The Man Who Had Everything. Christine Rimmer

to calf wresting, bareback and bronc riding and bull riding, too. It was a dream of a day and she never wanted it to end.

      They were back at his four-by-four at a little before five. “Take me to dinner,” she commanded.

      “This is getting damn dangerous,” he said.

      But he didn’t say no.

      He drove to a friendly Italian place he liked in New Town, east of the historic area around Main. He said they’d never get seats anywhere in Old Town, where all the restaurants would be packed with tourists and folks down from the resort, looking for a little taste of Thunder Canyon hospitality.

      They shared a bottle of Chianti and she told him more about her plans for improvements at Clifton’s Pride. He talked about the new golf course that a world-famous golf pro was designing for the resort, about his ideas for further expansion, about how much he loved the work he was doing.

      She grinned across the table at him. “You don’t have to say how much you love your work. It’s right there in your eyes every time you mention it.”

      He teased, “Are you telling me I’m boring you?”

      “Uh-uh. Not in the least. I like to see you happy, with your eyes shining, all full of your big plans.”

      He leaned close again. “You do, huh?”

      “I do.” She raised her wineglass. He touched his against it.

      When he set the glass down, he said, “This is nice.”

      And she nodded. “Yeah. It is. Real nice.”

      “Too nice…” His tone had turned bleak.

      And after that, he grew quiet. Oh, he was kind and gentle as ever. If she asked a question, he answered it. He wasn’t rude or anything.

      But she knew what had happened. He’d caught himself having a good time with her—in a man-and-woman kind of way.

      And that scared him to death.

      “I’m taking you home now,” he said, when they left the restaurant. His strong jaw was set. It was a statement of purpose from which she knew he would not waver.

      Steph didn’t argue. She could see it in his eyes: She’d gotten as far as she was going to get with him that day.

      Grant let Steph off in front of the ranch house. She leaned on her door and got out with no fanfare.

      “Thanks,” she said. “I had a great time.”

      He nodded. She shut the door. He waited, the engine idling, until she went inside.

      And then he sat there a moment longer, wishing she was still in the passenger seat beside him, cursing himself for a long-gone fool.

      He headed back to town. He wasn’t ready yet to return to the resort, where he was the boss with all that being the boss entailed.

      Steph’s scent lingered, very faint and very tempting, in the car. Or maybe not. Maybe he only imagined it. But whether he could actually still smell her or not, he found himself breathing through his nose, just to get another whiff of her.

      This was beyond bad. He’d spent practically the whole day with her. He still didn’t quite know how that had happened. Somehow, every time he’d told himself he needed to cut the contact short, she would look at him with those green eyes.

      And he would be lost.

      He had to face it, he supposed: Steph Julen had it all. The total package.

      There was not only her scent and her sweet, clean-scrubbed face and fine, slim body. There was also that husky, humor-filled voice of hers. There was how smart she was, how charming. How good.

      She was a good person. He wanted the best for her. Even more so now, when he was finally realizing what a terrific woman she’d become.

      At the corner where Thunder Canyon Road turned sharply east and became Main, across from the Wander-On Inn, the Hitching Post loomed. The big brick building was famous in Thunder Canyon history, as it had once been The Shady Lady Saloon, the town’s most notorious watering hole, run by the mysterious Shady Lady herself, Lily Divine, back in the 1890s.

      Grant turned into the lot, which was packed. But luck was with him. He found a space in the last row as a muddy pickup slid out and drove away.

      Inside, the place was jumping. The jukebox played country-western at full volume. Grant knew that later in the evening a local band would be taking the stage at the far end of the barnlike space.

      One side was a restaurant, the other the bar, with no wall to separate the two. Grant stuck to the bar side, elbowing his way up through the crowd and sliding onto a stool as another man vacated it.

      The portrait on the wall behind the bar was of a well-endowed blond beauty, resting seductively on a red-velvet chaise lounge, wearing nothing but pearls and a few bits of almost-transparent black fabric strategically placed to hint at more than they revealed. The lady was none other than the notorious Lily herself and that painting had hung in the exact same spot over a century before when she owned and ran the place.