Read Online Montana Cowboy (Big Sky Mavericks Book 2) by Debra Salonen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Debra Salonen
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a new one—Jenny's hidden agenda. At the time, I'd hired a PR firm to help me dig out from under all the bull crap. One of the company's ambitious underlings spun the suggestion Jenny was in love with me, and I didn't share her feelings, so to get back, she made up this untruth."
"Did she?"
They'd reached the turn to her house. "I don't know. After the story leaked, she wouldn't take my calls. And my PR people told me to quit calling her because my phone records made me look like a stalker."
She made a funny little peep.
"I hate to admit it, but I was pissed at that point. I figured she'd made her bed when she lied about me, and I needed to save my own hide. I never spoke with her again. A couple weeks later, she was dead. Her note said she couldn't take it anymore."
"I know the feeling."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Sorry. Go on."
"I hired a forensic accountant to prove there was no money trail leading to or from me. Any proof that connected Jim or any member of his inner circle to the prostitute was long gone by the time our subpoenas went through. If Jenny made copies of anything, they went to her grave with her."
"And you're absolutely certain she killed herself?"
"The police are. She left a note. Her dad believes it. Obviously."
Austen had his doubts at the time, but he'd convinced himself that was his guilt talking. "Why do you ask?"
"I know a thing or two about manipulators. The more complex the challenge, the more creative they get. And they never give up."
Austen heard a story there—one he wanted to learn more about, but they'd arrived at her farm and they had something else to discuss first—whether or not the sexual sparks they'd both been giving off all evening were going to take hold or had his inglorious past doused her desire?
He put on his blinker and turned into the driveway. Muted barking shot up in volume as her big, white dog ran to greet them. Serena pulled her purse onto her lap and poked inside with one hand searching for her keys, he assumed. Her apparent eagerness to get inside wasn't exactly what he'd pictured when they were sampling each other's entrees at the Graff.
He parked and turned off the engine.
"I blew it, didn't I?" He held up his hand. "I know. Not me, personally. But my weighty and not very attractive baggage killed the mood."
She un-did her safety belt and turned to face him. "I... I'm still processing."
"I'm really sorry that happened."
"We all have b-baggage. You don't owe me an apology."
"Can I at least walk you to the door and kiss you good-night?"
Her smile held less than half the wattage it had earlier, but she nodded before she got out. She hugged Beau and praised him for being a good, brave watchdog before walking to the front of the truck where Austen waited.
She let him hold her hand, even though nothing felt as relaxed and in-sync as it had.
"I had a great time tonight," he said. "I couldn't believe how fast time sped by."
Her smile seemed almost real. "The food was amazing, but, truly, the company made it perfect."
"Is there any chance we could forget that little run-in happened and pick up where we left off?"
She looked at her keys. "Maybe."
He tried not to show his surprise.
"I'm still a little rattled. I think there are a couple of beers in the fridge."
He didn't want beer, but it was better than going home alone.
She let go of his hand to unlock the door. Beau ambled in first. She went next but held the door for Austen. His upper arm brushed against her breasts. The contact still held a punch. The good kind.
"The living room's that way," she said, hanging her purse and jacket on a coat rack made of horseshoes. He noticed she relocked the door—the deadbolt, too.
A California thing, he assumed. His new future sister-in-law had spent most of her adult life in that state. Austen, honestly, had no desire to visit. He'd gotten used to locking doors in the city, but around here? Never. Most of his neighbors would be offended if they showed up to
"Did she?"
They'd reached the turn to her house. "I don't know. After the story leaked, she wouldn't take my calls. And my PR people told me to quit calling her because my phone records made me look like a stalker."
She made a funny little peep.
"I hate to admit it, but I was pissed at that point. I figured she'd made her bed when she lied about me, and I needed to save my own hide. I never spoke with her again. A couple weeks later, she was dead. Her note said she couldn't take it anymore."
"I know the feeling."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Sorry. Go on."
"I hired a forensic accountant to prove there was no money trail leading to or from me. Any proof that connected Jim or any member of his inner circle to the prostitute was long gone by the time our subpoenas went through. If Jenny made copies of anything, they went to her grave with her."
"And you're absolutely certain she killed herself?"
"The police are. She left a note. Her dad believes it. Obviously."
Austen had his doubts at the time, but he'd convinced himself that was his guilt talking. "Why do you ask?"
"I know a thing or two about manipulators. The more complex the challenge, the more creative they get. And they never give up."
Austen heard a story there—one he wanted to learn more about, but they'd arrived at her farm and they had something else to discuss first—whether or not the sexual sparks they'd both been giving off all evening were going to take hold or had his inglorious past doused her desire?
He put on his blinker and turned into the driveway. Muted barking shot up in volume as her big, white dog ran to greet them. Serena pulled her purse onto her lap and poked inside with one hand searching for her keys, he assumed. Her apparent eagerness to get inside wasn't exactly what he'd pictured when they were sampling each other's entrees at the Graff.
He parked and turned off the engine.
"I blew it, didn't I?" He held up his hand. "I know. Not me, personally. But my weighty and not very attractive baggage killed the mood."
She un-did her safety belt and turned to face him. "I... I'm still processing."
"I'm really sorry that happened."
"We all have b-baggage. You don't owe me an apology."
"Can I at least walk you to the door and kiss you good-night?"
Her smile held less than half the wattage it had earlier, but she nodded before she got out. She hugged Beau and praised him for being a good, brave watchdog before walking to the front of the truck where Austen waited.
She let him hold her hand, even though nothing felt as relaxed and in-sync as it had.
"I had a great time tonight," he said. "I couldn't believe how fast time sped by."
Her smile seemed almost real. "The food was amazing, but, truly, the company made it perfect."
"Is there any chance we could forget that little run-in happened and pick up where we left off?"
She looked at her keys. "Maybe."
He tried not to show his surprise.
"I'm still a little rattled. I think there are a couple of beers in the fridge."
He didn't want beer, but it was better than going home alone.
She let go of his hand to unlock the door. Beau ambled in first. She went next but held the door for Austen. His upper arm brushed against her breasts. The contact still held a punch. The good kind.
"The living room's that way," she said, hanging her purse and jacket on a coat rack made of horseshoes. He noticed she relocked the door—the deadbolt, too.
A California thing, he assumed. His new future sister-in-law had spent most of her adult life in that state. Austen, honestly, had no desire to visit. He'd gotten used to locking doors in the city, but around here? Never. Most of his neighbors would be offended if they showed up to
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