“Samuel Jayce, I assume.”
For a moment, Sam couldn’t quite find his tongue. This woman definitely did not put him in mind of his granny. What she put him in mind of was a million bucks, and with just that one look he felt like the lowliest plowboy in the county. Why hadn’t he worn a suit? Maybe because he didn’t own one. Duh. Sure enough, though, he should’ve worn something other than jeans. Well, it was too late for that now. Shaking himself, he belatedly clasped her hand. It felt long and smooth and delicate in his own much rougher one.
Only a few inches shorter than his own six feet, she had long, slender arms and legs and a neat little waist that called attention to the thrust of her high, firm breasts, while the graceful length of her neck led the eye upward to her face. Though a little square, the symmetry of her high cheekbones and the crisp line of her jaw, accentuated by the stubborn thrust of her chin, nevertheless struck Sam as amazingly feminine. She had a perfect nose, very delicately arched brows a couple shades darker than her bright, curly, upswept hair and big, round eyes of green hazel spoked with a soft blue. Her mouth was neither too full nor too thin, elegantly shaped and painted the same shiny pinkish-orange as her short, oval fingernails, like strawberries mixed with crushed coral. Her skin, a pale, flawless gold, literally shined with health and vigor.
By appearance alone, Sam would have put her at about his own age of twenty-four, but the cool perfection of her makeup and the graceful assurance with which she handled herself pegged her as older. Sharp interest, accompanied by an equally sharp sense of disappointment, momentarily blindsided him.
“Just call me Sam,” he managed with what he feared was a frown and added too late, “ma’am.”
Her mouth quirked at that, but she merely beckoned him into the office with a movement of her head. He let go of her hand, realizing suddenly that he’d held it too long, and tried not to gulp as he followed her through what looked like a sitting area furnished with castoffs which were probably in reality expensive antiques, not that he’d know a genuine collectible from fire kindling.
“You can leave your coat on the chair there,” she said, turning in to an inner room. He shucked his coat, draped it over the back of a threadbare easy chair and walked into the other room. Pale wood file cabinets topped with an array of potted plants lined one rust-colored wall, and two tweedy, upholstered chairs stood before a sleek modern desk set at an angle to the front window. A bright floral carpet covered the floor and pale green curtains looped and draped about the windows. The executive leather chair behind the pale desk carried the cool green from the windows into the room.
Sierra Carlton performed a smooth little pirouette on the pointed toe of one high-heeled, tan leather shoe and walked behind the desk, dropping down into that high-backed chair. She couldn’t have framed herself more perfectly. The contrast of that vibrant hair against the calm green was breathtaking.
“Won’t you have a seat, Sam?”
“Thank you.” He stepped in front of an armchair and sat, trying not to be dazzled by the bright, vibrant woman across the desk. Telling himself that it was time to take charge of this situation, he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Ms. Carlton, I’m told—”
She lifted a slender hand, halting the flow of his words. “Sierra, please. Only seems fair if you’re going to insist that I call you Sam.”
Nodding, he got back to business. “I’m told, uh, Sierra, that you’re planning to farm flowers on that hundred and sixty acres you bought northwest of town.”
She stiffened, pulling her shoulders back. His gaze fell instantly to the thrust of her breasts, and suddenly he had a problem of a different sort.
“What of it?” she demanded.
Jerking his gaze back up to her face, he willed himself to relax and lay out his cards. “Well, it’s like this. You’re wanting to do some farming, and I’m a farmer. Custom farming, it’s called. See, usually I hire out to the landowner to perform any or all of the farming disciplines from field prep to harvest. I have a full line of equipment, ample experience and I’ve been reading up on flower crops. Once I get a good look at your property I’ll be able to devise a planting program.”
“A planting program,” she echoed.
He spread his hands, warming to his subject. “Yeah, see, farming is organized, high-tech business now. We’re still dependent on Mother Nature, but we don’t leave any more to chance than we must. Now, most farming around here is being done on established fields, but that’s ranch land you’re sitting on out there, which isn’t to say that it can’t be farmed, because I believe it can, but it’s going to take a lot of soil preparation and hard work.”
She sat back, picked up an ink pen and began turning it end over end with her fingers. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so, but you seem awful young for this.”
“Yes, ma’am. Twenty-four last month, but I have a degree in agriculture from Texas A&M and plenty of personal references.” He fished a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and began unfolding it. “I’ve been in business for myself nearly four years, and I first hired out as a farmhand at fourteen, so I have nearly ten years experience.”
She took the sheet of paper that he offered her and looked it over. “There are addresses here from Longview to El Paso. You’ve been around some.”
“From the Piney Woods to the Rio Grande and the Red River to the Gulf of Mexico, but I’ve got to say as far as farming, this is the place to be. No other reason I’d come back here.”
She blinked at that, and he realized with a sudden flush of heat that he’d said too much. Trying desperately to deflect her attention, he stumbled on.
“That and my baby sisters. Kim and Keli, they’re seven. Twins. I understand you’ve got a little girl, too.”
Sierra Carlton smiled and laid aside the sheet of references. “Yes. Tyree. She’s eight, going on nine, as she’d be quick to remind me.”
He nodded, praying he’d found ground common enough to allay any hint of doubt he might have inadvertently stirred. “Maybe they know each other, our girls.”
“Could be. I’ll ask Tyree.”
He resisted the urge to swipe a hand over his face and instead tried to steer the subject back to business. “So, what do you think? Are you interested in taking me on? I’m convinced we could pull a profit at this if we go about it right.”
She tapped the capped ink pen against her chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “May I ask how you became aware of my intentions, Sam?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I heard about it down at the bank. Mr. Ontario’s been real good to me. Gave me my first loan so I could buy equipment, helped me pay for it by referring me for work, and just recently we’ve established a line of credit for me so I can expand.”
A bright smile lit her face. “Mr. Ontario told you about my plans? Frankly, I didn’t think he approved.”
That smile had the power to dazzle, and for a moment Sam was tempted to foster it, but one thing Sam believed in wholeheartedly was honesty, especially when it came to business dealings. He cleared his throat. “Um, well, to be honest, ma’am, he didn’t exactly tell me what you were planning. I sort of, like, overheard him talking about it to someone else.”
That amazing smile dimmed. “Oh?”
Sam shifted in his chair once more. “Yes, ma’am. I was sitting in his office when some fellow named Dinsmore called. I’m sure Mr. Ontario didn’t mean to be indiscreet, but I couldn’t help overhearing what was being said.”
Disappointment stamped all over what remained of that smile. “I see.”
For some reason he wanted to get up, go around that desk and hug her, or at least pat her on the shoulder. Instead, he sat forward and said with quiet conviction, “For what it’s worth, ma’am, I disagree with Mr. Ontario on