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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.”