That gave Ryder pause. A business agreement wouldn’t be charity, and it wouldn’t be a loan he could never pay back; it would be an investment. Equine-assisted therapy had the potential to start bringing in money almost as soon as they began taking on clients, which meant she would see a return on her backing before too long.

  Even if she was a few checkers short, it was something they could put in writing, make legally binding. She’d get what she wanted from the deal, and he wouldn’t be taking her money…he’d be borrowing it for a while until he could make sure she got it back—with interest.

  With every nerve of his body screaming for him to marry the damn woman and take the money she was freely offering, the gentleman in him still tried to change her mind.

  “You don’t want to marry me.” He kept his tone stern. More to stiffen his resolve than to quell hers.

  “Yes, I do. I really, really do!” she responded so quickly, she couldn’t possibly have thought it through.

  “I’m a rancher, darlin’. I spend all my time with cattle and horses,” he said. “At the end of most days, I smell worse than they do.”

  “I don’t care. I like horses. Maybe you can even teach me to ride.” She shrugged again as she slipped down on the seat, into a slouched position.

  He took head-to-toe inventory of her, from the soft, porcelain flesh of her fingers to the tips of her stylish, white satin heels. She didn’t look like she’d ever seen a horse in her life, but he sure as hell could imagine teaching her to ride. Reverse cowgirl was a personal favorite.

  “I’ve been a bachelor all my life,” he added. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about living with a woman. I leave wet towels on the bathroom floor, dirty dishes in the sink. I’m a slob.”

  “’S’okay with me,” she slurred. “I don’t care how untrained you are.”

  As hard as he tried not to, he had to chuckle at the idea of a man needing to be “trained.” It was probably true. There were times—like now—when the horse stalls were cleaner than parts of his house.

  “What do you say?” she asked, making a great—and apparently difficult—effort to pull her legs up by the three-inch heels of her shoes and prop her feet on the dashboard. The action caused the pile of unpaid bills he’d moved earlier to slide back across the seat. One stamped with Final Notice in bold red lettering jumped into his vision like a coiled rattlesnake, and the humiliation gave him pretty much the same sick feeling in the bottom of his gut as a deadly sidewinder would have.

  A thousand arguments raced through his mind. He wasn’t ready to be tied down and certainly wasn’t in the market for a business partner. He didn’t need a woman underfoot, getting in his way, throwing tantrums, and telling him what to do. When he did decide to marry, it would be to a woman who knew what running a ranch was all about. She’d ride and rope, be tough enough to get thrown, but climb right back in the saddle. She’d cook and clean and all-in-all make his life easier.

  One look at the woman next to him and he knew she would only make his life more difficult. Hell, she’d already made his life more difficult, and he’d known her for less than an hour.

  So why wasn’t he trying harder to dissuade her from both her goofy marital plan and her apparent eagerness to ply him with cash? Why didn’t he put his foot down and say, “No way in hell, woman!”?

  Something about her made it impossible for Ryder to say no to her. It wasn’t that she was beautiful—though she absolutely was. Maybe it was her determination. He didn’t want to crush her spirit more than it already had been. And who knew what guy she’d proposition next if Ryder didn’t keep an eye on her.

  She was offering the money he needed to finally turn the Rolling Rock profitable, for chrissake. It wasn’t a personal decision but a business deal. And wouldn’t it burn Stephanie’s britches if he took off from his sister’s wedding only to attend one of his own!

  A small smile tugged at his lips. His ex would be furious. She’d probably try to scratch his eyes out next time she saw him. Which was about what he’d wanted to do when she’d sidled up to him at the reception with that new lap dog boyfriend, young enough to be his son, at her side. It would serve Stephanie right if he got married—and not to her.

  Not that he’d set out to intentionally upset Stephanie. They were better off without each other, and he suspected she knew it. But it sure would be nice to see her face the next time they ran into each other if he had a lovely new bride on his arm.

  He shot a glance at the woman beside him. A stranger. A drunken stranger. A drunken stranger out of her mind with grief.

  A stranger dressed for a wedding. Hell, they were both dressed for it. What more of a sign could he ask for? Maybe Fate had dropped this woman—strange as she was—in his lap for a reason.

  The hem of her gown slipped just then, catching his eye and slowly revealing the turn of her ankle, smooth calves, the delicate bend of a knee, and two very slim thighs. The kind that went all the way up.

  Damn! He was going to do it.

  One glimpse of that smooth skin and the thought of what it would be like to get her all the way out of that dress, and the rest of his argument died in his throat. Fifty thousand dollars and a chance—just a chance—to get between those silky thighs. It was more than some men could hope for.

  And it wasn’t like it would be a real marriage. Something in name only. Maybe with a few fringe benefits.

  It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, so he certainly wouldn’t turn her away from his bed if that’s where she wanted to be. And he could be mighty persuasive when he tried; he’d do his damnedest to make sure that’s exactly where she wanted to be.

  But in the end, no matter what passed between them, they could both get out of it. Annulment, divorce, whatever it took. They’d just play at being husband and wife for a while. Until Stephanie’s eyes bugged out of her head and the bank stopped breathing down his neck. Until this woman saw that Matt and Josie belonged together.

  What better way to make sure she didn’t tarnish his baby sister’s happiness than to keep an eye on her? Like the saying went, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, half hoping she’d change her mind before he did something stupid. “About the money and the husband/wife thing.”

  She blinked several times, and he realized she’d nearly fallen asleep. He might have been better off not disturbing her.

  Too late now.

  When her vision cleared, she gave a determined nod. “I’m sure.”

  “It’s gotta be in writing,” he told her. “All of it.”

  “Fine with me,” she said with a shrug, then went back to what he assumed was the online marriage license application she seemed so intent on filling out on her phone.

  He almost smiled as he turned the wheel of the truck a fraction, heading for Route 93. Toward Vegas. “Well, then, I guess you do know me.”

  “I do.” Then she rested her head against the window and let out a yawn. “So what’s your name, anyway?”

  …

  Ryder stood in front of a black-clad minister who looked like he’d done this at least a thousand times already today. The tiny chapel, adequately named Chapel o’ Love, sat on the very outskirts of Las Vegas and was the last place Ryder thought they could get this thing done before heading home. They’d already driven into the heart of Vegas, where he’d stirred his bride-to-be enough to wobble her way into the county clerk’s office and pick up the marriage license. She’d fallen asleep again almost as soon as he’d lifted her into the truck, and he’d had to shake her awake again to make their way inside the chapel, sternly reminding her that this entire fiasco had been her idea.

  Finally, as he’d talked to a woman in a skin-tight, zebra-striped jumpsuit about setting up the ceremony, she’d sobered herself enough to pull the newly minted marriage certificate from her endless cleavage, give her full name—it appeared he was marrying a Monica Elizabeth Blair—and walk herself down the aisle, which was all of six feet long.

  He signed the necessary papers and paid what he considered an exorbitant amount for rings that probably weren’t worth spit, just so his bride would have something on her finger. He also had her sign the most basic agreement he’d been able to fit on the back of that damn Final Notice, stating she’d invest fifty thousand dollars into the equine therapy plans for the ranch now that he’d gone through with his part of the bargain. To be paid back at a fifty-fifty split from equine-assisted therapy profits as soon as the enterprise began making money, with a reasonable amount of interest tacked on, to be fair.

  She stood beside him now, her arm linked with his, trying not to drift back into la-la land. Her head rested on his shoulder, and Ryder hoped the preacher took it as a sign of a bride-to-be’s adoration rather than what it really was—alcohol-induced exhaustion.

  As the minister droned on about love and commitment, Ryder gave himself a mental pat on the back for not making a run for it. In the past, any time he’d contemplated marriage in any way, shape, or form, it had caused him to break out in a cold sweat. Maybe because marriage signaled an end to his self-reliant, carefree lifestyle. Or maybe because the idea of being responsible for another person shook him all the way to the soles of his boots.

  Sure, he’d been responsible for Josie for most of her life, but only in a big brother capacity. Mom and Pop had always been there to provide the main instruction. Ryder only had to tell her silly stories, kiss her skinned knees once in a while, and scowl at any boy who dared to even look at his little sister cross-eyed. Other than that, he’d been footloose and fancy free, responsible for no one, answering to no one, pleasing only himself. It was a good life. He didn’t want to see it end.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Monica stifling a yawn and wondered why he was willing to stand at the altar now, after avoiding it so well all these years. It certainly wasn’t because he thought this woman would make him a good wife.

  Ha! He barely managed to bite down on a scoff. If anything, she’d bring him more trouble than he could handle. She was a woman scorned, a woman with pain in her heart and vengeance on her mind. A woman with a plan.

  God help them all.

  Yet here he stood, in front of what he hoped was a bona fide Man of God—in Las Vegas, you never could tell—binding them together as husband and wife, till death or divorce did they part.

  Ryder nodded at all the proper increments, said “I do” when the time came, and prompted Monica to do the same. No second thoughts, no cold feet, no last-minute escape route popping into his head. He simply stood there and got married.

  And the only reasoning he could come up with—other than the promise of being able to pay off his debts—was that he knew this wasn’t a real marriage. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t husband material because Monica didn’t want a real husband. She only wanted someone to be her husband long enough to try to make Matthew Castor jealous. It didn’t matter if Ryder could care for her or make her happy, because Monica wasn’t marrying him to be taken care of. And the only thing that would make her happy, apparently, was revenge.

  So he just had to sit back, say “I do,” and sign the annulment papers when the time came. He could do that.

  When the preacher said he could kiss the bride, Ryder took Monica’s chin between his fingers, lifted her face, and placed a soft kiss on her lips.

  “Well, Rapunzel, you’re out of the tower. Now what?”

  Without opening her eyes, she smiled and snuggled back into the crook of his shoulder. “My prince,” she murmured.

  So much for a delighted bride, he thought as he scooped her into his arms and carried her back out to the truck.

  Chapter Three

  Don’t worry about biting off more than you can chew—your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger than you think.

  Monica stretched, yawned, and then rolled out of bed, heeding the pressure on her bladder over the pounding in her head that urged her to go back to sleep.

  Stumbling across the carpeted floor, she walked into the bathroom and was suddenly surrounded by a jungle of hanging vines, grabbing at her arms and face. She swatted them away, opening her eyes enough to see that it wasn’t vines but long-sleeve shirts accosting her. Thank God. For a second there, she thought she’d stumbled onto the set of a new Tarzan movie. And she just was not in the mood to deal with any Ape Men this morning, especially if it meant living in a tree house and peeing in the bushes.

  Backing out of the closet, she tried another doorway, paying more attention this time to furnishings. She traveled a lot for her job and was used to waking up in strange places. From luxury hotels to dingy motels, and even the occasional cabin in the woods, where she bunked with a dozen other crew members. Sometimes she even had trouble navigating her own apartment when she was first home after a trip, so not finding the bathroom on the first try wasn’t exactly unusual. The second attempt, though, was a win.

  After going to the bathroom, brushing her teeth to get rid of the terrible exhaust-pipe flavor every time she swallowed, and running a hand through the tangle of her hair, she went back into the bedroom, hoping to catch a few more hours of sleep before being forced to face reality.

  She must have downed a gallon of egg drop soup and shrimp lo mein with extra MSG, then vegged out in front of the TV half the night to feel so sluggish this morning. Of course, considering Matt’s betrayal, she thought she’d handled herself pretty well. At least she hadn’t thrown herself off the Sears Tower or cried herself to sleep. Or, worse yet, crashed his wedding like she’d momentarily considered.

  Crawling back into bed, she pulled the sheet up to her chin, then wrapped her arm around the extra pillow. So warm and soft and…moving? With a stifled scream, she threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. A sandy-haired head rested near the edge of the mattress, connected to bronzed shoulders and a smooth, equally tan back.

  Her gaze darted around the room, looking for some weapon to defend herself as she considered calling 911. But this wasn’t her bedroom, she realized, or even an on-location hotel room, which meant the man in the bed most likely belonged here…and she didn’t.

  She covered her eyes, wondering where she had picked him up and why she would suddenly have a one-night stand when she’d never been promiscuous a day in her life.

  Oh, lord, he was moving. She raced back into the bathroom and slammed the door, resting her head against the hard wood until she could calm her frantic nerves.

  What have I done? Who is this guy? What if he won’t let me leave?

  A knock on the other side of the door scared her senseless and caused her to yip before she had a chance to slap a hand over her mouth.

  “Excuse me,” a deep, muffled male voice uttered. “But, um…do you know you’re in the bathroom?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but only a small squeak came out.

  “Are you okay in there?”

  “Who are you?” she managed, glad her voice sounded only half as panicked as she felt.

  “The name’s Ryder Nash, ma’am,” he said, a note of amusement evident in his tone. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me.”

  I don’t remember anything, she thought, but refrained from telling him that. After all, she may need to make up some kind of story later on to escape.

  “Look at your left hand,” he told her.

  Confused, she glanced down.

  This time, a full-lung scream did escape her lips. She didn’t even bother to clamp a hand over her mouth or try to stifle the noise. She just screamed and screamed until there was no air left to breathe.

  “Oh my God,” she muttered. “What have I done?”

  “Excuse me, Rapunzel,” the masculine voice said again, in the most annoyingly calm voice. “But if you’re done screaming, I’d kind of like to use the privy.”

  Privy? Dueling banjos started playing in her head. Oh, man, what kind of local yokel had she hooked up with?

  And then her mind fixed on the first thing he’d said. Rapunzel. He’d called her Rapunzel.

  Had she actually told this total stranger one of her repressed fairy tale fantasies? Worse yet, had they acted it out?

  Her mind boggled. Her eyes crossed and she slid down the length of the door to the cold tile floor. She heard him knocking, but none of his words registered.

  There was a ring on her finger. A diamond ring. But worse than that, there was also a small gold band.

  If this meant what she thought it meant, she was in deep trouble.

  She was in a strange man’s house…in a strange man’s bathroom. And, apparently, she was married to that strange man.

  Good heavens—what had she done?

  His knocking continued, and finally she snapped, “What?”

  “If you don’t mind, I have to piss like a racehorse,” he said in a frustrated, brook-no-arguments voice. “Let me in.”

  She rolled to her knees, then used the rim of the bathtub for support as she raised herself to her feet.

  “All right,” she said, her hand on the knob. “I’m going to open the door, but I want you to stand back and let me pass before trying to come in.”

  He didn’t respond, but she thought she heard him utter a muffled expletive beneath his breath.

  “I mean it,” she said, forcing a bravado into her words that she definitely did not feel.

  After a moment, she heard a gritted, “Fine.”

  Opening the door a crack, she peeked out and saw him standing at the far side of the door, arms at his sides. As her gaze moved up his body, she spotted strong, hairy legs, a pair of hunter green and white wide-striped boxer shorts, and a swath of dark, suntanned skin surrounding his navel and moving upward.

  When her hazy brain began to notice things like a washboard stomach and strong, smooth pectorals, she closed her eyes to hold back a tide of panic. A near-naked man was waiting to use the bathroom while she waited for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

  A tall, lithe, drop-dead gorgeous, half-nude man, she corrected. And she hadn’t even gotten above the neck.