Platinum Cowboy. Rita Herron

top ten eligible bachelors in Texas—and had braced herself to remain unaffected by his good looks and his money.

      She refused to swoon over a man, especially one who ran roughshod over the working people.

      But in spite of her resolve, a sliver of undeniable attraction splintered through her as his dark brown eyes raked over her. He was taller than he looked in his photographs, at least six-two, and had a linebacker’s shoulders and a washboard stomach. She knew that from the charity calendar for which he’d posed shirtless. His skin was bronzed from the sun and his shaggy, dark-brown hair brushed his shoulders like a renegade cowboy.

      And surprisingly, his hands were calloused.

      So the stories were right: he actually did work on the ranch himself, and did not just delegate and oversee his minions.

      “Dr. Whittaker, it’s nice to meet you,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

      His comment immediately shattered the moment, jerking her back to her mission.

      And the fact that she hated Flint McKade. That she was here to get dirt on him and find her little brother.

      She dropped his hand yet refused to reveal her emotions, so she shifted slightly and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

      He nodded, then gestured for her to sit again, and he claimed the soft leather chair across from her. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, or something stronger?”

      “No, thank you.”

      He studied her for a moment, and she settled her sweating palms on her legs and inhaled. His big body was taking up all the air in the room.

      “I trust my manager worked out the details of your contract,” Flint said. “Your salary, benefits, days off.”

      She nodded, hating to concede that his offer had been more than generous. And she needed the money, dammit. “Yes, that’s all settled.”

      “Housing on the Diamondback is optional,” he continued. “If you prefer to commute, that’s up to you. But we start early around here, at the crack of dawn.”

      “Housing on the ranch is fine,” Lora Leigh said curtly. “And I’m well aware of how early ranch life starts, Mr. McKade. I grew up on a working one myself, with horses and cattle.”

      His eyes darkened, narrowing beneath thick dark brows. “Call me Flint, Lora Leigh.”

      She licked her lips. She didn’t want to get personal, and the way his hoarse, throaty voice murmured her name sounded way too personal. “I’d prefer Mr. McKade.”

      “I’d prefer Flint.” His voice deepened, brooking no argument. “All my employees, including my ranch hands, are on a first-name basis. I consider them part of the Diamondback family.”

      Unprepared for that comment, she bristled. He had destroyed her family, so thinking of herself as part of his was unacceptable.

      “Can I ask you a question, Lora Leigh?”

      She stiffened. “Of course.”

      “Why did you accept the position here?”

      A sliver of unease rippled up her spine. Had he discovered that her brother had come there to spy on him?

      Did he know that she was here for the same reason?

      FLINT COULD BARELY DRAG his eyes away from Lora Leigh as she squirmed under his scrutiny, her efforts at maintaining that cool facade failing miserably at his question. She looked as if she was sinking into quicksand, and he almost wanted to toss her a rope to save her. Instead, he remained focused, intent on waiting her out. If she was going to work for him, he wanted to know she was loyal, especially after today’s horrific events.

      “Lora Leigh, why did you accept the job on the Diamondback?” he asked again, quietly.

      His gut tightened at the way she clamped her teeth over her lower lip. A lip that was going to be bruised if she didn’t stop chewing on it.

      His hand itched to reach up and soothe the delicate skin with his finger—or his lips.

      He silently cursed. He didn’t like the way she’d mesmerized him a damn bit. He had enough on his plate right now, dealing with Viktor’s death and the sabotage and murder of his employees. He didn’t need the distraction of a woman.

      Especially one who obviously didn’t like him.

      The reason intrigued him and pissed him off at the same time. She’d made up her mind about him before they’d even met, no doubt because he’d bought her father’s property, and instead of seeing him as a good guy who’d saved her father from financial ruin, she saw him as the enemy.

      “You have one of the largest and finest spreads in Texas,” she said. “You breed thoroughbreds for racing, with incredible results, as well as quarter horses that have won numerous awards.” She gestured at the Triple Crown trophy encased in glass, along with other trophies his quarter horses had earned. Just last year, Salamander won the National Cutting Horse Association Championship. “What veterinarian wouldn’t want to work at such a famous and prestigious ranch?”

      The ones who wanted their own pieces of the pie. He’d been one of them growing up. His father had been a ranch hand and his mother a cook on another big spread, but Flint had wanted to own his own land. Be his own boss.

      Master the business himself, not work for someone else. It was one reason he treated his hands like family.

      “You’ve obviously done your homework,” he said, although he wasn’t surprised. According to her references, she was smart, motivated, a hard worker who took initiative.

      A small smile graced her face, offering him a glimpse of what she might look like if she really smiled.

      “Of course. You’re even larger in person than in your photos.”

      He arched a brow at that, noting the way she instantly averted her gaze, as if she hadn’t meant to personally comment on his looks.

      A dozen different clips of articles that had been printed rolled through his head. Some complimented his skill as a businessman and rancher, especially his innovative breeding techniques and efforts at conservation. Others noted his charity donations, and the hunting regulations and wildlife preservation measures he’d championed.

      But there were others that were not so flattering.

      Ones that painted him as a conniving, cold son of a bitch who ruthlessly bought out small-time farmers to build his own empire.

      And then there was that damn calendar. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to pose for the stupid bachelor thing, except that it had raised millions for charity and he liked to give back.

      “Well, don’t believe everything you read,” he murmured.

      She folded her hands but refrained from commenting. “I heard you imported some Arabians.”

      His mouth tightened. “Yes. Then I guess you also heard about the trouble at the airport.”

      She shook her head and he explained, pure horror mounting on her face. “Are the horses all right?”

      Ah, so she did sincerely love horses. She’d do a good job.

      Except she was so damn small and delicate. Could she really handle herself?

      Only time would tell.

      “Thankfully, yes.” He checked his watch, then scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, fatigue wearing on him from the strain of the day.

      “I’m anxious to see them, along with the rest of your stock. I watched Diamond Daddy win the derby. What an incredible animal.”

      He nodded and smiled. “That he is. He’s a descendant of Diamondback Jack—”

      “The horse you named the ranch after.”