Wrangling The Rich Rancher. Sheri WhiteFeather
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and use them, not without getting a signed release from you. The publisher is being very strict about that. I need to interview you properly, to record you and quote you accurately.”
She expected to record him? Fat chance of that. “So anything we say without the release is off the record?”
“Yes. But if you don’t let me interview you, everything in the book that pertains to you will come from Kirby or your brothers or whoever else mentions you. That’s all I’ll be able to write about you.”
“I don’t want you writing about me at all.” How many times did he have to tell her that? “I just want to be left alone.”
She replied in a gentle tone, “This book is an amazing opportunity for me, and I’m going to write it, no matter what. But my heart is in the right place. I’m not trying to hurt or sensationalize you.”
“It sure seems that way to me. The sensationalize part, anyway.” He didn’t think that she’d set out to hurt him, even if her actions would be doing just that. “Do you know the mess Kirby’s biography is going to make of my life? I won’t have any privacy after my paternity is revealed.”
“It’ll cause some attention at first, but Kirby said he’ll hire a PR team to help you manage it. He doesn’t expect you to weather it by yourself.”
“Gee, how gracious of him.”
“I understand that you’re angry about the way he treated you. But your paternity shouldn’t have been kept a secret to begin with. If Kirby had acknowledged you from the beginning, you would already be known as his son.”
“That’s a moot point all these years later. If he wanted to be my father, he should have manned up back then.” Matt didn’t have any patience for his dad’s newfound interest in him. His old man should have forewarned him about the book, too, instead of sending a pretty little writer to do it.
She went silent, letting him brood. A moment later, she said, “I was thinking of taking a shuttle into town tomorrow, then renting a car while I’m there. Unless you’d be willing to drive me. You could be my guide.”
“Sorry, but I’m going to pass.” He didn’t want to show her around his hometown. He figured that she just wanted to go there to try to learn more about where he’d grown up. “But I’d be glad to escort you back to your cabin now.”
“The dance isn’t even over yet.”
“It’s getting close. This is the last song.” He could hear the music drifting outside. “They always end with a Texas waltz.”
“It sure is pretty.”
As pretty as it got, he supposed. Just like her. “So, do you want me to give you a ride back to your cabin?”
She tucked a strand of her lemony hair behind her ear. “Sure, I’ll go with you.” She lifted her feet off the ground, tipping her toes to the sky. “It’ll make me feel like a rodeo queen, riding beside the handsomest cowboy in the land.”
“You wish.” He stood and extended a hand. “And calling me handsome isn’t going to boost your cause.”
She accepted his hand and let him help her up. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah.” Nothing was going to take the sting out of her writing Kirby’s biography. Except maybe sweeping her into a mindless kiss that would make him forget his worries. Or reaching his hand under her skirt. Or hauling her off, like a caveman, to his bed. But he wasn’t going to do any of those things.
No matter how good they would make him feel.
* * *
When Matt pulled into his driveway and parked, Libby was still thinking about the book and how she was going to get him to agree to be part of it. But as they turned toward each other, a strange sensation came over her—almost as if they were on a date and she was going home with him for the very first time.
He frowned, and she suspected the same awkward notion had come over him. The porch light from his cabin created a misty glow, intensifying the ambience.
Neither of them spoke. Not a word. Until he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll walk you to your door.”
“That isn’t necessary.” She’d walked to the dance by herself. So why would she need an escort now? “My cabin is just right over there.”
“Yes, but sometimes the coyotes come down from the hills at this hour. We’ve got lots of them around here.”
“But they wouldn’t approach me, would they?” She couldn’t imagine it.
“They might.” He spoke in a serious tone. “I’ve heard they’re partial to blondes in short skirts and fancy boots.”
She broke into a smile, grateful for his offbeat sense of humor. She knew now that he was kidding. “I can fend them off. I’m tougher than I look.”
“That’s good.” He chuckled. “Because you look like a sugar cookie dipped in silver sprinkles.”
She feigned offense. “You don’t like sugar cookies? What kind of crazy person are you?”
“I never said I didn’t like them.” His humor faded. “I can eat dozens of them.” His amber eyes turned hungry. “I could even devour one whole.”
Libby fidgeted in her seat. If she were smart, she would make an off-the-cuff remark. She would crack a joke. But she didn’t do anything except sit there like the cookie in question.
She finally drummed up the courage to say, “You’re making me nervous, Matt.” She didn’t usually admit defeat, but her defensive mechanism was on the blink, screws and bolts coming loose.
He stared at her mouth. A second later, he lifted his gaze back to her face, snaring her in his trap.
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you,” he said. “I’m not going to do it, but I keep thinking about it.”
“You probably shouldn’t be telling me this.” Just as she shouldn’t be imagining how his kiss would feel—hot and wild, with his hands tangled in her hair, his tongue slipping past her lips.
“I even wondered about what kind of panties you have on.”
Embarrassed by his admission, by the shameful thrill it gave her, she pressed her knees together. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“I’m not asking you to. But I’m not taking it back, either. I admitted how I feel, and it’s over and done with now.”
It wasn’t over for her. She wanted to know more about him, so much more. “Have you been playing around since your divorce?” she asked, curious about his habits, his primal needs. “Do you go to the bar to meet women?”
He scowled at her. “You have no right to ask me that.”
“After the things you said to me, I think I’m entitled to a little payback.” She was still pinning her knees together, still feeling the discomfort of being the cookie he wanted to devour.
He cursed quietly.
She went flippant. “Is that a yes or a no? I couldn’t quite tell.”
He almost laughed. But he almost snarled, too. The sound that erupted from him was as unhinged as their attraction.
“If I’d been getting laid,” he said, “would I be acting like a rutting bull around you?”
“I don’t know,” she challenged him, determined to get a straight answer. “Would you?”
He shook his head. “You’re something else, Libby.”
She was just trying to make being the object of his desire more bearable, even if meant getting him to admit that he’d been alone since his divorce. “Maybe I better go home now.”
“Back