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A Bravo Homecoming
Christine Rimmer
Travis Bravo was sick of his meddling mother and her matchmaking ways. So what better way to stop her than to bring a fiancée home for the holidays? One catch–he wasn't even dating anyone. But that was where his rough-and-tumble oil-rig friend, Samantha Jaworski, came in.An unpolished tomboy, Sam was game for anything for a good friend. But after her girlfriend-ready makeover, she fell easily into the role of Travis's loving partner–and into his arms. Would she be standing under his mistletoe…for keeps?



How easy it would be, to go after her, to grab her free hand, to haul her back to him, wrap his arms around her, kiss her again and again and again.
But he didn’t.
Somehow, he kept his head.
She turned when she reached the doorway to the sitting room. “See you tomorrow.” She quietly shut the door behind her.
He sank to the edge of the bed, wondering what he had gotten himself into.
Thinking he should call the whole thing off.
And knowing he would do no such thing.


Dear Reader,
Travis Bravo’s mom is determined to find him the perfect woman. And she doesn’t listen when he asks her, repeatedly, to stop matchmaking, please. He’s loved and lost and he’s not going there again. Now he just wants to go home for Thanksgiving without having every pretty debutante in San Antonio waiting to meet him.
He comes up with a plan. Yeah, okay, his strategy involves a great big lie. But still. It’s a harmless lie, one that hurts no one. All he needs is the right woman.
His good buddy Samantha “Sam” Jaworski is the perfect choice. He talks her into helping him out a little. Sam’s a soft touch. She’ll do anything for a friend, and Travis is about the best friend she’s got. Plus, Sam wants to make a few changes in her life.
They come to an agreement. She’ll go home with him for Thanksgiving and help him get his mom off his back. He’ll help her spiff up her image and find a new job.
It sounds like a great idea. Until they begin to discover more about themselves—and their true relationship—than either of them bargained for.
Happy holidays, everyone!
Yours always,
Christine Rimmer

A Bravo Homecoming
Christine Rimmer


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHRISTINE RIMMER
came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.
For good men and true-hearted women everywhere.
May your holidays be filled with good cheer, family togetherness and much love!

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One
“Honey, are you seeing anyone special?” Travis Bravo’s mother asked.
Travis stifled a groan. He should have put off calling her back.
But he’d already done that. Twice. In a row. Aleta Bravo was a patient and understanding mom, and she got that he wasn’t real big on keeping in touch. But she did have limits. After the third unreturned call, she would have started to worry. He loved his mom and he didn’t want her worrying.
Besides, when Aleta Bravo started to worry, she might get his dad involved. And if his dad got involved, steps would be taken. The two of them might end up boarding a helicopter and tracking him down in the middle of the Gulf.
No joke. It could happen. His parents had money and they had connections and when they tracked you down, you got found.
So now and then, he had no choice but to call his mom back, both to keep her from worrying and to keep from getting rescued whether he needed it or not.
She was still talking, all cheerful and loving—and way too determined. “I only ask because I have several terrific women I want you to meet this time. Do you, by any chance, happen to remember my dear friend Billie Toutsell?”
He did, vaguely. Not that it mattered if he knew the woman or not. He knew what she had.
Daughters.
At least one, probably two or three.
His mom continued, “Billie and I go way back. And I’ve met both of her girls. Brilliant, well brought up, beautiful women. Cybil and LouJo. It so happens both girls will be in town for Thanksgiving week…” In town meant in San Antonio, where his mom and dad and brothers and sisters still lived. “And I’ve been thinking it would be nice to invite both of them out to the ranch over the holiday weekend, maybe Friday or Saturday. What do you think?” Before he could tell her—again—that he didn’t want to be set up with any of her friends’ daughters, she went right on. “Maybe Billie and her girls would even like to come for Thanksgiving dinner and our reaffirmation of vows.”
After forty years of marriage, his parents were reaffirming their wedding vows, which was great. They’d had some troubles in the past few years, even separated for a while. He supposed it made sense that they would want to celebrate making it through a tough time, coming out on the other side still married and happy to be together.
But did his mother have to invite him and every available single woman in south Texas to the big event?
What made him so damn special? His mother had six other sons and two daughters and they’d all been allowed to find their own wives and husbands. In fact, as of now, he was the only one who had yet to settle down. That, somehow, seemed to have triggered a burning need in her to help him find the woman for him.
Hadn’t she done enough? She’d already introduced him to both of his former fiancées. Rachel, whom he’d loved with all his heart, had been killed eight years ago, run down by a drunk driver while crossing the street. He’d thought he would never get over losing her.
But then, three years later, he’d met Wanda at a family party, over the Christmas holidays. His mother and Wanda’s mother were friends. He shouldn’t have gotten involved with Wanda. But he had. And it had not ended well.
Evidently his mom thought the third time would be the charm. “Oh, Travis. I’m so glad you’ll be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he muttered. “But, Mom, listen. I really don’t need any help finding a girlfriend.”
“Well, of course you don’t, but opportunity is everything. And you’re always off on some oil rig somewhere. How many women are you going to meet on an oil rig?”
“Mom, I—”
She didn’t even let him finish his sentence. “It’s been years. You have to move on. You know that.” She spoke gently.
“I have moved on.”
She sighed. And then she said briskly, “Well, it never hurts to meet new people. And, you know, I’ve recently been acting as a docent—twice a month at the Alamo. It just so happens that I met a lovely young woman there, also a docent, Ashley McFadden. I know you and Ashley would hit it off so well. She’s perfect. Great personality. So smart. So funny.”
Travis winced and sent a desperate glance around the lounge. He could a use a little help about now. He needed someone to rescue him from his own mom.
But rescue was not forthcoming. He was alone with a wide, dark flat-screen TV, a row of snack and drink machines, random sofas and chairs and a matched pair of ping-pong tables. Across the room, a couple of roughnecks were Wii bowling on the other TV. Neither of them even glanced his way.
Faintly all around him, he could hear pounding and mechanical noises and the mostly incomprehensible babbling from the PA system, sounds that were part of life on the Deepwater Venture, a semi-submersible oil platform fifty-seven miles off the coast of Texas.
His mother chattered on, naming off more charming young women she knew, more of the still single daughters of her endless list of women friends. He was starting to think he would just have to back out of the Thanksgiving visit, to tell her he wasn’t going to be able to make it home after all.
Sorry, Mom. Something big has come up, something really big. I just can’t be there….
But then he heard swearing. And the swift pounding of heavy boots on the stairs. The sounds were coming closer, descending on him from the deck above.
He knew the voice: Sam Jaworski, the rig manager in charge of the drilling department—aka the tool pusher. Sam was one of eight women on the rig. The safety officer was also a woman. And the rest worked in food service or housekeeping.
Sam, in coveralls, safety glasses and a hard hat, stomped into the lounge at full volume. She was on a roll with nonstop, semi-dirty, surprisingly imaginative language.
His mother was still talking. “So you see, I have found several fun, smart, attractive girls you’ll get a chance to meet.”
Sam sent him a quick acknowledging glance. He raised a hand in greeting. She gave the roughnecks a wave and then clomped over to the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup. There was a patch sewn on the right butt cheek of her coveralls. It read I Ain’t Yo’ Mama. She had to stop swearing to take a big swig of coffee.
But as soon as she swallowed, she was at it again. “And then dunk his sorry, skinny ass in a burnin’ barrel of bubbling black crude…”
Travis grinned for the first time since he’d picked up the phone to call his mom. Sam’s swearing was always more enthusiastic than obscene. And it never failed to make him smile.
And then he said, without even stopping to consider the possible consequences, “Mom, I already have a girl.” He held back a chuckle. Well, sort of a girl.
Sam took off her hard hat and safety glasses, turned toward him and propped a hip against the counter. She slurped up a big sip of coffee—and swore some more.
On the other end of the line, his mom let out a delighted trill of laughter. “Travis, how wonderful. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Well, Mom, you haven’t exactly let me get a word in edgewise.”
“Oh, honey.” She was instantly regretful. “I’m sorry. I was just so glad to hear from you. And I wanted to… Well, it doesn’t matter now. Forgive me for being a poor listener?”
“You know I do.”
She asked eagerly, “What’s her name? Do I know her?”
More choice expletives from Sam. He turned to the wall, cupped his hand around the mouthpiece of the phone, and told his mother, “Samantha, Mom. Samantha Jaworski—and no, you don’t.”
His mother made a thoughtful sound. “But you’ve mentioned her often, haven’t you, over the years?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’ve mentioned her.” He’d known Sam for more than a decade now.
“And she’s nice, isn’t she? You two have been friends for a long time, as I recall.”
“Yeah, we have. And she’s…she’s lovely.” He slanted a glance at Sam as she sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her grease-smeared hand. “Very delicate.”
Sam stood six feet tall and she was stronger than most men. She had to be, to get where she’d gotten in the oil business. Most tool pushers were older than she was. And male.
On a rig, the buck stopped at the tool pusher. Sam was on the drilling-contractor payroll. She did everything from making sure work schedules were met to setting up machines and equipment. She prepared production reports. She recommended hirings and firings and decided who was ready for promotion. She supervised and she coordinated. She trained workers in their duties and in safety procedures. She requisitioned materials and supplies. And if it came right down to it, she could haul and connect pipe with the best of them.
On this job, Travis had had the pleasure of working closely with her. He was the company man, paid to represent the interests of the oil company South Texas Oil Industries. Some pushers didn’t get along with the company man. They didn’t like being answerable to the exploration and operation end of the business. Sam didn’t have that problem. She not only had her men’s respect, but she also worked well with others.
She was an amazing woman, Sam Jaworski. But delicate?
Not in the least.
“I get it now,” his mother said. “I’ve been chattering away and the whole time you’ve been trying to tell me that you’re bringing her to Thanksgiving, to the reaffirmation of our vows.”
Crap. He should have seen that coming. Suddenly, his little private joke took on scary ramifications. “Uh, well…”
“Honey, I understand how it’s been for you.” She didn’t, not really. But he knew she meant well. She kept on, “You’ve been…hurt and let down before. I can see where you might be afraid to let it get serious with Samantha. But that’s all right. Just ask her to come with you. Just take that step.”
“Well, I…” He stalled some more, grasping for the right words, the magic words that would get his mother off his back about this once and for all. Those words didn’t come. “Mom, really, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t, okay?”
His mom finally gave it up. “All right, if you don’t want to invite her, if your relationship hasn’t gotten to that point yet, well, all right.” She sighed. And then she brightened and teased, “At least Cybil and LouJo and Ashley will be happy to know they still have a chance.”
Trapped. His gut churned and his pulse pounded. And then he heard himself say, “As a matter of fact, Sam and I are engaged.”
It just kind of popped out. He blinked at the wall. Had he really said that?
His mother cried out in joy. “Travis, how wonderful! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me until now.”
Had Sam heard him say that? He sent the tall, broad-shouldered woman in the grease-streaked coveralls another furtive glance. Uh-uh. She’d turned back to the sink to wash her hands. As he faced the wall once more, he heard her rip a paper towel off the roll.
He looked again. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Coffee mug in hand, she sauntered over to the nearer TV and grabbed the remote. The screen came alive and she started channel surfing.
Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, his mother was on the case. “And that settles it. You must bring her with you. I won’t take no for an answer, not now.”
He stared at Sam’s I Ain’t Yo’ Mama backside, at her short brown hair, creased tight to her skull from the hard hat’s inner band, at her big steel-toed boots. Had he lost his mind? There was no win in lying to his mom—especially not about being engaged. “Uh, well…”
“Please, Travis, invite her. I’m so happy for you. And you know we’re all going to want to meet her.”
“Mom, I—”
“Please.” Her voice was so gentle. And hopeful. And maybe even somewhat sad—as though she knew that in the end, he was going to disappoint her, that Sam would not be coming with him, no matter what his mother said to encourage him to bring her.
Now he felt like a complete jerk. For lying about Sam. For disappointing his mom. For everything. “Look, Mom. I’ll…check with Sam, okay?”
Dear God in heaven. Where had that come from? Bad, bad idea.
“Oh, Travis.” His mom was suddenly sounding happy again. “That’s wonderful. We’ll be expecting both of you, then.”
What the hell? “Uh, no. Wait, really. You can’t start expecting anything. I said I would ask her.”
“And I just know she’ll say yes. Two weeks from today, as planned. Love you. Bye now.”
“Mom. I mean it. Don’t… Wait! I…” But it was no good. She’d already hung up.
He took the phone away from his ear and gave it a dirty look. Then he started to call her back—but stopped in mid-dial.
Why ask for more trouble? Hadn’t he gotten himself plenty already?
Grumbling under his breath, he snagged the phone back onto the wall mount, yanked out a chair at the table a few feet away and dropped into it.

Sam had been waiting for Travis to finish on the phone. She watched as the two roughnecks wrapped up their bowling game and went back up the stairs.
Good. She didn’t need anyone listening in.
She heard Travis hang up, and then the sound of a chair scraping the floor as he pulled it out from the table. She switched off the TV and turned to him. “That roustabout Jimmy Betts? Born without a brain. A walking safety hazard. Give that boy a length of pipe and someone is bound to get whacked in the frickin’ head.”
He seemed distracted, slumped in the chair, a frown on his handsome face. But after a second or two, he said, “He’ll learn. They all do—or they don’t last.”
Sam let a snort do for a reply to that. And then she tossed down the remote and went to join him. She plunked her coffee on the table, swung a chair around and straddled it backward. Stacking her arms on the chair back, she leaned her chin on them. She studied him. He stared back at her, but his brown eyes still had a faraway look in them.
“Your mama, huh?” she finally asked. “Driving you crazy again?”
He grunted. “That’s right.”
“She still trying to find you the new love of your life?”
He grunted a second time and looked at her kind of strangely. She got the message. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about his mother and her plans to get him hogtied and branded.
Sam could read Travis pretty well. After all, they’d been friends since way back when he was nineteen and she was eighteen. Back then, Travis had worked on the oil well at her dad’s South Dakota ranch.
So, all right. Not talking about his mother was fine with her. She had something else on her mind anyway.
Sam indulged in a glum look around the lounge. It was a large room. But the low ceiling, the absence of windows and the fluorescent lighting gave the space a sort of subterranean glow. It made Travis look tired, turned his tanned skin kind of pasty. She didn’t even want to think about how it made her look.
Travis’s dark brows drew together. “Got something on your mind, Sam?”
Oh, yes, she did. “You have no idea how frickin’ tired I am of being on this rig. And I could seriously use a tall cold one about now, you know?”
They grunted in unison then. There was no liquor allowed on the rig.
Most rig workers had the usual two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off rotation. Not the pusher. Sam had been on the rig for over a month now, working twelve-hour shifts seven days a week. A week more and she would be back on land at last. She could not wait. And the rock docs—the engineers—were saying that the four-month drilling process was within days of completion. Her job on the Deepwater Venture was ending anyway. She wouldn’t be signing on to another rig to start all over again.
“Travis, I’ve been thinking…”
He waited, watching her.
She sat straighter and swept both arms wide, a gesture meant to include not only the lounge, but every inch of the semi-submersible rig, from the operating deck and the cranes and derrick soaring above it, to the ballasted, watertight pontoons below the ocean’s surface that held the giant platform afloat. “I used to love the challenge, you know? Doing a man’s job and doing it right. Earning and keeping the men’s respect—in spite of being female, even though I was younger than half of them. But lately, well, I’m thinking it’s time to change it up a little. I’m thirty years old. It’s a time when a person can start to wonder about things.”
He tipped his head to the side, frowning. “What things?”
“Things like getting back to the real world, like living on solid ground full-time, like…I don’t know, letting my hair grow, for cryin’ out loud, getting a job where I don’t end up covered in drilling mud and grease at least once a shift. Sitting in an employee lounge that has actual windows—windows that look out on something other than water and more water.”
He made a low noise. Was it a doubtful kind of sound? What? He didn’t think she could make it in a desk job?
She scowled at him and raked her fingers back through her sweaty, chopped-off hair. “And you can just stop looking at me like that, Travis Bravo. Yeah, I know what working in an office is going to mean. I get that I’m going to have to clean up my language and maybe even learn to wear a damn dress now and then. And I’m ready for that.”
He kept on looking at her. Studying her, really. What the hell was he thinking?
She threw out both arms again, glanced left and then right—and then directly at him again. “What?” she demanded.
He swung his boots up onto the molded plastic chair next to his. Way too casually, he suggested, “So, Sam. Want to come to my parents’ wedding?”
Okay, now she was totally lost. “Your parents’ wedding? Didn’t that already happen? Y’know like, oh, a hundred years ago? Travis, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Well, okay. Technically, it’s a reaffirmation of their wedding vows. It’s happening out at Bravo Ridge.” He’d spoken of Bravo Ridge often. It was his family’s ranch near San Antonio. “It’ll be on Thanksgiving Day.”
She sat back and folded her arms across her middle. She’d always wondered about his family, the high-class, powerful San Antonio Bravos. It would be interesting to meet them all, to match the real, flesh-and-blood people to the faces in the pictures Travis had shown her over the years.
Then again, maybe not. “I don’t think so….”
“Come on. Why not?”
“Well, to be honest, from everything you’ve said about your family, I don’t think I’d fit in with them.”
“Sure you will.”
“I don’t even have the clothes for something like that, let alone the manners. And I don’t have any fancy pedigree, either. I’d probably embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me. You’re the best. And what do you mean, pedigree? It’s America. We’re all equal, remember? And if you’re nervous about your clothes, I’ll deal with that.”
She looked at him sideways. “How, exactly are you going deal with my clothes?”
“I’ll buy you some new ones.”
“No way. I buy my own stuff. But even if I maxed out my credit cards getting a whole new wardrobe, well, I still wouldn’t know which frickin’ fork to use.”
He swung his feet to the floor and canted toward her in the chair. “So we’ll get you a coach. A few days in Houston beforehand should do it.”
“Um. Travis, I’m not really understanding what exactly you’re up to here.”
“I just said. You’ll have time. A whole week to get ready after you’re back on land, plenty of time to buy the clothes and work with the coach.”
“The coach,” she repeated blankly.
“Yeah, the coach. Someone who’s an expert on all that stuff—on the clothes, the makeup, the…use of the silverware, whatever. By the time you meet my mom, you’ll be more than ready.”
“More than ready for…?”
“Everything.” He smiled. It wasn’t a very sincere smile.
She rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. Really, he was making her head spin. “Travis, cut the crap. What exactly are you trying to talk me into?”
He glanced away, and then back. “Before I get too specific, I just want to know you’ll keep an open mind about the whole thing, okay?”
“Yeah, well. Before I can keep an open mind, I need to know what I’m supposed to be keeping an open mind about.”
He hoisted his feet back up on the chair again. “It’s like this. I want you to help me get my mom off my back.”
She followed. Kind of. “You mean about all the, er, suitable young women, right?”
He nodded. “I need you to be my date—for a week, including Thanksgiving.”
“You think if you bring a date, your mom will stop trying to fix you up?”
He pulled a face and scratched the back of his head. “Well, yeah. For a while. If my date was…more than just a date.”
“What do you mean, more than just a frickin’ date?”
“Okay, it’s like this. I want you to pretend that you’re my fiancée.”

Travis didn’t find the look on Sam’s face the least bit encouraging.
She swore. Colorfully. And then she jumped up from the chair, strode around the table to him—and slapped him upside the back of the head.
He shoved her hand away. “Ouch! Knock it off.”
She gave a disgusted snort. “Have you lost your mind?”
He put up both hands to back her off. “Look. It just…slipped out when I was talking to her, okay?”
“It? What?”
“She was all over me, pressuring me, going down the list of all the women she wants me to meet. And then you came down from the deck and I, well, all of a sudden, I was saying I already had a girl. I said you were my girl and we were engaged.”
Sam did more swearing. And then she returned to her chair, grabbed the back of it, spun it around and sat down in it front ways that time. “What have you been smoking?”
“Not a thing. You know that. And can you just think it over? Please? Don’t say no without giving it some serious consideration. You get the coach and the clothes to help you change up your life. And I have a few strings I can pull, too, for you. To make sure you get the job you want.”
She had her arms folded good and tight across her middle by then. “There’s just one teensy problem.”
“What?”
“It’s a big wonkin’ lie.”
“I know that, but it can’t be helped.”
“Sure, it can. Call your mom back. Tell her you lied and I’m not your girl after all. And when you want a girl, you’ll find her yourself.”
“Sam, come on…”
She pressed her lips together, blew out a breath—and flipped him the bird.
But he refused to give up. The more he thought about it, the more this looked like a solution to his problem.
A temporary solution, yeah. But still. Even temporary was better than no solution at all.
“Look,” he said. “You do this for me, I figure it’s good for up to a year of peace and quiet on my mother’s part.”
“Why don’t you just talk to your mother? Tell her how you feel, tell her you want her to back off and mind her own business.”
“You think I haven’t? It doesn’t matter what I say, she thinks she’s doing the right thing for me. She thinks it’s for my own good. And when my mother thinks what she’s doing is for the good of one of her children, there’s no stopping her. There’s no getting her to see the light and admit that she’s got it all wrong.”
“But making up some big old lie is not the answer. It’s…just not you. You’re a straight-ahead guy. No frills and no fancy footwork. I’ve always liked that about you.”
He laid it right out for her. “Sam, I’m desperate. I need a break from this garbage. I need to be able to go home for once without having a bunch of sweet-faced Texas debutantes in their best party dresses lined up waiting to meet me. I need to be able to call my mom without being beat over the head with all the women she wants to introduce me to.”
“Maybe if you just gave it a chance with one of them, you’d find out that—”
“Stop. Don’t go there. You know I’m not up for that. I had the love of my life. She died. And I already tried it with the woman who could never take her place.”
“But it’s been years and years since you lost Rachel. And just because it didn’t work out with Wanda doesn’t mean there isn’t someone else out there who’s right for you.”
He gave her a really dirty look, and then he glanced away. “You’re starting to sound like my mother. I don’t need that.”
“Travis, I only—”
He turned to meet her eyes again. “Help me out, Sam. Help me out and I’ll help you out. Win-win. You’ll see. You can have the new life you’ve been dreaming of. All you have to do to get it is a little favor for a friend.”

Chapter Two
A week and a day later, Sam entered the lobby of Houston’s Four Seasons Hotel.
She wore a gray pantsuit with a white blouse and black flats. Not exactly glamorous. But hey. At least it was something other than coveralls, steel-toed boots and a hard hat.
Unfortunately, her hair was being really annoying that day. It was only an inch long, for cripes’ sake. But still, it insisted on curling every which way.
Her makeup? She wore none—and not because she hadn’t tried. Three times, she’d applied blush, lip gloss and mascara. She’d picked those up the day before at Walmart in an effort to look more pulled-together for this big adventure she probably shouldn’t have let herself be talked into in the first place. Each time she put the makeup on, she’d had to scrub it right off again. It just didn’t look right on her. So in the end, she decided to go without.
The Four Seasons was about the fanciest hotel in Houston. She’d expected old-fashioned elegance. But the lobby was modern. The furniture had clean, trendy lines. The carpets were in black-and-white geometric patterns. There was also bright color—in the modern art on the walls, in the purple pillows, all plump and inviting on the tan and off-white sofas.
And where the hell was Travis, anyway? He’d promised he would be here waiting for her.
She tried not to gape like the oversize hayseed she knew herself to be. She told herself it was all in her mind that the bellmen and concierge clerks were staring at her and wondering what she was doing there. What did a concierge clerk care if she was as big as a horse and every bit as muscular? So what if she looked more manly than most of the guys in the place? She had as much right to be there as anyone else.
And she did have her pride. Chin up, her black leather tote hooked on a shoulder, she sauntered past the checkin desk and chose a sofa thick with bright pillows beneath a giant circular chandelier dripping with about a hundred thousand crystals.
When she reached the sofa, she turned and lowered herself into it with care. She kept her knees together, her black flats planted on the thick carpet, neatly, side-by-side. Easing the tote off her shoulder, she put it at her feet. And then, sitting very still and very straight, she folded her hands in her lap and she waited.
She tried not to squirm, tried to keep her face calm and composed. The minutes crawled by.
Travis, you SOB, where are you?
He’d better get there damn soon or she wouldn’t be waiting when he finally did arrive. She pressed her lips together, swallowed, felt the nervous sweat beginning to seep through the underarms of her new shirt.
Wasn’t there some old saying about how a person should beware of all situations that require new clothes?
Uh, yeah. Exactly.
Travis, unless you show up right this minute, I am going to get up and walk out of here. And then, the next time I see you, I will beat the ever lovin’ crap out of you….
“Sam. Great. There you are….”
So. He was there. At last.
Sam let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Turning to look over her shoulder, she watched him striding toward her, wearing really nice black jeans and a sport jacket, looking like he owned the place. With him was a short, skinny man in a striped shirt with a big white collar, linen pants and suspenders. The man’s thick, wavy blond hair was bigger than he was. Sam could have picked him up with one hand, tucked him under her arm and carried him several city blocks without even breathing hard.
She snatched up her tote and rose to meet them.
“Lookin’ good,” said Travis. He grabbed her in a quick hug. When he let her go, he turned to the tiny, bird-boned guy with the big hair. “Jonathan, Sam. Sam, Jonathan.”
The little guy gave her the once-over through eyes as small and bright and birdlike as the rest of him. “Hello, Samantha. I can see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Her coach. Of course. Pretentious frickin’ twit. She started to say something to put him in his place, but then changed her mind. He might be pretentious, but then again, he was also right. No point in beating up the messenger. She had a lot to learn if she wanted a different kind of life. “Yeah,” she said drily. “I hope you’re up to the job.”
Travis said, “I found him on the internet. And I’m betting he’s the best.”
Jonathan tossed his big hair. “No time to waste, is there? Shall we go up?”

The suite was spectacular. All in relaxing colors—dusty greens and creamy tans and warm golds, with a great view of downtown Houston. Two bedrooms. One for her, one for her coach.
Travis had his town house in the city.
She stood at the window and looked out at the skyline and worried about how much this had to be costing him.
He came to stand with her. “Great view, huh?”
“Yeah. Where’s Jonathan?” she asked the question low, out of the corner of her mouth.
“He’s in his room, getting settled.”
She decided to go ahead and ask him about the expense. “This all looks…really pricey, Travis.”
“That’s right.” He sounded so pleased with himself. “Didn’t I promise you a crash course in how the other half lives?”
“I’m just saying it’s enough that you hired me my own personal coach. That had to cost plenty. And then the clothes. That’ll be plenty more. You really didn’t need to spring for a suite at the Four Seasons.”
He put an arm around her shoulder, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Only the best for my favorite fiancée.”
She eased out from under his hold. “You’re blowing me off.”
“No, I’m not.”
“It just, you know, seems like it’s kind of overkill. Way too frickin’ expensive overkill. I mean, I know you have your investments and all, but I hate to see you waste your hard-earned money.”
“Stop worrying—and anyway, I didn’t raid my portfolio for this.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a soft growl. “Did I ever tell you about my giant trust fund?”
“You did, but you always said—”
“—that I would never touch it. And I haven’t. Not once. Until now.”
She turned to him, met his kind dark eyes. “You broke into your trust fund for this?”
He gave her an easy smile. “About time, I was thinking—and no, I didn’t break into it. It’s mine, after all, just sitting there, waiting for me, the prodigal son, to finally take advantage of what being a Bravo has always offered me.”
She smiled too, then. “The prodigal son. I never thought of you that way. And I thought a prodigal was a wild-living big spender.”
“I was thinking more in the sense of the son who left home.”
“Well, you are that.”
“And my mom only wants me to come home.”
“And get married to a nice Texas debutante…”
“Lucky for me, I have you to save me from that.”
She had the strangest desire to lay her hand along the side of his smooth, freshly shaved cheek. But that seemed uncalled-for. They weren’t pretending to be engaged yet, after all. “Yeah, well,” she said vaguely. “We’ll see….”
“Ahem.” It was Jonathan. He stood over by the sitting area, holding a laptop against his narrow chest. He set the laptop on the gleaming glass surface of the coffee table and then clapped his skinny hands together. “All right, then. Let’s begin.” He sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. “Samantha, come and sit by me.” She sent Travis a what-have-you-gotten-me-into glance and then went over and sat next to Jonathan, who signaled to Travis with a dramatic flourish. “You, too. Have a seat.” Travis claimed a wing chair across the coffee table.
Sam was realizing that she found her new coach kind of amusing. She liked his take-charge attitude and self-assurance. He might be little, but every sentence, every gesture, was delivered on a grand scale. “So, Jonathan, what’s your last name?”
He turned slowly to look up at her, one pencil-thin eyebrow raised. “Just Jonathan, darling.”
Oh, wow. Now she was his darling. She chuckled. “Well, all right.”
Travis got up and went to grab an apple from the basket on the granite wet bar. “I flew Jonathan in from L.A. And before I did, I checked out his references. He comes highly recommended.” He bit a big, crunchy hunk out of the apple.
Jonathan almost smiled—or at least the corners of his tiny mouth lifted a fraction. “I have my own cable show,” he said proudly. “Jeer-worthy to Cheer-worthy.” He opened the laptop and fiddled with the keyboard for a moment. His picture appeared on the screen. He sat in a plush leather chair in a red-walled room, his hair bigger and wavier than it was in person. A bookcase behind him was filled with gold-tooled leather volumes and accented with what seemed to be valuable antiques. “My website,” he said. She’d already figured that out, of course, from the ornate gold header at the top of the page. “JustJonathan.com.”
“Uh. Real nice,” she said.
“Thank you, darling.” He clicked the mouse. A really sad-looking redhead appeared on the screen. Ruddy skin, frizzy hair, a face as round as a dinner plate. “Amanda Richly. Before.” Click. “And after,” he said proudly.
The second image was the same redhead. But the same redhead, transformed. Now her hair was thick and wavy and completely unfrizzed, her skin pink and perfect, her blue eyes framed by long, lush red-brown lashes. She was no longer sad. In fact, her happy smile brought out the cute dimples in her cheeks.
“Wow. Way to go, Jonathan.” Sam elbowed him in his itty-bitty ribs.
He almost fell over sideways. But not quite. “Please don’t hurt me, darling,” he said drily. She laughed. And then he preened, “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“I can see that.” She shared a nod with Travis, who remained by the wet bar, polishing off his apple.
Jonathan clicked through several more transformations. Each one was amazing. Sam was impressed and she told Jonathan so.
Finally, he snapped the laptop shut and frowned at her. “If we are to work together, I need to be able to be perfectly frank.”
“Go for it.” She braced herself for the bad news.
“You’re a disaster, my sweet.” He caught her hands, turned them over, gave a small gasp of pure distress. “Look at these. What have you been doing with them, scraping barnacles off a ship’s hull?”
“Close,” she confessed.
He shook his head. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t need specifics.” He turned her hands over again, set them on her knees, and patted the backs of them. Next, scowling, he touched her hair. And then he caught her face between his soft, warm palms. “We must get you to the spa immediately,” he announced. “You will need everything. It’s going to take a while. And the peels, the scrubs, the masks and the mud wraps, the hair, nails and makeup are only the beginning. There will be shopping. Intensive, goal-centered shopping. I will go with you, of course, give you guidance, save you from yourself should you try and buy another unfortunate pantsuit.”
She winced and looked down at the pantsuit in question. “Unfortunate? I bought it yesterday. I know it’s not great. But I thought it was better than just unfortunate.”
He wiggled a finger at her. “Remember. Absolute honesty.”
“Yeah. All right. Hit me with it.”
He caught the fabric of her sleeve, fingered it and shuddered. “You must learn to buy clothing made from natural fibers, my love. It not only looks so much better, but it also lets the skin breathe and doesn’t trap odors.”
“Odors,” she echoed weakly, way too aware of the lingering dampness beneath her arms.
“I noticed you had just that big black bag.”
She shrugged. “Well, I only brought a couple of changes of underwear and some pj’s. I thought we would be buying the rest.”
“Very good. Excellent. Out with the old and all things polyester. And in with the new. By the time I’m through with you, you won’t be afraid of five-inch Manolo Blahniks, or a little color.”
She wasn’t a complete idiot. She knew who Manolo Blahnik was. She’d watched a few episodes of Sex and the City back in the day. “Uh, Jonathan. Maybe you didn’t notice. I don’t wear high heels because I’m already taller than just about everyone else.”
“Yes, you are. And your height is spectacular.”
Travis folded his big frame back into the wing chair. He was grinning. “Yep. Absolutely spectacular.”
She blinked at him. “Uh. It is?”
Jonathan patted her arm. “You also have excellent bone structure. Fabulous cheekbones.”
Her sagging spirits lifted. She pressed her fingers to the cheekbones in question. “Well, that’s good.”
“And I can see you are in prime physical condition. We can use that.”
“Er…we can?”
“Oh, yes. Gone are the days when a pretty woman had to be tiny and delicate. It’s okay at last to be a woman of substance. Muscles, wide shoulders, strong calves and hard thighs are the height of fashion now.”
Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. She dared to grin.
Jonathan frowned, shook his head and then smoothed his acres of hair carefully back into place. “Don’t become overconfident, my love. You’ve got a lot to learn. And a limited amount of time to do it in.”

At Jonathan’s request, Travis got up to go a few minutes later.
“You will not see Samantha until Saturday evening,” her coach announced in what Samantha considered a very grim tone. “For the final test.”
“Test?” Sam piped up weakly.
“Don’t ask.” Jonathan remained deadly serious. “Not yet. We are only beginning. And there’s a long way to go before we’re ready to discuss the final test.”
Travis gave her a hug at the door. That was the second time he’d hugged her that day—first, in the lobby, now here, as he was leaving. As a rule, she and Travis didn’t hug much. Especially the past few months when they’d been working on the rig together. Hugs would not be professional.
But now, with his strong arms around her, she realized how much she enjoyed getting the chance to lean on him. He was a couple of inches taller than she was, and even broader in the shoulders and deeper in the chest. It felt good to hug him. She knew she could hug him hard and never hurt him. For a girl of her size and strength, that was a rare thing.
He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him so he could meet her eyes. “You going to be okay?”
She nodded and forced a smile for him. “Go on. I’ll be fine.” She stepped back from the comforting circle of his hold. He opened the door and went through it.
Instantly she wanted to reach out and grab him back. She’d always found his presence reassuring—and she could really use some reassurance about now. She took a step out into the hallway and watched him stride confidently toward the elevators.
It was kind of funny, really. She risked her life just about daily on the job. An oil rig, after all, was a pretty dangerous place. But she’d never been as scared as she was right then, in that hotel suite, watching Travis walk away from her. The very idea of having to learn to get her girly on freaked her the hell out. It would be easier if Travis could stay.
“Shut the door, Samantha.” Jonathan’s voice was almost tender.
She stepped back into the room and did what he told her to. And then she leaned her forehead against that door and thought about what a good friend Travis had been to her over the years.
At the end of the first year of their friendship, just before she turned nineteen, he’d helped her get her start in the oil business. He’d spoken up for her when she tried for her first job as a roustabout on a land rig. They didn’t want to hire her because she was a woman and what woman could hold up under the grueling physical labor that would be required of her?
Thanks to Travis, she got that job, as what they called a “worm,” the lowest of the low in the rig pecking order. She got that job and she kept up with the men. She did it all. She hauled pipe and dug trenches, cleaned up mud and oil and whatever else got all over the equipment. She cleaned threads, scraped and painted the various rig components. She worked her ass off and she never shirked.
That first job was where she’d met a certain roughneck, Zachary Gunn. She’d fallen in love with Zach—fallen in love for the first and only time in her life. And when Zach turned out to be a rotten, no-good bigmouth jerk who told everyone what he’d done with her and that she’d been really bad at it, Travis was there.
Travis beat the ever-lovin’ you-know-what out of that sorry SOB. And then kicked him off the rig.
As a rule, Sam fought her own battles. But that one time, it meant more than she could ever say to know that Travis Bravo had her back.
“Time to get started,” said Jonathan. “Tell me you’re ready.”
Sam straightened her spine and turned to face her coach. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Chapter Three
That first day was really bad.
Before they did anything, Jonathan took a bunch of pictures of her from different angles, pictures of her standing, pictures of her sitting. Pictures from the front, the back, the side. Full-length pictures and also close-up ones.
She knew what those pictures were: the “before” pictures. She knew they were awful.
And she sincerely hoped that the “afters,” days from now, would be a whole lot better.
Once Jonathan decided he had enough ugly shots of her, he had her sign a paper giving him permission to use the pictures on his website. And then he took her to the hotel spa.
It was a nice place. Sam loved that it was simple, not froufrou or frilly in the least. It was soothing just to be there.
Until the torture started.
Jonathan said her skin needed all the help it could get. There was deep-tissue cleaning and a chemical peel. There was hot mud wrapped all around her in steaming wet towels. There was waxing—of her legs and under her arms. The bikini wax was the worst.
She’d rather take a bath in drilling mud than get that done again.
Jonathan laughed when she told him that. “You’ll get waxed, darling. And regularly. A woman should be sleek. Smooth. Excess body hair is not the least bit feminine.”
She grunted. “Gee, Jonathan. Thanks a bunch for sharing.”
There was massage. That wasn’t so bad.
But after that, there was the manicure and the pedicure. Those went on forever and involved soaking and exfoliating and scrubbing at every callous and rough spot, of which there were many.
Hours later, when they were finished with her for the day, her face was lobster-red from the peel and they’d given her booties and white gloves. She had to slather on this gooey ointment before bed nightly, they had told her at the spa, both on her hands and her feet, and then wear the gloves and booties to bed every night for the whole week.
She was starving by the time she got back to the suite. She wanted a burger and fries and a strawberry shake. Or at least a big slab of meatloaf and a mountain of mashed potatoes with a healthy side of mushy canned green beans. On the rig, the kitchen was open round-the-clock and you could get yourself a huge pile of hot food—heavy on the starches and fats and red meat—any time you got the least bit hungry.
Not here, though. Jonathan ordered room service for them.
When it came, she wanted to break down and cry. All day being waxed and plucked and pummeled in the spa. And for dinner, she got an itsy-bitsy mound of barely cooked broccoli, three tiny red potatoes. And grilled salmon.
Actually, it was delicious. But it wasn’t enough to keep a fly alive.
She begged for more. Jonathan refused to let her even have one more dinky red potato. He said she wasn’t getting enough exercise to eat the way she was apparently accustomed to eating.
It was too much. She yelled at him. “Jonathan, I would be frickin’ happy to exercise. I’ll go down to the gym right this minute and bench-press my butt off if you will only swear on your life that there’ll be a blood-rare T-bone and a baked potato slathered in butter and sour cream waiting for me when I get back up here to this frickin’ tasteful, so-classy suite.”
He only shook his head. He was a slave driver, that Jonathan.
After the piddly-ass meal, they had grammar lessons. He made her take a vow that she would never use the word frickin’ again in this lifetime. And then he tutored her on how to eat at a table set with endless pieces of unrecognizable silverware.
It was actually pretty simple, once he explained that you started with the outermost fork or knife or spoon and worked your way in. And if in doubt, you waited to pick up the next tong or cracker or pointy lobster-picking thing until you were able to subtly observe what your host or hostess did with it.
“Subt-ly,” Jonathan repeated, making a big deal of both syllables. “And by ‘subtly,’ I mean a sideways glance in the direction of the hostess in question. No open-mouthed ogling. One must learn, darling, to accomplish one’s goal in such a way as not to telegraph one’s ignorance to the table at large.”
“Gotcha,” she answered, feeling vaguely resentful. Yeah, okay. She did have a lot to learn, but she’d never been the kind to stare with her mouth open.
He sighed in a way that indicated she caused him endless emotional pain. “Gotcha. Another word you would do well to remove from your vocabulary.”
“Jonathan, you keep on like this, I won’t have any frick—er, darn words left.”
“But, darling, you will learn new ones. I will see to that—and as concerns your elbows…”
“Yeah, what about ’em?” She pushed back her sleeve. “They’ve been creamed and scrubbed and buffed just about down to the bone.”
“Yes, they do look much better.”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I was getting at.”
“It doesn’t matter what you’re getting at. You’re the student. You’re here to watch, listen and learn. And as to elbows, they are under no circumstances to be allowed on the surface of the table while one is still indulging in the meal. Understood?”
“Yeah, I knew that.” Not that she’d ever cared all that much where she put her elbows while she was eating. But still. Everybody knew they weren’t supposed to be on the table, even if most people didn’t give a damn either way.
“However.” There was a definite gleam in Jonathan’s beady little eyes. “After the meal, while one lingers, chatting, enjoying the heady conversation that so often swirls around the table when one is in good company…then, and only then, is it considered acceptable to delicately brace one, or even both elbows on the tablecloth.”
She couldn’t help grinning. “Delicately, huh?”
“Yes, well. We’ll have to work on that.”
After the lessons on which piece of silverware to use when, they moved on to her clothing. He said they would try some preliminary shopping tomorrow. He wanted her to think about what colors would work on her—bright, vivid jewel colors, he said. “And some neutrals. But. No. Gray. Ever.” He made each word a sentence. And then he elaborated. “Gray does nothing for your coloring, Samantha. Less than nothing. Gray makes you look embalmed.”
“Gee. Good to know.”
“Sarcasm is not appreciated.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Jonathan—if you will.”
There was more lecturing on the subject of natural fibers. She would wear cotton, silk, linen and wool. And only cotton, silk, linen and wool. “And no frills. We’ll go for simplicity with you. And some drama. But nothing fluffy or ruffled. Nothing too…precious. Because, darling, you are not the precious type.”
Of course, he had examples to show her on his laptop. She thought he was absolutely right in his judgment of what should work well for her clothing-wise, so she didn’t give him too much of a hard time during the wardrobe lesson. She listened and did her best to absorb what he taught her.
At nine-thirty that evening, she was allowed a cup of tea and an orange. He admonished her to hold her teacup just so, to sip without slurping—and never to chew with her mouth open.
Somehow, he inspired the brat in her. She longed to open her mouth good and wide and stick out her tongue at him before swallowing the section of orange she’d been so cautiously, delicately munching.
But she didn’t. She kept her mouth shut and she swallowed the orange and she sipped without slurping at her unsweetened tea.
He gave her a book to read when he sent her to bed: Miss Manners’ Guide to the Turn-of-the-Millennium. She turned the pages with white-gloved fingers because both of her hands were greased up and encased in the special gloves they’d given her at the spa.
She even laughed now and then. Miss Manners was funny. And most of her advice made sense really.
Once you got past the strange realization that the way Miss Manners used words was almost identical to the way Jonathan talked.

The next day was worse.
It was the shopping. She hated it.
She’d really thought she had a pretty good idea of the clothing rules Jonathan had drilled into her the evening before. But it wasn’t the same, being out there in some fancy, expensive department store, trying to choose something vivid in color with nice, simple lines—in cotton, linen, silk or wool—when there were racks and racks packed with skirts and blouses and dresses and every other damn thing you ever might consider wanting to wear.
It made her feel sick to her stomach. Suddenly she was longing to be back on the rig, wearing her boots and coveralls, slathered in drilling mud, hitting the deck as Jimmy Betts swung a length of pipe in her direction.
Plus she was starving. Frickin’ starving, as a matter of fact—and no, she didn’t say the forbidden word out loud.
But boy, was she tempted to.
She needed a decent meal and she needed to not have to shop anymore.
But Jonathan was relentless. He wouldn’t let her go back to the hotel.
At noon, he took her to some prissy, ferny downtown lunch place. And he ordered her a salad and an iced tea with lemon. She wanted to kill him. She truly did. Just snap his tiny twig of a neck between her two big hands.
But then she reminded herself that she was going to do this. She was sticking out this ridiculous crash course in being a suitable pretend fiancée for Aleta Bravo’s precious prodigal son. She needed this, and she knew it. She wanted a chance at a new life.
And if being waxed and peeled and plucked and starved half to death, if having to shop all day and all night until she finally managed to find something simple and bright in a natural fabric—if getting trained in how to sip tea and sit down at a table with rich people…
If all that had to be done for her to get a fresh start, well, fine. She would do it. She would not give up.
She was made of tougher stuff than that.
So she ate her salad, slowly. Calmly. In small bites, chewing with her mouth shut. She sipped her iced tea.
And then they shopped some more.
It didn’t get easier.
In the end, after hours and hours of lurking twenty feet away, watching her subtly out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan came to her rescue. He started choosing things for her to try on.
Loaded down with shopping bags, they got back to the hotel at six-thirty. Sam now had five new dresses, six pairs of incredibly expensive shoes, four sweaters, three shirts, two pairs of designer jeans…and more. Much more.
Jonathan had chosen everything. His taste was just disgustingly great. Even with her chopped-off hair and no makeup and her face still red from yesterday’s peel—she wasn’t getting the hair or the makeup until near the end of her training, he had told her—she could see the difference the right clothes made.
At the hotel, he ordered quail for dinner—two of them each. Two tiny plump birds with a side of slivered carrots, which were drizzled in some heavenly sauce. She wanted to fall on those dinky birds and shove them, whole, into her wide-open mouth. She wanted to devour them, itty-bitty bones and all.
But she waited, hands and napkin in her lap, for his instructions.
He surprised her. “One eats quail with one’s hands,” Jonathan said. “Some foods are simply too small, or too bony, to be eaten any other way. In fact, the bones themselves are quite delicate and flavorful. Eat them, too, if you wish. But please, crunch in a quiet manner. And eat slowly, as always, savoring the tastes and textures, avoiding any unfortunate displays of grease or bits of meat on the lips and chin.”
Then, as she chewed the heavenly little things with her mouth closed and tried not to listen to her stomach rumbling, he told her that there would be more shopping. And she would get better at it.
She didn’t tell him he was frickin’ crazy, but she thought it.
After the meal, there were more lessons. In polite conversation. In how to sit in a chair properly, for cripes’ sake.
By the time she finally had her bedtime snack—an actual glass of milk and one slice of lightly buttered toast—she only longed to escape to her own room.
Alone, she took a shower and brushed her teeth, greased up her hands and feet and put on the booties and the gloves. She climbed into bed and started to reach for the Miss Manners book.
But then she just couldn’t. It was bad enough listening to Jonathan all day. She didn’t need more of the same in her nighttime reading.
She tossed the book to the nightstand.
It was a big book and it slid off and hit the plush bedroom carpet with a definite smack. She didn’t even bother to get out of bed and pick it up. Instead she grabbed the TV remote and pointed it at the television—but no. Forget TV. Forget everything.
She threw the remote down to the carpet, too. And she gathered her knees up with her greased, white-gloved hands and she put her head down on them.
And for the first time in eleven years, since way back when that rotten jerk Zachary Gunn broke her heart and she swore off men forever, she burst into tears.
She was so miserable right then that she didn’t even have enough pride left to stop being a baby and suck it up. Great, fat, sloppy tears poured down her face and she let them.
Her nose ran. She didn’t care. She let it happen, only controlling the flood in the sense that she tried her damnedest not to make a single sound. She gulped back her sobs because apparently she did have some pride left after all.
And she didn’t want Jonathan to know how frickin’ stupid and awkward and foolish she felt. She could do a man’s job in a man’s world—and do it better than most guys. She’d reached the top of the food chain on an offshore rig at an age when most men would have been proud to simply be holding their own as roughnecks. But when it came to being a woman, well, that was turning out to be a whole lot harder than it looked.
She cried and cried, really letting go, feeling very, very sorry for herself, biting her lip to keep from snorting and sniffling.
And then her cell rang.
She decided not to answer it. She kept on crying. In three rings, the call went to voicemail and again she was alone with her tears and her misery.
Then the room phone rang. She tried to wait it out, but the minute it stopped ringing, it only started again.
And she knew that if she didn’t pick it up, Jonathan would be tapping on her door, asking her what was the matter, hadn’t she noticed her phone was ringing?
Oh, she could just hear him now. When one’s phone rings, Samantha, it is customary to answer it.
If she let it get to that, she would have to reply and he would hear her clogged, teary voice and know that he had gotten to her, big-time.
No way was she letting him know that. She’d held her own against some burly, badass roughnecks in her time. How could she let bird-boned, big-haired Jonathan get the better of her?
She grabbed the phone. “What?” she demanded in a soggy, broken whisper.
“Sam?” It was Travis. “Sam, what’s going on? You didn’t answer your cell. And I called the room twice.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” A sob got away from her, followed by a watery hiccup.
“Sam, are you all right?”
She clutched the phone harder, feeling ridiculous and needy and weak and hopeless and sad. “I’m, uh…” She put her hand over the phone, swiped at her eyes and then groped for a tissue with her white-gloved hand.
“Sam, talk to me. Please. What’s the matter with you?” He sounded so worried, so…scared even. For her.
He was worried for her.
That meant a lot.
And then he said, “Sam, I’m coming over there. I’m coming over there now.”
“No!” The word escaped her trembling mouth on a sob. “You can’t. Uh-uh.” She ripped a tissue from the tasteful beige box on the nightstand. “You know you can’t. You can’t even see me. Not until my final test.”
“Forget the test,” he said and really seemed to mean it. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters if you’ve had enough. It’s not a big deal. We can call the whole thing off right now.”
Call the whole thing off. He wouldn’t mind or be mad at her if they called the whole thing off.
She could, she realized. She could do that. Call an end to this torture, give it up. There was no law that said she had to stick it out.
She could give it up and head straight for her private hideaway in San Diego. Walk on the beach, soak up some rays.
And then sign up for a new job on a different rig, go back to the challenging and profitable life she had made for herself.
“What about—” another sob escaped her “—your mother?”
“I’ll find some other way to get her off my back. Don’t worry about that. Just say the word, Sam. And you’re off the hook. I mean that. Sam? Did you hear me? Sam? Are you there?” Travis seemed really worried that she might have hung up on him.
But she hadn’t. She was sniffling. And thinking…
And coming to realize how very much she wanted this, how seriously invested she was in seeing the whole thing through.
“Damn it, Sam. Say something.”
And she did. “No, I don’t want that. I don’t want to give it up. I want to…get through this. I want to make good at it because it does matter. It matters a lot. And that’s why you can’t come over here. Because Jonathan wants it that way. And that’s fine with me. I am doing exactly what Just frickin’ Jonathan tells me to do.”
“Uh. You are?”
“Yeah. I am—and don’t you dare tell him I said the word frickin’. Got that?”
“Absolutely. I won’t. Whatever you say. But—”
“I can do this. I will do this. I am sticking with this program and I am going to get some serious girly going or I will die trying.” She blew her nose, good and hard. By then, well, it didn’t seem to matter all that much that Travis would figure out she’d been crying. “Sam.”
She sniffed, shamelessly that time. And it felt kind of good, really. It was kind of a relief. To let go. To cry and not care that someone might know it. “What?”
“Are you…crying?” He asked the question in a kind of awed disbelief.
“So what if I am, huh?” She grabbed another tissue and scrubbed her soggy cheeks. “So what if I am?”
“But you never cry.”
“Well, I’m crying now. Or I was.” She ripped out yet more tissue. “But at this point, I’ve moved on to mopping up the mess.”
“So, uh, what’s happened?” He sounded totally flummoxed.
She tried to explain. “Nothing. Everything. This is even harder than I thought it would be.”
“It is, huh?” His voice was gentle. Understanding. “Listen. I meant what I said. If you want to back out—”
“Uh-uh. No way. I’m not giving up. I’m going through with it, no matter what.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want…”
“I am sure, yes. So stop asking me.” She settled back against the pillows, gave one last sniffle. “I guess I kind of expected to be bad at this. I just didn’t expect to care so much.”
“Who says you’re bad at it?” He seemed honestly puzzled.
“I say. And I ought to know—oh, and Jonathan, too. He thinks I suck the big one. He looks at me in that pained, superior way of his….”
“Wait. Jonathan told you that you suck?”
“He didn’t have to tell me. It’s written all over his snooty, pointy little face. As far as he’s concerned, I can’t do anything right.”
“But that’s not what he said to me.”
She snuggled back into the pillows. “Huh? Said to you when?”
“When he called me a few minutes ago to let me know how you were getting along. He said you were making great progress and he was really impressed with you, that he hadn’t realized at the beginning how much potential you actually had.”
Now she sat up straighter. “He didn’t. You’re lyin’, trying to make me feel better.”
“God’s truth, Sam.”
She gave a very unladylike snort—the kind of snort she wouldn’t have thought twice about making just a few days before. “And you think it would kill him to say that to me?”
Travis snorted right back. “Come on, you know how you are. The madder you get, the harder you work. Maybe he’s figured that out about you.”
She fiddled with the phone cord, twisting it around her gloved index finger. “Well, then why are you telling me he said nice things about me? Maybe I’ll get lazy now I know he’s only pretending to look down on me.”
“Not a chance. You haven’t got a lazy bone in your body—and it was pretty clear to me you needed encouragement.”
She pulled her finger free of the coil of cord, feeling better about everything, feeling ready to face tomorrow. Feeling she could even handle the awful, disgusting shopping that would happen the day after that. “You’re a good man, Travis Bravo. Thanks.”
“You need me, you call me.”
She made a soft sound low in her throat. “I think I can make it now.”
“I’m here. Just remember.”
He said goodbye a few minutes later. She hung up the phone thinking that she was a lucky person to have a friend like Travis.
Turning off the light and pulling up the covers, she lay on her back in the dark with a smile on her face. Jonathan had said he was impressed with her. Travis had been there to talk her down when she needed it.
She knew now she could make it. In only a few days, she would be ready.
She would go with Travis to San Antonio and play his bride-to-be for his family. Yes, it was a big lie and she didn’t believe in lies.
But no one was going to be hurt by the deception. She was just giving Travis’s mom an excuse to take a break from her never-ending matchmaking, giving Travis a break, too. For a while, anyway, he wouldn’t have women thrown at him constantly when he wasn’t interested in anything like that.
He’d loved Rachel Selkirk, loved her deeply and completely, the way only a good, true-hearted man can love his woman. And he didn’t want to go there again, didn’t want to take the chance of being hurt like that again. Just like Sam didn’t want to be hurt.
Sam folded her hands on top of the covers and stared up at the dark ceiling above and thought about how, maybe, after she got through the week with the Bravos, after she found her new job, she just might consider maybe going on a date again. She might consider giving love and romance and all that stuff another chance.
The thing with Zach had been so long ago. Maybe it was time she let it go, got her girly on in more ways than just her clothes and learning to sip tea without slurping.
Hey, a woman needed love in her life.
And Sam Jaworski knew now that she was just like most other women. A little taller and a lot stronger maybe. With a different kind of job history than most women had.
But with the same hungers in her lonely heart.
She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
And dreamed of Travis.
It was a hazy, indistinct sort of dream. When she woke up the next morning, she didn’t remember much about it. Except that she and Travis were together.
And in the dream, she’d started to feel sad because she knew it was all a lie and it wasn’t going to last.
Because the honest truth was, she never wanted it to end.

Chapter Four
She got through the next day without once wishing she could wring Jonathan’s neck.
Even though he pushed her constantly to do better, to try harder, even though he remained as snooty and superior as ever, well, she was okay with that. If Travis hadn’t told her what her coach really thought about her, she never would have guessed that Jonathan believed she was doing well.
But Travis had told her, and his telling her had boosted her confidence enough that she threw herself into her training with new enthusiasm. She worked even harder than before.
And that second shopping trip on Thursday?
It wasn’t easy, but it was better. She discovered she was getting the hang of what to look for, getting an eye for spotting the finds in an endless sea of different fabrics, colors and styles.
They went back to the hotel that day with more shopping bags than the time before. Jonathan couldn’t help smiling at how well she’d done.
And she laughed. “I know you’re proud of me, Jonathan. I can see it on your face.”
“Ahem. Well. Don’t get too confident. We have a lot more to do.”
She nodded. “I know. And I’m ready for whatever you can throw at me.”
His eyelids drooped lazily over those sharp dark eyes, a look of pure satisfaction. “Perhaps you would enjoy a T-bone steak, rare, and a large baked potato this evening as a reward for work well done?”
She clapped her de-callused hands. “Oh, Jonathan. You have no idea.”
“An hour in the gym first,” he ordered gruffly.
She was only too pleased to pull on the clingy, sexy workout clothes they’d bought that day and head down to the hotel gym. She kicked butt on the treadmill and then pumped iron for all she was worth.
And at six-thirty that evening, she was treated to the most beautiful slab of beef she’d ever seen. She wanted to saw off a huge, juicy hunk and shove it in her mouth, to chew without worrying about keeping her lips together, to let the juice run down her chin.
But she didn’t. She put her napkin in her lap and she picked up her fork and knife and took her time about it. She cut each small bite smoothly and neatly—no sawing. She chewed slowly and thoroughly. She even managed to make polite conversation while she ate.
Jonathan didn’t once have to reprimand her.
And it was…. kind of fun really. Kind of graceful and satisfying. Eating slowly with care wasn’t half-bad after all.
The next day, Friday, they “worked” her wardrobe. Jonathan showed her how to mix and match the various pieces, to make several outfits out of a skirt, skinny pants, a sweater and various accessories.
They also “did” packing. He produced a gorgeous set of designer luggage and showed her how to pack for various types of excursions—from a weekend in the country to five days in Manhattan to a tropical getaway and an Alaskan cruise. She laughed at that. At the idea of Sam Jaworski packing up her designer duds and heading for the Big Apple or Jamaica or the land of the midnight sun. She also practiced packing for the week with the Bravo family.
That day, they went out for lunch and for dinner. It was important to use her new skills in the real world, Jonathan said.
And the next day, all of a sudden, it was Saturday. The last day of her training, the day of her final test.
Jonathan told her what the test would be: That night at seven, Travis would arrive to take her out for the evening.
She worked her butt off in the morning, reviewing with Jonathan. It was something of a test in itself, to prove how much she remembered of all that he’d taught her, how much she could apply with seeming effortlessness.
Over lunch at Quattro, the gorgeous Italian place in the hotel, Jonathan actually praised her outright. He said she was amazing him. He said that he was proud of her.
She went back upstairs floating on a cloud of success and good feelings.
Then came the afternoon in the spa.
It wasn’t as bad as the first time. She didn’t have to get another peel and she didn’t need waxing.
Still, there was the endless sitting as she had the manicure and the pedicure, the hair color and cut. She worked with the makeup consultant for a couple of hours, learning what products she needed, learning how to apply them.
It all took too long and she would just as soon have been down in the gym bench-pressing triple her weight, working up a good, healthy sweat.
But when it was done, well, she looked in the mirror and saw her dream self staring back at her, as tall and strong as she’d ever been—and yet, so much more. Even her too-short hair looked terrific, with highlights and lowlights, the gamine-style cut bringing out her cheekbones, kind of showing off the nice oval shape of her face. And the makeup was perfect. It enhanced her best features and minimized her flaws.
She returned to the suite, where Jonathan called her amazing for the second time that day.
By then it was almost six. Time to put on the beautifully fitted knee-length stretch satin dress with its skinny straps and built-in bra. A big rhinestone cuff and four-inch Dolce & Gabbana black lace pumps completed the outfit. She grabbed her small satin bag and the cute velvet shrug to keep her shoulders warm outside in the cool November darkness.
And she was ready.
When she came out of her room, Jonathan actually applauded.
She laughed and spun in a circle. “Pretty good, huh?”
He got out his camera and took a whole bunch of pictures. Sam almost felt nostalgic. Was it only Monday that they’d started together? Had she come so far in such a very short time?
It appeared that she had.
The firm tap on the suite’s door came at seven on the dot.
She went to answer.
The look on Travis’s face when she opened the door…oh, it was priceless. He actually gaped.
And then he said, his voice barely a croak, “Sam? My God. Sam.”
She laughed in delight. “Oh, Travis…” And she threw her arms around him. He stiffened at first—because she seemed so different, like a stranger?
She wasn’t sure. She started to feel kind of awkward, that she had maybe scared him by jumping all over him.
But then he relaxed. His arms came around her. He hugged her good and tight and he whispered, “You are drop-dead gorgeous, you know that?” He pressed his cheek to hers. “And you smell so good….”
She could have stood there, holding him tight like that forever. She liked it, so much, the glorious feel of his big, hard body pressed against hers. In his arms right then she felt so…feminine. Not soft, exactly. She was too buff for that.

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