“Ms. Alby,” I leveled the full power of my gaze on her, “your trip is wasted. My decision on your proposal was final.”
Her red lips spread into that dazzling smile I found both enjoyable and infuriating. “I’m not here to change your mind.” She skewed her mouth to one side momentarily, reconsidering her words. “I mean, I might be. But that’s not why I came.”
I still had a grip of the car door, and my fingers tensed to the point of discomfort. My voice was colder than the wind playing with the tendrils of her hair. “What reason brings you here, then?”
“I invited her.”
I turned to glare my surprise at my son. Once, he would have lowered his gaze in response, but Royce had found his footing with me. His days of bending to my will were over.
“Why is that?” I asked in careful words, the edges so sharp it made Marist look away.
But Royce wasn’t fazed. “She mentioned she was looking for work, and you need an assistant.”
I ripped my hand off the door handle so I could ball it into a fist. Ms. Alby and Royce had worked together to orchestrate this setup, and I wouldn’t abide. “No.”
It was as if she hadn’t heard me. Her driver pulled a long bag from the trunk of the BMW, and she took it from him, tossing a polite thank you to the maniac who’d screeched to a stop in my driveway. The bag looked designed to carry a shotgun, likely borrowed from her father.
“Why do you have that?” I demanded.
She paused, and her gaze darted to both Marist and Royce. “Aren’t we shooting skeet today?”
“Only the men,” I said. “The women don’t.”
“Why?” She blinked. “Afraid they’ll beat you?”
Marist made a sound like she’d strangled back a chuckle, but my tone patronized. “Hardly. They’re never interested.”
“Well, I’m interested. Are you any good?”
Ms. Alby’s cavalier question bordered on rude. Of course I was. I excelled at whatever I put my focus on. “No,” my chest lifted with pride, “I’m excellent.”
“Yeah?” Her attention dropped to the bag, her hands gripping the straps, and she appeared lost in thought. Abruptly, her head snapped up and her gaze locked on mine. “How about a deal? We can play each other. If I beat you, you accept my offer.”
Interest sparked inside me, but I squashed it down. “What will I get when I win?”
It was as if she hadn’t considered that probable outcome. “Then . . . I won’t make my offer again.”
“And you’ll leave,” I added.
She shrugged. “Sure.”
I strode toward her and slipped a hand around her elbow, not caring that I didn’t have permission to touch her. Her coat was a thick barrier between us, and my touch wasn’t harsh, but her blue eyes widened as she stared up at me. She’d shown up uninvited, as far as I was concerned. This was my house, and therefore it would be my rules, and I could kill two birds with one stone.
My voice dipped low. “And you’ll tell me whose secret you were hoping I’d reveal.”
Her breath caught and hung between her parted lips. Leaving was one thing, but the stakes were suddenly much higher for her. Of course, they were nonexistent for me. In the unlikely event I lost, I’d be saddled with an assistant who I would immediately find cause to fire.
I didn’t make deals unless I knew I could live with either outcome.
For a moment, she considered retreating, and my curiosity intensified. At best, she could put off the inevitable. I’d find out her secret, one way or another.
I tipped my head down toward the bag in her hands. “Have you shot that thing before?”
She hesitated. “No.”
It was as I suspected. She’d shown up with her father’s shotgun wearing heels the spring sod would devour, making for poor footing. The recoil from her first shot might knock her right off her feet.
That thought caused a strange feeling, and I didn’t care for it. I wanted to win, but for once it seemed unlikely I’d find enjoyment in humiliating someone else. I appreciated her tenacity; that had to be all this was. I respected Ms. Alby for not accepting no the first time she’d presented me with her offer.
Her expression firmed up with determination, and she shook off my hold. “All right. Let’s go.”
We’d made a wager, and it was important to me it be sealed properly. I tugged off my glove and extended my hand.
She gazed at it like it was a trap. But she slipped her soft hand into mine, and as I clasped her palm, an odd thrill radiated out from where we were joined. Electricity buzzed as I held her hand longer than I meant to, and far longer than was appropriate. But it pleased me when a flush washed across her cheeks and her gaze broke away from mine.
Whatever this energy was between us, it affected her even more than it did me.
I let go, tugged my glove back on, and turned toward the waiting golf cart so I could savor her reaction without her witnessing it. It was incredibly flattering to know I could still cause that type of response in a woman, especially one so young and attractive.
“Royce,” I said, “stay here to greet Mr. and Mrs. Powell and come down with them.” I tilted my head back toward the girl standing awkwardly beside her car, holding on to the bag as if it were already becoming heavy and tiresome. “Come along, Ms. Alby. This won’t take long.”
My son’s face was flat. “No, it won’t.”
She followed me, her boots clacking against the stone pavers set in my driveway, but when the driver on my staff tried to take her bag to stow it in the back, she pulled it tight to her chest. “No, thank you.”
The man couldn’t help but grin at her when she flashed her radiant smile. I did my best to avoid it and took the passenger seat up front, leaving the entire space of the back seat to her. Once we were off, rolling quietly down the path that sloped across my lawn, that odd feeling returned.
It was bad enough I was going to embarrass her, but I’d have to do it in front of an audience as well.
“May I give you some tips?” I asked.
Confusion crowded her voice. “Tips?”
“On shooting. It may look easy, but it isn’t.”
When there was no immediate response, I craned my neck to look back at her. Distrust filled her pretty eyes. “You want to give tips to the person you’re playing against?”
I frowned. “You said you hadn’t shot before.” I gave her a logical reason for my concern. “I’d prefer you not injure yourself on my property.”
She didn’t just smile, she grinned—and it left me with an uneasy feeling. “I think I’ll be okay.” She pulled her bag across her lap. “But, yeah. I’d like to hear your tips if you don’t mind sharing them.”
I explained to her how to determine her dominant eye, and that she’d need to keep both open while shooting so she could track the targets as they moved across the field. I told her to lead. “Shoot for where the target will be, not where it is.”
I detailed the rules of skeet and how we’d each get a chance at breaking twenty-five clay targets from different positions around the field.
Normally, I enjoyed instructing. But as she listened, she unzipped her boots, pulled a pair of slim sneakers from her bag, and slipped them on. Then her blonde hair was collected in her hands and pulled back into a ponytail.