The Texan's Contested Claim. Katherine Garbera

smugly as he climbed from the car. He didn’t doubt for a minute he’d succeed. Knowledge was power and, thanks to the P.I. he’d hired and the research he’d done on his own, he knew all there was to know about Ali Moran.

      And she knew virtually nothing about him.

      Perched high on a ladder, Ali stretched to snag the last ornament from the Christmas tree’s uppermost branch. In spite of the cheery fire burning in the fireplace and her favorite Norah Jones CD playing on the stereo, she couldn’t have worked up a smile if she had wanted to. January 1 was usually her favorite day of the year—sleeping late after celebrating the New Year with her friends, eating a huge bowl of black-eyed peas for good luck, making a list of resolutions she wouldn’t keep. Best of all, January 1 marked the first day of her annual four-week vacation.

      But there would be no vacation for Ali this year.

      Grimacing, she tucked the ornament into the box and started down the ladder. It was her own fault, she told herself. She’d let greed get the best of her.

      And who wouldn’t? she asked herself in frustration. When a zillionaire calls you up and offers you four times the going rate to reserve your entire bed-and-breakfast for a month, it’s kind of hard to say no. Cooking and cleaning for one guest, rather than the five her B&B was designed to accommodate, and getting paid four times the money for her trouble? Only a fool would turn down a deal as sweet as that.

      “So quit your whining,” she lectured, as she stooped to place the box of ornaments in a storage crate. The money she would earn far outweighed whatever sacrifices were required of her, including giving up her vacation.

      Grimacing, she slapped the crate’s flaps into place. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she grumbled under her breath.

      The doorbell rang and she straightened with a frown. Who on earth would drop by this early in the morning on New Year’s Day? she wondered. Everyone she knew would still be in bed, after partying all night—which is exactly where she’d be, if she wasn’t expecting a guest to arrive that afternoon.

      At the thought of her guest, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. Surely he hadn’t arrived early. She’d specifically told him check-in time wasn’t until three. But who else could it be? Unable to think of a soul who’d be up and about this early on New Year’s Day, she started grabbing decorations and shoving them into boxes, mortified at the thought of inviting anyone into her home with it looking such a mess, much less Garrett Miller.

      The bell sounded a second time, setting her teeth on edge. Dropping the evergreen swag she held, she marched for the front door, telling herself he could just deal, since he had chosen to ignore check-in time.

      At the door, she paused to drag the elastic band from her hair and stole a peek through the peephole. She blinked, blinked again. If she hadn’t already checked out her guest on the Internet, she might not have recognized the man standing on her porch as the owner of a world-renowned company like Future Concepts. Dressed in faded jeans, a worn leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, he looked too…well, normal.

      The bell rang a third time, making her jump. She blew out a breath, then pasted on a cheerful smile and swung open the door.

      “Hi,” she said and extended her hand in greeting. “You must be Garrett. I’m Ali, the innkeeper of Vista Bed and Breakfast.”

      He stared, the oddest expression coming over his face, but didn’t make a move to take her hand.

      She took a closer look at him. “You are Garrett Miller, aren’t you?”

      The question seemed to snap him from his trancelike state.

      “Sorry,” he said and took her hand. “It’s just that you look very much like…someone I know.”

      A tingle of awareness skittered up her arm as his fingers closed around hers. Surprised by the sensation—and not at all sure she liked it—she broke the connection.

      “You know what they say,” she said, with a careless shrug. “Everyone has a twin.”

      He got that odd look on his face again and she inwardly groaned, thinking it was going to be a very long month.

      “Come on in,” she said and opened the door wider. “You’ll have to pardon the mess,” she warned, thinking it best to prepare him for the disaster that awaited them in the den. “You caught me in the middle of clearing away my Christmas decorations.”

      He stepped past her, trailing the seductive scent of sandalwood in his wake. “I hope my arriving early isn’t an inconvenience. I had my pilot fly me in earlier than I’d originally planned.”

      He had his own pilot? Which probably meant he had his own plane, too. Unable to imagine that kind of wealth or the freedom it offered, she swallowed an envious sigh. “No problem.” She glanced out the door toward the rental car parked in her driveway. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

      He pulled off his sunglasses, looking around as he tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll get it later, if that’s all right.”

      When he met her gaze again, sans the sunglasses, she felt that same tingle of awareness she’d experienced when he’d clasped her hand, only this time he hadn’t touched her.

      “Oh, wow,” she breathed, finding it all but impossible to look away.

      “Excuse me?”

      “Your eyes,” she said. “I didn’t notice until you took off your glasses. They’re brown. That rich, dark, melted chocolate kind of brown. And when the light hits them just right—” she opened and closed the door, varying the amount of light striking his face “—these little gold flecks flash like tiny explosions of light.”

      He reached inside his jacket. “I can put them back on, if it bothers you.”

      Realizing she was making a fool of herself, she offered him a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” she said, as she closed the door. “I tend to get carried away about lighting. It’s one of the curses of being a photographer. This way,” she said, and motioned for him to follow her. “I’ll give you a quick tour of the downstairs, then take you up to your room.

      “Formal living room and dining room,” she said, gesturing left and right as she moved down the hall. “You’re welcome to use both, but most of my guests prefer the coziness of the den and breakfast room at the rear of the house. There’s a beautiful view of Town Lake through the windows there.”

      She paused to point to a closed door at the end of a short hall. “That’s the entrance to my private living quarters. It’s the only portion of the house that’s off-limits to guests.”

      He stopped beside her. “I noticed on your Web site that you cater to businessmen.” He angled his head to peer at her. “I believe the blurb read something like, ‘the Vista, where all the needs of the corporate traveler are met.’”

      The emphasis he placed on “all,” as well as his suggestive tone, put Ali’s back up. “If you’re thinking the Vista is a front for a call girl service,” she informed him tersely, “you’re wrong.”

      “I didn’t say it was,” he returned mildly.

      “Well, just so you understand, I provide my clients with nothing more than comfortable accommodations, home-cooked meals and workspace should they need it.”

      “Which is all I expect,” he assured her. “I was merely curious why a woman who lives alone would prefer men as guests.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “I never said I lived alone.”

      “You didn’t have to. Your repeated use of ‘my’and ‘I’ made it obvious.”

      When she continued to eye him suspiciously, he dropped his hands to his hips, and the corners of his mouth into a frown.

      “Look,” he said, clearly irritated with her.