Cowboy Player: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 3 (6 page)

Now Clark’s radar was spinning. He and Dan had done everything they could to keep their pastures healthy. If he could secure a contract with Jerome, MacKinnon Ranch would be in the black at last. “Tell you what. Email me some numbers,” he said cheerfully, even though adrenaline was pumping through his veins. “Let’s see what we can do.”

“I can do you one better,” said Jerome. “Prepare some reports for me. Come to Le Monarque tomorrow night. Stay at the Hotel Roxbury. My treat. Come have a night on the town and let’s discuss this
tête-à-tête.
”

Le Monarque was Jerome’s fine-dining restaurant in the Hotel Roxbury right above the Sunset Strip. It was one of the hottest celebrity hangouts in Los Angeles.

“Are you serious?” Clark asked. “You don’t have to do that.”

“No, bro, I want to. You would be helping me out of a jam if this works out. As a matter of fact, bring your hat. They’ll think you’re John Wayne.” He laughed. “Oh. And you know what? Why don’t you bring your friend too? The cowgirl, I think her name was Melody?” Jerome cleared his throat. “Out of curiosity, is she seeing anyone?”

“Seeing anyone? Ah, no, man,” Clark said, stumbling over the words. Jerome was trying to sound casual about Melody, but Clark could tell he’d been thinking about her. “Melody…she’s single. As far as I know.”

“Great! Fantastic. Bring her.” In the background, Clark heard a crash of dishes and an explosion of cuss words in three languages. Jerome groaned. “Okay, my friend. Gotta go. Seven o’clock at Le Monarque. Tell the hostess you’re my guests.”

Clark ended the call. He was alone in the office, so no one saw him put his head on the desk and give it three gentle thumps. A pencil rolled off the edge and landed on the floor.

“Shit,” he whispered.

* * * * *

Clark had never noticed that the cocktail waitresses at the Silver Spur wore uniforms until he saw Melody wearing hers. Cowboy boots, cut-off jean shorts and a plaid shirt tied up at the waist—the Daisy Duke special. Clark contemplated sending the owner Tom Shelton a thank-you note.

Melody stood at the till adding up a bar tab. Shapely legs, a slender waist, softly muscled arms, and high, round breasts. There was a silvery scar on the back of her left thigh where she’d fallen while riding his horse—they’d been twelve at the time, and Clark had been racked with guilt for months. Just above her rhinestone belt, faint stretch marks striped her lower back. She hated them; they started showing when she was about seventeen. These so-called flaws made her even more beautiful to him. Years of shared history meant that he could read her body like a book.

The room was less than half full. Another cocktail waitress sat at the bar chatting with Tom. Slow night.

Clark took a breath.
Do it.

He walked right up to Melody and leaned against the bar. “Don’t rabbit,” he said quietly. “I have to talk to you.”

She was wearing more makeup than usual. It was an alluring look, but he knew that she was even lovelier without the war paint. Her fingers flew over the touch screen. She didn’t look him in the eye. “I’m at work. We can’t do this here.”

“This won’t take long. Just listen.”

As quickly as he could, he laid out the scenario with Jerome. A half-dozen emotions danced across her face as he spoke, but none of those emotions were positive.

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking permission to pimp me out to your friend in order to secure a contract,” she said. “That’s really classy, Clark.” The receipt printer got jammed. She had to open it and unspool the paper.

“Jesus. Stop.” Clark stood up straight, nudged her out of the way and began to work out the paper jam. “You’ve seen our numbers. The ranch is in trouble. The drought. My dad’s hospital bills—insurance doesn’t cover everything. If I sign Jerome, the ranch’s finances will be solid for the first time in years.” He shut the cover and the printer screeched into action. “If you’re there he’ll be more relaxed. More likely to make the deal. I’m not pimping you out. I’m asking you for help. As a
friend
.”

She tore off the receipts and grabbed a pen from her apron. “Then as a
friend,
I say no. I’ve gotta work.”

Clark waved to the other cocktail waitress. The blonde bombshell sashayed over.

“Rhiannon,” he said, looking from one woman to the other. “You working tomorrow night?”

“No.” Rhiannon leaned languidly on the bar. She had hazel eyes, but her left iris was slightly lighter than the right. “Whatcha have in mind, cowboy?”

“Could you cover a shift for Melody?”

Rhiannon raised her eyebrows, mildly offended. “What?”

“I’m trying to fix Melody up with a friend,” he said quickly. “I’d owe you big time, Rhi.”

The woman smiled. “All right, Clark. I’ll do it. For you.” She looked at Melody. “And get this darling girl laid, will you? She’s been moping around here for days.” With a wink, Rhiannon turned and left.

Melody looked up at Clark and shook her head. “I need that money, you know.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You can’t afford to throw wages around like that.”

“If we sign Jerome, I’ll pay you double what you would’ve made on that shift.” He searched her face. “What do you say?”

“You get women to do your bidding all the time, don’t you?” She sighed and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Okay, Clark. One night.” She stuck a finger in his chest. “But I’m doing this for your brothers and your folks, not for you.”

“Yes! Thank you, Mel.” He almost leaned forward and kissed her, but he stopped just in time. He glanced at himself in the mirror behind the bar. A big goofy grin sat on his face. He turned back to her. “So you’ve been ‘moping around’? Interesting.”

Melody did not return his smile. Instead, she brushed past him, tray under her arm. “You should go. I’ve got to get back to work.”

* * * * *

Clark was in so far over his head, he might as well have been standing on the bottom of the ocean.

First of all, the woman was going to kill him.

High-heeled silver sandals, curled hair, makeup—Melody had put on the dog, and she smelled like apple blossoms in the Garden of Eden. Worst of all, she wore a dark-blue handkerchief that some highfalutin’ fashion people called a dress. On the two-hour drive to Los Angeles, she wouldn’t return his attempts at conversation. So they sat in silence, Clark slowly crumbling in the presence of so much rampant sexiness.

Second of all, this place.

Jesus.

The Hotel Roxbury stood on a small side street above the Sunset Strip. Built sometime in the 1920s, the old chateau-style hotel radiated Hollywood history. Perfectly clipped high hedges surrounded the property, hiding the luxurious cars that entered and exited the grounds. When they pulled up to the entrance in Caleb’s jacked-up old Silverado, Clark took the ticket from the valet and led Melody inside. Her heels clicked over the polished Spanish tile in the cavernous lobby. A bellboy collected their overnight bags and handed them their room keys. They didn’t even have to stop at the front desk.

Feeling like an oil baron, Clark snapped the kid a five-dollar bill. Melody hid her smile and automatically took the arm he offered her.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The entrance to Le Monarque was tucked in the back of the lobby. An orange-stained glass monarch butterfly decorated the restaurant’s door. A sedate, well-dressed crowd stood three deep at the bar. Dozens of people crowded the hostess stand, waiting for a table.

The hostess looked up when Clark approached. When he tipped his hat, her eyes widened, then narrowed and got sultry right quick. She had bright green eyes, like a Heineken bottle. Melody’s grip on his arm grew just a shade tighter.

“Evenin’, miss,” he said, turning up the twang. “Clark MacKinnon and Melody Santos. We’re guests of Jerome.”

The hostess nodded. “Good evening,” she said. “Follow me, please.”

They bypassed the bar and the crowded dining room. The hostess seated them in an enormous semiprivate booth bathed in candlelight. A big picture window faced the courtyard where twinkle lights dangled from jacaranda and date palms. Spotlights lit the enormous stone fountain in the center of the gardens.

“Your server will be with you in a moment. Chef Dupont will be joining you for coffee and dessert.” The hostess nodded to both of them, her gaze lingering on Clark. “Enjoy your evening.”

When they were alone, Melody fidgeted in her seat, scanning the space. In the candlelight, her golden-brown skin glowed and her dark eyes sparkled like polished obsidian.

“Beautiful,” Clark murmured. He wasn’t referring to the restaurant.

She nodded. “Amazing.”

They didn’t have one server—they had a team of servers. Jerome had prepared a tasting menu for them along with wine pairings for every course. The fanciest restaurant Clark had ever been to offered all-you-can-eat breadsticks, so the spectacle of flavors overwhelmed him. By the time his steak arrived, there were ten different glasses on the table. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to drink from them or play “The Sugar Plum Fairy” on the glass harp.

His steak—well, that was pretty good. Jerome had chosen to serve Melody a whole lobster. Clark’s nose wrinkled at the ostentatiousness of it all.
Damn Frenchie.
He sliced off another hunk of meat and shoved it in his mouth.
Showoff.

“You okay?” Melody asked when the servers were out of earshot.

Clark swallowed. “Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Because you look like you’re about to go on the warpath.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “Are you worried about the contract? Is Jerome interested in a supplier for only the truck or for all his restaurants?”

“He was pretty vague over the phone. But I want it all. All five of his restaurants plus the truck. Rumor has it he’s opening up a place in Las Vegas next year. Big and splashy. I want in on that too.”

“You sound confident.”

“You’re here. I
feel
confident.” He looked at her, afraid she’d retreat from him again. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. What I mean is, I’m glad you came. Thank you, Mel.”

Looking a little uncomfortable, she lifted her wineglass. “Hardest shift I ever worked, boss.”

The meal waltzed forward, each course punctuated with another glass of wine, a bite of sorbet, or something small and strange perched on a porcelain spoon. By the time dessert rolled around, Clark was buzzed on wine and Melody’s company. He was afraid he might be blushing. His brothers used to tease him that he blushed whenever he was embarrassed or drank too much.

Shape up, tough guy,
he thought to himself, loosening his collar.

Suddenly, Jerome appeared and slid into their booth next to Melody. He was wearing a black chef’s jacket and his longish hair was tied back in a little ponytail.

“Hey, hey, my friends.” A bright smile lit up his face. He shook Clark’s hand and gave Melody a European kiss-kiss that made Clark’s fists tighten under the table. “How are you, beautiful girl?” He spoke rapid French to the server, who quickly brought him an espresso in a tiny white cup, three bar glasses and a dark bottle.

Jerome reached forward and twisted the cap off. “Fernet Branca. Have you tried this? It’s good, but a little strong.”

The dark liquid tasted of heartbreak and Armageddon. But Clark smiled like it was pink lemonade and laughed when Melody made a face. “Aw, come on, Mel, it’s not so bad.”

They talked food, as usual. Jerome’s philosophy of fine dining was to dazzle the senses and to create a spectacular experience. He walked them through each of their courses and told them that the lobster was from Santa Barbara, as was the sea urchin in their pasta course. Clark’s steak was from the last of his old supplier’s grass-fed herd.

“It was good,” said Clark, “but we can do better.”

Jerome laughed. “Ah, the
cojones
on you, cowboy. I admire that. I admire that, bro.”

Clark reached into his jacket to take out the reports he’d prepared.

But the chef held up his hand. “Hang on a second.” He called over the server again. More French. The server nodded. Jerome turned back to Clark. “This gentleman will escort you to the office. My accountant and sous chef are waiting there. Let’s make the deal tonight, what do you say?”

Stunned, Clark put the documents in his jacket pocket, stood up and put his hat back on. “I say that sounds pretty great.” He shook Jerome’s hand again. He turned to Melody. “Ready? Let’s go get those papers signed.”

The chef stayed seated, blocking Melody’s exit out of the banquette. “Actually, I was hoping to get a little more acquainted with your friend here,” Jerome said, eyebrows raised. “You know. Enjoy our coffee. Take a walk around the grounds.” He looked past Clark at the server and nodded again.

“Sir, if you’ll just follow me,” said the man.

Clark made eye contact with Melody. She lowered her chin almost imperceptibly.
Go ahead,
she seemed to say.
I can handle him.

“Okay.” Clark tried to keep his voice cheerful even though every protective bone in his body wanted to grab that bottle of Armageddon and smash it over Jerome’s ponytailed head. With a phony smile, Clark said to Melody, “I’ll meet you in the lobby tomorrow at nine, all right?”

She nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” he said again, feeling like an idiot. “Have a good night, you two.”

He could hear them whispering to each other as he entered the dark hallway that led to the kitchen. Then he heard something that crushed his nerve and sent him into full-blown jealous asshole mode.

Melody’s laughter.

God, he missed that sound.

* * * * *

A king-sized mattress, a down comforter, ten thousand thread-count sheets, enough feather pillows for twelve heads. Didn’t matter. It was still the most uncomfortable bed Clark had ever slept in. He rolled around for hours, trying to find a position that didn’t feel wrong in every way.

With a sigh, he sat up and turned on the lamp. The room was luxurious and beautiful. He didn’t want to think about how much it cost. But that was what happened when you were part of the Jerome Dupont team. Gold rained down from the sky and everyone got to eat well.