Page 51 of Cowboy in Colorado

“W.H. Auden,” my father says, amused. “Not the deceased poet, I presume.” A joke? From my always-business father?

“William Henry, not Wystan Hugh, and no, I’m no poet,” Will says. “My mother was a schoolteacher, back East.” He glances out the window at the Manhattan skyline. “Or, rather, over here, I guess I should say. Named me after her favorite poet.”

Dad nods. “One of mine, as well.”

“‘We would rather be ruined than changed, we would rather die in our dread than climb the cross of the moment and let our illusions die,’”Will quotes.

Color me impressed.

Dad nods.“‘How should we like it were stars to burn with a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.’”He frowns slightly. “Forgive the stereotype based on appearances, but if I were to guess, I would not peg you as a reader of poetry.”

Will laughs. “I ain’t, and you’d be right in your estimation, generally. But when you’re named after a guy, you get curious, and some of his stuff sticks in your head.”

“It does at that.” Dad eyes me.

Am I too pale? Is it obvious I’m having trouble swallowing? Can he smell the raw sexual desire wafting up from between my thighs? I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen, but alas, it has: I’m drenched, dripping with need from one look.

Will steps forward and shakes Dad’s hand, their eyes locking; I know Dad well enough to see the subtle wince he suppresses at the power of Will’s grip, and I see something pass between them.

I clear my throat, and they both look at me. My voice is beyond icy. “How can I help you, Mr. Auden?”

Will’s lips part, but his teeth do not, remaining locked and clenching. He blinks at me for a time that feels endless. “You’re his daughter?”

I nod. “Yes. I did introduce myself to you, I distinctly remember, as Brooklyn Bellanger. Pretty solid clue, there.”

“Didn’t realize you meantthatBellanger.”

“Would you have changed your mind, if you’d known?” I ask, the ice in my voice going so cold it crackles to brittleness. “Would knowing that I’m his daughter, that I’m the heir to a sixty-billion-dollar fortune have convinced you to hear me out?”

“Ahem, seventy, actually, my dear,” Dad adds. “We recently closed on a rather large acquisition, which boosted our value quite a bit.”

“Sixty, seventy, whatever.”

Will blinks, and then snorts a laugh. “You just whatevered aten-billion-dollar difference.”

“It’s all the same at that level, William. More money than anyone could spend in several lifetimes, and my contribution to that fortune is fairly minor. I may be the heir, but I expect Dad to donate the majority of it upon his passing. I don’t want his money, and he knows it.”

Will nods. “Understandable.” He mutters a sound, a wordless sound of…irritation? Something I can’t quite fathom. “We need to talk, Brooklyn.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that. There’s nothing to talk about, William.”

His snarl is barely kept under control. “Quit with theWilliambullshit. My name is Will, and I think you know that.”

“I damn well know there’s nothing to talk about. I was just discussing my new project with my father when you interrupted. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

Dad frowns at me, and leads me to the outer office, where he addresses me with an admonishing gaze. “If someone goes to the trouble he’s gone through to hunt you down, you ought to at least hear him out.”

I gesture pointedly at the door to the inner office, where Will waits. “Tell that to him.”

Dad’s face features a smirk, then, and I have never, ever in my life seen himsmirk. “I see.”

“You donotsee, Dad.”

“This is personal, that’s what I see,” Dad says, the smirk growing. “Very personal.”

“It may have, very unfortunately,beenpersonal,” I admit, “but it’s not any longer. I’ve moved on—both personally and professionally.”

“The frost on the windows speaks of a different story, my dear,” Dad says, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms.