In Bed With The Wrangler

course of their conversation, she decided she was interested, well, he had no control over that, did he?

“For an airline?” she asked.

“For Ryder International. A corporate jet.”

Her glass was empty, so he drained his own and signaled the bartender for another round.

“Getting me drunk won’t work,” she told him.

“Who says I’m getting you drunk? I’m drowning my own sorrows. I’m only including you to be polite.”

She smiled again and seemed to relax. “You don’t strike me as a man with sorrows, Mr. ‘I’m a Jet Pilot’ Best Man.”

“Shows you how wrong you can be,” he repeated. “I’m here celebrating my last night of freedom.” He raised his skewer of olives to his mouth, sliding one off the end.

“Are you getting married, too?”

He nearly choked on the olive. “No.”

“Going to jail?” she tried.

He resisted the temptation to nod. “Going to Montana.”

She smiled at his answer. “There’s something wrong with Montana?”

“There is when you were planning to be in Dubai and Monaco.”

Her voice turned melodic, and she shook her head in mock sympathy. “You poor, poor man.”

He grunted his agreement. “I’ll be babysitting the family ranch. Our manager broke his leg, and Jared’s off on his honeymoon.”

Her smile stayed in place, but something in her eyes softened. “So, you really are a nice guy?”

“A regular knight in shining armor.”

“I like that,” she said. Then she was silent for a moment, tracing a swirl in the condensation on the full glass in front of her. “There are definitely times when a girl could use a knight in shining armor.”

Royce heard the catch in her voice and saw the tightness in her profile. The trouble was back in her expression.

“This one of those times?” he found himself asking, even though he knew better.

She propped an elbow on the polished bar and leaned her head against her hand, facing him. “Have you ever been in love, Royce Ryder?”

“I have not,” he stated without hesitation. And he didn’t ever intend to go there. Love guaranteed nothing and complicated everything.

“Don’t you think Melissa looked happy today?”

“I’m guessing most brides are happy.”

“They are,” Amber agreed. Then she lifted her head and moved her left hand, and he realized he’d missed the three carats sparkling on the third finger.

Rookie mistake. What the hell was the matter with him tonight?

Amber should have had more sense than to attend a wedding in her current mood. She should have made up an obligation or faked a headache. Her mother was in New York for the weekend, but it wasn’t as if her father needed moral support at a social function.

“You’re engaged.” Royce Ryder’s voice pierced her thoughts, his gaze focused on her ring.

“I am,” she admitted, reflexively twisting the diamond in a circle around her finger.

“Don’t I feel stupid,” Royce muttered.

She cocked her head, and their gazes met and held.

“Why?” she asked.

He gave a dry chuckle and raised his martini glass to his lips. “Because I may be subtle, but I am hitting on you.”

She fought a grin at his bald honesty. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not your fault.”

True. She had been up-front with him. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something in her expression, her tone of voice, or maybe her body language that had transmitted more than a passing interest. Not that she’d cheat on Hargrove. Even if…

She shut those thoughts down.

She’d never cheat on Hargrove. But there was no denying that Royce was an incredibly attractive man. He seemed smart. He had a good sense of humor. If she was the type to get picked up, and if he was the one doing the picking, and if she wasn’t engaged, she might just be interested.

“What?” he prompted, scanning her expression.

“Nothing.” She turned back to her drink. “I’ll understand if you leave.”

He shifted, and his tone went low. “I’ll understand if you ask me to go.”

Her brain told her mouth to form the words, but somehow they didn’t come out. A few beats went by while the bartender served another couple at the end of the bar, a smoky tune vibrated from the ballroom and a group of young women laughed and chatted as they pulled two tables together in the center of the lounge.

“He here?” asked Royce, cutting a glance to the ballroom. “Did you have a fight?”

Amber shook her head. “He’s in Switzerland.”

Royce straightened. “Ahh.”

“What ahh?”

His deep, blue-eyed gaze turned cocky and speculative. “You’re lonely.”

Amber’s mouth worked in silence for an outraged second. “I am not lonely. At least not that way. I’m here with my father.”

“What way, then?”

“What way what?” She stabbed the row of olives up and down in her drink.

“In what way are you lonely?”

Why on earth had she put it that way? What was wrong with her? “I am not lonely at all.”

“Okay.”

“I’m…” She struggled to sort out her feelings.

In a very real way, she was lonely. She couldn’t talk to her parents. She sure as heck couldn’t talk to Hargrove. She couldn’t even talk to her best friend, Katie.

Katie was going to be the maid of honor at Amber’s wedding next month. They’d bought the bridesmaid dress in Paris. Oriental silk. Flaming orange, which sounded ridiculous, but was interspersed with gold and midnight plum, and looked fabulous on Katie’s delicate frame.

Hargrove Alston was the catch of the city. And it wasn’t as if there was anything wrong with him. At thirty- three, he was already a partner in one of Chicago’s most prestigious law firms. He had a venerated family, impeccable community and political connections. If everything went according to plan, he’d be running for the U.S. Senate next year.

She really had no cause for complaint.

It wasn’t as if the sex was bad. It was perfectly, well, pleasant. So was Hargrove. He was a decent and pleasant man. Not every woman could say that about her future husband.

She downed the rest of her martini, hoping it would ease the knot of tension that had stubbornly cramped her stomach for the past month.

Royce signaled the bartender for another round, and she let him.

He polished off his own drink while the bartender shook a mixture of ice and Gray Goose that clattered against the frosted silver shaker. Then the man produced two fresh glasses and strained the martinis.

“His name is Hargrove Alston,” she found herself telling Royce.

Royce gave a nod of thanks to the man and lifted both glasses. “Shall we find a table?”

The suggestion startled Amber. She gave a guilty glance around the lounge, feeling like an unfaithful barfly. But nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention to them.

She’d started dating Hargrove when she was eighteen, so she’d never taken up with a stranger in a bar. Not that Royce was a stranger. He was the best man, brother of her father’s business associate. It was a completely different thing than encouraging a stranger.

She slipped off the bar stool. “Sure.”