Читать книгу The C.e.o. & The Cookie Queen - Victoria Chancellor - Страница 9

Greg gripped the metal fence, resisting the urge to step backward as a wild-eyed black-and-white calf ran right at him. Following closely on the poor animal’s heels, charged an evil-eyed horse and determined rider. Dirt sprayed across Greg’s new snakeskin-and-cowhide boots as the calf suddenly turned and raced down the arena.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he watched the pursuing cowboy swing a rope overhead, then toss it in the direction of the calf. The noose settled over the desperate calf’s neck. The rope cinched tight and flipped the animal to the ground. Greg winced.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked the tall, raw-boned man next to him.

Both eyebrows raised, the man pushed his sweat-and dust-caked hat higher on his forehead. “Hurt what?”

“The cow,” Greg answered, nodding toward the rodeo drama unfolding in the arena.

The man narrowed his eyes, gave Greg a look that said, “I can’t believe you asked that,” then asked, “You’re not from around here, are ya?” He raised a battered red soft drink can to his lips and spat into it. Gross. Chewing tobacco, Greg suspected, or perhaps the disgusting snuff that permanently imprinted the back pockets of many of these cowboys.

The contestant threw the calf to the ground after it struggled to get up, then proceeded to loop another rope around three of its legs. “Yeah, but it’s just a baby.”

The man shook his head. “Son, ain’t you never been around beef cattle?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Ever eat any veal?” the man asked with a gaptoothed grin. Greg silently thanked the orthodontist his parents had dragged him to. They might not have given him everything, but he did have good teeth.

Instead of answering the man—or thinking about where veal came from—he turned back to the action in the ring. The cowboy finished looping the rope, then stood up and thrust both hands in the air. Showoff, Greg wanted to mutter. So what if the guy could wrestle a poor defenseless animal to the ground and tie it up? Should he get some kind of medal?

“Ten point three seconds,” the announcer reported. “That puts Tim Roberts in third place. Nice try, Tim. And that wraps up today’s calf roping competition.”

A smattering of applause and a few “whoops” followed the recitation of the winner and second-place finisher. From the end of the arena, a loud tractor entered, pulling a devise that smoothed the surface of the dirt into some version of level. A small cloud of dust rose only slightly from the ground, then settled back as though it was also hot and tired in the summer heat.

If the rest of the crowd could tolerate dust up to their knees and sweat pouring down their backs, Greg could, too. Besides, he had a real good reason for traveling to Texas in August, then standing in a metal barn that could have doubled as one of Huntington Foods’ huge ovens. He wasn’t going to let the dirt and hot temperatures keep him from his goal.

The man who had been standing beside Greg wandered off. Unsure what was coming next, he reached into his back pocket—where his round, flat canister of snuff would have been if he were a real cowboy—and retrieved the rolled-up flyer listing the county 4-H events. Sure enough, the junior steer competition was next. Greg wasn’t sure whether that meant the people showing them were young, or the steers were young, but whatever was going to happen next in the arena involved Ms. Carole Jacks.

And she was the only reason he was standing in this hellish Texas inferno, sweat pooling inside his new Justin ropers and running down the legs of the stiff boot-cut jeans he’d bought hours earlier in Austin. His secretary had laughed at the idea of dressing like a cowboy to visit this small community, but Greg wanted to make a good impression. He knew he wouldn’t fit in if he were wearing a suit, or even his normal Chicago casual attire.

One of the principle rules of salesmanship he’d learned at Ohio State was to blend in with the customer, to make them feel comfortable. He wasn’t sure his professors would have encouraged him to go quite this far to make someone believe he fit in, but the disguise had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, his mother had warned him that Carole Jacks didn’t take to outsiders. She rarely left Ranger Springs, Texas, and preferred all her correspondence by mail.

No e-mail. No fax. There wasn’t even a photograph of her in the file. For all he knew, she could be pushing ninety and senile. Personally, he imagined her as the no-nonsense Alice on The Brady Bunch. At best, she’d resemble a kind, portly Aunt Bea. He just hoped she’d accept the wardrobe and makeup consultants necessary before her photo sessions and public appearances. As long as she managed to smile and remained well mannered while in public, she was the best hope they had for reforming Huntington Foods’ image.

Of course, it would have been nice if his mother had given him a description of the formidable Carole Jacks. Instead, Roberta Huntington Rafferty had shrugged, smiled, and told him to have a nice trip. If he hadn’t known for a fact that his mother possessed a very limited sense of humor, he would have suspected she’d been laughing at his first big challenge as C.E.O.

Whatever her age or disposition, Ms. Jacks had negotiated a hell of a contract. She’d gotten the privacy she wanted in exchange for her recipes. He’d tasted each selection Huntington produced, and the “food police” might have a point; they weren’t low cal, low carb or low fat. They were, in fact, delicious.

The tractor chugged by, sending dust and diesel fumes Greg’s way. He rubbed his watering eyes and wished he’d bought something cold to drink from the refreshment cart he’d spotted on his way into the arena. He wished he knew what he was looking for. All Ms. Jacks’s neighbor had said was that she’d be at the ring for the junior steer competition, and no, there was no Mr. Jacks. Maybe she wasn’t related to anyone showing. She could even be a judge.

As the dust and diesel fumes settled, a flash of silver caught his eye. Blinking against the bright sunlight coming through the open windows, he needed to make sure he wasn’t seeing a mirage. No, she was real.

Standing directly across the dusty arena was a woman who would make any man forget his parched throat. Blond hair, tied back in a low ponytail, escaped the black cowboy hat she wore. A white T-shirt left little to his imagination, molding to breasts that appeared just the right size. And that big silver belt buckle fastened around a waist that obviously hadn’t eaten too many of “Ms. Carole’s Cookies.” He could tell she wasn’t too tall, but in those tight blue jeans, her legs looked as if they went on forever.

She stepped onto the bottom rail of the fence, then folded her arms along the top and rested her chin. The position caused her to bend a little, curving her rear out just enough to send a stampede of wicked fantasies through Greg’s imagination. Unfortunately, the pounding affected more than his mind. He propped one boot on the bottom rail and hoped no one noticed his new jeans were even tighter than before he’d fantasized about the blonde. Or worse yet, thought that he had a predilection for either tractors or cows.

She must be waiting for something…or someone. The thought of her watching one of those overposturing cowboys sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. He gripped the top rail and vowed not to leap over the fence, no matter what she did or who she cheered for. He would not make a fool of himself over the blond cowgirl, not in front of the formidable Carole Jacks. Not when he was here on a mission to save his family’s company from the unfortunate remarks of his hotheaded older brother, who just happened to be the former C.E.O. The man who’d publicly insulted the “food police” on national television not once, not twice, but the magic three times. And now he was “out” of Huntington Foods.

Greg tore his eyes away from the blonde when some official-looking people began filing into the arena. He forced himself to focus on his image of Carole Jacks, but none of the people standing there looked like America’s favorite “cookie queen.”

“And now for our final event, the Junior Steer Championship. After the grand champion is named, we’ll have our annual auction this afternoon at two o’clock. The highest bid will help send one of these young people to college. Let’s have a round of applause for these 4-H-ers who have raised these fine steers.”

Before the applause ended, the cows—no, steers—entered the ring. They were led by a variety of kids, which obviously explained the “junior” part of the competition. Perhaps one of them was Ms. Carole’s grandkid. Greg forced himself to scan the bleachers, but his gaze came back to the blonde. He couldn’t stop looking at her, especially when she tensed, then waved at one of the kids entering the arena.

A brown-haired girl smiled back, then tugged on the rope leading her huge steer into the ring. The large black creature had big dark eyes and looked around calmly, as though it trusted the girl to lead it to victory.

Surely this ten-or eleven-year-old child wasn’t the blond cowgirl’s daughter. Greg looked between the alluring curves at the rail and the pixyish braids of the girl and couldn’t reconcile the image. Still, the look of love on the face of his cowgirl seemed to confirm a strong relationship.

His cowgirl. Now that was a surprise. He’d never developed such strong fantasies or compelling questions about a woman he had yet to meet.

As the competition progressed, he watched the steer, the child and the cowgirl. When the judges motioned for the little girl to lead the animal to the center of the ring along with four others, his cowgirl put her hands over her mouth and tensed even more.

Greg turned to the man with the battered soft drink can. Apparently he’d returned sometime during the steer judging. “Is it good that they’re in the center of the arena?”

“Means they’re in the final round,” the man explained before spitting into the can.

Greg winced at the disgusting habit and turned his attention back to the ring. The judges circled the animals. One red-and-white steer stamped its foot. Another sidled away from the judge, nearly bumping the black animal held by the girl. She leaned close and spoke to her steer, rubbing his cheek with her fingers. He stood quietly, his feet even and steady.

“The big black one,” Greg said, motioning toward the pair. “Is he doing okay?”

“Standing good and square.”

“Do you think he might win?”

“Might.” The man spat into his can again.

Greg turned his attention back to the girl again. She seemed to be blinking back some tears. Probably tears of happiness that she was a finalist and her steer was behaving so well.

In less than a minute the judges began handing out ribbons. A purple banner, two feet long at least, went to the little girl with the black steer. Greg applauded, a genuine smile surprising him as he watched her accept the congratulations of the judges.

When he looked at his cowgirl, though, he was surprised by the mix of emotions she seemed to be feeling. She smiled, but wiped tears from her eyes at the same time. Her heart seemed to be going out to the girl, and Greg’s suspicions were confirmed that the brown-haired pixie was indeed her child.

The little girl hugged the big steer, burying her face in his slick, thick coat. She seemed to be holding on for dear life.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to have won,” Greg said out loud.

The man beside him nodded. “She got that steer from Billy Maddox over in Boerne when ever’body else said it weren’t big enough. Look at it now.”

“So she should be proud.”

“I ’spect she is, but she’s got to say goodbye to him now.”

“Why? She won.”

The man looked at him as though he was crazy. “What the hell do you think they do with the grand-champion steer?”

Greg searched his mind but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Give it a ribbon, I suppose. Maybe she can show it somewhere else.”

“None of these steers are going to the State Fair. That’s a whole ’nother class of animal.”

“So what do they do with them?”

The man spat into his can. “Auction ’em off.” He nodded toward the tent. “Big Jim usually bids the highest.”

“So what does Big Jim do with them?”

“Why, he has just about the finest barbecue you’ve ever seen for all his favorite customers over at Big Jim’s Autorama on Highway 281.”

As Greg watched in stunned silence, his cowgirl slipped between the rails of the fence and hurried to the little girl, who still had her face buried in the neck of the huge beast. Her thin shoulders shook, and Greg knew without a doubt that he couldn’t let that pet steer end up on Big Jim’s barbecue grill.

AS THEY WALKED out of the ring toward the barn, Carole could have kicked herself. She should have spent the extra money and bought a heifer instead of a steer. But she hadn’t expected that runty calf to grow into the grand champion at the county show. The look on her daughter’s face when she’d been handed the banner had nearly brought her to her knees, right there in the arena. Jenny had a soft heart, and darn it, Puff was a big old sweetheart—all twelve hundred pounds of him.

“We have a few hours, sweetie. What would you like to do?”

Jenny shrugged as if it didn’t make any difference, but Carole could see her daughter’s white-knuckled grip on Puff’s halter. “I think I’ll just hang around the barn. Put my stuff up.”

Say goodbye to Puff, Carole felt like adding. She had always told her daughter that she could do or be anything she wanted, but that didn’t mean life was always easy.

“I could bring you a snow cone or some cotton candy,” Carole offered as she wrapped her arm around her ten-year-old’s shoulders.

“Thanks, Mom, but I’m not hungry.”

“We’ll celebrate later, then.”

Jenny nodded, but couldn’t hide her sniff.

They stopped at their spot along the cattle rail. Carole hugged her arms around herself as Jenny attached the tie-down to Puff’s halter. “Sure I can’t get you anything? A cold drink?”

Jenny shrugged.

“Do you want to be alone?”

“Please,” she said in a small voice.

“Okay, then. I’m going to get us a soft drink.”

Carole took one more look at her little girl before turning and walking down the long corridor, out of the stock barn. Telling herself that this was an important lesson, that Jenny would feel proud of earning part of her college money, that Puff was a beef animal, not a family pet, didn’t ease the pain. Only time would do that. Perhaps it was best that Jenny was leaving for camp in another week. A change of setting would help her forget. Seeing friends from last year, laughing and playing one last summer before she began the transformation from child into young woman was just what she needed right now.

Carole just wished Jenny could stay gone until Big Jim’s barbecue was history, but she couldn’t. School started in the third week of August, and Big Jim always served up the grand champion at his Labor Day event. Carole didn’t usually go out of town for the long weekend, but this year, she would take her daughter somewhere far away from Ranger Springs. Someplace fun, with no animals to remind them of Puff’s empty stall.

She’d nearly made it out of the barn when she saw a tall, broad-shouldered stranger standing in the wide doorway, staring at her in a way she didn’t usually see in the light of day. Maybe in a smoky honky-tonk with a country-western tune playing in the jukebox…

She slowed, wondering if perhaps he was someone she’d met a while back. Bright sunlight outlined his lean torso and long, straight legs. He’d dressed in jeans and a Western-cut plaid shirt, boots and a well-creased hat, but he didn’t stand like a cowboy. The shade inside the barn, the deeper shadow beneath the brim of the Stetson, made him seem mysterious. Instead of tipping his hat or dropping his gaze, he continued to look his fill, even smiling just a bit like he knew some secret.

Carole tipped her chin up and broke eye contact. She didn’t know this man. He wasn’t from around here. And he was darn rude to boot.

“Congratulations on the win,” he said as she walked by.

His deep, warm voice, totally without an accent, stopped her. “Thanks,” she said, feeling more unsettled than ever now that she knew he’d been watching her—and Jenny—during the competition. “I don’t know you, do I?”

“We haven’t met yet,” he said, turning toward her. The sun highlighted the right half of his face, showing smooth skin stretched over some mighty fine cheekbones. She suspected this man had his hair styled, not just cut like ordinary people, although she couldn’t see much but a few short, dark-brown strands peeking from beneath his tan Stetson and around his well-shaped ears.

This was no weathered cowboy. From the way he was dressed, in new clothes and expensive boots, she’d be more likely to believe he was one of those models in American Cowboy magazine. He looked as good as one. As a matter of fact, he reminded her of her brother-in-law, Prince Alexi of Belegovia, when he’d dressed like Hank McCauley and fooled her sister Kerry last summer. Alexi and Hank looked enough alike to be twins. Both were handsome as sin, but not as compelling as this stranger, in her opinion.

She realized she’d been giving the man a once-over for way too long. Not too many male-model types came to Ranger Springs, Texas, but that didn’t excuse her ogling. Her mother would have called it downright rude.

“Greg Rafferty,” he said with a smile, extending his hand. “And no, as I’ve already been reminded, I’m not from around here.”

She laughed despite her suspicion over strangers and good-looking men who liked to undress women with their eyes. “I didn’t mean to stare. The sun was in my eyes, and I couldn’t tell if I’d seen you before.”

She shook his hand, noticing his firm, enveloping grip that shot warmth all the way up her arm.

“I can’t use the excuse of sun in my eyes. I’ll admit I was staring.”

He stated the offhand compliment with an intimate kind of amusement that made Carole blush.

She hadn’t blushed in years. She thought she’d forgotten how. She’d apparently also forgotten how to shake hands, because she finally pulled away when she realized she’d been in his gentle grasp for about as long as she’d been staring at him moments ago.

“And you are…”

“I’m sorry. I’m still a little…excited about my daughter’s win.” She took a deep breath and looked into the blue-green eyes of the stranger. “Carole Jacks,” she said, forcing herself to smile pleasantly when she wanted to gawk like a sixteen-year-old.

His expression changed from intimate interest to disbelief in a flash. Seconds later he blinked and schooled his features into a painfully benign mask. “You…” He swallowed, grimacing slightly. “I don’t suppose you have another relative by the same name. A mother or aunt, perhaps?”

“I’m the only one around here that I know of,” she said, more confused by the second.

“I was expecting someone a little…older.” His eyes roamed over her body once more, and she felt that darn warmth seep through her, as hot at the Texas sun beating down on the metal roof above.

She shrugged off her hormone-induced condition. “Older?”

“I came to town expecting to find Alice, or maybe Aunt Bea, and instead I found—”

She stopped him before his eyes started wandering again. “What?”

“You know. Alice, that prototypical housekeeper on The Brady Bunch. And Aunt Bea was on—”

“Andy Griffith. Yes, I know, but what does that have to do with me? And why did you think I was older?”

“Because you bake cookies,” he said, as though that would clear up everything.

“Cookies,” she repeated carefully, wondering how someone this loony could be so good-looking.

“Yes. Ms. Carole’s Cookies. Huntington Foods needs your help to—”

“Oh, no,” she said, putting up both hands as if to ward him off. “I don’t believe this.” She took a step back, needing to put space between her and this…this city slicker. How could they have done this to her? Huntington had promised her no hassles, no demands. All they’d wanted were her cookie recipes. She’d written privacy clauses into her contract. She would never have licensed the rights to her cookies otherwise.

“Are you surprised that someone came down to see you?”

She nodded. “Darn right. Now you can just get back in your car or catch a plane back to Chicago.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to offer.”

“My privacy is not for sale.” She turned away, walking through the doorway and into the hot sunshine, leaving him standing in the shade of the barn.

Good thing she’d learned why he was here before she made an idiot of herself, acting like some silly teenager over a good-looking stranger. Been there, done that. Just because he had great bone structure and filled out his jeans didn’t amount to a hill of beans. He could go straight to—

“Jenny,” Carole whispered. Greg Rafferty might be low enough to try to get into her daughter’s good graces. He could be on his way to her little girl right now, full of phony congratulations on her win, hoping to get to the mother through the daughter.

Halfway to the concession stand, Carole spun around, nearly colliding with the person behind her.

Strong hands steadied her. She looked up into Greg Rafferty’s blue-green eyes. “You,” she whispered. What was it about this man that sent her reeling—mentally and physically?

“You should get some signals installed if you’re going to make turnarounds on a crowded thoroughfare,” he said in a soft, deep voice that held more than a hint of amusement.

At her expense. “Let go.” She brushed off his hold, then dusted her arms as though he’d left some trace. Ridiculous. “Why were you following me?” she asked, deciding the best defense was a good offense.

“Because I came all the way from Chicago to see you, and you need to hear what I have to say.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“I can’t.” He shrugged. “I know about your contract, but things have changed. I need your cooperation.”

Carole sighed. She was going to have to listen to him whether she wanted to or not. “Okay, you can buy me a soft drink and we’ll sit in the shade. I’ll give you ten minutes, then I need to get back to my daughter.”

Within a few minutes they settled on a bench beneath a big cottonwood tree, just outside the barn. The familiar scents of sawdust, hay, animal sweat and manure grounded her in the present. By reminding her of the past, the attractive stranger sitting beside her filled her with insecurities over the future.

“So, why did you come all the way to Texas to talk me into something that is obviously opposite every privacy clause I had inserted into my contract with Huntington Foods?”

“I’m not sure if you heard about our previous C.E.O.’s very public argument with the ‘food police,’ but—”

“Yes, I heard about him calling the C.A.S.H.E.W. group a ‘bunch of nuts.’ Of course I was interested, since you produce my cookies. But like everything, the bad press he caused will pass.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. When he, er, decided to resign, that also made news. And then the cable news outlets and primetime network shows started calling, asking for in-depth interviews. We’re being compared to the tobacco industry executives who said, before Congress, ‘I do not believe nicotine is addictive.’ That kind of bad publicity doesn’t go away until we clarify our position.”

Carole sat her soft drink on the bench with enough force that the liquid sloshed against the sides. “So clarify it. You’re the new C.E.O., right? I don’t see how—or why—my cooperation or endorsement would matter much.”

“I’m not sure that you know this, but your cookies are our bestselling product. We’d like to design a publicity tour. Some select appearances on the afternoon talk shows and soft news segments, perhaps a demonstration of your baking techniques on the morning shows. And there’s an upcoming food show we’d like for you to attend, perhaps as a featured presenter.”

The idea of becoming a public figure filled her with so much dread that she had a hard time holding back a shudder. Her stomach clenched and her palms began to sweat, but she managed to hold herself together. This was only his plan, she told herself. Not a reality. Forcing a calmness she didn’t feel, she managed to say flippantly, “That’s all, hmm?”

“Well, we’d need your permission to use your image on the packages. Oh, and we’d like to have some favorable articles written about you. Maybe with a photo spread of your home. You and your daughter sharing a plate of cookies. That sort of thing.”

His plan grew worse and worse. She couldn’t believe he would ask her to participate to this degree. She couldn’t believe he’d expect her to put Jenny in…well, not danger, but potential emotional distress. But then, this new C.E.O. didn’t know about her past. Not very many people outside of her family and friends in Ranger Springs remembered.

“You have got to be kidding,” she finally said.

“No.” He appeared a little baffled. “We’re not expecting anything unusual, Ms. Jacks.”

She took a deep breath. “How about I just write you a nice letter. You can tell everyone that I agree—you’re not really a rabidly crazy company who believes a high-sugar, high-fat diet is best for everyone.”

He started to get a little red in the face. The heat? She didn’t think so. She’d probably pushed him to the limit of his bottom-line heart.

“We’d like more than your vote of confidence, Ms. Jacks,” he said in a very controlled voice. “And we’re willing to pay quite a nice sum for your cooperation.”

“Did you read my contract, Mr. Rafferty?”

“Greg, please. And, yes, I did.”

“Then you know that I am under no obligation to publicize the cookies.” The very idea caused another barely controlled shudder.

“Yes, I know, but as I’ve just explained, circumstances have changed.”

“My position hasn’t. Let me be perfectly clear. I don’t want any publicity for myself or my family. My agreement with Huntington Foods has been perfect because my recipes are all that I had to give.”

“Surely you could use the money.”

“Not at the expense of my privacy,” she stated, grabbing her soft drink and rising from the bench. “Now it’s time for me to get back to my daughter. I hope you find another way to solve your problem, Greg Rafferty, because I am not going to change my mind.”

She marched off toward the barn, but hadn’t walked more than four steps when she thought of one more point. “By the way, don’t bother my daughter. She’s off-limits, understand?”

“Why would you think I’d bother your daughter?” he asked, frowning at her.

“I know you big-business types. You’re not above ‘congratulating’ her, too, just to get in my good graces. I’m telling you right now not to try it.”

For some reason Greg Rafferty was like a burr under her saddle. The only way to relieve the irritation was to get rid of the irritant. She hoped he got the point and high-tailed it out of Texas.

“I would have congratulated her, if I’d seen her. But I saw you first. Before I knew who you were,” he pointed out.

“So you say,” she returned, knowing she couldn’t trust his smooth-talking claims any farther than she could throw a twelve-hundred-pound steer. “Just leave, Mr. Rafferty. We’re not buying what you’re selling.”

“I can be as stubborn as you are,” he ground out.

“Maybe,” she conceded, placing one hand on her hip. “But I own my land, and it’s fenced in. If you cross my cattle guard, make sure you’re ready for a fight, because I protect what’s mine.” She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “And I own a shotgun that I know how to use.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked incredulously.

“Just don’t give me a reason to fill your backside with buckshot.”

“I thought you Texans didn’t shoot men in the back.”

“We shoot varmints anywhere we please,” she said, wishing she were back on her own property right now, safe behind the wire fencing and long driveway. Locked inside, where no one could bother her or her daughter.

He glared at her, but she’d seen and said enough. Carole spun on her heel, her boots digging into the dust-covered, dry grass. She felt his gaze burning into her back as surely as if he’d aimed his own weapon at her…at her backside.

He probably wasn’t giving her the once-over now. He was scorching holes in her with angry eyes, she’d bet, although she’d die before she turned around to check.

She’d seen enough of Greg Rafferty. He’d better not show up on her property. Despite her bravado, she wouldn’t really fill him with buckshot. No, she’d call Police Chief Parker and swear out a complaint. If Greg Rafferty didn’t leave her alone, the only people baking Ms. Carole’s cookies would be Ms. Carole herself.