Every Move You Make

“Good news,” she said. “Definitely good news.”

Because it meant that she wouldn’t be marrying Justin Johnson, also known as J.J.

Bad news because it meant that by the time she returned to the ranch by the end of the day, everyone and his brother in Oklahoma would have heard the news and be calling to commiserate.

“J.J. is a good man.”

“J.J. is a jerk.”

George grinned. “Well, then there’s that.”

“An awfully big ‘that,’ don’t you think?”

George shrugged and rounded his desk to sit down. He immediately leaned back in his chair and crossed his cowboy boots on the desktop. “I don’t know. He wasn’t so bad.” He shook his head. “You know, we all thought for sure this would be it for you—you’d finally take that long walk down the aisle.”

Instead prissy Miss Heather Walker would be taking the walk.

Mariah stared at the opposite wall, not really registering the outdated dark paneling or the oil paintings of ranch scenes hung on it. Instead she thought about the girl who couldn’t have been much out of high school, who wore pretty flowered dresses to church and whose only pair of jeans rode low, low on her boyish hips and were usually worn with clingy, belly-baring knit tops. She glanced down at her own regular uniform of classic Levi’s and old T-shirt, clothing that varied only in the winter when she wore a denim shirt over them, and her scuffed brown cowboy boots, then pushed her hair back from her face again.

There had been a time not so long ago when she’d felt very comfortable in her own clothing, even in a place where the state motto seemed to be The Higher The Hair, The Closer To God. Wearing what she had on had allowed her membership into the exclusive all boys’ club. It had permitted her to ride the range with her father and the ranch hands, and had, in essence, made her one of the guys. And, oh, how she’d always liked that. Barbie dolls had really never done it for her. Give her an ornery filly that needed breaking in any day and miles and miles of Texas earth, and she was a happy woman.

Oh, yeah? Then where was all that happiness now?

Somewhere down the line, the rules had changed—rules she hadn’t even known existed but was seeing all too clearly now.

She grimaced then let loose a stream of inventive cuss words under her breath that left George chuckling. She glared at him and continued cleaning her desk.

Well, just who in the hell had gone and changed all the rules on her anyway? The ones that said that when she turned eighteen she would have to start acting like the Barbie dolls she’d never played with? That she’d miraculously know what to do with her hair, how to apply makeup and how to walk in a pair of heels? And just when, exactly, had meat and potatoes not been enough? Why had her father started mentioning on almost a daily basis all the exotic foods her mother used to make for him to eat—if you could count crepes as exotic? And why did he now talk about how delicate her mother had been?

Sure, Hallmark commercials made her blubber. But delicate was definitely not a word anyone would use to describe Mariah Clayborn, the only child of widower Hughie Clayborn and his late wife, Nadine. At five foot seven in stocking feet and with a solid build, she once took a great deal of pride in being able to better many of the boys. She could probably still get the better of them even now. But whenever a physical competition of any sort was mentioned with her as the opponent, the men merely grinned and held up their hands in a mock version of being gentlemen.

Gentlemen, her rear. She knew just how ungentlemanly all these guys could get. Had been privy to some of their more honest and graphic conversations on observations of the opposite sex. They might hold a door open for their latest lady of choice, light her cigarette and appear to bless the very ground she walked on, but it was all toward one end: getting that same “lady” into the back seat of their cars by night’s end.

Unfortunately she, herself, had seen a back seat more times than she cared to count. But never had it come after a nice dinner out or dancing. No. Her handful of experiences had usually taken place on the back nine of her father’s ranch after one of her boyfriends visited. And had lasted as long as the drive out, making her wonder just why so many girls were dying to get into the back seats of all those cars. Her? She didn’t get it at all. Aside from being vastly uncomfortable, she’d always been left feeling…well, as if she’d missed something.

Of course, she knew what she had missed, but even thinking the word “orgasm” made her flush.

The telephone rang and she started, nearly jumping straight out of her skin at being caught thinking what she had.

“Do you want me to get that?” George asked.

“You could have just answered it, you know,” she said, picking up the extension. She shot a look at George, who’d taken her jab in stride and simply turned the page in the magazine he was reading. “Clayborn Investigations.”

“You got your man, Mariah.”

She instantly sprang up and out of her chair. She didn’t need any more explanation than that. “Thanks, Joe.” She hung up the receiver, slid her revolver into her hip holster, then pocketed her cell phone.

George didn’t even look up from his magazine. “Word on Claude Ray?”

Mariah found cause for her first smile of the day. “Oh, yeah.”

“Need some help roping him in?”

“Oh, no.”

He turned a page. “Didn’t think so.”

Mariah headed for the door, her mood instantly lightening. She liked this part of the job. This is where she excelled. No matter what else was happening in her life, she always managed to get her man.

Her smile slipped.

Well, she always managed to get her man on the job, anyway. In her personal life…

She wasn’t going to go there now.

She opened the door and darted outside—and ran straight into someone. A tall someone, who made her feel absolutely puny. A hard, nice-smelling someone who instantly grabbed her arms to steady her, sending a jolt of warmth over her skin.

“Excuse me,” she said, finding her feet and stepping backward.

The man grinned, nearly sending her off balance all over again.

Whoa, cowboy.

“I think I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Okay, he wasn’t a cowboy. His accent identified him as a Yankee. Mariah found herself tucking her hair behind her ears. And she never tucked her hair behind her ears.

She quickly fluffed her hair back out as if the move alone could erase the nervous gesture. Instead she probably came off looking even more nervous.

“So long as neither of us is seriously injured,” she said. “Pardon me again.”

She began to skirt around him, surprised she was capable of any movement at all.

“Mariah?”

Her blood sizzled through her veins at the sound of her name rolling off the stranger’s tongue. How did he know her name?

She turned slightly to face him.

“Are you Mariah Clayborn?” he asked.

“Um, yes. I am.”

He grinned that grin again. “I’m Zach Letterman. I believe you’re expecting me?”

Expecting him? In her dreams, maybe. Then his name sank in. Zach Letterman, Zach Letterman….

This was Zach Letterman? The P.I. Jennifer Madison had sent down to work with her? No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t look anything like a P.I. He looked more like he’d stepped straight from the pages of GQ. Not that she had ever read Gentlemen’s Quarterly, but she was familiar with the comparison. And if anyone looked like he deserved to be on the cover of a gentlemen’s magazine, it was this guy.