Strains from the jazz band followed Royce Ryder as he strode across the carpeted
promenade between the ballroom and the lobby lounge
of the Chicago Ritz-Carlton Hotel. He tugged his bowtie
loose, popping the top button on his white, tuxedo shirt
while inhaling a breath of relief. His brother Jared
and his new sister-in-law Melissa were still dancing
up a storm in the ballroom, goofy smiles beaming on
their faces as they savoured every single moment of
their wedding reception.
But it had been a long night for Royce. He'd stood
up for his brother, joked his way through an endless
receiving line, then toasted the bride and the bridesmaids.
He’d socialized, danced, eaten cake, and even
caught the garter--a reflexive action that had everything
to do with his years as a first baseman in high school
and college, and nothing whatsoever to do with his future
matrimony prospects.
Now his duty was done, and it was time for a final
night in the civilized surroundings of downtown Chicago
before his sentence began in Montana. Okay, so managing
the family ranch wasn't exactly hard labor in Alcatraz,
but for a man who'd been piloting a jet plane around
the world for the past three years, it was going to
be a very long month.
It wasn't that he begrudged Jared his honeymoon. Quite
the contrary, he was thrilled that his brother had fallen
in love and married. And the better he got to know Melissa,
the more he liked her. She was smart and sassy, and
clearly devoted to both Jared and their younger sister
Stephanie. Royce wished the couple a fantastic, well-deserved
trip to the South Pacific.
It was just bad luck that McQuestin, the family's Montana
cattle ranch manager, had broken his leg in three places
last week. McQuestin was down for the count. Stephanie
was busy training her students for an important horse
jumping competition. So Royce was it.
He slipped onto a padded bar stool, the majority of
his focus on the selection of single malts on the mirrored,
back-lit shelf as he gave woman next to him a passing
glance. But he quickly did a double-take, disregarding
the liquor bottles and focusing on her. She was stunningly
gorgeous, blonde hair, dark-fringed, blue eyes, flushed
cheeks, wearing a shimmering, skin-tight, red trimmed,
gold dress that clung to every delectable curve. Her
lips were bold red, and her perfectly manicured fingers
were wrapped around a sculpted martini glass.
"What can I get for you?" asked the bartender,
dropping a coaster on the polished mahogany bar in front
of Royce.
"Whatever she’s having," said Royce
without taking his gaze from the woman.
She turned to paste him with a back-off stare, her
look of disdain making him wish he'd at least kept his
tie done up. But a split second later, her expression
mellowed.
"Vodka martini?" the waiter confirmed.
"Sure," said Royce.
"You were the best man," the woman stated,
her voice husky-sexy in the quiet of the lounge.
"That I was," Royce agreed easily, more than
willing to use tonight's official position to his advantage.
"Royce Ryder. Brother of the groom. And you are?"
"Amber Hutton." She held out a feminine hand.
He took it in his. It was small, smooth, with delicate
fingers and soft skin. His mind immediately turned to
the things she could do to him with a hand like that.
"Tired of dancing?" he asked, as the waiter
set the martini in front of him. He assumed she would
have had plenty of partners in the crowded ballroom.
"Not in the mood." Her fingers moved to the
small, plastic spear that held a trio of olives in her
glass. She shot a brief glance behind her toward the
promenade that led to the sparkling ballroom. Then she
leaned closer to Royce. He met her halfway.
"Hiding out," she confided.
"From?" he prompted.
She hesitated. Then she shook her head. "Nothing
important."
Royce didn’t press. "Any way I can be of
assistance?"
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Don't hit
on me?"
"Ouch," he said, feigning a wounded ego.
That prompted a smile. "You did ask."
"I was expecting a different answer."
"I’ll understand if you want to take off."
Royce gazed into her eyes for a long moment. Past her
smile, he could see trouble lurking there. Though women
with trouble usually sent him running for the hills,
he gave a mental shrug, breaking one of his own rules.
"I don't want to take off."
"You one of those nice guys, Royce Ryder?"
"I am," he lied. "Good friend. Confidant.
A regular boy next door."
"Funny, I wouldn’t have guessed that about
you."
"Ouch, again," he said softly, even though
she was dead right. He'd never been any woman's good
friend or confidant.
"You strike me as more of a playboy."
"Shows you how wrong you can be."
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