Too Hot to Handle Read online

  Too Hot to Handle

  By Chanta Jefferson Rand

  Copyright 2011 Golden Isis Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover photo by http://www.KerryRandPhotography.com

  Cover Model: Garret White

  Too Hot to Handle

  Chanta Jefferson Rand

  Mason Kincade is tall, dark, handsome – and rich. He’s also coarse, ill-mannered and set in his ways. Having spent most of his life on his family’s sprawling ranch near Houston, Texas, Mason has neither the need nor the desire to interact with the wealthy upper crust. The problem is his new fiancée is a wealthy Chicago socialite, the epitome of class and elegance. Determined to refine Mason, she hires noted image consultant, Jewell Davenport to work a miracle in time for their wedding ceremony, which has been touted as the social event of the season.

  Jewell Davenport is the image consultant to the stars. Her sense of style and breeding has helped her single-handedly transform even the worst ugly ducklings into beautiful swans. When the daughter of a wealthy hotel magnate hires Jewell to transform her fiancé, Mason into a respectable gentleman, Jewell accepts without a second thought. But one look at the rugged cowboy and she knows she’s got her work cut out for her. Will this be just another extreme makeover or will Mason be too hot to handle?

  Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.

  They'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold.

  Lonestar belt buckles and old faded levis,

  And each night begins a new day.

  If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,

  He'll prob'ly just ride away.

  Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

  Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.

  Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.

  Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

  'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.

  Even with someone they love.

  ~From Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys by Willie Nelson

  ONE

  “Which one is your fiancé?”

  “The one driving the red truck.”

  Jewell Davenport’s eyes widened as she stood at the bay window of Mason Kincaid’s colossal ranch-style home watching him emerge from the driver’s side of a red Dodge Dually. His movements were confident and purposeful. He was a man clearly at ease with his tall, muscular build. He quickly strode to the rear of the truck, and along with two other men, began unloading small bales of hay from the truck bed.

  “Ugh,” Portia groaned. “I hate it when he gets all sweaty like that.”

  She turned away from the window, leaving Jewell standing there alone to watch Mason. His sinewy biceps rippled beneath the white t-shirt he wore. Even from a distance, Jewell could see his well-worn jeans were coated with a film of dirt. Her eyes lingered over his solid frame all the way down to his tobacco-colored cowboy boots. When he removed his gray Stetson hat to wipe his forearm across his brow, she was granted open access to view his strong features. Thick, dark beard and mustache. Obsidian eyes framed by black, brooding eyebrows. Skin that rivaled the finest mahogany. There was only one word to describe him: Intimidating.

  He chose that moment to focus his harsh gaze in her direction. The glint of his dark eyes instantly connected with hers. He’d caught her staring. It wasn’t polite she knew, but even good manners couldn’t make her look away from the rugged creature in front of her. Her heartbeat stuttered as he stared back, drinking his full. Finally, he scowled, muttered something she couldn’t hear, and turned away.

  “Pardon me for saying so, but you two seem like complete opposites,” Jewell observed.

  “Tell me about it,” Portia huffed. “I’m hoping you can change all that.”

  Jewell moved away from the window. The view from inside the dark, wood-paneled living room was in stark contrast to the vivid green pastures and gold spools of hay outside.

  “Here,” Portia offered her a cup of tea. The pretty Noritake china cup with its pink rosebuds was overshadowed by three deer heads, one cherry wood rifle case, and a massive stone fireplace that dominated the room. The hardy leather couches and colorful Mexican rugs must have been a far cry from the floral print sofas and Chantilly lace doilies Portia was used to. “Mason shops at The Arrangement,” Portia said, reading her thoughts.

  Jewell sipped her Earl Grey tea and wisely held her tongue. The Arrangement was an upscale furniture showroom that catered to rustic but expensive taste buds. Shopping there was fine as long as you weren’t engaged to Portia Rothchild, the daughter of a man who owned thirty luxury hotels in seven countries. From her red Giuseppe Zanotti pumps to her black Lanvin hat, Portia was a woman of breeding. Her younger sisters, Peyton and Paige, created their own line of upscale handbags for teens last year. The family was practically royalty, and if you didn’t fit into their “bougie” circle, your life didn’t mean shit in Portia’s eyes. Which was why Jewell didn’t understand why the woman was marrying a die-hard cowboy like Mason Kincaid. Financially, they were equally yoked, but socially, they weren’t even in the same galaxy.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to do,” Jewell told her.

  Portia set her teacup on a matching saucer before placing it on the coffee table in front of her. Then, she sat on one of the sofas and crossed her slender legs beneath her lavender dress. “My wedding is one month from today,” she began. “Everyone who’s anyone will be there, from celebrities to heads of states to business CEOs. I don’t mind telling you my father has invested a small fortune to see this event come to fruition.”

  Jewell joined her on the sofa. “Event?”

  “It’s a week-long celebration that culminates in a ceremony at Holy Name Cathedral. I’m sure you’ve heard the adage, ‘Your reputation is all you have. It takes a lifetime to create, but only a moment to destroy.’ When you have my family background, there are certain expectations that come with the burden of carrying the Rothchild name.” Her dark eyes fixed Jewell with a knowing stare. “My fiancé, although steeped in a wealthy legacy of his own, does not exhibit the same social graces as I.”

  Jewell tried her best to remain patient. When Portia contacted her last week asking to meet here to discuss a business transaction, she had no idea what the woman had in mind. After two days of playing phone tag and one hour of social bantering, she still didn’t have a clue. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand what you want.”

  Portia let out an exasperated breath. “Father wants to ensure Mason doesn’t embarrass us. I’m hiring you to teach my fiancé the art of being a gentleman.”

  Jewell placed her cup and saucer beside Portia’s. “You want me to show him which fork to eat with?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  Jewell glanced at Portia. The woman’s jet-black, long hair fell like a cloak around her shoulders. It was ramrod straight, in stark contrast to Jewell’s own wavy, cropped cut. “You’re asking me to instruct a grown man on the basic rules of etiquette. That’s not my area of expertise. I’m an image consultant. I help my clients build their wardrobes. I tell them what events to be seen at, and I recommend the appropriate plastic surgeons and dentists to enhance their looks. I don’t teach etiquette.”

  “I would pay you handsomely.�
�

  Jewell’s eyes narrowed. Why did these elitist trust fund babies always think everyone could be bought? As if a handsome payment was a panacea for all her problems. What kind of handsome? Boris Kodjoe Handsome or Idris Elba Handsome?

  “Why me?” Jewell asked. “You could have your pick of etiquette consultants. In fact, Barron Chandler would probably leap at the chance to work with you. Why not have a male to instruct another male on how to be a gentleman?”

  Portia looked away, biting on her pale bottom lip before speaking. “We’ve already been down that road,” she admitted. “We had to make a U-turn. Mason and Barron did not get along. Mason called him a pretentious asshole – to his face.” She faced her again and sighed, her boney shoulders slumping just a bit before she immediately straightened them. Apparently she remembered that slouching was poor posture. “Barron left, taking his non-refundable fee with him.”

  Jewell knew that some etiquette consultants commanded thousands of dollars per day. Barron Chandler was the best in the business. With his trademark white carnation in his lapel and his chauffeured Rolls Royce, Jewell could understand how Barron would be perceived as a pretentious asshole. “So, you just gave up? You didn’t think of hiring anyone else?”

  “You’re the fourth person I’ve hired.”

  “Wow. What happened to the others? Did Mason hog-tie them?” Jewell joked.

  “He may as well have. The man scared them off. He can be quite intimidating.”

  Interesting choice of words.

  “At any rate,” Portia continued. “They were all men. You’re a woman, and my last hope. I’ve seen you turn wannabe starlets into A-List celebrities just by helping them upgrade their looks. I’m hoping you can extend your magic to Mason.”

  Jewell shook her head. “There are a few glitches in your plan. For one, my clients usually come to me because they want my help. Mason seems more like…like…a hostile witness on the stand. Secondly, I’m an expert at styling women. I’ve never had a male client.”

  Portia stood up and huffed like a child who was not getting her way. “All I ask is that you make him presentable for the wedding ceremony and the reception. I want you to smooth that rough demeanor down to a polished stone. Like a diamond.”

  Jewell arched an eyebrow. “That sounded rather harsh.”

  “I prefer not to mince words. It avoids confusion.”

  “I’m just curious. Why try to change Mason into the man you want, when you can have your choice of eligible bachelors?”

  “You can’t begin to understand the magnitude of this,” Portia insisted. “This is the ultimate merger of two of the wealthiest families in the United States. The Kincaid fortune along with the Rothchild dynasty has been planned since Mason and I were children. We both understand our roles in this, but I simply will not be embarrassed by him at my wedding.”

  Jewell thought arranged marriages only existed in other countries, but clearly she’d been misinformed. In all her dealings with all of her clients, she’d never come across anyone like Portia Rothchild. The woman was all frills and lace on the outside, but inside she had a heart of stone. Jewell didn’t give a damn if Portia’s country cowboy embarrassed her or not. She wasn’t comfortable making this type of commitment.

  “I’m sorry,” Jewell said, standing. “I don’t babysit grown men. You’ll need to find someone else for this project.”

  Portia immediately blocked her path, standing directly in front of the room’s only exit. Portia didn’t look like the type to have a cat fight. Jewell tensed, ready to open a can of whup-ass if necessary.

  “Listen,” Portia began. “I know there must be something I can do for you. You have a kid, right?”

  Jewell volunteered a tight smile. “Oh, I see. You couldn’t appeal to my sense of greed, so you’re appealing to my emotions.”

  Portia shook her head. “You obviously have money – not as much as me – so what else would motivate a woman except emotion? Isn’t your son a teenager? He must want something. A new car maybe?”

  “Andy is not my son. He’s my nephew and sole dependent.” Jewell should have walked away, but the mention of Andy made her think twice. There was something Andy wanted. But it sure as hell wasn’t a new car. The boy was too young to drive. He was a fourteen-year-old musical prodigy. She was saving every penny to get the kid into Julliard. But money wasn’t the problem. Right now, Andy was on the waitlist, and it might be six months to a year before he got his Chuck Taylor’d foot in the door.

  She sighed. She hated it when people made her go against her better judgment. She had no business taking Portia as a client, but the woman had dangled the carrot; there was no way to ignore it now. “Okay,” Jewell agreed. “I’ll accept your offer on one condition.”

  A victorious smile crept over Portia’s refined features. “Name it.”

  “My nephew needs admission into Julliard.”

  “Julliard? How lovely. What’s his discipline? Drama? Dance?”

  “Guitar.”

  Her perfectly collagen-filled lips scrunched into a frown. “Guitar? I don’t think I’ve met anyone who went to Julliard to study guitar.”

  Don’t knock it, sister!

  “Well, you have now.”

  “Julliard. That’s quite a big price tag.”

  Jewell scanned Portia’s runway-ready body. “You told me to name my condition.”

  Portia took a deep breath. “Okay, what are we talking - all four years?”

  “One year will do. Along with a guarantee that he’ll get in.”

  “He has to audition. I have no control over that.”

  “But I’m sure you have some connections there. You can pull some strings. I think I recall you saying something about being a burden and all that jazz.”

  Portia smiled tolerantly, her pink lips hiding what Jewell was certain were rows of perfect, pristine-white teeth. “I said certain expectations come with the burden of carrying the Rothchild name.”

  “Ah yes. Thank you for the clarification.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Davenport.”

  “And you’ll get exemplary results, Ms. Rothchild. I think my record speaks for itself.”

  “Fine, but if I judge Mason not presentable by the time of the ceremony, the deal is off.”

  “Works for me.”

  “I’ll have my attorney draw up a contract and send it by courier to you. I’ll want you to get started right away.” She looked around the room and shivered before grabbing her purse. “In the meantime, I’m headed back to Chicago. I can’t take another minute in this animal sanctuary.”

  Jewell watched her leave. Crosby, Texas was definitely not on the top ten travel destinations of the rich and famous. But at least Portia could have hung around and attempted to be sociable. It seemed she’d only stayed to make sure she’d laid down the law.

  Jewell sighed. She was not in a position to judge anyone. She’d just shown she could be just as manipulative to get what she wanted.

  No, you’re nothing like Portia. You have principles. Oh yeah? Then why do I feel like I just sold my soul to the devil?

  TWO

  Mason stared at the pair of long legs crossed in front of him. The color was pleasing, like warm maple syrup. He’d always appreciated a good-looking set of legs. Portia’s legs were long too but not as shapely and not as dark. In fact, her skin was practically beige. She wouldn’t be caught dead in the sun unless she’d slathered herself with a vat of sunblock. But as much as he appreciated the vision of beauty in front of him, he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her. He didn’t trust any of Portia’s image consultants. He referred to them as “do-over” men – ‘cause they wanted to re-do him and make him into something he wasn’t. Yeah, do-over men. Only this one wasn’t a man. Occupying his living room as if she owned the place; her prim and proper posture was a strange contrast against the calf hair chair she sat in.

  “What can I do for you Ms. Davenport?”

  “I think you know
why I’m here, Mr. Kincaid. Your fiancée hired me. The question is, are you going to make my job hard or easy?”

  “You get straight to the point. At least Barron spoke to me nicely.”

  “And look where that got him.”

  Mason’s lips twitched toward a smile, but stopped just short of the target. He was both surprised and intrigued by her directness. Most females ran for cover if he barely raised his voice. Jewell Davenport had balls. Okay, she might be worthy of his respect. But that still didn’t mean he could trust her. He sat across from her and propped his Stetson boots on a nearby table that was designed from a tree stump. “So, Portia hired you to get me in line?”

  “It’s not polite to put your feet on the furniture, Mr. Kincaid.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is this lesson number one?”

  “Actually, the first lesson I’d planned to cover was communication etiquette. I’ll review subjects like communication in business and social settings. We’ll also touch on conversation skills, telephone etiquette, email etiquette, thank you notes, making introductions, and other aspects of interpersonal communication.”

  “Whatever she’s paying you, I’ll double it if you leave now.”

  Her pretty mouth dropped open and she stared at him like he’d grown steer horns. “What is your problem with learning something new?”

  “This ain’t nothing new. Good manners have been around since the beginning of time. I just choose not to adhere to them. And as far as my communication skills, in my world, the people who want to do business with me don’t have no problems with my etiquette. They like makin’ money, just like me.”

  “Money’s not everything.”

  “Then why’d you take this job? Apparently, you must need it.”

  She looked him squarely in the eyes. “Let’s just say I enjoy a challenge.”