“I’m not hiring you to baby-sit. Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

“I’m not hiring you to baby-sit.

“I want you for my wife,” Thomas continued.

“Maybe you ought to spell out exactly what my duties as your wife would entail,” Cheyenne said.

“This isn’t about duty.”

“All right Function. Expectations What would you expect from me?”

“You know, the usual.” For the first time, a hint of discomfort crept into Thomas’s manner.

“The usual. Ironing your shirts? Fixing meat loaf?”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“You’re being deliberately vague. You want me to take care of your nephew and you expect ‘the usual.’ Would you sign a contract that used such ambiguous terms?”

“All right,” he ground out. “I would expect to sleep with you.”

Dear Reader,

Sitting in my red-wallpapered office, I’m surrounded by family photographs. I love seeing my husband as a baby, my father as an adolescent and my daughter at age four holding her new baby brother.

For better or worse, we all have families. I didn’t plan to write about the Lassiter family, but as Cheyenne Lassiter formed in my mind I realized I was dealing with more than one woman, and her sisters, Allie and Greeley, came into being. Then their older brother demanded his story be told, and who can say no to a sexy man like Worth Lassiter? What started as one book had suddenly become four.

I hope you enjoy reading about the Lassiter family and the strong men—and woman!—who match them.

Love

Four weddings, one Colorado family

One Bride Delivered
Jeanne Allan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

Need wife to take kare of a little kid. Has to bake cookys, read storys and smile a lot. No hitting. Room 301, the St. Christopher Hotel, Aspen, Colorado.

THE advertisement leaped out at Cheyenne Lassiter as she sat at the breakfast table, and her spoon clattered down. Grabbing the newspaper with both hands, she reread the ad. The cantaloupe in her mouth lost all flavor. Cheyenne pushed the newspaper across the table to her younger sister. “Read this.”

Allie scanned the ad. “A unique way to meet women.”

“You think that’s what it is?” Cheyenne hesitated. “It doesn’t read to you as if a child had written it?”

Allie read the ad again. “Maybe. You’re worried about the ‘no hitting’ part, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Cheyenne took back the paper. “I know you all think I see a child-abusing parent on every corner, but...” Her voice died away.

“Michael is safe now,” Allie reminded her. “Safe and happy living with his aunt and uncle.”

“How could I have blindly ignored the way he’d never look me in the eye when he’d mumble he’d fallen down stairs or run into a door? But his mother volunteered in my classroom, and Mr. Karper showed such interest in his stepson’s progress.” Cheyenne stared at the ad with unseeing eyes. “I’ll always wonder if I would have guessed the truth earlier if Michael had been poor and dirty.”

“No one suspected Michael’s stepdad knocked the poor kid around. Quit beating yourself over the head with it. The minute you suspected what was going on, you went to the authorities. If it weren’t for you, Michael might still be living with his mother and her husband. Or dead.”

“Michael must have despaired of being helped.” Cheyenne rolled up the newspaper section. “I promised myself I’d never again shut my eyes to something right in front of me.” Her gaze slid past her sister. “I don’t meet the Brownings until ten.”

“Which means you think you have time to check out what’s going on in Room 301 at St. Chris’s.” Allie tore a hunk from her bagel and handed it to the greyhound standing expectantly beside the table. “No one appointed you to save the world.”

“You’re not supposed to feed the dogs at the table.” Cheyenne pushed back her chair, carefully avoiding Allie’s three-legged cat.

Allie tore off another hunk of bagel. “One of these days you’re going to stick your nose into someone else’s business and get it bit off.”

“All I’m doing is dropping by the hotel to say hi. If there’s a problem, I’ll notify the proper authorities. I have no intention of getting personally involved.”

“If I’m disturbed by one more female pounding on my door, I’m going to fire the entire staff.” Thomas Steele slammed down the telephone receiver in the middle of the hotel manager’s stammered apology.

The first woman had banged on the door of his hotel suite shortly after 6:00 a.m. Groggy with sleep, Thomas had snarled at her and the plastic bag of cookies he assumed she was selling. Before he could summon the manager for an explanation on exactly why solicitation was allowed to take place in a Steele-owned hotel, another woman had knocked on the door, followed by a procession of women, all shapes, sizes and ages, most bearing cookies, and all grinning like Cheshire cats.

Thomas rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin and considered the possibility that getting into his suite was part of a twisted game of scavenger hunt. McCall, the hotel’s manager, claimed he knew nothing. One woman had garbled something about a newspaper. Thomas should have demanded an explanation before shutting the door in her face, but he wasn’t at his best before coffee in the morning.

Slight stirrings came from an adjoining room. The boy was awake, but he wouldn’t get out of bed until Thomas told him to. His nephew tiptoed around, obviously fearing the sky would fall if he even looked at his uncle. Thomas ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he’d brought this on himself. For a second, back in New York, he’d looked at the boy and seen someone else, and before he knew it, he heard himself saying he’d take the boy to Aspen. Now he was damned if he knew what to do with him. Thomas Steele, CEO of a chain of exclusive hotels, buffaloed by a six-year-old boy.

Picking up the phone, he ordered their breakfasts. He wasn’t sure the boy actually liked oatmeal. When asked, the boy had shrugged, but oatmeal was the only breakfast food he’d eaten. Thomas made a mental note of the need for more child-friendly items on the menu.

Knuckles beat a tattoo on the suite’s door bringing a mocking smile to his face. Breakfast had arrived in record time. People jumped when the boss was annoyed. He snugged the belt to his bathrobe and jerked open the door.

By the time Thomas realized the tall blond female standing in the hallway held no breakfast tray, she’d barged into the suite. About to escort her bodily back into the hall, he reconsidered. The time had come to stop this nonsense. When he finished with this woman, he’d make damned sure no one else disturbed him. Thomas slammed the door behind him and glared menacingly at her. No one could do menace the way he could.

The woman glared back.

At least she wasn’t grinning like an ape. He glanced at her hands. No cookies. Just a rolled-up newspaper she batted in irritation against a bare leg. He didn’t know why the hell she was irritated. He was the one being harassed.

Thomas allowed the silence to grow while he inspected his unwelcome visitor with insulting thoroughness. Lightly tanned legs extended forever below the bottom of ghastly khaki cuffed shorts before finally disappearing into thick white socks above sturdy walking shoes. Slowly he worked his gaze up past trim hips and a narrow waist.

And firm breasts. Undoubtedly held in check by a practical sports bra. Skin tanned to the exact shade of her legs showed in the open vee of her blue denim shirt. Thomas visualized white knit snugly cradling mounds of tanned flesh. A dull flush crawled up her neck. Apparently his visitor read minds. Giving a tiny smile of satisfaction, Thomas brought a heavy-lidded gaze to rest on her face.

Some men might consider her a beauty. If they liked tall, athletic, healthy-looking blondes. Thomas’s taste ran to sleek, exotic, dark-haired women who oozed sophistication and sex. This woman oozed indignation. Thomas raised a mocking eyebrow, a gesture he’d practiced as a teen which now came naturally to him. He’d reduced more than one errant employee to gibbering justification and contrition with that eyebrow. Her bottom lip was too full to actually thin with annoyance, but the woman did her level best.

“No cookies?” he asked smoothly. She looked perplexed for a split second before awareness deepened her gray eyes—no, not gray, but light blue with a grayish-brown run around the pupils.

“I assume that means you know all about it.”

Thomas had seen the woman before. In passing on Aspen’s pedestrian mall or—Of course. She must be an employee of the hotel. As of this second, close to being a former employee. “I know,” he said in answer to her implied question, “you’re dangerously close to never working for a Steele hotel again.”

She gave him a startled look.

He let her think about his threat while he answered the knock on the door. The room service waiter smiled at the woman Every person who worked at the St. Christopher Hotel would know to the second how long she’d been in Thomas’s suite. They’d think he’d gotten soft. They’d be wrong Once he found out what was going on, he’d deliver a tongue-lashing this particular interloper would never forget.

The door closed behind the waiter. The smell of coffee drew Thomas to the table, and pouring himself a cup, he drank deeply. The liquid scalded his mouth, but the caffeine jolted his brain into full power. Giving the woman a dark look over the rim of the cup, he sipped more deliberately.

The woman looked at the tray. “Breakfast for two.”

Warning bells clanged in Thomas’s head. As an extremely eligible bachelor, he knew the lengths to which marriage-minded women would go. Immediately he armored himself with a fictitious female companion. “Did you think I’d allow her to leave before she had breakfast?”

“I should hope not. She needs a good breakfast to start the day off right.” The woman inspected the tray. “Milk, oatmeal. I don’t see any fruit or juice. For proper nutrition, she needs two to four servings of fruit a day. Plus vegetables.”

She was nuts. “I don’t give a damn about her nutrition. All I care about is a certain level of performance. How she achieves it is her problem”

“You’re her father. You ought to care.”

“Father,” he said blankly. “I’m talking about the woman in my bed.”

“You have a wife?”

Her stunned surprise confirmed his suspicion she’d come husband-hunting. “I’m unmarried and intend to stay that way.”

“You don’t have a wife, but you do have a woman in your bed,” she said slowly. “And you can stand there and brag that all you care about is how good she is in bed? What kind of example is that for a child?”

“That’s it. I’ve run out of patience. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

Instead of answering, the woman moved quickly to his bedroom, knocked once, waited a couple of seconds, then opened the door. Next she’d be checking his pillow for stray hairs. Not that she’d find any. The boy had definitely cramped Thomas’s social life.

After a quick survey of the empty room she headed for the boy’s room and knocked again. In answer to a muted response, the woman opened the door and peered in. “Hi,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” Closing the door, she turned. “There’s no woman here. Just your son.”

Thomas shrugged, not bothering to correct her. “Maybe she went out the window.”

“In broad daylight?”

“Stranger things than that happen in Aspen.”

“Not nearly as strange as you trying to convince me you have a woman in your bed. I’ve heard of men bragging of their sexual prowess, but you take the cake, buddy.”

“As you are well aware, my name is Thomas Steele.” When she didn’t react, he added smoothly, “One of the hotel Steeles.”

“I suppose because your family owns this hotel you’re rich and you do have a woman in your bed every night. Last night’s candidate come down with the flu? Or a case of good taste?”

Thomas slammed his cup on the table. “Look, lady—”

“My name is Cheyenne Lassiter. One of the ranching Lassiters.” She mocked his earlier self-introduction. “And I’m the ‘C’ in C & A Enterprises.”

For two cents he’d toss the impudent Ms. Cheyenne Lassiter out in the hall on her delectable bottom. Better yet, he’d toss her down on the carpet and turn the scorn in those muddy blue eyes to something else entirely. Hell, his brain had gone haywire. Served him right for trying to deal logically with a bunch of nutty women. “I have no idea why you and your friends are harassing me, Ms. Lassiter, but it stops now.” Thomas sat at the dining table. “My breakfast is getting cold, so if you’ll excuse me...”

She waved her hand regally, granting permission. “I ate hours ago. Working women can’t lay around like the idle rich.”

If her goal was to irritate the hell out of him, she’d succeeded. “Ms. Lassiter,” he said coldly, “I was asking you politely to leave.”

“Go ahead and ask.” She picked up a muffin from the tray and took a bite. “I’m not here to see you.” She nodded in the direction of the boy’s bedroom. “I came to see him.”

“Me?” Thomas’s nephew bolted from his room, his hair in spikes and his face glowing. “I’m going with you? Cool.”

“Do you know this woman?”

“She’s the happy tour lady.”

The woman laughed, a throaty, uninhibited laugh. When the women Thomas knew laughed, their high cheekbones didn’t press their eyes into thin slits. They avoided wrinkling the skin around their mouths, and they wouldn’t be caught dead showing all their teeth. Crunching down on cold, dry toast, he sent his gaze back to the boy and frowned. “Young man, I thought the rule was you are to dress before coming to the breakfast table.”

The boy hung his head and drew circles on the carpet with his big toe.

“Maybe his silk robe is in the dirty clothes hamper,” the woman said in a cool, disapproving voice.

The early-morning parade of women had thrown Thomas’s meticulous habits into total disarray. He’d completely forgotten he still wore his bathrobe. Glaring at her, he curtly ordered the boy to the table. In passing, his nephew shyly smiled up at Cheyenne Lassiter. She tousled his hair.

Thomas shoved one of the straight-backed chairs out from the table. “Sit,” he snarled at his uninvited guest.

Her attitude that of one indulging a temperamental child, she complied.

“I want you to tell me—” Thomas slowly hammered out the words “—what the hell is going on.”

The swearword won a reproving look from her, then she bounced a glance off the boy. For the first time since he’d opened the door to her, Thomas sensed uncertainty. He opened his mouth to attack.

Cheyenne Lassiter spoke first. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

“The boy’s name doesn’t concern you.”

His nephew gave Thomas a wounded glance before staring down at his bowl and muttering, “Davy.”

“Nice to meet you, Davy. I’m Cheyenne. As for you, Mr. Steele, you’d be surprised at what concerns me.”

He narrowed his eyes at the thinly-veiled animosity in her drawling voice. “Nothing about you would surprise me.”

She painstakingly smeared copious amounts of butter on the remains of her muffin. “I’m not sure if that says more about your capacity for surprise or your lack of imagination. Worth claims I give him gray hair.” Of course, her brother said that about all three of his sisters.

“Worth? Is he your lov...” Remembering the boy whose head flipped back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match, Thomas smoothly substituted, “Your companion?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call Worth companionable”

The crazy notion struck him that Cheyenne Lassiter wanted to goad him into losing his temper. Thomas Steele never lost his temper. The woman took a bite of muffin and chewed deliberately. He ought to kiss that damned smirk right off those damned kissable lips. She was telling the boy she’d read the morning newspaper. As if the boy cared what she read.

“Did you see my ad?”

Belatedly Thomas recalled the newspaper the woman had carried in. “Give me the paper.” He assumed she gave dead bugs the same repulsed look. “Please,” he ground out.

She handed him the newspaper. Red ink encircled an advertisement.

The boy left his place at the table and edged around to peer over Thomas’s arm. “It’s in there,” he said in an awed voice.

Thomas read the ad. Then read it again. Blood pounded at his temples. “I hope you can explain this, young man.”

The boy backed away. “Sandy said.”

Thomas recalled the elderly widow who’d seemed so sane and sensible. “Go on,” he said grimly. Too grimly. The boy shrugged. Thomas rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. Served him right for impulsively bringing the boy to Aspen. Thomas wasn’t in the habit of giving in to impulse.

Cheyenne Lassiter butted in. “What did Sandy say?”

“We was watching this TV program and she said it was too bad I couldn’t put a ad in the paper for a mom. I asked her how and she laughed and said Uncle Thomas oughta put one in for a wife and I could live with him. So I asked Tiffany and she said you had to write something and give it to a newspaper. Grandmother gave me money to buy stuff and I asked Paula to take me to the newspaper place.”

Thomas couldn’t believe the flow of information. He’d been lucky to pull more than two words at a time from the boy.

“He’s-not your father?”

“No.” The boy looked down at his plate and muttered, “He’s Uncle Thomas.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t his father?”

Trying to recall who, of the horde of females he’d hired to take the boy off his hands, Tiffany was, Thomas merely scowled at her. Paula was the sweet, if not too bright, sister of one of the women at the front desk. Tiffany must be the college student home for the summer.

He eyed his nephew. “I can’t believe the newspaper took it without checking with me.”

“I said it was a surprise.” The boy slid back into his chair. “For your birthday,” he added in a barely audible voice.

“My birthday is in April.”

The boy dragged his spoon through his oatmeal. “My birthday is in August. Yours coulda been.”

Suspicion clawed at Thomas’s midsection. “When in August?”

Cheyenne Lassiter glared at him in outrage. “You don’t know when your own nephew’s birthday is?”

He ignored her, waiting for the boy’s answer.

The boy flicked him a look. “August 21. I’m seven.”

Three days ago. Thomas clenched his back teeth. Leave it to his mother to neglect to mention the small matter of her only grandson’s upcoming birthday. “Finish your breakfast and get dressed.”

Thomas stood. “As for you, Ms. Lassiter, despite that ridiculous ad which any halfway intelligent individual would reason was written by a child, I am not seeking a wife.” He couldn’t throw her bodily out. Not in front of the boy. “I expect you to be gone by the time I finish dressing.”

“You didn’t eat your breakfast,” she pointed out.

“You’ll be happy to know you have destroyed my appetite.” He stalked across the carpet to his bedroom.

“Then you won’t mind if I eat this last muffin. Even Mom’s muffins don’t compare with St. Chris’s. Oh, and Thomas...”

Her low voice invested his name with all kinds of sensual possibilities. He turned. And wished he hadn’t.

She studied his legs, then in an exact duplication of his earlier insulting appraisal of her, slowly eyed her way up the length of his body. When at last her gaze reached his face, she gave him a smoldering look from under outrageously long, dark lashes. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and a satisfied smile crawled across her mouth. “I’m not looking for a husband, but if I were, you’d be perfectly safe. Knobby knees really turn me off.”

Thomas slammed the bedroom door behind him, catching his bathrobe. A low gurgle of laughter came from the other side of the door. He wanted to rip free the silk garment and shred it into a million pieces. Instead he calmly shrugged out of the robe and let it drop to the floor.

The impassive face on the naked man in the mirror across the room mocked him. His mother had no doubt deliberately neglected to mention the boy’s birthday. She’d deny it, of course, turning the blame for not knowing back on him. Damn her.

And damn him for not knowing. Thomas felt like smashing the mirror with his bare fists. Damn. He’d thought he was beyond feeling. Had his family taught him nothing? Damn him for caring. He didn’t want to care. Not about the boy. Not about anyone.

A murmur of voices came from the other room. He certainly didn’t care that his unwanted visitor despised him. He’d never see her again.

Cheyenne drew open the gold and crimson brocade drapes and brushed aside sheer lace curtains. Through the window’s metal mullions, the sight of the gondolas parading up Aspen Mountain reminded her of Thomas Steele. An automated, unfeeling machine.

A machine who’d brought his nephew with him to Aspen.

In her experience, adults who disliked children tried to hide their dislike. Even Harold Karper had publicly pretended a fondness for his stepson.

Thomas Steele demonstrated a total lack of affection for Davy, yet Cheyenne could have sworn he’d been perturbed to learn he’d missed his nephew’s birthday. A disconcerting thought crept into her mind, chilling her in spite of the warm, sunny morning. Had Thomas Steele been perturbed, or had she allowed a handsome face to influence her judgment?

Her father had used good looks and a facile charm to sabotage her mother’s judgment. Mary Lassiter had paid the price, raising four children by herself while her husband lived a bachelor’s life on the rodeo circuit. Calling Beau Lassiter an absentee father overstated his role. Absent, yes. A father, no.

Cheyenne had not been without a loving family. Her mother and grandfather more than made up for Beau’s negligence, and Worth and her two sisters would always be there for her.

Davy’s parents had died, leaving the poor kid with no one who cared about him. Cheyenne had delicately probed as he ate his breakfast, and the child’s artless answers convinced her he wasn’t physically battered. The question settled, she should have left when Davy went to his room to dress but the sad lonely picture he painted of an unwanted child, relegated to the periphery of his relatives’ lives made her heart ache. She couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Cheyenne rubbed the gleaming old oak windowsill. Davy needed a loving family. Someone ought to shake Thomas Steele until his head snapped. Someone ought to explain to him little boys were more important than hotels and women friends and making money. Her fingernails bit into the sill. She was the only someone around.

“What does a person have to do to get nd of you, Ms. Lassiter? Call security?”

Cheyenne hadn’t heard him return. To let him know she considered him quite insignificant, she waited a few seconds before turning to face him. And again felt the impact of his striking dark good looks. If it weren’t for the disdain in gray eyes and the cool self-assurance slightly curling the corners of his sensuous mouth, she might have found him attractive. She didn’t. Sneering, arrogant males didn’t interest her. No matter how tall they were.

She refused to be intimidated by a voice colder than the top of the mountain in February. Even if his beautifully tailored charcoal suit and white-collared dark blue shirt and maroon silk tie made her feel like a slightly grubby adolescent. He looked like a walking advertisement for what the sophisticated businessman should wear if he wanted to radiate power and confidence. And sex appeal.

Thomas Steele straightened a French cuff and lifted an eyebrow, a gesture clearly meant to make her feel like an errant schoolgirl. Cheyenne thrust from her mind any thoughts of his sex appeal. If ever the man existed who needed a few home truths, that man was Thomas Steele.

“I’ll leave when I’ve had my say,” she said.

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

“Or in Davy or anything he has to say.”

“The boy is my business.”

“Davy isn’t business. He’s a little boy. What kind of uncle are you? His parents are dead—yes, he told me. I sat with him while he finished breakfast. You should have. He said he has to stay with you until his grandparents return from a trip. He wanted to go to camp, but you wouldn’t let him.”

“Six years old is too young for camp.”

“He’s seven. He had a birthday three days ago, or have you already forgotten again?” If she hadn’t been watching closely, she wouldn’t have seen the infinitesimal stiffening of his body.

“My family’s never put much stock in birthdays.”

“Your family doesn’t put much stock in family. Davy thinks if he bothers you, you’ll lock him in a hotel room by himself.”

The barest tightening of his mouth acknowledged her words. “He has too much imagination.”

“Does he? I can see he’s afraid of you.”

“He’s afraid of everything. His own shadow, for all I know.”

“For all you know. Which isn’t very much, is it? He’s a little boy, in a strange place, with strange people, and an uncle who does nothing to reassure him. Would it hurt you to sit with him while he eats, talk to him, give him a hug, read him a bedtime story, hear his prayers?”

“It’s time he learned there’s no such thing as fairy tales, and praying is for those too weak and lazy to stand on their own two feet.”

“He’s only seven and his parents are dead,” Cheyenne said, torn between anger and horror. “He misses them terribly.”

“The boy was eight months old when they died. He doesn’t remember them.”

The quickly vanquished glimmer of pain in his eyes and the tightly controlled voice gave Cheyenne pause. Was Thomas Steele still grieving? Or denying his grief? She chose her words carefully. “Davy said his father was your brother. I’m sorry. It must be awful to lose a brother.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Is sympathy for the weak and lazy, too?” The sharp look he gave her should have slashed her to ribbons. Cheyenne ignored it. “If it doesn’t hurt you to talk about your brother, you—”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he snapped.

“Then why haven’t you told Davy about his parents? He knows almost nothing. He said your mother won’t talk about them.”

Cheyenne wondered what Thomas Steele meant by the harsh laugh he uttered. When he said nothing, she persevered. He doesn’t even have a picture of his mother.”

“The two of you were certainly chatty.”

It would take more than a forbidding, sarcastic voice to chase her away. “He’s lonely. The baby-sitters you’ve hired tell him to go play or sit quietly and watch TV with them. Do you think that’s what his parents would have wanted?”

“I have no idea. My brother and I went our separate ways when he married.”

“Didn’t you like his wife?”

“I never met her. David didn’t want me to. He was raised to runSteele hotels, not marry one of the maids. He dropped out of college and out of the family.”

“But if he loved her and was happy...”

“Love. Happy.” He turned the words into a curse. “Steeles don’t many for love or happiness. They marry for control, power, passion, sex, money and any one of a hundred other reasons, but never for love and happiness.” Turning, he walked over to a huge black-lacquered chinoiserie armoire and opened its doors to disclose a fax machine. Ripping off the long ribbon of white hanging from the machine, he began to read.

Actions meant to dismiss her. Cheyenne marched across acres of black floral carpet and sat on the curvaceous purple velvet sofa. “You’re a Steele. Is that what you want from marriage?”

“Disappointed?” Looking up from his papers, his grin mocked her. “Did you think I’d take one look at your frizzy bleached hair and muddy blue eyes and fall hopelessly in love? Forget it Steeles don’t love.”

“Not even little boys?”

“Davy gets fed, clothed and schooled. He’ll survive. I did.”

He’d said the last two words as if they were a badge of honor instead of extremely sad. If they were true. Studies proved people needed love to survive. Thomas Steele had done more than survive. He’d thrived. How convenient to forget those who had loved him, rather than be inconvenienced by his nephew. “Davy needs love and attention,” she said firmly.

Thomas Steele heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Look, Ms. Lassiter, lay off the lectures. Bringing the boy was a mistake. Unfortunately I’m stuck with him until his grandparents return.”

Cheyenne traced the patterns in the cut velvet upholstery. “You cared enough about Davy to worry about him being too young for camp.”

“Don’t read anything into that. You want the brutal truth, Ms. Lassiter? If my brother hadn’t gotten the hots for a pretty face, we wouldn’t have to figure out what the hell to do with the boy he left behind. Steeles raise hotels, they don’t raise children. Davy would have been better off dying in the plane crash with his parents.”

The sound of a closing door came on the heels of Cheyenne’s horrified gasp. Thomas Steele instantly spun around. Jamming his clenched fists into his pockets, he stared at the closed door to Davy’s room. Only the slightest twitch at the corner of one eye disturbed his stone-carved countenance. Then he ground out a swearword and turned away, delivering a swift kick to the nearest chair.

Cheyenne waited until it was apparent Thomas Steele had no intention of going to his nephew before she went to Davy’s door and knocked. She didn’t wait for permission to enter.

Davy sat on the extreme edge of his bed, his thin shoulders hunched over. Cheyenne sat beside him on the frilly mauve bedspread. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks, answering the question of how much he’d understood of his uncle’s words.

When she wrapped an arm around him, Davy tried to pull away, but she held him tighter. With her other hand she reached for a box of tissues and held it out to him. “He didn’t mean it.” Davy’s anguish drew the lie from her. Cheyenne didn’t know what Thomas Steele had meant.

“I didn’t want to go to camp. There are bears in the woods and I didn’t know anybody and I couldn’t sleep with my sniffer.”

“What’s a sniffer?”

Davy hung his head lower. “Grandmother threw Bear away because he had holes and stuff was coming out and she said he smelled bad and I was too old to take him to bed. I saved a little piece that come off I keep it under my pillow. It’s a secret. Pearl knows, but she won’t tell.”

“Who’s Pearl? A friend?”

“She works for Grandmother at the hotel.”

“You live in a hotel?”

Davy nodded. Taking a tissue, he noisily blew his nose. “I think Uncle Thomas knows about my sniffer. That’s why he don’t like me. Pearl said he does, but he don’t.”

The sad little voice tore at Cheyenne’s heart, and she wanted to hit Davy’s uncle. Thomas Steele definitely had a problem, and what that problem was, she had no idea, but he had no right to make a little boy so unhappy. Or himself so unhappy. The unbidden thought gave her pause, but Davy came first. Gently squeezing him, she forced lightness into her voice. “Somebody probably took your uncle Thomas’s sniffer away from him when he was a little boy and that’s why he’s so cranky.”

Davy gave her a doubtful look. “I don’t think he had a sniffer. Grandmother says he’s mean and bossy. She told Grandfather she got the wrong baby when she got Uncle Thomas from the hospital. I asked Pearl what Grandmother meant and she laughed and said Uncle Thomas spits like Grandfather and all the Steeles. I never seen Grandfather spit.” He paused. “I thought Uncle Thomas wanted me to come so he could teach me to spit. I’m a Steele, too.”

Cheyenne needed a second to interpret Davy’s words. “Pearl must have meant your uncle Thomas is the spitting image of your grandfather. That means they look alike. People say my sister Allie and I are the spitting images of each other.”

“I wish I had a brother to play with.”

Cheyenne saw an opportunity to perhaps repair some damage. “Sisters aren’t always so great. Last week Allie let Moonie, one of her dogs, get a hold of my new sweater and Moonie chewed a big hole in it. I told Allie I couldn’t decide whether to kill her or Moonie.”

Davy gave her a wide-eyed look. “You wanted to kill your sister?”

“Of course not. People say stupid things without meaning what they say. Maybe they are unhappy or in a bad mood. Your uncle’s probably in a bad mood because he’s hungry.” She rubbed Davy’s back. “He should have eaten his breakfast.”

“Grandmother says I’m a nuisance. When I’m eight she’s gonna send me away to school and have a party.”

“Your grandmother is teasing you.” Inwardly Cheyenne raged. What kind of people were these Steeles?

“He’s not,” the boy mumbled. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Cheyenne searched for words to explain Thomas Steele’s behavior. How could she explain what she herself didn’t understand? Why would a man reject his nephew?

She thought of her own family. Her mother had refused to judge Beau, explaining people had to be taught how to love. Cheyenne had been much older than seven before she understood what Mary Lassiter meant. It wasn’t the kind of answer Davy needed now. Feeling her way, Cheyenne said, “You know how it hurts when you fall and cut your knee? Maybe inside, your uncle hurts like that because he misses your father.”

“I forgot to feed my goldfish and he died. Grandmother told me I was bad. She flushed Goldie down the toilet.” Davy gave Cheyenne a miserable look. “I think I was bad when I was a baby. That’s why my mother and father died. That’s why Uncle Thomas hates me.”

Cheyenne jerked around at a sound behind her. Thomas Steele stood just inside the room.

CHAPTER TWO

“SAY something,” Cheyenne said furiously when Thomas Steele did nothing more than imitate a garden statue.

He flicked a stony look at her before saying in a stilted voice, “Your parents died because their plane crashed in bad weather. You had nothing to do with it, and I don’t hate you. Don’t be dramatic.”

So much for sensitivity: Giving Davy another squeeze, she told him to wash his face while she spoke to his uncle. Outside the bedroom, Cheyenne said, “Some reassurance and a hug would have been more appropriate than telling him to quit being dramatic.”

A steel beam showed more emotion than Thomas Steele. He stared unblinkingly at her. “I spoke with Frank McCall and he assures me you’re legitimate.”

“My mother has always said so.”

“I’m referring to your business. McCall said you run individual tours for people who don’t want to sign up with the usual group tours. He gave you a sterling rating and said he could come up with references if I wanted them.”

Cheyenne easily interpreted the begrudging note in Thomas Steele’s voice. “Would you have preferred I have a criminal record?”

“You answered the ad for a wife to drum up business.”

“I did not.”

“Don’t waste my time denying it. I admire enterprise. You saw an opportunity and went for it. It worked. You’re hired.”

“Hired? For what?”

“The women I employed obviously aren’t working out. You can take charge of the boy while we’re here.”

“I run a tour agency, not a day care center.”

“McCall said you take kids.”

“I take families.”

“Drag the boy along.”

She’d like to drag someone. Behind a speeding car over a pasture full of cactus. “We run individualized tours for families. Each family pays us to cater to their particular needs and interests. I cannot, as you so crudely suggest, drag a seven-year-old along on a tour personalized for others. It wouldn’t be fair to them or to Davy Aspen has a number of options for day care or activities and tours geared toward children. Frank McCall can steer you to one.”

“You came looking for me, Ms. Lassiter, not the other way around. The advertisement brought you, but it was for a wife. Either you came to answer the ad or you came to drum up business. Which?”

The insufferably snapped question enraged her. Cheyenne gave him a cold smile. “I came to see if the child who wrote the ad was being knocked around, battered and physically abused. I came to check for the kind of bruises and broken bones a child receives when someone bigger hits him.”

Thomas Steele sucked in air as if she’d kicked him in the solar plexus. “He told you I hit him?” For a second the gray eyes staring at her darkened with baffled hurt. Then he blinked, and his eyes turned cold and empty. “I don’t hit people. If he told you I hit him, he lied.”

“He didn’t tell me. I didn’t like the ad.”

“I’m not crazy about it myself, but I see it for what it is. A kid with too much imagination and too much time on his hands.”

Davy had no bruises, but there were other ways to batter down a child. Believing his family didn’t want him ranked right up there. “Is that what you see?” Cheyenne looked directly into the expressionless eyes across from her. “I see a little boy crying out to be wanted and loved.”

His mouth tightened and all color left his face, but when he spoke, his voice was coolly impersonal. “I don’t have the advantage of your rose-colored glasses.”

A person needed years of practice to learn that kind of iron control over his emotions. Cheyenne studied him. “I don’t understand how you can be so heartless.”

“What’s heartless about trying to find a qualified person to take care of the boy?”

“His name is David.”

He looked past her. “His father’s name was David. The boy’s name is Davy.”

The way the muscles beneath his jaw tightened made her teeth ache. She’d never seen a man so in denial of his true feelings. Whatever those feelings were. “Then call him Davy,” she said, in a gentler tone than she’d intended.

He was quick. One haughty eyebrow identified and mocked her compassion. “You call him Davy. Call him anything you want. All I want is a baby-sitter. Name your price. I’ll pay it. I’m not interested in haggling.”

Had she been mistaken? You had to be skin and flesh and blood to feel pain. Rawhide and iron and steel formed this man. She questioned the vague plan stirring at the back of her mind. How could words of hers reach him? She should give up now. Walk out of the suite. She couldn’t. Davy needed her help. They both needed her help. “I’m not haggling. I’m—”

“Punishing the boy—Davy—because you don’t like me.”

His accusation angered her. “The world doesn’t revolve around you. Your despicable behavior has no bearing on anything.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve made much of a success at this little business of yours.” Unexpectedly he grinned. “You must find your appalling candor and lack of skill in dealing with people to be terrible handicaps.”

Cheyenne snapped her jaw back into place. It wasn’t fair that a man who’d thus far displayed the warmth and compassion of a stone wall could have such an engaging—and sexy—grin. “You’re not a customer,” she managed.

“I’m trying to be. I want you to take Davy.”

“I get to go with her?” Davy popped out of his room, his face as hopeful as his voice.

“Ms. Lassiter doesn’t want you.”

“Oh.” Davy disappeared back into the bedroom.

Stunned, Cheyenne stared in disbelief at Thomas Steele. “Is having your own way so important you’d trample a child’s feelings?”

“You’re the one who refused to take Davy.” He jammed his fists in his pockets.

He was going to ruin the line of his expensive suit. He’d said Davy’s name. She doubted he’d noticed. If Thomas Steele had any feelings, he’d buried them so deep, he made her think of a tightly-wound spring about to fly out of control. Giving in to impulse, Cheyenne made up her mind. Two lonely people. A little boy who was ready to reach out and a man who apparently could not reach out. All they needed was a little help finding each other. “There might be a way,” she said.

Thomas Steele reached for his billfold. “I knew you’d find one.”

What was she getting herself into? “How long are you in Aspen?”

“Two more weeks.”

Two weeks. By her estimation, the man had had over thirty years to grow an iron shell, and she expected to pierce it in two weeks? Worth, Allie, Greeley—they’d all shake their heads and accuse Cheyenne of sticking her big nose in other people’s business. Again. We all gotta do what we do best, she thought with a grim sense of humor. “As I said, we run personalized tours. I can’t thrust Davy in with strangers doing things which wouldn’t interest him. However, Allie’s next group canceled because of an illness in the family. I can see if—”

“No,” he cut her off. “I don’t want Davy shunted off on somebody else. I want you.”

He’d said Davy again. The name almost came naturally to him. Maybe there was hope for Thomas Steele. “Most of the families I have booked for the next couple of weeks haven’t used us before, and they didn’t request me specifically. My sister could take most of them.”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll baby-sit Davy.”

“I’m not a baby-sitter, but I’ll take Davy. On one condition. You come along.”

He slowly returned his billfold to his pocket. “My first guess was correct, wasn’t it? It is me you’re interested in.”

So much for any idealistic plans to turn Thomas Steele into a human being. She gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I can’t fool you, can I? All my life I’ve wanted to be the plaything of a rich, egotistical, sorry excuse for a human being who is absolutely devoid of any kindness, canng, warmth or sensitivity, and I’ve failed. Let me guess. It’s the frizzy bleached hair which turns you off.”

Her angry gaze holding his, she called loudly, “Davy, get dressed. You and I are going to go do something fun. Do you like to fish?” She gave Thomas Steele a disgusted look. “I’ll need to phone Allie so I can throw her and everyone else’s plans into total disarray. Of course, that’s nothing to you, as long as you get your way.” Without waiting for a response, Cheyenne marched over to the armoire, picked up the phone and dialed for an outside line.

Allie answered on the first ring.

Thomas had had her right where he wanted her—she’d agreed to take the kid out of his hair—and he’d backed down. Thomas Steele, hot-shot businessman with a reputation for driving a hard, fair bargain, who could sit eyeball-to-eyeball for hours over a negotiating table without blinking first, had blinked. The hell of it was, he didn’t like any of the possible reasons for why he’d conceded her the victory.

Turning his head, he checked his back cast.

Maybe it was those damned eyes of hers which registered a river of emotions. Anger and contempt. Both better than the disappointment and sadness she’d had the nerve to feel. As if she expected better of him. Not that he cared about hers or anyone else’s opinion of him. Even a man scrupulously fair in business dealings stepped on a few toes. A nice fat check took care of hurt feelings or bitterness.

One minute he was patting himself on the back for ridding himself of the kid and the next he was standing thigh-deep in the icy Roaring Fork River wearing hip boots borrowed from Frank McCall. The reason he’d come had nothing to do with Cheyenne Lassiter or the boy He’d heard her tell Davy they were going fishing and had succumbed to an urge to lay down a line. He’d brought his fly rod with him to Colorado in case an opportunity for fly fishing presented itself. He hadn’t actually expected to use the rod. Since he’d bought it five years ago—or was it six, maybe seven?—he’d seldom removed it from its aluminum tube. Running the Steele hotels allowed a man little time for fishing. Or for having a woman in his bed every night. Despite what certain tall blond females thought.

He glanced toward the bank where she sat with the boy. Even from a distance he could tell she still steamed. Ms. Lassiter was easy to annoy. A host of things annoyed her. Not calling the boy by name. Calling her hair bleached. He knew it wasn’t, in spite of those dark brows and ridiculously long, black eyelashes. No dark roots.

Bossy blonde. She might have terrific legs, but he detested strong-minded, aggressive women who felt compelled to prove they could be tougher than men. He cast to a likely-looking riffle. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize Cheyenne Lassiter in a man’s bed. She’d issue such a stream of orders and directives, a man would despair of getting a word in edgewise.

A man could take forever kissing her into silence.

He toyed with the idea of those shapely lips used for something other than lecturing. Those long legs wrapped around him.

He’d always welcomed a challenge.

But he’d never been stupid. It was stupid to seduce a woman merely because she disagreed with you.

The fly floated unchallenged over the riffle. The law prohibited using bait in this section of the Roaring Fork and any fish caught had to be returned immediately to the river. Not that he’d caught any.

Ms. Lassiter hadn’t wanted to stop here. She’d argued it wouldn’t be fun for Davy. That was her problem. They didn’t have to hang around. Thomas had found Davy a playmate. It was up to her to entertain him.

He false cast, drying the artificial fly. Tomorrow he’d tend to business.

And forget self-righteous crusaders who held him in contempt because he didn’t behave according to some juvenile, preconceived notions.

Cheyenne Lassiter spent too much time in his head.

A situation he refused to allow. He’d force her out A woman like her wasn’t for a man like him.

Something sharp stung his arm. Rubbing the tender spot, he looked around for biting insects. Another stabbed his back, then a little geyser of water erupted near his legs. A second geyser splashed up. Suspiciously Thomas looked toward the bank, but not in time to evade the sharp object striking his shoulder. He barely avoided the small missile which plopped in the water beside him.

Cheyenne Lassiter dropped her arm when she saw him looking her way. “Hey!” she shouted. “Come over here.”

He’d do what he damned well pleased. Thomas carefully waded upstream at an angle to the current, feeling his way around the treacherously smooth rocks. Here, the water ran too fast and deep for Davy’s short legs.

A much larger geyser exploded in the water beside him. She’d switched from pea-size gravel to rocks. The woman needed her head examined. A boulder flew through the air, landing harmlessly several feet from him. Effectively scaring off any trout in the vicinity.

Thomas moved a couple of feet closer to the bank so he wouldn’t have to holler like someone calling pigs. “I’m trying to fish.”

“If you were any kind of fisherman, you’d have caught a fish by now.”

He scowled across the water. “No one could catch a fish with you two around. You’ve done everything but use a bullhorn to frighten the fish away.”

“What a self-centered jerk you are.”

“When fishing, a man appreciates a little peace and quiet. There’s nothing selfish about that.”

“You could let Davy try the hip boots.”

“I came to fish, Ms. Lassiter, and I intend to fish. Despite your childish behavior.” Turning his back, he cast his line upstream.

The rushing river drowned out whatever reply she made. Sunlight sparkled on the water and aspen leaves danced in the breezes, unknotting his muscles. He ought to get away more often. From the office. The hotels. From his family.

Overhead, a commuter jet climbed into the sky from the Aspen airport. Laughter, loud enough to be heard over the river’s roar, came from the bank. Thomas looked over his shoulder. Davy, holding the tops of the large rubber boots he wore, splashed in the shallows. The boots must belong to the woman. The boy waded toward the middle of the river. Ms. Lassiter thought she knew everything, but obviously she knew nothing about boys and rocks. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Thomas angled his way downstream toward his nephew.

He’d moved to within several yards of Davy when the inevitable happened. A large, flat rock proving irresistible, the boy scrambled up on it and stepped to the edge furthest from the bank. The fast-moving river had scooped the sand and gravel from beneath the far side of the slick rock, creating a large hole. Davy’s weight tipped the rock into the hole and he slid into the river. Thomas dropped his fishing rod and rushed toward his nephew as quickly as he could in the clumsy, borrowed hip boots. Davy was almost in reach when Thomas stepped on a moss-slicked rock and windmilled wildly in the air in a futile attempt to maintain his balance. Falling, he managed to keep his head from slamming onto the river rocks, but icy water cascaded over his shoulders, down his body and poured into the boots. Setting his jaw, Thomas watched Davy splash over.

A big grin covered Davy’s face. “I fell in, too, but I didn’t get all wet.” His grin faded and he took a step back. “Are you mad at me ’cuz you fell in?”

He couldn’t look at the boy without scaring him. “I’m not mad at you.” It wasn’t Davy’s fault. Thomas knew who deserved the blame. He sat up, belatedly noting the river was less than six inches deep where Davy had taken his plunge. The only danger Davy had been in, was getting wet. A danger Davy had obviously circumvented much more effectively than Thomas had.

Thomas closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. He could have counted how many dollars the handcrafted bamboo fly rod speeding downstream to the Colorado River had cost him, but somehow he didn’t think that would alleviate his annoyance.

“Are you all right? Did you bump your head?”

He opened his eyes. “No, I did not bump my head,” he said coldly to the shapely legs in front of his nose. She’d come in the river wearing her hiking boots. It was her own damned fault if she ruined them.

“Are you hurt? Do you need a hand up?”

“I do not need your help.”

“Says you.”

“Listen, Ms. Lassiter...” His angry words died away as he looked up. She held his fly rod. Water dripped from the bottom edges of her shorts. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

“Worth would skin me alive if I let an expensive rod like this get away.”

Meaning she’d done it for some character named Worth, not for him. Thomas struggled to his feet, taking half the river-with him. If she made a single wisecrack, he’d toss her in the middle of the Roaring Fork.

“I have an old pair of Worth’s jeans in the car. They’re clean and dry. I’ll get them.” She scrambled up to the parking area, returning seconds later with the jeans.

He grabbed them. “Do you plan to watch me change?” he asked as she stood there.

“Nope. I’ve seen your knobby knees. C’mon, Davy, let’s fix lunch.”

Halfway up the bank she slipped and grabbed a clump of weeds at her feet. The sight of her khaki-clad bottom waving in the air momentarily took Thomas’s mind off his cold, wet misery.

The jeans were ripped in one knee and threadbare in the other. They were at least a quarter inch too short for Thomas. A fact which, inexplicably, satisfied him immensely.

Cheyenne manfully swallowed her laughter as she poked around in the large basket sitting on the riverside picnic table. Thomas Steele failed to share her amusement at his mishap even after she’d loaned him Worth’s dry jeans and given him an old blanket to drape around his shoulders. Admittedly the river was cold. And wet. She clamped her lips to hold back a giggle.

After he’d changed into Worth’s dry jeans, Thomas Steele had marched up the bank on bare feet and ranted and raved, accusing her of all kinds of folly, including recklessly endangering Davy. A person would think Davy had fallen into the middle of the Mississippi River the way his uncle carried on. Cheyenne had kept her mouth shut, not even pointing out that, not only had she never taken her eyes off Davy, she knew to the centimeter the depth of the water where she’d allowed him to play.

Her family would have been astonished at her restraint, Cheyenne had barely listened to Thomas Steele’s recriminations. The man could snap and snarl and growl all he wanted, but he’d betrayed himself. Deny his feelings all he wanted, he cared enough about Davy to rush to his rescue. There might be hope for Thomas Steele.

“I’m hungry enough to eat a bear,” Davy said.

“A disgusting notion.”

Now the man was pouting. “I’m afraid all I have is peanut butter and jelly,” Cheyenne said. “No bear.”

“Peanut butter and jelly.” Thomas Steele grimaced. “I thought you went to the delicatessen.”

“Changed my mind. I felt like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich so I went to the grocery store.”

“I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” Davy said.

“I hate peanut butter and jelly.”

“More for us,” Davy said with a gap-toothed grin.

“What did you say, young man?”

The snapped question erased the grin on Davy’s face. “That’s what you said when I told the lady I didn’t like fish eggs.”

“Those fish eggs were extremely expensive Russian caviar,” his uncle said in an overbearing voice. “It would have been more polite to keep your mouth shut. No one forced you to eat caviar.”

“What your uncle is saying, Davy, is he holds himself to different standards than he holds you. Children should be seen, not heard.”

“I said no such thing, Ms. Lassiter.”

“You’re absolutely right. All you said was you hated peanut butter and jelly.”

“You don’t like anyone disagreeing with you, do you?”

“Not when they’re wrong, which you are.”

He uttered a harsh laugh. “At least you’re honest.”

“That’s me. A frizzy, honest, bleached blonde.” More honest than he was. Thomas Steele hid behind so many layers of masks, she questioned if he knew who he was. A cold, selfish uncle or a man hiding from his true feelings? She didn’t like the mask he’d shown her. How would she feel about the real Thomas Steele? If one existed.

“If it would make you feel better, I’ll admit I rather like your hair, okay?”

As if she cared one tiny bit whether he liked her hair. “It’s better than okay. It’s better than winning the Colorado lottery. It’s better than sunshine and rainbows and chocolate chip cookies.” Smearing peanut butter and jelly on two hunks of white bread, she slapped them together and handed him his sandwich.

“I get the picture,” he said dryly. “You don’t give a damn about my opinion.”

Ignoring him, Cheyenne ate her own lunch. A team of wild horses couldn’t have dragged from her the admission that peanut butter was not her favorite food, but she’d spent enough time around kids to know what they liked to eat, and she refused to sink to the level of bologna. Chewing resolutely, she used apple juice to wash down the peanut butter gumming up the roof of her mouth. Davy shoved down his lunch and took off to investigate the small gray squirrel scolding them from a large rock beside the river.

Thomas Steele pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and turned to lean back against the table’s edge. His eyes closed in the warm sun and his head gradually sank to his chest. Cheyenne sipped juice and studied him. His well-groomed hands were nothing like her brother’s. Worth’s work-roughened, calloused hands were strong and capable. As was Worth. She wondered about Thomas Steele.

His oblong face softened slightly in repose, although the chin remained as square-cut, the cheekbones as sharp. Not a curl disturbed the blue-black hair laying sleekly over his well-shaped head. A dark, straight brow slashed across his forehead, and a tiny patch of premature gray edged the temple she could see. She approved of the ear lying flatly against his head. His nose fit his face, but his mouth betrayed him with a bottom lip too full for a man. Especially a man who boasted he didn’t believe in love.

An urge to touch that lip surprised her. How did he feel about passion?

A hummingbird whistled shrilly past. Thomas Steele stirred, looked up and caught her watching him. His gaze locked on her mouth. Darn him. Was she so transparent?

“Have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“What business is that of yours?”

“You flung around accusations about my social life. Turnabout’s fair play. I’ll bet you don’t. You’d scare off any sane man.”

“Do I scare you?”

“Nothing scares me anymore.”

“What used to scare you?”

He looked down at the juice bottle in his hands. “Nothing. Where’s Davy?”

“Trailing the squirrel. Don’t worry. I’ve been keeping an eye on him while you slept.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You lie about everything, don’t you?”

“Do you have a trust fund or something?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m trying to figure out how you live. No one could support herself with these so-called tours.”

“Wait until you get your bill.”

“You can’t have many repeat customers. People don’t care to be lectured to, made fun of, or told they’re liars.”

“Have I hurt your feelings?” she asked lightly.

“Would you care?”

“No.” Maybe poking and prodding him would dislodge his mask. She wanted the real Thomas Steele to stand up.

“Why do I have the distinct impression you want me to lose my temper, Ms. Lassiter?”

“Are you in the habit of losing your temper, Mr. Steele?”

“I don’t lose my temper.”

“Everyone loses their temper. Do you become violent when you lose yours?”

“Are you deliberately irritating me to see if I’ll get mad enough to haul off and slug you?” he asked slowly.

“Will you?”

He gave her a long look. “Don’t you think finding out might be a little on the dangerous side?”

“For me? Or for Davy?” After the episode at the river, this man held no terrors for her. He’d fallen, gotten soaked and miserable, and almost lost his fishing rod. He could have blamed Davy for his mishap. Instead he’d lashed out at Cheyenne. That kind of anger grew out of fear. Fear over Davy’s safety.

Thomas Steele exhaled impatiently. “I admit the boy and I aren’t close. My family isn’t exactly your apple pie kind of family, but no one is harming Davy. He’s fine.”

“He’s not fine. He needs parents.”

“I can’t do anything about that, and I doubt it’s true. These days, children are raised by employees and by television. They do fine. Just because your father tucked you in at night doesn’t mean every kid needs that.”

“I know he’s lost his parents, but a child needs someone who cares about him.” Cheyenne made a snap decision to tell him a little about herself. “My father didn’t tuck me in. At first he was off rodeoing, then he was just—off. I was ten the last time I saw him.”

“Is that why you hate men? Because you hate your father for abandoning you?”

“I don’t hate men and I don’t hate my father. He’s dead now anyway. Tangled with one bull too many.” Seeing his blank look, she explained. “He rode bulls and saddle broncs in rodeos. He was good.” She flashed a quick smile. “If he’d been ugly, Mom said even if he could ride anything with four legs, she wouldn’t have fallen so hard for him. Or if he was good-looking, but couldn’t ride. She claims the combination did her in. Tough, reckless riding and a smile to charm the birds from the trees. When Beau would hobble back with broken bones and his crooked smile, Grandpa would say ‘handsome is as handsome does,’ and Mom’d laugh and say ‘handsome did pretty darned good.’ Grandpa always laughed, which made the rest of us laugh. A person couldn’t help but like Beau, even if he did shed responsibility the way Shadow sheds water.” She added, “Shadow’s Allie’s black Labrador retriever.”

“You call your father Beau?”

“He didn’t like being called Dad.” Cheyenne made a face. “Rumed his image.”

“Yet you loved him? How charitable and forgiving of you.”

She heard the sarcasm. “There was nothing to forgive. Beau never tried to be other than he was. He never promised to come see us or write or phone. He came around when he needed a place for broken bones to heal. He was like an unexpected guest. We’d enjoy him, then he’d leave, and life would return to normal.”

“No resentment at all?” He clearly doubted her.

“No. We had Grandpa and Mom. And Worth, of course. Beau used to say fate picked Worth’s name because Worth was worth ten of Beau.” She half smiled. “Beau never lied, not even to himself.”

“And you found that admirable, even lovable?” he asked in disgust.

“I’m not stupid, Mr. Steele. I know Beau used his weaknesses to evade responsibility. I liked him. Everyone liked Beau. But love?” She shook her head. “Love is for men like Grandpa and Worth. Men you can depend on. None of us kids loved Beau. We accepted him.” She drew in the dirt with a stick. “That’s sad, don’t you think? Beau had excitement and glamour and women and a certain amount of fame. He never had kids who loved him.”

“Sounds as if he had what he wanted.”

“Beau didn’t know what he wanted. He grew up in a series of foster homes. Beau never saw his mom, but for some reason, she never signed the papers which would allow him to be adopted. As a result, he never connected with anyone. He didn’t know how to love.” Cheyenne watched Davy standing beside the river looking up into the branches of a small aspen. “A child has to be loved to learn how to love.”

“I had a feeling your true confession was leading somewhere. Forget it. I’m no more interested in your opinions on child-rearing than I am in hearing your family’s history.”

“Why do you deny Davy what you had? Parents and family who loved you?” Cheyenne asked in a quiet, intense voice.

“Don’t forget the hundreds of gorgeous women who are madly in love with me and nightly grace my bed.” He paused. “Considering your appalling naiveté, I ought to assure you they grace it one at a time.”

His patronizing smile went no further than his lips. His eyes told her nothing. He hid his secrets well. He hadn’t answered her question. His jaw tightened. Her scrutiny bothered him. She wondered what kind of parents he’d had, but knew better than to ask.

Thomas gave a low laugh. “The next time you start on one of your dreary little sermons, I’ll remember that mentioning my sex life shuts you up.”

The triumph in his voice saddened her. Life was about winning and losing to him, and he thought he’d won. Perhaps he had. Only an idiot would believe she could turn this man and Davy into a family. Allie was nght. Cheyenne couldn’t save the world.

She could give Davy a friend for two weeks. After that... Cheyenne wrapped her arms around herself and watched Davy stalk a butterfly through a small patch of fuchsia-blooming thistles. “I’ll pick Davy up at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”

Thomas Steele said nothing. The silence grew. She wanted to cry and scream and throw things and kick her feet in frustration. Why couldn’t he understand? Tiny prickles crawled down her spine. Raising her chin, she turned her head.

He was studying her, an enigmatic look on his face. “He’ll be ready.”

She’d missed something. He seemed almost disappointed. As if he’d expected something else from her. Something more. Surely not jealousy at the thought of other women in his bed. So what her knees went a little weak at the sight of the chest he’d exposed to the sun’s rays? It took more than blatant masculinity to offset bony knees.

He closed his eyes, shutting her out. Silly thought. When had he let her in? The feeling he’d wanted something from her and she’d failed to deliver wouldn’t go away. Maybe she hadn’t been clear enough. Surely he understood she’d agreed to take Davy for the next two weeks. Didn’t Thomas Steele realize she was letting him off the hook?

An incredible thought almost knocked her off the picnic table bench. Perhaps Thomas Steele didn’t want off the hook. The outline of a brilliant plan sprang into being. What if she refused to let him off the hook?

Deciding to put her theory to the test, Cheyenne spoke before sanity prevailed. “I’ll take Davy to the Aspen Center for Environmental Studies in the morning. We can kill a couple of hours at the nature preserve watching the hawks and ducks, look for a muskrat or beaver Will that be enough tune for you to get things ready for the party?”

Thomas Steele’s eyelids snapped up. “What party?”

“Davy’s birthday party. I’ll order the cake tonight and you can go shopping for presents and decorations in the morning.”

“His birthday has passed.”

“A late party is better than no party.”

“Fine. Give him a birthday party and send me the bill. I don’t care how you entertain him.”

Cheyenne chose to misinterpret his words “If you don’t care what kind of party, I have a better idea. Mom and Worth would think it great fun to throw a birthday party at Hope Valley I’d planned to go out to the ranch tomorrow afternoon, but we can go earlier. Mom loves to bake birthday cakes. I’ll take Davy with me to buy the ice cream and decorations and tell him they’re for Worth. You’ll be in charge of the presents.”

Thomas Steele looked at her as if she’d grown several extra heads. He opened his mouth, but Cheyenne had no intention of giving him an opportunity to refuse. “A couple of hours should give you enough time. We’ll come back to the hotel for you and Olivia. She’s booked with Allie for tomorrow, and she’ll love a party.”

“Ms. Lassiter.” He stood. The blanket fell to the picnic bench. “I’m not—”

“You’ll like Olivia,” Cheyenne said quickly, trying not to stare at the sculpted male torso shining in the sunlight. “She’s filthy rich, and she always stays in Steele hotels.”

He moved to stand in front of her. “I’m not interested in meeting this woman no matter where she stays or how much money she has. Or how beautiful she is.”

“I’m not fixing you up.” If he moved much closer, her nose would bump the bare skin above Worth’s old jeans. He wanted to make her nervous. He couldn’t. “Olivia’s eighty-three.” The day had grown warmer. Cheyenne resisted an urge to fan her face with her hat. The sun was going to burn his broad shoulders and blister the wide expanse of skin. Not that she cared. He could strip stark naked and it wouldn’t bother her.

“Definitely not my type.”

Of course she wasn’t his type. “What is your type?”

“A woman younger than eighty-three.”

He was talking about Olivia. She knew that. “You’re Olivia’s type.” He was leaner than Worth. The jeans hung low on his hips. She tried not to stare at his flat stomach. “She’s crazy about men who are tall, dark, handsome and devastatingly sexy.”

Hands came to rest on her shoulders. “How about you, Ms. Lassiter? What kind of men are you crazy about?” He laughed, low in his throat, and pulled Cheyenne to her feet. “I’m flattered you think I’m devastatingly sexy.”

CHAPTER THREE

CHEYENNE could not believe the incriminating words had come from her mouth. She put up her hands to ward him off, then snatched them away, conscious of the warmth of his chest. Curling her fingers at her sides, she looked in the direction of the shirt and fishing vest spread over a nearby wild rose bush. “I think your shirt is dry.”

“I like a woman who thinks I’m devastatingly sexy.” His mouth hovered inches above hers.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. “I meant Olivia will think you are, and that’s what counts. I like to keep my clients happy.”

“I’m your client.”

“Davy’s my client.”

“I’m paying the bill. A bill you’ve assured me will be quite high.” He slid one hand across her shoulder. “Maybe you ought to think about keeping me happy.”

Cheyenne didn’t make the mistake of thinking Thomas Steele was interested in her. Seduction was merely another mask he hid behind. Not about to swoon at his feet, she slipped beneath his arm. “All I have to do to keep you happy is keep Davy out of your hair. Don’t read anything in my comment about your personal appearance. Good looks are nothing more than the luck of the draw from the gene pool.”

“And that means good looks aren’t sexy?”

She elected to answer him honestly. “You want to know what’s sexy in a man? Goodness, caring, gentleness. Kindness.”

“I suppose this Worth you talk about is sexy.”

“Worth? Sexy?” Cheyenne burst out laughing. “He’d throw a fit if I even suggested it.”

“He’s not good and kind and gentle?”

Cheyenne cleared up the remains of the lunch. “Of course he is.” She’d contradicted her own words. “But Worth is just Worth.” She closed the lid to the picnic basket, puzzling over Thomas Steele’s tone. For whatever reason, he’d sounded almost petulant when he’d said Worth’s name. Which made no sense.

Unless men were like bull elk in the fall. Macho, competitive, and determined to be the number one bull. Maybe she could use male testosterone to Davy’s advantage. “Of course,” she said casually, “Worth is good-looking, and I have to admit his blue eyes are gorgeous. Half the women in the valley are in love with him. You wouldn’t believe the stupid reasons they give for showing up at our ranch so they can see him. My sister claims his muscles turn the average woman’s brain to mush.”

Thomas Steele grabbed the picnic basket. “I’ll carry it. Open the back end of your car.” He slid the basket inside and slammed the back of her vehicle “It sounds to me as if there are too many distractions for you on your ranch. I don’t think Davy should go with you tomorrow. You almost lost him today in the river. He could get into all kinds of trouble on a ranch while you’re otherwise occupied.”

“I did not almost lose him in the river. He was in no danger whatsoever. And you don’t have to worry about him on the ranch. Worth will take care of Davy.”

Thomas Steele carefully gathered up the gear air-drying on a rock in the shade. “I’ll decide who takes care of him.”

“Naturally.” Cheyenne signaled Davy to head for the car. “He is your nephew.”

Thomas Steele gave her a measured look. “I am not going to help you with your so-called birthday party. I have no idea what a seven-year-old boy would like.”

“It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out. What did you do at your birthday parties when you were Davy’s age?”

After a moment he said, “I never had a birthday party”

The bald statement gave Cheyenne pause. She couldn’t help picturing Thomas Steele as a child, pretending year after year that birthday parties didn’t matter. Her heart twisted, and she wanted to hold him in her arms and console the child he’d been. Before she made a fool of herself, Davy ran up, flying his uncle’s shirt behind him like a flag.

“Are we gonna fish now?” Davy asked.

Thomas Steele took his shirt “I’m going back to the hotel. I have work to do.”

“Oh.” Davy scuffed his toe in the dirt. “I thought you was gonna fish with me. I guess you don’t want to.”

Thomas Steele gripped his shirt so tightly, his knuckles turned white “It has nothing to do with you There are things which need to be done”

“Let someone else do them,” Cheyenne said. If Thomas Steele wanted to return to St. Chris’s, he’d have to get there on his own. “I booked you for the whole day We’re going to Ruedi Reservoir so you can teach Davy how to fish.”

Disappointment switched to hopefulness on Davy’s face. “We are? Cool.” He gave his uncle a sideways glance. “I’ll prolly catch a fish”

Thomas Steele raised an eyebrow at his nephew. “Are you casting aspersions on my fishing ability, young man?”

Davy stood his ground. “I don’t know,” he said cautiously. “What does that mean?”

“You think I’m not a very good fisherman.”

“You didn’t catch any fish.”

Cheyenne laughed.

Thomas Steele swung his gaze toward her. “I see there are two of you who think I don’t know anything about fishing. All right, we’ll have a little contest. Biggest fish wins.”

“What will I win?” Davy asked excitedly.

“You’re awfully confident, young man.”

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