Platinum Cowboy

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.”

He angled his head to study her again. “Right. You obviously researched me.”

“Oh, yes. I wanted to be prepared.”

He grinned. Prepared for what? To dislike him?

Hell, the fact that she did irritated him, but he’d change that. He could be charming when he wanted. Sooner or later, he’d win her over.

And get into her bed.

Don’t go there. You have enough to do with breeding season, and with a murderer to catch.

He stood, shaking his head to clear it. “It’s too late to show you around tonight. How about we meet in the morning, and I’ll give you the grand tour?”

She tensed slightly. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. McKade—”

“Flint.”

She sighed. “Flint. One of your ranch hands or managers can give me a tour.”

He gritted his teeth. Her attitude was starting to annoy him. “Nonsense. If you’re going to work with my horses, I want to see how they react to you.”

She arched a brow. “So this is a test?”

“No, it’s just that I can usually judge if an employee is going to click by their interaction with my other workers and with the animals.”

Her blue eyes darkened. “And how am I doing so far?”

He grinned. “Let’s see how it goes in the morning. Now I’ll show you to your quarters.”

She stood, brushing down her skirt. “Fine.”

He dragged his gaze from her legs and started to tell her to dress for work in the morning, but then he remembered her comment about growing up on a ranch and bit back the gibe. He didn’t want to piss her off any more than he already had.

He just hoped she was more endearing to his animals than she was to him.

LORA LEIGH CLIMBED IN her Jeep and followed Flint in his truck down the graveled road, past the most beautiful pastureland she’d ever seen and several barns, to a small white wooden cottage shaded by giant live oaks and elms. A large weeping willow also shadowed the porch with its sweeping, spidery arms, as if to reach out and embrace her.

A swing on the small front porch and a pot of pansies added a homey flair. Dust swirled around her as she parked and climbed out. She went to retrieve her suitcase from the back, but Flint grabbed it and her cosmetic bag, so she retrieved her laptop.

“I have some apartments on the west side and a few small cottages throughout the ranch for other employees,” he said. “But I thought you’d be more comfortable here. It’s closer to the barns for the horses you’ll be in charge of and will give you some privacy from ranch hands.”

She’d read about his housing projects, the apartments both on the ranch and in town.

“Besides the ranch hands, grooms, trainers and their assistants and vets, I have a wildlife biologist on board as well as scientists specializing in crop production. Each of the vets is assigned to a specific area, but I also have a vet clinic near the main house. It has an office and a computer set up and is fully equipped with medical supplies and equipment. It adjoins the office space for my managers.” He gestured toward a long white building from which a plume of smoke arose.

“That’s the cafeteria. We serve breakfast starting at five o’clock, and meals are available throughout the day.” He led her up the narrow pebbled walkway to the porch, then climbed the steps. She couldn’t help but notice the way his tight jeans hugged his butt and the way his denim shirt stretched across those massive shoulders.

Heaven help her. She had to stop ogling him. He was the enemy.

Flint unlocked the door and pushed it open, then gestured for her to enter. “It’s not fancy, but it’s comfortable, ” he said as she entered.

“It’s fine,” she said, although it was more than fine. A comfortable oversize blue sofa and a chair sat in the living room, in front of a braided rug, and the area opened to a modern kitchen with a breakfast bar and a pine table.

“It’s just one bedroom,” he said, “but there’s a nice bath, and the view’s not bad. You can see the sunrise from the porch in the mornings. The kitchen is stocked with basics to get you started. You’re welcome to take meals at the cafeteria, or you can eat on your own.”

She enjoyed cooking, and when she closed her eyes, she could still smell the scent of her mother’s homemade cinnamon rolls and buttermilk biscuits in the oven and the fresh sausage frying in the pan.

But she intended to use every minute she could here to find out what had happened to Johnny.

Flint strode into the bedroom and settled her suitcase on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed. Two windows, with billowing curtains, flanked the antique four-poster bed, which was covered by a quilt in various shades of blue and white calico.

She stopped to admire the intricate pattern and tiny stitch work. “Oh, my, this is a Dresden plate pattern. Is it handmade?”

He nodded, an odd expression lining his chiseled face. “My mother made it. Quilting was kind of a hobby of hers.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.