Wow, What A Man. Letter to Reader Title Page JAN HUDSON, Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Epilogue Copyright

Wow, What A Man.

Irish watched Kyle’s long-legged gait as he walked away from her. The man was as handsome as buttered sin. She’d never met anyone in her life who oozed such sex appeal. And from the little that they had talked, she felt certain he would be lots of fun to be with.

He probably had everything a woman could ask for. Except money.

Why is it, if it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, that I’m always attracted to the ones who don’t have two nickels to rub together?

Irish sighed. She couldn’t afford to let herself get sidetracked. Her plans were made; her bank account was committed. She was out to snare a millionaire.

And it was a crying shame that she was so captivated by Kyle Rutledge.

Dear Reader,

There’s something for everyone this month! Brides, babies and cowboys...but also humor, sensuality...and delicious love stories (some without a baby in sight!).

There’s nothing as wonderful as a new book from Barbara Boswell, and this month we have a MAN OF THE MONTH written by this talented author. Who’s the Boss? is a very sexy, delightfully funny love story. As always, Barbara not only creates a masterful hero and smart-as-a-whip heroine, she also makes her secondary characters come alive!

When a pregnant woman gets stuck in a traffic jam she does the only thing she can do—talks a handsome hunk into giving her a ride to the hospital on his motorcycle in Leanne Banks’s latest, The Troublemaker Bride.

Have you ever wanted to marry a millionaire? Well, heroine Irish Ellison plans on finding a man with money in One Ticket to Texas by Jan Hudson. A single momto-be gets a new life in Paula Detmer Riggs’s emotional and heartwarming Daddy by Accident. And a woman with a “bad reputation” finds unexpected romance in Barbara McMahon’s Boss Lady and the Hired Hand.

Going to your high-school reunion is bad enough. But what if you were voted “Most likely to succeed”...but your success at love has been fleeting? Well, that’s just what happens in Susan Connell’s How To Succeed at Love.

So read...and enjoy!

Lucia Macro

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

One Ticket to Texas

Jan Hudson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JAN HUDSON,

a winner of the Romance Writers of America RITA Award, is a native Texan who lives with her husband in historically rich Nacogdoches, the oldest town in Texas. Formerly a licensed psychologist, she taught college psychology for over a decade before becoming a full-time author. Jan loves to write fast-paced stories laced with humor, fantasy and adventure, with bold characters who reach beyond the mundane and celebrate life.

Prologue

“In your dreams, Buster!” Irish Ellison slammed the front door and stalked back to the den of the Foggy Bottom town house where her two roommates sat watching TV. “Men,” she groused, toeing off her high heels and plopping down on the couch next to Olivia.

“I take it that you and the senator’s staffer are having some problems,” Olivia said, offering Irish the popcorn bowl.

“You take right.” She plunged her hand into the buttery kernels and popped a few in her mouth. “The jerk.”

“What’s wrong?” Kim asked. “Gavin seemed very nice. I thought the two of you had something going.”

“I thought so, too—untit he hit me up for a loan. Can you believe it? The skunk takes me to a couple of embassy parties, wines and dines me with free booze and free food, and then tries to borrow money from me.”

Kim’s eyes grew even larger behind her thick glasses. “He didn’t?”

“He did. He’s behind on his alimony.”

“I didn’t even know that Gavin had been married,” Olivia said.

“Neither did I.” Irish propped her feet on the coffee table. “Until tonight. Seems that he’s been married not once, but twice, and he has four kids. Why do I always end up with somebody else’s rejects? You’re the psychologist, Olivia. What’s my problem?”

Olivia, the oldest of the three—and considered the wisest—raised her brows at the former model who had legs up to her armpits, bone structure that most women would die for and a shining fall of hair that was naturally a magnificent shade somewhere between strawberry blond and copper. “I don’t have my Ph.D. yet, but as far as I can tell, you don’t have any major problems, Irish. It’s this town. Washington has a dozen gorgeous single women vying for every available man—and even some that aren’t available. If you’re interested in meeting men, you’ve picked a bad place to settle.”

“I didn’t pick D.C. I’m only here because the jobs were drying up in New York and Aunt Katie left me this house. Maybe we’d better all move to Alaska. I understand that guys there are desperate for women.”

Neither Olivia nor Kim mentioned the third reason that Irish had fled the Big Apple.

“I’m not interested in meeting men,” Olivia said. “Been there. Done that.”

Irish turned to the TV where Marilyn Monroe filled the screen. “What are we watching?”

“How to Marry a Millionaire,” Kim said.

“Now there’s an idea that appeals to me. My mama always said, ‘It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.’”

“I thought that your father was a butcher.”

Irish waved off the comment. “Mama was a slow learner.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, staring at a young Lauren Bacall. “I didn’t have her kind of luck in New York. I wonder where one goes nowadays to find millionaires—the kind that are good-looking, single and itching for a meaningful relationship?”

“Texas.”

Irish and Olivia turned to Kim, who at twenty was the youngest member of the household. “Texas?” they echoed in unison.

“Sure. My...boss is a millionaire and from Texas.”

“But your boss is a woman. Remember, Congress-woman Ellen O’Hara.”

“Yes, but she has a couple of younger brothers and two cousins who are single and rolling in dough.”

“Fat and bald, right? And short?”

Kim grinned. “Nope. Not the ones I’ve seen. They’re quite good-looking. And tall. Want me to borrow their photographs from the office and bring them home?”

“Not for me,” Olivia said. “I’m not interested.”

Irish sat up. “I am. I’ll be thirty next February. I’d like to be snuggly settled into a nice Dallas mansion and driving a Beemer by my birthday. I’m sick of selling cosmetics at Macy’s and trying to hustle freelance articles on beauty tips to keep up the payments on my little car. Which one of her brothers is tall, dark and the richest and the most handsome?”

Kim cocked her head. “Well, that probably would be Jackson, but he doesn’t live in Dallas. Although the cousins...”

“Enough said. Jackson it is. How do I meet this guy?”

Olivia looked aghast. “You can’t be serious. You wouldn’t judge a potential husband simply by the size of his bank account.”

“I wouldn’t? Pray tell, why not?”

“What about love?” Kim asked. “What about passion?”

“What about it? Passion is vastly overrated. I want security in my old age. Besides, I find money very sexy.” Irish glanced at the movie, then watched intently for a few minutes. As the story unfolded, wheels and gears spun to life in her head. With a devilish gleam in her eyes, she turned to her roommates and said, “We need to map out a strategy.”

One

When Irish Ellison rattled the padlocked chain on the gate and it didn’t budge, her spirits sank deeper than the high heels of her new suede boots into the soft ground.

“Drive through the gate and continue for another half mile,” Ellen Crow O’Hara’s secretary had said. But how the heck was she supposed to drive through a locked gate?

Thoroughly disgusted, Irish picked her way back to the Mercedes she’d rented over two hours before at the airport in Dallas. Things weren’t turning out the way she’d planned at all. She’d gone for broke on the scheme she and her roommates had hatched. She’d maxed out her credit card on a seductive wardrobe and had wrangled an advance from an editor friend at Esprit for an article about young Texas millionaires at play. The advance had covered her ticket to Texas and the car rental. Her food and lodging at Crow’s Nest, Jackson Crow’s golf retreat beyond the locked gate and in the middle of nowhere, were supposed to be compliments of Ellen’s brother.

Or so the secretary had said.

Her stomach growled. Lunchtime.

Had she made a wrong turn somewhere?

She had no alternative except to go back the way she’d come and find a phone. After several minutes of muttering and maneuvering, she turned the car in the narrow space and retraced her route to the highway. There wasn’t a single house in sight, only thickly wooded areas interspersed with grassy fields dotted with big machines that looked like giant black grasshoppers bobbing their heads up and down.

When she reached the highway intersection, Irish turned into the parking lot of a quaint log building. The sign over the front door proclaimed: Cherokee Pete’s Trading Post. In smaller letters it said: Grocery Store, Indian Museum, and Tourist Tepees, Pete Beamon, Prop.

To the left of the log building were four large, garishly painted tepees fashioned of something that looked like stucco or cement. Irish wrinkled her nose at the tacky structures, got out of the Benz and went inside the trading post.

Not a soul was in sight. If you didn’t count the wooden fellows in feathered headdresses.

“Yoo-hoo,” she called.

Silence.

She ventured a few steps into the dim interior filled with cluttered shelves of merchandise, a refrigerated case and a long wooden bar. Toward one end of the room two tables with chairs sat near a potbellied stove, and assorted merchandise—from saddles to shovels to souvenirs and bushel baskets of sweet potatoes—filled almost every available space. “Anybody here?”

More silence.

Spooky silence.

Then a rapid rattling like distant castanets whispered through the air.

Suddenly apprehensive, she backed out of the place and closed the door quietly.

Irish stood on the long porch, feeling frustrated and contemplating her next move, when a whining noise to her right captured her attention. The sound seemed to be something like a motorbike, and it came from a log shed a few yards away from the trading post.

She headed in that direction, carefully making her way over the soft ground, tiptoeing to preserve her boots from further destruction. When she rounded the corner and could see inside the shed, she went dead still.

Her eyes widened and her heart almost leapt out of her chest when she saw the man standing there.

But this wasn’t just any man. Dressed in only a white cowboy hat, boots and low-slung jeans, he was about six and a half feet of blatant male pulchritude. The sinewy muscles of his arms and shoulders bunched and rippled as he wielded a small chain saw.

Never had a man affected Irish so immediately or so viscerally as this one did. Seductive masculinity pulsated from his core and cast an aura around him like the glow of a sizzling neon sign. She could only stand there, openmouthed and mute, and stare at him. At bits of sawdust caught in his light chest hair and at beads of sweat glistening on his spectacular pecs, on his lean, muscled abdomen where the skin glistened golden tan. His jaw was as finely carved as the huge wooden bear he worked on with the chain saw. Unbelievably handsome, he had wonderful high cheekbones, a perfect nose.

And his eyes...his eyes took her breath away as their mind-blowing blue bored into hers.

He lopped off one of the bear’s ears.

“Damn!”

He killed the chain saw and laid it aside.

Mortified by the sudden amputation she’d caused, Irish said, “Oh God, I’m sorry I startled you. Now your thing is ruined.”

“My thing?” he asked in a deep, sexy voice that resonated inside her from gut to womb to toes.

She felt her face heat. If she hadn’t known better, Irish would have sworn that she blushed, but she hadn’t blushed since she was in puberty. She gestured toward the rough carving. “The bear.”

He flashed a blinding smile that, if she hadn’t already been awe-struck, would have laid her low. He removed his goggles, repositioned his hat over his damp blond hair and patted the bear’s head. “No problem. We’ll just rename him Vince.”

Mesmerized, she continued to gape at him as all sorts of switches were being thrown inside her body. “Vince?”

His smile broadened into a grin, and her heels slowly sank into the ground. Another few minutes of this man and not only would her boots be beyond repair, but she would be a mindless puddle in the sawdust.

“Vince,” he said, his eyes as busy over her as hers were over him. “Vincent. Vincent Van Gogh.”

Her brain didn’t register. “Vincent Van Gogh?” she asked blankly.

“You know, the artist who chopped off his ear.”

“Ohhh,” she said, feeling like a dolt. “That Vince.” Her gaze went to his chest again. His gaze must have mimicked hers for she felt her nipples suddenly pebble.

Stripping off his leather gloves, he grabbed a towel that hung on a nail and swiped it across his sweaty, bare skin. “What can I do for you?” he asked as he wiped away sawdust and a particularly intriguing rivulet of perspiration that she’d been watching as it trickled downward toward his navel.

“Do for me?” What a loaded question. As she noted his long, supple fingers, she could name at least a dozen things—all of them extremely intimate—that she would love for him to do for her.

He chuckled softly, and she felt that darned heat spread over her face. “You need some help?” he asked.

“Help? Oh, yes. Er...uh, are you Cherokee Pete?”

“Nope. Pete’s my grandfather. I’m Kyle.” He tossed the towel aside, grabbed his shirt and hurriedly donned it. “Kyle Rutledge.”

“I’m Irish. Irish Ellison.”

Kyle almost said, I know, but something stopped him. In his California practice, a dozen or more women had brought him her photograph from some magazine or another, wanting her nose or her cheekbones or that lush mouth of hers. Instead, he tipped his hat and said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Ellison. How may I help you, ma’am?”

“Could you tell me if that’s the road to Crow’s Nest?” She gestured over her shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s it.”

“Oh, dear. I was afraid you were going to say that. I’m supposed to meet Jackson Crow, but the gate’s locked.”

Well, damn it all to hell! Here was one of the world’s most gorgeous women in the flesh, one who rang his bell and had him standing to attention, and be damned if his cousin hadn’t staked her out first. As usual, Jackson was the luckiest son-of a-gun walking. “Jackson’s gone.”

Her astonishing emerald green eyes widened in alarm. “Gone?”

“Gone.”

“But—but I have an appointment. I’m supposed to spend several days at the retreat working on an article. On him and the men in the young millionaire’s club.”

“You don’t know Jackson?”

She shook her head. “Never met him.”

Kyle relaxed. His smile returned. “He and that crazy bunch of his buddies decided to go to Dallas for the Cowboys game Sunday. They’ll be back Monday.”

“But this is Friday.”

“They started the party a little early. You must have just missed them.”

“Our appointment was for a couple of hours ago. My plane was late, and I had some problems at the car rental agency.”

Kyle watched her chew the inside of her cheek and look worried. He had a fleeting urge to go after Jackson with an ax handle for causing those furrows to form between her perfectly arched eyebrows. “I wouldn’t let it upset me. Jackson will be back Monday—if he’s sober enough to fly.”

“Sober enough—Does he drink a lot?”

He bit back a grin. There was no way that he was going to exalt Jackson in this lady’s eyes. His cousin had all the women he could handle now. Kyle had seen this one first. “Like a fish. The man’s a sot.” Sorry, cuz he said silently.

A shot rang out, and Kyle flinched, afraid for a moment that the powers-that-be were about to strike him dead for lying.

Startled, too, Irish jumped. “What was that?”

“That’s just Grandpa Pete. He’s in bed with a broken hip, and when he needs some help, he fires his pistol out the window.”

“Wouldn’t a bell be better?”

He grinned. “You don’t know my grandpa. Come on up to the store with me while I see what he needs, and then we’ll see what we can do to get your problem straightened out. It’s about time for lunch. You hungry?”

“Famished.”

“You like chili?”

“With beans?”

“Bite your tongue, woman. This is Texas. Only a Yankee would spoil a perfectly good pot of chili with beans. You a Yankee?” he drawled.

She laughed, and the throaty sound of it made him think of cool sheets and warm flesh. “I’m from Washington, D.C.,” she said. “At least that’s where I live now. I’m originally from Ohio, but I lived in New York for several years.”

“New York City?” he asked with an exaggerated drawl. “Did you like that place?”

She shrugged. “For a while.”

“That’s the way I felt about California. I found out the hard way that Texas is the only place for me.”

Inside the store, Kyle settled Irish at one of the tables. “Let me go check on Grandpa Pete, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with the chili.”

Irish watched his long-legged gait as he walked away and went up the stairs at the end of the bar. Wow, what a man. Handsome as buttered sin. She’d never met anyone in her life who oozed such sex appeal. And from the little that they had talked, she felt that he would probably be lots of fun to be with. He was as smooth as a river stone in putting her at ease.

She sighed. He probably had everything a woman could ask for. She looked around the dusty, junky store.

Except money.

Why is it, Mama, that if it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, that I’m always attracted to the ones who don’t have two nickels to rub together?

It was a crying shame that she was so captivated by Kyle Rutledge. Especially now.

She sighed again. She couldn’t afford to let herself get sidetracked. Her plans were made; her bank account was committed. She was out to snare a millionaire.

And if Jackson Crow had a problem or two, well... one couldn’t have everything.

Two

Sweat popped out on her upper lip. Irish ignored it and spooned another bite of chili into her mouth. After all, it was a free meal, and with less than twenty dollars left in her wallet, she couldn’t afford to be choosy.

“Too hot for you?” Kyle asked.

“It’s fine. Just fine.” She gulped half a glass of iced tea.

With her tongue and her esophagus cringing at what was coming, she forced another bite into her blistered mouth.

Tears came to her eyes. She gulped the other half glass of tea and shook out an ice cube to suck on.

She glanced up at Kyle. He was frowning. “You don’t have to be polite,” he said. “It is too hot for you. Sorry about that. Grandpa Pete likes his chili fiery enough to singe the pin feathers off a chicken, and I’ve gotten used to it. Let me fix you something else. How about a bologna sandwich? I make a mean bologna sandwich.”

Relieved that she wouldn’t have to finish the rest of the chili and too hungry to turn him down, she smiled. “I’m crazy about bologna sandwiches.”

“Mustard or mayonnaise?”

“Mustard.”

“Be right back.”

Irish watched him pick up a loaf of bread from the rack and a jar of mustard off a shelf, then walk back to the meat case. He took a big sausage from the case, and she heard the whine of an electric slicing machine. In a few minutes, he returned with a neat sandwich on a piece of butcher paper. An individual bag of chips sat atop the sandwich.

“Thanks,” she said. “That looks great.”

“Not exactly Carnegie Deli, but it will do in a pinch. Alma Jane usually does the sandwich and soup making and helps tend to the store, but she came down with a bad case of poison ivy. I’m hoping that she’ll be back tomorrow. I’m not much of a cook.” “Me, either,” Irish said. “I don’t even know how to work the pilot light on my stove. Olivia usually does all the cooking.”

“Who’s Olivia?”

“One of my housemates in Washington.”

“One?” He filled her glass with tea from a pitcher.

“Yes,” she said. Between bites she gave him a thumbnail sketch of Olivia and Kim.

“How long have you been a reporter?” Kyle asked.

“A reporter? I’m not a reporter. Where did you get that idea?”

“You said you were doing an article on Jackson and his buddies, and I assumed that you were doing it for a newspaper.”

“Heavens, no. I’m doing the article for Esprit.”

“Esprit, the magazine? You work for them? I would have figured that someone with your looks would be modeling for them instead of writing.”

“Thank you very much. I used to be a model.” She smiled graciously. “But I don’t work for the magazine full-time. This is a freelance piece.”

He pointed to her uneaten bowl of chili. “Mind?”

“Not at all.” His digestive tract must be lined with lead. She couldn’t believe that anyone could eat an entire bowl of that blazing concoction, much less two.

“I love this stuff. It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent bowl of chili. Grandpa Pete makes it in a wash pot over an open fire, then freezes it in bricks. Why aren’t you a model any longer?”

His sudden switch of topics took her aback for a moment. She nibbled a potato chip before she gave him one of her stock answers. “I’m getting too old.”

“Bull. You’re gorgeous and still in your prime.”

“I’m almost thirty.”

He laughed. “Just a kid.”

“To you maybe, but models are getting younger and younger these days. Too, I—I was getting tired of the work, of New York.”

“Now that I can understand. The crime rate in that place is out of sight. Why, around here, the worst crime committed lately was when Newt Irwin got drunk and—Irish?”

She startled. “Pardon?”

“You flinched and looked very nervous. Did I say something? Stray into sensitive territory?”

“No. Not at all,” she replied, which was a polite lie. He’d touched a nerve. “What were you saying about Luke?”

“Not Luke, Newt. He got drunk and stole one of Henry McKenzie’s goats.”

“Whatever for?”

“To barbecue. But the next morning Newt’s mama found the goat staked out in the front yard eating her pansies, and she called the sheriff. Henry got his goat back, but Newt had to spend three days in jail.”

“But Henry got his goat back. I’m surprised he pressed charges.”

“Henry didn’t. Newt’s mama did. The sheriff is married to her cousin, and Mrs. Irwin was proud of those pansies.”

Irish laughed. “Sounds like you have some real characters around here.”

A pistol shot sounded from upstairs, and Irish almost jumped out of her skin.

“That we do,” Kyle said. “And one of them lives upstairs. That’s Grandpa Pete again. Eighty-four years old and still rambunctious. Be right back. Look around the store and find yourself a dessert.”

Deciding to do just that, she was looking through the assortment of Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, and Little Debbie cakes when an RV stopped out front. An older couple in loud jogging gear came inside. He was balding and his jacket was stretched tightly over his rotund belly; she was rail-thin with badly colored black hair and wearing a plethora of diamond rings.

“Oh, look, Edgar. Isn’t this a charming little place?” To Irish she said, “We’re passing through on our way from the Gulf coast and decided to take the scenic route. I’m so glad we did. It’s just beautiful around here, isn’t it, Edgar? We wanted to pick up a few snacks, and—Edgar! Look at this. Carved Indians. Life-size. Wouldn’t one of these be just precious by our pool? And look at the price. Why, it’s a steal.”

“Mmmm,” Edgar said, not glancing up from the row of snack crackers he was inspecting.

With Kyle nowhere in sight, Irish pasted on a bright smile and went into her retail mode. “Aren’t they wonderful? The sculptor is very gifted. Have you seen the animals outside? The eagles are fantastic, and there’s one bear that you should see. A delightful conversation piece that was just finished. We call him Vince. Come, let me show you.”

When Kyle finally got Pete settled down and made it back downstairs, Irish was at the door waving goodbye to an RV. “Sorry I took so long, but my grandfather needed some TLC. Who was in the RV?”

“Corrie and Edgar.”

“Wanting directions to Dallas?”

“Nope. They came in for snacks. I sold them a carton of soft drinks, two boxes of crackers, three jars of peanuts, two jelly rolls, two little pecan pies, two life-size Indians, an eagle and Vince. I made change for their traveler’s checks from the register. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? You sold more in thirty minutes than I’ve sold in a week. They bought Vince?”

“Yep.”

“But his ear is missing.”

“That makes him even more charming. An original.”

Kyle chuckled and shook his head. “I hope that you gave them a discount.”

“Certainly not. I didn’t know exactly how much the bears were since none of them had a price tag, but I charged fifty dollars more than the Indian was marked.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. Don’t worry. They can afford it, and Corrie is thrilled with her new pool and garden sculptures. And quite frankly, I think they’ll look cute in her backyard. She’ll have an excuse to have a party when she and Edgar get home, and the pieces are delightful conversation pieces. I told her exactly how they were made.”

Kyle fought back a laugh. “Do you know exactly how they’re made?”

Irish waved off his question. “They’re carved with a chain saw. I showed them your work area and improvised some on the parts I didn’t know. I told you that Corrie was thrilled.”

“What about Edgar?”

“Edgar didn’t say much, but he was fascinated with the rattler in the terrarium. He offered to buy the snake, but I figured it wasn’t for sale. Anyway, I didn’t know how much to charge or if it had been defanged.”

Kyle burst into laughter. “I’m glad you didn’t sell Sam. Pete would have a fit. The snake and the arrowheads are the bulk of his museum. And no, Sam hasn’t been defanged.”

Irish shuddered. “I’m glad that I didn’t try to fish him out. They came before I got dessert. Want to split a package of chocolate cupcakes?”

“Sure.” As Kyle watched Irish talk, he grew even more enchanted with her. Not only was she one hell of a gorgeous woman, but also she was a delight to be around. Animated, fun and totally unaffected, she was the antithesis of the Hollywood types that he had escaped. Given her years as a much photographed model, he was surprised by her down-to-earth behavior and forthright attitude. “You get the cupcakes, and I’ll fix the coffee. How do you like yours?”

“Black for me.”

In a few minutes he joined her at the table. A chocolate cupcake sat on a napkin at his place; its mate sat in front of her. “I hope you don’t mind instant,” he said. “The stuff in the pot was sludge.”

“Instant is fine.”

They ate in relative silence. When she’d finished the last bite, she licked the chocolate off her fingers and sighed. “I love junk food, especially chocolate. I had to deny myself for years. I’ve gained fifteen pounds since I left New York.”

“They’re well disguised. You seem very slender to me.”

“Thanks.” She grinned. “Want another cupcake?”

“Let’s go for it.”

She wasted no time in getting another and ripping open the package. She handed one to him and demolished the other one in a flash. After licking her fingers again, she held her mug with both hands and sipped her coffee. Her eyes glazed as she stared at a spot over his left shoulder, and a wrinkle appeared between her lovely eyebrows.

“A problem?” he asked.

“A big one. I can’t go back to Washington until I...interview Jackson Crow. If he won’t return until Monday, I don’t have a place to stay. I was planning on being a guest at Crow’s Nest.” Her frown deepened. “Are those, uh, tepees outside inhabitable?”

He chuckled. “Well, the sheets and towels are clean and they don’t leak, but I doubt if they’re what you’re used to. They’re pretty basic. You would probably be more comfortable if you drove to Jacksonville or Tyler and stayed in a nicer place.”

“I can’t do that.” Her eyes still troubled, she ran the tip of her tongue back and forth over a small area of the mug’s rim. Kyle couldn’t take his eyes off that bit of pink, and as he watched, mesmerized, his imagination went wild. “You see, I’m, uh, a little short on cash. I was hoping that your tepees would be cheap.”

“The tepees? Cheap? Oh, they’re cheap. Very cheap.” Kyle almost stood up and whooped. He wasn’t anxious for her to leave just yet. “As a matter of fact, your commission on the sale to Corrie and Edgar would more than cover room and board here until Jackson gets back.”

Her eyes widened. “My commission?”

“Sure. And if you need a little extra cash, I could use some help around here until Alma Jane gets back tomorrow or the next day.”

“Help? Doing what?”

“Tending the store While I wield the chain saw. Or better yet, how would you like reading to an irascible old man? Pete’s big on reading, but his eyes play out after a while. The job wouldn’t pay much, but—”

“I’ll take it. But just until Jackson returns, you understand.”

“Fine. We have a deal.” He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Wonder if he could persuade Jackson to stay in Dallas a few extra days?

The wrinkle between her brows disappeared, and she beamed. “Great. If you’ll give me a key, I’ll get settled in.”

Irish drove the Benz to the door of tepee number two and unloaded her luggage. She unlocked the door and cautiously peeked inside.

Kyle was right. It was very basic. Most of the furniture was made from bundles of twigs and sticks. There was a faded, but clean-looking, Indian blanket on the bed. The dresser was in its prime about the time of World War II, and two large paint-by-number oils were framed in rough wood and hanging on the walls. One was an Indian chief in full feather; the other, a spotted horse in a red desert. A wooden rocking chair, its seat made of taut cowhide with the hair still on, sat in a corner.

Irish sighed and hauled her things inside. “Home, sweet home.”

She checked the sheets and the bed. And the locks.

The sheets were crisp and fresh-smelling, the mattress amazingly lump-free and comfortable. The bathroom fixtures were old but immaculate. And most important, the locks were sturdy. The place wasn’t the Plaza, but the price was right, and it would do.

After she hung up her clothes and put her other things away, Irish changed out of her new outfit into jeans, a white T-shirt and a chambray shirt. A pair of sport shoes felt like heaven compared to the new high-heeled boots, which didn’t look too bad considering the punishment they’d had. A quick repair to hair and makeup and she was ready to meet Cherokee Pete.

Sounds of the chain saw came from the shed, and Irish figured that Kyle was back at work on another bear or a bow-legged cowpoke. She went inside the store and hesitated only a moment before she tiptoed upstairs. She didn’t want to disturb the old gentleman if he was still sleeping.

Following the noise of a TV, she went toward an open door off the landing, noting as she passed that the large painting on the wall there was an excellent copy of a Remington. And much more attractive than the Indian and spotted pony on her walls.

The room she peeked in was a large library. Straight ahead was a huge stone fireplace with another of the Remington copies hung on it and several Southwestern pots and such on the mantel. Two large leather couches flanked the fireplace and a coffee table, made from a slice- of a huge tree, sat between the oxblood couches. Additional pots and a statue of a breechclouted brave, much more finely wrought than the wooden ones downstairs, stood atop the table. Other wing chairs and leather club chairs with ottomans were grouped around the room. The place looked more like a gentlemen’s club than the upstairs of the junky trading post below.

Floor to ceiling shelves in polished wood took up most of the available wall space, and they were filled with books. Her gaze followed the bulging shelves until they came to an alcove at one end of the room, to a hospital bed beside a window, to a pair of dark eyes watching her.

She smiled. “Hello. I’m Irish Ellison. May I come in?”

“Looks like you’re in already. Come closer and let me get a good gander at you. These old eyes ain’t what they used to be. Irish, you say? Never heard nobody named that except it was a nickname.”

“It’s my real name. My mother was mostly Irish and a romantic,” she said as she crossed the room to the bed.

He reminded her of an older, more wiry version of Willie Nelson. His hair was thinning on top, but the sides hung in long gray braids. The skin over his high cheekbones was leathery and wrinkled, but his dark eyes flashed with vitality, and Irish doubted if they missed much.

He held up a remote control and pressed it. The TV sound died. “I’m Pete Beamon, but everybody calls me Cherokee Pete. Called me that as long as I can remember. Half Cherokee from my mother’s side. M‘wife was Irish. Honey-colored hair and blue eyes she had. Beautiful woman, like you. Been gone forty-three years next November. She was a schoolteacher. Taught me how to read after I was grown. We started collecting these books over fifty years ago. Come, sit down here.” He pointed to an easy chair beside his bed. “Tell me what a pretty gal like you is doin’ in these parts.”

“Don’t let me interrupt your—” Irish glanced to the wall where the television was and startled. Instead of a single TV, a bank of six screens were mounted there. Two were blank, but two showed the interior of the store downstairs, and two others scanned the outside grounds. “But that’s—”

“Surveillance. These old eyes don’t miss much. You take a hankerin’ to my grandson?”

Irish cleared her throat and tried not to squirm. “He’s—he’s very attractive, but I’m not interested.”

Cherokee Pete gave a little bark of laughter. “That’s not what I saw. I like the cut of you, Irish Ellison. Could tell that right off. Tell you what. You marry my grandson, and I’ll give you a million dollars.”

Three

Irish laughed at the old man’s joke. “He’s a handsome devil. Don’t tempt me. Anxious to be rid of him, are you?”

“I’m anxious to have some great-grandkids before I kick the bucket. Not a single one of my grandsons is married. Ain’t natural. Kyle tells me you’re going to read to me some.”

“If you’d like.”

“Course I’d like,” Pete said. “Just cause I’m older’n dirt don’t mean I can’t appreciate the company of a beautiful young lady.”

“What would you like for me to read?”

Pete picked up the book lying on the bed beside him and handed it to her. “I’d like to hear the rest of this. I was near ’bout finished when my eyes played out. Need new glasses, but it will be a while before I can get to the eye doctor now that I busted my hip. Kyle says he’ll take me in a couple of weeks.”

Irish looked at the big volume. “John Grisham’s newest. You a fan of his?”

“He’s right good when I’m in the mood for his kind of book. I read purt near everything from shoot ‘em ups to philosophy. My grandkids know I like readin’ so I get a lots of books for Christmas and the like. Marker’s where I left off.”

She opened the book at the page where the tasseled leather strip lay and started to read the last few chapters.

Kyle stood at the door and listened to Irish’s beautifully modulated voice as she read to the old man. John Grisham had never sounded so exciting to him.

Or so sexy.

He didn’t pay much attention to the words of the narrative, only her tone, which oozed over him like warm buttered honey. When a bit of dialogue came, she changed her voice slightly to take on the character, then switched back to the slow, sensual utterances.

At last she paused, then said, “The end.”

Grandpa Pete cackled. “A million dollars! Yes, siree, a million dollars. No. Make that two million.”

Irish laughed, and Kyle rushed in before his grandfather started writing out a check. Pete was very generous with people he liked. “I see that you two are getting along,” Kyle said.

“Like a house afire,” Pete said. “This one’s a keeper. Danged if she can’t make that book come alive as good as one of them New York actresses.”

“I heard,” Kyle said. “You are very good. Ever consider acting?”

“Early on,” Irish replied. “I majored in drama for two years, but I dropped out of college and went into modeling instead.”

“Modeling?” Pete asked. “I thought Kyle said you was a writer.”

“I am. I don’t do modeling anymore.”

“Was you in the magazines like that Cindy Crawford or Claudia what’s-her-name, that foreign gal?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t quite in their league. How do you know about Cindy and Claudia?”

The old man winked. “Told you I read purt near everything. Even look at one of them women’s magazines now and then. You know, now that I think on it, I believe I’ve seen your picture somewheres.”

“Not for a couple of years. Would you like to start another book?”

“Not right now. I think I’ll take a little nap or maybe watch Oprah. You and Kyle run along and get better acquainted.” He winked meaningfully at Irish again. “If you know what I mean.”

She laughed. “Not on your life.”

As Irish and Kyle walked downstairs, he asked, “What is my grandfather up to now? He hasn’t made any indecent proposals has he?”

“No. We were just joking. He offered me a million dollars if I would marry you. Then he upped it to two.”

“My God!”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t take him seriously. I know that the proceeds from this place and his monthly Social Security check haven’t made him a millionaire, but he’s an old dear anyway. If he were rolling in dough though, I might have to give his offer serious consideration.”

Kyle’s step faltered. “Oh?”

She smiled. “I’m sure that I’m not the first woman to tell you that you’re an extremely attractive man. And two million dollars would make you darned near irresistible.”

His step faltered again. “Money turn you on?”

“Green is my very favorite color. As I said, you’re an attractive guy in lots of ways, but you’re safe from me. No offense intended, but I plan on marrying a rich man.”

All sorts of alarms started going off in his head. “That so?”

“Yep.”

“What about love?”

“Oh, I don’t want just any rich man. I want one that I can love, of course. But being able to sleep soundly without worrying about security generates a lot of affection.”

Her tone was light and teasing, but Kyle sensed an underlying agenda that prompted her attitude. What was it that worried her at night? He wondered if it had anything to do with the scars on the left side of her face. The faint lines were almost imperceptible. With her skillful makeup, nobody but a professional giving her as close a scrutiny as he had would have detected the slight traces.

He ached to ask her more, but now was not the time. Instead he chuckled and said, “I’ll drink to that. Do you mind watching the store for a while? I need to check some things with my grandfather.”

“No problem.”

He turned and hurried back upstairs.

When Pete spied Kyle, he said, “What are you doing up here? Why ain’t you down courtin’ Irish? I like her, son. I like her a lot. She’d make you a fine wife. You’d have good-looking kids.”

“Aren’t you rushing things a bit?”

“Nope. I knew right off that your grandmother was the woman for me.”

“Well, I’m different,” Kyle said. “I need a bit more time. And there’s a hitch with Irish.”

“A hitch?”

Kyle sat down beside the bed and blew out a big breath. “It seems that she wants to marry a rich man.”

Pete gave a hoot of laughter. “Then you’re in good shape there. Besides the ten I gave you, how many million did you have at last count?”

“That’s not the point. You see, I could be very interested in Irish, but I don’t want somebody who looks at me and only sees dollar signs.”

Pete nodded. “I get you. So you’re going to lie to her?”

“No. Yes.” Kyle dropped his hat on his knee and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know. But I wouldn’t want to fall for a gold digger. For the moment I’d just as soon that she not know that you’re wealthy or that I’m wealthy or—”

“Or that you’re a plastic surgeon.”

“Right. Or that Jackson is your grandson and my cousin.”

“Why is that?”

Kyle grinned. “Because I’m going to see if I can stall Jackson and that bunch of his in Dallas for an extra day or two. I don’t want Irish tempted by all those men and all that money until I can get a toehold in her affections.”

“Won’t she suspect something if she sees the oil wells on the property?”

“If she mentions it, I’ll tell her that they belong to Jackson or somebody. She won’t have any way of knowing that the land is yours. Will you play along with me?”

“My lips are sealed. As far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing but a shiftless bum, and I’m one step away from food stamps.”

“You don’t have to go quite that far.”

Cherokee Pete’s eyes twinkled. “I do believe you’ve taken quite a liking to our Irish already for you to go to so much trouble.”

“I’ll admit that she intrigues me.”

Pete cackled. “Intrigues, hell. She’s got your juices pumping. I ain’t so old I can’t remember. Check that roast you put in the oven, then go on down there and get to courtin’.”

Kyle decided to do just that.

He and Irish spent the rest of the afternoon in the store, waiting on the occasional customer and talking about everything from favorite colors to politics. They found that, despite a difference in their backgrounds and the fact that he liked blue to her green, they had a lot in common. In fact, after gazing for a spell into those lovely emerald green eyes of hers, he was beginning to change his mind about blue. Green was enchanting.

At dinnertime, They went upstairs and Kyle checked the roast that he had prepared earlier under Pete’s tutelage. He poked the meat with a fork, then poked the carrots, onions and potatoes. “That looks done to me. Does it look done to you?”

“I’m no expert, but it seems to be.”

“We’ll declare it done. Want a salad?”

“Sure,” she said. “I can make salad.”

They both pitched in to chop the vegetables, and Irish prepared a tray for Pete. While she took the tray to his grandfather, Kyle set the kitchen table for them. He started to put a candle in the middle, then decided that was pushing it a bit. He dug around until he found a cheap jug of burgundy and an expensive bottle of chardonnay. He put the chardonnay in the refrigerator and unscrewed the cap on the burgundy.

Irish returned as he was taking glasses from the cabinet. The Baccarat crystal stems that Kyle had given his grandfather on his last birthday were next to the jelly glasses. Kyle smiled, shook his head and poured a little from the jug to taste.

“Not bad for the price,” Kyle said. “Grandpa Pete isn’t much of a wine connoisseur. Will this do?”

“Sure. I’m not too fussy myself. Truthfully, some of the stuff that’s supposed to be so fine tastes like medicine to me.”

After dinner they cleaned up the kitchen together and got Pete settled down watching a John Wayne movie on cable.

“I guess that I’d better mosey on back to my tepee,” Irish said, smiling. “Thanks for dinner.”

“My pleasure. Want to take a walk first?”

“Sure.”

Outside the evening was still pleasantly warm, even though it was October. The air carried the crisp smell of pine trees and the watermelon scent of fresh cut grass. In the gathering darkness, crickets and tree frogs tuned up. Irish had noticed earlier that everything was still green; even the hardwood trees mixed in with the pines showed no signs of fall. She commented that the weather surprised her. “When does it get cool here? When do the leaves change?”

“Depends on what you call cool. Brief fronts begin pushing through beginning about now. The temperature will drop a few degrees, then warm up again in a day or two. We rarely get a frost before November, sometimes later than that. The leaves start turning about then, too, but because of the weather and because we have so many pines, autumn here is nothing like New England. A few trees are colorful—sweet- gums, tallows, some elms and oaks. Most of the others that lose their leaves stay green until frost, then turn brown and shed in November or December. By March they’re leafing out again.”

Because of darkness outside the range of the tall vapor lights, they didn’t wander far from the trading post and their walk was more amble than exercise.

As they strolled by the shed, Irish said, “I see that you’ve started a new bear.” She stepped inside where the strong odor of fresh sawdust and wood shavings scented the air. She rubbed her thumbs over the roughcut ears of the bear that stood as tall as she. “I felt so terrible about making you ruin the other one that I was relieved when Corrie bought it.”

“Nothing for you to feel terrible about. It was an accident.”

“Is this what you did in California, carve bears?”

“No. I, uh, did a different kind of sculpting.”

“What kind? Clay?”

Kyle gave her a vague answer, and she gathered that he wasn’t comfortable talking about his time on the West Coast. She could understand that; she wasn’t too comfortable talking about the last couple of years she spent in New York.

He ducked and entered the shed to stand beside her. The space suddenly became smaller, the raw wood smell more pungent. One of his thumbs traced a path over the bear’s ear, a path that was parallel to the course her thumb took and only a millimeter away from touching hers.

The space grew smaller still. His scent mingled with the woody aroma and his closeness bombarded her senses until his presence loomed larger than life and seemed to crackle and glow in her awareness.

Jerking her thumb back, she tried to step away from him, but she bumped against the bear’s outstretched paw. Finding herself penned between the bear’s paws and Kyle, she glanced up, her mouth open to deliver a clever quip.

The words vanished from her mind.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly his head lowered. “May I kiss you?” he asked as his lips came closer and closer. They stopped when they were a hairsbreadth from hers.

Her heart began racing, and his breath against her skin sent tingles of excitement over her. A part of her wanted to shout, “Yes!” Another part wanted to smack him for putting her in such a bind and growl, “No!”

But she was mute. Neither word would form on her lips.

For an eon, they stood there. The air around them hummed with sensual awareness.

Her knees twitched.

Her ears roared.

Don’t do this, a rational part of her brain whispered.

Get lost, her libido replied.

Yes was winning.

She moistened her lips and was about to close the tiny gap when a loud pistol shot cracked the quiet.

Four

Just after dawn the ruckus started. A horn blared outside Irish’s door and something bashed into her wall hard enough to rattle the pictures.

“What the—” She sat straight up in bed. Another horn blasted through the fog in her brain, and she heard loud voices and car doors slamming.

Throwing back the covers, she hurried to the window and peeked out. It looked as if the gypsies had invaded while she slept. Tents were everywhere. Tents and blue canopies and long tables under trees. There must have been thirty or more trucks and cars with trailers scattered around outside the trading post. People were unloading all sorts of stuff from furniture to vegetables.

A wooden trailer that advertised snow cones, popcorn and cotton candy for sale was butted up against her tepee, and a man was waving his arms and shouting, trying to direct the driver of the pickup pulling it.

The trailer pulled forward, then backed up again. Whomp! It slammed against the side of the tepee.

Irish rushed to the door, shoved aside the chest she’d dragged across it to block the way, turned the lock and threw the bolt. “What are you doing?” she yelled. “Trying to demolish the place while I sleep?”

The florid-faced fellow doing the directing stopped waving and gawked at her. Then he swept off his cowboy hat and dropped his eyes. “Sorry, ma’am. Jason can’t quite get the hang of it.”

“Get the hang of what?”

“Parkin’ the stand in the right place.”

The truck door opened and a dejected carrot-topped boy, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, climbed out. “I can’t do it, Daddy.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to. Your mama ain’t here to do it.”

“But, Daddy—”

“Shut your mouth and get back in that truck before I take a strap to you.”

“Over my dead body!” Irish stormed. She strode to the truck. “Where do you want this thing?”

When the man described the placement he was after, Irish said, “Get in, Jason. I’ll help you.”

Jason, his eyes as big as saucers, got in the truck. Irish climbed on the running board and very quietly directed the boy until they slowly maneuvered the stand into place.

“There you go,” she said. “Perfect.”

A wide grin spread over the boy’s face.

When she stepped off the running board, she realized that all the activity nearby had stopped and people were staring. That’s when it dawned on her that she was barefoot and wearing only a satin sleep-shirt. A very revealing satin sleep-shirt.

Irish didn’t let it phase her. She’d posed for catalogue ads with less on. Nose in the air, she marched into her tepee and slammed the door.

She looked at the clock and groaned. Who got up at such an ungodly hour? Wanting nothing so much as to climb back between the sheets, she conceded that trying to get any more sleep was a lost cause and headed for the shower. She hadn’t slept worth a darn. Even though the bed was comfortable, she’d tossed and turned for hours before she’d finally drifted off.

Kyle Rutledge had been the cause of her restless night. She couldn’t believe that she had allowed him to get under her skin so. If old Pete hadn’t fired his pistol at the right time, in another moment she and Kyle would have been locked in a steamy kiss—and God knows what else might have happened.

She found Kyle much too appealing, and he wasn’t the kind of man that she was interested in, she kept telling herself. He was poor; she wanted rich. If she had any other options, she would leave this place and remove herself from temptation.

Because Kyle Rutledge was very, very tempting.

But, with her financial situation, she had no other options.

She dressed quickly in jeans and an old favorite jersey, took her time with her ritual makeup job and went in search of breakfast.

If the outside looked like an anthill, inside the trading post was even more chaotic. Both tables were full with people drinking coffee and eating rolls and doughnuts, and about a dozen others milled around the store. Kyle stood behind the counter looking harried.

Irish joined him. “You look as if you could use some help.”

“You bet I could. I forgot that this was third Saturday. It’s trading day—a big deal around here. People come from miles away to buy, sell, or swap.”

“What can I do?”

“Make another pot of coffee, help customers, mind the register, cut up a dozen chickens—”

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