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  Or, put another way, if George got upset with Clint for some reason, any reason at all, he could be canned. Then no telling what would happen to Tuck, and José, the cook, and Jed and Denny, the ranch hands who helped take care of the place. George might sell all the horses and let the ranch go to seed. So Clint had to pretend that this TV thing was a good idea. For the first time, George had seemed pleased that the land had an actual ranch sitting on it.

  "Hey, Tuck, I have some business to discuss with you." Clint leaned against the top rail of the round pen and watched Tuck work Gabriel at the end of a lunge line.

  "What's that?" Tuck made a little chirping noise to keep the horse cantering in a circle. Then he took a look at Clint. "You sure are gussied up. You planning on getting hitched today?"

  "No. The outfit's part of my new plan. When this TV lady arrives, I'm going to tell her I'm not a cowboy, never have been a cowboy. I'm going to say I handle the business end of the ranch but you're in charge of the physical running of the operation."

  "Good luck on putting over that whopper." Tuck slowed Gabriel to a trot. "Even in those clothes, you look like a cowboy to me."

  "That's because you know me. She doesn't. She doesn't know much of anything about anything, and I want to keep it that way. So how about it? Will you go along with whatever I tell her? And will you clue in the other guys?"

  Tuck nodded as he watched Gabriel circling the pen. "It won't work, but I'll go along, and I'll spread the word. So you're definitely not entering her contest?"

  Clint snorted, which startled Gabriel into breaking stride. "Nope."

  "Some people around here are real excited about this contest." Tuck turned slowly with the motion of the horse. "They see it as the road to riches."

  "They couldn't pay me enough to prance around on TV. I mean, would you do it?"

  "Depends on the stakes, I guess. Anyhow, some vehicle's kicking up a cloud of dust on the road, so I imagine that's your TV people."

  Clint glanced over his shoulder. Oh, joy. He sighed and tried to cheer himself up with the thought that the whole episode would be over by the day after tomorrow. Then life at the Circle W could return to normal.

  He walked toward the front of the ranch house, determined to be as gracious as possible without letting this TV woman take over. He got there as a white van pulled around the circular drive and parked in front of the house.

  The woman who hopped down from the passenger side was shorter and skinnier than he'd imagined from watching her on TV. Mostly skinnier, anyway. Her breasts were quite impressive, not that it mattered to him one way or the other. Her outfit, though, was exactly what he might have expected.

  She wore a rhinestone-studded denim shirt over a scoop-neck top that showed plenty of cleavage, a pair of tight cropped jeans also studded with rhinestones, and backless red shoes with pointed toes. The tooling on the red leather was probably supposed to make them look sort of like boots.

  "Hi, there." She walked toward him, her hand outstretched. "I'm Meg Delancy, from 'Meg and Mel in the Morning'."

  He'd intended to be suave. He'd intended to be slightly nonchalant, as if he met TV celebrities every day and he couldn't get very excited about this one. But her smile blinded him. He hadn't been prepared for that smile to go right through him and make him weak in the knees.

  Despite her ridiculous outfit, despite her plan to turn the noble Circle W into a media circus, despite his resentment of her intrusion into his peaceful way of life, he was dazzled. "I'm … uh … Clint … uh …Walker."

  "Now there's a name right out of television Westerns. Wasn't Clint Walker the star of Cheyenne?"

  "My dad loved the show." He shook her incredibly soft hand and cursed himself for acting like a teenager with a crush.

  "Glad to meet you, Mr. Walker. I must say I expected jeans and a Stetson. You'd be right at home on Madison Avenue."

  "Well, I don't … my foreman, Tucker Benson, he's the cowboy around here. I'm a business-school major." That last part was true. Unfortunately his shiny new degree had been no good when it had come to pulling the ranch out of the red.

  "Not everyone's cut out to be a cowboy, Mr. Walker."

  "You can call me Clint." The words were out before he knew it. Sheesh. And he'd promised himself not to be overly friendly, just polite. Mr. Walker would have suited that plan perfectly.

  "I'll do that." She hit him with The Smile again before gesturing to the small, wiry guy who climbed from the driver's side of the van. "This is my cameraman, Jamie Cranston. Jamie, this is Clint Walker, our host."

  "Good to meet you." Jamie's handshake was firm. Then he glanced up at the sky. "We still have some daylight left, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get footage of the ranch. Do you have a bunkhouse?"

  "Yes. Behind the main house, over by the corrals." Clint thought about the usual condition of the bunkhouse. "But the place isn't very—"

  "I'm not interested in a Hollywood bunkhouse," Jamie said. "I want a real one. If you have a spare bed down there, I'd like to hang out with your ranch hands."

  Clint hadn't figured on this at all. He'd made up both spare rooms in the main house, planning that she'd take one and her cameraman the other. If the cameraman slept in the bunkhouse, then he and Meg Delancy would be in the big house … alone.

  "It's the best way to get local color," Jamie said.

  Clint could hardly object on the grounds that he wanted Jamie around to chaperone. "Sure, I guess that would be okay." Jed and Denny would be only too happy to have the cameraman there. They both planned on entering the competition, so hanging out with Jamie would seem like a good way to gain an advantage.

  "Great," Jamie said. "Meg, if you want to grab your suitcase and laptop, I'll just drive the live truck around to the bunkhouse and unload my camera."

  "What live truck?" Clint glanced around, expecting God-knows-what to materialize.

  "That's what we call the van with all the communications gear in it," Meg said.

  "Oh. Right." Clint acted as if he'd known that all along.

  "We don't have a whole lot of time here," Jamie said, "so I want to make use of every minute."

  "Sounds like a plan." Meg headed to the back of the van, where Jamie had already opened the doors.

  Clint glanced inside and saw enough electronic equipment to choke a stable of horses. He supposed they'd need all that to beam stuff to New York, or whatever the plan was.

  Meg pulled out a rolling suitcase the size of a hay bale and plunked it to the ground. Then she hooked the strap of a computer case over her shoulder. "I'm all set, Jamie. Take off."

  "Thanks, Meg. See you two later."

  Full-blown panic set in. Clint hadn't pictured being stuck alone with Meg, especially not five minutes after she'd arrived. "Dinner's at the main house at six," he called after Jamie. But that left two incredibly long hours. What in hell's name could he do with this big-city woman for two hours?

  "I'll be back at six." With that, Jamie hopped in the van and drove around behind the house.

  Clint watched the van until it was out of sight.

  "Well, Clint. Here we are."

  Her voice tickled his eardrums in a most unsettling way. A sexual way. This was not good, not good at all. He was supposed to think of her as the enemy. Instead he was more fascinated by the minute.

  He glanced down at her. "I guess we should … go on in."

  "I really appreciate you putting me up. I'm sure it's an imposition."

  "No, not at all." He reached for her suitcase and lifted it so it would clear the steps. The thing felt as if she'd packed it full of anvils, but he would have expected her to come loaded to the gills with fancy clothes. In fact, she was exactly as he'd pictured her. And instead of being repulsed, he was wildly attracted. It defied logic, but there was the truth of it.

  "I'll show you to your room." As he trudged up the steps with her bulging suitcase, he pictured her sleeping in that room, then pictured how close her room was to his. Damned if that di
dn't get him extremely excited.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  The landscape didn't provide much inspiration for Meg as she followed Clint into the house, but the view in the foreground was outstanding. She could look at buns like that all day. And those eyes of his—were they really that blue, or was it his tan that made them seem that way?

  The tan had her speculating about his claim that he was only a business major and didn't mess with ranch work. Unless he had tennis courts hidden away somewhere, she'd bet money he did some manual labor around this place. And he moved like a guy who was used to physical activity.

  She'd known her share of desk jockeys, and Clint didn't strike her as the desk-jockey type. He struck her as the yummy type, though. Interesting that he'd deny knowing anything about the very occupation she'd come out here to showcase. Very interesting.

  "Here's your room." He carried her suitcase into an antiquey sort of place, with a brass bedstead, an old pine dresser and a braided rug on the wooden floor. Shoot, there was even a rocker in the corner. Homespun City.

  She spied a door on the far wall. Laying her laptop on the bed, she gestured toward the door. "I imagine that's the bathroom."

  "No, that's the closet. The bathroom's across the hall."

  "Oh." She hadn't walked across the hall to a bathroom since she'd lived at home with her family in Brooklyn. "Good thing I brought a bathrobe, huh?"

  "Listen, if you'd be more comfortable, I could move you into my room."

  The opening was too obvious to resist. "With you still in it?"

  To her surprise, he turned red and cleared his throat. "I meant I'd give you my room and I'd take this one. Mine has an attached bathroom."

  How adorable. He was blushing. This gig might turn out to be more fun than she'd thought back when she and Jamie had first headed down the dusty road to Nowheresvile. At least the natives were extremely cute and unspoiled.

  Now that she thought about it, the ultra-sophisticated types she'd met in New York didn't appeal to her all that much. This guy definitely did. Nothing could come of a fling with him, if she dared chance one, but he was the first man to flip her switches in some time. Then again, she'd been too busy for switch-flipping. And she was too busy now. But this attraction reminded her that she missed sex … a lot.

  "I wouldn't dream of putting you out of your room," she said. "This room will be just fine." Or sort of fine. She noticed there was no phone in it, and more important, no television.

  "I'd be happy to give you my room. I should have thought of that. Let me take five minutes to change the sheets and move out some of my stuff."

  He really was sweet, and she didn't want to be a problem child, but this back and forth across the hall business didn't excite her. "Does your room have a TV?"

  "No. The only TV is in the living room, and I need to warn you, the reception isn't very reliable in Sonoita. Depends on how the wind's blowing."

  She stared at him, unable to imagine unreliable TV reception. She'd begun to accept the lack of shopping options, but she needed TV reception, or life as she knew it would cease to exist.

  Then she had a brainstorm. "So I bet you have a DVD player, for when the reception is bad."

  "Uh, no. I have an old VCR, but it's cranky. I don't use it much."

  "So how do you amuse yourself at night?"

  "I go to bed."

  She tried not to laugh. She really tried hard, but the laugh popped out of her, anyway. God, he was adorable.

  Apparently he figured out how his answer must have hither, because he got even redder. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

  "That's too bad. The conversation was getting really interesting." She took pity on his discomfort and decided to ease up on him. After all, she made her living trading loaded remarks, but he didn't.

  The morning talk show was supposed to be spicy. That's how viewers liked it. Throwing out saucy comments had become a habit, but here was a country guy, business degree notwithstanding, who wasn't used to banter. She didn't want to scare him off, because he just might be the temporary answer to her sexual frustration.

  "I shouldn't tease you," she said. "As I said before, I appreciate your willingness to put up with me for a few days. This room will be fine. Thank you for allowing me to stay in it."

  "You're welcome." He edged toward the door. "Go ahead and get settled in. I'll … go take care of some things."

  "I hate to be a royal pain, but I would love some coffee. I have a caffeine habit that won't quit, and my gauge is on the low side."

  He looked relieved to have something he could provide. "I'll make some coffee, then."

  "Great. You, uh, wouldn't have a way to make espresso, by any chance?"

  "No. Just plain coffee."

  "That's fine. Great. Plain coffee is great."

  "Want me to bring it to you?"

  "No, no. I'll come and get it." God, he must really think she was a princess. Maybe she was and hadn't realized it. She'd never been in this kind of environment before, so she wasn't sure how Annie Oakley would have handled things.

  "I have a better idea. I'll take it out to the porch."

  "Sounds good." She vaguely remembered walking across a porch but she'd been concentrating on his tush at the time. As for sitting on a porch, she was a virgin. It sounded as boring as staring at a blank TV screen, but she had to take his presence into consideration. That, of course, was assuming he'd join her in this porch-sitting experience.

  "Then I'll see you in a few minutes." He started down the hall and paused to glance back at her. "Do you take cream?"

  "Nonfat milk." Somehow she just knew he wouldn't have it.

  "Uh, all I have is half-and-half."

  "Then I can drink it black." She'd already blown her eating program with a fast-food hamburger for lunch. Most people didn't appreciate how a TV personality had to monitor weight gain. Mona had a height advantage and was thin as a strip of linguini, besides. Being a short person, Meg showed any weight gain immediately. She couldn't afford to look tubby compared to Mona.

  "Then black it is." Clint disappeared down the hall.

  Once he was gone, Meg unzipped her suitcase and thought about her host as she started hanging up her clothes. This might be her chance to have a fling away from the hotbed of gossip that was New York City. When she'd dreamed of a career in television, she'd envisioned dating as part of it. She hadn't realized how her visibility might hamper her social life, and sexual frustration was becoming a constant companion.

  This guy might be the perfect solution, if he had any interest in her at all. But she'd have to find out more about him and assure herself that he could be discreet. Then again, he might have a girlfriend. A man who looked like Clint would likely have a girlfriend. Damn.

  Sighing, she contemplated her wrinkled clothes. What she wouldn't give for valet service. Or even a cleaners within five miles who could do a fast press job on these duds. But she knew enough not to ask about cleaners. If TV reception was dicey, a one-hour cleaning service would be out of the question. She hoped Clint owned an iron and ironing board.

  It sure was quiet around here. She hadn't noticed the silence so much while she'd been with Clint, because he'd claimed a fair amount of her attention. Now that he was out of the room, the stillness was spooky. Some little bird was tweeting outside the window, and she could faintly hear the sound of Clint making coffee in the kitchen, but other than that, nothing. No cars, no sirens, no machinery clanking away.

  She looked around to see if the room had so much as a radio. No radio. But when she opened a dresser drawer to put her underwear away, the scent of cedar drifted up. Now that was nice. Cedar-lined drawers. She'd thought about doing that once in her apartment, but she wasn't the Susie Homemaker type, so the thought had died quickly.

  After hanging up as many clothes as she expected to need for this leg of the trip, she pulled out her cosmetics bag and walked over to explore the bathroom. The place was basic
, but adequate. And sparkling clean. She wondered if Clint had a cleaning lady or if he was responsible for the condition of everything. In any event, someone had made an effort on her behalf, and she appreciated that.

  She'd brought along a lighted makeup mirror, in case she'd need it. Pulling the chain that turned on the light beside the sink, she concluded that she'd need it. And as usual in old bathrooms, there was precious little counter space, although the counter was kind of pretty—tile in a bright flowered pattern that looked as though it had come from Mexico. She could handle this situation, so long as the hot water worked.

  Automatic reflex made her glance in the mirror. Not surprisingly, her nose was shiny and her lipstick nearly gone. She reached for her cosmetics bag, another automatic reaction. Meg Delancy, television personality, always had to look good. But as she zipped open the bag, the aroma of coffee drifted down the hall.

  To heck with repairing her makeup. She needed coffee, and Clint probably didn't mind if her makeup was perfect or not. Men hardly ever noticed those things unless the problem was dramatic, like raccoon eyes. She also suspected that perfect makeup might be another signal that she was, in fact, a princess. She'd rather he didn't think of her that way.

  Realistically, she shouldn't care how he perceived her. But she'd always cared about stuff like that, even when the person in question wasn't a six-foot hunk of delicious manhood. Given that Clint fit that description, she had even more reason to want his good opinion. From the looks of things, Clint might be the only entertainment the place had to offer.

  Back in the living room she took a minute to glance around. The TV was only a nineteen-inch. She'd bet that both the TV and the VCR had been sitting in that same spot when Clinton was elected.

  Besides that, the TV was in a far corner of the room and none of the furniture faced in that direction. Instead, the worn leather sofa and chairs had a great view of an enormous stone fireplace. You could put a pretzel-vendor's cart inside it.