The Cowboy And The Ceo. Christine Wenger

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СКАЧАТЬ around and found herself forehead-to-nose, toe-to-toe with Clint Scully. He grabbed her elbows to steady her.

      His eyes studied her face, and then his gaze traveled down to her breasts. She probably should have been offended, but in truth she was flattered. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her that way. He seemed to see right through her, reaching down to a part of her that hadn’t been touched in years. The same heat that had licked at her insides before flared again.

      He cocked an eyebrow as if he was wondering what she’d do next.

      She held her breath, wondering what he’d do.

      It’d been a long time since she’d been with a man, and being so close to Clint reminded her of that fact.

      She’d given up on men a while ago. They just couldn’t understand that her company came before they did.

      Yet Clint was very, very tempting, and very different. If his scorching gaze was any indication, he was as attracted to her as she was to him.

      He gave his hat a tug. “I’ll go get your luggage. Why don’t you relax?”

      “Thanks, Clint.” She offered her hand, to shake his. “For everything.”

      He raised her hand an inch from his lips. “My pleasure, Susan.”

      Surely, he wouldn’t…No one did that anymore.

      Clint did. A whisper of warm air and soft lips brushed the back of her hand, and she melted like polyester under a too-hot iron.

      Clint Scully was one interesting man.

      Trying to gather her thoughts, she listened to the dull sound of his boots fade as he walked down the stairs of the porch. Then she explored the cabin.

      The walls were tongue-and-groove knotty pine, varnished to a shine. Lace curtains on the window gave it a homey touch. Brightly striped Hudson’s Bay blankets slashed bits of color around the cottage. It was open and airy with high ceilings and chunky log furniture with bright cushions in a Native American arrow design.

      A huge stone fireplace took up most of one wall, and a pile of wood was stacked on a circular stand nearby. She looked for the switch that would make the fireplace spring to life.

      “It’s the real thing,” Clint said, appearing next to her with her luggage. “I’ll show you how to start a fire if you’d like.”

      “I think I can figure it out.”

      She thought how nice it would be to sit before a real fire at night and read a book. She hadn’t had time to read a book in ages. That was something else she’d been missing.

      “I’ll leave these here, then I’ll see about getting your dinner,” Clint said.

      She walked him to the door and felt all warm and fuzzy when he tweaked his hat and disappeared into the dark night.

      Susan Collins, CEO, hadn’t felt warm and fuzzy since mohair was in fashion.

      

      Clint grabbed a frosty cold bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge in his travel trailer and set it on the countertop. In three steps, he was inside his bathroom checking his appearance in the mirror above the sink.

      Clint bought the thirty-foot trailer from Ronnie Boggs, a down-on-his-luck cowboy who was quitting bull riding. He remembered pulling out his wallet and handing Ronnie more than double his asking price. Ronnie refused to take all that, but Clint wouldn’t take no for an answer and stuffed the money into the tough cowboy’s pocket.

      Clint towed it from event to event wherever he was working. He liked the privacy and the quiet, and the fact that he could cook his own meals and relax in his own surroundings. Besides, if he stayed in a hotel, the riders would give him the business.

      Whenever he was at the Gold Buckle Ranch, which was every summer and whenever else his pal Jake Dixon needed him, he parked it in his usual spot, deep in the woods behind the cabins. His favorite thing to do was to crank out the awning, sit in a lawn chair under it and listen to the brook as it sluiced over the rocks.

      As Clint walked over to the boxes filled with jeans, shirts and work gear from his sponsors, he reminded himself to fire up his laptop and transfer funds. He’d heard on the stock contractors’ grapevine that a couple of rank bulls might be going on auction with a starting bid of seventy-five thousand each. He’d been waiting and watching for those bulls and would pay any amount for them. They’d make a good addition to his stock.

      He grabbed a new shirt from one of the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. Pulling it out of the plastic wrap, he slid off the little white clips and shook out the shirt. Slipping it on, he could still see the fold marks. He puffed out his chest, and the creases faded. Well, he couldn’t do that all night. He’d just have to hope for dim lighting.

      He swung by the mess hall and collected a picnic basket loaded with food for Susan’s dinner, and soon he was heading back to the Homesteader Cabin to see her again.

      Ahh, Susan. She was so tense, so coiled up, she appeared to be about to spring. There was a sadness about her—he could see it in her deep purple eyes. Maybe he could distract her for a while.

      He had a feeling that Susan Collins would dig her own subway back to New York when she looked out the window tomorrow morning and saw a couple hundred kids engaged in various activities. She didn’t seem the kid type, but then again, he’d just met her. And he wanted to get to know her better.

      Clint walked down the dimly lit path from the campgrounds that led to the cabins, a wine bottle gripped in one hand, the picnic basket that Cookie had given him for Susan swaying in the other.

      He took the steps of the Homesteader Cabin two at a time and gave a light knock on the door.

      “Who is it?” Her voice was slurred, sleepy.

      “It’s Clint. I brought your dinner.”

      “Just a minute.”

      She opened the door and Clint immediately liked what he saw. She’d changed into a dark pink golf shirt. On the pocket was bright embroidery in primary colors—her company logo, a halo of stars surrounding “Winners Wear.” Printed underneath that, in bright orange, was her motto—For Those Who Try Their Best. Khaki pants clung to a great pair of hips. On her feet were fuzzy pink socks. Her auburn hair was in a ponytail high on her head, and a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses were barely hanging on to the tip of her nose.

      She held up the latest issue of Pro Bull Rider Magazine. “It was on the coffee table. Interesting sport, bull riding.”

      He set the picnic basket and wine down on the kitchen table. “You’ll have to see it in person sometime.”

      She shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”

      “I guarantee you’ll love it.”

      “Care to wager that bottle of Chardonnay against that?”

      He opened the picnic basket and pulled out several items wrapped in waxed paper. “You know, we’ve had a few bull riding events at Madison Square Garden.”

      “No СКАЧАТЬ