He said, “There must be guys who are really worth that much money. But me—I’m just ordinary.”
“Ordinary can be nice.”
“I hate looking silly.”
“The photo doesn’t have to be silly.”
The amusement in his gaze sparkled. “I’ve seen the particular kind of calendars you make, ma’am. And they look mighty silly to me.”
“They make money. A lot of money.”
“Money’s not the most important thing in the world.”
“It seems pretty important to your sister,” Carly reminded him. “Are you going to disappoint her because you’re afraid to let yourself look foolish?”
“But—” he shook his head as if confounded “—why me, Miss Cortazzo?”
“Why not you?”
“There’s nothing special about me!”
“You’re wrong.”
Carly almost told him the truth then. About her daydreams and nighttime fantasies ever since laying eyes on his photograph. There was something special about Hank Fowler—something that spoke to the deepest part of Carly’s soul. Maybe not every woman would see him the same way, but she knew she had the right man to use to create an object of desire. A lot of women were going to pay money to admire Hank Fowler. He was good-looking. He had a strong, lean, tensile kind of body that could seduce a camera.
Better yet, there was something in his gaze that few men possessed. It was magnetism and intelligence and humor and—oh, hell, Carly wasn’t sure exactly what else. She only knew that looking into his eyes made her feel sexy.
“You’re the right guy for this contest,” she said finally. “You have the look that our marketing department wants most.”
“Marketing department?” he said doubtfully. “You actually pay people to decide what kind of pictures go on those calendars of yours?”
Carly hesitated to reveal that the marketing department was made up of herself and Bert—just like nearly every other department at Twilight Calendars. But it sounded good.
She went on. “Our marketing department has been very successful in the past. We manufacture one of the bestselling products in the country. We know what we want. And we want you, Mr. Fowler. We want a cowboy who can handle a horse, ride the range, shoot a gun—”
“Oh,” he said with a grin. “For a while there, I was afraid I was going to have to take my clothes off.”
“That wouldn’t hurt, either.”
He blinked, startled. “Do you have any idea how cold it gets out in this godforsak—I mean, out here in God’s country? A guy would have to be nuts to take off his shirt and go riding around—”
“Our calendars are fantasies, Mr. Fowler. They’re not supposed to portray real life.”
“Fantasies,” Hank repeated.
He had a few fantasies starting in his own head at that moment.
Carly Cortazzo was the sort of woman he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding—smart, opinionated, ambitious and assertive. Probably temperamental, too. Mostly, Hank preferred to keep the company of beautiful but soft-willed women who let him dominate the relationship. It was immature of him, he knew, but it was easier to be the boss, he’d decided long ago. With the right partner, he got to do the things he enjoyed most and have the added benefit of a beautiful companion, too.
But Carly was a challenge. He guessed that starting a relationship with her would be like setting off a boxful of fireworks in a closed room. Just watching her tight, erect posture as she confronted him made Hank think of hot, passionate arguments. She was unpredictable and could probably do a lot of damage, if she chose.
He found himself fantasizing how explosive she might be in bed, too.
“Mr. Fowler?”
Hank yanked his attention back to the present and gave her a grin. “Sorry. What did you say?”
She controlled her patience with an obvious effort. “I asked if you have any objections to taking off your clothes for the calendar.”
Hank nearly choked. “Hell, I haven’t agreed to do it with my clothes on, let alone—”
“But your sister needs the money.”
True, Hank thought, suppressing a groan.
For some insane reason he would never fathom, Becky had tied her heart and soul to the Fowler cattle ranch, and she needed a miracle to save the place from bankrupcy. A few years of low beef prices, hard winters and the high cost of feed had driven Becky to desperation. Of course Hank had pitched in his savings to help his sister, but eventually his own finances had run painfully dry. They needed a miracle, all right.
Unfortunately, Hank hadn’t foreseen the miracle requiring him climbing into cowboy duds just to have them stripped off for a camera-toting beauty with a kissable red mouth and blue, bedroom eyes.
“Look, Miss Cortazzo,” he began firmly, “I guess I have to go through with having my picture taken because my sister gave you her word, but wild horses won’t get me out of my jeans.”
She pounced. “How about your shirt?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Absolutely not.” Thoughts of his fellow journalists catching a glimpse of his photographed face had been hard enough to imagine. But if his colleagues got hold of anything more risqué, Hank knew he would be getting blackmail notes for the rest of his life. “No way, Miss Cortazzo.”
She tried a more subtle approach. “I was thinking we could try some shots of you chopping wood. You might actually do that without a shirt, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How about—”
“There’s no way I’m taking off anything.”
He was saved from further arguments as they were interrupted at that moment by rushed footsteps on the porch. A moment later Becky burst into the house, breathless and flushed.
“Hen—I mean, Hank! Doc Vickery just stopped by. He says there’s a buyer coming from out East who wants to look at our stock!”
“Great,” said Hank, although he had no idea what in the world his sister was talking about.
Becky must have understood his meaningful glare, because she glanced toward Carly Cortazzo and explained—as if for the benefit of a newcomer, “That means we’ve got to have a roundup. You know, to gather up all the cattle and pen them here at the ranch for inspection.”
“How exciting.”
How awful, Hank almost said aloud. “What about Fred? Didn’t you just give him a few days of vacation?”
“Who’s Fred?” Carly asked.
“My—our hired hand,” Becky replied, already headed for the telephone. “He helps around the ranch. I better call him right away. I can’t round up all the cattle by myself.”
“What about Hank?” Carly asked innocently. “Can’t he help?”
Becky stumbled just as she reached the telephone, but Hank was glad to see she managed not to howl with laughter at the idea of her brother actually performing cowboy work. “Hank? Oh...sure. He’ll help. Won’t you, Hank?”
“Of course,” Hank said, hoping he hadn’t turned white at the thought of galloping all over the ranch in search of runaway cows.
“This will be great,” Carly said with a big smile. “A real