“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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

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 that I have.”

“Ever eat any veal?” the man asked with a gaptoothed grin. Greg silently thanked the orthodontist his parents had dragged him to. They might not have given him everything, but he did have good teeth.

Instead of answering the man—or thinking about where veal came from—he turned back to the action in the ring. The cowboy finished looping the rope, then stood up and thrust both hands in the air. Showoff, Greg wanted to mutter. So what if the guy could wrestle a poor defenseless animal to the ground and tie it up? Should he get some kind of medal?

“Ten point three seconds,” the announcer reported. “That puts Tim Roberts in third place. Nice try, Tim. And that wraps up today’s calf roping competition.”

A smattering of applause and a few “whoops” followed the recitation of the winner and second-place finisher. From the end of the arena, a loud tractor entered, pulling a devise that smoothed the surface of the dirt into some version of level. A small cloud of dust rose only slightly from the ground, then settled back as though it was also hot and tired in the summer heat.

If the rest of the crowd could tolerate dust up to their knees and sweat pouring down their backs, Greg could, too. Besides, he had a real good reason for traveling to Texas in August, then standing in a metal barn that could have doubled as one of Huntington Foods’ huge ovens. He wasn’t going to let the dirt and hot temperatures keep him from his goal.

The man who had been standing beside Greg wandered off. Unsure what was coming next, he reached into his back pocket—where his round, flat canister of snuff would have been if he were a real cowboy—and retrieved the rolled-up flyer listing the county 4-H events. Sure enough, the junior steer competition was next. Greg wasn’t sure whether that meant the people showing them were young, or the steers were young, but whatever was going to happen next in the arena involved Ms. Carole Jacks.

And she was the only reason he was standing in this hellish Texas inferno, sweat pooling inside his new Justin ropers and running down the legs of the stiff boot-cut jeans he’d bought hours earlier in Austin. His secretary had laughed at the idea of dressing like a cowboy to visit this small community, but Greg wanted to make a good impression. He knew he wouldn’t fit in if he were wearing a suit, or even his normal Chicago casual attire.

One of the principle rules of salesmanship he’d learned at Ohio State was to blend in with the customer, to make them feel comfortable. He wasn’t sure his professors would have encouraged him to go quite this far to make someone believe he fit in, but the disguise had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, his mother had warned him that Carole Jacks didn’t take to outsiders. She rarely left Ranger Springs, Texas, and preferred all her correspondence by mail.

No e-mail. No fax. There wasn’t even a photograph of her in the file. For all he knew, she could be pushing ninety and senile. Personally, he imagined her as the no-nonsense Alice on The Brady Bunch. At best, she’d resemble a kind, portly Aunt Bea. He just hoped she’d accept the wardrobe and makeup consultants necessary before her photo sessions and public appearances. As long as she managed to smile and remained well mannered while in public, she was the best hope they had for reforming Huntington Foods’ image.

Of course, it would have been nice if his mother had given him a description of the formidable Carole Jacks. Instead, Roberta Huntington Rafferty had shrugged, smiled, and told him to have a nice trip. If he hadn’t known for a fact that his mother possessed a very limited sense of humor, he would have suspected she’d been laughing at his first big challenge as C.E.O.

Whatever her age or disposition, Ms. Jacks had negotiated a hell of a contract. She’d gotten the privacy she wanted in exchange for her recipes. He’d tasted each selection Huntington produced, and the “food police” might have a point; they weren’t low cal, low carb or low fat. They were, in fact, delicious.

The tractor chugged by, sending dust and diesel fumes Greg’s way. He rubbed his watering eyes and wished he’d bought something cold to drink from the refreshment cart he’d spotted on his way into the arena. He wished he knew what he was looking for. All Ms. Jacks’s neighbor had said was that she’d be at the ring for the junior steer competition, and no, there was no Mr. Jacks. Maybe she wasn’t related to anyone showing. She could even be a judge.

As the dust and diesel fumes settled, a flash of silver caught his eye. Blinking against the bright sunlight coming through the open windows, he needed to make sure he wasn’t seeing a mirage. No, she was real.

Standing directly across the dusty arena was a woman who would make any man forget his parched throat. Blond hair, tied back in a low ponytail, escaped the black cowboy hat she wore. A white T-shirt left little to his imagination, molding to breasts that appeared just the right size. And that big silver belt buckle fastened around a waist that obviously hadn’t eaten too many of “Ms. Carole’s Cookies.” He could tell she wasn’t too tall, but in those tight blue jeans, her legs looked as if they went on forever.

She stepped onto the bottom rail of the fence, then folded her arms along the top and rested her chin. The position caused her to bend a little, curving her rear out just enough to send a stampede of wicked fantasies through Greg’s imagination. Unfortunately, the pounding affected more than his mind. He propped one boot on the bottom rail and hoped no one noticed his new jeans were even tighter than before he’d fantasized about the blonde. Or worse yet, thought that he had a predilection for either tractors or cows.

She must be waiting for something…or someone. The thought of her watching one of those overposturing cowboys sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. He gripped the top rail and vowed not to leap over the fence, no matter what she did or who she cheered for. He would not make a fool of himself over the blond cowgirl, not in front of the formidable Carole Jacks. Not when he was here on a mission to save his family’s company from the unfortunate remarks of his hotheaded older brother, who just happened to be the former C.E.O. The man who’d publicly insulted the “food police” on national television not once, not twice, but the magic three times. And now he was “out” of Huntington Foods.

Greg tore his eyes away from the blonde when some official-looking people began filing into the arena. He forced himself to focus on his image of Carole Jacks, but none of the people standing there looked like America’s favorite “cookie queen.”

“And now for our final event, the Junior Steer Championship. After the grand champion is named, we’ll have our annual auction this afternoon at two o’clock. The highest bid will help send one of these young people to college. Let’s have a round of applause for these 4-H-ers who have raised these fine steers.”

Before the applause ended, the cows—no, steers—entered the ring. They were led by a variety of kids, which obviously explained the “junior” part of the competition. Perhaps one of them was Ms. Carole’s grandkid. Greg forced himself to scan the bleachers, but his gaze came back to the blonde. He couldn’t stop looking at her, especially when she tensed, then waved at one of the kids entering the arena.

A brown-haired girl smiled back, then tugged on the rope leading her huge steer into the ring. The large black creature had big dark eyes and looked around calmly, as though it trusted the girl to lead it to victory.

Surely this ten-or eleven-year-old child wasn’t the blond cowgirl’s daughter. Greg looked between the alluring curves at the rail and the pixyish braids of the girl and couldn’t reconcile the image. Still, the look of love on the face of his cowgirl seemed to confirm a strong relationship.

His cowgirl. Now that was a surprise. He’d never developed such strong fantasies or compelling questions about a woman he had yet to meet.

As the competition progressed, he watched the steer, the child and the cowgirl. When the judges motioned for the little girl to lead the animal to the center of the ring along with four others, his cowgirl put her hands over her mouth and tensed even more.

Greg turned to the man with the battered soft drink can. Apparently he’d returned sometime during the steer judging. “Is it good that they’re in the center of the arena?”

“Means they’re in the final round,” the man explained before spitting into the can.

Greg winced at the disgusting habit and turned his attention back to the ring. The judges circled the animals. One red-and-white steer stamped its foot. Another sidled away from the judge, nearly bumping the black animal held by the girl. She leaned close and spoke to her steer, rubbing his cheek with her fingers. He stood quietly, his feet even and steady.

“The big black one,” Greg said, motioning toward the pair. “Is he doing okay?”

“Standing good and square.”

“Do you think he might win?”

“Might.” The man spat into his can again.

Greg turned his attention back to the girl again. She seemed to be blinking back some tears. Probably tears of happiness that she was a finalist and her steer was behaving so well.

In less than a minute the judges began handing out ribbons. A purple banner, two feet long at least, went to the little girl with the black steer. Greg applauded, a genuine smile surprising him as he watched her accept the congratulations of the judges.

When he looked at his cowgirl, though, he was surprised by the mix of emotions she seemed to be feeling. She smiled, but wiped tears from her eyes at the same time. Her heart seemed to be going out to the girl, and Greg’s suspicions were confirmed that the brown-haired pixie was indeed her child.

The little girl hugged the big steer, burying her face in his slick, thick coat. She seemed to be holding on for dear life.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to have won,” Greg said out loud.

The man beside him nodded. “She got that steer from Billy Maddox over in Boerne when ever’body else said it weren’t big enough. Look at it now.”

“So she should be proud.”

“I ’spect she is, but she’s got to say goodbye to him now.”

“Why? She won.”

The man looked at him as though he was crazy. “What the hell do you think they do with the grand-champion steer?”

Greg searched his mind but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Give it a ribbon, I suppose. Maybe she can show it somewhere else.”

“None of these steers are going to the State Fair. That’s a whole ’nother class of animal.”

“So what do they do with them?”

The man spat into his can. “Auction ’em off.” He nodded toward the tent. “Big Jim usually bids the highest.”

“So what does Big Jim do with them?”

“Why, he has just about the finest barbecue you’ve ever seen for all his favorite customers over at Big Jim’s Autorama on Highway 281.”

As Greg watched in stunned silence, his cowgirl slipped between the rails of the fence and hurried to the little girl, who still had her face buried in the neck of the huge beast. Her thin shoulders shook, and Greg knew without a doubt that he couldn’t let that pet steer end up on Big Jim’s barbecue grill.

AS THEY WALKED out of the ring toward the barn, Carole could have kicked herself. She should have spent the extra money and bought a heifer instead of a steer. But she hadn’t expected that runty calf to grow into the grand champion at the county show. The look on her daughter’s face when she’d been handed the banner had nearly brought her to her knees, right there in the arena. Jenny had a soft heart, and darn it, Puff was a big old sweetheart—all twelve hundred pounds of him.

“We have a few hours, sweetie. What would you like to do?”

Jenny shrugged as if it didn’t make any difference, but Carole could see her daughter’s white-knuckled grip on Puff’s halter. “I think I’ll just hang around the barn. Put my stuff up.”

Say goodbye to Puff, Carole felt like adding. She had always told her daughter that she could do or be anything she wanted, but that didn’t mean life was always easy.

“I could bring you a snow cone or some cotton candy,” Carole offered as she wrapped her arm around her ten-year-old’s shoulders.

“Thanks, Mom, but I’m not hungry.”

“We’ll celebrate later, then.”

Jenny nodded, but couldn’t hide her sniff.

They stopped at their spot along the cattle rail. Carole hugged her arms around herself as Jenny attached the tie-down to Puff’s halter. “Sure I can’t get you anything? A cold drink?”

Jenny shrugged.

“Do you want to be alone?”

“Please,” she said in a small voice.

“Okay, then. I’m going to get us a soft drink.”

Carole took one more look at her little girl before turning and walking down the long corridor, out of the stock barn. Telling herself that this was an important lesson, that Jenny would feel proud of earning part of her college money, that Puff was a beef animal, not a family pet, didn’t ease the pain. Only time would do that. Perhaps it was best that Jenny was leaving for camp in another week. A change of setting would help her forget. Seeing friends from last year, laughing and playing one last summer before she began the transformation from child into young woman was just what she needed right now.

Carole just wished Jenny could stay gone until Big Jim’s barbecue was history, but she couldn’t. School started in the third week of August, and Big Jim always served up the grand champion at his Labor Day event. Carole didn’t usually go out of town for the long weekend, but this year, she would take her daughter somewhere far away from Ranger Springs. Someplace fun, with no animals to remind them of Puff’s empty stall.

She’d nearly made it out of the barn when she saw a tall, broad-shouldered stranger standing in the wide doorway, staring at her in a way she didn’t usually see in the light of day. Maybe in a smoky honky-tonk with a country-western tune playing in the jukebox…

She slowed, wondering if perhaps he was someone she’d met a while back. Bright sunlight outlined his lean torso and long, straight legs. He’d dressed in jeans and a Western-cut plaid shirt, boots and a well-creased hat, but he didn’t stand like a cowboy. The shade inside the barn, the deeper shadow beneath the brim of the Stetson, made him seem mysterious. Instead of tipping his hat or dropping his gaze, he continued to look his fill, even smiling just a bit like he knew some secret.

Carole tipped her chin up and broke eye contact. She didn’t know this man. He wasn’t from around here. And he was darn rude to boot.

“Congratulations on the win,” he said as she walked by.

His deep, warm voice, totally without an accent, stopped her. “Thanks,” she said, feeling more unsettled than ever now that she knew he’d been watching her—and Jenny—during the competition. “I don’t know you, do I?”

“We haven’t met yet,” he said, turning toward her. The sun highlighted the right half of his face, showing smooth skin stretched over some mighty fine cheekbones. She suspected this man had his hair styled, not just cut like ordinary people, although she couldn’t see much but a few short, dark-brown strands peeking from beneath his tan Stetson and around his well-shaped ears.

This was no weathered cowboy. From the way he was dressed, in new clothes and expensive boots, she’d be more likely to believe he was one of those models in American Cowboy magazine. He looked as good as one. As a matter of fact, he reminded her of her brother-in-law, Prince Alexi of Belegovia, when he’d dressed like Hank McCauley and fooled her sister Kerry last summer. Alexi and Hank looked enough alike to be twins. Both were handsome as sin, but not as compelling as this stranger, in her opinion.

She realized she’d been giving the man a once-over for way too long. Not too many male-model types came to Ranger Springs, Texas, but that didn’t excuse her ogling. Her mother would have called it downright rude.

“Greg Rafferty,” he said with a smile, extending his hand. “And no, as I’ve already been reminded, I’m not from around here.”

She laughed despite her suspicion over strangers and good-looking men who liked to undress women with their eyes. “I didn’t mean to stare. The sun was in my eyes, and I couldn’t tell if I’d seen you before.”

She shook his hand, noticing his firm, enveloping grip that shot warmth all the way up her arm.

“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. She’d apparently also forgotten how to shake hands, because she finally pulled away when she realized she’d been in his gentle grasp for about as long as she’d been staring at him moments ago.

“And you are…”

“I’m sorry. I’m still a little…excited about my daughter’s win.” She took a deep breath and looked into the blue-green eyes of the stranger. “Carole Jacks,” she said, forcing herself to smile pleasantly when she wanted to gawk 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…” He swallowed, grimacing slightly. “I don’t suppose you have another relative by the same name. A mother or aunt, perhaps?”

“I’m the only one around here that I know of,” she said, more confused by the second.

“I was expecting someone a little…older.” His eyes roamed over her body once more, and she felt that darn warmth seep through her, as hot at the Texas sun beating down on the metal roof above.

She shrugged off her hormone-induced condition. “Older?”

“I came to town expecting to find Alice, or maybe Aunt Bea, and instead I found—”

She stopped him before his eyes started wandering again. “What?”

“You know. Alice, that prototypical housekeeper on The Brady Bunch. And Aunt Bea was on—”

“Andy Griffith. Yes, I know, but what does that have to do with me? And why did you think I was older?”

“Because you bake cookies,” he said, as though that would clear up everything.

“Cookies,” she repeated carefully, wondering how someone this loony could be so good-looking.

“Yes. Ms. Carole’s Cookies. Huntington Foods needs your help to—”

“Oh, no,” she said, putting up both hands as if to ward him off. “I don’t believe this.” She took a step back, needing to put space between her and this…this city slicker. How could they have done this to her? Huntington had promised her no hassles, no demands. All they’d wanted were her cookie recipes. She’d written privacy clauses into her contract. She would never have licensed the rights to her cookies otherwise.

“Are you surprised that someone came down to see you?”

She nodded. “Darn right. Now you can just get back in your car or catch a plane back to Chicago.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to offer.”

“My privacy is not for sale.” She turned away, walking through the doorway and into the hot sunshine, leaving him standing in the shade of the barn.

Good thing she’d learned why he was here before she made an idiot of herself, acting like some silly teenager over a good-looking stranger. Been there, done that. Just because he had great bone structure and filled out his jeans didn’t amount to a hill of beans. He could go straight to—

“Jenny,” Carole whispered. Greg Rafferty might be low enough to try to get into her daughter’s good graces. He could be on his way to her little girl right now, full of phony congratulations on her win, hoping to get to the mother through the daughter.

Halfway to the concession stand, Carole spun around, nearly colliding with the person behind her.

Strong hands steadied her. She looked up into Greg Rafferty’s blue-green eyes. “You,” she whispered. What was it about this man that sent her reeling—mentally and physically?

“You should get some signals installed if you’re going to make turnarounds on a crowded thoroughfare,” he said in a soft, deep voice that held more than a hint of amusement.

At her expense. “Let go.” She brushed off his hold, then dusted her arms as though he’d left some trace. Ridiculous. “Why were you following me?” she asked, deciding the best defense was a good offense.

“Because I came all the way from Chicago to see you, and you need to hear what I have to say.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“I can’t.” He shrugged. “I know about your contract, but things have changed. I need your cooperation.”

Carole sighed. She was going to have to listen to him whether she wanted to or not. “Okay, you can buy me a soft drink and we’ll sit in the shade. I’ll give you ten minutes, then I need to get back to my daughter.”

Within a few minutes they settled on a bench beneath a big cottonwood tree, just outside the barn. The familiar scents of sawdust, hay, animal sweat and manure grounded her in the present. By reminding her of the past, the attractive stranger sitting beside her filled her with insecurities over the future.

“So, why did you come all the way to Texas to talk me into something that is obviously opposite every privacy clause I had inserted into my contract with Huntington Foods?”

“I’m not sure if you heard about our previous C.E.O.’s very public argument with the ‘food police,’ but—”

“Yes, I heard about him calling the C.A.S.H.E.W. group a ‘bunch of nuts.’ Of course I was interested, since you produce my cookies. But like everything, the bad press he caused will pass.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. When he, er, decided to resign, that also made news. And then the cable news outlets and primetime network shows started calling, asking for in-depth interviews. We’re being compared to the tobacco industry executives who said, before Congress, ‘I do not believe nicotine is addictive.’ That kind of bad publicity doesn’t go away until we clarify our position.”

Carole sat her soft drink on the bench with enough force that the liquid sloshed against the sides. “So clarify it. You’re the new C.E.O., right? I don’t see how—or why—my cooperation or endorsement would matter much.”

“I’m not sure that you know this, but your cookies are our bestselling product. We’d like to design a publicity tour. Some select appearances on the afternoon talk shows and soft news segments, perhaps a demonstration of your baking techniques on the morning shows. And there’s an upcoming food show we’d like for you to attend, perhaps as a featured presenter.”

The idea of becoming a public figure filled her with so much dread that she had a hard time holding back a shudder. Her stomach clenched and her palms began to sweat, but she managed to hold herself together. This was only his plan, she told herself. Not a reality. Forcing a calmness she didn’t feel, she managed to say flippantly, “That’s all, hmm?”

“Well, we’d need your permission to use your image on the packages. Oh, and we’d like to have some favorable articles written about you. Maybe with a photo spread of your home. You and your daughter sharing a plate of cookies. That sort of thing.”

His plan grew worse and worse. She couldn’t believe he would ask her to participate to this degree. She couldn’t believe he’d expect her to put Jenny in…well, not danger, but potential emotional distress. But then, this new C.E.O. didn’t know about her past. Not very many people outside of her family and friends in Ranger Springs remembered.

“You have got to be kidding,” she finally said.

“No.” He appeared a little baffled. “We’re not expecting anything unusual, Ms. Jacks.”

She took a deep breath. “How about I just write you a nice letter. You can tell everyone that I agree—you’re not really a rabidly crazy company who believes a high-sugar, high-fat diet is best for everyone.”

He started to get a little red in the face. The heat? She didn’t think so. She’d probably pushed him to the limit of his bottom-line heart.

“We’d like more than your vote of confidence, Ms. Jacks,” he said in a very controlled voice. “And we’re willing to pay quite a nice sum for your cooperation.”

“Did you read my contract, Mr. Rafferty?”

“Greg, please. And, yes, I did.”

“Then you know that I am under no obligation to publicize the cookies.” The very idea caused another barely controlled shudder.

“Yes, I know, but as I’ve just explained, circumstances have changed.”

“My position hasn’t. Let me be perfectly clear. I don’t want any publicity for myself or my family. My agreement with Huntington Foods has been perfect because my recipes are all that I had to give.”

“Surely you could use the money.”

“Not at the expense of my privacy,” she stated, grabbing her soft drink and rising from the bench. “Now it’s time for me to get back to my daughter. I hope you find another way to solve your problem, Greg Rafferty, because I am not going to change my mind.”

She marched off toward the barn, but hadn’t walked more than four steps when she thought of one more point. “By the way, don’t bother my daughter. She’s off-limits, understand?”

“Why would you think I’d bother your daughter?” he asked, frowning at her.

“I know you big-business types. You’re not above ‘congratulating’ her, too, just to get in my good graces. I’m telling you right now not to try it.”

For some reason Greg Rafferty was like a burr under her saddle. The only way to relieve the irritation was to get rid of the irritant. She hoped he got the point and high-tailed it out of Texas.

“I would have congratulated her, if I’d seen her. But I saw you first. Before I knew who you were,” he pointed out.

“So you say,” she returned, knowing she couldn’t trust his smooth-talking claims any farther than she could throw a twelve-hundred-pound steer. “Just leave, Mr. Rafferty. We’re not buying what you’re selling.”

“I can be as stubborn as you are,” he ground out.

“Maybe,” she conceded, placing one hand on her hip. “But I own my land, and it’s fenced in. If you cross my cattle guard, make sure you’re ready for a fight, because I protect what’s mine.” She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “And I own a shotgun that I know how to use.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked incredulously.

“Just don’t give me a reason to fill your backside with buckshot.”

“I thought you Texans didn’t shoot men in the back.”

“We shoot varmints anywhere we please,” she said, wishing she were back on her own property right now, safe behind the wire fencing and long driveway. Locked inside, where no one could bother her or her daughter.

He glared at her, but she’d seen and said enough. Carole spun on her heel, her boots digging into the dust-covered, dry grass. She felt his gaze burning into her back as surely as if he’d aimed his own weapon at her…at her backside.

He probably wasn’t giving her the once-over now. He was scorching holes in her with angry eyes, she’d bet, although she’d die before she turned around to check.

She’d seen enough of Greg Rafferty. He’d better not show up on her property. Despite her bravado, she wouldn’t really fill him with buckshot. No, she’d call Police Chief Parker and swear out a complaint. If Greg Rafferty didn’t leave her alone, the only people baking Ms. Carole’s cookies would be Ms. Carole herself.

Chapter Two

Greg planted both elbows on the darkened pine bar of Shultze’s Roadhouse and mentally kicked himself for the hundredth time. Just because Carole Jacks possessed killer legs, a body to make a man drool, and sun-kissed hair he longed to run his fingers through, he should have behaved in a professional, rational manner. Hell, he’d practically drooled on her figure-molding white T-shirt and jeans. If he’d come on any stronger, she would have accused him of seducing her to get what he wanted.

Come to think of it, that would probably be better than the assumptions she’d come up with. Thinking he’d use her daughter to get to her…. What kind of low-life sleaze did she think he was? Using a kid…

He straightened, his hand closing around the frosty longneck as he remembered the look on the little girl’s face as she’d realized she was going to lose that big steer to Big Jim’s barbecue grill. Greg glanced at his watch. Nearly one o’clock. What time did that auction start? He thought he’d heard two, but after the confrontation with his sexy cowgirl, who’d turned out to be the woman he’d come all this way to see, he hadn’t trusted his short-term memory. Hell, this whole trip to Texas was turning into a journey to another dimension, not just a trip to a different state.

He had time to get back to the arena before the bidding started. If he did manage to buy the steer, Carole Jacks would automatically assume he’d done so to get into her good graces. She’d accuse him of trying to influence her daughter. He’d never be able to convince her he’d thought of outbidding Big Jim before he’d known who the country’s favorite cookie queen was.

He should forget about the girl, the steer and the sexy cowgirl. Instead of planning to outbid the competition, he should put on his professional demeanor, just as he’d put on these cowboy clothes. Starting over again with Carole Jacks, beginning with an apology for his earlier outburst, was the only sensible strategy.

The plan not only sounded boring, but it totally ignored his feelings about saving the little girl’s prize pet. He wasn’t about to sit here sipping a cold one while some good ol’ boy ripped the animal away from the child who’d raised him. Greg took a long drink of his beer, grinding his teeth as the vision took hold. He’d deal with Carole Jacks’s suspicions after he handed the big black steer back to her daughter.

The fact that she’d be forced to deal with him at all was worth the expense of outbidding Big Jim. All he wanted was a fair chance to convince her that his plan was reasonable. Once she listened to him, calmly and without the overheated emotions of this afternoon, she might find she liked him. And if she softened just a bit, he’d have a chance to explore some of the non-professional aspects of their relationship.

Like the way her gaze had caressed him when they’d stood just inside the barn. The way she’d been interested in him as a man before she’d accused him of being a louse. He had a suspicion she’d rather eat dirt than admit she’d liked what she’d seen, but he knew a hungry look when he saw one. And Carole Jacks had an extraordinary pair of bedroom eyes that could arouse with just a glance. If he let his mind wander to what the rest of her could do, he’d never get to the auction in time.

With a last long swallow, Greg drained the longneck and slid the empty bottle toward the inside edge of the bar. He retrieved his wallet from the back pocket of the stiff new jeans, then slapped a twenty on the ring-marked pine. That should cover his beer and a grilled cheese sandwich—in honor of Puff and steers everywhere. He just hoped he had enough cash in his debit account to afford a prize steer. If not, the arena had better take plastic, because he was going to buy that big black animal even if Carole Jacks assumed the worst.

This would all turn out well in the end. He would save Huntington Foods from the corporate equivalent of Big Jim’s barbecue grill.

CAROLE WATCHED the bidders gather around the arena, spending more time talking to each other than looking at the animals inside the ring. And why not? They’d already decided which ones they’d bid on, and how much they were going to spend. The heifers they’d add to their breeding program, but the steers would all be used for some promotional or charitable event. Big Jim always bought the grand champion. He was gathering a crowd of cronies, his booming voice carrying across the ring.

Carole looked away from the overblown car dealer to her daughter, who stood straight and silent beside Puff. She was so proud of Jenny, her little girl who was growing up fast. After dealing with not having a father all her life, she was now learning how to lose something she loved. Not that she hadn’t known all along what Puff’s fate would be. Staring the inevitable in the eye was far different from considering a nebulous circumstance, especially for a ten-year-old.

Carole realized with a jolt that her daughter was only seven years younger than she was when she’d met and run away with Johnny Ray French. He’d played guitar in a country-western band performing at the rodeo in San Antonio. She’d thought they’d fallen instantly in love. Probably more like lust, looking back. They’d taken off for his big chance to play The Grand Ol’ Opry in Nashville, stopping in Arkansas to get married because, at heart, she was a good girl and that’s how she’d been raised.

As though she was still seventeen, she clearly remembered how shocked she’d been when her nineteen-year-old husband, drunk on beer and a taste of fame, practically made love to another woman in front of the cameras filming a documentary about the band. And that was right after she’d discovered she was pregnant. Talk about life throwing you a curve! She’d been afraid to call home, embarrassed to admit her stupidity to her mother and two sisters.

Fortunately, her mother saw the documentary on television and left immediately in the family sedan to bring her middle daughter home.

Back in Ranger Springs, Carole had wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong, that she hadn’t run away with a huge jerk and wasn’t going to blow up like a balloon in just a few months. But she had. Her tooled leather belt with the engraved silver buckle had gone only halfway around her middle. She’d waddled where she’d once strutted her stuff in tight jeans and body-hugging, snap-front shirts. She’d held her head up and pretended not to notice the stares of her neighbors, her classmates and her former teachers. Her family had stood beside her, saddened but determined to see her through her impetuous “mistake.” Her mother had gotten her out of her teenage marriage…and Johnny Ray had never wanted to see his child.

Carole leaned her chin on her crossed arms, resting on top of the wooden rail, and sighed. Up until the moment Jenny had been born, she hadn’t decided whether she was going to keep her child or give her up for adoption. She used to place her hands on her big belly and wonder what would be best for her baby—a single mother with only a high school education, or a two-parent household with educated people who desperately wanted a child.

Once she’d held the baby in her arms, the decision was made; she loved Jenny on sight. She’d vowed right then to be the best mother possible, to give her baby love and attention, and provide an extended family including a grandmother, aunts and lots of friends. And Jenny had grown into an intelligent, sensitive, talented daughter. In her totally unbiased opinion, of course.

And now her daughter was getting a lesson in life that had to be learned at some point. That didn’t make it any easier to watch.

“All you bidders gather ’round,” the announcer called out from the box overlooking the stalls and chutes. “We’ll start our bidding for our grand champion, owned and shown by Miss Jennifer Jacks, at one thousand dollars.”

Carole watched her daughter bravely lead Puff to the center of the ring. Jenny had cried all her tears; she’d said her goodbyes and was ready to accept a check to go into her college fund. The outcome was certain, but they all had to go through the formality of watching and listening to Big Jim bellow out his bids. Across the arena, Carole heard his friends cheer him on, motivated, no doubt, by the thought of a choice serving of barbecue come Labor Day.

“Fifteen hundred from Ralph Biggerstaff,” the announcer stated.

Big Jim bellowed out, “Two thousand.”

Well, at least Jenny would be able to choose her college with a bit more freedom. And she wouldn’t have to work part-time unless she wanted to. That was good.

“Twenty-one hundred,” a different voice called out. A deep voice, without inflection or accent.

No! He wouldn’t! With an angry frown, Carole stepped up onto the bottom rail and searched the opposite side of the ring for the source of her irritation.

There he stood, tan Stetson covering the upper part of his face with shadow. She recognized his shirt, though, and those brand-new jeans. Was he bidding just to irritate her, or was he seriously considering buying Puff? If he thought he’d impress her by paying more than Big Jim, he had another think coming. She ought to march right over there and tell him she wasn’t about to accept his money. Or Huntington’s money. Had they authorized something this low, or was Greg Rafferty a runaway wagon?

“Twenty-two hundred,” Big Jim announced confidently.

“Twenty-three,” Rafferty said in an amused tone.

So, he thought this was funny, did he? Carole jumped down from the fence. She’d go over there and tell him again what he obviously didn’t believe this afternoon; she didn’t want to listen to his big plans for Ms. Carole’s Cookies, and she didn’t want him using her daughter.

“Twenty-four hundred,” Big Jim said, irritation obvious in his booming voice as Carole marched around the ring.

“Twenty-five.”

Show-off, Carole wanted to yell. Her boots couldn’t navigate through the deep dirt of the arena fast enough. When she got her hands on him…

“Twenty-six hundred,” Big Jim ground out, his voice showing more than irritation now. He sounded downright mean.

Greg Rafferty hadn’t seen mean yet. When she got her hands on him—

“Three thousand,” he said.

An audible gasp filled the big metal barn, followed by whispered comments. Carole stumbled, finding the metal rail with one shaking hand. For the first time she realized how odd this must appear to the rest of the folks witnessing the bidding. A stranger, a man they’ve never seen before, challenging Big Jim for the grand champion.

She held on to the rail and looked to the center of the ring, guiltily thinking about Jenny for the first time since Greg Rafferty started bidding. Her daughter appeared confused by the war going on between the two men. She’d expected Big Jim to buy Puff. She didn’t know this other man. She certainly hadn’t heard that he’d come to Texas to sweet-talk her mother into doing something unthinkable to save Huntington’s reputation.

What about my own reputation? she wanted to shout. True, Greg Rafferty didn’t know about her past. He didn’t accept how averse to publicity she was. But darn it, for ten years—with the exception of the foreign paparazzi who’d come to town back when Kerry Lynn was with Prince Alexi—everyone had forgotten her teenage behavior. They’d let her keep her emotional baggage stored very neatly in the back of the closet, where it didn’t bother anyone.

“This has got to stop,” Carole muttered, pushing away from the rail and marching toward the man who was giving her a pounding headache, not to mention causing her heart to ache for the little girl caught in the middle.

“Three thousand once.”

Carole zeroed in on him, maybe twenty feet away. He turned to watch her approach, what she had to assume was a gloating expression on his model-handsome face.

“Three thousand twice.”

She abandoned her plan to punch him in the nose. Besides going against her generally antiviolent approach to life, he’d probably have her arrested for assault. Instead, she grabbed two fistsful of his shirt as soon as she got within snatching distance of him.

“Sold for three thousand dollars to the stranger in the blue-plaid shirt.”

She stumbled as she tried to shake some sense into him, even though it was too late. Even though he’d already outbid Big Jim for the right to turn Puff into sirloin and hamburger.

He steadied her with two large hands to her waist. “Be careful,” he said, his tone amused as he looked down at her. “You don’t have to be so enthusiastic with your appreciation.”

“Go to hell,” she said through clenched teeth.

Thelma Rogers rushed up, eyes aglow, camera dangling. “What an exciting auction! I need a photo for the Gazette.”

“No!” Carole nearly shouted. Inside she was shaking, angry and protective and yes, afraid. Afraid of him dragging her into his publicity campaign without her permission. Afraid he was digging around in her closet for all her emotional baggage. No one had that right. Just because she’d sold them some cookie recipes—

“Why not?” Rafferty asked.

“I don’t do photos,” she snapped at him. “If you want one with your new steer, you go right ahead. Just keep me out of it.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “And keep Jenny out of it, too.”

“That’s okay,” Thelma said tentatively, looking between the two of them. “I already took one of Jenny with the steer when she won the championship earlier.”

“Great. Then that should be fine for the paper.”

“Yes, I don’t think we need a photo of Ms. Jacks assaulting me.”

Thelma glanced between them, then said, “I think I’ll go over and see what’s happening with the heifers.”

Good idea, Carole thought. “I did not assault you,” she ground out as, from of the corner of her eye, she saw a crowd gathering. The last thing she wanted was an audience for what she had to say to this annoying man, so she turned her back on her neighbors, hoping they’d take the hint. “I just want you to go away and leave us alone.”

“I already told you why I came down here. If you’d just keep an open mind, we might make some progress.”

“Progress! I suppose you think you know what’s best for me and my family?”

Greg Rafferty put his hands on his hips and looked around. Her friends and neighbors looked back, although at least they were keeping their distance. Slowly he smiled as he turned back to her. “For someone who thinks she knows just what she wants, you seem to have a little problem executing your plans.”

“Not until you showed up,” she said, pointing her finger at him. She couldn’t stand a smug man, and this one had smugness down to a science. He knew he was darned good-looking, even in clothes he obviously didn’t wear every day. The fact that he could carry off wearing the “uniform” of a cowboy instead of what had to be more familiar—the uniform of a businessman—said a lot about how much confidence he had. Not that she admired his guts. Not at all.

“All I wanted to do was talk to you.”

“Then why did you buy Puff?”

“Puff?” He looked toward the ring, his smile returning. “That big black beast’s name is Puff?” he asked with nearly contagious amusement.

“Jennifer named him,” Carole admitted, turning to watch her daughter walk toward them. “And don’t upset her any more than she already is. She got too attached to him. I knew this was going to be a problem, but I couldn’t stop her from loving that stupid steer.”

“I have no intention of upsetting her. In fact, that’s why I bid on him.”

“What are you talking about?” Carole asked, turning back to search his face for the truth.

“Before I knew who you were, I noticed how sensitive she was. When the guy standing nearby told me what happened to the grand champion steer, I decided to buy him myself.”

“What…what are you going to do with a steer?”

Before he could answer, Jenny stopped at the fence, Puff in tow.

“Mom, what are you doing over here?” she asked in an accusing tone that only a child could achieve. “Everyone’s looking!”

Carole moaned inside. She wanted to sink into the soft dirt and pretend this day had never existed. “I’m just talking to Mr. Rafferty, honey. That’s all.”

“Mom, you grabbed him!”

Carole narrowed her eyes and frowned at the object of her frustration. “Just his shirt.”

He smiled back. She wanted to shake him, then swing him around and put a boot to his backside. So much for her nonviolent tendencies. The faster he got out of town, the quicker life could return to normal. She and Jenny would go back to their nice, calm life.

Dismissing her glare, he turned to Jenny. “Hi. My name is Greg Rafferty, and I think your steer is…well, he’s a good-looking animal.”

“Yeah, he is, and he’s nice, too.” Her young face fell. “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Carole acknowledged that he sounded genuinely confused, which was an act, of course. He’d known what he was doing all along—searching her out, buying the steer, making her pay attention to him when all she wanted was to be left alone.

“Since you bought him, I guess you’re going to have a…a barbecue like Big Jim.”

Carole heard the quaver in her daughter’s voice, saw the way her lip trembled when she stumbled over the word that signified the fate of all the grand champion steers. She wanted to reach across the metal railing and hug Jenny close, but her daughter wouldn’t appreciate the public display any more than Carole appreciated public attention of any kind.

“No, no, I’m not,” Rafferty said in a gentle voice that surprised Carole as much as his claim. “I don’t want to take your steer away from you.”

“But you bought him,” Jenny said.

“Only because I needed to outbid Big Jim,” he said with a wink. “I couldn’t let that big airbag buy a steer as nice as Puff.”

Jenny giggled.

Carole blinked, not sure she’d heard him correctly. This was the businessman who wanted to violate her contract? This man who spoke so gently to her daughter, and made her laugh? And what did he mean that he didn’t want to take Puff away from Jenny?

“Wait a minute,” Carole said. “What are you going to do with him if you aren’t planning some…event like Big Jim’s?”

He smiled broadly, looking between her and her daughter. Just like the cowboy he was pretending to be, he puffed up a little bigger as he spoke to Jenny. “I saw how attached you were to your steer. I’ve never had anything that large myself, but I did have a dog when I was about your age. I thought maybe you’d like to keep Puff.”

“Keep him?” Jenny asked, looking really confused as her hand tightened around Puff’s lead rope.

“Sure. I know I bought him, but I’m going to sign him back over to you and your mom. That way, you won’t ever have to worry about Big Jim getting his hooks on Puff again.”

“Wait just a minute,” Carole interrupted, holding up her hand for silence. “You can’t just give Puff back to Jenny. Besides, I don’t trust your motives.”

“I already told you—”

“And I told you I don’t trust you.”

“But, Mom—”

“Not now, Jenny.” Carole put her hands on her hips and faced Greg Rafferty. “You bought that steer fair and square at the auction, Mr. Greg Rafferty. You can’t give him back.”

“Of course I can. I know some people might think it’s extravagant, but—”

“That’s not what I’m thinking at all,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “And I don’t mean that you shouldn’t give him back. I mean you can’t give him back.”

“Mom—”

“Now, Jenny, I know this is hard for you, but we all have to accept the fact that Mr. Rafferty owes three thousand dollars toward your college fund, and he now owns Puff.”

“I don’t want to own Puff!”

“Mr. Rafferty,” Carole said, leaning close and saying each word succinctly, “that steer eats about thirty-five pounds of feed each day. Even though I’ve grown a little attached to him, too, I don’t want to own him, either.”

GREG USED his monogrammed handkerchief to wipe the sweat and dirt from his forehead, wincing at the sight of dark, wet smears across the white linen. So this is why cowboys wear bandannas, he thought as he leaned against the fence and watched his three-thousand-dollar rack of prime rib graze contentedly in the rented pasture.

“This is all your fault,” he muttered to the unconcerned steer, even though he knew the culprit didn’t have four legs. No, Greg acknowledged, at least to himself, yesterday he’d gotten himself into this mess by making a bunch of assumptions. The words of a college professor came back to haunt him: “Assume makes an ass out of u and me.” Well, he’d made one big fool of himself this afternoon. Every action he’d taken had dug him deeper and deeper into a pit of mistakes and culture clashes.

Of course, Carole Jacks hadn’t helped him dig his way out of the hole. In fact, she seemed happy to shovel dirt in around him as he’d flailed away, wondering which way was up. The only thing he’d been sure of was that he was even more attracted to Carole Jacks, reclusive cookie queen, than he was to his blond cowgirl.

Damned if he could figure out why, though. She fought him at every opportunity. She made a point of showing how much she disliked him, making a scene yesterday at the arena even though she claimed she hated publicity. Maybe she felt comfortable enough around her neighbors to be a bit more…expressive.

So maybe the attraction he felt for her wasn’t one-sided. Maybe she felt it, too, and that frightened her. He had no doubt she really didn’t believe him, or trust his motives. That obstacle didn’t bother him, because she was obviously the kind of person who needed proof. Simply telling her that he hadn’t bought Puff, the grand champion steer, to impress her didn’t carry much weight with Carole Jacks.

A smile spread across Greg’s face as he recalled the way she’d grabbed his shirt. And the way his hands had settled so naturally around her waist, as though they belonged there and nowhere else.

At least, nowhere he could put them in public.

Thinking about Carole Jacks made him even hotter than this Texas summer. Not even noon and the temperature must be nearly ninety degrees! Pushing away from the wooden fence post, Greg walked through the brown, dying grass toward the brick and frame house he’d rented late yesterday afternoon. As soon as he’d realized he was stuck with Puff—at least temporarily—he’d looked up realty companies in the phone book and made an appointment with a cute, efficient redheaded lady named Gina Summers.

Fortunately, this house had been available on a monthly lease. Fully furnished, it was more than he needed, but at least he’d be comfortable during his stay in Ranger Springs, Texas. He walked up the three steps to the front porch, pulled open the storm door and slipped into the absolute necessity of air-conditioning.

Of course, if Carole Jacks hadn’t been so bullheaded, he thought as he walked across the hardwood floors toward the back patio, she could have taken the steer home with her. Greg would have been more than happy to check into a hotel or motel until he could convince her to modify her contract with Huntington Foods. Everyone, including Jenny and Puff, would have been much more content with that arrangement. But leasing a house and forty acres for a month was just another example of how unusual this trip had become.

At least the house had a pool. He loved to swim, and having the water to himself rather than sharing it with fifteen screaming kids at a hotel was worth a lot. He didn’t particularly enjoy children, maybe because he hadn’t been around them very much. His older brother, Brad, the hotheaded former C.E.O. of his mother’s family-owned company, hadn’t married yet. Neither had his younger sister, Stephanie, the current C.F.O. of Huntington Foods. Some of his college friends were married, but most of them had babies, and they got baby-sitters when he went out with them.

Older children like Jennifer were okay, he guessed, but he struggled to talk to them intelligently. At least with her he’d had a topic of conversation. One of his biggest fears was being left alone with a small child who wanted to talk. He was afraid he’d say the wrong thing.

Just like everything else he’d done or thought since arriving at the county livestock arena, his attention came back to Carole Jacks. His blond cowgirl. The object of his professional quest. The mother of a ten-year-old girl with a pet who ate thirty-five pounds of feed a day. Plus grass and hay, he’d been informed by a helpful rancher at the arena.

With a sigh, cursing his luck for becoming mentally obsessed and physically attracted to a woman who was all wrong for him, Greg began removing his clothes, all the way down to the stretchy black Speedo beneath those stiff new jeans.

He’d take a swim right now. The exercise would do him good, and maybe the water would be cold enough to take his mind—and other parts of his body—off the exciting, unusual Ms. Carole.