Christmas Cowboy: Will of Steel / Winter Roses. Diana Palmer

“You look nice,” he said. It was an understatement, compared to what he was thinking. Jillian was a knockout. He frowned as he thought how her new look might go down in town. There were a couple of younger men, nice-looking ones with wealthy backgrounds, who might also find the new Jillian a hot item. He might have competition for her that he couldn’t handle.

      Jillian, watching his expressions change, was suddenly insecure. He was scowling as if he didn’t actually approve of how she looked.

      “It isn’t too revealing, is it?” she worried.

      He cleared his throat. “Jake, you’re covered from stem to stern, except for the hollow of your throat, and your arms,” he said. “What do you think is revealing?”

      “You looked … well, you looked …”

      “I looked like a man who’s considering the fight ahead.”

      “Excuse me?”

      He moved a step closer and looked down at her with pure appreciation. “You really don’t know what a knockout you are, all dressed up?”

      Her breath caught in her throat. “Me?”

      His big hands framed her face and brought it up to his dancing black eyes. “You.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “You know, I really wonder if you taste as good as you look. This is as good a time as any to find out.”

      He bent his head as he spoke and, for the first time in their relationship, he kissed her, right on the mouth. Hard.

      Whatever he expected her reaction to be, the reality of it came as a shock

      Three

      Jillian jerked back away from him as if he’d offended her, flushing to the roots of her hair. She stared at him with helpless misery, waiting for the explosion. The auditor had cursed a blue streak, called her names, swore that he’d tell every boy he knew that she was a hopeless little icicle.

      But Theodore didn’t do that. In fact, he smiled, very gently.

      She bit her lower lip. She wanted to tell him. She couldn’t. The pain was almost physical.

      He took her flushed face in his big hands and bent and kissed her gently on the forehead, then on her eyelids, closing them.

      “We all have our own secret pain, Jake,” he whispered. “One day you’ll want to tell me, and I’ll listen.” He lifted his head. “For the time being, we’ll be best buddies, except that you’re wearing a skirt,” he added, tongue-in-cheek.

      “I have to confess that very few of my buddies have used a women’s restroom.”

      It took her a minute, then she burst out laughing.

      “That’s better,” he said, and grinned. He cocked his head and gave her a very male appraisal. “You really do look nice.” He pursed his lips as he contemplated the ensemble and its probable cost.

      “They’re loaners,” she blurted out.

      His black eyes sparkled with unholy glee. “Loaners?”

      She nodded. “Sassy Callister.”

      “I see.”

      She grinned. “She said that she had a whole closet of stuff she never wore. I didn’t want to, but she sort of bulldozed me into it. She’s a lot like her new husband.”

      “He wears petticoats?” he asked outrageously.

      She glared at him. “Women don’t wear petticoats or hoop skirts these days, Theodore.”

      “Sorry. Wrong era.”

      She grinned. “Talk about living in the dark ages!”

      He shrugged. “I was raised by my grandmother and my uncle. They weren’t forthcoming about women’s intimate apparel.”

      “Well, I guess not!”

      “Your uncle John was the same sort of throwback,” he remarked.

      “So we both come by it honestly, I suppose.” She noted his immaculate dark suit and the spotless white shirt and blue patterned tie he was wearing with it. “You look nice, too.”

      “I bought the suit to wear to John Callister’s wedding,” he replied. “I don’t often have the occasion to dress up.”

      “Me, neither,” she sighed.

      “I guess we could go a few places together,” he commented. “I like to hunt and fish.”

      “I do not like guns,” she said flatly.

      “Well, in my profession, they’re sort of a necessity, Jake,” he commented.

      “I suppose so. Sorry.”

      “No problem. You used to like fishing.”

      “It’s been a while since I dipped a poor, helpless worm into the water.”

      He chuckled. “Everything in life has a purpose. A worm’s is to help people catch delicious fish.”

      “The worm might not share your point of view.”

      “I’ll ask, the next time I see one.”

      She laughed, and her whole face changed. She felt better than she had in ages. Theodore didn’t think she was a lost cause. He wasn’t even angry that she’d gone cold at his kiss. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, there was still hope for her.

      His black eyes were kind. “I’m glad you aren’t wearing high heels,” he commented.

      “Why?”

      He glanced down at his big feet in soft black leather boots. “Well, these aren’t as tough as the boots I wear on the job. I’d hate to have holes in them from spiked heels, when you step on my feet on the dance floor.”

      “I will not step on your feet,” she said with mock indignation. She grinned. “I might trip over them and land in a flowerpot, of course.”

      “I heard about that,” he replied, chuckling. “Poor old Harris Twain. I’ll bet he’ll never stick his legs out into the walkway of a restaurant again. He said you were pretty liberally covered with potting soil. You went in headfirst, I believe …?”

      She sighed. “Most people have talents. Mine is lack of coordination. I can trip over my own feet, much less someone else’s.”

      He wondered about that clumsiness. She was very capable, in her own way, but she often fell. He frowned.

      “Now, see, you’re thinking that I’m a klutz, and you’re absolutely right.”

      “I was wondering more about your balance,” he said. “Do you have inner ear problems?”

      She blinked. “What do my ears have to do with that?”

      “A lot. If you have an inner ear disturbance, it can affect balance.”

      “And where did you get your medical training?” she queried.

      “I spend some time in emergency rooms, with victims and perps alike. I learn a lot about medical problems that way.”

      “I forgot.”

      He shrugged. “It goes with the job.”

      “I don’t have earaches,” she said, and averted her eyes. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

      She was hiding something. A lot, maybe. He let it go. “I guess we should.”

      “A Latin dance club in Billings.” She grinned. “How exotic! ”

      “The owner’s even more exotic. You’ll like him.” He leaned closer. “He was a gun runner in his wild youth.”

      “Wow!”

      “I thought you’d be