by JoAnn Ross
“Gotta love that old Code of the West,” Jude drawled, not quite able to keep the acid from her tone.
“Now there you go, being sarcastic,” he said easily. He was not going to let this sexy smart-mouthed female rile him up. “But the thing is, there really is a code. It’s not written down anywhere, but where I come from, a man’s brought up to know what’s right and what’s wrong.”
Black hats and white hats. Just like in those old movies. Like the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns that provided such pleasure on dateless Saturday nights and rainy Sunday mornings. The movies that had been the impetus for the feature article about cowboys in the first place.
“And you believe what we did was wrong.” It was not a question.
“Sure I do. And, I figure, deep down inside, you know it, too. But that’s all water under the bridge. And there’s no point arguing, Miz Lancaster, since I’m not changing my mind.”
Jude exhaled a long, frustrated breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a very hard head beneath that cowboy hat?”
“It’s been mentioned a time or two. But like my grandpa Buck always says, a man who spends too much time straddling the fence only gets a sore crotch.”
“Well, that’s certainly a pithy bit of western wisdom,” she snapped, clearly frustrated.
Her spine went as straight as a lightning rod. He watched as she ran a hand over her palomino pale hair, which fell straight as rainwater past her jaw. Energy radiated from Jude Lancaster’s every fragrant pore; she reminded Lucky a lot of quicksilver.
They looked at each other, her frustrated gray eyes meeting his unwavering brown. A challenging silence stretched between them.
Finally, Jude asked, “So who is Emilie Mannion?”
“A western photographer back at the turn of the century. I’ve got some sepia postcard copies of pictures she shot of the Cheyenne Frontier Days rodeo. Great stuff.”
“Oh.” She wondered who owned the copyright. Including a few of them—and perhaps posing Lucky in the same way—might add an artistic sense of history to the layout.
Another silence. As he watched her drag her hand through her hair, cross her legs with an impatient swish, wiggle her high-heeled foot, Lucky wondered what it would take to get this woman to unwind. He also wondered if she’d be this animated in bed. An image flashed through his mind—a mental picture of tumbling her in a hayloft while a benevolent summer sun made her lily-white skin glow golden.
Hell. What had gotten into him? This too skinny, fast-talking city slicker wasn’t his type. He liked his women warm, lush and willing. He liked them to move slowly and seductively, inside bed and out. Not that he had any intention of taking little Ms. Publishing to bed, he reminded himself. Besides, he doubted there were any convenient haylofts to be found in Manhattan.
“Look, it’s not that I really care one way or another whether or not you do the layout,” Jude began, her honeyed tone belying her still sky-high blood pressure.
“Aw shucks, ma’am.” His voice was smooth, but his eyes had turned granite hard again. “I might just be a dumb old cowpoke, but I’m finding that line a bit hard to swallow.”
“It’s true.” It was, Jude assured herself as the persistent fire in her chest flared over the antacids again, only a little white lie. “I’ll undoubtedly get fired if you don’t, but to tell you the truth, the job has begun to lose its appeal anyway.” That was definitely the truth. “So, starting over might be a good thing for me in the long run, creatively speaking.”
As soon as she heard herself saying the words she’d been thinking for so long out loud, Jude realized, with not a little surprise, that she actually meant them.
She’d really have to think about this, she considered. When she had more time. After the collector’s issue was put to bed. Which wasn’t going to happen unless she could get Lucky O’Neill to agree to be her hunk.
“There’s just one little problem,” she continued.
“Here we go.”
“What?”
Lucky folded his arms over his chest and steeled himself against those coaxing pewter gray eyes. “We country boys are familiar enough with manure to realize when we’re knee-deep in the stuff. I figured there’d be a catch when you suddenly turned so agreeable. And sure enough, here it comes.”
Jude’s deep sigh caused her slender breasts to rise and fall beneath her pearl gray blouse. The blouse was silk; Lucky suspected that her perfumed skin would be even silkier. Not that he cared what Jude Lancaster’s skin felt like, he assured himself. Then reluctantly realized that Kate wasn’t the only liar in the O’Neill family.
“You’re a very cynical man,” she complained.
“Not cynical. Just a realist. Don’t have much choice in the cow business. Now, admittedly we don’t have a lot of high-rises in Cremation Creek. In fact, to be honest, I’d have to say that the movie theater is the tallest building in town. And my barn would probably come in second. But I do know enough about the fast lane to realize you didn’t get that fancy corner office with all those windows by not being damn good at your job.”
For some reason Jude heard herself opting for absolute honesty. “There are some in the city who might suggest I got that office because my father used to own the syndicate that publishes Hunk of the Month.” Some people like Tycoon Mary, she thought but did not say.
He tilted his head, as if studying her from a new angle. “That may have helped in the beginning. But it wouldn’t have been enough to keep you there,” he decided. “So, it only makes sense that you wouldn’t stop trying to talk me into posing for your magazine without giving it your best shot.” Along with guts, determination was another thing Lucky could appreciate.
“I am good at what I do.” Her voice, which had started out coaxingly warm, turned as chilly as the ice on a stock pond in February. “Which is why, even if I were to be fired, I could get another job anywhere in the publishing business. Like that.” She snapped her unadorned fingers.
Aw, hell. She was arrogant to boot. And downright nervy for a half-pint female who didn’t appear to have an ounce of surplus meat on her slender bones and barely reached his shoulder. Lucky had never been attracted to timid women. As he found himself once again wishing for a convenient hayloft, the ridiculousness of their situation had him feeling aggravated, aroused and reluctantly amused all at the same time.
“You’re probably a crackerjack managing editor.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed, suggesting that she suspected a joke at her expense. “I am. However, I’m afraid Kate doesn’t have the experience, or the reputation, to survive a shake-up as easily.”
Lucky reluctantly put aside another enticing mental image of Jude, dad in a scrap of frothy lace, lying on a bed of sun-dappled straw. “Kate might lose her job?”
Lucky remembered how excited his sister had been when she’d called the ranch with the news that she’d won the competitive position which, from what he and Buck could tell in the early days, consisted mainly of fetching coffee and running the copy machine. It also hadn’t paid enough to keep a hamster alive, which was why both men reluctantly accepted her decision to move in with Jack Peterson.
“She’s my assistant. If I blow this issue, the publisher will replace me with her nephew—who’s bound to bring in his girlfriend, the same bimbo he’s installed as his secretary in marketing.”
“And Kate would be out the door?”
“Before you could say ‘Get along little dogie.’”
Lucky gave her a long look, trying to see if this was just another scam. After all, as Buck was always saying, baloney was still baloney, no matter how thin you sliced it.
“If you’re lying—”
“Believe me, I’m not. Of course, it’s always possible that Kate could survive and end up somewhere else at the magazine. Circulation, perhaps.” Her tone suggested such an assignment to be the publishing world’s equivalent of Boot Hill. “But the battle lines have already been drawn and although it’s probably foolishl
y loyal of her, she’s declared herself on my side.”
“Katie was brought up to be loyal.”
“Apparently loyalty—and responsibility—both run deep in the O’Neill family.”
The observation didn’t escape him. It had, of course, been made to remind him of his responsibility to his baby sister.
“You don’t exactly fight fair, do you? Because that’s definitely hitting below the belt.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
She tossed her head in a way that caused another resurgence of the humor Lucky thought he’d left back home in Cremation Creek. He was half tempted to tell her that she was as cute as a newborn foal when she pulled out that princess-to-cowhand glare, and he figured she wouldn’t really consider that much of a compliment.
“Well? Is it working?” she asked hopefully when he didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know.” Frustrated all over again, Lucky rubbed his unshaven chin. “I’ll have to think on it.”
“Fine. You’ll have lots of time to ponder your sister’s professional fate during our flight.”
“Our flight? You’re not coming to Wyoming.”
“I’ve always wanted to see the Wild West. Especially since Kate’s always describing it as Heaven on Earth. This is probably as good a time as any to see for myself if it lives up to your sister’s billing.”
He skimmed a look at the slim black purse and the briefcase she’d grabbed as she left the office. “I’ve heard of traveling light, but don’t you think you’re overdoing things?”
“I have a toothbrush in my purse. The laptop computer in my briefcase allows me to work anywhere. And I can buy essentials when I get to Wyoming. Besides, Kate’s overnighting some casual clothes.”
Lucky figured this woman’s idea of casual would be more of those clingy silk blouses and designer jeans too tight to wear while climbing up on a horse. Not that it wouldn’t be damn pleasant watching her try.
“You just don’t give up, do you?”
“No. Not when it’s something important. Something I care deeply about.”
“No offense, Miz Lancaster—”
“Please call me Jude. As you said, there’s probably not much need for formality in Cremation Creek.”
She’d gotten that right. What Lucky was having trouble with was the idea of this chic New York woman in Cremation Creek in the first place.
“My point was, Jude,” he said, earning a satisfied nod of her flaxen head, “I truly don’t mean any disrespect, but as important as your magazine might be to you, it isn’t on par with curing cancer or bringing about world peace.”
If what he’d seen so far was any indication, he couldn’t truthfully put it on par with Hoof and Horns magazine. But since he’d been brought up to be polite to women, Lucky decided there was no reason to mention that.
“We don’t claim to be out to change the world,” Jude said. “But Hunk of the Month does provide entertainment, which our subscription figures reveal must be fairly important to a number of people.
“And to be perfectly honest, I suppose, what I’m really concerned about is my reputation. And something else I can’t really explain. But, for lack of another word, I’d have to call it pride. There are a lot of people relying on me. I don’t want to let them down.”
Pride was something else Lucky could identify with. For the first time he was beginning to get an inkling of why Katie considered her a close enough friend to lie for.
“You’re not married.” He took hold of the hand that had begun to nervously smooth nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt and stroked a fingertip over the fourth finger.
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Going steady?”
“No.” Her voice wasn’t as strong as it had been earlier. He touched a thumb to the inside of her wrist and felt her pulse hammer. Interesting.
“So, there’s no one who’s going to worry about you taking off to Wyoming with another man?”
“No one special.”
“I guess your work gets in the way of a relationship.”
“It takes up a lot of time.”
“Must be rough, spending all those hours with near-naked men,” he said dryly. He was still having trouble getting past that one.
The hand in his suddenly went cold. “Are you accusing me of sexually harassing my models?”
“Hell, no. Except for telling me to strip so you could check me for tattoos, you’ve been a perfect lady.” Sarcasm crept into his tone.
“My interest in you is strictly professional.”
Her unprofessionally racing pulse said otherwise. “You were looking at me as if I were some Red Angus bull you were considering buying.”
And that idea still irked, dammit. Even if he had been known to look at women in much the same way back in his younger days.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. But it’s my job.” She tugged her hand free and he felt a momentary sense of loss. “And besides, I thought you’d been apprised of the situation.”
Lucky still thought hers was a damn sorry job, but seeing no point in insulting her further, he decided to turn the subject back to the other thing that continued to bother him.
“Is it true what you said? About Kate losing her job?”
“absolutely.”
“Would that really be such a bad deal? Dillon’s an awful little tyke. Perhaps it’d be better if Kate stayed home for a time with him.”
“I should have known you’d be a chauvinist.”
“That’s me,” he agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. There was no way in hell he was going to apologize for caring about his sister and nephew.
“If I had my way, every female in the country would be barefoot and pregnant, only speak when spoken to and have her husband’s supper on the table every night as soon he came home from the bar where he’d spent the day belching, telling dirty jokes about women’s body parts, playing pool, drinking beer, spitting tobacco and doing all that other macho guy stuff females hate.”
“You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”
“And a supposedly intelligent lady like you shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions,” he countered. “I don’t know what kind of home you grew up in, but the O’Neill women have always been equal partners in their marriage.
“Hollywood may focus on the cowboys and outlaws, but the simple fact is that if it hadn’t been for those gutsy females who were willing to risk everything comfortable, everything they’d ever known, to make a new home for their husbands and children, well, hell, the U.S. border would probably still stop at the eastern banks of the Mississippi.
“And, in case you didn’t know it, Wyoming’s the Equality State because we were the first ones to give women the vote. My great-granddaddy just happened to be in the state legislature at the time,” he added. “We’ve always been real proud of him for that vote.”
“Well.” Jude stared up at him. Those were the most words he’d strung together since he’d sauntered into her office on his wedge-heeled boots. She’d assumed that Lucky O’Neill was a stereotypical, laconic cowboy. But obviously, when he felt strongly about something, he didn’t hesitate to state his opinion.
“That’s a very impressive speech.” It would also add a nice touch to the article, she thought, hoping that she could remember it long enough to write it all down.
“For a cowboy, you mean,” he said mildly. “And it wasn’t meant to be a speech. I was just trying to explain that you’re wrong. I’ve nothing against women working. I watched my grandmother and mother work right alongside their husbands all of their lives.
“In fact, mom still travels most of the year with my dad, supplying stock to rodeos. I was just thinking that Kate might enjoy some time at home with her son.”
“You might be right,” Jude admitted. “But she doesn’t really have a choice. Since they need the money.”
“Jack’s rich. I’ll bet he pays more fo
r dry-cleaning those fancy Italian suits than the ranch earned last quarter.”
“He does all right, but it costs a lot more to live in New York than Wyoming.”
“Then perhaps he ought to consider leaving New York,” Lucky muttered.
Jude didn’t respond to what she suspected was a rhetorical statement. There was no point in insulting his home state by mentioning that there undoubtedly wasn’t much need for investment bankers in Wyoming. “Their biggest problem is that a great deal of what he earns goes to support his parents.”
“His parents?” Lucky thought back to the attractive, well-dressed couple he’d met at Kate’s wedding. Alicia and John Peterson had sported country club tans and smelled of old money. Lots of it.
Jude sighed and skimmed her fingers through the sleek slide of pale blond hair again. Her hands, he’d noticed, were like the rest of her—seldom still. “You don’t know?”
“Apparently not.”
She crossed her legs with a swish of silk on silk in a way that had Lucky’s attention momentarily wandering off in a lustful direction again as he found himself wondering what she might be wearing beneath that short gray skirt.
Having grown up in a land that could be turned white by a summer blizzard, or golden brown by a scorching July sun, Lucky had learned to appreciate contrasts wherever he found them. And right now he was finding the contrast between that brief tight skirt and the trim little gray silk blouse buttoned all the way up to her slender neck more than a little appealing.
She caught his look and amazed him by blushing. “We were talking about Kate,” she reminded him as she tugged ineffectually on the skirt.
“If you want to keep a man’s mind on the conversation, darlin’, you probably shouldn’t wear something designed to make him want to take a bite out of your thigh.”
The color in her cheeks deepened but the heat in her eyes, heat that this time seemed to have nothing to do with anger, made him believe he wasn’t the only one suffering these unexpected, unruly feelings of lust.
“You want to bite my thigh?”
“Not hard,” he assured her, worried she might think him some sort of dangerous pervert. “Just a few wellplaced nibbles.”