The C.e.o. & The Cookie Queen. Victoria Chancellor
“I can’t use the excuse of sun in my eyes. I’ll admit I was staring.”
He stated the offhand compliment with an intimate kind of amusement that made Carole blush. She hadn’t blushed in years. She thought she’d forgotten how.
“And you are…?”
“I’m sorry. I’m still excited about my daughter’s win. Carole Jacks,” she said, forcing herself to smile pleasantly when she wanted to gawk at the blue-green eyes of the stranger like a sixteen-year-old.
His expression changed from intimate interest to disbelief in a flash. Seconds later he blinked and schooled his features into a painfully benign mask. “You…I don’t suppose you have another relative by the same name. A mother or aunt, perhaps?”
The C.E.O. & The Cookie Queen
Victoria Chancellor
To my daughter April and her roommate Becky for all the hours watching Trading Spaces and Survivor, for help with cookie recipes, for our great Kentucky road trip and all the other fun things we do together
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After twenty-eight years in Texas, Victoria Chancellor has almost qualified for “naturalized Texan” status. She lives in a suburb of Dallas with her husband of thirty-one years, next door to her daughter, who is an English teacher. When not writing, she tends her “zoo” of four cats, a ferret, five tortoises, a wide assortment of wild birds, three visiting chickens and several families of raccoons and opossums. For more information on past and future releases, please visit her Web site at www.victoriachancellor.com.
Books by Victoria Chancellor
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
844—THE BACHELOR PROJECT
884—THE BEST BLIND DATE IN TEXAS
955—THE PRINCE’S COWBOY DOUBLE*
959—THE PRINCE’S TEXAS BRIDE*
992—THE C.E.O. & THE COOKIE QUEEN
MS. CAROLE’S NEWSLETTER
Hello. My name is Jennifer and I’m Ms. Carole’s daughter. Last summer my new dad met my mom and me at the arena where my steer, Puff, won first place. Most steers don’t get a second chance because they get barbecued, but Puff is really happy now in my aunt Cheryl’s petting zoo. He really loves this cookie my mom created. I know you’ll like it, too.
PUFFALICIOUS WHOLE WHEAT APPLESAUCE COOKIES
½ cup brown sugar
½ cup butter or margarine
¾ cup all-natural applesauce
½ cup all purpose flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
¼ cup wheat germ
½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
¼ salt
½ tsp ground cinnamon
½ tsp ground nutmeg
¼ tsp ground cloves
½ cup dried cranberries (or substitute raisins)
½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)
Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray baking sheet with nonstick spray. In a bowl cream together butter or margarine and sugar. Strain applesauce if there is excessive liquid. Beat in applesauce. Sift in flour and other dry ingredients. Stir to blend thoroughly. Fold in cranberries or raisins and walnuts. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto baking sheet, spacing cookies approximately two inches apart. Bake for 8–10 minutes until golden brown. Transfer to wire rack to cool. Makes approximately 36 cookies.
Note: Make two batches if you are feeding them to a hungry steer!
Contents
Chapter One
Greg gripped the metal fence, resisting the urge to step backward as a wild-eyed black-and-white calf ran right at him. Following closely on the poor animal’s heels, charged an evil-eyed horse and determined rider. Dirt sprayed across Greg’s new snakeskin-and-cowhide boots as the calf suddenly turned and raced down the arena.
Letting out a sigh of relief, he watched the pursuing cowboy swing a rope overhead, then toss it in the direction of the calf. The noose settled over the desperate calf’s neck. The rope cinched tight and flipped the animal to the ground. Greg winced.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked the tall, raw-boned man next to him.
Both eyebrows raised, the man pushed his sweat-and dust-caked hat higher on his forehead. “Hurt what?”
“The cow,” Greg answered, nodding toward the rodeo drama unfolding in the arena.
The man narrowed his eyes, gave Greg a look that said, “I can’t believe you asked that,” then asked, “You’re not from around here, are ya?” He raised a battered red soft drink can to his lips and spat into it. Gross. Chewing tobacco, Greg suspected, or perhaps the disgusting snuff that permanently imprinted the back pockets of many of these cowboys.
The contestant threw the calf to the ground after it struggled to get up, then proceeded to loop another rope around three of its legs. “Yeah, but it’s just a baby.”
The man shook his head. “Son, ain’t you never been around beef cattle?”
“No, I can’t say