“Whoa. My boots are the most comfortable footwear I own. In Texas you wear ’em with a suit. I’ve even seen them worn with a tux.”
Lilia closed her eyes and visibly shuddered. “Never, ever wear boots with a suit of any kind. Please. Especially not outside of your home state. You will be the butt of jokes. You will most certainly embarrass your family at an English wedding if you do so.”
Dan sighed. “Well, what’s wrong with my belt? It’s custom-made.”
Her face became devoid of expression. “I strongly advise leaving that here. I’m sure the other guests will remember your name without having to read it over your backside.”
He didn’t particularly care for her dry tone. “It’s a Western tradition. In fact, I’m having two belts made for Claire and her new husband as sorta ‘stocking stuffer’ wedding gifts.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“One’s gonna say ‘bride’ and the other’ll say ‘groom.’ In script, which is real hard for the guy to do.”
Lilia opened her mouth but no sound came out. He guessed that meant she didn’t think the belts were a good idea.
“Of course, I’ll get them something silver as the real gift. I was hoping you’d help me choose.”
She nodded. “I’d be happy to do that. Anyhow, Shannon will help with wardrobe, as I mentioned, while you and I get down to work on polite conversation, correct table manners under all sorts of circumstances and ballroom dancing. You mentioned a steeplechase, I believe? I assume you know how to ride?”
“I was practically born in a saddle.”
“Yes, but have you ridden English style before?”
“Hell, no. Little velvet caps and silly britches aren’t my style. And I use a real man’s saddle.”
“Have you ever taken fences, Dan?”
“Taken ’em? I’ve mended fences.”
A frown marred her smooth forehead. “You do realize that during a steeplechase you’ll be expected to jump over obstacles? Very large obstacles?”
Dan scratched his head. “Yeah. I’ve never figured out that part. Seems dumb to me. Why not just go around ’em?”
“It takes a very good seat and firm hands and lots of practice…”
“I’m not too worried.”
“Riding lessons, English saddle,” Lilia said firmly, writing it down on a monogrammed notepad.
He curled his lip. “You’re not gettin’ me in those bun-hugger pansy pants or a velvet hat.”
She waved a dismissive hand at him and continued to write. “We’ll go see Jean Pierre for some dancing lessons, and then you and I can practice every day… Oh, and we’ll need to schedule a manicure for you.”
“Come again? Did you say ‘manicure’?”
“Yes, Dan, I did. Your nails are ragged and your hands are in bad shape. I’m even going to suggest a paraffin wax treatment.”
“Get outta here,” he exclaimed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re yanking my chain, right? I’m not going to some salon for a—”
“Yes, you are. And we’re also going to schedule you a haircut with Enrique right away. Plus I’ll set you up with some light reading—etiquette books that you’ll need to read and study every night over the next two weeks.”
“I watch ESPN at night, and COPS, and the History channel. Bad movies. True crime shows.”
“Not for the next fourteen days, Dan. Remember Cary Grant. Otherwise you’ll be wasting your money.”
He groaned.
She eyed him sympathetically. “You’re very sweet to do this for your sister, you know. You must love her very much.”
He looked down at the scarred hands that had proudly wielded shovels, hammers and rifles. Hands that had delivered calves and foals, mended fences and steered two-ton trucks. Beer-drinking hands. For Claire, they were shortly to be defiled by a manicure. Ugh.
“My sister was about the one bright spot in my life, growing up. And you know what’s funny? I thought I’d hate her. But I fell in love with that little girl the minute I saw her.”
“You thought you’d hate her? May I ask why?”
Dan sighed. “It’s complicated.”
She nodded and he stood up. “Well, it’s been a long day, Miz Lilia. I think I’d like to go find my hotel room and take a hot shower. Enjoy my last night of television before being brainwashed by Emily Post.”
Her lips twitched. “No such luck. I have reading material to give you right away.” And his elegant little tormentor pulled a fat three-ring binder out of a filing drawer. She handed it to him with a wry smile. “Let the brainwashing begin.”
Dan accepted it with a scowl and picked up his duffel. “It’s been real nice meeting you. I can’t wait to be transformed into a gentleman with a capital G. And I am sorry about destroying your china and your chair.”
“That’s all right. I’ll survive.” She smiled at him. “This won’t be so bad, you know.”
He scrubbed a hand over his bristly jaw and moved toward the door of her office. Then he turned and winked. “If I come in here tomorrow claiming whiplash, will it get me another kiss?”
She stared at him, an odd expression on her face. “No, Mr. Granger, it will not.”
AFTER WALKING HIM out to the front door, Lil stared after the man, watched his jaunty, confident stride and the way he swung the duffel by a couple of fingers on the way out to his rental car. She shouldn’t be ogling him, but she enjoyed the view of his broad shoulders and the quite magnificent male bottom under that dreadful belt.
His stance was cocky and casual. Nothing elegant or cosmopolitan about him. He had two inch-wide strips of hair growing shaggily down his neck in the back, evidence of how long it had been since he’d had a haircut.
He didn’t have a clue how to conduct himself outside of a barn. And she loathed the instant presumption of familiarity that he’d assumed with her.
Yet she found his sheer unselfconsciousness sexy. He was more than comfortable in his own skin, unfettered by convention. A normal man, after wreaking havoc in his etiquette consultant’s office and springing an erection (she even whispered that word mentally) should have run from there, mortified.
This man just took it all in stride and capped it all off by kissing her! He simply refused to accept the fact that he was a…buffoon. An extraordinarily handsome one, but a buffoon nevertheless.
He couldn’t possibly be serious about the matching bride and groom belts, could he?
Granger tossed his carry-on into the passenger side of the rented red Mustang he was driving. His biceps bulged, straining against the short sleeves of his T-shirt. He got into the car himself.
Good Lord. She couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him without his shirt again. She touched her lips, which were still sensitive after being scrubbed by that golden bristle of his.
From behind the windshield, he followed the gesture with his eyes and grinned, his white teeth flashing in the fading sunlight.
Lil dropped her hand as if burned, swung around on one of her kitten-heels and walked back to her office.
Shannon was on the phone and Jane appeared to be gone for the day, so Lil had a few moments to get herself together and think about how to proceed.
Why