Miss Greenhorn (4 page)

“What is it like there? Desert?” she asked.

“No!” he denied, shaking his head. “It's way back in a canyon with plenty of trees and good water and mountains behind. It's a beautiful spot.”

“Imagine that.” She sighed, staring at him. “You know, before I came out here, I thought the desert was just a lot of sand stretching to the horizon. But it's not like that at all. It's full of creosote and cholla, ocotillo and prickly pear cactus, and cottonwood and mesquite. And the birds! The red-winged blackbird is so beautiful.”

“Not to mention the cactus wren, the roadrunner, and the owls,” he agreed, smiling back at her. “Yes, there's life out there. Other kinds, too. Lizards and snakes, coyotes, wolves, deer, game birds—”

“How long have your people lived in Arizona?” she interrupted.

He shrugged. “I don't really know. An ancestor of mine was living in Tombstone around the time of the O.K. Corral, but I don't know when he actually came here. All I know is that he was a Southerner. He came here after the Civil War.”

“Someone told me that the city of Tucson once flew the Confederate flag just briefly.”

“And it's true. A lot of Southerners settled here in the old days. There's plenty of history here in this part of the state.”

“I grew up reading Zane Grey,” she recalled wistfully. “I never dreamed I'd actually get to see any of the places he wrote about. But the most exciting part of this trip has been looking at the
Hohokam
ruins.”

He nodded. “They fascinate me, too. In 300 B.C., the
Hohokam
farmed here using a 150-mile system of canals. They were an inspiring people.”

“Yes, I'm learning that.”

He glanced at his watch. “I've got to get back to work. Are you through?”

“Yes, thank you. How can you take off whenever you like?” she asked hesitantly as they got up.

He grinned. “I'm vice president of the mining company. My uncle owns it.”

“Oh.”

“I'm rich,” he said, and a mocking smile touched his lean, dark face. “Haven't you noticed? Most women do.”

She flushed and turned away, flustered by the point-blank bluntness. In her haste to move, she backed into the chair he'd pulled out for her, tripped, and went face down across it, plowing into a table full of tourists and their children.

Milk shakes and hamburgers went everywhere. So did the contents of Christy's purse. She sprawled on the floor, feeling unbearably foolish and embarrassed.

“That was my fault,” Nate said quietly as he helped her up and proceeded to patch up the incident with a charm and diplomacy that Christy was just beginning to realize was an innate part of his personality. Flinty he might be, but he was a gentleman, and he had a knack for putting people at ease. The tourists were more concerned about Christy than the mess she'd made, and even the restaurant people were understanding and kind.

All that sweetness only made Christy feel worse. She was in tears by the time Nate helped her into the Jeep.

“Now, now,” he said gently, mopping up her tears. “I shouldn't have cut at you like that. It was my fault, not yours.”

“It was mine,” she wailed. “I'm so clumsy…!”

He finished clearing away the tears and tilted her face up to his searching gaze while he surveyed the damage. “Red nose, red eyes, red cheeks,” he murmured dryly. His eyes fell to her mouth and lingered there until she felt her toes curling in her shoes. “Red mouth, too,” he said, his voice deepening. The hand holding her chin contracted a little. “Red and soft and very, very tempting, little Christy,” he said, half under his breath. He lifted his eyes to catch the look in hers, and his gaze held hers until she was breathless from the tense excitement he created.

The interior of the Jeep was quiet with the canvas top on, and they could barely hear the traffic noise outside. The heat was stifling, but neither noticed. His dark eyes lanced into her pale ones and even as he looked at her, he moved closer, looming over her, the spicy scent of his cologne filling her nostrils as his mouth began to move down toward hers.

She felt her nails clench on the expensive fabric of his jacket while her heart tried to climb into her throat. His mouth was very masculine, and it looked hard and ruthless for all its sensuality. She imagined that he knew a lot more about kissing than she did, and the thought of being kissed by Nathanial Lang was far more exciting than she'd ever dreamed. She felt her lips parting for him, waiting, her body in a tense expectation that was suddenly, painfully, shattered by the car that pulled up alongside Nate's Jeep with a noisy roar.

Nate sat up, glaring toward the new arrivals. “Just as well, honey,” he said when he noticed Christy's expression. “What we were leading up to wouldn't have been appropriate in a public place. I don't want an audience when I kiss you for the first time.”

She choked on her own reply, but he only smiled and started the Jeep.

“Fasten your seat belt,” he said easily, and pulled out into the road with apparent ease, his expression as relaxed as if he'd been on a leisurely outing with no excitement at all.

He let Christy out at the dig, and try as she might, she couldn't quite manage to be as blasé and sophisticated about what had happened as he was being.

Fortunately for her, George saw them drive up in the Jeep and came loping toward them, all smiles, with a laptop computer under one arm.

“There you are!” he called to Christy and waved. “I missed you!”

Nate glared toward him. “George, again,” he murmured darkly. “Does he have radar, do you suppose?”

“He's lonely,” she stammered, surprised by his antagonism for the younger man.

“Is he?” He glanced at her curiously and then shrugged. “Well, to each his own. See you later.”

He let her out and pulled away with a shower of dust, without even looking back. In another man, she might have suspected jealousy. But a man like Nathanial Lang wouldn't be jealous of her in a million years, and certainly not of sweet egghead George. She turned with a smile painted on her face to listen to what George was rambling on about. But her mind was still on what had happened in the parking lot of the restaurant, her lips hungry for a kiss she'd wanted so desperately and didn't get.

Nate's behavior was puzzling to her. He seemed genuinely interested in her one minute, and he looked at her with such cynicism the next. She didn't quite know how to take him. She hoped she wasn't letting herself in for a big heartache. Nate Lang appealed to her. She liked to think that the reverse was also true, but she was going to have to watch her step. He was a worldly man with a real sophistication. She couldn't afford to fall too deeply under his spell unless she was certain that he felt the same way she was beginning to. Holiday romances might be the norm here, and she might not be the first Eastern tourist to catch Mr. Lang's sharp eye.

That thought was so depressing that she gave George a beaming smile, and he returned it with interest, thinking it was the lure of his charm finally getting to her.

C
hristy had expected Nathanial to ignore her again that night, because he seemed to go from friendly companionship to cold animosity with relative ease where she was concerned. But that evening after supper, he pulled her to one side before George could appropriate her for a chess game in the recreation room.

“Do you dance?” he asked, his level stare disconcerting.

“Why…yes, a little,” she stammered.

“There's a bar and grill in town. They have a country-western band and dancing every night. We could sit and drink beer and dance.”

“I don't drink,” she said, sounding apologetic. Then she held her breath, because he might not want to take her along at all.

“That's all right. You can have ginger ale.” He smiled then, and her heart did a dance all its own.

“Then, in that case, I'd like very much to go with you,” she said.

“Put on a skirt,” he instructed. “Better for dancing.”

Was it, she wondered, or did he just like feminine women? But she had to agree when she changed that her full white Spanish dress did a lot more for her than jeans and a loose, short-sleeved sweater had. She brushed her hair out long and wore sandals instead of high heels. When she was ready, she went looking for him. He was wearing dress slacks with a long-sleeved, Western-cut blue-print shirt and a turquoise and silver bola tie, and his feet were decked out in cream-colored boots that matched the Stetson slashed over one dark eyebrow. He looked cocky and arrogant and every inch a sophisticated, mature man. She caught her breath at the thought of spending an evening alone with him and dancing to boot.

“There you are!” George broke in just as she started to speak to Nate. “Why are you dressed up? I thought we were going to play chess.”

“I'm going into town with Mr. Lang,” she said firmly. “Sorry, George.”

The younger man looked unsettled for a moment. He glanced from Christy to Nate Lang, as if it hadn't occurred to him that the other man could possibly be interested in Christy. “Oh, a date,” he said hesitantly.

“That's right,” Nate said easily. “A date.”

“Well, then I, uh, I'll see you later, Christy. Or tomorrow.” George smiled nervously before he loped off in the direction of the recreation room.

“He's smitten,” Nate told her as he took her arm and propelled her toward his Mercedes.

“He's very nice,” she said, defending her colleague. “He's sort of shy and he doesn't mix well. I'm his security blanket.”

“You're too much woman to be wasted on a kid who's wet behind the ears,” he said.

She waited until he'd put her in the passenger seat and had climbed in beside her to start the car before she answered him. She wasn't quite secure herself, and this man was older than anyone she'd ever dated and very obviously experienced. She didn't quite know how to take his interest in her.

“I'm a little wet behind the ears, myself,” she began.

He glanced toward her. “Are you?” he asked, and there was a cynical note in his tone that was lost on her. He grinned. “Fasten your seat belt. Your virtue is safe with me, Miss Greenhorn. For the time being, anyway,” he added.

She wondered how to take that, and decided that he was kidding. She laughed softly. “Oh.” She fastened the seat belt and tried to look satisfied.

“You're a new experience,” he remarked as he pulled the car onto the main highway and sped toward Tucson. “The women I usually attract don't set limits.”

“You sound very cynical,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I'm a target. I wish I was a little better-looking. Then I might think it was me instead of my bankbook that appealed to the fair sex.”

“You must be looking in the wrong kind of mirrors,” she said before she thought. She smiled self-consciously at the look he gave her. “Well, you're not exactly repulsive, you know.” Her eyes fell to her lap. “You have this way of making people feel safe and at ease with you, and stirring them up all at the same time.”

“There's an interesting remark. You can explain it to me a little later on. How do you like the desert at night, little tourist?”

She glanced out the window and sighed as the reddish glow on the horizon threw the jagged mountains into stark relief past the shadowy silhouettes of vegetation across the flat fields. “It's beautiful. Chilly,” she added, smiling toward him. “I didn't expect that. The desert is so hot during the day that I thought it would stay that way.”

“It doesn't, though. Why do you think cowboys pack blankets in their saddle rolls?” he asked, chuckling. He sped down the highway with absolutely no regard for the posted speed limit, noting her nervous glance at the speedometer.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Back home in Florida, the state patrol will get you for that.”

“So will our law enforcement people,” he agreed. “But we're pretty far from town here and it's a straight, uncongested highway. I don't take chances, and I can handle the car. In fact, I used to race them when I was in my early twenties.”

“Really?” she asked, fascinated.

“Just stock cars,” he added. “I did some rodeo, and once or twice I tried my hand at steeplechase. In those days, living dangerously had a special appeal. These days, there's enough excitement in just trying to keep up with taxes and tax shelters, in between prospecting for new finds.”

“I don't suppose I've ever done anything really dangerous,” she remarked, her pale eyes sparkling with faint humor. “Except maybe riding in that Jeep with you,” she added, glancing deliberately at him.

He laughed with pure delight. “You were holding on hard enough, that's for sure. Well, we won't do anything that exciting tonight.”

She wanted to tell him that just being with him was exciting, but she didn't quite have the nerve.

The bar and grill was in a nice part of town, and it wasn't a dive at all. It was one of those big, airy places with a distinctly Western atmosphere that catered to city cowboys. It featured a mechanical bull, a dance floor and band, and a light show that was a delight in itself. Nate found them a table facing the band and dance floor and seated her before he went to get them something to drink.

“What do you fancy? Just ginger ale?” he asked politely.

“Just that,” she agreed.

He pursed his thin lips and stared down at her speculatively. “Do you like the taste of beer?” he asked with a deep, dark kind of velvet in his voice.

Her breath jerked a little. “Well…not really,” she admitted.

“In that case, I think I'll stick to ginger ale, myself,” he said and smiled slowly. He left her and went toward the bar.

She sat trying to get her breath back while she watched the people on the dance floor and listened to the music. Shortly after Nate left, a young, good-looking cowboy stopped by her table and smiled at her.