Free Solid Gold Seduction (The Drakes of California) by Zuri Day Page B

some areas where you’ve clearly gotten it wrong.”
    After what seemed like a pause long enough to drive an omnibus through, Griff stepped out onto the porch. “I’m listening.”
    “First of all, I’m not a shady person, nor do I execute business deals in an underhanded way. If I were looking for something, payment of some kind, for the cows I purchased, I would have negotiated the fee up front.
    “Secondly, there was absolutely no forethought put into my buying the cows for Charli. Charli, Mr. Griff, not you. It happened on the spur of the moment, after my company had experienced a relatively good week. I was in a good mood and wanted to do something nice for someone who I felt deserved it. Period. End of story.
    “Thirdly, and finally, I don’t buy women, and I damn sure don’t buy them with cows!”
    Warren’s chest heaved with the force of his passion. Griff calmly cleaned his fingernails with the toothpick he’d pulled from his mouth.
    “Well?” Warren said at last. “Are you going to deny that you said I had ulterior motives? Do you have anything at all to say to me?”
    “Maybe,” Griff drawled, after another moment had passed. “But it might go down better with a taste.” He turned, walked toward the front door and said with his back to Warren’s scowl, “Come on in.”
    With only a slight hesitation, Warren followed Griff into the house. He took in the cozy, lived-in atmosphere at once: dark wood floors, a long, leather couch, a well-worn recliner, two rocking chairs, a cowhide rug, afghan throws and a huge, rugged dining room table that looked as though it had been built on site from some of the oak trees out back. The boards were held together with huge iron studs and the top appeared to be at least six inches thick. A few items that signaled a woman’s touch kept the dark room from being too manly: gingham curtains, gilt-framed pictures and a vase of flowers sitting atop the table, hydrangeas that had obviously been picked from the outside bushes.
    Griff turned, holding two bottles. “This here weak stuff or my homemade hooch?”
    Warren eyed the bottle of store-bought scotch in Griff’s left hand and the unlabeled bottle containing clear liquid in his right. This was a test, he knew. Warren determined that he would pass it if it killed him. He might not have been so gung ho if he’d known it likely could. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
    An eyebrow shot up. “You sure about that?”
    “What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger, right?”
    Griff pulled two shot glasses from off the hutch and filled them with the clear liquid. Warren walked over to where he stood as Griff held up a glass. Warren took it, braced himself and after Griff had lifted his glass in a silent toast, slammed it back.
    And like to have died.
    To say that the liquid burned going down was an understatement. No, it felt as if someone had taken a lit torch and stuck it down his throat after it had been coated with butane. But he took it like a man, refusing to gasp or drop to his knees the way he wanted to do. He felt sweat pop out on his brow and under his arms. Still, he’d swallowed the conflagration masquerading as alcohol and—aside from his eyes watering and a lone tear escaping from the side of his left one, one he surreptitiously swiped away—had shown no outer reaction.
    Griff, who’d downed the drink like water, simply licked his lips.
    Warren figured that Griff was waiting for him to say something. Wonder if you can talk without a voice box? He seriously questioned whether or not he had one left.
    The merest upturning of Griff’s mouth before he held up the bottle. “Another?”
    Warren gave one single head shake, even as he tested his tongue to see if it could move.
    “Sure?”
    He swallowed again. Okay, maybe there’s hope that I can still talk. “That’s...” He stopped, cleared his throat and tried to bring it back to its normal register instead of the pitch about an octave above it