Fiance Wanted. Ruth Dale Jean

seem sufficiently sinister to keep this feud alive.”

      Great, Katy thought, hanging up. Even her best friend didn’t understand. Now what was she going to—

      “Got a minute?”

      She started and looked around to find Dylan standing just behind her desk in the newsroom. She swallowed hard and tried not to look or sound guilty. “Sure.”

      He glanced around somewhat furtively. Katy was the last staff writer to get off deadline so the newsroom was empty except for the sports editor, who looked up with a grin and a wave for the popular Dylan.

      “Can we get out of here?” he asked abruptly.

      “Look, I’ve got a lot to do. I have phone calls out all over the county and—” She stopped speaking abruptly. After all, she wanted something from him and this wasn’t the way to get it. “Never mind. You can buy me lunch, if you want.”

      “Big whoopee.” His mouth curved down at the corners unhappily. “I guess I could do that.”

      “If you’re short of cash, I could buy you lunch.” She snatched up her shoulder bag from beneath her desk.

      “That’ll be the day! You think John Wayne let women buy him lunch?”

      “Why, you big—!” And then she saw he was laughing at her and she had to laugh herself.

      Why was she so darned quick to jump on every word he said? She’d have to watch that if she was going to finagle him into doing her bidding.

      Katy dropped the paper napkin on her lap and glanced around the Rawhide Café. “Looks like we’re giving the locals plenty to talk about,” she said dryly.

      “Looks like.” Dylan resisted the almost unbearable impulse to fidget. If he was going to get Katy to take another shot at togetherness, however phony, he couldn’t let her know it mattered that much to him.

      The silence stretched out. “Well?” she finally said impatiently. “I know you’ve got an ulterior motive for luring me here, so out with it.”

      He toyed with his fork. “I just…I just wanted to make up for being a grouch last night.”

      “Dylan, you’re always a grouch. This is, however, the first time you’ve apologized for it.”

      “Am I?” He frowned.

      “You certainly are.” She hesitated and the belligerence of her manner softened. “To tell the truth, I guess I’m usually a grouch with you, too. Apparently I just rub you the wrong way.”

      If she ever rubbed him the right way—he yanked his thoughts up short, wondering what had come over him. This was Katy Andrews, after all, not just any good-lookin’ woman. “Then you accept my apology?” His voice sounded uncharacteristically rough.

      She considered, her green eyes narrowing. “Sure,” she said finally, “why not?”

      He felt a load lifting from his shoulders. “Great. Then how about we put our plan in motion by going to happy hour at the Painted Pony Friday night?”

      “Going to—you mean, together? Like a date?” Those remarkably long-lashed eyes widened.

      “I mean, like we planned. Remember, engagement? Make the grandma happy, scare off my legions of admirers?”

      For a moment she stared at him, and then she leaned back in her chair, stifling laughter. “You’re suggesting that we reinstate Plan A?”

      “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, “I guess I am. What do you say, Katy? If we both make a real effort—”

      “Burgers and fries, coming up.” The skinny kid waiter plunked two overflowing platters before them, and Dylan was forced to wait for her answer through the obligatory checklist: mustard, catsup, mayonnaise, extra pickles and lettuce, toasted bun. The woman made a production out of eating a lousy hamburger!

      By the time the waiter withdrew, Dylan had lost any slight degree of patience he might have had. “Well, what’s your answer?”

      She cut her hamburger in half but he could tell she was still watching him. “This is important to you, isn’t it?”

      “Hell, no!” He shrugged that suggestion away.

      “In that case—”

      “I meant to say, hell yes.” He didn’t want to lose her, even if he had to swallow a little pride.

      “In that case, my answer is yes.” She looked at him with a self-satisfied expression. “But just remember, you wanted this more than I did, so you owe me, Dylan Cole.”

      “Yeah, and you’ll never let me forget it,” he muttered, staring down at the huge double burger and crisp steak fries on his plate.

      And realizing that he’d mysteriously lost his appetite.

      The Painted Pony Saloon was the local hot spot on Friday nights, starting with a happy hour—two drinks for the price of one—from five to seven and then dancing from eight until midnight. Katy had come a few times with dates, more often with girlfriends. It was the kind of place where women could do that without feeling threatened.

      As a matter of fact, she’d never felt as threatened then as she did now, walking in on Dylan’s arm. They drew so many stares that she felt downright out of place.

      “Wanna sit at the bar?” he inquired.

      “No, I do not want to sit at the bar,” she snapped. “How about that table over there by the dance floor?”

      “The music will be starting in less than an hour and it gets too noisy down front.”

      “Is that a crack because I was late and the best tables are already taken? I told you, that last interview ran way longer than it should have.”

      “Katy,” he said in a voice as cold as a well-digger’s knees, “if you don’t shut up at least until we find a table, I’m going to shut you up myself.”

      She faced him with hands on her hips. “How are you going to do that? If you lay a hand on me, I’ll have you arrested. I’ll have you hauled away in chains. So how do you plan to shut me up yourself?”

      “I only know one way,” he said grimly. “If I grabbed you and kissed you right here in the middle of the Painted Pony, that would shut you up pretty damned fast.”

      She rocked back on her heels, shocked to the soles of her feet. Kissing Dylan Cole, or being kissed by him, was not something she had ever contemplated…willingly.

      Before she could get her battle flags flying again, he took her hand and half-led, half-dragged her to a table in the corner. Once there, he guided her into a chair, then sat himself.

      “Okay,” he said with a sigh that sounded like relief, “now you can insult me to your heart’s content.”

      He looked so resigned to his fate that she had to laugh. His answering smile was both surprised and strangely warm.

      “You win,” she said. “I’ll try to be nice, but with you, that’s a real stretch.”

      “Maybe it’ll help if you remember it’s for a worthy cause,” he suggested. “If we can’t even convince folks we’re a couple—dating and dancing and the whole nine yards, I don’t see how we’ll ever convince ’em we’re engaged. And if nobody believes us, your grandma won’t either.”

      “Sad but true.” She hauled in a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to pretend that you’re Tom Cruise.”

      “Too short.”

      “Tom Selleck?”

      “Too old.”

      “Little Tommy Tucker—I don’t care! I just need someone to think about so I don’t jump down your throat every two seconds.”

      “You