Cameras did not do the man credit. He was a bit taller than Ellen had imagined, and considerably more handsome—quite a feat, that. Cameras apparently washed him out a little. He was more vibrant and warm in person.
He wore faded jeans and a simple, navy-blue poplin button-up shirt. On his feet were a pair of sensible boots that, while they didn’t look like they’d seen much manure in their use, at least looked like they’d been worn into comfortable shape.
He was the most simply and sensibly dressed of all the CC&T guests, in fact.
Ellen was impressed. He was far too old for her (and the evidence suggested she was rather too old for him), and she would never get involved with a guest in any event, but she could admit to herself a fragile little crush floating up in her chest.
“Mr. Cabot, welcome to the Moondancer Ranch,” she said and offered her hand. “I’m Ellen Emerson, the operations manager.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if surprised. Then he took her hand—warm, strong shake—and smiled. “Thank you, Ellen. Delighted to be here. And please, call me Jamie.”
That was disappointing, honestly. Ellen’s little soap bubble of infatuation popped. The man did not look like a Jamie.
But she didn’t let on, of course. Instead, she gave him a welcoming smile. “Well, then, welcome, Jamie. Let me show you to your cabin while Huck and Todd collect your bags.” Guests of his caliber did not have to check in at the desk.
Sam had popped the trunk on the limo, and he was lifting out a substantial but not overly large satchel. Huck and Todd both reached for it, considered the trunk, looked identically bemused.
“I have only one bag, and I’ll carry it,” Cabot—it was going to take a minute for her to think of him as Jamie—said and took his wallet out. He handed each of them a hundred-dollar bill. “But thank you for hurrying out here to take care of me.” He picked up his leather weekender and smiled at Ellen. “So, I’ll follow you, yes?”
With a wave of her hand toward the flagstone walk, Ellen ushered Jameson Cabot to his cabin, and left her stunned bellboys staring at the money in their hands.
Ellen was beginning to see why nobody said a bad word about the man.
*****
“I like this top much better than the one you wore earlier.”
At the silky English accent in her ear, Ellen turned and cocked her head at Jameson Cabot. The welcome buffet dinner had been going on for nearly an hour, and the hospitality smile she’d perfected over a whole adult life spent at the Moondancer—friendly but not giddy, warm but not cloying—was planted firmly on her face.
“I’m sorry?” She’d heard him, but needed a moment to decide whether he was being friendly or forward.
Cabot indicated her blouse with a subtle flourish. “Your top. It suits you better than the Dale Rogers ensemble you were wearing earlier.”
Ellen agreed. The welcome buffet wasn’t formal—formal wasn’t a common dude ranch aesthetic—but Ellen and the staff treated it like a special occasion, and they dressed up a little. Ellen was dressed in her more natural style. The top Cabot liked was a filmy, floral peasant blouse, worn off the shoulders and accented with a thin braid of leather as a choker. Dark bootcut jeans, her good Frye boots, and a few more pieces of leather and silver jewelry completed the look. Her hair was loose, too, down from her usual workday ponytail. It was one of her favorite outfits.
“Thank you, I think.”
His grin twinkled. “It was a compliment. You look lovely.”
Forward. He was being forward. Flattered but not interested—she did not fraternize with the guests, no matter how rich and handsome they might be—Ellen shifted subtly back and deepened the professional quality of her smile. “Again, thank you. I hope you’re hungry. Our chef, Naomi Thomas, puts out a spectacular spread for the welcome buffet.”
“Are you eating as well?”
“No, Mr. Cabot. I’m the hostess, not a guest.”
“But I am a guest.”
“Yes, you are.”
He shifted forward, erasing the subtle distance she’d put between them. “And this is the kind of establishment that would seek to meet all my requests, correct?”
“Within reason, of course.”
He dipped his head so she would hear him when he murmured, “A desire to have dinner with a beautiful woman seems the very definition of reasonable, wouldn’t you agree?”
No doubt this maneuver worked on most women. Ellen herself felt a pleasant little shiver in the place where her vanity lived. But there were three locked doors between Jameson Cabot and his apparent goal: the first was her iron-clad determination not to become involved with a guest. She’d seen too many young women get their hearts broken working at the Moondancer, and she’d spent too much time serving entitled millionaires and billionaires to be much swayed by a little bit of culture and a whole lot of cash.
The second locked door was related to the first. She was the operations manager here. It was her responsibility to set a good example to her staff. Allowing a billionaire to flirt with her was one thing. Flouncing off with him in a swoon was another thing entirely.
And finally, the last locked door, was Jameson Cabot himself. Ellen just wasn’t that attracted to the man. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was obscenely wealthy. Yes, he seemed like an essentially good person. But she felt no spark at all. She was flattered, and a little annoyed, but that was about it. She was in no danger of swooning.
Again, Ellen made a little bit of distance, trying to allow him to save face, trying to maintain a balance between friendly flirtation and rejection. “I think it depends on whether the woman in question were available for dinner, and interested.”
“And is she?”
“Oh, you mean me?”
Cabot chuckled. “I do.”
Deciding to try a little barbed banter to push him back, she asked, “Aren’t I a bit old for you, Mr. Cabot?”
His eyes flared wide but didn’t lose their humor. “Ooh, the little ginger cat still has her claws, I see. And I believe I told her to call me Jamie.”
Well, she’d been the one to sharpen the tone, but now Ellen’s mood was meandering toward pissed. Maybe she’d read Jameson Cabot wrong earlier; maybe he was just a typical entitled billionaire.
But before she could respond, Wes Taylor walked up, his hand extended. “Mr. Cabot, hello. Sorry for the interruption, but I wanted to make sure to introduce myself. I’m Wes Taylor, general manager of the Moondancer.”
Finally, Cabot stepped back and straightened up. He accepted Wes’s handshake. “Hello, Wes. I was just telling Ms. Emerson how interesting I find your ranch.”
Wes grinned. He’d come by his position at the Moondancer largely because he was married to the only daughter of the man who owned the place, but he was good at the work. He had an inventor’s inquisitive mind and always had ideas for improving things. All his ideas were good, as far as Ellen could tell, though some of them were maybe a little ahead of their time. At any rate, he’d done a great job modernizing the Moondancer without dulling its charm, and he was the easiest man in the world to work for, and with. Ellen felt respected—more than that, she felt valued.