Platinum Cowboy. Rita Herron
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by the hat, but her lips drew his gaze. Pink, like plump raspberries, they made him want a taste.
Forgetting all reason, he reached out and twirled a strand of her hair that had escaped the clasp between his fingers.
Her laughter died, a sudden passion flamed in her blue eyes, and he leaned forward. Just one taste.
A shadow passed over her face, though, and she shifted and glanced at her watch.
He dropped his hand, feeling like a fool. When she looked back up at him, the ice had returned to her eyes. “You’d better take me back if you’re going to meet that detective.”
“I’m sorry, Lora Leigh—”
She threw up a hand in warning. “Don’t. Let’s just keep our relationship on a business level.”
Dammit, she was right. He’d made a mistake in touching her.
And it wouldn’t happen again.
LORA LEIGH’S HEART POUNDED in her chest as Flint drove her back to the cottage. What was wrong with her? One minute they’d been talking about the horses, and the next he’d cracked that joke about the prickly pear, and she’d imagined him falling on one, the spiny needles sticking in his butt, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
Then his eyes had turned hungry.
For a brief second, she’d forgotten who he was and why she was here. That he was her boss, and she despised him. That she’d come here to find Johnny and possibly some dirt on Flint.
But the man had cast some kind of spell over her, had almost kissed her, and she’d almost let him.
She’d seen the pictures of him with countless women in the papers, she knew he had dozens of females chasing him, and she didn’t intend to fall prey to his charms or money and become another notch on his bedpost.
She couldn’t allow a kiss to happen. She stiffened her spine, stared out at the passing brush, at a loon in the distance, then vaulted from the truck when he stopped in front of the cottage.
“Thanks for the tour,” she said. “I’ll review the horses’ medical files and get started this afternoon.”
“Sure.”
She hurried inside, retrieved Johnny’s photo, and walked to the cafeteria for lunch. The rustic building was filled with long wooden tables, a salad bar, hot dishes, cold plates and sandwiches, an ice cream and dessert island and a drink stand with jugs of homemade sweet tea, lemonade and bottled water and sodas. Already a dozen men, dusty from working with the cattle and horses, had filed in and were heaping their plates with the entrée of the day—meat loaf made from Flint’s own prized beef cattle.
Preferring her heavier meal at night, she opted for a turkey sandwich and fresh fruit, then carried her plate and a bottle of water to one of the tables. It was easy to see the division of laborers: the cattle hands tended to stick together, as did the grooms and horse trainers.
She imagined Johnny would have sought a job as a groom, so she joined that table but was well aware that some of the men at other tables were eyeing her openly. She offered them a friendly smile, but an elderly Hispanic man frowned at her, so she turned away, then introduced herself to the employees at her table.
“I’m Dr. Lora Leigh Whittaker,” she said. “I’ll be working with the horses, so if you detect any problems, please let me know.”
A young brunette named Kiki grinned and introduced herself; then the four men at the table followed suit. They chatted for several minutes, exchanging general information about their backgrounds and experience.
“I heard someone mention that I should talk to a groom named Johnny. Do any of you know where he is?” Lora Leigh asked.
Kiki frowned. “We don’t have a groom named Johnny. Maybe you’ve got the name wrong.”
Lora Leigh shrugged innocently. “Probably so. This is my first day. I’ve met so many people, I’m confusing names.”
She desperately wanted to show them her brother’s picture, but if she aroused suspicion, one of them might report her to Flint. Maybe she’d find that list of employees in his files. He might even have photos of them attached to their applications.
She finished up, then excused herself and walked to the vet clinic, grateful that Carol had left for lunch and the office was empty. She settled at the main computer and began to search through the files for Flint’s employee list. Medical records on the horses were easily accessible, and she made a mental note to review them to verify that Flint treated his animals with the care he professed.
Yet when she tried to tap into the employees’ files, she came to an impasse—she needed a password.
She tried variations on the ranch’s name, Diamond Daddy, Flint’s name, then his birthday, which she’d found in one of the many articles on him.
She drummed her fingers on the desk in frustration. Nothing worked.
She’d have to sneak into his home office and see if she could find an employee list and his password there.
The sooner she found out what had happened to Johnny, the sooner she could leave the Diamondback and Flint McKade behind and move on with her life.
FLINT STRODE INTO HIS office, irritated with himself for his lack of control with Lora Leigh. It was her first day, for God’s sake, and he’d tried to get up close and personal.
While she might have disliked him before, her opinion of him had probably taken a drastic downhill slide, any respect he might have earned from his ranch operations evaporating.
Lucinda had left a stack of pink message slips on his desk, and he thumbed through them, noting that several were from charity event planners, one was from Akeem, telling him that a memorial service had been planned for Viktor in two days, and a third was from Amal Jabar, his Middle Eastern contact who’d arranged for the Arabians to be imported. According to Amal’s message, he’d questioned his men but hadn’t learned anything suspicious.
Flint picked up the phone to return Amal’s call, but a knock sounded at the door, and he glanced up and saw Detective Brody Green poke his head in. “McKade?”
He nodded. “Come on in, detective.”
The sandy-haired cop loped in, his mouth set in a stern line, his eyes perusing the room and taking in the Triple Crown trophy. “Impressive. I watched the races and couldn’t believe how fast Diamond Daddy was.”
“He is a great Thoroughbred.” Flint gestured toward the leather chairs facing his desk. “Would you like coffee or a cold drink?”
Detective Green shook his head. “No, thanks. Just finished lunch.”
Flint nodded and sat down, planting his hands on the desk. “What did you find out about the attack last night?”
The detective removed a pocket-size notepad and glanced at it. “Nothing concrete yet. The medical examiner verified your pilot’s ID, as well as that of the older man, Grover Harper, but there’s a problem with the younger man’s identity. You said you didn’t know him?”
“I have a lot of employees in different capacities, Detective. I don’t know them all personally.”
“You don’t interview them?”
“My manager Jose Ortega is in charge of hiring the ranch hands and Reba Bales oversees the horse people, trainers, assistants and grooms. Didn’t he have ID with him?”
Detective Green made a clicking sound with his teeth. “That’s just it. He did. Name on the ID is Huey Houston, but in the DMV records, we found two Huey Houstons. One is eighty-five years old and in a nursing home in Corpus Christi, and the other died five years ago in a car crash in Austin.”
Flint frowned. “I don’t understand. You’re saying this guy used a fake name?”
The