“Hello,” she said a bit breathlessly as she opened the dark-red panel all the way, then flicked open the storm door. She smoothed her hair back from her cheek in an unconscious gesture, leaving a slight smudge of flour as she took a deep breath. Three of the buttons on her Western-style shirt threatened to pop.
Oh, man, was he in trouble. Personally, professionally, every which way he could manage.
His gaze jerked from her breasts to her face. “I hope I didn’t interrupt something,” Greg said, taking the open door as a summons to enter. He hadn’t worn his new Stetson today, but he imagined quite a few cowboys had come calling through this doorway, removing their hats as they waited for Carole Jacks to smile at them.
“No,” she said, taking a step back and wiping her hands on her jeans-covered thighs, “I was just doing something in the kitchen.”
He had a mental flash of hooking his hands around her thighs, lifting her to the kitchen counter and exploring every inch of her vanilla-scented body.
Not a good beginning to a business meeting, he told himself as she gestured toward the couch and chairs in the living room. Oh, yes. Those would work, too.
“Where’s Jenny?” he asked, looking around the country-style furnishings that featured little-girl touches and several framed ribbons. He needed a buffer, something to take his mind off Carole Jacks, the desirable woman.
“Gone with friends to San Antonio for the day.” She paused. “Thank you for listening to her advice yesterday and inviting her to visit Puff. She’s still experiencing some separation anxiety.”
“So’s the steer. Last night he bawled like a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” Carole said with amusement in her voice. “Jenny is apparently doing better than Puff.”
“Don’t worry about it. He was fine after I gave him an extra scoop of feed.” Greg grinned. “Of course, I could bring him back here anytime. I’d even contribute a substantial amount to his feed bill.”
Carole rolled her eyes and ignored his comment. “Take a seat. Would you like some coffee? I just made a pot.”
“Coffee would be great. Black is fine.”
She took a deep breath, which again threatened the buttons on her blue plaid shirt. “I’ll be right back.”
Greg wandered into the small living room and put his portfolio down on the couch. He saw evidence of Carole’s homey touch in the fresh-cut flowers on the pine table and the stenciling around the top of the wall.
Within moments she was back with a tray, mugs, and a coffeepot. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Rafferty.”
“Please, call me Greg,” he reminded her again.
They settled on opposite ends of the sofa, and she handed him a mug of coffee. “Would you like a cookie?”
He couldn’t hold back a grin at the irony. “Sure.” He took a bite and let the taste roll around on his tongue like a fine wine. “A new recipe?” he finally asked when he couldn’t identify the specific product.
She nodded.
“These definitely aren’t Prairie Pralines, or Chisolm Trail Chocolate Chip, or even Stampede Surprise.”
She raised her eyebrow at his recitation of her recipes, smiling slightly. “These don’t have a name yet, but what do you think?”
“I think Huntington would love to get the recipe,” he answered, reaching for another one. “I’m no expert on food, but I’m tasting pecans, vanilla and chocolate chunks. What’s that other ingredient?”
“A secret,” she said, sitting back against the couch. “I didn’t fix them to entice you with a new recipe.”
“Ms. Carole,” he said in his best imitation of a Western drawl, “darn near everything about you is enticing.”
She looked shocked, then she laughed. He hadn’t seen her so amused before, and the joy transformed her face from beautiful to radiant. Her eyes crinkled and her cheeks took on a darker shade of pink. He wanted to hold on to the warmth that flowed so freely from this woman, but knew that any move would halt her laughter quicker than anything.
“You have potential to be more than a catalog cowboy,” she said finally, wiping the corner of her eye.
“Thanks, I think. What’s a catalog cowboy?”
“Someone who orders all the appropriate gear from a catalog, but hasn’t sat a horse or roped a steer.”
“That wouldn’t be me,” Greg vowed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I have definitely ridden a horse before.”
“Cutting? Roping? Western pleasure?”
“Eastern-riding-stable nag,” he answered, hoping for another smile.
She didn’t disappoint him. “I should have known.”
Greg shrugged. “I don’t have anything against horses. We just didn’t have lots of them in our high-rise condo when I was growing up.” His family also owned a weekend house in the wooded countryside, but he didn’t mention that detail, since they didn’t have horses there, either.
“I don’t suppose so,” she admitted, reaching for a cookie. “I’ve heard the grazing on those small balconies is pretty scarce.”
Greg laughed at the mental image of taking Puff home with him to his Chicago apartment. “You could teach me to ride and rope,” he said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his crossed legs. “I’m a fairly athletic guy.”
“I—” She obviously started to say something, then stopped herself. Her blush gave away her thoughts, though. She was remembering finding him by the pool yesterday. Like the rest of the conservative community, Ms. Carole obviously wasn’t accustomed to seeing men in Speedos.
He wondered if she saw very many men without their Speedos. The thought wasn’t nearly as easy to swallow as her cookies.
“Never mind. I probably won’t be here that long,” he said, mentally shaking away the thoughts of her with another man. “If you’re ready, let me tell you a little about our company so you’ll understand how important repairing our image is to the whole family, even the whole company.”
“Okay,” she said, setting her mug on the tray. “What did you have in mind?”
Greg finished his coffee, then set his mug beside hers. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You know Huntington Foods is an old, reputable company. My great-grandfather founded the firm in the 1920s, but really it grew in size by providing staple elements of the post-World-War-II American diet.”
“As American as apple pie and cheese crackers.”
“Exactly. And until my hotheaded older brother, Brad, the former C.E.O., decided to call a nutritional expert from C.A.S.H.E.W. a ‘food nut’ and appear to come at her across the table on national television, everything was going well.”
“What happened to him? I couldn’t believe the tape I saw on TV. It looked as though he snapped.”
Greg shrugged. “The family is still debating that point, with my mother winning most of the arguments by blaming my father’s Scottish ancestors. But at least he resigned quickly. Unfortunately, we still have a mess to clean up.”
“Yes, but it’s like a funny poster someone gave my sister, ‘Poor