“I’m J. J. Adams,” she said, extending her hand.
Flint felt as if a mule had kicked him right between the eyes. Ignoring the gesture, he allowed his gaze to slide the length of her. The curves disguised by her loose denim jacket suddenly became quite apparent. Firm, round breasts rose and fell with her labored breathing, and her jeans, worn white in certain tantalizing areas, were filled out to perfection.
He shook his head, and his gaze traveled back to her face. Lightly tanned, her cheeks glowed with a naturally rosy blush, making them appear to have been kissed by the sun. The effect was one makeup couldn’t achieve—no matter how expensive.
Her soft features and small-boned frame only confirmed what Flint’s brain tried to deny: she was a woman all right, and a damned good-looking one.
Jenna clamped her lips tight against a startled gasp at the man’s rugged features. He for darned sure wasn’t the type to suffer from the lack of female attention. He had a tiny, white scar at the corner of his right eye and a day-old growth of beard shadowed his lean cheeks. A muscle ticked along his firm jaw, but the dark-brown hair hanging low on his forehead seemed to soften his otherwise unhappy demeanor.
She swallowed hard. She would bet her best pair of dress boots that if he ever smiled he could charm a prudish old maid right out of her garters.
His wide, muscular shoulders, narrow hips and long, sinewy legs attested to the fact he kept himself in excellent physical condition. An amused grin played at her lips. When he’d hauled her out of the corral, he’d moved with the effortless power of a racehorse, and she had no doubt about the identity of the “Thoroughbred” glaring down at her. His authoritative presence, arrogant stance and dark scowl could only mean one thing. This was none other than Flint McCray, the lord and master of the Rocking M Ranch—her new employer. And at the moment he looked mad enough to spit nails.
Jenna’s smile widened. Time for the showdown. “I’m your new horse trainer. Sorry I’m late, but Daisy broke down just this side of San Antonio, and the mechanic had a hard time finding a universal joint for a truck of her considerable years.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re running here, lady, but I’m not buying it.”
When one of the men coughed in an obvious effort to stifle a bout of laughter, her new boss took hold of her elbow and started for the house. “The show’s over, boys. Get back to work. I want that herd up on Widow’s Ridge moved back down here by headquarters. Brad, you come with me.”
Several minutes later they walked into McCray’s study. It resembled any number of others she’d had the “privilege” to enter over the past few years. Leather and wood dominated the masculine domain and, without looking, she knew the shelves behind the desk housed books on the cattle industry, horse ranching and animal husbandry. Her gaze drifted to the opposite side of the room where, like most Texas ranches, a leather map of the property with the ranch brand burned into one corner graced the wall above the fireplace.
Nothing out of the ordinary, she decided, frowning in thought. On the mantel, beside the antique clock, sat a glass dome; the diamond necklace inside twinkled from the shaft of late-afternoon sun streaming through the window.
She sat in the empty chair beside the ranch foreman and tried to shrug it off. McCray’s life was none of her concern, and his choice of decorations of little or no importance. If he wanted to park a pile of cow patties on his fireplace, it was his business. But still, she found the delicate jewelry out of place in the otherwise masculine room.
Flint hung his hat on the hook beside the door, then lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. He eyed the woman seated across from him. He was having a devil of a time coming to grips with what had happened when he’d escorted her to the house. On contact, a jolt of electricity as powerful as if he’d grabbed hold of a 220-volt wire had run the length of his arm and exploded in his gut. If he had that kind of reaction just touching her elbow through the layers of her clothing, he wondered, what would happen if his hands roamed the silkiness of her soft skin?
He mentally cursed himself as nine kinds of a fool. The woman was running a scam and, distracted by her looks, he’d almost swallowed the bait.
“Before your face freezes in that awful frown, let me explain,” she said. “I use my initials for business purposes. My full name is Jenna Jo Adams.”
Her serene attitude grated on his nerves. “I’m sure you’ll understand I’d like to see some form of identification.”
Her smile accommodating, she took her driver’s license from the breast pocket of her jacket and handed it to him.
Examining her ID, Flint shook his head and gave it back. “You couldn’t possibly be Adams. He’s one of the top trainers in the business. That takes more years of skill than you are old.”
Her smile faded. “I’ve been working with horses most of my twenty-six years. And I’m good.” She shook her head. “No. I’m not just good. I’m damned good.” Raising one perfect brow, she added, “But age isn’t the issue here, is it?”
“No.” Flint had to give her credit. She had her share of pluck. But he didn’t need a gutsy female with an inflated opinion of herself around. He glanced at the glass dome on the mantel. He’d had enough of that type of woman to last him a lifetime. No, he needed a horse trainer. “I’d like to thank you for your time and trouble, but after careful consideration, I don’t think you’d be suitable for the job.”
Her expression calm, she smiled. “Why don’t you just come out and say it, McCray? J. J. Adams isn’t a man.”
Glaring back at her, Flint said nothing.
“When I spoke with Mr. Henson a few months ago, my gender didn’t seem to be a problem.”
Flint turned his attention to Brad. “You knew my expert trainer was female?”
“No.” Brad’s face mirrored his astonishment. “When I talked to Cal, he transferred me to his secretary and she—”
“Mr. Henson, you talked to me, and not once did I say I was Cal’s secretary.” Her eyes lit with amusement. “When Cal turned the phone over to me, I told you if there were no objections to the fee and requirements listed, you were to have Mr. McCray sign the contract and mail it back in care of the Lazy R.” Turning to Flint, she smiled. “Which you did.”
Flint picked up his copy of the document. “I signed this under the assumption I’d be dealing with a seasoned trainer. You couldn’t possibly have the experience it’ll take to turn a stallion like Black Satin into a reining horse champion, not to mention the strength to control him.”
“I’m not up to dancing this afternoon, McCray, so let’s stop two-stepping around what you’re really trying to say. You don’t want me training your horse—not for lack of experience or strength which, by the way, I have more than enough of. You’re having a problem with the fact that I’m a woman.”
Flint felt his control of the situation slip another notch. “You misrepresented yourself,” he said, waving the contract at her. “I won’t deal with anyone who uses deception to get a job.”
“I believe if you’ll take another look, you’ll find I haven’t deceived you in any way. My fee and what you may expect from my services have been spelled out in great detail.”
“Do part of your services include getting yourself killed?” Flint pointed his finger at her. “That stunt you pulled out there was one of the most harebrained I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll admit my methods are unorthodox, but let me assure you—they work.” She shrugged. “Satin and I were getting along just fine, until you and your men got him excited.”
Jenna could tell her composure grated on the man’s nerves.