Taming the Brooding Cattleman. Marion Lennox

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      ‘Alex Patterson, son of Cedric Patterson, Cedric, the guy who went to school with my grandfather.’

      She put a silence of her own in here.

      Son of …

      Okay, she saw the problem.

       She’d trusted her father.

      She thought of her mother’s words. ‘Alex, your father is ill. You need to double-check everything….’

      ‘Dad’s okay. You’re dramatising. There’s nothing wrong with him.’ She’d yelled it back at her mother, but even as she’d yelled it, she knew she was denying what was real. Alzheimer’s was a vast, black hole, sucking her dad right in.

      She hadn’t wanted to believe it. She still didn’t.

       She’d trusted her father.

      And anyway, what was the big deal? Man, woman, whatever. She was here as a vet. ‘You thought I was male?’ she managed, and watched the face before her grow even darker.

      ‘I was told you were a guy. His son.’

      ‘That’s my dad for you,’ she said, striving for lightness. ‘A son is what he hoped for, but you’d think after twenty-five years he could figure the difference.’ Deep breath. ‘Do you think you could, I don’t know, invite me in or something? I hate to mention it when the fact that I’m female seems to be such an issue, but an even bigger deal is that it’s raining, I’m not wearing waterproofs and it’s wet.’

      ‘You can’t stay here.’

      This was bad, she thought, and it was getting worse.

      But her dad’s fault or not, this was a situation she had to face, and she might as well face it now.

      ‘Well, maybe you should have told me that before I left New York,’ she snapped, and she hauled herself out of the car. She was already wet. She might as well be soaked, and her temper, volatile at the best of times, was heading for the stratosphere. ‘Maybe now I don’t have a choice.’

      Deep breath, she thought. Say it like it is.

      ‘I,’ she said, in tones that matched his for iciness and more, ‘am at the end of a very long rope that stretches all the way back to New York. It’s taken me three days to get here, give or take a day that seems to have disappeared in the process. I applied for a job here in good faith. I sent every piece of documentation you demanded. I accepted a work visa for six months on the strength of a job with a horse stud that looks—’ she glanced witheringly at the house ‘—to be non-existent. And now you have the nerve to tell me you don’t want me. I don’t want you either, but I seem to be stuck with you, with this dump, with this place, at least until the rain stops and I’ve eaten and I’ve slept for twenty-four hours. Then, believe me, you won’t see me for dust. Or mud. Now let me inside the house, show me where I can eat and sleep, and get out of my life.’

      She’d meant to stay icy. She’d meant to stay dignified. So much for intentions.

      Her last words were almost hysterical—a yell into the silence. No matter. Who cared what he thought? She flicked the trunk lever and stalked round to fetch her suitcase. Her foot hit a rain-filled pothole, she tripped and lurched—and the arrogant toerag caught her and held her.

      It was like being held in a vice. His hands held her with no room for argument. She was steadied, held still, propelled out of the puddle and set back.

      His hands held her arms a moment longer, making sure she was stable.

      She looked up, straight into his face.

      She saw power, strength and anger. But more.

      She saw pure, raw beauty.

      It was as much as she could do not to gasp.

      Lean, harsh, aquiline. Heathcliff, she thought, and Mr Darcy, and every smouldering cattleman she’d ever lusted after in the movies, all rolled into one. The strength of him. The sheer, raw sexiness.

      He released her and she thought maybe she should lean against the car for a bit.

      It was just as well this place was a total disaster; this job was a total disaster. Staying anywhere near this guy would do her head in.

      Her head was already done in. She was close to swaying.

      Focus on your anger, she told herself. And practicalities. Get your gear out of the car. He’s going to think you’re a real New York princess if you expect him to do it for you.

      But he was already doing it, grabbing her cute, pink suitcase (gift from her mother), glancing at it with loathing, slamming the trunk closed and turning to march toward the house.

      ‘Park the car when it stops raining,’ he snapped over his shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine where it is for the night.’

      She was supposed to follow him? Into the Addams Family nightmare?

      A flash of lightning lit the sky and she thought it needed only that.

      Thunder boomed after it.

      Jack had reached the rickety steps and was striding up to the veranda without looking back.

      He had her suitcase.

      She whimpered. There was no help for it, she whimpered.

      Her family thought she was a helpless baby. If they could see her now, they’d be proven right. That’s exactly how she felt. She wanted, more than anything, to be back in Manhattan, lying in her gorgeous peach bedroom, with Maria about to bring her hot chocolate.

      Where was her maid when she needed her most? Half a world away.

      More lightning. Oh, my …

      Jack was disappearing round the side of the veranda. Her suitcase was disappearing with him.

      She had no choice. She took a deep breath and scuttled after him.

      He showed her to the bedroom and left her to it. Headed to his makeshift study and hauled open his computer. Grabbed the original letter.

      Could he sack a worker just because she was female?

      Surely he could if she’d taken the job under false pretences, he thought, reading the first letter he’d received.

       My son, Alexander, is looking for experience on an Australian horse stud. Alex is a qualified veterinarian and is also willing to take on general farm work. The level of pay would not be a problem; what Alex mostly wants is experience.

       My son.

      He flicked through the emails, printing them out. After Cedric’s first letter he’d corresponded directly with Alex. Her. There was no mention of what sex she was in her emails, he conceded. They’d been polite, businesslike, and they hadn’t referred to her sex at all.

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