The Expectant Secretary. Leanna Wilson

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      Griffin scowled. “Have you seen the way she looks at the cowboys out there?”

      He nodded. “When I get back from my one-day trip to check out this property, I’ll invite her to San Antonio for dinner or sight-seeing or something.”

      “You can’t let her out of your sight,” Griffin warned.

      “I don’t plan on it.”

      Setting his coffee cup on the tray, Griffin stood. “Think I’ll take in a few sights myself before I head back to the ranch.”

      “Going souvenir shopping?” Brody asked, knowing his brother had other things in mind.

      “More like checking out the cop shop. To see if I can find out any more about this Lockhart fellow.”

      Brody walked his brother to the door. With his hand on the knob, he said, “Watch your back. Lockhart’s dangerous.”

      “I’d say murdering Uncle Ryan’s second wife Sophia put him in that category.”

      “Now he’s desperate.”

      “I’ll be careful.” Griffin turned. “If you want, I could have someone do a search in the computer for that woman you were looking for.”

      “It’s not necessary.”

      Griffin’s brow creased. “You already found her?”

      “I did.” And damn if he knew what to do about Jillian now.

      “Hi, honey!” Betsy Keene pulled the door shut behind her as she raced into her trailer home, juggling two sacks of groceries. Breathless, she gave Clint her best smile, hoping he’d be in a good mood, wishing he’d greet her with a kiss.

      “You’re late.” He swigged a gulp from his bottle of beer. From the collection of empty bottles on the table, she knew he’d started drinking earlier than usual. His bare feet were propped on the kitchen table, and he wore only a pair of faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips. “Where you been?”

      Betsy flushed as she found herself staring at his lean, muscular chest. Clint’s virility made her as jittery as a young schoolgirl. She squashed her disappointment at his sharp greeting and knew she shouldn’t have taken the time to redo her hair and makeup in the car.

      Hiding her disappointment, she set the sacks on the cracked Formica-topped counter. “The girl taking over my station at the diner was late. Then I needed gas for the car. Stopped off at the grocery store and I had to wait for Annelle Grayson to write her check. She’s as old as the hills and it takes her an eternity to sign her name. She has arthritis something awful—”

      He slammed his bottle on the table. His blue eyes flashed like heat lightning. “Goddammit!”

      She froze. “I’m sorry, honey. Here I am babbling on and you’re probably starving. It won’t take me but a few minutes to get dinner ready. How does fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy sound?”

      “I don’t care about dinner.” He shoved his fingers through his auburn hair, which almost reached his shoulders. He was hard and dangerous. He made her feel wild and careless.

      “And I didn’t even ask how you were feeling.” She pulled a package of chicken out of the grocery sack along with potatoes and enough Granny Smith apples to make a pie. “Is your leg paining you?”

      “Hell, yes.”

      She winced at his gruff tone but maintained a pleasant expression. “I’ll fix you a bath after dinner so you can soak.”

      Her gaze snagged on the wad of cash sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. Her heart jackhammered in her chest, just as it had when she’d snuck onto the Double Crown Ranch and into Clint’s cabin almost a month ago. He’d asked her to locate his stash of cash as well as an ID from beneath the floorboard of his old cabin. Now, when he drank too much, he pulled it out of his new hiding place. It gave her a panicky feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t bear it if he left her. “Are you going somewhere?”

      “Eventually.” He grabbed the cash and, lifting his hip off the chair, stuffed the wad into his pocket. His mouth quirked upward on one side and sent her stomach to fluttering. “But not without you, sugar. I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

      Again she flushed from head to toe, this time with pure, undiluted pleasure. While she readied the chicken for frying, she imagined a life with Clint, traveling from place to place, making love early in the morning, cuddling in front of a crackling fire on a cold wintry night.

      “I got you the San Antonio newspaper you asked for. It’s there in one of those sacks.” She rolled a chicken leg in flour mixed with seasoning salt.

      “Can’t you get it for me?” He tipped the bottle against his mouth for a long pull. “I’m laid up here.”

      “Of course, honey, I’m sorry.” She rinsed her hands and dried them on her apron. “Here you go.”

      He took the folded paper from her. His tanned, calloused fingers brushed hers, and her spine tingled with anticipation. Longing welled up inside her, but he dismissed her with a wink. As she turned back to her raw chicken, he pinched her on the backside. She jumped with surprise and giggled with delight. Maybe tonight he’d be feeling good enough to get frisky.

      While she washed and cut the potatoes and set them on the stove to boil, he read the paper, rustling the pages every few seconds.

      “Well, now, this is interesting,” he muttered.

      “What’s that?” Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled. The heat from the stove made perspiration dot her forehead. With the back of her wrist, she brushed back a lock of hair. “What did you find?”

      “The high-and-mighty Fortunes are about to have a wedding.” He rubbed the top of the beer bottle along his jaw, scraping the stubble that had been growing for the last few days. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

      “Who’s getting married?” She moved toward him, wiping her hands on her apron.

      “Must be one of them Aussie cousins. And some interior designer.”

      “I just love weddings!” It had been years since she’d been to one. She didn’t know many folks. But that didn’t matter. Maybe one day soon she’d walk down the aisle herself. Slanting her gaze at Clint, she wondered if maybe he’d be the one waiting for her, waiting to make her his bride.

      “This might be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.” He slapped the paper onto the table. “We just might have to congratulate the bride and groom on their good fortune.” He gave a wild, dangerous laugh that sent a chill of excitement and dread down Betsy’s spine.

      “Feeling any better?” Amy Fairaday asked, her voice as soft as summer rain.

      Jillian leaned back in the recliner and popped another lemon drop into her mouth. She closed her eyes but sensed her sister’s careful inspection. “I feel okay if I lie completely still.”

      “Why don’t you take a couple of days off and relax? It might help.”

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