Cattleman's Choice (5 page)

“A tip?” Carson growled, glaring down at the shorter man with eyes that threatened to fry him to a crisp. “A tip, hell! I want a table. And I'd better get one fast, sonny, or you and your phony French accent are going right out that front door together.” He grinned as he said it, and Mandelyn hid her face in her hands.

“A table for two, monsieur?” the maître d' said with a shaky smile and a quick wave of his hand. “
Mais oui!
Just follow me,
s'il vous plait!
”

“Tip him, hell,” Carson scoffed. “You just have to know the right words to say.”

She didn't answer. All around the exclusive dining room, people were staring at them. She tried to follow some distance behind him; maybe she could look as if she were alone.

“Don't hang back there, for God's sake, I'll lose you,” Carson said, gripping her arm to half drag her to the table the maître d' was indicating. “Here. Sit down.”

He plopped her into a chair and jerked out one for himself, “How about a menu?”

The maître d' turned pink. “Of course. At once.”

He signaled a waiter with almost comical haste. “Henri will take care of you, monsieur, mademoiselle,” he said, and bowing, beat a hasty retreat.

Henri moved to the table and presented the menus with a flourish. “Would monsieur and mademoiselle like a moment to peruse the menus?” he asked politely.

“Hell, no, we want these crepes,” Carson said, pointing at the entry on the menu. “I'll have about five. Get her two, she needs fattening up. And bring us some coffee.”

Mandelyn looked under the table, wondering if she might fit beneath it if she tried hard enough.

Henri swallowed. “
Oui,
monsieur. Would you care for a wine list?”

“Hell, what would I do with that?” Carson asked, glaring belligerently at the waiter. “I don't give a damn what kind of wine you've got. Want me to give you a list of my herefords, lot numbers and all? I've got several hundred….”

“I will bring the coffee, monsieur!” the waiter said quickly, and exited.

“This is easy,” Carson said, smiling at Mandelyn. “And they say it's hard to get service in fancy restaurants.”

She covered her face with her hands again, trying to get her mind settled so that she could explain it to him. But meanwhile, he'd spotted a fellow cattleman across the room.

“Hi, Ben!” he yelled in that deep, slow drawl that carried so well out on the range—and even in this crowded restaurant. “How's that new bull working out? Think your cows will throw some good crossbreeds next spring?”

“Sure hope so, Carson!” the cattleman called back, lifting his wineglass in a salute.

Carson didn't have anything to salute back with, so he raised a hand. “So that's what the wine's for,” he told Mandelyn. “To make toasts with. Maybe I better order us a bottle.”

“No!” she squeaked, grabbing his hand as he started looking around for Henri.

He stared pointedly at her long, slender hand, which was wrapped around half of his enormous, callused one. “Want to hold hands, do you?” he murmured drily. His fingers caught hers, and all at once the rowdy humor went out of him. He searched her gray eyes. His fingers smoothed over her skin, feeling its texture, and her heart went wild.

“Soft,” he murmured. “Soft, like your mouth.” He stared at her lower lip for a long moment. “I'd like to kiss you when I was sober,” he said under his breath, “just to see how it would feel.”

Her fingers trembled, and he felt it. His hand contracted and brought hers to his mouth. “You smell of perfume,” he breathed huskily. “And you go to my head like whiskey when you look at me that way.”

She tried to draw her hand back, but he wouldn't let go of it.

“You said you'd teach me,” he reminded her with a slow smile. “I'm just getting in some practice.”

“I said I'd teach you manners,” she replied in a high-pitched tone. “You don't threaten maître d's and waiters and yell across classy restaurants, Carson.”

“Okay,” he said, smoothing the backs of her fingers against his hard cheek. “What else shouldn't I do?”

“What you're doing right now,” she whispered.

“I'm only holding your hand,” he said reasonably.

But it didn't feel that way. It felt as if he were reaching over the table and taking possession of her, total and absolute possession of her mind and her heart and even her body.

“Mandelyn,” he whispered, as if he were savoring the very sound of her name, and she realized with a start that he'd hardly ever said it. It was usually some casual endearment when he spoke to her. He made her name sound new and sweet.

She watched his dark head bend over her hand with wonder, watched his chiseled lips touch it, brush it with a tenderness she hadn't imagined him capable of. Her breath caught in her throat and tremors like the harbingers of an earthquake began deep in her body.

“Carson?” she whispered back.

His eyes lifted, as if he'd heard something in her voice that he wasn't expecting.

But before he could say anything, the waiter was back with the coffee.

“Where are my crepes?” Carson asked curtly.

“It will be only a minute, monsieur, just a minute,” Henri promised with a worried smile and a fervent glance toward the kitchen.

Carson stared after him. “It had better be,” he said.

Henri retreated, and Mandelyn had to smother a grin. “You do come on strong, don't you?” she managed with a straight face.

“I learned early that it was the only way to come out on top,” he returned. “I don't like being put down. Never did.”

“They aren't trying to put you down,” she began.

“Like hell,” he said, smiling coldly.

She moved restlessly in her chair. “Lifestyles among the well-to-do are different.”

“You and I are pretty far apart, aren't we?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, I don't know,” she murmured. “I used to think I'd enjoy going fishing once in a while, in a pair of old dungarees and a worn-out shirt.”

“Did you? I could take you fishing sometime, if you like.”

She looked up, half amused, and it dawned on her that she hadn't ever seen him smile as much as he had this one day. “Could you?”

He let his eyes run slowly over her. “I could loan you some old jeans and a shirt, too.” He leaned back and lit a cigarette. “After all, you ought to get something out of this deal. You teach me what I need to know. And then I'll teach you a few things.” He was looking straight at her when he said it, and she tingled all over.

Henri came back with the crepes seconds later, and Mandelyn was able to damp down her suddenly intense awareness of Carson while she instructed him in the use of flatware.

“Why don't they just give you a fork and let it go at that?” he grumbled when she'd explained the formal arrangement of knife, forks and spoons.

“Because it's etiquette,” she told him. “Besides, you can't very well eat soup without a soup spoon, or sweeten tea without a teaspoon, or…”

“I get the idea,” he sighed. “I suppose you'd never forgive me for eating peas on my knife.'

She laughed softly. “I think you might make a record book or two for managing that.”

“It's easy,” he returned. “All you have to do is get mashed potatoes on the knife and dip it in the peas.”

She burst out laughing at the mischief in his eyes. “I give up.”

“Not yet, you don't. Eat your crepes. You could use a few extra pounds. You're too thin.”

Her eyebrows arched. “I never would have expected you to notice something like that.”

He didn't smile. “I notice a hell of a lot about you, Mandelyn.”

Once again, the way he said her name made her head swim, and she actually blushed. Her gaze fell back to her plate while Carson slowly cut his crepes.

Minutes later, after a companionable silence and a second cup of coffee, they sampled the restaurant's strawberry crepes.

Mandelyn licked whipped cream from her upper lip and Carson watched the action with an expression she didn't understand. She lifted her eyes to his and felt tremors along her spine.

“It's sexy, don't you know?” he said under his breath as he read the question in her eyes.

“Eating whipped cream?” she laughed nervously, deliberately misunderstanding him.

“Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”

She ignored him and her quickened heartbeat, and finished her crepe.

“How about a movie before we go back to Sweetwater?” he asked.

“Sorry,” she laughed. “I have some paperwork to do before I go to bed.”

He didn't like that. His eyes glittered across the table at her. “Do you work all the time?”

“Don't you?” she returned. “I can't remember a time in the past few years when you actually took a vacation.”

“Vacations are for rich men,” he said, dropping his eyes to his coffee cup. He toyed with it idly. “Maybe everyone's right. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a rancher.”

“What else could you be?” she teased.

“What do you mean, that I'm too crude and stupid to be anything but a cattleman?” he asked coldly. His voice carried so that people at the other tables immediately looked to see if he fit his own description of himself.

“That's not what I meant at all, and will you please lower your voice?” she asked in a squeaky tone.

“Why should I?” he asked curtly. He threw his napkin down on the table and stood up, glaring around him. “And what are you people staring at?” he asked haughtily. “Who wrote the rules and said that you have to keep your eyes down and speak in whispers and never do anything out of the ordinary in a snobby restaurant? Do you think the waiters here drive Lincolns—is that why you're so afraid of them? Do you think that head waiter has a villa on the Riviera and owns stock in AT&T?” He laughed coldly while Mandelyn seriously considered hiding under the tablecloth. “These people that wait on you are no better or worse than any of you, and you're paying to be here just like I am, so why are you all letting these stuck-up dudes push you around?”

The cattleman a few tables over who was a friend of Carson's burst out laughing.

“Hell, yes, why are we?” he burst out, grinning. “You tell ‘em, Carson!”

A lady closer to their table glared at Carson. “It's amazing the kind of people they allow in these restaurants,” she said with hauteur.

Carson glared back at her. “Yes, isn't it?” he agreed with a speaking glance. “And it's amazing how many people think they're better than other people because of what they've got, right, lady?”

The lady in question turned red, got up and left.

“Please sit down,” Mandelyn pleaded with Carson.

“You sit. I'm leaving. If you're coming with me, come on. And where the hell is the check?” he demanded of a trembling Henri. “I want it now, not when you get around to it.”

Henri was writing it as he came, his hand shaking. “Here, monsieur!”

Carson took it and stormed out toward the cashier, leaving Mandelyn to fend for herself. She got up quietly and walked slowly out of the dining room, her poised serenity drawing reluctant admiration. She was Miss Bush of Charleston from her head to her toes.

But serene was the last thing she felt when she caught up with Carson in the parking lot.

“You hot-tempered, ill-mannered, overbearing son of Satan,” she began, her small fists clenched at her sides, her eyes throwing off silvery sparks, her hair glinting with blonde fire in the sunlight.

“Flattery won't work with me,” he assured her, grinning at her display of temper. “Get in, firecracker, and I'll take you home.”

“I've never been so embarrassed…!” she began.

“Why?”

“Why!”

He stared at her as she stood rigidly beside the car, not opening her door. “Well, get in,” he repeated.

“When you open the door for me,” she said icily. “Women's lib or not, it is good manners.”

With a resigned sigh, he went around and made an elaborate production of opening the door, helping her inside the car and closing it again.

“I'll never go anywhere with you again as long as I live,” she fumed when he'd climbed in beside her and turned the key in the ignition.

“You started it,” he reminded her as he pulled out onto the highway. “Making that crack about my ignorance…”

“I did no such thing,” she shot back. “I simply asked what else you'd do. You love cattle, you always have. You'd be miserable in any other job and you know it.'

“You meant that I wasn't capable of doing anything else,” he returned, his eyes growing fiery again.

“I can't talk to you!” she ground out. “You're always on the defensive with me, you take everything I say the wrong way!”

“I'm a savage, remember?” he asked mockingly. “What else do you expect?”

“God knows,” she said. She turned her eyes out the window to the long, arid stretch of land that stretched toward the horizon. “None of this was my idea,” she reminded him. “I don't care if you eat peas off your knife for the rest of your life.”

There was a long, pregnant silence. He lit a cigarette and smoked it quietly as the miles went by. Eventually, she glanced at him. His face was rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead. He looked unhappy. And she felt guilty about that, guilty about losing her temper. He wanted Patty, and without some polishing, he'd never get her. He must know that and the knowledge was eating him alive.

“How far did you get in school?” she asked suddenly.

He took a deep, slow breath, and wouldn't look at her. “I have a bachelor's degree in business administration, with a minor in economics.”

She felt shocked, and it showed.