Cinderella's Big Sky Groom. Christine Rimmer

where rich-colored kilim rugs covered the hardwood floors. His bed was king-size, of heavy, dark wood. In the sitting area the leather chairs were deeply tufted, finished with nailhead trim. Western art and a few rare-looking Indian tapestries adorned the rough-textured walls. Right then, the huge windows showed only the stars and the shadowy forms of the Crazy Mountains in the distance. But in daylight, the view of blue sky and snow-capped mountains would be breathtaking.

      She murmured, “Oh, Ross. It’s just beautiful.”

      He gave her his rueful smile and ran a forefinger along the surface of a mahogany table. “Dusty, though. My housekeeper is as useless as my secretary.” He didn’t realize his mistake until the words were already out.

      Just like that, the lovely mood fizzled and faded.

      Ross’s smile faded, too. He shook his head. “That was a stupid thing to say.”

      Lynn felt as if a large hand had reached out and shaken her, jarring her cruelly from a sweet and impossible dream. What in the world was she doing here, in a rich man’s bedroom after dark, a glass of brandy in her hand?

      She heard herself asking, “Is Trish…really all that bad?”

      He didn’t immediately reply, but from the grim set of his mouth she could guess what he was thinking. Finally he allowed, “She’s only—what? Twenty-two? That’s pretty young.”

      She knew she should let it go at that. But somehow, she couldn’t. “You didn’t answer my question.”

      His expression turned pained. “Look, I—” He paused, then admitted, “I’m sorry. I know you’re loyal to your sister. But the simple fact is, she’s not working out.”

      It was much worse than that, though Ross didn’t say so.

      The real truth was, Trish Taylor was driving him right up the wall.

      He probably should have known the girl was hopeless from the first. But then, he was accustomed to working in a major firm, where Personnel carefully screened applicants before he ever talked to them.

      At first meeting, she’d seemed bright; she’d lacked experience, but he’d thought she would learn fast. And she was attractive. When he’d interviewed her, she’d worn a nice dark blue business suit; her looks, he’d decided, would be a real plus in terms of an office image. How could he have known that as soon as Trish Taylor had the job, she’d go back to the too-short denim skirts and the dangling Lily Mae Wheeler-type earrings she obviously preferred?

      And her office skills?

      She didn’t have any. The girl had graduated from business school in Bozeman. Her résumé had claimed she knew shorthand and typed sixty words a minute. Unfortunately, she couldn’t seem to decipher her shorthand after she took it. And he’d seen her type. He could type faster, using only two fingers. She was always losing files—in her desktop computer and in the row of legal-sized file cabinets that lined the wall to the right of her work area.

      Lynn was looking down into the amber depths of her brandy. “Maybe if you talked to her…?”

      God, he did not want to discuss this with her.

      But she wouldn’t give it up—any more than she would look into his eyes right then. “Ross. Have you talked to her?”

      “Yes. I have.”

      He’d talked to Trish, all right. More than once. A week ago he’d finally told her frankly that she’d better concentrate harder on her work—or look for another job. It hadn’t done any good.

      Ross knew the main problem; he’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know it. Trish Taylor had a flaming crush on him. Instead of doing her job, she spent her working hours gazing off into nowhere with dreamy eyes, blushing every time he asked her to bring him a file and scheming over new ways to get him chatting about his private life.

      Secretary falls for boss. The oldest cliché in the book. Except the way the cliché usually went, the secretary actually knew how to type. And she also had the tact and grace never to let her feelings show unless she received some indication that they might be returned. Not so with Trish Taylor.

      And Lynn still wasn’t looking at him.

      “Are you going to stare into that glass forever?” he asked, trying for a light tone and not succeeding all that well.

      Lynn made herself look into his eyes again.

      This is totally inappropriate, she told herself. Inappropriate and unacceptable. I should not be standing here in this man’s bedroom, sipping his brandy, while he tells me he’s going to fire my sister any day now.

      “I think we’d better go back downstairs.” She spun on her heel and headed for the hall.

      “Lynn.”

      She froze, but she didn’t turn around.

      He spoke to her back. “There is nothing at all between your sister and me. I’m her boss and she’s my employee. And that’s all.”

      “It’s none of my business.” She tried to start walking again.

      And again he said, “Lynn.”

      “What?” She whirled back to face him then, glaring.

      “Do you believe me?”

      “What does it matter?”

      “It matters.”

      She lifted her chin, drew herself up to her full five foot eleven in heels. “Why?”

      “I might not be the prince you’re looking for, but I would never have brought you here if there was something going on between your sister and me.”

      She kept glaring at him. She wanted so badly to be angry with him. But she wasn’t, not really. At least, not any angrier than she was with herself. She drew a calming breath and let it out slowly. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. And I shouldn’t have come.”