held her close. Her heart pounded inside her chest, and at five-seven for the first time in her life she felt small next to a man.

This was not going as planned.

She was supposed to be talking to him, learning his weak spot, and moving in to find out how to trap him into selling his land. Not falling under some kind of hypnotic spell.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered roughly.

He felt like heaven, too. Suzanne closed her eyes and forgot about the land deal and the fact that yesterday another man had proposed to her.

Because for just a moment she wanted to savor being in this man’s arms and not think about work.

RAFE THREADED his fingers through the long strands of Suzanne’s silky hair, his breath locking in his chest.

A fierce need to possess her overcame him, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

She was soft and sensuous and had the voice of a vamp. And God help him, he could get lost in those exotic brown eyes. They were like a sea of hot chocolate, rich and dark and mesmerizing.

But holding her was all wrong.

She was a Hartwell, the niece of a well-known town member, the daughter of a prominent Atlanta doctor. A rich, well-bred girl with more money and more education than him. For goodness’ sake, the damn sapphire ring on her hand alone could pay for all sorts of farm equipment, not to mention that her hands were delicate, uncallused, and she was used to men with hands that weren’t hardened or dirt-stained from the land. And damn it, she didn’t seem like the footloose and fancy-free type that slept around, either.

And right now he had nothing to offer any woman except a one-night stand.

Suzanne Hartwell would undoubtedly want more. He knew her type. Driven by career, not family. She wanted the nice things in life. Things he had no way to give a woman.

Plus, her daddy would probably kill him if he found her dancing with a run-down cowboy in a dive called the Dusty Pub.

As if to cement his reservations, the door to the bar opened and in walked Slim Wallace, the man who’d told Rafe in no uncertain terms today that he was going to lose everything. Slim’s words scraped over his consciousness like a razor over raw skin—You might as well declare bankruptcy. Let me take over the ranch and move on, Rafe. It’s too late.

Damn it. It wasn’t too late. The Lazy M was his ranch. His legacy. The land had belonged to his father and his daddy before him and his daddy before him. Somehow they had all managed to hold on to the place because the McAllisters believed that if a man had land, he had a place to build a life. Without it, a man couldn’t survive.

And he would not be the one to let it all go.

He suddenly realized the music had stopped. Suzanne had stilled in his arms and was looking up at him with big doe eyes, her expensive perfume so intoxicating he’d pulled her to him in a viselike grip. He glanced down in horror, immediately releasing her. He could not drown his sorrows in her soft, tempting body.

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked in a low voice.

He shook his head. His problems were his own. A woman like Suzanne Hartwell would never understand.

They had shared one dance. That was all they would ever have.

SUZANNE STOOD on the dance floor alone in stunned disbelief as Rafe slipped out the barroom door. After that soul-hugging dance, he had mumbled a hasty apology and a goodbye, claiming he had forgotten something he needed to do, then run for the door as if she had suddenly pulled out handcuffs and tried to arrest him.

Had something really come up? Something to do with his ranch? His sick mother?

She tried not to think about the ailing Mrs. McAllister.

The thought resurrected memories of her own mother, those last few days of her illness stirring the hot pot of emotions that always simmered close to the surface at the thought of her.

Refusing to allow the pot to boil over, she wove through the crowd and found her table, then slumped down on the bar stool, wishing she’d had more time with Rafe.

To pump him for information, she told herself. Not to dance or hold him or dream about finding heaven in his arms.

Steepling her hands tent-style and leaning her head into them, she closed her eyes and shut out the images that swirled through her mind, steeling herself back in control. She hated feeling vulnerable. James had taught her to attack, to go in for the kill, to eliminate the human element of a business situation, evaluate all the data, make a decision and move on it. Her father used the same approach.

The technique had always worked for her before.

She wanted to earn her promotion. She would use the tried-and-true methods to do so now, and forget emotion, and the way Rafe’s lips might taste.

Just as soon as the memory of his hands on her waist and his breath on her neck subsided.

“You want another drink?” Johnny asked.

Suzanne shook her head. “No, I think I’ll call it a night.”

“Stick around and we can hang out after I shut down.”

Suzanne’s gaze shot to his.

“I promise not to run out on you like Rafe. Poor guy’s got a lot on his mind today.”

Okay, he had offered the bait and she was fishing. “Why, did something happen?”

“Heard Wallace turned down his loan. It’s just a matter of time before he loses the Lazy M.”

And Horton Developers would be there to save him, Suzanne thought. It would be the best thing for both of them.

“Has he spoken to anyone about selling the property?” Suzanne asked.

Johnny shrugged. “Some big developer from Atlanta, but he turned him down flat. Can’t stand the thought of a big mall going in where his cattle have grazed all his life. Supposed to be a town meeting to discuss the proposed development in the morning.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, some of the town’s all for it, but others think it’ll bring sin and crime to Sugar Hill.”

Oh, heavens, didn’t they see the good the development would bring to their little town? That change was not always negative, but progress meant positive things for the people and community?

“Where is this town meeting going to be held?”

“City hall. Noon.”

Suzanne smiled and patted his hand, then stood and said goodbye. “Thanks, Johnny. The drinks were great.”

She’d stay over in Sugar Hill tonight and be at that town meeting tomorrow. She wanted to hear what everyone had to say.

Especially the sexy cowboy with the whiskey-colored bedroom eyes.

Chapter Three

As usual, Rafe rose early the next morning, knowing he had to finish his chores and clean up before lunch to make it to the town meeting by noon. He and his two hands, Bud and Red, had finished moving the cattle to the east grazing pasture, then Bud and Red stopped to repair the fencing that had been torn down by the last ice storm along the northern border of his property. Rafe rode Thunder, his prized stallion, across the rolling hills toward the ranch house, the fresh scent of hay and dirt soothing to his weary state.

He had not slept well the night before.

Dreams of dancing with Suzanne Hartwell had haunted his sleep. He could still smell the sultry essence of her expensive perfume and feel the satiny softness of her hair tickling his chin. And those subtle curves. Oh, at first she’d looked like a bony model, but beneath those stiff designer clothes, he’d sensed a softness that had melted into the hard planes of his own body. A softness and passion that had turned him inside out. Unbridled hunger, sass, spunk—Suzanne Hartwell was no shy, wimpy female. Pampered and spoiled, yes. But defenseless and naive—no way. Making love to her would be like taming a wild horse, he imagined. Or dancing with the wolves.

The reason she was off-limits.

Rich, city women could never understand the kind of life he led, the love of the land, the adrenaline that kept him alive as he worked with his hands. The pleasure that pumped through him as he listened to the night sounds of the farm, the cows, the crickets, the blissful quiet of a hot summer’s night. The primitive raw power he thrived on by living off the land, by mastering a wild stallion.

Yep, Suzanne Hartwell was the wrong kind of woman to play footsie with. She was not a nature-loving, horse kind of girl, but a mall-loving, diamond-studded piece of eye candy. He should never have indulged his wanderlust by flirting with her, should never have held her in his arms.

Hell, he didn’t have time to indulge himself with any woman right now, especially one like her. His ranch needed major work. And now with his mother’s health failing, the inside of the house was deteriorating, too. Maria, the Hispanic woman he’d recently hired to help out, was nice enough, but she’d dyed all his undershorts pink. Apparently she didn’t have a good grasp of laundry skills.

Pink undershorts were the least of his worries.

Hopefully, some of the townsfolk would rally to his side against the idea of the new development. At least stalling the project would help get that developer off his back for a while. Maybe then Slim Wallace would cut him some slack. Knowing Rafe had a buyer made it way too easy for Slim to play hard-ball and lower the ax on Rafe. Sell, Slim had told him. Sell it and get out of debt.

Then where would Rafe be?

He would have nothing. His hands tightened on the horse’s reins as he let Thunder guide him over the ridge. His land stretched for miles, the lush green North Georgia mountains rising in front of him, the thick pines and hardwoods and apple houses in the distance a reminder of his heritage. He had grown up here, ridden this same stretch with his grandfather and listened to his stories of the old pioneer days of his forefathers. He wanted to pass that heritage along to his son one day.