Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress. Robyn GradyЧитать онлайн книгу.
you going to stand there all night, Mr. Warren? It might be October but it’s chilly out.”
“I was admiring your, uh, landscaping.”
“The flamingos? Attractive, aren’t they?” When he found himself tongue-tied, she straightened to her full petite height and laughed. “They’re only on loan, silly. A gimmick to raise money for a very good cause. They show up one morning and you get to mind them until you make a donation, at which time they magically disappear and take up residence with a new and unsuspecting victim.”
Closing the vehicle’s door, he blew out a sigh of relief. “Making that donation must be at the top of your to-do list.”
As he joined her, his senses responded to that same sweet scent he’d enjoyed earlier today. His every extremity warmed, urging him to lean closer to her pulse points and inhale. But almost as captivating was another kind of smell, one that sent his taste buds tripping. Man, he hadn’t realized he was that hungry.
“You’ve been busy in the kitchen?”
She stepped aside and ushered him into a vestibule that was decorated with oak and a striking stacked-slate feature wall.
“I’m under direct orders to leave all the cooking to the expert in this house,” she said, accepting his coat and slipping it into a hall closet. “Nita’s been a member of the staff, a member of the family, since before I was in pigtails. I couldn’t do without her.”
She led him into a reception room, furnished with evergreen and crimson window dressings and impressive Jacobean furniture. But his interest soon slid back to the way his hostess filled out that dress. Frankly, the sight of her legs in sheer black stockings made his head swim a little, foxtails or not.
“Can I interest you in a predinner drink?” she asked, leaving him to cross to a mile-long timber bar. Beneath the lights, tiny diamantés sparkled in her hair. With a teasing grin, she held up a bottle of whiskey and suggested, “A Manhattan, perhaps?”
Grinning, he sauntered over. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”
When in Rome … Didn’t all Texans love their ale?
“In that case—” she pulled a frosty beer from under the counter “—a local coming up.”
“Will you join me?”
“I’m more a bubbles gal.” When she lifted an opened bottle, nesting in a nearby silver ice bucket, he studied and openly approved the label.
“A very fine vintage.”
“You know wines.” It was more a statement than a question.
“I know what’s good.” Clearly so did she.
“Two glasses then?”
“I’ll pour.”
She found a pair of cut-crystal flutes. He filled one, handed hers over then filled his own. When she tilted her head and raised her glass, diamonds seemed to sparkle in her eyes as well as her hair.
“A toast,” she said. “To your design helping Abby bag the election.”
His chest tightened and the glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “Only if I put it through a massive overhaul.”
Understanding shone in her eyes. “Abigail didn’t like it?”
“She was too polite to say but I’m sure she hated it. Turns out I took a bit of a bum steer regarding the theme, courtesy of a plant from her opponent’s camp.”
“Brad Price doesn’t mind playing dirty.”
Her growl sounded more like a kitten than a bear, although he didn’t doubt that beneath all that feminine grace lay the heart of a tiger.
“What did Abby say?”
He wouldn’t go into details. “Suffice to say her expression was enough.”
Images of his design rolled through his head, his thoughts working through the exterior structure then the overly rustic properties of each room. He could see where he’d gone wrong now.
“Too many textures and dimensions harking back to the good ol’ days,” he admitted. “Too stereotypical.”
Damn it, too cheesy. His fingertip began to draw geometrical shapes over the counter. Helped him to think.
“I get that the committee wants to retain the club’s original flavor,” he went on, “while positioning it firmly in the twenty-first century. I need to find that balance.”
Elizabeth rounded the timber counter and didn’t stop until her heavenly scent had claimed his personal space and was hijacking his bloodstream. The impulse to edge closer and breathe a little deeper was something he had to work at to contain.
An eyebrow arched, she rested her crystal flute on her chin while those dazzling smoky-shadowed eyes searched his. “You sound as if you might have a few ideas.”
“Earlier today, so did you.”
“I confess, I do possess a fascination for design.”
“You studied it?”
“Not officially.”
She rotated to lean back against the counter. With her weight preferring one shapely leg, elbows propped up on the counter on either side, she looked so sultry, so classic … Hell, if he’d been an artist, he’d have begged for an easel and brush.
“I have majors in psychology and literature,” she told him.
“I’d have guessed a business degree would’ve been the logical choice, given one day you’d be running all this.”
Besides other things, when he’d inquired, Abigail had told him Elizabeth was an only child.
Some of the light in her eyes waned at the same time her gaze dropped to the original polished timber at her feet. “I wasn’t that interested in the ranch back then. When my folks passed away, I began to see things differently. There’s always time for more study.”
He set his glass carefully down. “Abigail mentioned about your parents.” A tragic automobile accident. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded then shucked back her slender shoulders. “How about you, Mr. Warren? Do you have family?”
Daniel’s insides knotted. Given the thread of their conversation, it was an obvious question. Now he would avoid giving a straight answer, because he didn’t discuss that facet of his life. His past. Not with anyone.
Before he could maneuver the conversation in another direction, they were interrupted.
“Sorry to barge in, folks.”
Daniel rotated toward the accented female voice. A woman, late sixties in a printed apron and matching slippers, was taking her time crossing the room.
“Just wanta say,” the woman said, peering at Daniel through lenses that covered a good deal of her face, “dinner’s on the table.”
Elizabeth moved to join her. “Nita Ramirez, this is Mr. Warren. The architect from New York City I told you about.”
“Please, Elizabeth, Nita, the name’s Daniel.” Making his way over, he extended a hand, which Nita Ramirez readily shook—and for quite a time. “I hear you’re a fabulous talent in the kitchen,” Daniel added.
Nita patted her jet-black shoulder-length hair. “That compliment’ll earn you a second helping of my specialty dessert, Daniel. How does caramel apple cheesecake sound?”
He almost licked his lips. “My sweet tooth and I can hardly wait.”
Pleased, Nita sent over a hearty wink then spoke to Elizabeth. “Dining room’s all set, Beth. I set a match to the fire, too.”
As Nita strolled off, Elizabeth offered her