The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl. Nancy Martin

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      Two

      It was all Carly could do to keep from ogling Hank Fowler as he led her up the plank steps of his modest farmhouse. He had the nicest butt she’d ever seen encased in dusty blue jeans. And those leather chaps seemed to—well, she wanted to rip open one of her suitcases, get out her camera and start the test shots immediately.

      “After you, ma’am,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping back a pace.

      “Thanks.” Carly preceded him into the small house and hoped he hadn’t guessed where her thoughts had lingered. She glanced around to get her bearings in the house.

      The main room was humble, with heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling, but it was cozily decorated with calico curtains at the windows, rough-hewn furniture scattered around a stone fireplace and a hand-carved checkers game set out on a low coffee table that was also strewn with magazines, enamel coffee cups and a well-used sewing basket.

      Very homey, Carly thought. Very country. Frankly, she hated the look, going in for the uncluttered modern mode of decorating herself. But it was definitely... homey.

      From the connecting room wafted the rich aroma of hot food slowly steaming on the stove. A multicolor braided rug lay on the floor, and a large woolly dog snoozed contentedly by the fire.

      Upon their arrival, however, the dog got up and growled. He was the size of a small pony, with a ragged gray coat snarled with shaggy tufts that gave him the appearance of a huge porcupine that had been tumbled in a clothes dryer.

      “Don’t mind Charlie,” said Hank, behind her. “He’s too old to do any real damage.”

      “He looks like a wolf,” Carly said, stopping in the middle of the room as the dog approached. Normally she liked dogs—the kind small enough to be carried in a woman’s handbag at least. But this one looked as though he could swallow her arm for an appetizer.

      “Half wolf,” Hank explained. “He’s my sister’s idea of a pet.”

      The beast came closer and smffed Carly suspiciously, still making a gurgling growl in the back of his throat. But his tail started to wag gently, so she risked patting his broad head. “Nice boy. Nice Charlie.”

      As Hank went past, Carly could have sworn the dog started to growl again, but Hank didn’t seem to take notice. He said, “Don’t worry. Charlie only bites if he’s hungry.”

      “Are you trying to scare me into leaving, Mr. Fowler?”

      He turned and grinned. It was a devastating smile, complete with crinkled eyes that glinted appealingly. “Would it work if I tried?”

      “Not likely. I’d like to stay and give your sister ten thousand dollars.”

      “In exchange for my picture, you mean.”

      “I think it’s a fair deal.”

      Hank unslung the suitcase he’d been carrying and braced one shoulder casually against a timbered beam. Leaning there, he looked almost too big for the room—like a man who belonged in the wide-open spaces instead of a little house cluttered with countrified knickknacks. Carly might have felt small and insignificant—if she hadn’t seen the gleam of mutual attraction in his blue gaze.

      He said, “There must be guys who are really worth that much money. But me—I’m just ordinary.”

      “Ordinary can be nice.”

      “I hate looking silly.”

      “The photo doesn’t have to be silly.”

      The amusement in his gaze sparkled. “I’ve seen the particular kind of calendars you make, ma’am. And they look mighty silly to me.”

      “They make money. A lot of money.”

      “Money’s not the most important thing in the world.”

      “It seems pretty important to your sister,” Carly reminded him. “Are you going to disappoint her because you’re afraid to let yourself look foolish?”

      “But—” he shook his head as if confounded “—why me, Miss Cortazzo?”

      “Why not you?”

      “There’s nothing special about me!”

      “You’re wrong.”

      Carly almost told him the truth then. About her daydreams and nighttime fantasies ever since laying eyes on his photograph. There was something special about Hank Fowler—something that spoke to the deepest part of Carly’s soul. Maybe not every woman would see him the same way, but she knew she had the right man to use to create an object of desire. A lot of women were going to pay money to admire Hank Fowler. He was good-looking. He had a strong, lean, tensile kind of body that could seduce a camera.

      Better yet, there was something in his gaze that few men possessed. It was magnetism and intelligence and humor and—oh, hell, Carly wasn’t sure exactly what else. She only knew that looking into his eyes made her feel sexy.

      “You’re the right guy for this contest,” she said finally. “You have the look that our marketing department wants most.”

      “Marketing department?” he said doubtfully. “You actually pay people to decide what kind of pictures go on those calendars of yours?”

      Carly hesitated to reveal that the marketing department was made up of herself and Bert—just like nearly every other department at Twilight Calendars. But it sounded good.