Ever since his arrival he’d been asked to dance to every song. Drinks had been sent over. A blonde named Suzy with long and very shapely legs displayed to mid-thigh had brought over an entire bottle of champagne. If he’d been in the market for a date, all of the attention would have been very flattering. As it was, it was making him jittery. His willpower was only so strong, and some of these women were doing their best to destroy it. Alcohol, cleavage, caresses—it was enough to test a saint.
But over the years Hardy had discovered that there were two days of the year on which a dedicated bachelor had to be on his guard: New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day. For 363 days a man could pretty much date whomever he pleased without worrying too much about the consequences. Pay a woman a little too much attention on either of those occasions, however, and a man could all but kiss his freedom goodbye. New Year’s and Valentine’s Day were meant for lovers and commitment, at least that’s how the women he knew saw them.
At 29, Hardy still valued his freedom. Even surrounded by some of the most enthusiastic proponents of marriage in the universe at White Pines, he remained a staunchly determined holdout. He had his reasons. Good reasons. Reasons rooted deeply in the past, a past he never talked about and tried not to remember. He lived in the moment, not the past, and never the future.
He fended off another admirer, took a long swallow of the sole beer he’d been nursing, and tried to relax and get into the spirit of the party. It was hard to do when the only other bachelor not on the dance floor was the grizzled cook, who only had half a dozen of his own teeth left and forgot his plate with the fake ones more often than not. Sweeney was a whiz with a skillet, on the trail or off, but he wasn’t much of a talker. He didn’t seem to care much about women one way or the other.
“Hey, Hardy, what’s your New Year’s resolution?” Slade Sutton shouted across the bar, his arm wrapped tightly around the waist of the petite woman with him. “Aren’t you creeping up on thirty? Is this the year you’re finally going to let some lady catch you?”
Hardy scowled at the teasing. “Not a chance, Sutton. Just because you’ve got the prettiest woman in Texas by your side these days doesn’t mean the rest of us intend to fall into that trap.”
The very recently wed Val Sutton regarded Hardy with feigned indignation. “And just what is wrong with marriage?”
Hardy pretended to think really hard. “Let me see if I can count that high.”
“One of these days,” Slade taunted, “you are going to fall so hard you’ll knock yourself out.”
“Never happen,” Hardy insisted.
“If you had a woman, you wouldn’t be sitting all alone at the bar looking pathetic on New Year’s Eve,” Slade persisted. For a man who’d taken his own sweet time acknowledging how he felt about his new wife, Slade seemed awfully eager to see Hardy follow in his footsteps. He had all the fervor of a recent convert.
“I guess you’ve missed all the women who’ve been over here tonight. Val must have put blinders on you,” Hardy retorted.
“Watch it,” Val warned. “I may be little, but I pack a mean punch.”
Hardy grinned at her. She was a spirited little thing. All woman, too. He fondly recalled all the times she’d sashayed around the ranch on outrageously spiked heels just to catch Slade’s attention. The other hands had appreciated it, even if Slade hadn’t.
“Oh, if only I’d seen you first,” he said with an exaggerated sigh that was only partly in jest. Val was a keeper, all right. Even he could admit that. If he’d been a marrying man—and if it hadn’t been so plain that Val fit with Slade and his daughter, Annie—Hardy might have made a pass at her when she’d first turned up at White Pines.
“One date with me and you’d never have settled for a broken-down cowboy like Slade,” he told her.
She gave him a thorough once-over, then turned to her husband and did the same. When her survey ended, she regarded him with exaggerated sorrow. “Sorry, Hardy. Slade’s the man for me, has been ever since I first laid eyes on him.”
“Yeah, we all noticed that,” Hardy conceded. “Took him a long time to catch on, though. He must be real slow.”
“Since it’s New Year’s Eve, I’m not going to take offense at that,” Slade retorted. “But I may make it my personal mission this year to see to it that you’re the next White Pines bachelor to fall. If the word just happens to get out to Harlan Adams that you’re looking to settle down, he’ll take a personal interest in seeing you married. The man’s got quite a success rate. Now that his son Cody and grandson Harlan Patrick are running the ranch, the old man’s got a lot of time on his hands to dedicate to matchmaking. He’s made it a full-time hobby.”
Hardy shuddered, a reaction he didn’t have to feign. “I take it all back,” he said quickly. “Just stay the heck away from my love life—you and Harlan.”
He’d already resolved to start the millennium by sampling as many women as he possibly could. Playing the field suited him just fine. He figured his life couldn’t get much sweeter. A new woman every night pretty much kept boredom at bay. He played fair with every one of them. Treated them like queens. Respected them. Laid his cards on the table right up front, too, so they wouldn’t go getting ideas that would result in hurt down the road.
Yet it never ceased to amaze him how many of those same women—smart as whips, most of them—could ignore what a man said when it didn’t suit them. They seemed especially deaf on a night like tonight.
Yes, indeed, New Year’s Eve was a marital minefield, and Hardy had no intention of having his firm resolution to remain a bachelor blown to bits.
He checked his watch, saw that he had an hour to spare before the clock struck midnight, then slid off the barstool. “Think I’ll be heading home,” he announced.
“Hey, it’s not even midnight,” Slade said. “You turn into a pumpkin if you stay out too late?”
“Maybe I’ve got a hot date waiting,” he retorted, wishing it were true. As it was, he intended to get the best night’s sleep he’d get until February fourteenth.
Famous last words.
Trish Delacourt was on the lam.
She had planned to be tucked away in a cozy little bed-and-breakfast with a fireplace in her room on New Year’s Eve. She had it all picked out. She’d made the reservation the minute she’d seen the brochure. Her father, who had standing accounts in every luxury hotel in the world, would never think to look for her in some stranger’s home.
And Bryce Delacourt was looking for her. She didn’t doubt it for a minute. He was too controlling, too convinced he knew what was best for everyone around him not to be. He’d probably put half a dozen of his best private investigators on her trail the instant he’d realized she was gone.
Fortunately for her she was resourceful and her father was a workaholic. She had managed to sneak out of Houston while he was away on a business trip he’d sandwiched between Christmas and New Year’s. The head start had been critical. Even a couple of days might keep her out of his reach as long as she kept moving and steered away from all the big cities where her father would be likely to concentrate his search. He was probably combing Dallas at this very minute, dead certain that she’d go somewhere where she could be pampered.
But at 25, Trish was tired of being the pampered, only daughter of an oil tycoon with four headstrong sons, who also treated her as if she were made of spun glass. She was tired of her father’s condescending attitude toward her work. He acted as if the business she loved was no more than an indulgence, a cute little hobby to keep her occupied until she married someone suitable.
Of course he knew precisely whom she should marry. He’d handpicked the man for her, then all but coached him into proposing. For a time she’d been caught up in the whirlwind courtship, blinded by Jack’s good looks, dimpled smile and easy charm. She had almost fallen in with her father’s plan.
