Читать книгу The Cowboy And The Calendar Girl - Nancy Martin - Страница 8

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.

She went on. “Our marketing department has been very successful in the past. We manufacture one of the bestselling products in the country. We know what we want. And we want you, Mr. Fowler. 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 dizzy. The scent was intoxicating. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“The window props open if you like fresh air at night.”

“What an novel idea.”

“No fresh air where you live?”

“In Los Angeles? We have smog, not air.”

“I see. Well, the bathroom’s the door opposite.”

“Thanks.” She turned away from the window and stood facing Hank just eighteen inches away in the small room. “I’d like to fix my makeup before dinner.”

For a moment Hank forgot about risking his life in a roundup. Carly had the pale, peaches-and-cream skin of a pampered English lady—unusual for a California native. That creamy skin stretched down an elegantly long throat and plunged to the softly rounded curves of her breasts. Hank thought about tracing the line of her throat with his thumb just to test the delicacy of her skin, but banished the idea in favor of an indirect compliment instead. “You won’t need makeup out here, Miss Cortazzo.”

She heard the double meaning laced in his murmur and slanted a wry smile up at him. “I need makeup no matter where I am, Mr. Fowler. It’s my link to civilization.”

He laughed. He liked her, and decided it was safer not to discuss civilization. “Supper’s ready when you are.”

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Hank lingered another moment, inhaling her fragrance, enjoying the light in her eyes and wondering what made her so damn tempting. She was good-looking and clever—a combination he enjoyed very much.

He hoped to hell she wasn’t so clever that she’d see through his masquerade too quickly.

Remembering to keep up appearances, Hank tipped his hat and drawled, “Welcome to the Fowler ranch, ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Then he left the bedroom and thumped down the steps. Charlie growled at him. Hank growled back, then hurried to the kitchen. He cornered his sister there. Becky was just hanging up the phone as he arrived.

In a hushed whisper he demanded, “What the hell have you gotten me into, Becky?”

“I’m sorry!” Becky hissed back, trying to keep her voice down so they wouldn’t be heard from upstairs. “How was I supposed to know a buyer was coming this week?”

“When’s he coming?”

“Day after tomorrow. We only have one day to round up all the cattle.”

“Did you get in touch with Fred?”

“He already left for his vacation in Disney World!”

“Then who—” Hank saw the expression on his sister’s face and felt the cold claw of dread grab his heart. “I can barely sit on a horse, let alone get it to do anything but run away with me! You’ve got to find somebody else to help, Beck.”

Becky folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against a shelf full of preserved peaches. “It’s going to look awfully suspicious to the calendar lady if you don’t saddle up and work the ranch, cowboy.”

“Then we need to come up with a plan—a logical reason why I’m not trying to get myself killed in a stampede.”

“You’re not as bad at ranch work as you think you are,” Becky soothed. “Heavens, you were riding before you were three years old!”

“And getting thrown off every pony within five hundred miles. I hate horses, Becky, and they know I hate them. Now it’s a conspiracy thing with the whole species.”

“We can’t tell the calendar lady who you really are. She specifically wants a cowboy, and we don’t get the money unless you come through.”

“Maybe I could break my leg or something. That would keep me out of harm’s way.”

Becky shook her head and frowned. “Too wimpy.”

“Wimpy! A real cowhand would work with broken bones, is that it?”

“Probably. Think of something else.”

He groaned. “Like what?”

Becky snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. I’ll send you to look for strays! All you have to do is leave the ranch and stay gone for the whole day.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere! You can ride over the nearest hill, take a paperback book out of your saddlebag and read while the rest of us break our backs!”

“What happens if the horse runs away with me again?” Hank grinned as Becky blew an exasperated sigh. “Okay, okay, I can manage to stay in the saddle for a few hundred yards, I guess.”

“Good. The alternative would be to distract the calendar lady.”

“Distract her?”

Dryly, Becky added, “Of course, that wouldn’t be too hard, by the looks of things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The two of you can’t take your eyes off each other.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Hank prided himself on his ability to resist women when the situation merited.

Becky looked delighted at having annoyed him. “Your tongues are practically hanging out.”

“Not true!” Hank flushed, hating the idea that he’d been so obvious.

Becky breezed out of the pantry and started to work on supper. “And she thinks you’re the sexiest thing since colored underwear.”

Hank followed his sister into the kitchen and couldn’t help asking, “You think so?”

Becky took a container of premixed biscuits out of the refrigerator, cracked it open and proceeded to line the biscuits up on a cookie sheet. “Believe me, big brother, you could distract Miss Cortazzo with one hand tied behind your back.”

Hank considered the situation. Yep, there was something exciting happening between himself and Carly Cortazzo. He found her very attractive. And according to Becky, the feeling might be mutual.

Trouble was, as far as Carly was concerned, Hank was supposed to be a tough cowboy.

Hank, however, preferred to live within walking distance of a subway system, fine restaurants, a good newsstand and at least one modern art museum. But every week he got out of the city to climb. Rock climbing was his passion. Fresh air, rock and ice. Those elements kept him sane. He wasn’t a trail-mix kind of guy, of course. No, he could appreciate fine dining. But now and then he needed to test himself. Hacking out a foothold in any icy cliff made him feel alive.

Hank shook his head. “If I get close to her, she’s going to see I’m no cowpoke.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s smart, dammit! Any fool can see I’m not Roy Rogers!”

Becky slid the tray of biscuits into the oven and bumped the door closed with her hip. “Did you get a look at her clothes?”

“Well, sure. They looked great.”

“That’s just it. She’s dressed to look good. Even you knew enough to bring your oldest, warmest clothes out here. She’s a complete dude!”

“Surely she’ll see through me.”

“Maybe you’ll have time to cloud her vision before she sees too much.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Becky said, lifting the lid on the stew pot and giving the contents a quick stir, “you ought to take her out to the hay barn and see what develops.”

“My allergy to hay?”

Becky laughed and replaced the lid on the pot. “You’re determined to despise this place, aren’t you?”

Putting his arm around Becky, Hank said fondly, “I just know I don’t belong here, Beck.” Looking down into his sister’s tight expression, he felt his heart soften. “But you do, so let’s do everything we can to keep the old family homestead.”

Becky gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Henry.”

“Call me Hank. I’m starting to like it.”

Becky laughed and punched his shoulder.

Dinner was ready by the time Carly came downstairs with her makeup freshly applied and a red bandanna around her throat just to get into the spirit of things.

“Dinner smells delicious.”

“It’s beef stew,” Becky said proudly, busy at the stove with plates and a ladle. “I grew the vegetables myself.”

“Not to mention the beef,” Hank added. “And the herbs are better than ever this year.”

“Herbs?” Carly asked.

Becky said, “Hank planned the herb garden himself, and his suggestions for seasonings are—well—uh—”

Hank opened the refrigerator. “Beer, anyone?”

“Why not?” Carly asked, wondering why Becky had faltered. She accepted a steaming plate of biscuits and stew from her as Hank got out the beer. There was enough food on Carly’s plate to feed an entire family in L.A.

Becky prepared another plate for her brother. “I’ve got some phone calls to make if I’m going to round up enough men to help tomorrow. You two mind eating without me?”

“Not at all,” Carly said, secretly pleased to have Hank all to herself for a while.

Hank seemed to hesitate for a split second. “You have to eat, Becky.”

“I will,” his sister promised. “In a few minutes. You go ahead. Entertain Carly for a while, all right? Tell her some stories about life on the ranch, why don’t you? I’m sure she’d be interested in—Ouch!”

“Did I step on your foot?” Hank asked innocently. “Sorry, sis. This way, Miss Cortazzo. Let’s eat on the porch, shall we?”

Carrying her plate, a bottle of beer and a napkin that Becky had thrust into the crook of her elbow, Carly followed Hank through the house and out onto the front porch. Besides two wooden rocking chairs and a porch swing suspended by chains from the rafters, there was a small painted table placed in one corner between a couple of old wicker chairs. Someone had already set the table with silverware and plaid place mats. A flickering yellow candle in a jar made the table look surprisingly romantic.

“Alfresco,” Carly said. “How nice to be dining outside tonight.”

“Unless the mosquitoes show up. Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Carly set her plate on the table and made herself comfortable in the wicker chair. Then she noticed Hank wasn’t following her example. He stood over her, as if undecided about joining Carly at all. She smiled up at him, one eyebrow raised. “I hope you don’t feel as if you’re having dinner with the enemy.”

“The enemy?”

“Me.” She gestured for him to sit down, which he finally did. “I’m your enemy because I’m pushing you to pose for my calendar.”

“Trust me. If you were really my enemy, we wouldn’t be so civilized, Miss Cortazzo.”

“Carly,” she corrected automatically, picking up a fork. “I detect a chill in the air, nevertheless. Or don’t you go for city girls?”

“I go for all kinds of girls,” he retorted, slugging his beer as if to steel himself for a difficult conversation.

“All kinds of girls? Care to tell me about some of them?”

He regarded her warily over the glowing candle. “Well, we don’t get many unattached women in these parts.”

“What about attached ones?”

“Married women? No, I don’t go in for that stuff. Too messy. I like to get in and out of relationships as cleanly as possible.”

“I gather you don’t go in for the lasting kind of relationships, either.” Carly sampled the stew and found it warm and savory.

“I haven’t been lucky in love.”

“You certainly are the quintessential cowboy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carly glanced up, surprised by the heat in his voice. “Why, nothing really. You must fall in love with horses, not women.”

He snorted. “That’s a laugh.”

“Then you do have a girlfriend?”

“Look, I don’t know why we’re talking about me,” he began irritably, looking surprisingly uncomfortable.

“I like to get to know my subjects, that’s all.”

He leveled her a suspicious stare. “Really?”

Carly sipped from her own beer bottle to give herself time to think. “To tell the truth, no. But you—well, I’ve never met a real cowboy before. I just—I want to know what your life’s like. Call it professional curiosity. For example, do you and your sister run this ranch all by yourselves?”

“Um, well, we have a hired hand, of course, to help out. But usually, it’s just a one—er, two-person operation.”

“That must mean a lot of hard work.”

He shrugged. “If you love it, it’s not really work.”

“You love it, then?”

He took a huge forkful of stew into his mouth and took forever to chew it. “This stew is great, isn’t it?” he asked, after swallowing.

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

“Becky has been adjusting the recipe again. I like the sage. And not too much onion.” He thoughtfully selected a carrot with his fork. “The touch of jalapeno is just right. Not overwhelming, but definitely a statement.”

Delighted, Carly laughed. “You’re a cowboy foodie!”

He looked up at her as if startled out of his thoughts. “A foodie?”

“Someone who appreciates good food.”

He bristled. “I’m not a gourmet. I hate pretentious stuff—”

“Like snooty French restaurants?”

“I do like French cuisine,” he said cautiously, “if it’s done well. But not an overly rich menu and a wine list that’s past its prime.”

“Provençal food, though?”

He nodded. “Simple, but elegant.”

Carly leaned forward, glad to see him relaxing at last. “What’s the best restaurant you’ve ever visited?”

Hank hesitated only for an instant. “There’s a diner in Cheyenne that’s top-notch. The best homemade sausage this side of the Mississippi.” He looked cautious again. “Why are you asking?”

“No special reason. Conversation, I guess. And I like food myself. I keep a scrapbook of my favorite restaurants.”