“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

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.

Chapter Three

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Carole said as she drove up the gravel road toward the formerly empty brick house. Only Jenny’s overly dramatic reminder that she’d be leaving for camp soon and might not ever see Puff again had prodded Carole into finding out where Rafferty had holed up.

“Why don’t you like him, Mom?” Jenny asked, leaning forward to see over the dash of Carole’s pickup. “I thought he was pretty nice.”

Carole sighed, remembering the way her normally reserved daughter had actually giggled—giggled, for heaven’s sake!—at Greg Rafferty’s teasing comments yesterday. He had charmed her daughter, but his obvious talents weren’t going to work on the mother. No way. All she had to do was keep reminding herself that he was a businessman whose only concern was his company. He didn’t even care that she had a very clear, very valid contract with Huntington Foods! Before he’d come to Ranger Springs, she’d been perfectly happy with her arrangement, which allowed her the financial freedom to work part-time baking desserts for the Four Square Café and giving cooking classes at upscale retail stores periodically in Austin and San Antonio. Most of all, she got to be a full-time mother to Jenny.

But she did owe her daughter an explanation of why Greg Rafferty wasn’t the greatest thing since sliced bread, just because he’d saved Puff from Big Jim’s big Labor Day chow-down.

“He’s in Texas to convince me to change my agreement with Huntington Foods, Jenny. Even after I told him I wasn’t interested in his proposal, he came back to the arena and bid on your steer. His motives seem pretty obvious to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Carole winced as the pickup hit a pothole in the gravel road. She steered to the other side of the drive and slowed down. “I mean he bought Puff because he thought it would get him in our good graces.”

“Mom, he spent three thousand dollars! Are you sure he’s just trying to get you to change your agreement? And what kind of things does he want you to do?”

“He wants me to do all kinds of things! Go on a publicity tour, make television appearances and get interviewed by everyone and their cousin. He wants my picture on the cookie packages, and worst of all, he wants people to write articles about us. He tried to make it sound very normal, like I should be glad to do this for him.” She snorted in a very unladylike way that she hoped Jenny didn’t emulate. “I’m not about to change my life just to help his company get out of some bad publicity.”

“That’s kind of stubborn of you,” Jenny observed with the wisdom of youth. “If I said something like that, you’d get after me for being bullheaded.”

Carole smiled. “You’re probably right, honey, but believe me, I don’t want to become a public figure. Once you do, there’s no end to the things people can say about you.”

“So did you explain all that to him?”

“Oh, I think he knows exactly how I feel.”

Carole pulled behind a luxury auto parked on the concrete pad in front of the garage. A discreet sticker on the bumper identified the rental car company. Greg Rafferty obviously went first-class, from his extravagant gestures of “goodwill” to his expensive new boots. And he was the kind of man who could pull off such shows of wealth, with his lean but muscular build and model good looks.

He probably spent a lot of time posturing in front of a full-length mirror, she speculated as she turned the key to kill the engine. He’d better not object to her parking their four-year-old, slightly battered pickup in the same driveway as his fancy rental car, because she wouldn’t mind giving him another piece of her mind.

“Mom, you’re getting that look on your face again.”

Carole nearly jumped at the sound of Jenny’s voice. She’d blocked out everything but the infuriating man who’d come to town just to torment her. For the second time in as many days, he’d made her forget her daughter. Another black mark against Greg Rafferty.

“Sorry, honey. I was just thinking about what I was going to say to Mr. Rafferty when I saw him.”

“You’re not going to yell at him again, are you?”

“I never yell.” She didn’t meet her daughter’s eyes, scanning the darkened windows of the house for signs of movement.

“Yes, you do, and you look really mad.” Jenny placed her hand on Carole’s arm, bringing her attention back to the interior of the pickup. “You should think about what he wants you to do. Maybe you could do just a little bit. He seemed like a nice man.”

“Jenny, just because he was nice to you doesn’t mean his intentions are good.”

“But you always tell me to keep an open mind when I meet new people. I’m just saying you should do the same thing.”

Carole reached for the door handle. “Okay, I’ll talk to him again. But I’m not promising to agree with him. I like our life just fine, thank-you-very-much.”

Jenny giggled at their familiar banter. From the beginning, they’d been closer than mother and daughter. Without a father around to distract them, they’d clung to each other through good times and bad. Carole had once worried that Jenny would suffer from not having a dad, but with the help of friends and relatives, they’d coped just fine. Jenny rarely talked about her biological father anymore, and for that, Carole was grateful. Her ex hadn’t wanted a child ten years ago; he didn’t deserve one now.

“I don’t see Puff,” Jenny said as Carole rang the door bell.

“He’s probably in the shade of those cottonwood trees by the stock tank, or maybe inside the barn.”

“I hope Mr. Rafferty knows how to take care of him. Puff isn’t used to being outside all day. His coat will just fry in this sun.”

Carole smiled, glad that her daughter was thinking about her former steer’s welfare rather than his imminent trip to the meat packer’s. “You can tell Mr. Rafferty what he needs to know. I doubt he knows anything about cattle other than what he learned yesterday at the arena.”

There was no answer to her summons, so she rang the bell again, folded her hands across her chest and tried not to concentrate on all of his faults, much less wishing him a miserable stay in Texas. Thinking such thoughts wasn’t exactly the charitable thing to do for a Sunday visit.

“Maybe he’s outside with Puff,” Jenny speculated.

“Okay. Let’s walk around back and see.”

The drone of the air-conditioning unit kept Carole from hearing anything that would give away Rafferty’s location. They walked toward the small barn that had been vacant a long time. The former owners hadn’t run any cattle or horses on their small ranch since their kids had outgrown 4-H.

“Puff!” Jenny called out, looking over the fence to the dark interior of the barn.

A dusky shadow moved, then slowly materialized into the large shape of Jenny’s steer—or her former steer, Carole corrected herself. She held her breath, wondering if Rafferty was also in the barn, until she realized what she was doing. She resisted the urge to call out to the man, to find out where he was lurking. With a disgusted sigh, she looked around the pasture, finding no trace of him.

“Do you want to stay and see Puff? I’m going back to the house to find Mr. Rafferty.”

“I’ll stay in the barn, Mom.” Jenny unlatched the gate and hurried toward the steer.

“Don’t wander off,” Carole warned as she walked toward the house.

The sun beat down on her back and shoulders, reminding her that she hadn’t worn a hat. And why was that? Because she wanted to look less like a cowgirl and more like a woman. A twenty-eight-year-old mother, a single head of her household, who had no business worrying about how she looked to visit a man who no doubt wanted her to dress up in an old-fashioned ruffled apron, display a plate of cookies and smile for the cameras.

But a little bit of doubt remained about her motives. Far back in her mind, she wondered if she’d dressed in soft, worn, body-hugging jeans and fitted, Western-cut shirt to make Greg Rafferty’s gaze roam over her the way he’d done yesterday at the arena. Could she possibly enjoy enticing his interest when she didn’t like him as a person? Surely she wasn’t that shallow.

She nearly stumbled over an exposed rock when she realized that she was exactly that superficial. With no conscious awareness, she was soliciting the interest of a man who was here to coax her into doing something she didn’t want to do, who would go to endless trouble and expense to impress her from a professional standpoint. Why, he was probably acting interested in her as another coercion tactic!

By the time she arrived back at the house, she was flushed from more than the heat. Something about Greg Rafferty rubbed her the wrong way. She’d never had this reaction to another man. In the past ten years, not once had she been even slightly tempted by the wrong kind of guy. Eleven years ago, as flighty as a green-broke filly…now that was a different story.

Carole pushed open the gate on the side of the house, grateful for the slight shade under the roof overhang. As soon as she turned the corner into the backyard, however, she was back in the sunlight again. She blinked, then squinted, then stared. Standing beside the pool, dressed in what could only be described as a scrap of black fabric stretched across an incredible male butt, stood the best-looking man her imagination could have dreamed up.

He must have heard her enter the yard because he turned, giving her a different view. His backside wasn’t the only part of his anatomy that scrap of a swimsuit struggled to cover. She sucked in a deep breath through her mouth, then started coughing.

Rafferty advanced on her until she put up a hand to stop him. If he got too close, she wasn’t real sure what she’d do. His lean, muscular body glistened with drops of water that slid from his wide shoulders to his smooth chest, then down his stomach, racing toward the low band of black fabric. She had the insane urge to taste those drops of water before they made their final destination.

After all, she was awfully thirsty.

She closed her eyes, thankful that she’d stopped coughing, hoping she could control these wild, out-of-character urges that had suddenly taken over her psyche. She wasn’t a loose woman. She wasn’t desperate. But she had been celibate for most of her adult life. Maybe there was something to those articles about hormones kicking in when a woman approached thirty.

“Are you all right?”

Without opening her eyes, she could tell he was close. Too close. Water-drop-licking close. “I’m fine,” she managed to whisper. Directing her gaze about six feet off the ground, she opened her eyes.

“I thought I was going to have to pound you on the back,” he said in an amused tone. “Or maybe give you the Heimlich maneuver.”

“I’ll take my chances on choking.”

Rafferty laughed. “You still don’t trust me.”

I don’t trust myself, she wanted to say, but kept silent. She found the idea of him locking his arms around her from behind, pressing that damp, hard body against her as his hands put pressure right below her breasts, way too tempting.

“You surprised me,” she said, trying to explain why she’d gone loco at the sight of him. “I rang the bell earlier, but no one answered.”

“I like to swim.”

Which meant he spent lots of time in such abbreviated attire. Or, if he had his own pool, maybe none at all. “Really?” Carole swallowed again, this time more successfully.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, his gaze taking in her shirt and jeans. She felt extremely overdressed, considering his state, but then reminded herself that she certainly didn’t need to be wearing any less around Greg Rafferty. He’s all wrong for you, she warned herself, even as she stopped her wayward eyes and thoughts from drifting southward.

“I’m glad you came to see me, but I am rather surprised. You weren’t thrilled that I bought your daughter’s steer.”

“My daughter? Yes, my daughter! She’s in the barn. That’s why we came to see you. Both of us. Because she wanted to make sure you knew how to take care of Puff.”

“Both of you,” he repeated, sounding disappointed. He ran a hand through his thick, wet hair.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’d better go check on her.” She tore her gaze away from his face and turned around, ready to hurry back to the barn. Ready to drive her pickup down that gravel road as if the devil himself was chasing her.

The devil in a black Speedo.

His hand stopped her, clamped around her upper arm gently but firmly. She felt the dampness through her suddenly thin cotton shirt and shivered. “Wait a minute. Let me get a towel and I’ll go with you.”

So much for making a hasty retreat. “You need more than a towel,” she said before thinking.

He let go of her arm, then shrugged when she looked at him. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Apparently not,” Carole murmured, cursing herself for giving him another once-over with her wickedly independent eyes. Why couldn’t her body obey her firm resolve not to pay the least amount of attention to this totally unsuitable man?

“Are you shocked by what I’m wearing, Ms. Carole?” Rafferty asked in a teasing tone.

“You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest and looking over the high fence toward the barn. Not that she could see anything.

She wasn’t about to tell him that she hadn’t seen anything exactly like he displayed. If the rest of him was as good as—Don’t go there, she warned herself. Stop thinking about him that way!

“I’ll bet you don’t have a lot of cowboys running around in competitive swimwear,” he said with a chuckle. “I assume the community is a little more conservative than that.”

“You’ve got that right,” Carole agreed, still not looking at him. “We tend to be a bit more modest.”

“So you think I’m an exhibitionist for swimming in my own pool?”

“I didn’t call you names.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said, his voice coming from very close beside her. She couldn’t resist looking.

“Is this better?” He held his arms out, revealing a partially buttoned cotton shirt and a yellow towel wrapped around his waist.

“Different,” she admitted with a smile. He didn’t look sophisticated and urban at the moment. Tousled and with the strange get-up, no one could consider him a threat to anyone’s peace of mind.

Of course, she still remembered what he looked like without the shirt and towel.

“I do have some questions that you and Jenny can answer,” he said as they started walked toward the gate, “about feeding Puff. What time, how much at a time, that sort of thing.”

He was right behind her, and Carole could swear that she felt his hot breath on her neck. Ridiculous. Her mind was playing tricks on her. The weather was warm, the pool made the breeze humid.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” he asked as he reached around her to open the gate.

“I’m not wearing any,” she managed to answer as she squeezed through the opening.

“Really? You smell like vanilla.”

“I baked this morning,” she admitted, walking quickly toward the barn.

“A batch of Ms. Carole’s cookies?” he asked in an amused tone.

She turned back and frowned at him. “No, coffee cake. There’s more to life than cookies, Mr. Rafferty.”

His gaze roamed over her jeans and shirt, pausing to look her in the eye. “I’m aware of that, Ms. Jacks.”

She set her lips in a thin line and turned back to where her daughter was waiting. Irritating man. She should have said, “There’s more to life than cookies and sex.”

CAROLE WAVED as Jenny scrambled into the back seat of the minivan with her friends Ashley and Meagan. The other two moms had offered to take the three girls to San Antonio for a day at their favorite amusement park, Schlitterbahn. Which was great for Jenny, because it took her mind off the auction and distracted her from the present location of Puff. Carole was pretty sure she’d want to go over there twice a day if possible.

Jenny had giggled yesterday at Greg Rafferty’s towel-wrapped ensemble, but Carole hadn’t laughed. Not when she remembered how he’d looked before he’d covered up. There was only so much potent male she could tolerate before retreating to the safety of her home. And staying there.

Except today he was invading her space, courtesy of the invitation she’d grudgingly extended. Jenny had insisted on open-mindedness, and Carole wouldn’t disappoint her daughter. That didn’t mean she would agree to whatever Rafferty was suggesting.

As soon as the minivan was out of sight, Carole sighed and walked into the house. The absolute silence reminded her that in another week, Jenny would be gone to camp and every day would sound like this. Quiet. Still. After growing up in a small house with two sisters, then having a baby of her own, she wasn’t accustomed to what some people called peaceful. She much preferred the sound of her daughter’s chatter, the ding-ding of electronic games, the singsong nature of children’s music.

Even Puff was gone, living at the rented house with a man from Chicago who didn’t know alfalfa pellets from sweet feed.

And said stranger was going to arrive here in less than an hour.

With a sigh, she switched on the radio and let the sound of soft rock—since she no longer listened to country music—fill the silent kitchen as she gazed outside. A side bay window overlooked the pasture, but there wasn’t much there to see today. The Texas sun had bleached the grass to a pale golden beige, and until the rains came again in September, the fields would remain lifeless.

“Why did I agree to meet with him?” Carole mumbled as she smelled the coffee still simmering in the bottom of the glass carafe. She wrinkled her nose at the foul odor, quickly pouring out the dark liquid. She wasn’t mean enough to serve that gunk to Rafferty, even if they were adversaries.

Of course, she thought with a smile, she might be able to convince him that “real cowboys” drank that kind of hot acid, but she wasn’t about to subject her stomach to such abuse. She’d make a fresh pot right before he arrived, but darned if she was going to bake any cookies to go along with the coffee. No way. This was strictly business.

GREG PULLED TO A STOP in the gravel driveway behind the nondescript white pickup truck that Carole had driven to his rental property yesterday. Perhaps today they could focus on the issue to Huntington Foods’ image problem—if they could ignore the sexual attraction that simmered right below the surface of her incredibly smooth, vanilla-scented skin.

He promised himself he’d try as he exited the air-conditioned interior of his rental car for the sauna heat of Texas in August. How did these people stand it? At least he had the pool to help him cool off. He enjoyed the luxury of swimming anytime he wanted, although he felt a bit guilty about not working harder on getting this situation straightened out. He hadn’t become C.E.O. of his family’s business by lying around a pool—much less daydreaming about Carole Jacks.

And he wouldn’t solve Huntington’s problem by lusting after their “cash cow,” which was a terrible misnomer, he thought with a frown as he rang the doorbell to her modest brick home. He could either deal with her on a professional level or appeal to her on a private one. He couldn’t do both.

She’d added some homey touches to her house, he noticed as he waited for her to answer the doorbell. A wreath of twisted vines and sunflowers adorned the dark-red front door. A window box of multicolored flowers around the side of the house added color to the brown-speckled brick and beige trim. Even in the flower beds beside the walkway, painted rocks and a few seashells made them special. He assumed Jenny had some hand in those decorations. Overall, the Jacks residence looked very nice and inviting.

“Hello,” she said a bit breathlessly as she opened the dark-red panel all the way, then flicked open the storm door. She smoothed her hair back from her cheek in an unconscious gesture, leaving a slight smudge of flour as she took a deep breath. Three of the buttons on her Western-style shirt threatened to pop.

Oh, man, was he in trouble. Personally, professionally, every which way he could manage.

His gaze jerked from her breasts to her face. “I hope I didn’t interrupt something,” Greg said, taking the open door as a summons to enter. He hadn’t worn his new Stetson today, but he imagined quite a few cowboys had come calling through this doorway, removing their hats as they waited for Carole Jacks to smile at them.

“No,” she said, taking a step back and wiping her hands on her jeans-covered thighs, “I was just doing something in the kitchen.”

He had a mental flash of hooking his hands around her thighs, lifting her to the kitchen counter and exploring every inch of her vanilla-scented body.

Not a good beginning to a business meeting, he told himself as she gestured toward the couch and chairs in the living room. Oh, yes. Those would work, too.

“Where’s Jenny?” he asked, looking around the country-style furnishings that featured little-girl touches and several framed ribbons. He needed a buffer, something to take his mind off Carole Jacks, the desirable woman.

“Gone with friends to San Antonio for the day.” She paused. “Thank you for listening to her advice yesterday and inviting her to visit Puff. She’s still experiencing some separation anxiety.”

“So’s the steer. Last night he bawled like a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” Carole said with amusement in her voice. “Jenny is apparently doing better than Puff.”

“Don’t worry about it. He was fine after I gave him an extra scoop of feed.” Greg grinned. “Of course, I could bring him back here anytime. I’d even contribute a substantial amount to his feed bill.”

Carole rolled her eyes and ignored his comment. “Take a seat. Would you like some coffee? I just made a pot.”

“Coffee would be great. Black is fine.”

She took a deep breath, which again threatened the buttons on her blue plaid shirt. “I’ll be right back.”

Greg wandered into the small living room and put his portfolio down on the couch. He saw evidence of Carole’s homey touch in the fresh-cut flowers on the pine table and the stenciling around the top of the wall.

Within moments she was back with a tray, mugs, and a coffeepot. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Rafferty.”

“Please, call me Greg,” he reminded her again.

They settled on opposite ends of the sofa, and she handed him a mug of coffee. “Would you like a cookie?”

He couldn’t hold back a grin at the irony. “Sure.” He took a bite and let the taste roll around on his tongue like a fine wine. “A new recipe?” he finally asked when he couldn’t identify the specific product.

She nodded.

“These definitely aren’t Prairie Pralines, or Chisolm Trail Chocolate Chip, or even Stampede Surprise.”

She raised her eyebrow at his recitation of her recipes, smiling slightly. “These don’t have a name yet, but what do you think?”

“I think Huntington would love to get the recipe,” he answered, reaching for another one. “I’m no expert on food, but I’m tasting pecans, vanilla and chocolate chunks. What’s that other ingredient?”

“A secret,” she said, sitting back against the couch. “I didn’t fix them to entice you with a new recipe.”

“Ms. Carole,” he said in his best imitation of a Western drawl, “darn near everything about you is enticing.”

She looked shocked, then she laughed. He hadn’t seen her so amused before, and the joy transformed her face from beautiful to radiant. Her eyes crinkled and her cheeks took on a darker shade of pink. He wanted to hold on to the warmth that flowed so freely from this woman, but knew that any move would halt her laughter quicker than anything.

“You have potential to be more than a catalog cowboy,” she said finally, wiping the corner of her eye.

“Thanks, I think. What’s a catalog cowboy?”

“Someone who orders all the appropriate gear from a catalog, but hasn’t sat a horse or roped a steer.”

“That wouldn’t be me,” Greg vowed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I have definitely ridden a horse before.”

“Cutting? Roping? Western pleasure?”

“Eastern-riding-stable nag,” he answered, hoping for another smile.

She didn’t disappoint him. “I should have known.”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t have anything against horses. We just didn’t have lots of them in our high-rise condo when I was growing up.” His family also owned a weekend house in the wooded countryside, but he didn’t mention that detail, since they didn’t have horses there, either.

“I don’t suppose so,” she admitted, reaching for a cookie. “I’ve heard the grazing on those small balconies is pretty scarce.”

Greg laughed at the mental image of taking Puff home with him to his Chicago apartment. “You could teach me to ride and rope,” he said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his crossed legs. “I’m a fairly athletic guy.”

“I—” She obviously started to say something, then stopped herself. Her blush gave away her thoughts, though. She was remembering finding him by the pool yesterday. Like the rest of the conservative community, Ms. Carole obviously wasn’t accustomed to seeing men in Speedos.

He wondered if she saw very many men without their Speedos. The thought wasn’t nearly as easy to swallow as her cookies.

“Never mind. I probably won’t be here that long,” he said, mentally shaking away the thoughts of her with another man. “If you’re ready, let me tell you a little about our company so you’ll understand how important repairing our image is to the whole family, even the whole company.”

“Okay,” she said, setting her mug on the tray. “What did you have in mind?”

Greg finished his coffee, then set his mug beside hers. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You know Huntington Foods is an old, reputable company. My great-grandfather founded the firm in the 1920s, but really it grew in size by providing staple elements of the post-World-War-II American diet.”

“As American as apple pie and cheese crackers.”

“Exactly. And until my hotheaded older brother, Brad, the former C.E.O., decided to call a nutritional expert from C.A.S.H.E.W. a ‘food nut’ and appear to come at her across the table on national television, everything was going well.”

“What happened to him? I couldn’t believe the tape I saw on TV. It looked as though he snapped.”

Greg shrugged. “The family is still debating that point, with my mother winning most of the arguments by blaming my father’s Scottish ancestors. But at least he resigned quickly. Unfortunately, we still have a mess to clean up.”

“Yes, but it’s like a funny poster someone gave my sister, ‘Poor planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on mine.”’

“That’s a cute saying, and it might work fine if your job is stocking shelves at the grocery, or working as a clerk in the driver’s license bureau, but that’s not the same kind of situation you’re in. I’m not sure how much of your income Huntington provides, but I do know how much we’re paying you. That could take a big chunk out of your budget. If we can’t get our image improved, sales of all our products, including your cookies, may suffer.”

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