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“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.
