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  When at last she sagged against the tile and released her grip, he let the shower head dangle free, shut off the water and gathered her quaking body close. His raging body demanded satisfaction, and he wasn’t ready to take a chance on a slippery shower stall. Mattress time.

  After lifting her into his arms, he carried her out of the shower, through the archway and over to his bed.

  She gazed up at him. “We’re all wet. We’ll soak your bed.”

  “I don’t care.” He plopped her down on his quilted bedspread, grabbed a condom from the box he’d left on the nightstand and put it on. “I can’t wait until we’re dry.” Then he climbed onto the bed. “Don’t expect technique.”

  She still seemed dazed by her recent orgasm. “What…should I expect?”

  “Basic sex. And excellent aim.” He thrust deep and began to pump.

  Her sigh was rich with pleasure. “Good.”

  Sad to say, he wasn’t concerned about that. Later he would concentrate on her, but he was too far gone to do anything but gaze down at her flushed face as he stroked. Ah, like that. Yes. And faster. The bed squeaked. The headboard hit the wall. So close…. There.

  As he erupted, he was amazed to feel her contractions as she followed him over the edge. Fast and furious worked for her, too. That was good news. He’d focus on that and forget that there was any bad news at all.

  THROUGHOUT the rest of the night, Meg shoved away thoughts of morning. She couldn’t be concerned about morning when she was having the best sex of her entire life. Her sense of responsibility would alert her when the end of this outstanding experience was approaching.

  She didn’t count on her sense of responsibility taking a powder for the night. When her cell phone rang in her bedroom, she didn’t hear it. She’d fallen into the deepest sleep she’d known in years. She was aware of nothing at all until Clint shook her gently, and she opened her eyes to find him holding her phone and looking worried.

  “Your phone rang. I didn’t dare answer it, but I’m afraid we…overslept.”

  He might as well have hit her in the chest with a sledgehammer. She bounded from the bed and grabbed the phone to retrieve Jamie’s message. He sounded frantic. She speed-dialed his cell. “Jamie! Hi!” Searching wildly for a clock, she found one on the dresser. Past seven.

  “Where are you?” Jamie sounded agitated, as well he should. They had twenty-five minutes before they had to be on the bird. That was barely enough prep time.

  “I’m on my way.” Cell phone to her ear, she ran naked into her bedroom. “Get the foreman, what’s-his-name, and make sure he’s ready to be interviewed.”

  “He’s been ready for an hour. I thought you’d be here by now. We need to—”

  “I’ll be right there.” She punched the button to hang up the phone and tossed it on her still-made bed.

  “What can I do?” Clint asked from the doorway.

  “Better stay out of my way.” She threw open the closet door and grabbed the first thing she found, a black fringed jacket and black cropped pants. The pants were creased. “Can you iron?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here.” She threw the pants in his direction and rummaged in a drawer for underwear. By the time she barreled through the door headed for the bathroom across the hall, he’d disappeared with her pants. “Thanks!” she called after him.

  Her first glimpse in the mirror made her leap back in shock. Her hair stuck out like the bristles of an old paint brush, and her chin was deep pink from whisker burn. And she had ten minutes to pull herself together.

  No time for a shower, no time to shampoo her hair. She knelt down by the bathtub, turned on the faucet and stuck her head underneath. Then she dripped her way back to the sink, snatching a towel from the rack on the way.

  With the towel around her shoulders, she yanked a comb through her hair and swore loudly. This couldn’t be happening. She should have asked Clint to set an alarm, but she’d never overslept before. Never. She was so used to waking up early five days a week that she did it automatically on Saturday and Sunday, too. But not today.

  After pulling her blow dryer out of the cosmetic case, she held the plug and searched for an outlet. There had to be an outlet. No outlet. She whirled in a circle, fighting hysteria. “Clint! Help!”

  He came running. “What? What’s the matter?”

  “No outlet! I have to dry my—”

  “Right here.” He took the plug and pushed it into an outlet attached to the light beside the mirror.

  “If that isn’t the craziest place for it!” She snapped the blower on high.

  He shrugged and started back down the hall.

  She hadn’t even thanked him. Turning off the dryer, she yelled out “Thanks!” but got no response. She didn’t have time to worry about whether she’d hurt his feelings or not. Her entire career hung in the balance.

  By the time he came back holding her pressed slacks, she’d dried and sprayed her hair into submission. It still looked bad, but not as bad. “Thank you,” she said as he hung the slacks gently over a towel rack. Then she started smoothing makeup over her whisker-burned chin.

  “Anything else?”

  “I guess not, unless you can get me a new face.”

  “What’s wrong with yours?”

  “Whisker burn.” She hadn’t meant it to be an accusation, but it sounded like that, anyway. “It’s not your fault,” she added, dabbing more coverup on the area.

  “I know it isn’t,” he said quietly. “This is your job, not mine.”

  “That’s for sure.” She sighed and put down the tube of coverup. Maybe powder would take care of the rest.

  “If there’s nothing more I can do, I’ll get dressed and go down to the bunkhouse.”

  “Clint, I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but I—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Then he was gone.

  Obviously he was unhappy with her, but she couldn’t deal with that now. Hell, she was unhappy with herself. But she couldn’t indulge in self-recrimination, either. All that mattered was getting down to the bunkhouse in time.

  9

  AFTER QUICKLY shaving off the stubble that had caused Meg so much anxiety, Clint hesitated only a moment before pulling on his jeans. Once he got to the bunkhouse he’d tell the guys that his original plan had been scrapped. Trouble was, he had no plan to put in its place.

  A few hours ago he’d been in heaven, and now he was in hell. The carefree woman he’d spent the night with had morphed into a career-driven maniac. He didn’t blame her for it—in a few minutes she would appear before millions of her fans and she didn’t feel ready. That could throw anyone into a frenzy.

  But the transformation had been a slap of cold reality, reminding him that no matter how perfect she’d seemed while she’d lain naked and willing in his arms, she was not the woman for him. Never had been, never would be. Just as well. He didn’t need a woman in his life. He had his hands full worrying about the future of the Circle W.

  Even so, he mourned the loss of that special feeling he and Meg had shared. For two people to fall into sync so quickly had to be unusual. No matter how many times he’d told himself the feeling couldn’t last, he hadn’t been prepared for it to end like this. He felt emotionally cut off, amputated from all that was warm and sweet.

  Now he had to go down to the bunkhouse and act as if nothing had happened up here last night. That could have been easier if he and Meg had cooked up a story about how they’d passed the evening. They hadn’t had time for that.

  Still, before he left the house he ought to do a few things to cover their tracks. She was still in the bathroom putting on her war paint when he went into her bedroom and tossed back the covers on the bed she’d never slept in. After rumpling the sheets, he smacked his fist into the pillow, denting it as if she’d put her head there all night.

  From there he went into the living room, where the scent of wood smoke brought back potent memories. Her clothes lay across the back of the easy chair and h
is clothes were crumpled haphazardly on the floor. His mind stuttered when he realized Jamie could have easily come up here when he’d gotten no answer on Meg’s phone.

  Or Tuck might have decided to pop in. The clothes in the living room would have been impossible to explain. Thank God their cleaning lady, who was a terrible gossip, only showed up once a week. She’d been there the day before getting the place spotless for Meg’s visit.

  On his way back down the hall to throw their stuff in each of their respective bedrooms, he nearly ran over Meg barging out of the bathroom. He screeched to a halt.

  “I thought you’d left,” she said as she pulled a blue knit top over her head.

  He followed her into her bedroom and dumped her clothes on the bed. “I decided to do some damage control first.”

  She glanced at her clothes in horror. “Omigod. Is there any other evidence?”

  “Not really. The kitchen’s a mess, and our dishes are still on the coffee table, but that doesn’t indicate that we—”

  “Good.” She quickly stepped into the black pants he’d ironed. “And thanks, again. We absolutely can’t let anyone know.” She buttoned and zipped with amazing speed.

  “They won’t hear it from me.”

  “Or me.” She yanked the black fringed jacket from its hanger at the same time she shoved her feet into a pair of black slides. “I see you’re wearing jeans.”

  He gazed at her. “I figure I can trust you not to throw me in front of the camera.”

  “Of course I won’t do that.” She buttoned the jacket and grabbed her laptop. “That’s it. I’m ready. Which way to the bunkhouse?”

  He hadn’t thought about her not knowing her way around. “What were you planning to do if I’d already left?”

  “Go outside and circle the house, looking for the white van. But that would take extra time. I also could have called Jamie on the cell and asked for directions.”

  He should have known she’d have backup plans. A woman didn’t get where she was without being resourceful. “Let me get rid of these clothes and I’ll take you there.”

  “Hurry. Every second counts.”

  “I’ll hurry.” He lengthened his stride as he headed down the hall. In the bedroom he didn’t waste time looking at the bed where they’d had the orgasm fest she’d asked for. He just threw down his clothes, snatched up his hat and clapped it on his head.

  He found her pacing the living room. “Back door’s closest.” He led the way through the dining room and was nearly into the kitchen when he realized she wasn’t right behind him.

  Instead she stood in the living room, staring at him in a dazed sort of way.

  “Get a move on, Meg! I thought you were in a hurry.”

  She blinked and walked quickly forward. “I am. Let’s go.”

  “Is something wrong?” He opened the back door and gestured her out ahead of him.

  “No, no. I mean, other than the obvious, that I’m horribly late.”

  He decided not to press her on it. The morning was brisk, and he took a deep breath of cool air, which steadied him. “This way.” He started down an incline toward the bunkhouse about fifty yards away.

  The van’s antenna was cranked up, and the thing was huge, out of proportion with the van. With all the equipment, it looked as if alien spacecraft had landed, but he remembered from watching a movie being made in Sonoita that the big canvas things on tripods were actually lights. Electrical cords ran inside to the bunkhouse.

  Jamie, headphones plastered to his ears, hurried in and out of the van. Jed and Denny milled around as if trying to help. Most likely they were getting in Jamie’s way.

  Tuck stood over by the barn with a small crowd of maybe ten people. Clint recognized cowhands from the area, a couple of wives and one girlfriend. No doubt they were all here to get a glimpse of Meg.

  For the first time Clint understood that his time alone with her the previous night had been a rare occurrence. He’d had her all to himself because she hadn’t yet made her first appearance in the community. No one had dared to come up to the house and ask to see her, but now that she was broadcasting the morning show, they felt comfortable showing up.

  He wished he could somehow skip back to the beginning of their short relationship and go through it again. Only this time he’d savor everything more, because he’d have a deeper appreciation for the special treat he’d been given. He’d had no right to be grumpy this morning when she’d launched into her star routine. She was, after all, famous.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked, glancing sideways at her.

  “Fine. Just keep going.”

  “This isn’t the best footing for your shoes.” How she navigated in those backless wonders he’d never know, but she didn’t seem the least impaired as she hurried along beside him. He didn’t offer to take her arm, not wanting to be seen touching her at all.

  “I can manage. Listen, when we get there, I need to get organized for the broadcast, so I won’t have time to deal with that group of people.”

  “I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”

  “Don’t be hard on them. Just let them know I have limited time to get on the satellite.”

  “I’ll explain it.”

  “Tell me your foreman’s name again. I know I should remember, but my brain is mush right now. Tanner? Turner?”

  “Tucker. He asked you to call him Tuck, though.” Clint wished he’d brought his shades. Without them he’d have to be very careful of his expression when he glanced her way. Tuck had known him for a long time, had even been around during a couple of his lovesick phases, and Tuck would catch on fast if Clint cast even one longing glance in Meg’s direction.

  “That’s right. Tucker Benson. Tuck.” She took a shaky breath. “I wish you’d reconsider and go on camera. You’re exactly what people think of when they picture a cowboy.”

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  “All right. Then here we go.” She smiled and waved at the crowd. “Catch you all after the broadcast, okay?” she called out. “Tuck, I need you over here by the van.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tuck, dressed in his newest shirt and sporting his favorite silver belt buckle, walked toward Jamie.

  “I already have him miked,” Jamie said out as they neared the van. “Go get your mike. Got a script?”

  Meg tapped the case of her laptop. “Wrote it yesterday.”

  “Need cues?”

  “Nope, I’ll remember it.” She glanced at Clint. “If you won’t go on camera, will you at least let me borrow your hat?”

  Instinctively he grabbed the brim of his cherished Stetson in a possessive hold. It had been a present from his dad a year before he’d died. Nobody wore Clint’s hat besides Clint. “Uh, what for?”

  “I’m having an incredibly bad hair day, and the hat will help. It’ll look as if I’ve gone native if I wear it. Don’t worry—I won’t mention where I got it.”

  Because she was a New Yorker, she wouldn’t understand how he felt about this hat. After all the intimacies they’d shared, withholding his hat would seem unreasonable to her. He took it off and handed it over.

  “Thanks.” She grasped the crown and settled the hat on her head with the brim tipped back, so it wouldn’t put her face in shadow. “How’s that?”

  He gulped and nodded. “Fine. Just fine.” But she looked more than fine. Damned if she didn’t look perfect in the hat, as if she’d been made to wear it. Of course a real cowgirl would pull it forward so that it blocked the sun the way it was supposed to, but Meg was still a natural for that old Stetson.

  He had the ridiculous idea to give it to her as a souvenir. How stupid was that? Once home, she’d probably throw it in the corner of her closet.

  “Meg, three minutes!” Jamie called.

  “I’m on it!” Then she glanced at Clint. “Go over there and placate those people, okay?”

  “Right.” The onlookers were staying right next to the corral and making no move to interfere, but Meg see
med determined to give him a job that took him away from the van. He had the oddest feeling that if he stayed, he’d make her nervous.

  In a small way, that comforted him. He didn’t want to be the reason she loused up the broadcast, but he didn’t want to think that she could easily dismiss what had happened, either. By sending him away, she’d shown that she was vulnerable. He’d hold onto that thought as a consolation prize.

  MEG HAD DONE live feeds before, but from the streets of New York instead of the fields of Arizona. Earlier this year “Meg and Mel in the Morning” had run a segment in which she’d asked pedestrians a different question every morning. But she’d been on familiar ground then. And a man she’d been having sex with the night before hadn’t been standing only a few yards away.

  Jamie balanced the camera on his shoulder. “I want you and Tuck over there, with that weathered gray wall behind you,” he said.

  “Got it.” Grabbing her lapel mike and battery pack, she motioned Tuck to stand beside her. But as she attached her battery pack to her waistband at the small of her back, she remembered the sweet pressure of Clint’s hand there. As she ran her mike up under the front of her jacket and clipped it on, she remembered how his gentle caress had become urgent, his kisses deeper…

  “Meg, don’t space out on me,” Jamie said. “Didn’t get much sleep, huh, kid?”

  “Uh, not a lot. Too quiet out here in the boonies.” She managed a smile as she tucked her earpiece in place.

  “Thirty-second commercial break,” Jamie said. “Let’s check everything out. Mel and Mona, how are we looking?” He glanced at Meg. “Mona wants to know if the hat is because of a bad hair day.”

  Meg stood up straighter and worked not to clench her jaw, which would make her look grim instead of perky. “Who has time to worry about hair? I’m too busy looking at cute buns in tight denim to give a damn.” Whoops. She’d meant to say “give a hoot” instead of “give a damn.” Her nerves were a wee bit on edge.

  “Mona also wants to know why your chin is pink,” Jamie said as he focused the camera.