Winning Over the Brooding Billionaire, page 2
Shelby had not so much left Keith as let him fade from the picture, not as angry with him as she was with herself.
What had she been thinking?
She threw herself—gratefully—into surviving her new and shocking reality.
She was a young woman who had never fried an egg, driven a car, paid a bill. She had always been surrounded by luxury and now she lived in a cubbyhole about the same size as any of her closets around the world. It felt as if she had been thrown into a new country where she had no map and did not speak the language.
Still, she was shocked—and delighted—to discover a hidden truth about herself. Shelby Kane was a fighter!
She liked making it on her own. She liked conquering the challenges that she faced every day.
And, as extra incentive for success, she was determined to show her father and Lydia she was not going to be the ruined object of their pity!
CHAPTER TWO
THOUGH HER TALENTS might have been born of complete desperation, Shelby found she had a knack for business as she pushed Eventually to the next level.
Shelby’s connections had helped her to survive and thrive. While walking a fine line—“I’m doing this for fun not because I have to”—her business was becoming the go-to among the rich and famous for the best birthday party or anniversary or family reunion or charity fundraiser.
She’d quickly established that her specialty—what set her apart from all the others—was venue. She knew people who owned some of the most spectacular real estate on earth, and she was able to use her name to talk them into sharing it for the right cause and the right price. Her father allowed her to use Kane properties if it was for her fledgling business, though, annoyingly, he seemed to find her business pursuits cute and she had the feeling he was just waiting for her to either fail spectacularly or lose interest.
But she wasn’t losing interest. If anything, she felt more interested in life every single day. That portfolio of collected photos and locations that she saved for extra-special events kept getting thicker and thicker. When she approached people, even strangers, they were usually surprisingly amenable to her enthusiastic vision, and to having their property enjoyed by others. For the right price or even the right publicity.
And so Angela Fillmore’s eighth birthday had been held at a 150-room castle in the Blue Ridge Mountains outside of Asheville, North Carolina.
Kate and Landon Whitley had hosted four hundred guests to help them celebrate fifty years of marriage on a private island in the Caribbean.
The Wellingtons had welcomed four generations of family for a reunion on board a superyacht off the coast of Greece.
The Ladies Aid League of New York had held their charity ball—their most successful event ever—at a luxurious Martha’s Vineyard estate.
The learning curve was steep. Sometimes, when the smoke had cleared, Shelby had not made as much money as she had hoped, and on one disastrous occasion she had even lost money, and the stress of planning events was often unrelenting.
She lay awake at night thinking of bills. And of juggling Peter to pay Paul. And going over all the hundreds of details involved in creating a successful event.
And yet, she was succeeding. She had been able to hire an assistant, Marcus. And underlying the hum of worry and stress was a sense of satisfaction. Accomplishment. The truth was, she was finding herself—her strength, her creativity, her confidence and even her leadership abilities—in the task of being responsible for people’s hopes and happiness.
And then Lydia had thrown her a curveball. She wanted Shelby to plan her father’s sixty-fifth birthday party.
Shelby was not sure if it was, on Lydia’s part, a test or a fledgling act of trust.
What she did know was that she needed not just to take this on, but also to make it her most spectacular event ever. She needed them to see how far she had come, she needed to prove this wasn’t just some cute little game she was playing that she would soon lose interest in and come back begging for their assistance.
Shelby had refused Lydia’s money. And said she would be happy to give the party as a gift to her father.
And she had known exactly where to have it.
In that folder she kept, there was one place that stood above them all. She had come across it in a magazine in the waiting room of a corporate office whose CEO’s anniversary she was planning. The magazine had been about ranching, of all things.
It had drifted open to a photo that had taken Shelby’s breath away and made her heart sigh with longing, or maybe even knowing.
The magazine article had been about the history of ranching in that part of Southern Alberta. The photo that captured her soul had been of a huge timber-frame barn, with a traditional gambrel roof. It sat, solid, on the edge of a wooded ravine, the mountains beyond that.
The description said the 150-year-old structure was on the Mountain Waters Ranch and had been decommissioned as a barn for over fifty years. It was now used exclusively to service the surrounding ranch community, hosting graduations, weddings, family reunions, birthday parties and anniversaries.
She had looked at that photo as if it was a long, cool drink and she was dying of thirst. The photo was taken outside the huge, wide-open double doors that led into the barn. One might expect a barn to be dark, but surprisingly, light poured in from double doors, also open, at the other end of the structure. Those doors framed a painting-like vista of valleys and mountains.
The cavernous barn interior was both majestic and cozy with open beams and rafters. Again—surprisingly—gorgeous, gigantic chandeliers hung at the center of each of the four crossbeams. The slatted wooden ceiling and the walls had aged to the color of maple syrup.
Though there were no people in the photo, it was obvious the space had been set up for a wedding. At least two hundred matching chairs, white, with pale blue bows on the back, faced those incredible open back doors and the views beyond them.
Shelby, of course, had recognized her own weakness because of the horrible Keith choice, and was totally sworn off romance.
It felt like way too close a call, a brush with disaster. What if, caught in the thrall of romantic illusion, she had actually married him? It made her shudder to think!
And yet, when she had seen that photo, it was as if every lesson she’d learned evaporated. It was as if some much-suppressed part of herself surged to the forefront. Shelby—who didn’t even have a boyfriend, and hoped to never have one again—had had the completely ridiculous thought This is where I will get married.
Why would she need to get married? Running her business took all her time and energy and was fulfilling in ways she had not expected in the least. She was free of the neediness of women who pursued a relationship—and marriage—as if that was some kind of holy grail that would give them every single satisfaction they had ever sought in life.
Still, even knowing it was not rational—lying to herself that her interest was strictly professional—she had surreptitiously torn that picture from the magazine and folded it carefully into her handbag to put in her portfolio.
Since she knew—rationally—that she was not getting married, why not impress her father with this location for the most spectacular sixty-fifth birthday party ever?
That, however, was proving to be a major problem, because Samuel Waters, the reclusive widowed billionaire who owned the ranch, turned out not to be one of those amenable owners who could be persuaded to share a special place.
Even with all her sources, Shelby could not lay her hands on a phone number for him. She did find an email.
But Mr. Waters had only answered one of her three dozen emails. With a single word.
No.
Without having met him, Shelby was pretty sure she disliked Samuel Waters nearly as much as her wicked stepmother.
Which was not mature.
Really, she had hoped her perseverance over the many challenges of the past eighteen months would be worth something. She had hoped she would be much more grown-up by now than to dislike someone sight unseen.
Though, she hoped to be seeing Mr. Waters very soon. She was not taking his no as a final answer. She was sure she could convince him. She was going to beard the lion in his own den.
Or on his own ranch as the case might be.
The range road, finally, began a gradual uphill climb. It wound through lovely copses of trees, the green of their leaves new and vibrant. Every now and then Shelby caught sight of a creek meandering beside the road.
She opened her window and sure enough, she could hear the babbling of the waters. And birdsong. The air had a purity and a crispness to it she was not sure she had ever experienced before. She suddenly did not feel the aloneness as a burden.
She came to the top of the hill and stopped. For the second time, Shelby got out of the car, taking in the incredible view of the valley below her.
The road wound down to a ranch and entered under a wooden archway with a wrought iron sign hanging from the thick log crossbeam. The sign had a single cowboy in relief, gazing off into the distance, and the words Mountain Waters Ranch.
From her viewpoint on the hill, the buildings looked as if they belonged to a child’s toy set. It was obvious this was a very prosperous operation. There was a white barn, and some outbuildings, corrals, and a sandy riding arena. There was also a runway and an airplane hangar, which was good because she was not sure about asking people to drive this far for a party.
She was pretty certain the wicked stepmother could arrange for the Kane private jet to ferry people from the Calgary International Airport. And maybe Lydia could even pony up for some helicopter transport.
The view gently swept the preoccupation with logistics from Shelby’s mind. In the distance, where fields gave way to a valley, was the barn, perched on the edge of a ravine carved out by thousands of years of water flowing through it.
The photos had not done it justice. The weathered building, hewn, weather-grayed logs with thick chinking between them, was huge and spectacular.
But at least as spectacular as that barn, situated at the center of the ranch, like a hub, was a sprawling log house that had not been in the photo Shelby had seen.
Several gigantic trees shaded the wraparound porch, but smoke chugged out of a river-rock chimney a defense against the mountain crispness in the air.
Shelby felt the oddest longing looking at the place.
Somehow, the house and the buildings fit here, as if they had been here forever and would stay here forever.
There was a solidness about the Mountain Waters Ranch that made her sigh with a deep and surprising sense of yearning. That cluster of buildings in that wide valley whispered of tradition and history and family. A place, isolated from the world, where people had found safety and sanctuary, and made home for a hundred years, or maybe longer.
Her feeling that it would be perfect for her father’s sixty-fifth deepened to a conviction that it was the only place that would do.
And she discovered how invested she was in wanting to be the one to give him that extra-special day, to show him she loved him, despite his falling under the sway of her wicked stepmother. And that she was worthy, somehow...
She got back in the little car and drove the shaded road down the hill. The road curved left to the house and right to the barn and outbuildings. She took the left turn and found herself at a parking pad, in front of a neat yard. Again, she felt that sigh, almost like recognition.
A swing dangled from a branch of one of those trees. There was an expanse of well-tended lawn, vibrantly green. A bed of red tulips formed a half circle around the veranda, and the thick green leaves stirred in the breeze.
Wide stone steps made their way up to a deep veranda scattered with furniture, though Shelby’s eyes rested on the two rocking chairs, side by side, which looked out across the sweeping yard and beyond to the buildings, and beyond that to the endless mountains.
A child’s shout, high-pitched with excitement, drew her attention away from the house. She turned, shaded her eyes and saw him.
The man, probably fifty yards away, was the quintessential picture of a cowboy. Booted and hatted, he was leaning on his elbows on the top rail of a wooden pole fence that enclosed a riding arena. One long leg was hitched on the bottom rail. He had on a dark denim shirt, jeans faded to nearly white and, of course, the cowboy boots and the hat. There was something in his stature, the broadness of his shoulders, the leanness at his waist and hips, that suggested both power and grace.
He turned and gave her a cursory look, the brim of his white cowboy hat keeping his face shaded.
Even though she couldn’t see his features, she could feel something stir in her.
Be still, my heart, she commanded herself. She thought he would come to her—how many strangers would show up here, after all?—but no, he turned his attention away from her, as if her appearance held no interest to him whatsoever.
Shelby felt dismissed, in the same way she had when she’d received that single-word response to her emails. It was a somewhat new feeling in her Kane world. She was also aware that, despite the rudeness of the email, she had expected a certain rural friendliness, a tipped hat, a howdy, ma’am.
She debated. Go knock on the door of the house? The tulips held some promise of hospitality, didn’t they?
But then she spotted the source of that shout that had drawn her attention in the first place.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of course the cowboy hadn’t come over! He was supervising a child. A small, adorable child. She looked to be about five, and she was sitting on a chubby palomino pony on the other side of the fence from the man.
Shelby started to make her way toward the riding arena, but the heel of one shoe sank deep into the spring soft ground. She contemplated that for a moment. Shoes of this quality were not in the budget if she broke the heel.
She took both shoes off and went forward barefoot. Despite her control of the first impression going somewhat awry, Shelby reminded herself of her mission. She also reminded herself maturity was required.
The little girl suddenly saw Shelby. Her expression was anything but curious. The child looked furious!
As Shelby approached the rail at the far end of the arena, the little girl pulled the pony around, pointed him in Shelby’s direction and laid her heels to him. He reluctantly broke into a trot, and then a clunky canter as she pummeled him with her legs.
She arrived at Shelby in a cloud of dust. As it settled, Shelby took her in. Dark, wild curls tumbled out from under a pink cowboy hat. She had a leather-fringed vest on over a Pawsy-Poo T-shirt. The only reason Shelby knew who Pawsy-Poo was was because she had done a themed party for a little girl obsessed with the cartoon character.
The child had on a leather skirt that matched her vest, with black tights. The ensemble ended at her feet, which were encased in pink cowboy boots.
She had beautifully delicate features, eyes that reminded Shelby of the deer that she had encountered earlier. She had a tiny bow of a mouth, though her loveliness was distorted by her scowl and the downturn of said bow.
Peripherally, she was aware of the cowhand now striding along the arena toward them.
“Hel—”
She was given no opportunity to finish her greeting.
The child pulled a toy from a holder at her waist and pointed it directly at Shelby.
“Bang.”
If Shelby was not mistaken, she had just been shot with a fashion doll.
She had no choice. She dropped her shoes, staggered backward and clasped her chest. She closed her eyes, let her knees fold under her and fell to the ground with as much drama as possible.
“I’ve been shot,” she whispered, hoping the grass was not staining her outfit, because like the shoes, she did not have the means to replace it.
When she heard a reluctant giggle, Shelby quit worrying about the outfit, or about being mature. Maturity was not all it was cracked up to be, anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
SHELBY LAY THERE, STILL, until she felt a shadow fall over her. She opened her eyes. Then she felt as if she really had been shot.
The man gazing down at her, from underneath the wide brim of that cowboy hat, was 100 percent gorgeous. And he emitted a kind of power and confidence that whispered a warning to Shelby: Not just a cowboy.
His eyes, identical to the child’s, were one shade darker than the most decadent of dark chocolates, and fringed with an abundance of lashes that Epais would have killed to be able to use for an advertisement.
His hair was off his face, held back by the cowboy hat, but it escaped out over his ears and brushed his neck, with a promise of dark curls just like the child’s. His hair was too long, and yet the look was undeniably sexy.
He had high cheekbones, a straight, strong nose, full lips and a hint of a cleft in his chin.
He gazed at her for a moment, and his eyes narrowed, as if he was debating what to do. He was obviously not amused by her reaction to being downed by the doll.
There was definite reluctance when, after a moment, he held out his hand to her. Which was still a long way from howdy, ma’am.
A feeling engulfed her, like a premonition. Not that Shelby had ever been given to such things.
If she took his hand, her life would be changed forever. In ways she could not control. Shelby Kane liked control, a lot.
What she did not like was powerlessness.
And yet that was what she felt as she reached out to his proffered hand. Powerless. As if she had given in to a spell, one loaded with a kind of savage sizzle rather than sweet enchantment.
