The Cowgirl's Man. Ruth Dale Jean

in her right mind would turn down this kind of opportunity? Women have committed murder for less!”

      “That’s what her friends and family were asking. She just kept saying she wasn’t interested.”

      “Hmmm…” She rose to stalk to the desk and back again. Stopping, she fixed him with a determined gaze. “Did she mean it?”

      “Sounded like it to me.”

      “Hmm… You say she’s as gorgeous in person as she is in that picture?”

      “Gorgeous-er, even.”

      “And she was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds.”

      “That’s right.” And she looked damn good in them. “But if she doesn’t want to compete, nobody can force her,” he pointed out.

      “Who’s talking force?” Eve’s head lifted and she grinned suddenly, as if she’d just puzzled out the problem to her satisfaction. “I’m more subtle than that, darling.”

      “You could’a fooled me,” he observed dryly. “How do you intend to pull off this miracle of persuasion?”

      “Not me, love. You. You’re going to convince our reluctant heroine that she longs for the Queen of the Cowgirls title more than anything in her entire little world.”

      “No way!” He stared at her, appalled. “How am I, a perfect stranger, supposed to—”

      “That’s the key, because you are perfect, stranger or otherwise. Why do you think I signed you on as Mother’s spokesman? Because you support charitable causes and are kind to kids and animals?”

      “How do you know I’m kind to—?”

      “I have ways of finding these things out.” She waved off his astonishment. “With your looks and charm, she won’t stand a chance.”

      “Gimme a break.” Embarrassed, he sunk lower into the butter-soft leather. “I can’t just—”

      “You certainly can. I want you to hightail it back to Hard Times—”

      “Hard Knox.”

      “—and convince this girl that she must compete.” She marched to her desk and sat down, began pulling open drawers in search of something, adding, “Without telling her the contest is basically fixed, of course.”

      Clay gritted his teeth. This was not shaping up to his liking. “No,” he said. “I won’t do it.”

      She pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer with an exclamation of satisfaction, slammed the drawer closed again and leaned back in her massive leather chair. “Of course you’ll do it.”

      Her certainty sent up red flags. “I said I wouldn’t.”

      “But you’re going to change your mind as soon as I point out a certain little paragraph in your contract.” She tossed the sheaf of papers on the desktop. “It’s the one that says I can terminate your services on a moment’s notice if you refuse any reasonable assignment that doesn’t conflict with your primary career which is rodeo, and which of course, this doesn’t.”

      He surged to his feet. “Dammit, Eve, I—”

      “Darling, darling, don’t despair!” She came to meet him, all motherly concern. “I’m not asking you to do anything immoral or illegal. I’m simply sending you to convince this beautiful child that Mother Hubbard can make her life infinitely better.”

      “While selling a whole passel of jeans and tight shirts.”

      “That, too,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Look, I wouldn’t pressure you this way—”

      “Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes, feeling somewhat mollified.

      “—but I have such a strong feeling that this is right for everyone concerned. You know about my ‘feelings,’ of course.”

      He nodded, because everyone at M.H.W.W.D. knew. She always based business decisions on those “feelings.” This made the suits crazy and delighted everyone else, including Clay up to but not including the present moment.

      She patted his cheek. “If you pull this off, and I’m confident you will, there’ll be a nice fat bonus in it for you,” she wheedled. “Don’t be difficult, darling. Trust me. This will work. Not only that—it should be a lot of fun, hanging around some little burg where you’ll be a big hero, spending time with a drop-dead gorgeous woman. What part of ‘summer fun’ don’t you understand?”

      Clay sighed, because she had a point. He was not adverse to getting to know Niki Keene better…a lot better, he realized as his groin tightened. “Give me time to think about this,” he hedged, unwilling to concede total victory so quickly. “Maybe I have plans. Maybe I—”

      “Love to,” she cut him off, “but we’ve got a press conference slated in a few hours to announce details of the actual contest. It’ll be held at my ranch—had I told you that?”

      “No.” He knew her “ranch” was actually a spectacular estate on the outskirts of Dallas where her minions raised a few head of longhorns and a few quarter horses often used as publicity props for her company. It would provide an elegant setting for a dozen beautiful girls.

      She nodded. “Well, it is. Now, I’ve just got time to brief you and then we’ve got to doll you up in the new Duds line. Trust me, Clay, this is going to be a great boost for everyone involved….”

      NIKI BALANCED the tray of dirty dishes on one shoulder with professional ease and smiled at the handsome mustached man sitting alone at a table at the Sorry Bastard. “Hi, Travis. What brings you to town on a Tuesday?”

      Travis Burke, Dani’s father-in-law and a popular rancher whose XOX Ranch was one of the biggest dude-and-working outfits in the country, grinned back at her. It was certainly easy to see where his son, Jack, got his good looks.

      “Pa’s got a doctor’s appointment,” Travis said, referring to the elderly but still plenty salty Austin Burke. “Doc Wilson’s got an emergency so who knows when he’ll be done?” He shrugged. “I figured I’d grab a bite and then take something back to Pa. He’s convinced he’ll lose his place in line if he leaves.”

      “He could be right. What can I get you?”

      “A hamburger and a beer should do it.”

      “Comin’ right up.”

      When she returned a few minutes later with his order, he nodded toward an empty chair. “I sure do hate to eat alone,” he said plaintively. “Since most of the rush seems to be over, maybe you could sit down a minute or two?”

      He was right; only two other tables were being used and the occupants of both were finishing their food. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, sitting.

      He piled condiments on his burger: pickles and onion and lettuce and tomato. “I’ve been wantin’ to ask if you ever found out who entered you in that contest,” he remarked.

      She sighed. “It was Mason Kilgore, a photographer I worked for in Montana before we came here. He used to take pictures of me when he was bored. He got the bright idea to send one in and pulled it out of his files.”

      Travis picked up his burger carefully. “It was a bright idea, apparently. When’s the contest?”

      She looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know. Since I don’t intend to participate, it really doesn’t matter.”

      “You meant what you said the Fourth of July, huh?” He took a big bite of his burger, his gaze curious.

      “Of course, I did,” she said indignantly. “Why on earth would I want to—”

      “Niki!”

      Dylan rushed across the room, the sharp urgency in his voice making