From Texas, With Love. Cathy Thacker Gillen

too. Then he realized her arms weren’t the only part of her that was cold. Resolutely, he pushed away the enticing vision and turned back to the task at hand—capturing the mouse that was currently making Samantha Holmes’s life miserable.

      Will glanced around, sizing up the threadbare furniture, several wardrobe racks of clothing, well-organized, and an equally impressive tier of shoes and handbags. Obviously, when it came to work attire, Samantha Holmes spared no expense. “How long has your rodent buddy been here?” he asked.

      “A week.” She gnawed on her lower lip as she looked up at Will. “I’ve tried everything to capture him so I could take him to the park and set him free.” She shrugged. “Cheese. Peanut butter.”

      Will eyed her kitchen and found it sparsely equipped. “Maybe that trap you set up doesn’t look quite so humane to him. Besides—” he nodded at the cereal boxes on the counter, their bottoms eaten out “—why should he settle for a one-course meal when your kitchen cabinets provide a buffet?”

      Samantha huffed, the action lifting the luscious curves of her breasts. “You sound like you know a lot about pests,” she remarked.

      Wishing he hadn’t noticed what a great body she had beneath the lavender sleep shirt, and that she wasn’t wearing a bra, Will met her eyes. “True, although I try not to live with any.”

      She made a face. “Very funny,” she retorted dryly. Then she narrowed her dark eyes, as if suddenly realizing she shouldn’t be trusting him. She tightened her grip on the broom. “Who the heck are you, anyway?”

      “Will McCabe,” he told her, bracing himself for the worst.

      She paused to process that information. “As in the McCabes—of Texas?” she asked finally.

      Proud of his family’s stellar reputation throughout the Lone Star State and beyond, he nodded. “You got it.”

      Samantha, however, seemed unimpressed by his lineage. Her scowl deepened. “Owner of McCabe Charter Jet Service in Laramie, Texas?”

      Will accepted the credit for all he had accomplished. He angled a thumb at his chest. “That would be me, all right.”

      “Then I know why you’re here and what you want.” Samantha glowered at him. “And my answer is no.”

      “I HAVEN’T ASKED YOU anything yet,” Will McCabe stated lazily, his appreciative gaze drifting over her.

      Samantha angled her head to study the ruggedly handsome man standing in front of her. She had guessed from the moment she heard his commanding Texas accent on the other side of her door just who had sent him. One look at the leather aviator jacket, Western-cut cotton shirt, worn jeans and boots had told the rest of the story. Her brother, Howard, had tired of her ignoring his phone messages, letters and e-mails, and had sent this good-looking stud to get her. Too bad said stud didn’t yet know he was on a fool’s errand.

      “Let me guess,” she murmured, looking him up and down while trying not to be taken in by his broad shoulders, taut abs and six-foot-three frame. The mussed sable hair, smoky blue eyes and intractable jaw were a little harder to disregard. This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it, and what he intended to retrieve now was her. Not that she planned to cooperate, she reminded herself.

      “You’re a bodyguard.”

      “Close.”

      She studied the short hair and rigid posture. “Cop?”

      “Ex-military.” Will cast another look at the mouse. Satisfied all was status quo—at least for the moment—he looked back at her. “The law enforcement officer in my family is my brother Kevin, who’s a sheriff’s deputy.”

      She really didn’t want to know that. Didn’t want to get involved with anyone connected with her brother. Still, curious as ever, she had to ask, “What was your MOS in the service?”

      “Pilot.”

      Of course. “Branch?”

      “United States Navy.”

      She sighed. Another link to Howard and the sea and a lot of things she didn’t want to think about. She lifted a hand. “I see.”

      He eyed her skeptically. “You were supposed to know I was coming.”

      Shrugging, she tightened her hands on the broom. “My brother left a message on my answering machine that he was going to provide transportation to Texas for me.”

      Will flashed her a sexy smile. “And I’m the pilot of that private jet.”

      Samantha tore her gaze from the sensual shape of his lower lip and concentrated on the straight line of his nose. “Too bad you wasted a trip.”

      He didn’t seem to think so. “We can talk about that later,” he assured her, clamping a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Right now I suggest we work on capturing Mickey Mouse before he makes a run for it again.”

      Ignoring the warmth transmitting to her skin, Samantha studied the strong column of his throat and the soft hair visible in the open collar of his shirt. She stepped back, breaking their connection. “You’ve got an idea, I suppose?”

      Will took his time surveying their surroundings. “That’s right. But first we’re going to need a deep container—like that trash can—to put him in.”

      Samantha walked over to the tall plastic container that had been with her since her college days. “It doesn’t have a lid.”

      Will inspected the makeshift detention center. “We don’t need a lid if it’s empty. Mice can’t jump more than a foot or so.”

      Will McCabe had an air of authority—Samantha gave him that. With effort, she suppressed a shudder at her next supposition. “You’re sure he can’t just run up the sides?”

      Sheer male confidence radiated from the Texan. “No more than you or me.”

      Samantha wanted to trust Will McCabe. She couldn’t. Not when just the idea of that mouse on the loose again had her contemplating a leap into his strong arms. “How do you know?” she challenged, looking deep into his blue eyes.

      His lips took on a rueful tilt and he gestured vaguely. “Let’s just say I, too, haven’t always lived in the best places.”

      Good to know.

      Preferring Will in the line of fire rather than herself, Samantha took out the plastic sack lining the trash can, and tied it shut. Her anxiety building once again, she carried the empty can to him.

      Will took off his leather jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his cotton shirt. “You need to step back.”

      Samantha didn’t know whether to laugh or run for cover, given how wily and agile the mouse had been thus far. “You’re going to do this all by yourself, I suppose,” she stated dryly.

      He shifted his stance. “Yep.”

      Samantha positioned herself a safe distance away and folded her arms. “This I have to see.”

      Without missing a beat, Will swiftly moved the sofa from the wall, reached down and grabbed the exposed mouse by the tail, then dropped it into the garbage can. That quickly, the problem was resolved; the mouse that had terrorized her for a week was in rodent jail.

      Feeling more than a little foolish for all her antics with the broom, Samantha stared at Will.

      “Mind if I wash my hands?” he asked.

      “Go right ahead,” she murmured, peering into the trash can. The mouse was scampering about in a panic, but every time it tried to get up the sides, it fell back to the bottom. About three inches long, with its tail another four inches, it looked harmless enough.

      Her heart still racing, Samantha glanced at Will. She sensed they weren’t out of the woods yet. “Now what?” she demanded.

      He