Clint shook his head in wonder. He had a bunkhouse full of groupies. “I have no idea.”
“Jed thinks yes, but Denny, who considers himself the expert on redheads because he is one, says it’s not real because she has brown eyes. Not too many true redheads have brown eyes. Me, I wouldn’t care either way.”
“I think the red’s real.” The words were out before Clint could stop them. His brain had quickly assessed her fair skin and the trace of freckles under her professionally applied makeup and had come up with the true-redhead verdict, which had then popped out of his mouth with no warning whatsoever.
“I think you’re right,” José said. “And no boyfriend. What a waste.”
“How do you know there’s no boyfriend?”
“She’s always talking on the show about not having dates. Me and the guys, we’ve joked about taking up a collection so one of us could fly up there and ask her out. Not that she would go. She probably doesn’t have dates because she’s picky.”
“I can’t believe she doesn’t have dates.” Clint pictured a new guy every week, who was then discarded like food gone stale in her refrigerator.
José shrugged. “That’s what she says on the show. Mel’s always teasing her about it. Maybe it’s because guys are afraid to ask her out. That’s what Denny thinks.”
“Well, yeah. Who wants to end up in the tabloids?”
“That’s what Denny says. She got famous so quick, and any guy who dates her has to know it wouldn’t be a private deal for very long.”
Clint gazed out the kitchen window and thought about that. For all Meg’s taunting comments about liking to get into trouble, she hadn’t gotten into much trouble at all since becoming a celebrity. If she had, it would be all over the rags in the grocery-store checkout line.
Maybe she’d been too focused on her career to bother with dating. He’d caught a whiff of naked ambition during their conversation on the front porch. But he wondered if she also might be a little bit lonely, a little bit frustrated. Now there was a stimulating thought.
And he needed to avoid that kind of thinking, considering they’d be alone in the house tonight.
“Uh, boss?” José waved a hand in front of Clint’s eyes. “Is it still okay if I go out and meet her?”
Clint snapped out of his daze. “Of course it’s okay. I specifically came back here to get you and bring you out there.”
“I know, but when I asked you just now, you just stared off into space and didn’t say anything, so I wondered if you’d changed your mind. Don’t worry. I promise not to do anything stupid like ask her out.” José looked suddenly shy. “But I sure would like her autograph.”
“Then you’d better take something for her to write on.”
“I have something.” José held up a pot holder that looked fresh out of the box. “Bought it at the convenience store today.”
“Why a pot holder?”
“Because it’ll prove she ate my food. I can hang it up in the kitchen.” He looked like a kid on Christmas morning as he described his plan.
Clint hated to admit he understood how José felt. Come to think of it, after watching her once on TV, he’d had to fight the urge to do it again the next morning. Just because she was here for an idiotic reason didn’t cancel out her sex appeal, although he’d worked hard to stay immune. The immunity was wearing off fast, unfortunately.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
“Let me get the place settings. That’s what I thought of while we were talking. I’ll take out place mats, napkins and silverware for the coffee table. Then I have a reason for going out there.”
Clint waited for José to grab a couple of straw place mats, knives, forks, spoons and two red cloth napkins. They hadn’t used cloth napkins since before his mother died, but he guessed this was occasion enough.
He wondered what his folks would have thought of Meg. To his surprise, he decided they would have liked her. In spite of coming from an entirely different background, she obviously had the same strong work ethic his parents had valued. She wouldn’t be where she was without that.
“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 comes 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 o
f 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.
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