“Open your eyes, Sweetheart.”
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Copyright
“Open your eyes, Sweetheart.”
Tom stilled the movement of his hand. “You let me touch the fire deep inside you,” he murmured, kissing Cleo’s jaw, her cheeks. “Let me see the fire in your eyes when I take you over the edge.”
Slowly her eyes opened, pale yet glowing in the dim light of the clearing.
His breath caught in his throat. He increased the pressure, quickened the rhythm and watched with a fierce sense of possession as the flame leapt into her eyes. “Yes,” he whispered as he felt her excitement. Whether she knew it or not, he was staking a claim tonight.
Her eyes darkened. With a soft cry of surrender, she lifted her hips, allowing him even deeper penetration as she shook with the force of her climax. When she relaxed in his arms a few minutes later, he slowly withdrew his hand, gave her one last lingering kiss and climbed out of the hot tub.
“Tom?” Her voice was husky with spent passion. “You’re...leaving. But...”
He gazed at her silently, his mind warring against the grinding need to take her. Then he turned. “A smart cowboy lets a filly get used to him before he tries to ride her for the first time.”
Dear Reader,
When I first heard about Temptation’s newest miniseries, I was thrilled. After all, here was a theme I could really sink my teeth into. You see, I’ve actually been on a “manhunt.” Once, when I was single, my sister decided I needed to find a guy. Since I’ve always had a weakness for cowboys, we went “manhunting” at a country-western dance hall. The room was awash in snug jeans, shiny belt buckles, leather boots and Stetsons. Yet somehow I ended up giving my phone number to the only guy in the place dressed in slacks and a sports shirt. Go figure.
My instincts must have been right, because we’ve been married twenty-eight years. But in that time, a gradual transformation has taken place. First came the jeans. Then the boots. Finally, not long ago, he bought a Western hat in a secondhand shop, a broken-in model that’s already loaded with character. Looks like I found me a cowboy after all.
Happy reading,
Vicki Lewis Thompson
Vicki Lewis Thompson
Manhunting in Montana
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For Kathleen Stone, whose unbridled enthusiasm has
earned her another cowboy.
Enjoy, Kathy!
And special thanks to Aline and Jim Moore,
my Montana buddies.
1
SHOOTING GORGEOUS GUYS really turned her on.
Cleo Griffin returned to her New York studio in the condition that usually followed a photo session—she wanted to grab the nearest man and get naked. Unfortunately there was no man in her studio, only her assistant and best friend, Bernadette Fairchild.
Bernie, a Rosie O’Donnell look-alike, glanced up from the computer screen. “You’re flushed.”
“Of course I’m flushed.” Cleo took a bite of the soft pretzel she’d bought from a street vendor. Then, laying the pretzel on Bernie’s desk, she eased the heavy camera bag off her shoulder onto an office chair.
“I take it Mr. December was well put-together?”
Cleo headed for the watercooler. “Bernie, the pecs on that guy would make you weep.” She filled a paper cup with water and gulped it down. “If I don’t get some action soon, I’m gonna self-combust.”
Bernie stopped typing and swiveled her chair toward Cleo. “There’s this new thing I just heard of. Dating.”
“Don’t have time.” Cleo crumpled the paper cup and threw it in the trash before glancing at Bernie. “You’re lucky. You have George to go home to.”
“I invested two years in Project George. That’s not luck, that’s top-level strategy.”
“I should have done the same thing when I was in school.”
“Didn’t I tell you that? Didn’t I tell you those were the mating years? But would you listen?”
“It’s not too late.” Cleo pulled a chair over in front of Bernie’s desk and sat down. “I can still find somebody. All I need is a nice guy who won’t interfere with my work.”
“But someone talented enough to take the edge off after a steamy session behind the lens, right?”
Cleo crossed her ankle over her knee and grinned. “That goes without saying.” She picked up her pretzel again and took a generous bite.
“I’m afraid they don’t offer those in the Sharper Image catalog,” Bernie said. “By the way, your tickets arrived for the Montana trip. You’re staying at a small, intimate yet authentic guest ranch, just like you specified. Six cabins, so it won’t be crawling with tourists, and Tom McBride, the owner, runs a few head of cattle, so you’ll have plenty of cowboys on the property and more at neighboring ranches.” She pushed an envelope across the desk.
“Cowboys.” Cleo picked up the envelope to look inside and check flight times. “How am I ever going to survive shooting twelve hunky cowhands, considering the shape I’m in after finishing this firefighter calendar?”
Bernie resumed typing. “Give in and take one to bed.”
“No.” She’d been tempted so many times, but it was totally unprofessional. She had a reputation to protect.
“You’ll be at the ends of the earth in Montana.” Bernie clicked the mouse on the print command and sat back in her chair. “I think they still communicate by Pony Express out there. Word would never get back to New York that you’d been naughty.”
Cleo finished off the pretzel. “You know me better than that I couldn’t live with myself. Besides, it’s almost as if I have to keep doing everything the same, with no deviation, to keep this calendar bonanza going.”
“Chick, you’re there. You’ve made it.” Bernie picked up the letter that rolled out of the laser printer. “Are your hands clean?”
Cleo licked pretzel salt from her thumb. “Not exactly.”
“Then don’t touch this.” She laid it in front of Cleo. “I just want you to read it and gloat.”
Cleo read the letter explaining to the Van Cleefs that Ms. Griffin’s schedule wouldn’t allow her to photograph their daughter’s very expensive, very prestigious wedding. Five years ago when the oldest daughter had gotten married, Bernie had practically crawled over broken glass trying to get Cleo the job, but another photographer had been chosen. Cleo knew she should be as impressed as Bernie that they didn’t need the Van Cleefs anymore. She wanted to feel secure and confident with her success, but most of the time she felt more like a tightrope walker balancing a tray of Fabergé eggs.
She glanced up. “Okay, so I’m not begging to take society-wedding shots these days, but—”
“Your Hard-Hat Heroes calendar almost outsold Calvin and Hobbes last Christmas.”
“Almost isn’t good enough.”
Bernie let out an exasperated sigh. “And would that be another maxim from the great Calvin Griffin?”
“Well, he’s right.” Cleo wadded up the paper the pretzel had come in and got out of the chair to throw it away. Talking about her father always made her ed
gy. “He didn’t almost become the CEO of Sphinx Cosmetics. He’s never almost done anything.” Except once, she thought. He’d almost fathered a son, until Cleo’s mother had miscarried, leaving him with only a daughter.
“Aren’t you the CEO of Griffin Studios?” Bernie said quietly.
“It’s not the same. It’s not—”
“Enough?” Bernie prompted. “Listen, kid, you shouldn’t have to prove anything to—”
“I need to get this film labeled and ready for the lab.” Cleo picked up the camera bag by the strap. “The contact sheets won’t be finished before I leave for Montana tomorrow, so you’ll have to overnight them to me at the guest ranch. What’s the name of it?”
“The Whispering Winds.”
“Sounds way too romantic to be authentic. A ranch is supposed to be named something like the Triple Bar or the Rocking Z.”
“I suggest you tell Tom McBride that. I’m sure he’d appreciate the tip from a New Yorker.” Bernie returned to her keyboard.
“Well, I just might. The right name could improve his business.” Cleo started toward her workroom. The studio was small—nine hundred square feet that included a reception area, Cleo’s workroom and a seldom-used cubicle set up with umbrella lights for studio shots. Ever since Cleo had hit upon the idea of creating hunk calendars, she’d pretty much abandoned studio photography. She preferred shooting her men in their natural environment
“Why not choose thirteen this time?” Bernie called after her.
Cleo turned back. “Thirteen what?”
“Cowboys. Pick out an extra one. Then if there’s one of the thirteen you like personally, and he likes you, eliminate him from the calendar and make a little whoopee. You’ll have some fun and you won’t compromise your professional ethics.”
Cleo rested the camera bag on the floor as she gazed at Bernie. The idea that was slowly forming terrified her, but it could be the answer to her prayers. “You just might have something there.”
“That’s my job. Facilitating your career and your happiness. You can have a wonderful romp in Montana and come home with a calendar and some great memories.”
“I could also come home with a husband.” God, that sounded bizarre. But what if her raging hormones caused her to forget herself during a shoot one of these days? She could ruin her reputation, her self-respect and her career in one fell swoop.
Bernie stared at her. “Hey, wait a minute, Cleo. That’s not what I—”
“Why not?” Cleo met the fear churning inside with her usual weapon—an outward show of supreme confidence. “My interview for the bio note on the calendar can do double duty as a potential-husband questionnaire. I can kill two birds with one stone. It’s perfect.”
“Love doesn’t work on that kind of efficiency model, toots.”
Cleo lifted her chin. “I say it can.” Even Bernie didn’t know how desperate she’d become for safe, steady sexual release with an understanding man, or how lonely her downtime had become when she was between projects. Marriage was the only solution. But she had to find some way to work the selection process into her schedule. Crazy as it seemed, this could be the answer.
Bernie didn’t seem to appreciate the beauty of her plan. “Even if you managed such a thing, then what?” she argued. “You’ll drag some poor cowboy back to New York? According to the movies, those ol’ boys like the wide-open spaces, the howl of Wily Coyote, the smell of horse poop. You can’t expect him to survive on the aroma of cab fumes.”
“No, I wouldn’t drag him back to New York. That’s why it would be so perfect. He could stay in Montana, and I’d stay in New York, and we’d get together on weekends whenever it was convenient. I could go there, he could come here or we could each fly to a central spot like, say, Chicago.”
Bernie stared at her with her mouth hanging open. “You’re really serious.”
“Of course.” She was quivering inside, but she was deadly serious.
“What happens when the little bambinos show up? Will they be centrally located in Kansas?”
“No bambinos,” she said quickly, thinking of how children could wreck her career. “That will be understood from the beginning. Not every guy wants to have kids, you know. Don’t worry. I’ll find one who thinks a commuter marriage is an exciting way to live.”
“Cleo, are you nuts? This is too outrageous, my little bohemian friend, even for you.”
“It is exactly what I need, and it is exactly what I’m going to get. Thanks for the idea, Bernie.”
“That was not my idea. Don’t you dare go pinning the rap on me. All I suggested was some R and R, not a husband-hunting expedition.”
“But don’t you see? I don’t have time for R and R, but I have to solve this problem, and soon.”
“What’s wrong with you? Marriage is about sharing your life with someone! All you’d share would be sex and an accumulation of frequent-flier miles!”
“I’m going to do it, Bernie. I’m not saying it’ll be easy finding a husband in two weeks, but you know how much I love challenges.” Cleo swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. This had to work. “Somewhere in Montana, right this minute, my future husband is roping a steer, or sipping coffee beside a campfire, or riding a bucking bronco—one of those manly things cowboys do—unaware that his life is about to change forever.”
“Or at least on alternate weekends,” Bernie said.
“TOM, the toilet don’t work in cabin six, and that photographer from New York is due in there tomorrow.”
Tom McBride looked away from the computer terminal on his desk, more than happy to be interrupted. No matter how he juggled the figures, the Whispering Winds was sinking deeper in debt every year. He glanced up at the slim cowboy, Jeeter Neff, who stood just inside the open door of his office. Tom treated the men and women working for him on the ranch as equals, and the only people on the place who called him Mr. McBride were his cook Juanita’s two kids, at Juanita’s insistence.
“Is Hank around somewhere?” Tom asked. Hank Jacobs was the ranch’s official handyman, a weathered old guy who’d been a school janitor before finally getting his wish to work and live as a cowboy.
“You gave him a week off to get his mother settled in that old folks’ home.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I’d see to it, but I’m s’posed to take the Daniels bunch out on a trail ride in about ten minutes, and from what Luann said when she was in there gettin’ the place ready, something needs to be done pronto.”
Tom pushed back his chair, glad for an excuse to leave the office and the sea of red on the computer screen. He stood and grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall. “I’ll do it.”
“I’d recommend taking a plunger,” Jeeter said with a grin. “Maybe a snake, too.”
“On second thought, maybe I should wrangle the Daniels bunch and you can deal with the toilet.”
Jeeter backed up, poised to hightail it out the front door of the ranch house. “You know, I never was much good at that job. Usually ended up making a worse mess than when I got started.”
“Handy excuse, Jeeter.” Another thought occurred to Tom. He hadn’t considered the ramifications of giving Hank the time off. “I guess that means Hank can’t pick up that photographer at the airport tomorrow, either.”
“I guess not.”
Tom sighed. “I might as well do it, then. Somebody needs to take a manure sample to the lab for a worm check, anyhow. Might as well get ’em both done at once.”
“You gonna take that sample in before or after you go to the airport?”
“I don’t know. Depends on traffic. Why?”
Jeeter’s grin broke through again. “I just don’t know if it’ll do much for business, hauling around some fancy-dancy woman from New York with a plastic bag full of road apples on the seat between you.”
“Hey, I talked to her secretary. This lady wants an authentic ranching experience.” Tom didn’t believe that for a minute. They all said that, until you handed them a shov
el or asked them to stretch some barbed wire. “You just made up my mind, Jeeter. I’m taking in the sample after I pick her up. Let’s see what she’s made of.”
Jeeter laughed and took off.
Moments later, armed with a plunger, Tom stepped out onto the wide front porch of the ranch house. He’d been born in this house, had learned to walk on this porch while clutching the railing. An errand had to be pretty damned important to keep him from pausing to appreciate the view from the top of the steps, and the toilet wasn’t that important
Although his dad had never been much for “standin’ and gawkin’,” his mother had taught him to treasure what lay before him—a meadow greening up after a rain, a corral of sleek horses, outbuildings nestled into the trees, and beyond, the proud sweep of the Gallatins still tipped with snow on this June morning. He knew the imprint of those mountains against the sky as well as he knew his mother’s face. Not many folks have paradise right out their front door, Tommy, she’d said more times than he could count
He took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. Friends had advised him to build more guest cabins to bring in the money he needed to stay solvent, but that would change the character of the ranch he loved more than anyone knew. Tugging at the brim of his Stetson, he left the porch and started toward cabin six. He wasn’t good at compromise. And it might eventually get him kicked right out of paradise.
TOM HADN’T BEEN on airport duty for some time, and he arrived at the terminal with nothing more than the flight’s arrival to go by. He’d forgotten to find the photographer’s name in the computer before he left the Whispering Winds, but there couldn’t be that many women on the plane with a big-city air and a camera bag over one shoulder.
Come to think of it, he hadn’t been to the airport since the last time he’d met Deidre there two years ago. No wonder he was in a rotten mood, with memories of his ex-wife floating around the place. Deidre had looked fantastic coming down the jetway, he remembered, but professional models were supposed to look fantastic. Apparently they weren’t supposed to look pregnant.
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