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?”