9 Out Of 10 Women Can't Be Wrong. Cara Colter
around the idea of how to create the seasons a little bit at the office.”
Wasn’t that just the problem with little white lies? She saw the faintest flicker in his eyes. He didn’t like that he had been discussed at the office.
Harriet had always been an absolutely terrible liar, and she could see by the long look he gave her she had not improved in that department. “I’ll just follow you around with the camera,” she said brightly. “Whatever you normally do, go ahead and do it. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“I usually have a shower right now,” he drawled, watching her.
She stared at him and gulped. She could feel a horrible wave of heat moving up her neck to her face.
“In the middle of the day?” she managed to challenge him, her voice a squeak.
“Just making sure your limits are the same as mine,” he said. “I’m a private man, Ms. Snow. I’ll let you know when it’s okay to take pictures.”
She begged herself to challenge him, to not let him back her down. She lifted her chin and said, “I don’t know, Mr. Jordan, a nice steamy shower shot would probably sell a whole pile of calendars.”
Then she spoiled the effect entirely by blushing. She gulped and looked at her feet.
She saw his booted feet move into her range of vision. She refused to look up, and then she felt that hand, so familiar to her after the knee episode, touch her chin ever so lightly.
She lifted her face to him and didn’t look away when he scanned her quizzically.
“Don’t play with fire, Ms. Snow.”
What could be more embarrassing than a full-grown mature woman being embarrassed by something so innocuous?
Something changed in his eyes. A puzzled look came into them.
She was almost sure he recognized her, or if he didn’t, something had tickled his memory, troubled him.
“They should have sent the man,” he said.
She bristled. “I happen to be very good at my job. And for your information, I’ve been a war correspondent. I’ve lived in close quarters with men in very rough conditions.”
“Really?” he said, his eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe a word of it.
“Really,” she said coolly. “Besides, women get better shots of men, for obvious reasons.”
“I don’t find them obvious. Could you explain?”
“It’s the male preening thing. ‘Little lady, let me show you how big and strong I am.”’
He stared at her, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He gave his head a shake. “Is there any chance we could have you out of here in less than a week?”
“Cooperating would help.”
“Can you ride a horse?”
Now this was the question she’d been dreading. She’d fallen off a horse last time she’d been here. It had been the first time she had ever ridden, and it hadn’t been the horse’s fault at all.
Ty had been riding in the lead, Stacey behind him.
And Harrie, last in line, had been leaning way too far out, mesmerized by the way he looked in the saddle, her first cheap 35 mm raised to her eye, wanting that photograph so badly.
She’d fallen and broken her arm, ending her visit.
The humiliation had led her to take riding lessons the following year while on assignment in England. She had never really got the feel for it. She could manage walk, trot, canter, stop, but the instructor had told her what she already knew.
She repeated it to him. “I can manage the basics, but I don’t have a good seat.”
She saw his eyes flick to the area in question, and she saw the comeback flash through his eyes, knew she had left herself wide open to it.
But apparently he had decided making her blush was not that amusing, because he said nothing for a moment. He was still watching her, puzzled, and she had a feeling he was a breath away from figuring that puzzle out when a loud noise ripped through the house, a banshee wail of nails being pulled from wood, of hinges parting. The noise was followed by a crash and a splinter.
Ty raced to the kitchen window, and she followed.
Basil was racing across the yard, straight toward the cattle pen that had intrigued him before. Ty’s back door, still attached to the leash, skidded along behind him.
Ty said three words in a row that would have made a sailor blush, then hurtled toward the door. She picked up her camera, but had to stop and put her shoes on. Then she went in hot pursuit. This was more like it. The war zone she could handle.
Chapter Three
If there was a feeling that Ty Jordan hated more than any other in the world it was this one: he did not like being out of control. He was aware of that dislike bubbling away briskly inside of him as he bolted after the dog.
A dog she had brought with her.
The she who should have been a he.
Male preening. As if he was some peacock put here for her entertainment.
She had better figure this out real quick: the Bar ZZ was Ty Jordan’s property, his domain, and he had already decided he wasn’t rearranging anything about his lifestyle to accommodate the stupid calendar.
He had been made a promise—by Cringle himself and by his sister—that his life would not be disturbed or disrupted in any way.
That blinking dog was heading right for the cow and calf pen. With a burst of speed Ty caught up to the door that was twisting and turning and flopping on the lead behind the dog. He threw himself on top of it, hoping at least to slow the dog down.
Ms. Snow, whom he could not think of as Harry, even in his mind, yelled something at him, but he didn’t quite catch what it was.
Two hundred and three pounds landing on the door did slow the dog down—minutely. Ty was now bouncing along behind the dog, riding the door on his stomach, like a surfer on a board. He found the door handle and unraveled the leash where it was tied to it.
“Watch your face,” she yelled, and he realized that was what she had yelled the first time.
He cast her one brief scornful look before he managed to unknot the leash from the door handle. He pulled it free, rolled from the door, got to his feet and hauled in Basil, who came to him happily, his big tongue lolling out of his mouth, his tail flagging.
“Kiss me and your days are numbered,” he warned.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” He bent over at the waist, breathing hard. He became aware of the click and whir of a camera, straightened and glared at her.
She lowered the camera, studied him and then nodded, satisfied. “I was worried about your face,” she said. “A black eye or a bruise could make things complicated.”
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