A Husband In Wyoming. Lynnette Kent
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hair in a conservative cut and the uniform that ranch life apparently called for: jeans, boots and shirt. “I guess this means you won’t be supervising the dinner detail,” he told his younger brother.
“We’ve got seven teenagers staying on the ranch,” Dylan explained when Jess glanced at him in question. “A sort of summer camp for some of the troubled kids in the area. My sister-in-law-to-be talked us into helping her out. So there’s a bigger crowd than usual on the premises.”
“That’s quite a project.” She didn’t expect to be impressed with their efforts. In her experience, damaged kids couldn’t be changed with a few weeks of attention, no matter how well-intentioned. “Sounds like a lot to fit in around ranch work and getting ready for an art show. When do you sleep?”
“Whenever he sits down,” Wyatt said.
“Or stops moving,” Garrett added.
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, guys. Just label me lazy in front of a reporter for a national magazine. No problem.”
“We’ll keep it off the record,” she promised him. “What do the kids get to do while they’re here?”
“Come observe for yourself,” Garrett said. “They’re not quite finished for the afternoon.”
A distraction might ease Dylan’s resistance. “Can I take pictures?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Let me get my camera.”
“And a hat. That creamy New York complexion will burn in the Wyoming sunshine,” Dylan said as he placed her bags in a cool, shadowed room off the hallway in the back of the house. “I hope you’ll be comfortable in here.”
The room had been furnished with rustic simplicity, soothing and peaceful, and the connecting bathroom was clean and bright. “I’m sure I will.” She pulled her camera out of her shoulder bag. “But I didn’t consider bringing a hat.”
He nodded. “I figured you probably hadn’t. Wait here just a second.” The thud of boot heels retreated down the hall and then returned. Dylan appeared in the doorway with a white Western-style hat in his hands. “This should do it.” Standing in front of her, he placed the hat on her head. Then he spun her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks great—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”
Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her. She had to think about taking a breath.
“It’s a new approach,” she said, and was appalled at the quavery sound of her voice. “Thanks.”
“Uh...you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away. “You might want your hair in a ponytail—it’s always windy on the ranch. I’ll wait for you outside.” In an instant, he was gone.
Releasing a big breath, Jess took off the hat and went to her suitcase for a brush and an elastic band. She took extra moments to thoroughly smooth and braid her hair, recovering her equilibrium in the process.
This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d come prepared for a sulky, reclusive artist, someone hiding away from the world he’d once conquered.
The rumor at the time was, of course, that a love affair gone wrong had sent young Dylan into exile. No woman ever claimed to be the cause of his disappearance, though, and the attention of the art scene quickly shifted to a new talent.
The man she’d just met didn’t appear to be pining away. He seemed comfortable, satisfied...solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips—all combined into one seriously hot package. And there was chemistry between them. Those moments in front of the mirror had affected them both.
But she was flying back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article. With his three brothers as well as seven teenagers on the premises, there wouldn’t an opportunity for her to get beyond a professional acquaintance with Dylan Marshall. Which was too bad, because she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.
But even if she had been staying longer, she’d reached the point in her life where a simple fling just wasn’t enough. A few days...weeks...even months of good times and good sex didn’t compensate for the emotional quagmire she went through when the relationship ended.
And it always ended.
Besides, her life was in New York. Her apartment and her job, her favorite coffee shop and the laundry that folded her shirts just right—all were in New York. Fun and games with the world’s handsomest cowboy wasn’t enough to make her give up her laundry service.
So she would keep her dealings with Dylan Marshall strictly business, and she’d leave with a well-written article and no regrets.
Above all, no regrets.
* * *
DYLAN FOUND HIMSELF out on the front porch without realizing quite how he got there. His brain had switched off, and all he could do was feel. Those seconds with Jess Granger’s slender shoulders under his palms, her scent surrounding him and her eyes gazing through the mirror into his, had been...well, cataclysmic. He’d walked away a little disoriented.
Women didn’t usually befuddle him like this, even beautiful ones. Ever since he’d discovered the difference between boys and girls, he’d made a point of getting to know as many of the opposite sex as possible—as friends, as lovers, as human beings. He considered women to be a separate species and thoroughly enjoyed all their unique, feminine attributes.
Somehow, he would have to maintain his usual detachment when it came to Jess Granger. He had to keep their relationship under control, avoid letting her get too close. She was, after all, a journalist. She’d come specifically to delve into his life and, more important, to reveal to the public as many of his secrets as she could discover.
Because of the person she expected him to be. The person he’d once been.
At eighteen, he’d left home determined to “make it big.” He’d had talent but he’d also gotten lucky and done some sculpting that the “right” people thought they understood. They’d invited him to their playgrounds and he’d gone along because he was young and stupid and flattered by the attention. To a kid from tiny Bisons Creek, Wyoming, attending art parties in Paris, France, appeared to be the pinnacle of success.
He knew better now. His life in that world had come to a screeching halt one chilly afternoon during a conversation that lasted maybe five minutes. Later, standing in a Paris sculpture garden, he’d surveyed his own work and felt completely detached from its purpose, its meaning, its origin.
All he’d wanted at that moment was to go home. To be with his brothers, inside the family the four of them had built together. After years away, he’d craved the life he’d once worked so hard to escape.
He’d been on a plane less than twelve hours later. And once he got to Wyoming, he hadn’t left in more than two years. He certainly hadn’t courted the attention of anyone in the art world. But then Patricia Trevor called him, having seen a piece he’d donated to a Denver hospital charity auction. She suggested a gallery exhibit of his recent projects, and he was vain enough to say yes. He wanted exposure for his ideas as much as ever. If he didn’t have something to say, he wouldn’t spend time or effort on the process.
But he didn’t expect his former fans to understand or appreciate this current approach. Jess Granger’s article supposedly launching the show would probably bring down a hailstorm of derision on his head. That was the way the art world worked—you gave them what they wanted or they cut you off at the knees. In spite of her beauty—or maybe precisely because she was so beautiful—he expected the same treatment from her.
The screen door to the house opened and the lady herself stepped onto the porch, a high-tech camera