The Boss And His Cowgirl

“Maybe.” He buried his nose behind her ear and nibbled the soft skin. “Want me to stop?”

He continued to kiss her, nuzzling along her jaw to her mouth. Full lips. Soft. Sweet. Just like the woman. He deepened the kiss, waiting for her to open for him.

“Georgie?” He murmured her name against her lips.

She leaned back and stared at him, looking helpless and unsure.

“Sweet pea? What is it?”

“I’ve wanted this … you … I’ve dreamed about it … but …”

“Shh, darlin’. This is good. We’re good.” And it shocked him to realize he spoke the truth. This wasn’t a simple seduction. He liked Georgie. As a person. And was just now discovering how truly sexy she was. Coming into a relationship from this direction was a revelation. “We’re more than good, Georgie.”

He recognized her surrender in the way her eyes softened and went unfocused, in the way her arms crept around his neck, in the way her lips sought his and her body pressed against him. “Will you stay with me tonight, Georgie? In my bed?”

* * *

The Boss and His Cowgirl is part of the Red Dirt Royalty series: These Oklahoma millionaires work hard and play harder

The Boss and His Cowgirl

Silver James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SILVER JAMES likes walks on the wild side and coffee. Okay. She LOVES coffee. A cowgirl at heart, she’s been an army officer’s wife and mum, and worked in the legal field, fire service and law enforcement. Now retired from the real world, she lives in Oklahoma, spending her days writing with the assistance of two Newfoundlands, the cat who rules them all and the characters living in her imagination.

To Jenny, Connie, Mac and Warriors in Pink everywhere.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

One

Clayton Barron owned the room—held the emotions, the very hearts and minds of his audience in the palm of his hand. He controlled them with the power of his voice and the words he uttered with such complete conviction. He was in charge, just the way he preferred it. He’d been born, bred and raised to be a US senator—and more. Now into his second term, he stood at the podium of the convention of the Western States Landowners Association in Phoenix, Arizona, and the words rolled off his tongue, his voice infused with sincerity.

Georgeanne Dreyfus, his communications director, had written and fine-tuned the speech. The phrases she’d crafted pushed all the right buttons for this audience. Just as they’d practiced at the hotel last night, he paused for a beat then raised his chin and squared his shoulders.

“I understand your frustration. My great-great-grandfather settled the Crown B Ranch long before Oklahoma achieved statehood. He worked that ranch with his own hands. He survived storms, fires, droughts and floods all so he could leave the land—our birthright—to his children and their children.” He inhaled and shifted his expression to reflect a hint of arrogance. “It’s time we acknowledge our family legacies. We live on the land. Work it every single day of our lives, from sunrise to dark. It’s time we tell the government to back off. It’s time they stop tying our hands with their arbitrary rules and regulations. It’s time we take back what is ours.”

The room erupted into cheers, whistles and loud applause. He basked in the crowd’s admiration. After a long standing ovation, the president of the association crossed the stage to shake his hand and thank him. He glanced toward the back of the room. His chief of staff offered a discreet thumbs-up. The head of Clay’s personal security team stood nearby, his restless gaze scanning the room. Time to move through the crowd, glad-handing his way to the exit. He had an hour to make it from downtown Phoenix out to Scottsdale for his next engagement, a fund-raising dinner with some of the party’s biggest donors.

His gaze strayed to the indistinct figure standing just off stage. Georgie. He didn’t have to see her to picture how she looked—straight-cut bangs, her hair scraped back from her face and twisted up in some impossible way, black eyeglass frames dominating her features. He’d overheard more than one reporter comment on her sexy librarian vibe. She’d been there in the backstage shadows the whole time, listening, and more than likely silently mouthing each word as he spoke it. He quirked the corner of his mouth and winked at her. Georgie had been a steady part of his team almost from the beginning. He relied on her to put heart into his words, to spin the press just right. She worked hard for him and he appreciated her efforts. He was lucky to have her at his side.

He cut his eyes toward the back of the auditorium and tilted his head—Georgie’s signal to head out. As soon as he descended the steps from the stage, Boone Tate, his chief of staff and cousin, appeared next to him. Clay was a firm believer in keeping it all in the family.

Boone leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Hunt says there’s a group of protesters out front. Local cops are handling them but we shouldn’t linger too long.”

Working a room like this came naturally to Clay. A quick grip of hands, a few brief words, never stopping, always moving toward his goal—the exit. They reached the convention center’s lobby a few short minutes later. Outside, an exuberant crowd milled about, waiting for Clay’s appearance. A second, more sinister group pushed against a line of local law enforcement officers.

Hunter Tate, chief of security and Boone’s older brother, arrived and steered Clay away from the wide doors. “Taking the back way out. The SUVs and local police backup will meet us at the loading dock.” Flanked by the security team and led by the Phoenix Convention Center’s security director, they hurried down a side hallway toward the rear of the huge building.

The group hadn’t gone twenty feet when the lights went out and sparks lit up the dark. Choking smoke filled the air. The security team switched on flashlights. Hunter grabbed Clay’s elbow, urging him forward.

“Wait.” Clay stopped dead. “Where’s Georgie?”

“On it.” One of the plainclothes security guys peeled off and jogged back the way they’d come, his light bouncing in the swirling fog. He called back over his shoulder, “I’ll bring her.”

A few minutes later they emerged through a metal fire door. A black SUV waited in the alley between buildings. Sharp reports—too close to the sound of gunfire to be ignored—erupted nearby. The security team surrounded Clay and Boone, ran for the vehicle and pushed them into the backseat.

“No!” Clay resisted. “Georgie. We’re not leaving without her.” More gunshots—or firecrackers; he wasn’t sure at this point—went off and then a woman’s high-pitched scream scraped his nerves.

“Aw, crap.” Hunter surged through the scrum of security surrounding the car, and Clay leaned around Boone to see.

Georgie lay crumpled at the bottom of the steel loading-dock steps. Police scrambled around the corner chasing a group of people wearing Guy Fawkes masks as they ran away. When Hunter grabbed Georgie, she screamed again but he hauled her to her feet and hustled her to the car. Her face was smudged with residue from the oily smoke, and her glasses looked as if they’d been sprayed with black paint. The poor girl couldn’t see a thing.

Boone got out of the car but had to shout to be heard over the commotion. “Georgie, it’s okay. We’ve got you.” She visibly relaxed at the sound of his voice and let Hunter bundle her into the backseat. Boone dove in behind her as Hunter jumped into the front seat and told the driver to take off.

The SUV accelerated through the alley and they passed the cops, who had taken the protesters to the ground and were handcuffing them. Sirens wailed a shrieking duet with squealing tires as the SUV careened onto the street. Two police cars and a second SUV with Barron Security forces inside formed the motorcade as they raced away.

Georgie was wedged into the middle of the backseat between Boone and Clay, shivering uncontrollably and gulping air. Her hand flailed, found Clay’s and latched on. Clay was too furious to speak. Georgie was his employee and she’d been terrorized by those sons of bitches. Her nails bit into his skin but he ignored the sharp prick. Boone removed her glasses and passed them to Hunter to clean while he took out a handkerchief and gently wiped her face. She shuddered and squeezed Clay’s hand harder. He squeezed back.

Hunter twisted around in the front seat and handed the glasses back. Clay took them and gently placed them on Georgie’s face. She was shaking and didn’t speak. With her glasses back in place, she squinted and looked around. Boone’s handkerchief was now a dirty gray so Clay retrieved the one from his back pocket and dabbed at the side of her face closest to him. He gave her hand another squeeze.

“Wh-what happened?” Georgie swallowed and Clay’s gaze was drawn to her slender throat.

“Sugar, it’s okay.” Boone leaned in from the opposite side. “You’re safe now.”

She inhaled and let her breath out slowly, visibly relaxing as she did so. “The lights. And smoke. I...couldn’t see. Did I fall down?” She raised her right leg and stared at her shredded nylon. “The guy with the gun? Did they get him?” She rubbed her left shoulder with her right hand since Clay still held her left.

“Gun?” Hunter’s voice was sharp.

“I thought...” She inhaled and rubbed at her chest as if breathing deeply hurt. Tears glistened on her lashes and she closed her eyes. “Did I hear gunshots?”

Hunter spoke into the high-tech microphone straddling his jawline and listened before saying, “Probably firecrackers. Police didn’t find any weapons.”

Clay continued to wipe the smoke residue off her cheek. When she winced and jerked her head, he realized her face was bruised. “Someone hit you?” His voice was sharp and demanding.

She shook her head then pressed the heel of her free hand against her forehead. “No. I fell. A couple of times, I think. It was...dark. I couldn’t see anything.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she gulped in air.

Clay was afraid she’d hyperventilate. “You’re okay, Georgie. Where else are you hurt?”

Georgie glanced down. Her skirt and jacket were both torn. There were runs in her hose and both knees were scraped and bleeding. Another deep breath had her clutching her side. “Ow.”

“What is it?” Clay didn’t recognize his own voice and regretted sounding so gruff that Georgie jerked away from him. He hadn’t released the hand he held so she didn’t get far.

“I’m sorry.” She turned worried eyes to him then glanced away. “This is my fault. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

He made an effort to soften his voice. “This isn’t your fault and I’m not angry with you. I’m angry at the protesters. I’m angry because this happened to you, Georgie. Understood?” He smoothed his thumb in small circles against the back of her hand. “We’re headed to the hotel so you can get cleaned up. Don’t...just don’t worry.”

Her bottom lip quivered and she closed her eyes again. Clay cut his eyes to Hunter. The other man’s expression was remote but for the regret and anger in his eyes.

“My fault. It won’t happen again, Senator.”

Clay nodded. Working so closely with family could blur the lines but Hunter knew his team had screwed up. He acknowledged it by using Clay’s title. From the looks of things as they’d left the alley, the local authorities had the perpetrators in custody. Hunt would make sure the protesters were prosecuted.

As the SUV careened around a corner, Georgie slammed her head back against the seat and groaned. Before Clay could react, Boone had her leaning forward and was gently probing the back of her head.

“Sugar, that’s a big lump you’ve got back there.”

“Oh...uh... I think I hit a metal cabinet or something. The first time I fell. As I stood up. Maybe.” She settled carefully against the back of the seat.

Boone carried on a quiet conversation over his cell phone, making arrangements for their party to arrive late at the Scottsdale fund-raiser. Without discussing it, Clay decided to leave Georgie at the hotel, along with one of the security team members. The poor girl was obviously upset, not that he blamed her. She was bruised, bloody and probably had injuries she didn’t even realize she had.

Driving the wrong way, the convoy pulled into the guest exit of the Barron’s Desert Crown Resort in Scottsdale. The security team wanted Clay, who was sitting behind the driver, to exit closest to the hotel’s entry. The squad disembarked from their vehicle and formed a phalanx to move Clay through the lobby and onto the elevator. When his door opened, Clay stepped out and pulled Georgie out after him, refusing to relinquish her hand. He felt connected to her and protective.

A barrage of camera flashes flared and Georgie stumbled. Without thinking, Clay swept her into his arms in a princess carry. Her arms circled his neck and she buried her face against his shoulder, hiding from the cameras and shouted questions. His anger surged again but cooler heads prevailed as Boone and Hunter guided him through the lobby and onto a waiting elevator, ignoring the reporters yelling for a statement.

The express ride took them straight to the penthouse level where Clay occupied the Sonoma Suite, the hotel’s equivalent of presidential lodging. He met Boone’s surprised expression with quiet directions. “Go to her room and get her bags. She’ll stay up here in the empty guest room.”

Comprised of a living room, formal dining room, study, kitchen facilities and four bedrooms with attached baths, there was room for Clay, Boone, Hunter and now Georgie. He didn’t want her alone in some random hotel room, even though every room in his family’s resort was five-star. He wanted her safe and he wasn’t convinced she would be out of his sight—irrational as that sounded. Without breaking stride, Clay continued into the master bedroom and straight to the massive bath. He set her on the marble vanity top without regard to the gray smudges smeared across his white Western-cut shirt. He almost smiled at the impression his turquoise bolo tie had left on Georgie’s cheek. Keeping a hand on her shoulder to hold her steady, he grabbed a washcloth and wet it, squeezing out the excess water with one hand.

She remained bug-eyed, her pupils dilated, and he could almost feel her shock. Her hair, normally in a neat bun at the back of her head, was tousled and framing her pale face—and was far longer than he’d realized. With gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, Clay removed her glasses and set them in the sink to be washed. He wiped her face first, rinsing the cloth before moving to her skinned knees. Her hands, clenched into tight balls on her lap, slowly relaxed.

He’d never been this...intimate with her before. They worked closely together but touching her like this? She was...Georgie. Always there when he needed a press release, a statement or a sounding board. She was efficient. Professional. And he was surprised at the curves he’d discovered when he picked her up. He realized, belatedly, that there was a very feminine woman lurking beneath her rather dowdy exterior.

Then he remembered why she was sitting on the counter in his bathroom. Anger flashed through him as hot as a grease fire. “Dammit, Georgie. This shouldn’t have happened. Especially not to you.”

She blinked, squinted, did her best to focus her eyes on his face. “Yeah, well.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Boone’s gone to your room to get your things. Stay in here and get cleaned up. Then I want you to move into the other guest room.” He tilted his head toward the door. “There’s a robe on the back of the door. Okay?”

She fumbled for her glasses. He snatched them first, washed and dried them before handing them to her. Once they were back on her face, she looked more like herself, and her green eyes lost some of that shell-shocked glaze. Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed her shoulder. “Yeah, I definitely want out of these clothes. They stink like smoke.”

Clay backed away. “I’ll get out of here so you have some privacy.”

She nodded but didn’t speak so he gave her arm a little pat and steadied her as she slipped off the counter to stand on the marble floor. Once she had her balance, he backed out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He almost ran over Hunter, who’d been hovering just outside.

“Dammit, Hunt. How did this happen? How did the protesters get inside?” Clay was as angry at himself as he was his security chief. Security should have watched out for her. Hell, he should have watched out for her. She was, ultimately, his responsibility.

Hunt made a noise that resembled a growl. “A group came through a secondary entrance in the basement and got to the main control board. Building security thinks it might have been an inside job. They’re investigating.”

Lightning flashed beyond the sheer curtains covering the bedroom window, followed shortly by thunder. Frowning, Hunt pulled out his cell phone, swiped the screen then punched an app icon. “I didn’t know we had weather moving in tonight.” He checked the forecast and radar then shrugged. “Nothing but boomers and some rain. Now, about Georgie. It won’t happen again, Clay. I promise. I’ll put a man on her personally.”

Clay tunneled his fingers through his hair. “As soon as she’s—” A massive boom rattled the window glass and seconds later, all the lights in the suite went out. A scream from inside the bathroom had both men scrambling—Hunt for light, Clay for the door handle.

Jerking the door open, Clay found Georgie kneeling on the floor, her head down, shoulders hunched. Was she gagging? Jeez, but he hated that sound. Had ever since college and drunken frat parties. He kicked the door shut in Hunter’s face and bent down. Using the flashlight app on his cell, he checked her over. Clay lifted her long brown hair back from her face, though she tried to turn away. Georgie’s throat worked as she swallowed hard, coughing with the effort.

To combat his very visceral reaction to what was happening, Clay recited the Gettysburg Address. Then the Preamble to the US Constitution. He figured he’d have to start on the Declaration of Independence next but Georgie finally inhaled and turned an apologetic gaze on him. He stood to retrieve another washcloth.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, not looking at him as he crouched beside her.

He wondered if her heightened color was a result of exertion or embarrassment. “It’s okay—” He bit off the next word, an endearment that slipped too easily into his head. To cover, he brushed her hair back over her shoulders. Pet names didn’t come as easy to him as they did Boone. The fact that one had formed on his tongue should have concerned him, but he couldn’t work up the energy to worry about it at the moment. He handed her the washcloth and she wiped her mouth and face but still wouldn’t look at him. It was then he realized she’d stripped down to a bra and panties—red ones. He refused to process that visual, focusing instead on the situation. “What happened? You seemed okay when I walked out.”

Georgie swallowed a dry heave and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I...panicked. The dark. And the storm. I’m a tad...claustrophobic. Or something.”

Clay swallowed the insane urge to laugh as his adrenaline rush faded. He bit the insides of his cheeks and when that didn’t help, he bit his tongue in an aborted effort to stop the sputtering laugh that finally escaped. He immediately apologized. “It’s not funny. I know. I’m sorry.”

A choking sound spurted from her. She’d hidden her face in her hands so he snagged the robe from the back of the door and draped it across her shoulders and back. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and twisted her body so she could see him. Clay was surprised to see her biting her lips as if she, too, was trying to hold back her laughter. Then the robe gapped and he glimpsed the bruise on her ribs. He curled his hands into fists to keep from ripping the robe off to examine her. Those bastards had marked her with their idiotic stunt. That quelled his urge to laugh.

“You’re bruised, Georgie. And you have that bump on your head. I’d like a doctor to look at you, okay?”

Her forehead furrowed in confusion before she glanced down and saw what he was talking about. “Oh. I am. Huh.” Her gaze caught on his. “I was too busy being scared witless to notice, and it was dark so I couldn’t see...”

She rubbed absently at her pale skin, and Clay reminded himself Georgie was in his employ and traumatized. He was not as big a jerk as his father or brothers when it came to women. He refused to be, but damn if he wasn’t suddenly aware that Georgie had been hiding some very interesting attributes behind her boxy suits and thick glasses—said attributes all but staring him in the face, despite the modest cut of that red lingerie and the robe.

“I’ll have the house doctor check you once the electricity—” The lights flickered, steadied and remained on. “Speaking of. Ready to get into the shower now?”

Clay stood and extended his hand to help her up. Just as she clasped his fingers, another clap of thunder shook the building and the lights extinguished. He felt her tremble and hunkered down beside her once more. “It’s okay, Georgie.”

He swiped his phone and when the screen lit up, he tapped the flashlight app once more. “See? We have light.”

Georgie was panting again and a thin sheen of perspiration covered her face. “I’m sorry. This is stupid. I know it’s stupid and irrational.”

“Fear is—” The light on his phone dimmed and he glanced at the battery indicator. He flicked off the flashlight app, but the home-screen light cast a soft glow over Georgie’s face. “Sorry. I’m down to the dregs of battery life. We can go outside, into the bedroom.”

“No. There might be monsters under the bed.”

Clay studied her face in the ghostly glow of his cell. A hint of a smile tweaked her lips. Good. This was the Georgie he knew and...liked. Yes, definitely liked. He liked Georgie. She was his employee. He was only keeping her company in his bathroom because she’d had a traumatic day.

“I promise to slay the monsters.”

“Or legislate them out of existence?”

“I can do that. I’ll introduce a bill in the Senate. And then I’ll take you dancing in the dark.”

“Isn’t that a song?”

“Springsteen.”

She blinked at him, her eyes owlish behind the lenses of her glasses. “You’re a fan of the Boss?”

“Hey, just because I grew up on Waylon, Willie and the boys, doesn’t mean I don’t have refined tastes in music.”

That elicited a giggle. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

“Sort of.”

“Then yes.” He eased down to the floor, stretching his legs out. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark here—”

“Peter Sellers!”

“I’m sorry. You didn’t phrase that in the form of question.” He winked at her.

“Oh, getting technical, are we? Fine. I’ll take Dark for three hundred, Alex.”