Inwardly, Rose cringed as she tried to imagine Dante at a simple village party. The last thing she wanted was to see her father knocked back so soon after things started going right.
“I’d be honored,” Dante said, surprising her. “My men have a job to go to, but I can come along.”
The towering, glowering monument to all that was not party, not small talk, not drinking for the sake of drinking, and, quite definitely, not dancing a few steps to the robust strains of a local Irish showband—all of which was expected behavior at the village hall in Crackallen—had just agreed to attend?
“Great,” her father enthused, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll get the pub to save its best room for you.”
The pub? She tried, and failed miserably, to imagine Dante staying overnight in the quirky old building with its uneven floors and the low beams that would knock the head off a Hobbit—not to mention the antiquated plumbing singing and banging all night. Even supposing Dante attended the Ceilidh, the pub wasn’t the obvious place to house a billionaire.
Once again, he surprised her by agreeing to this too.
“There, now,” her pa declared expansively. “Didn’t I tell you everything would be all right, Rose? Why don’t you come here first to eat?” he suggested to Dante. “Rose is a fine cook.”
And isn’t in need of a husband. Shut up, Pa!
“That would be great.” Dante’s amused glance made Rose bridle. “I’m looking forward to it already.”
“And so am I,” she declared, picturing the syrup of figs in the store cupboard and the havoc she could wreak with it.
“I’ll take Stargazer through his paces first, and then we’ll talk some more,” Dante promised her pa with a reassuring touch on his arm.
“Go with him, Rose,” her father insisted with a theatrical wink and jerk of his chin that no one but he thought was subtle.
Bad enough she had to ride out with a man who was looking at her as if she was the next meal on his agenda without being urged to do so by a demented matchmaker, who, it seemed, couldn’t get his only daughter off his hands fast enough.
“I’m sure Dante can take Stargazer through his paces without me, Pa—”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Dante butted in.
“A tot of whisky?” her father suggested hopefully.
“Not yet,” Dante said with one of his all too rare smiles. “Ride with me, Rose. There’s a proposition I want to put to you. The three of us can talk properly over dinner,” he reassured her pa.
“A proposition?” she queried the moment her father was safely back inside the house.
“Yes…” Dante’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, shooting shafts of desire through her veins. “Go and saddle up.”
“You wanted to talk?” she reminded him a few minutes later, in what she hoped was a businesslike tone as they rode out of the yard side by side. She hadn’t forgotten Dante’s touch on her arm. It had scorched her like a brand. Even one short night away from him was a drought her body had no intention of tolerating. It hadn’t finished reminding her yet that it had no intention of doing so, but when she shifted in the saddle in a lame attempt to ease her frustration, Dante noticed and smiled faintly.
He knows I’m aroused. Her cheeks burned red. Turning her horse, she cantered away from him toward the outdoor arena. For the next hour, she didn’t have a chance to think about anything, as she was engrossed in watching a master horseman at work. She was so proud of Stargazer. He was as responsive and as agile as she’d promised he would be.
“Great horse,” Dante commented to her relief when he finally reined in alongside her. “He’ll be a useful addition to my string of polo ponies.”
She watched him leave the arena. His back was so powerful. His butt was so tight—and she was glad things had gone so well with the pony, Rose reminded herself. That was why they were here, after all.
No doubt, but it hadn’t eased her monumental frustration.
Get over it! This was work—good work that heralded a new start for her father.
What about me?
Me would have to wait.
How long?
Maybe forever.
Brushing a stray strand of hair back into her severely drawn ponytail, she resolutely closed her mind to images of a weather-beaten, worthy, and no doubt highly respected if aged Irish horse whisperer who would never have the rosy, romantic future that Rose had dreamed of as a little girl.