Killer Cowboy Charm. Vicki Lewis Thompson
in a bright flowered pattern that looked as though it had come from Mexico. She could handle this situation, so long as the hot water worked.
Automatic reflex made her glance in the mirror. Not surprisingly, her nose was shiny and her lipstick nearly gone. She reached for her cosmetics bag, another automatic reaction. Meg Delancy, television personality, always had to look good. But as she zipped open the bag, the aroma of coffee drifted down the hall.
To heck with repairing her makeup. She needed coffee, and Clint probably didn’t mind if her makeup was perfect or not. Men hardly ever noticed those things unless the problem was dramatic, like raccoon eyes. She also suspected that perfect makeup might be another signal that she was, in fact, a princess. She’d rather he didn’t think of her that way.
Realistically, she shouldn’t care how he perceived her. But she’d always cared about stuff like that, even when the person in question wasn’t a six-foot hunk of delicious manhood. Given that Clint fit that description, she had even more reason to want his good opinion. From the looks of things, Clint might be the only entertainment the place had to offer.
Back in the living room she took a minute to glance around. The TV was only a nineteen-inch. She’d bet that both the TV and the VCR had been sitting in that same spot when Clinton was elected.
Besides that, the TV was in a far corner of the room and none of the furniture faced in that direction. Instead, the worn leather sofa and chairs had a great view of an enormous stone fireplace. You could put a pretzel-vendor’s cart inside it.
The scent of wood smoke lingered in the air, and ashes under the grate told her Clint had used the fireplace recently, maybe last night. Horse-related books and magazines lay on the well-used pine coffee table.
Meg felt as if she’d landed on Mars. If Clint indeed had a girlfriend, then she’d be left with the games on her laptop. She couldn’t imagine an evening spent looking at a fire and/or reading about horses, probably with no sound except the popping of the wood. She’d go nuts.
Or maybe she was just cranky from lack of caffeine. The remedy for that was waiting for her out on the porch, so she opened the front door and stepped outside.
Clint had been sitting on one of the rustic wooden chairs but he got up when she appeared, his coffee mug in one hand. “Everything all right?”
“Fine.” The air was cooler than it had been before, but a hot cup of coffee should keep her from getting chilled. “The coffee smells great.” She walked over to the chair that was obviously meant for her, sat down and reached for the mug he’d set on a table between them.
Warm, fragrant vapor rose up as she lifted it to her lips. She took a sip. It was without doubt the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted in her life, and she’d had some mean espressos over the years. She tried not to choke.
“I make it strong,” he said.
“Yes, you do.” She swallowed and wondered if it would devour her stomach lining in five seconds flat. One thing was for sure, it would satisfy her caffeine craving.
“Sure you don’t want some of that half-and-half?”
“Oh, heck, why not? You only live once, right?” If she drank the whole mug of coffee without something to cut the motor-oil consistency, her days could be numbered.
“Be right back.” Clint left his mug on the small wooden table between their chairs and went inside.
After he left she peered into his cup to see if he’d diluted the coffee with half-and-half. He hadn’t. He must have a cast-iron stomach.
It was also a nice flat stomach. As a veteran guy-watcher, Meg paid attention to those things. From what she could see, everything about Clint Walker was premium-grade.
He returned with the carton of half-and-half and handed it to her. “I apologize if the coffee’s too strong. When you asked about espresso I figured I was safe to make it my normal way.”
“It’s a good, hefty brew, that’s for sure.” She poured a serious dollop of half-and-half into her mug, nearly causing it to overflow. “How many cups do you drink in a day?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe eight or ten.” He settled back in his chair.
“Eight or ten? I’m amazed you’re not jitterbugging across the porch!” Maybe he was so hopped up on caffeine that he didn’t notice how boring his life was. Yet he seemed steady as a rock, no tremors.
He shrugged. “I’m one of those people who’s not real susceptible to caffeine. And when you’ve grown up drinking chuckwagon…see, my dad drank strong coffee, too.”
“Your dad was a rancher?”
“The best.”
“But you didn’t follow in his footsteps?” She’d slipped into interview mode, another habit she couldn’t seem to break.
He looked away. “Pretty hard to do. Those days are disappearing.”
She knew an evasive answer when she heard one. On the show, people reacted that way when they were hiding something. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I made it out here before the cowboys are all gone.”
“Right.”
Interesting how much emotion could be packed into one word. She was used to reading inflections, gauging reactions. He didn’t like this contest, but why not? If he was the business major he claimed to be, then he should appreciate good old-fashioned marketing techniques.
She decided to hit the problem head-on. “You wish we weren’t doing this.”
His blue eyes became unreadable. “I’m happy to help out.”
“Bullshit! You don’t like this cowboy contest one bit, although I’m not sure why. You’re not a cowboy.”
His mouth twitched, as if he might be holding back a grin. “Right.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I’ll bet you don’t get to say bullshit on the air.” The grin began to peek through.
“No, I don’t, but you’re evading the issue.” And damned if that didn’t fascinate the hell out of her.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Why?”
His gaze was assessing. Finally he seemed to come to a decision about her. “George Forester owns the Circle W now. What he wants, he gets.”
Her heart softened. “He bought your family home out from under you, didn’t he?”
“That’s business. My dad couldn’t afford the place anymore.”
“And your dad…he’s…”
“Died five years ago. Mom a couple of years before that.”
“I’m sorry.” So this complicated guy had dealt with his share of sorrow. She was a sucker for a man who’d weathered pain.
“In some ways, it might be better. Their way of life was getting harder to maintain. Dad died shortly after he sold to George. I think losing Mom and then the ranch took the heart out of him.”
Meg cradled her coffee cup, getting all the warmth from it that she could. The lower the sun sank, the colder it became. But the coffee had surely taken care of her caffeine deficit. She was ready to tackle anything or anyone. Like this hottie, for instance. “I can imagine how hard it must be to work for something all your life and then lose it.”
“Yep.” He took a swallow of his coffee. “I’m sure you’ve paid your dues to get where you are.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Looks like you’re in good shape, though.”
She had a choice of turning his comment into something suggestive or taking it the way it was meant. Until she knew whether he had