"All set." José tucked the place mats and napkins under his arm, clutched the silverware in one hand and the pot holder and pen in the other. He took a deep breath, and his dark eyes sparkled. "Lead the way, boss."
Clint headed for the living room, followed by José. Their discussion in the kitchen had given him a whole new perspective on Meg's presence here. He hadn't realized he was giving his employees the thrill of a lifetime. He'd only been concerned about turning his beloved ranch into a joke. He still didn't like that part of it, but maybe some good would come out of this episode, after all.
* * *
Meg couldn't imagine why it was taking Clint so long to bring his cook out of the kitchen to meet her. She'd picked up a copy of Western Horseman lying on the coffee table and was pretending to read it as she strained to hear what the two men were saying, but they kept their voices low. At one point she heard the word hot very distinctly, but without context she didn't know if they were talking about food or her.
She couldn't assume they were talking about her. That was a very self-centered view of life, and she'd promised herself from the beginning that if she ever made it, she wouldn't become self-centered. But realistically, what else would they be talking about, especially in such hushed tones?
And if the word hot had been in reference to her, then they were in there debating her babe status. At least Clint wasn't laughing hysterically at the idea that she was hot. That meant she wouldn't embarrass herself if she decided to make a move on him.
The good thing about Clint was his lack of fear. He didn't seem to be the least bit afraid of her. And he played his cards close to his vest, as her father loved to say. Now that she considered that, she might be able to assume Clint wouldn't be the type to kiss and tell.
That meant—and her heart raced at the prospect—she might actually be able to have a fling with this guy during her short stay on his ranch. He wouldn't tell and she wouldn't tell. It was only a temporary fix for her currently lousy social life, but she found herself inclined to make do with the opportunity as presented.
She glanced down at the magazine in her lap and discovered she'd flipped to an article about artificial insemination. Apparently the convenience of that method had nearly obliterated the old-fashioned way of breeding. Having the stud get up close and personal with the mare was a thing of the past. How sad.
Meg lifted her gaze as Clint ambled into the room. The poor mares had no choice in the matter, but as far as she was concerned, a good stud was worth a little temporary inconvenience.
Because Clint looked surprised to see her with the magazine, she decided to pull his chain a little bit. "Great article here on horse breeding," she said. "I've been totally engrossed."
His eyebrows lifted. Then he smiled. "Good, because there will be a quiz after dinner."
Oh, baby. That smile edged her closer to a decision. Maybe she'd be a fool not to go for it. She met his gaze head-on. "Can't wait."
The sound of someone clearing his throat reminded her that they weren't alone in the room.
Clint seemed startled, as if he'd forgotten about the heavyset Hispanic man standing behind him. "Meg, I'd like you to meet José Garcia, the cook here at the Circle W."
Meg stood and reached out her hand. "Hi, José."
José dumped everything he'd been holding on the coffee table and grabbed her hand in both of his, pumping enthusiastically. "Welcome, señorita, welcome! Mi casa es su casa!"
"Thank you." She'd picked up enough Spanish over the years to know that he was telling her his house was hers. She doubted that the Circle W was José's to give, but the thought was sweet.
Clint didn't seem impressed, though. He let out a snort of amusement.
José ignored him. "Señorita, if you would be so kind as to autograph this pot holder, I will treasure it forever." He snatched up a blue-checkered square of quilted material and a pen from the pile he'd tossed on the table.
Meg hadn't been a celebrity long enough to be weary of the autograph routine. She was thrilled that he'd asked, and signing a pot holder was definitely a first for her. "Sure, I'd love to."
José handed over the pot holder and the pen. "And if you could put down something like Thanks for the fabulous meals, Love, Meg Delancy, I'd really appreciate it."
"Why not? I'm sure they will be fabulous. Whatever's in the oven right now smells heavenly." She wrote exactly what he'd asked on the pot holder and handed it back to him. "How's that?"
"That's wonderful! Gracias, señorita, gracias! Now let me set up your place mats for dinner. And by the way, if you should want to work a few Spanish words into your broadcast, I'm your man."
"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." Meg stepped aside while José bustled around the table arranging place mats and silverware. Then he folded the cloth napkins in an elaborate shape and set one in the middle of each place.
"Beautiful job on the napkins," Meg said.
"I've been practicing." José bowed in her direction. "Your meal will be served shortly." Holding his pot holder as if it were a priceless, breakable object, he left the room.
"You don't have to work Spanish into the broadcast," Clint said the minute José was back in the kitchen. "First Tuck hints about being in it, and now José wants to help write your script. You're under no obligation to take their suggestions."
So he thought she was a pushover. Boy, did he have a lot to learn about her. She wouldn't do anything that might jeopardize her broadcast, which was all she had going for her right now in terms of keeping herself on the show.
"Don't worry," she said. "If I don't like an idea, I don't take it. There's a delicate balance in sticking to the plan and yet leaving yourself open to new possibilities."
He gazed at her. "I'll bet there is."
"Take you, for instance."
He looked startled. "What about me?"
How she loved catching him off guard. She was grateful for the year of training that had taught her how to do it so well. "You're nothing like I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I thought you'd be a seasoned cowboy wearing worn denim, a guy who would call me ma'am every five seconds, a simple, straightforward sort of man. Instead you're all preppy and incredibly complicated. And apparently not a cowboy at all."
He studied her, his expression guarded. "Disappointed?"
"Intrigued."
"I thought you came out here looking for cowboys," he said softly.
"I did." She smiled at him. "But like I said, it's important to stay flexible."
His blue eyes darkened. "I suppose it is."
It would be such fun to tempt him and see if she could get those eyes to shine with lust. Did she dare? She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. "Are you going to build us a fire?"
He held her gaze. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
"Care to teach me how it's done?"
He continued to look into her eyes, as if they were having a staring contest and the first one to glance away would lose. "You've never built one?" he asked in a voice roughened by what she thought must be his reaction to her.
She shook her head but continued to maintain eye contact. "But I always wanted to. Show me."
"All right. Come on over here."
A shiver of longing went through her. She'd interviewed film idols and rock stars, men with sexual charisma to burn. They'd never inspired a jolt of desire this strong.
She walked over to the hearth and crouched down beside Clint. He smelled so good, so different from the men she knew. They piled on the cologne, and their clothes picked up the scent of the city—a mixture of car exhaust, smoke and the indefinable blend of ethnic cooking odors always in the air.
By contrast, Clint gave off the fragrance of sun and wind, grass and open fields. She wanted to bury her nose against his shirt and take a big sniff.
"How about I let you do it?" he suggested. "I'll tell you how."
The rumble of his voice right beside her was a potent aphrodisiac. "Okay. What come
s first?"
"Crumple up some of that newspaper and tuck it under the grate."
She did, and in the process made sure that her arm brushed his thigh. His breathing changed, and she smiled to herself. "What next?"
"Kindling—over there." He pointed to a stash of small twigs in a black bucket beside the fireplace.
She reached for the twigs.
"Wait." He caught her wrist. "I'm an idiot. You can't build this fire without gloves. You'll scratch your hands all to hell."
"I'll be fine." But she sure got a thrill out of having those strong fingers closed around her wrist. He could lead her anywhere.
"You won't be fine. You'd better let me do this." He released her and reached for a handful of twigs. "You can watch."
"That's no fun! I want to build it myself."
He sighed and glanced at her. "Then let me see if I have gloves that will fit you." He stood. "Be right back. And don't try to do anything. You'll ruin your manicure."
She blew out an impatient breath, hating to be the pampered city girl in this scene. He was right about the manicure, of course. And if she ruined it she couldn't count on Blythe, the studio makeup guru, to fix it for her before she went on the air. Her skin, hair and nails were her sole responsibility for the next two weeks, and she'd fallen out of the habit of maintaining her look by herself.
Mona, of course, would be perfect tomorrow morning, every hair in place, her manicure fresh and her makeup flawless. Meg couldn't afford to be any less gorgeous. Still, she didn't like the restrictions that imposed on her, or the way it made her seem like a high-maintenance chick.
Clint returned with a pair of cotton work gloves that looked brand new. "These will be too big." He handed them to her as he crouched down beside her again. "But it's the best I could find."
"They're great. Thanks." She put on the gloves, which gave her cartoon-character hands out of proportion with her body. The new material was stiff, making her clumsy as she reached for the twigs, but she was touched that Clint had searched for an unused pair.
After managing to grab a clump of twigs, she dropped them like pick-up sticks in the middle of the iron grate. This was fun. Camping hadn't been part of her life growing up in Brooklyn, so she'd never had a chance to sleep in a tent and cook over a fire. As much as she'd complained to Jamie about the lack of civilization around here, she'd always wondered what roughing it would be like.
"Good. Now get a bigger piece."
"How big?"
"You need a size that will rest gently on that nest of twigs without making them collapse. It should be about as big around as … oh, let's say a banana."
Or let's say the average penis. Meg studied the pile of wood on the hearth and chose a smooth stick that gave her big ideas. She couldn't help it if grasping the stick reminded her of something else, and placing it gently on the nest of twigs seemed about the most sexual image around. When a girl hadn't indulged in more than a year, she could be forgiven for thinking in those terms, especially when the owner of equipment complementary to hers crouched bare inches away.
"Now get another one like that and put it crossways over the first."
"Gotcha." She grabbed a second stick of the same circumference and laid it over the first. "Now bigger ones?"
"Just one. We'll add more later."
She lifted a log that had bark on the rounded side and an exposed honey-colored center on the flat side where someone had split it down the middle. It smelled heavenly, like the inside of the dresser drawer in the bedroom. "What kind of wood is this?"
"Juniper. It's a type of cedar. We have to go up in the mountains a ways to find it, but it's great for burning."
Meg used both hands to hold the wood to her nose and sniff. "Mmm. I wouldn't mind having a hunk of this in my apartment." Not to mention a hunk like you in there, too, sweet stuff.
"It smells the best right after you split it. After a while it loses that great smell."
She balanced the log on top of the two smaller branches and glanced at him. "You chopped this wood, didn't you?" When she was so close, she had a chance to admire his dark lashes, which made his eyes seem even more blue. He had a wonderful mouth, too. That didn't always mean a guy was a good kisser, but it was a decent start.
He glanced away, as if having her study him too closely made him uneasy, especially when she was asking questions. "Um, yeah, I chopped it, but it's simple. No real skill involved." He reached for a box of kitchen matches lying on the stone hearth. "Ready to light this fire?"
Was she ever. And in the process, she would peel back the layers of this mysterious, wood-chopping man and expose his honey-colored center, too. Why not? It wasn't as if there was a lot to do in Sonoita, Arizona, once the sun went down.
"I need my gloves off, first."
"Want me to light it?"
"Nope." She pulled off the gloves and took the box of matches. "I built this fire, and I want to be the one to light it." As she slid the box of matches open, she thought about condoms, and hoped to heck he had a stash somewhere, because she was fresh out.
"Strike it away from you, so you won't burn yourself."
Okay, so he was a safety-conscious guy. A safety-conscious guy would have condoms somewhere in this house. She scratched the match over the side of the box. Nothing happened.
"You have to do it faster and harder."
"Oh." She pressed her lips together so she wouldn't laugh. Faster and harder sounded absolutely wonderful. Good thing he understood that. This time she got the match to light with a satisfying pfft.
"Now touch it to the paper in several spots. You want to make sure all the wood catches fire, not just a section here and there."
"Always a good idea." She followed his directions to the letter, and soon the small twigs blazed and flames began licking the penis-sized branches. Heat teased her skin, making her long to start stripping off her clothes. What an erotic experience this had turned out to be.
Also, she'd never realized how much you could learn about a man by finding out how he built a fire. If Clint made love with the same patience and precision, she was in for something spectacular. All she had to do was get him to cooperate. And she had the distinct feeling that wouldn't be difficult.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Clint didn't know whether he was coming or going. By rights he should be irritated by a woman who was so obviously helpless in his world. He shouldn't want to get involved with that kind of woman. He liked his sexual partners to be self-sufficient, tough, able to do a man's work if necessary. At least that's what he'd always told himself.
Yet here he was, crouched next to the fireplace with someone who couldn't even strike a match on the first try. And he was turned on. He was so excited, in fact, that he needed to put some distance between him and this great-smelling, sweet-talking, soft and gorgeous female. Giving in to his urges could only bring trouble.
"That should do it for a while." He stood and walked over to the coffee table where José had laid out their place mats and silverware. With the toe of his shoe, he nudged the cushions on the floor a little farther apart and adjusted the place mats accordingly.
Maybe he was reacting to Meg this way because he'd been without for too long. He calculated back to his last encounter. Eighteen months. Time had moved faster than he'd thought. Beverly had wanted marriage and he hadn't been in love, so they'd parted. Hard to believe so much time had passed. He hadn't had the opportunity or inclination again.
"That was fun." Meg got to her feet and gazed at the fire. "It's burning pretty well," she said with obvious pride.
"Uh-huh." And so was he. The urge to kiss her had nearly overwhelmed him while they'd been working on the fire together. She'd looked so damned cute trying to manipulate the wood with those clown-sized gloves. The concentration she'd brought to the job had charmed him.
If she'd been raised in this country, she'd be a top band. Whatever task she set herself, she'd give it a hundred a
nd ten percent. He couldn't help but admire that. If only he could stop admiring her dynamite body, they could be friends. He'd concentrate on that angle.
The light from outside had faded in the room, leaving only the glow from the fire to outline her drop-dead figure. She created one hell of a silhouette, reminding him of the mud-flap decoration on one of his buddy's trucks. So much for ignoring her body.
"Dinner is served," José called out as he came in with a steaming dish of enchiladas. He set it on the stone hearth.
"Smells delicious," Meg said.
"Gracias, señorita." José flashed her a big smile. "I'll be right back with plates and a salad."
Clint had never heard so much Spanish come out of José's mouth before. Meg must be bringing out his inner Ricky Martin.
"I'm starving." Meg eyed the bubbling mixture with longing. "And I'll bet that food is all carbs. I'll need to watch myself."
"You're on a diet?"
"Not by choice. The camera adds pounds, and so to look normal, you have to weigh about ten pounds under your ideal weight. Because I'm on the short side, and kind of busty, I have to be especially careful."
He would say she was more than kind of busty. She had the sort of breasts that inspired wet dreams. "Must be tough, watching everything you eat."
"I fall off the wagon all the time, but in New York I belong to a gym, so I can burn those extra calories. I don't have any exercise equipment here."
He could think of another way to burn calories. But he needed to squash those thoughts. He could seriously jeopardize his position here. Unless she never mentioned it to anyone.
"Here we are, plates, salad and candles." José bustled back into the room. "I noticed it was getting dark in here."
"We can turn on lights." Clint started toward one of the table lamps next to the sofa.
"Candlelight would be so much nicer," Meg said.
"And muy bonita," José added.
Not to mention flat-out seductive. Clint should have turned on the lights earlier, but he'd been too engrossed in Meg to think about such things. Now they had atmosphere, whether he was ready to handle that or not. But he didn't turn on the lights.
KILLER COWBOY CHARM Page 5