Prince Incognito. Linda Goodnight
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little mistake,” she muttered. The night had been dark. She hadn’t even seen the flowerpot. Having finally caught Sam Kensel out of his wheelchair and neck brace, she’d been too excited to notice the open window. After all, the guy was suing his workplace for millions, claiming total disability from an on-the-job injury. And then there he was, big as Dallas, pumping hundred-pound weights like Arnold Schwarzenegger, sans neck brace, sans wheelchair and without a trace of pain on his face. She’d tiptoed closer, grappled for her camera and stumbled over the azaleas, through the open window and right into Sam Kensel’s private den.
Sure, the investigation was completely blown after seven long months of tailing, spying and secret recordings. Sure, her brother-in-law had lost a boatload of money and a healthy slice of his reputation as the best in the west. But was it her fault someone stuck a blasted azalea pot under the window? And wasn’t the embarrassment of being Carly the Klutz punishment enough?
“Sheesh.” She slammed the trunk only to discover the sleeve of her oversize shirt-jacket was caught inside. She yanked hard. Then heard a rip. Sadly she looked down at the shirt borrowed from her dad. She preferred baggy, oversize clothes, and his fit the bill. They made her feel shorter, instead of a gawky, lanky five-foot-nine tower of hair and arms and legs.
Not that she cared about such things as fashion. Not Carly Carpenter. She was a private investigator—or wanted to be—with no time for fancy fingernails or frilly clothes or afternoons spent in beauty parlors. Each morning she pulled her thick brunette hair into a wad at the nape of her neck with a rubber band, shoved one of those teeth-clamp thingies in it and hoped the mess stayed in place. It never did.
She shrugged, and the aforementioned hair tumbled forward. Big deal. Let the stuff fall.
Her job was her life, and she was good at it, though her brother-in-law and half of Dallas would argue that point. Somehow she had to get back into their good graces. Breaking a case was the best way, but where would she find a case worth investigating here amidst miles and miles of cows and grass? Sheesh, she could just see the headlines now. P.I. Busts Mayor for Midnight Cow Tipping.
“Take a vacation. Rest up. Recharge your engines,” her sister had said, handing her the brochure for the Benedict Guest Ranch less than two hours’ drive from Dallas. “This place is a real ranch complete with cowboys and horses and cattle drives. You’re gonna love it.”
When she’d tried to argue that she really wanted to be investigating something, Meg had held up a commanding hand.
“I’m trying to save your job, sis. You have a paid vacation coming. Go. Let things around here cool off for a while. Give me time to work a little magic on Eric.”
And so here she was, with one ripped shirtsleeve and a very bruised ego, exiled to the Benedict Guest Ranch for an undetermined amount of time. Meg had said not to come home until she called for her. Now there was a scary thought.
Refusing to let her shoulders slump, she approached the large wraparound porch. The three-story house was right out of a John Wayne movie.
A movement from above drew her attention. On the upper balcony a curtain twitched and a face briefly appeared.
Her private investigator’s curiosity leaped to the fore. Who would be the least bit interested in her arrival?
She shrugged, and the torn overblouse slid down on one shoulder. Absolutely nobody. She hiked up the sleeve, set down her bags, pushed on the brass door handle and entered a massive foyer. The antique portrait of a sour-faced man with slicked-down hair and his equally sour-faced wife glowered down from the Victorian rose wallpaper. Why would anyone hang such an unwelcoming picture in the entryway?
From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a large open area to the right complete with a horseshoe-shaped reception desk.
Still staring at the ugly couple, she stepped sideways directly into the chest wall of a tall, very well-built man. An expensive-smelling man. She lifted her gaze past the pearlized shirt buttons, over the classic Western yoke and into a face straight out of Greek mythology. Breath lodged in her throat.
“Hello.” He gave her a smile that said he was very accustomed to having women fall at his feet. What he didn’t know was that Carly fell at everybody’s feet, handsome or not.
Fumbling for words while trying to close her fly-trap mouth, she managed, however reluctantly, to push herself away from the hard, muscular chest.
“I am so sorry. I’m so clumsy at times, but that picture…” She glanced over her shoulder and grimaced.
He removed his hat and Carly’s mouth went dry. Oh, man.
The gorgeous cowboy had bad-boy hair, the kind that drove women wild. Unruly, curly and a tad too long, the dark blond locks were a fantasy created for a woman’s fingers.
“If I understand correctly, those were the original Benedicts who built this house. And the photograph was taken on their wedding day.”
Carly forced her gaze back to the ugly picture with a stern reminder that she was not interested in men, no matter how hunky and hot. “Not exactly a match made in heaven, was it?”
The cowboy-god laughed. “According to the family, they were actually very happy together.”
“Takes all kinds, I suppose. But it does make you wonder about the rest of the Benedicts.”
“Actually the hospitality is exceptional.”
“Thank goodness. Those are not faces I would enjoy seeing over the dinner table every night.”
“So you are a guest here, too. No?”
The odd turn of phrase elevated Carly’s investigative antennae. Did she detect a wisp of an accent? She checked him out one more time. He looked like a cowboy. But then this was a dude ranch. Anybody could buy a hat and boots.
“I’ll be staying for a while.” She thought of herself as more of a prisoner than a guest.
“And you are not too happy about that?”
“Long story.” A humiliation she did not care to share with anyone, certainly not a gorgeous man who exuded class. She bent to retrieve her bags, but the cowboy was too quick for her.
“Allow me.”
Carly gawked at the perfectly vee’d back moving away from her, a bag under each arm. Since when did cowboys talk so cultured? And walk with the erect bearing of a soldier and the smooth grace of someone born to privilege? Cowboys slouched. Or strutted.
But not so this guy. She had a quick vision of servants and valets and bellboys rushing to accommodate his every wish. And women lined up to ride in his fancy Italian car.
She didn’t care if he wore spurs and chaps and shouted, “Yee-haw.” This fella was no more a cowboy than she was. An aristocrat, no doubt, with blood bluer than his eyes. The smell of money and privilege teased her senses as much as his designer cologne.
She turned up her nose. Guys like this thought they were so hot. He’d probably expect her to fall all over him, flirt and generally make a nuisance of herself. And maybe, just maybe, he’d drop a crumb in her lap.
Carly didn’t worry about that in the least. She might fall on him, but not out of attraction. Not Carly. She’d been ignored by the best and dumped by the worst. No big deal.
Hiking her torn shirtsleeve, she followed the man across the gleaming oak floor to the horseshoe reception desk. A mouse of a woman awaited her.
“I’m Carly Carpenter.”
The skinny woman whose name badge read Macy shoved a pair of enormous black plastic glasses toward her nose.
“Of course, ma’am. We were expecting you.” She pushed a form across the desk. “Please sign this and you’ll be set to go. The second floor is our guest area. You are in room number—” she squinted at the key in her hand “—three. Just down the hall past Mr. Gardner. I see the two of you have