At The Playboy's Command: Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress. Robyn Grady

a glance around the buzzing room. “Where’s Mr. Michaels?” Her bank manager.

      Sitting back, Chad nodded at his cell phone, placed on the other side of his cutlery.

      “Detained. I thought we could review the figures of those larger annuities while we wait.”

      Elizabeth sipped tea and listened as Chad spouted off strings of figures, but after a few minutes, his voice seemed to blend with other sounds—glasses pinging, cutlery clicking, people chatting, laughing. And suddenly, through the condensation of the pitcher that sat at the center of their table, a face swam up.

      Glossy dark hair. A hint of Latin heritage, perhaps. Sea-green eyes full of questions and possibilities. Then there was the confident air that exuded strength but also cloaked a more vulnerable side, if she weren’t mistaken. She barely knew Daniel Warren and yet something very real about him made her heart beat faster than a piston hammering at full throttle.

      What would Chad say if he knew she’d gone and asked him to dinner?

      “Elizabeth?”

      Starting, she snapped her attention back to her luncheon companion.

      “I’m sorry, Chad. What was that?”

      “I thought I’d mention that we received another offer to buy the ranch. Developers, of course. I took it upon myself to tell the gentleman the property was not for sale.”

      She contained a sigh. “Thank you, but I can deal with those inquiries myself. Even if I were in a position to sell, I know where my heart lies.”

      At least, now she did.

      The words were barely out when movement beyond the nearby window caught her eye. Daniel Warren was strolling the manicured grounds with a concerned-looking Abigail. When he turned toward the window and Elizabeth imagined he’d noticed her looking through the pane, her stomach jumped and flipped over. Holding her breath, she lowered her head even as a runaway smile stole across her face.

      She was looking forward to tonight like she hadn’t looked forward to anything in a long time.

      “My dear? Are you all right?”

      Crunching her napkin, Elizabeth focused on the older man’s face, which was lined with curiosity. Or was that suspicion?

      “I was saying that I know where my heart lies.” She pushed thoughts of Daniel Warren aside, replaced them with an image of the Milton Ranch and affirmed, “And that’s right here in Royal.”

Two

      That evening, as Daniel swerved his rental SUV around the top of the Milton Ranch graveled driveway, his breath caught in his throat at the same time his mouth dropped open.

      Usually in this kind of situation, before anything else, professional instinct demanded an immediate once-over of the house—its position, angles, any interesting textures and touches. Tonight, however, the sprawling homestead, set on too many acres of prime land to imagine, didn’t come close to drawing his attention. Instead, his focus was riveted on the scene illuminated by recently triggered lawn lights. Easing out of the vehicle, he rubbed his eyes and looked harder.

      Flamingos?

      The pink-and-white imitation birds were strategically positioned beneath the benevolent arms of a glorious magnolia. Daniel scrubbed the back of his neck. Hell, maybe Elizabeth Milton’s success with that eclectic ensemble today was a fluke, after all.

      “You’re on time.”

      Daniel swung around to see Elizabeth standing, a shoulder propped against the jamb of the massive doorway of her home. The cowboy boots she’d worn earlier had been replaced by elegant black heels, which matched an equally elegant little black dress. The blond mane was swept up in an effortless, chic style. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and a mock curious smile shone from her face. Beneath the porch lights, her every inch glowed. The only anomaly was the double foxtail belt loosely slung around her hips.

      Daniel looked at it sideways but, after those pink birds, he couldn’t decide. Was the belt high or hillbilly fashion?

      “Are you going to stand there all night, Mr. Warren? It might be October but it’s chilly out.”

      “I was admiring your, uh, landscaping.”

      “The flamingos? Attractive, aren’t they?” When he found himself tongue-tied, she straightened to her full petite height and laughed. “They’re only on loan, silly. A gimmick to raise money for a very good cause. They show up one morning and you get to mind them until you make a donation, at which time they magically disappear and take up residence with a new and unsuspecting victim.”

      Closing the vehicle’s door, he blew out a sigh of relief. “Making that donation must be at the top of your to-do list.”

      As he joined her, his senses responded to that same sweet scent he’d enjoyed earlier today. His every extremity warmed, urging him to lean closer to her pulse points and inhale. But almost as captivating was another kind of smell, one that sent his taste buds tripping. Man, he hadn’t realized he was that hungry.

      “You’ve been busy in the kitchen?”

      She stepped aside and ushered him into a vestibule that was decorated with oak and a striking stacked-slate feature wall.

      “I’m under direct orders to leave all the cooking to the expert in this house,” she said, accepting his coat and slipping it into a hall closet. “Nita’s been a member of the staff, a member of the family, since before I was in pigtails. I couldn’t do without her.”

      She led him into a reception room, furnished with evergreen and crimson window dressings and impressive Jacobean furniture. But his interest soon slid back to the way his hostess filled out that dress. Frankly, the sight of her legs in sheer black stockings made his head swim a little, foxtails or not.

      “Can I interest you in a predinner drink?” she asked, leaving him to cross to a mile-long timber bar. Beneath the lights, tiny diamantés sparkled in her hair. With a teasing grin, she held up a bottle of whiskey and suggested, “A Manhattan, perhaps?”

      Grinning, he sauntered over. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”

      When in Rome … Didn’t all Texans love their ale?

      “In that case—” she pulled a frosty beer from under the counter “—a local coming up.”

      “Will you join me?”

      “I’m more a bubbles gal.” When she lifted an opened bottle, nesting in a nearby silver ice bucket, he studied and openly approved the label.

      “A very fine vintage.”

      “You know wines.” It was more a statement than a question.

      “I know what’s good.” Clearly so did she.

      “Two glasses then?”

      “I’ll pour.”

      She found a pair of cut-crystal flutes. He filled one, handed hers over then filled his own. When she tilted her head and raised her glass, diamonds seemed to sparkle in her eyes as well as her hair.

      “A toast,” she said. “To your design helping Abby bag the election.”

      His chest tightened and the glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “Only if I put it through a massive overhaul.”

      Understanding shone in her eyes. “Abigail didn’t like it?”

      “She was too polite to say but I’m sure she hated it. Turns out I took a bit of a bum steer regarding the theme, courtesy of a plant from her opponent’s camp.”

      “Brad Price doesn’t mind playing dirty.”

      Her growl sounded more like a kitten than a bear, although he