The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl. Nancy Martin

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СКАЧАТЬ We want a cowboy who can handle a horse, ride the range, shoot a gun—”

      “Oh,” he said with a grin. “For a while there, I was afraid I was going to have to take my clothes off.”

      “That wouldn’t hurt, either.”

      He blinked, startled. “Do you have any idea how cold it gets out in this godforsak—I mean, out here in God’s country? A guy would have to be nuts to take off his shirt and go riding around—”

      “Our calendars are fantasies, Mr. Fowler. They’re not supposed to portray real life.”

      “Fantasies,” Hank repeated.

      He had a few fantasies starting in his own head at that moment.

      Carly Cortazzo was the sort of woman he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding—smart, opinionated, ambitious and assertive. Probably temperamental, too. Mostly, Hank preferred to keep the company of beautiful but soft-willed women who let him dominate the relationship. It was immature of him, he knew, but it was easier to be the boss, he’d decided long ago. With the right partner, he got to do the things he enjoyed most and have the added benefit of a beautiful companion, too.

      But Carly was a challenge. He guessed that starting a relationship with her would be like setting off a boxful of fireworks in a closed room. Just watching her tight, erect posture as she confronted him made Hank think of hot, passionate arguments. She was unpredictable and could probably do a lot of damage, if she chose.

      He found himself fantasizing how explosive she might be in bed, too.

      “Mr. Fowler?”

      Hank yanked his attention back to the present and gave her a grin. “Sorry. What did you say?”

      She controlled her patience with an obvious effort. “I asked if you have any objections to taking off your clothes for the calendar.”

      Hank nearly choked. “Hell, I haven’t agreed to do it with my clothes on, let alone—”

      “But your sister needs the money.”

      True, Hank thought, suppressing a groan.

      For some insane reason he would never fathom, Becky had tied her heart and soul to the Fowler cattle ranch, and she needed a miracle to save the place from bankrupcy. A few years of low beef prices, hard winters and the high cost of feed had driven Becky to desperation. Of course Hank had pitched in his savings to help his sister, but eventually his own finances had run painfully dry. They needed a miracle, all right.

      Unfortunately, Hank hadn’t foreseen the miracle requiring him climbing into cowboy duds just to have them stripped off for a camera-toting beauty with a kissable red mouth and blue, bedroom eyes.

      “Look, Miss Cortazzo,” he began firmly, “I guess I have to go through with having my picture taken because my sister gave you her word, but wild horses won’t get me out of my jeans.”

      She pounced. “How about your shirt?”

      “No.”

      “But—”

      “Absolutely not.” Thoughts of his fellow journalists catching a glimpse of his photographed face had been hard enough to imagine. But if his colleagues got hold of anything more risqué, Hank knew he would be getting blackmail notes for the rest of his life. “No way, Miss Cortazzo.”

      She tried a more subtle approach. “I was thinking we could try some shots of you chopping wood. You might actually do that without a shirt, right?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “How about—”

      “There’s no way I’m taking off anything.”

      He was saved from further arguments as they were interrupted at that moment by rushed footsteps on the porch. A moment later Becky burst into the house, breathless and flushed.

      “Hen—I mean, Hank! Doc Vickery just stopped by. He says there’s a buyer coming from out East who wants to look at our stock!”

      “Great,” said Hank, although he had no idea what in the world his sister was talking about.

      Becky must have understood his meaningful glare, because she glanced toward Carly Cortazzo and explained—as if for the benefit of a newcomer, “That means we’ve got to have a roundup. You know, to gather up all the cattle and pen them here at the ranch for inspection.”

      “How exciting.”

      How awful, Hank almost said aloud. “What about Fred? Didn’t you just give him a few days of vacation?”

      “Who’s Fred?” Carly asked.

      “My—our hired hand,” Becky replied, already headed for the telephone. “He helps around the ranch. I better call him right away. I can’t round up all the cattle by myself.”

      “What about Hank?” Carly asked innocently. “Can’t he help?”

      Becky stumbled just as she reached the telephone, but Hank was glad to see she managed not to howl with laughter at the idea of her brother actually performing cowboy work. “Hank? Oh...sure. He’ll help. Won’t you, Hank?”

      “Of course,” Hank said, hoping he hadn’t turned white at the thought of galloping all over the ranch in search of runaway cows.

      “This will be great,” Carly said with a big smile. “A real roundup! Maybe I’ll get some good action shots—preliminary ideas to give to our photographer when she gets here.”

      Hank swallowed hard. “Uh, Becky, how about if I show Miss Cortazzo to the guest room, then you and I can talk this over?”

      “Good idea,” Becky said. “I’ll call Fred while you take her upstairs.”

      Hank picked up Carly’s luggage again. “This way, Miss Cortazzo.”

      He led the way up the narrow steps to the cramped second floor of the house. There was no hallway at the top—just a landing with four doors leading into the three small bedrooms and the bath. Hank shouldered open the door to the smallest of the three bedrooms.

      And he promptly whacked his head on the low-hanging dormer. He staggered in pain, and smothered a curse.

      “Are you all right?” Carly asked, right behind him.

      “Yeah, sure.”

      Manfully pulling himself together, Hank tossed her luggage onto the single bed that was tucked under the eaves. He hoped she hadn’t guessed that he hit his head because he’d forgotten the layout of the house he’d grown up hating.

      Carly strolled to the bed and glanced around the small bedroom that Becky had carefully aired out and decorated with a watering can full of wildflowers. “How... quaint.”

      “Well, it’s home,” Hank said, for lack of anything more imaginative. His head was still spinning from the crack he’d taken on the dormer. Or maybe it was the heady perfume Carly wore that made him slightly СКАЧАТЬ