That Wild Cowboy. Lenora Worth

hitting against a skyscraper window. “It’s okay. I did kind of sneak up on you. But I did try to call first. Several times.”

      “Did you? I’ll have to find my phone and check my messages. Been kind of out of commission for a few weeks.” He grinned at that. “That’s me, I mean, out of commission. The phone works just fine. If I can keep up with it.”

      She knew all about him being out of commission but she figured he had his phone nearby at all times. His life was in all the tabloids. Rodeo hero parties too hard and gets arrested after a brawl in a Fort Worth nightclub. A brawl that involved a woman, of course. Apparently, his phone wasn’t the only thing he didn’t bother to check. Rumor had it if he didn’t check his temper and his bad attitude, he’d lose out on a lot of things. One of them being this ranch.

      What a cliché of a cowboy.

      He motioned her inside. The foyer was as expected—as tall as a mountain peak, as vast as a field of wheat. But the paintings that graced the walls were surprising. A mixture of quirky modern art along with what looked to be serious masterpieces. And here she’d thought the man didn’t know art from a postcard.

      Maybe someone else had picked these out.

      Victoria pictured a smartly dressed, brunette interior-design person. A female. She imagined that most of the people in Clint Griffin’s entourage were females. Or at least she’d gathered that from all the tabloid stories she’d read about the man. He’d probably seduced the designer into bringing in the best art that money could buy to show he had some class.

      Victoria wasn’t buying that. She’d researched her subject thoroughly. Part of the job but one of the most fascinating things about her work. She loved getting background information on her subjects but this had been an especially interesting one. When Clint’s name had come up in a production meeting, she’d immediately raised her hand to get first dibs on researching him. That, after trying to forget him for over two years.

      Rodeo star. Hotshot bull rider, and all-around purebred cowboy who’d been born into the famous Griffin dynasty. Born with a silver brand in his mouth, so to speak. Money wasn’t a problem until recently but that rumor had not been substantiated. Credibility however, had become a big deal. Former rodeo star, since he’d retired three years ago after a broken leg and one too many run-ins with a real bull. Country crooner. Shaky there, even if he could play a guitar with the same flare as James Burton and sing with all the soul of Elvis himself, he only had one or two hit songs to his credit. Rancher. She’d seen the vastness of this place driving in. Longhorns marking the pastures, Thoroughbred horses racing behind a fence right along beside her car, and a whole slew of hired hands taking care of business.

      While he lolled around in boots and a bathrobe.

      But his résumé did impress.

      Endorsement contracts. For everything from tractors to cars to ice cream and the next president. His face shined on several billboards around the Metroplex. Nothing like having one of your favorite fantasies grinning down at you on your morning drive.

      Women. Every kind, from cheerleaders to teachers to divorced socialites to...giggly, leggy blondes. He’d tried marriage once and apparently that had not worked.

      And again, Victoria wondered why she was here.

      “Come in. Sit a spell.” He pointed toward the big, open living room that overlooked the big, open porch and pool. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Would you like something to drink while you wait? Coffee or water?”

      “I’m fine,” Victoria replied. “I’ll be right here waiting.”

      “Make yourself at home,” he called, his boots hitting the winding wooden stairs. He stopped at the curve and leaned down to wink at her. “I’ll be back soon.”

      Victoria wondered about that. He’d probably just gotten out of bed.

      * * *

      CLINT GOT IN the shower and did a quick wash then hopped out and grabbed a clean T-shirt and fresh jeans. He combed his hair and eyed himself in the mirror while he yanked his boots back on.

      “No hangover.” That was good. He at least didn’t look like death warmed over. The tabloids loved to catch him at his worst.

      But he’d had a good night’s sleep for once.

      The determined blonde named Sasha had obviously given up on him taking things any further than a movie and some stolen kisses in the media room and had fallen asleep sitting straight up.

      She’d probably never be back, but she’d be happy to tell everyone she’d been here. Since he’d had the house to himself all weekend, he’d expected her to stay. But...they almost never stayed.

      And now another woman at his door—this one all business and different except for the fact that she wanted him for something. They almost always did.

      He thought of that Eagles song about having seven women on his mind and wondered what they all expected of him.

      What did Victoria Calhoun expect of him?

      This was intriguing and since he was bored... The woman waiting downstairs struck him as a no-nonsense, let’s-get-down-to-business type. She didn’t seem all that impressed with the juggernaut that was Clint Griffin, Inc. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t all that impressed with him, either, these days.

      But the executives and the suits had sent her for a reason. Did they think sending a pretty woman would sway him?

      Well, that had happened in the past. And would probably happen again in the future.

      It wouldn’t kill him to pretend to be interested.

      So after he’d dressed, he called down to his housekeeper and ordered strong coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon and wheat toast. Women always went for the wheat toast. He added biscuits for himself.

      When he got downstairs Victoria wasn’t sitting. She was standing in front of one of his favorite pieces of art, a lone black stallion standing on a rocky, burnished mountainside, his nostrils flaring, his hoofs beating into the dust, his dark eyes reflecting everything while the big horse held everything back.

      “I know this artist,” she said, turning at the sound of his boots hitting marble. “I covered one of his shows long ago. Impressive.”

      Clint settled a foot away from her and took in the massive portrait. “I had to outbid some highbrows down in Austin to get it, but I knew I wanted to see this every day of my life.”

      She gave him a skeptical stare. “Seriously?”

      It rankled that she already had him pegged as a joke. “I can be serious, yes, ma’am.”

      She turned her moss-green eyes back to the painting. “You surprise me, Mr. Griffin.”

      “Clint,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her out onto the big covered patio. “I ordered breakfast.”

      “I’m not hungry,” she said, glancing around. “Nice view.”

      Clint ushered her to the hefty rectangular oak table by the massive stone outdoor fireplace, then stopped to take in the rolling, grass-covered hills and scattered oaks, pines and mesquite trees spreading out around the big pond behind the house. This view always brought him a sense of peace. “It’ll do in a pinch.”

      She sank down in an oak-bottomed, cushioned chair with wrought-iron trim. “Or anytime, I’d think.”

      Clint knew all about the view. “I inherited the Sunset Star from my daddy. He died about six years ago.”

      She gave him a quick sympathetic look then cleared her pretty little throat. “I know...I read up on you. Sorry for your loss.”

      Her clichéd response dripped with sincerity, at least.

      “Thank you.” He sat down across from her and eyed the pastureland out beyond the pool and backyard. “This ranch has been in my family for four generations.