It Happened in Manhattan

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Affair with the

Rebel Heiress

Emily McKay

EMILY McKAY has been reading and loving romance novels since she was eleven years old. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine, was a RITA® Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.EmilyMcKay.com.

For my mother, Judy Beierle, who has taught me over and over to smile in the face of adversity, to meet challenges with bravery and hope, and to always, always find something to laugh about

One

Kitty Biedermann hated Texas.

That single thought had echoed through her mind from the time the flight attendant had said the words “unscheduled landing in Midland, Texas,” until this moment, five hours later, when she found herself sitting in the bar adjacent the seedy motel in which she would be forced to spend the night.

The last time she’d been in Texas, she’d been dumped by her fiancé. Of course, he hadn’t been just any old fiancé. He’d been the man she’d handpicked to save Biedermann Jewelry from financial ruin. So being dumped hadn’t resulted in mere public humiliation or simple heartbreak. It meant the end of Biedermann Jewelry. So it was understandable that Kitty held a bit of grudge, not just against Derek Messina, but against the whole damn state.

Since being dumped by Derek, her situation had gone from bad to worse to desperate. She had needed Derek.

From the time she was a child, she’d been raised with one purpose—to land a husband with the smarts and business savvy to run Biedermann’s. When Derek hadn’t wanted her, she’d remained undaunted. But now, after six months of working her way through every single, eligible straight man she knew, she was beginning to feel … well, daunted.

With this latest trip to Palm Beach, she’d been scraping the bottom of the barrel. Geoffrey barely had two functioning synapses to rub together, but at least he could read, write and looked damn good in a suit. But even as meager as his qualifications had been, he hadn’t wanted her.

Biedermann’s meant everything to her. It was slipping through her fingers and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to catch it.

Now, with her elbows propped on the suspiciously sticky bar top and her chin propped in her palms, she stared at the murky green depths of her salt-rimmed margarita glass. She gave the glass a little shake, watching as the ice cubes within tumbled to the bottom of the glass. A lifetime of planning had fallen apart just as quickly. Was this rock bottom?

Her throat tightened against despair. Immediately she straightened, blinking in surprise. She was not given to fits of self-pity. Certainly not in public.

She shook her glass again, studying the contents. Exactly what was in this margarita? After a mere two drinks she should not be succumbing to such maudlin emotions.

Maybe this was what she got for giving the bartender a hard time. When she’d ordered a Pinot Grigio, he’d asked, “Is that like a wine cooler?” Apparently she shouldn’t have doubted him when he said he’d make her a drink strong enough to knock her on her pampered, scrawny butt.

She was still contemplating the contents of her drink when she happened to glance toward the door and saw him striding in.

It was as if someone tossed a bucket of icy water on her. Every cell in her body snapped to life in pure visceral response. The stranger was tall and lean, somehow managing to look lanky but well-built all at the same time. He was dressed simply in well-worn jeans and a T-shirt that stretched taut across his shoulders, but hung loose over his abdomen. No beer belly on this guy. A cowboy hat sat cockeyed on his head, but he wore scuffed work boots instead of the cowboy boots she expected.

Her first thought—when she was capable of thought again—was, Now this is a cowboy. This was what women the world over romanticized. This was a man at his most basic. Most masculine.

Even from across the room, her body responded to him instantly, pumping endorphins down to the tips of her curling toes. Funny, because she’d always preferred her men sophisticated and suave. As well-groomed as they were well-educated.

She was, in fact, so distracted by this mystery cowboy who’d just sauntered in that she didn’t see the other guy sidling up to her. The rough hand on her arm was her first clue someone had claimed the stool beside hers. Swiveling around, she realized that hand belonged to a guy who could not have been more different than the cowboy who’d snagged her attention. This man was short and, um … plump. He was bald except for a few wisps of hair grown long, combed over and plastered down with what she could only hope was some sort of styling product. His cheeks were rosy, his nose bulbous. He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t possibly have met him before.

“Well, hello there, little lady.” He stroked a hand up her arm. “Whadda say we getcha some’tem cold to drink and we scoot on out to that there dance floor?”

“Pardon?” She—barely—suppressed a shiver of disgust at his touch. She tried to wiggle free from his grasp, but he had boxed her in between the bar and the woman on the stool beside her.

Why was he rubbing her arm like that? Did she know this man? After all, he did look familiar.

“You wanna take a turn around the room?”

“A turn at what?” she asked, genuinely not understanding him. She spoke four languages, for goodness’ sake, but Texan was not one of them.

The man frowned. “Are you makin’ fun a me?”

“No,” she protested. Unfortunately, it was then that she figured out where she knew him from. “Elmer Fudd!” she blurted out. “You look like Elmer Fudd!”

Normally, she would not have said anything, but she’d already gulped down two of those wicked margaritas. And all she’d eaten since lunch was a packet of airline peanuts. So her tongue was looser than normal.

Indignation settled over his pudgy features. He leaned toward her, scowling. “Whadja call me?”

“I … I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“You are makin’ fun a me.” The man’s face flushed red, only increasing his resemblance to the cartoon hunter.

“No! I … I … I …”

And there it was. She, who almost always knew exactly what to say and who could talk herself into and out of almost any situation, for better or for worse, was speechless. Horribly so.

She’d unintentionally insulted and offended a man who was probably armed right now. This was it. She was going to die. Alone. Miserable. In Texas. Murdered in a fit of rage. By a man who looked like Elmer Fudd.

Ford Langley could see trouble coming the second he stepped into The Dry Well, his favorite bar in Midland.

The Well was the kind of seedy dive that rednecks and oil rig workers had been coming to, through boom and bust, for sixty years or so. Since the Green Energy branch of FMJ, Ford’s company, leased land for their wind turbines from a lot of the people in here, he figured they all knew who he was and how much he was worth. They just didn’t care. Frankly, it was a relief places like this still existed in the world.

It was not, however, the kind of place women wore couture suits and designer shoes. Ford had three sisters with expensive taste. He knew a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes when he saw them.

The woman sitting at the bar looked startlingly out of place. He’d never seen her there before. He came to The Well almost every time he visited Midland, and he definitely would have remembered this broad.

The word broad filtered through and stuck in his mind, because that’s exactly what she looked like. The sexy broad who ambles into the PI’s office in an old film noir movie. Lustrous flowing hair, long silk-clad legs, bright red lipstick, gut-wrenching sex appeal. With just enough wide-eyed innocence thrown in to make a man want to be the one to save her. Even though he knew instinctively that he would get kicked in the teeth for his trouble.

To make matters worse, she was talking to Dale Martin, who, Ford knew, had been going through a rough divorce. Dale had undoubtedly come in looking for what The Well provided best: booze, brawls and one-night stands. Given how completely out of his league the woman was, Ford could already guess which Dale was going to get.

When Ford heard Dale’s distinctive drawl rising above the blare of the jukebox, Ford moved through the crowd, closing in on the brewing conflict, hoping he could cut trouble off at the pass.

He approached just in time to hear Dale accuse her of making fun of him. Hiding his cringe, Ford slung an arm around the woman’s shoulders.

The stubborn woman tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held her firm. “I will—”

“Dale, buddy,” he continued before she could ruin his efforts. “I see you met my date.” He sent the woman a pointed look, hoping she’d take the hint and stop trying to squirm away. “Sugar, did you introduce yourself to my buddy, Dale?”

“It’s Kitty,” she snapped.

Dale was looking from him to her with a baffled expression. Which was fine, because Ford figured confused was better than furious.

“Right, sugar.” Ford gave her shoulder an obvious squeeze. Winking at Dale, he added, “Kitty here’s one of those feminist types.”

She blinked, as if having trouble keeping up with the conversation. “Insisting that I be called by my given name and not some generic endearment does not make me—”

“She’s a bit prickly, too.” Based on her accent, he made a guess. “You know how Yankees are, Dale.”

“I am not prickly,” she protested.

But with Ford’s last comment, a smile spread across Dale’s face and at her protest, he burst out laughing, having forgotten or excused whatever she’d said to offend him. After all, she was a Yankee and obviously couldn’t be expected to know better.

With Dale sufficiently distracted, Ford tugged the delectable Kitty off her stool and nudged her toward The Well’s crowded dance floor. “Come on. Why don’t you show me what you can do in those fancy shoes of yours, sugar?”

At “sugar” he gave Dale another exaggerated wink. She, of course, squeaked an indignant protest, which only made Dale laugh harder.

When they were out of Dale’s hearing range, she once again tried to pull away from him. “Thank you, I’m sure. But I could have handled him myself. So you can’t seriously expect me to dance with you.”

“‘Course I do. Dale’s watching.”

Before she could voice any more protests, or worse, undermine all his hard work, he stepped onto the dance floor, spun her to face him and pulled her close. The second he felt her body pressed to his, he had to ask himself, had he really orchestrated all of that to avoid a fight or had he been angling for this all along?

She was taller than she’d looked sitting on the stool. With her heels on, her head came up past his chin, which was rare, since he dwarfed most women. As he’d suspected, her boxy suit hid a figure that was nicely rounded without being plump. She was delectably, voluptuously curved.

He felt the sharp bite of lust deep in his gut. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. He lived a fairly high-profile life back in San Francisco. As a result, he picked his lovers carefully for their discretion, sophistication and lack of expectations. He had enough responsibility without saddling himself with a spouse. Unfortunately, it had been nearly six months since his previous girlfriend, Rochelle, had gone out for lunch one day with a friend who had kids and came home dreaming of designer diaper bags. He’d been happy to dodge that bullet and hadn’t been in a hurry to find someone to replace her. Which probably explained his strong reaction to this woman. Kitty, she’d said her name was.

As he moved her into a shuffle of a Texas two-step, he felt her body relax against his. If his instincts were right, Kitty was smart, beautiful and used to taking care of herself. In short, she was exactly his sort of woman. She just may be the most interesting thing that had happened to him in a long time.

Kitty had never before found herself in this situation. Naturally she often danced with men she’d only just met. But she kept very careful tabs on the social scene in Manhattan. As a result, she usually knew the net worth, family history and sexual inclinations of every male in the room.

What some might consider mere gossip, she considered her professional obligation. She was in no position to date, marry or even notice a man who couldn’t bring his own personal fortune to her family coffers. Unfortunately, ever since Suzy Snark had caught Kitty in her sights, the business of finding a rich husband had become increasingly difficult. Derek—damn him—had been the perfect choice. Until he’d gone and fallen in love.

But the truth was, she was tired of planning every move she made. This stranger with whom she was dancing, this cowboy, this man she’d never see again after tonight, made her pulse quicken.

From the moment she’d seen him sauntering through the door to the instant he’d pulled her body against his, she’d felt more alive than she had in months. Years, maybe. Somehow the scent of him, masculine and spicy, rose up from his chest and cut through the stench of stale smoke and cheap beer. His shoulders and arms were firm and muscular without being bulky. He had the physique of a man who worked for a living. Who lifted heavy things and shouldered massive burdens. The hand that cradled hers was slightly rough. This was a man who’d never had a manicure, never taken a Pilates class and probably didn’t own a suit.

In short, he was a real man. Unlike the pampered men of her acquaintance. Most of whom, she was sorry to say, were likable, but were just a little bit … well, that is to say … well, they were sissies. And until this moment, she’d never realized that bothered her. She’d never known she wanted anything else.

Her face was only inches from his shirt and she had to fight against the sudden impulse to bury her nose in his chest. To rub her cheek against his sternum like a cat marking her territory.

It had been so long since she felt this kind of instant sexual attraction to someone. Geesh, had she ever felt this kind of attraction? She didn’t think so.

Not that she planned on acting on it. A one-night stand was so not part of her five-year plan.

“I don’t even know your name,” she muttered aloud. “Ford,” he murmured.

He’d ducked his head before speaking so the word came out as warmth brushing past her ear. She suppressed a shiver.

“Like the car?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Yep. Like the car.”

Geesh, indeed. Even his name was masculine. Why couldn’t he have had a name that was just a bit more androgynous? Like Gene or Pat. Or BMW.

She didn’t manage to stifle her chuckle.

“You’re imagining me named after other car brands, aren’t you?”

Her gaze shot to his. “How did you know?”

“It’s pretty common. People usually think one of two things and you just seemed the type to wonder, ‘What if he’d been named Chevy?’”

“Are you saying I’m predictable?” Even though the lighting was dim, she could see that his eyes were whiskey-brown. And just as intoxicating as the tequila in her drink.

“Not at all,” he reassured her. “You could have been thinking Dodge.”

“It was BMW, actually. I can’t see you as something as clunky as a Dodge.” Was she flirting with him? What was wrong with her?

“So you’re a woman who appreciates precision engineering.”

Actually, I’m a woman who enjoys precision in everything.

The words had been on the tip of her tongue. Thank God she swallowed them. Instead she asked, “What’s the second?”

“Second what?”

“You said people usually think one of two things. If the first is other car names, then what’s the second?”

His lips quirked in either amusement or chagrin. “They wonder if I was conceived in the back of a Ford.”

“Ah.” Perhaps that had been chagrin, then. And was that the faintest hint of pink creeping into his cheeks? As if he were just a tad embarrassed. “And were you?”

“That,” he said firmly, “is a question I was never brave enough to ask my parents.” They both chuckled then. A moment later he added, “But I have three sisters and their names are not Mattress, Kitchen Table and Sofa, so I think I’m safe.”

She nearly asked what the names of his three sisters were, but she stopped herself. Somehow that seemed inappropriate. More personal, even, than the discussion of his conception. She didn’t know Ford. Didn’t want to know him longer than the length of this song. Personal details like the names of his sisters didn’t matter. So instead, she gave in to her temptation to rest her cheek against the strong wall of his chest and to breathe in deeply.

After a moment he said, “I hope you don’t judge Dale too harshly.”

“Dale?”

“The guy hitting on you earlier.”

“Ah. Him.” She’d forgotten he even existed.

“He’s been going through a rough divorce. His wife left him for a guy who’s twenty-three years old.”

“Ouch. That’s got to be hard on the ego.”

“Exactly. Which is why he’s been a mite irritable lately. But what exactly did you say to him that made him so mad?”

She cringed, hesitating before answering him. “I said he looked like Elmer Fudd.”

Ford seemed to be suppressing laughter. “I can’t imagine why that offended him. Everybody loves Elmer Fudd.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him!”

They both chuckled. But then she looked up. For a moment, space seemed to telescope around them, blocking out everything else. The smoke, the crowd, even the blare of the music faded until all she could hear was the steady thump-thump of the bass echoing the thud of her heartbeat.

She felt her nerves prickle in anticipation. Desire, hot and heavy, unspooled through her body. Her very skin felt weighed down. Her thighs flushed with warmth.

Who knew that laughter could be such a turn-on?

Their feet stopped shuffling across the floor. That ridiculous grin seemed frozen on her face for an instant, but then it faded, melted away by the intensity of his gaze. There was a spot just over his ear where his otherwise straight hair curled. Before she could think, her fingers had moved to his temple to tease that wayward lock of hair.

He took her hand in his, stilling her fingers. He cleared his throat, and she expected him to say something, something funny maybe, something to lighten the tension between them, but he said nothing.

Who had ever imagined that she’d feel this needy lust for a stranger? Not just a stranger, but a cowboy. A Texan. When she’d sworn she’d never even set foot in this damn state again. She so hadn’t seen this coming.

That’s when it hit her. Here, tonight, was a night out of time. She would never be here again. She would never see him again.

In this strange place, with this man she didn’t know, she had complete immunity. Freedom from her well-planned life. From her routines and her expectations of herself.

Tonight she could do whatever she wanted with no consequences. She could allow herself to do what she would normally never do. She could be stupid and reckless.

Without giving herself the chance to harbor second thoughts, she rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. His mouth moved over hers with a heated intensity. The sensual promise in his kiss made her shiver. She arched against him, letting her body answer the call of his. She slipped her hand into his and walked off the dance floor, tugging him along behind her.

As she wove her way through the crowd, the tempo of her blood picked up. After a lifetime of carefully planning, of controlling her actions and emotions, he could be her one rebellion. Tonight could be a vacation from her life.

And even if this was a mistake, he’d make sure she didn’t regret it.

Two

Two months later

“You’ve got to stop moping around,” Jonathon Bagdon said, then added, “And get your feet off my desk.”

Ford, who’d been sitting with his work boots propped up on the edge of Jonathon’s desk while he scraped the tip of his pocketknife under his nails, looked up for the first time since his business partner walked in the room. “What?”

Jonathon swatted at Ford’s boots with the leather-clad portfolio he’d been carrying. “Keep your feet off my desk. Christ, it’s like you’re ten.”

Ford’s feet, which had been crossed at the ankles, slid off Jonathon’s desk. He lowered them to the floor and ignored the insult.

“The desk is worth twenty thousand dollars. Try not to scuff it.”

Finally Ford looked up at his friend, taking in the scowl. He glanced over at Matt, the third partner in their odd little triumvirate, who sat on the sofa, with one leg propped on the opposite knee and a laptop poised on the knee. “Who shoved a stick up his ass this morning?” Ford asked Matt.

Matt continued typing frenetically while he said, “Ignore him. He’s just trying to bait you. He doesn’t give a damn about the desk.”

Ford looked from one to the other, suddenly feeling slightly off-kilter. Together the three of them formed FMJ, Inc. He’d known these men since they were kids. They’d first gone into business together when they were twelve and Jonathon had talked them into pooling their money to run the snack shack at the community rec center for the summer. One financially lucrative endeavor had led to another until here they were, twenty years later, the CEO, CFO and CTO of FMJ, a company which they’d founded while still in college and which had made them all disgustingly rich.

Jonathon, though always impeccably dressed and by far the most organized of the three, might impress some as overly persnickety. But those were only the people who didn’t know him, the people who were bound to underestimate him. It was a mistake few people made more than once.

In reality, it was unlike Jonathon to care whether or not his desk was scuffed, regardless of how much it was worth.

Still, to mollify Jonathon, Ford abandoned the chair he’d been sitting in and returned to his own desk. Since they worked so closely together, they didn’t have individual offices. Instead, they’d converted the entire top floor of FMJ’s Palo Alto headquarters to a shared office. On one end sat Jonathon’s twenty-thousand-dollar art deco monstrosity. The other end was lined with three worktables, every inch of them covered by computers and gadgets in various stages of dissection. In the middle sat Ford’s desk, a sleek modern job the building’s interior designer had picked out for him.