Книга - Platinum Cowboy

Platinum Cowboy
Rita Herron








Platinum Cowboy

Rita Herron







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ub7f27f05-f5ad-55c5-b70b-0157d693fdab)

Title Page (#ud61c6a1b-404a-5983-a990-8fc92503f212)

About the Author (#uad7d8e5c-1195-5ae2-b0f6-a5dba7af0fef)

Chapter One (#ulink_3bcdcb88-dda4-5d15-a701-0677c1005f88)

Chapter Two (#ulink_1fc82bb0-967d-5153-a507-c3ca69f109e3)

Chapter Three (#ulink_035018a8-b46b-5ecb-bb4c-3de13db7d354)

Chapter Four (#ulink_2dcba72a-6d8c-5cee-aaf4-6f33e8f45807)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling to kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at PO Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, USA or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com.

To the Diamonds and Daddies team of writers –

you’re the greatest!




Chapter One (#ulink_1bd3f202-2090-5d33-9948-673291ac7069)


His best friend, Prince Viktor Romanov, and the entire royal family had been killed.

Grief welled in Flint McKade’s chest as he strode through the atrium to the airport bar to meet his friends and business associates, Jackson Champion and Akeem Abdul.

Flint’s Aggie Ring winked beneath the fluorescent lights, reminding him of their college days at Texas A&M and that the four men had called themselves the Aggie Four.

But now one of them was gone.

Emotions clogged Flint’s throat. How could they be the Aggie Four with only three men? It wasn’t right…

And to think that when he’d first met Viktor, he’d scoffed at his title. Hell, he’d been a poor cowboy with a bad attitude and a chip on his shoulder, a kid who’d grown up with no chance for a future.

Unless he made it himself.

A cowboy and prince as friends—never.

After all, he’d never lived anywhere but on the ranch where his parents worked. Viktor had grown up as a middle-class boy in London and had gone to schools all over the world. His entire family had been exiled from their country, Rasnovia. So Viktor had gone to school on scholarships, with the goal of giving his life to his country.

That had impressed the hell out of Flint. Seeing Viktor so determined had inspired Flint to believe that he could accomplish big goals himself. Then he’d learned that Viktor had lost his father when he was a teen, and they’d bonded over shared grief.

Viktor had introduced him to Akeem, a sheik from Beharrian, and another unlikely friendship had formed. In their fraternity, their tight-knit brotherhood had spread to encompass Jackson, sealing the Aggie Four.

Each of them had had to overcome almost insurmountable obstacles to achieve success. But they were driven, ambitious and determined.

Instead of future business leaders of America, they’d vowed to become future billionaires. Self-made billionaires.

And each had succeeded.

Once they’d built their financial empires, they’d decided to give back by creating a nonprofit foundation to raise money for charities.

Flint spotted his friends’ dejected faces as they sat slumped at a bar table, a pitcher of beer untouched in front of them, with three mugs waiting.

Three, not four.

One member of their brotherhood was missing.

Killed, of all times and places, in a violent explosion at the palace on Rasnovian Independence Day.

Sweat trickled down his jaw. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t have happened.

Akeem caught his eye as he approached, the devastation on his face mirroring Flint’s. They were supposed to be celebrating their latest venture tonight, not mourning Viktor’s death. Although Flint’s five-hundredacre ranch bred and trained thoroughbreds, quarter horses and beef cattle, Akeem had convinced him to try his hand at Arabians, and he was expecting the shipment within the hour. Jackson’s company Champion Enterprises had handled the arrangements.

Flint always met his shipments in person.

He claimed a chair across from Akeem, with Jackson on his right. In the midst of the crowded airport terminal, the strained silence grew tense. No one wanted to speak.

Saying the words out loud would make it all too real.

Flint lifted the pitcher and filled the three mugs, then watched the head on the beer fizzle as he contemplated what to say.

“I can’t believe it,” he finally said.

Akeem scraped his hand over his chin. “The country isn’t releasing any details.”

“Do you think the rebels in Rasnovia killed the royal family?” Jackson asked in a gravelly voice.

Flint shrugged. “That would be my guess. Once the democracy was established, the royal family had intended to stay on as ambassadors.”

Viktor had been an icon to his country; he’d worked diligently to repair Rasnovia’s infrastructure and jumpstart its economy.

The Aggie Four had also invested in Rasnovia’s businesses. But money wasn’t the issue tonight. Their friend’s death was all that mattered.

Flint raised his mug to toast their departed buddy, and Jackson and Akeem followed, but then Flint’s cell phone trilled.

His pilot. He connected the call, frowning at the sound of static popping over the line.

“Reuben?”

“T-trouble,” Reuben said in a choked voice. “Help…”

Flint’s heart pounded, and he lurched up. “I’ll be right there.”

“What is it?” Jackson asked.

“Something’s wrong. Let’s go.” He tossed some cash on the table to pay for the beer; then the three of them raced toward security.

Joey Stamos, the chief of security, met them at the gate and transported them to the plane, which had already taxied up to the loading dock. The runway lights had been cut as well as the exterior lights, pitching the plane into total darkness.

“What the hell is happening?” Jackson muttered.

“You think someone’s trying to steal the Arabians?” Akeem asked.

Flint cursed. “Over my dead body.”

Suddenly all hell broke loose, and gunfire exploded outside. The security guards at the loading dock scurried into action, crouching down as they surrounded the plane.

“Stay down and inside!” Stamos ordered as he slid from the vehicle.

Flint reached for the door handle, but Stamos grabbed his arm. “I mean it, McKade. Those are automatic weapons.”

Dammit, Stamos was right. He hadn’t exactly come packing to the airport.

Another round of bullets pinged back and forth. The guards exchanged fire, their bullets pelting metal, dust flying, for what seemed like hours as Flint and his friends waited.

Finally, things settled down, and Stamos returned. “It’s clear, but not good.”

Flint imagined the worst as he climbed out of the vehicle. “I have to see.”

Stamos put a hand to his chest to stop him. “No, wait on CSI.”

“Stamos, those are my people in there,” Flint growled. “And I have to check the Arabians.”

Stamos finally nodded but ordered Jackson and Akeem to remain behind and wait for the local police and forensic team.

Fear and anger gnawed at Flint as he followed Stamos to the plane and climbed on board.

The moment he stepped up to the cockpit, the coppery scent of blood assaulted him. Then he glanced inside, and his chest clenched at the sight of the bloody massacre. His pilot had been shot in the head at close range, his blood and brain matter splattered across the instrument panel.

He spun around, fury churning through him, then spotted two ranch hands sprawled on the floor, dead in the galley. One was an older guy he’d known for years. The other was a young man, but his face had been shattered during the massacre and was unrecognizable. Multiple gunshot wounds marked their chests and limbs, their blood running like a river down the aisle.

Choking back bile, he sidestepped the bodies and rushed to the stalls to check the horses.

Normally sedated, now they were kicking and whinnying madly, the small plane rocking with the force.

“Shh, guys. It’s over.” He gently soothed the animals, scrutinizing each one for injuries, but thankfully, they appeared to be unharmed.

“We got the shooters,” Stamos said as he came up behind Flint. “There were two, both with heavy artillery.”

Flint’s jaw tightened. “I want to question them.”

Stamos shook his head. “Too late. They’re dead.”

Flint fisted his hands, wanting to pound something. A dozen questions raced through his head. Questions the cops would ask. Questions he wanted the answers to himself.

Who were the shooters? Had they been working alone, or had someone else orchestrated this attack?

“Looks like someone either wanted the horses or wanted to hurt your business,” Stamos said quietly.

Flint nodded. Damn right, they had. And he’d find out who had endangered his Arabians and killed his men.

Then the SOBs would pay.



DR. LORA LEIGH WHITTAKER hated Flint McKade.

Yet here she was, driving past the giant live oaks flanking the private road to the Diamondback Ranch—McKade’s mega-conglomerate estate—to work for him. He’d named the huge operation after his prized stallion, Diamondback Jack, a thoroughbred that had won him millions in races and stud fees, and not, as she’d first thought, after the diamondback rattlers so prominent on the rugged Texan land.

Bitterness swelled inside her. He was a snake himself. Always coiled and ready to strike and take advantage of the small-time ranchers.

She had to suck up her pride and hatred, though, because she needed answers.

Her younger brother, Johnny, was missing.

The last time she’d spoken to him, he’d been working incognito on the Diamondback.

No matter how brilliant McKade seemed through the lens of the press, she was convinced he’d made his money by cheating small-time ranchers and farmers out of their homes and property and built his empire like some sort of shrine to himself. He probably had a gargantuan ego to match that fat bank account of his, too.

She’d read the business sections, the numerous features of him in various magazines and newspapers, and knew he was worth at least a billion.

And to think what he’d bought her father out for.

No amount of money would have been enough. The Double W had been their home, her parents’ dream. They’d poured blood, sweat and tears into the place, their entire life and soul into farming and ranching, and had raised her and Johnny to love the land as they did.

It was the only place Lora Leigh had ever called home. The place where she’d run and played with Johnny when she was little. Where she’d gotten her first horse, Miss Whinny, where she’d learned to ride and developed her love of animals. Where she’d decided she wanted to be a veterinarian.

In the house on that ranch she’d shared cozy Christmases with her family, stringing the tree they’d cut down themselves with popcorn and decorating it with handmade ornaments. There her mother had painted bird feeders for the yard and planted flowers in the spring.

It had killed Lora Leigh to lose her home.

Especially knowing her father had taken out a second mortgage to fund college and vet school for her.

She swiped at the flood of tears streaming down her face, gulping back grief and anger. Two days after her father had sold their home to Flint McKade, he’d killed himself.

All because of McKade. The bastard.

A choked sob tore from her chest, the tendrils of grief clawing at her. Life had taken an even nastier downward spiral then. Johnny had turned to booze and trouble. Even while grieving for her father, she’d tried to drag him up from the bottom of the barrel and convince him to straighten up. She couldn’t lose him, too.

But when he’d finally sobered up, his anger had surfaced, and he’d started talking revenge.

Six weeks ago, he’d gone to the Diamondback and landed a job under another name. He thought he could find some dirt on McKade to destroy him, something to prove he had cheated their father out of his land. But she hadn’t heard from Johnny in over two weeks, and he always checked in weekly.

What if he’d found something incriminating, and McKade had discovered what he was up to? Would McKade be so ruthless as to get rid of her brother to keep him silent?

Panic threatened, but she tamped it down, tightening her fingers around the steering wheel. If she found out he had, she’d go to the police.

She’d considered it already, but then she’d have to admit that her brother had gone to the Diamondback seeking revenge on McKade. And what if Johnny had done something or planned to do something illegal…?

Her gaze was drawn to the pastureland and the horses galloping in the pens as she neared the Diamondback’s main house. Nerves on edge, she parked in the circular drive in front of the house, noting the nearby corrals and bunkhouse, and inhaled a calming breath as she removed her compact to repair her tearswollen eyes.

She’d wondered if McKade would recognize her name and refuse to hire her because of her father, but she hadn’t dealt with him directly or even met him yet.

He probably didn’t know half the names of the families he’d destroyed.

Money was obviously the only thing that mattered to him.

Well, family was the only thing that mattered to her. Family and her home.

He had already stolen two of those from her.

If he’d hurt Johnny, he’d be sorry.

“THE ARABIANS ARE SAFE and in quarantine now on my ranch,” Flint told Amal Jabar, the Middle Eastern contact who’d arranged for him to import the new breed. “I’m not sure if the attackers wanted to kill my men or steal the horses, but I intend to find out. I’m going to need a list of everyone who works for you, and anyone else who knew about the shipment.”

“You’re suggesting that one of my people sabotaged the plane?” Amal said, with an angry edge to his voice.

Flint was skating on thin ice here: Akeem had referred him to Amal and trusted the man. “I’m not implying anything,” Flint said. “But men died tonight, so we have to investigate every angle.”

Amal hesitated. “I’ll fax you the list. And I’ll also question each one of them myself. If I find anything suspicious, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Amal. I appreciate it.”

“Take good care of the Arabians,” Amal said.

“Don’t worry. I will.”

He hung up, undressed, then climbed in the shower. He closed his eyes as the warm water sluiced over him and the images of the dead men haunted him. Three men had lost their lives on a job for him, which meant their blood was on his hands.

He would find the responsible party if it killed him.

Then the families could have some closure, knowing that the killer had been brought to justice. It was the least he could do for them.

He stumbled from the shower, then dragged on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, tensing at the sound of the doorbell ringing. The last thing he wanted right now was company.

He wanted to down a stiff drink, to mourn his friend in peace, and to figure out who had attacked his shipment and his men tonight, because they had attacked him.

And what if someone came after the Arabians again?

He’d gotten them settled into the quarantine area for the two weeks necessary to run the veterinary tests required under state and federal law. Maybe he should hire extra security.

A knock sounded at his suite door. “Mr. McKade, you have a guest.”

Hoping it was the police, with answers, he opened the door and found Lucinda, his housekeeper and cook, staring up at him with swollen eyes. She’d worked for Flint for ten years now and felt more like a mother to him than an employee. He’d asked her repeatedly to call him by his first name, but she refused.

And she had been friends with Grover, the older ranch hand who’d died tonight, and had taken the news badly. “Who is it?”

“Dr. Whittaker.”

Oh, hell. He’d forgotten she was supposed to arrive tonight.

“Tell her I’ll be right there.”

Lucinda nodded and descended the stairs. He buttoned his shirt and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. He’d been dreading this meeting for weeks, ever since her father had committed suicide. He’d been shocked when she’d applied for a job as one of his vets and he’d wondered if she had somehow discovered the truth about the deal he’d made with her father.

Maybe she wanted to thank him for bailing out her father before he lost everything they owned. And then for giving her a job…

Not that she couldn’t practice anywhere in the state. He’d read her credentials; she’d graduated top of her class. Besides, she was an Aggie grad as well, and Aggies took care of their own.

He heaved a weary breath and went down the stairs, half expecting her to be short and stubby like her father, a boyish girl who was strong enough to handle the horses.

But his gut clenched when he spotted the woman sitting in his office, in one of his overstuffed leather chairs.

Dear Jesus, she was nothing like her old man.

Not stubby or boyish, but petite, and so delicate looking that the chair nearly swallowed her slight frame. Slight but curvy, he thought as his gaze landed on her full breasts, which were straining against that damn suit jacket.

Long golden hair brushed her shoulders, shimmering beneath the lamplight like finespun silk, and her skirt showcased a pair of killer legs, with firm calves that could grip a horse—or a man—when riding him. His gaze raked south, to her heels, long, spiky things with pointed toes that made a man’s mouth water, made a man imagine having her in bed, wearing nothing but the damn shoes.

She was his new vet?

He swallowed back a knot of hunger that suddenly shot through his body with lightning speed and caught him completely off guard.

She looked up and saw him, then stood, the scent of honey and softness emanating from her. And her cobalt-blue suit was the same rich color as her incredibly big blue eyes.

Eyes that turned icy cold when he extended his hand.

His shoulders stiffened. She obviously hadn’t come here to thank him for saving her father’s ass.

In fact, judging from her pursed mouth and the brusque handshake she offered, she didn’t like him at all.

So why in the hell had she accepted the job on his ranch?




Chapter Two (#ulink_012af3a3-2363-53f7-aa21-b95238f66d93)


Lora Leigh’s chest tightened as Flint McKade’s gigantic palm swallowed hers. She’d seen photographs of him in the newspaper as well as in several magazines—once on the cover, as one of the top ten eligible bachelors in Texas—and had braced herself to remain unaffected by his good looks and his money.

She refused to swoon over a man, especially one who ran roughshod over the working people.

But in spite of her resolve, a sliver of undeniable attraction splintered through her as his dark brown eyes raked over her. He was taller than he looked in his photographs, at least six-two, and had a linebacker’s shoulders and a washboard stomach. She knew that from the charity calendar for which he’d posed shirtless. His skin was bronzed from the sun and his shaggy, dark-brown hair brushed his shoulders like a renegade cowboy.

And surprisingly, his hands were calloused.

So the stories were right: he actually did work on the ranch himself, and did not just delegate and oversee his minions.

“Dr. Whittaker, it’s nice to meet you,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

His comment immediately shattered the moment, jerking her back to her mission.

And the fact that she hated Flint McKade. That she was here to get dirt on him and find her little brother.

She dropped his hand yet refused to reveal her emotions, so she shifted slightly and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

He nodded, then gestured for her to sit again, and he claimed the soft leather chair across from her. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, or something stronger?”

“No, thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, and she settled her sweating palms on her legs and inhaled. His big body was taking up all the air in the room.

“I trust my manager worked out the details of your contract,” Flint said. “Your salary, benefits, days off.”

She nodded, hating to concede that his offer had been more than generous. And she needed the money, dammit. “Yes, that’s all settled.”

“Housing on the Diamondback is optional,” he continued. “If you prefer to commute, that’s up to you. But we start early around here, at the crack of dawn.”

“Housing on the ranch is fine,” Lora Leigh said curtly. “And I’m well aware of how early ranch life starts, Mr. McKade. I grew up on a working one myself, with horses and cattle.”

His eyes darkened, narrowing beneath thick dark brows. “Call me Flint, Lora Leigh.”

She licked her lips. She didn’t want to get personal, and the way his hoarse, throaty voice murmured her name sounded way too personal. “I’d prefer Mr. McKade.”

“I’d prefer Flint.” His voice deepened, brooking no argument. “All my employees, including my ranch hands, are on a first-name basis. I consider them part of the Diamondback family.”

Unprepared for that comment, she bristled. He had destroyed her family, so thinking of herself as part of his was unacceptable.

“Can I ask you a question, Lora Leigh?”

She stiffened. “Of course.”

“Why did you accept the position here?”

A sliver of unease rippled up her spine. Had he discovered that her brother had come there to spy on him?

Did he know that she was here for the same reason?



FLINT COULD BARELY DRAG his eyes away from Lora Leigh as she squirmed under his scrutiny, her efforts at maintaining that cool facade failing miserably at his question. She looked as if she was sinking into quicksand, and he almost wanted to toss her a rope to save her. Instead, he remained focused, intent on waiting her out. If she was going to work for him, he wanted to know she was loyal, especially after today’s horrific events.

“Lora Leigh, why did you accept the job on the Diamondback?” he asked again, quietly.

His gut tightened at the way she clamped her teeth over her lower lip. A lip that was going to be bruised if she didn’t stop chewing on it.

His hand itched to reach up and soothe the delicate skin with his finger—or his lips.

He silently cursed. He didn’t like the way she’d mesmerized him a damn bit. He had enough on his plate right now, dealing with Viktor’s death and the sabotage and murder of his employees. He didn’t need the distraction of a woman.

Especially one who obviously didn’t like him.

The reason intrigued him and pissed him off at the same time. She’d made up her mind about him before they’d even met, no doubt because he’d bought her father’s property, and instead of seeing him as a good guy who’d saved her father from financial ruin, she saw him as the enemy.

“You have one of the largest and finest spreads in Texas,” she said. “You breed thoroughbreds for racing, with incredible results, as well as quarter horses that have won numerous awards.” She gestured at the Triple Crown trophy encased in glass, along with other trophies his quarter horses had earned. Just last year, Salamander won the National Cutting Horse Association Championship. “What veterinarian wouldn’t want to work at such a famous and prestigious ranch?”

The ones who wanted their own pieces of the pie. He’d been one of them growing up. His father had been a ranch hand and his mother a cook on another big spread, but Flint had wanted to own his own land. Be his own boss.

Master the business himself, not work for someone else. It was one reason he treated his hands like family.

“You’ve obviously done your homework,” he said, although he wasn’t surprised. According to her references, she was smart, motivated, a hard worker who took initiative.

A small smile graced her face, offering him a glimpse of what she might look like if she really smiled.

“Of course. You’re even larger in person than in your photos.”

He arched a brow at that, noting the way she instantly averted her gaze, as if she hadn’t meant to personally comment on his looks.

A dozen different clips of articles that had been printed rolled through his head. Some complimented his skill as a businessman and rancher, especially his innovative breeding techniques and efforts at conservation. Others noted his charity donations, and the hunting regulations and wildlife preservation measures he’d championed.

But there were others that were not so flattering.

Ones that painted him as a conniving, cold son of a bitch who ruthlessly bought out small-time farmers to build his own empire.

And then there was that damn calendar. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to pose for the stupid bachelor thing, except that it had raised millions for charity and he liked to give back.

“Well, don’t believe everything you read,” he murmured.

She folded her hands but refrained from commenting. “I heard you imported some Arabians.”

His mouth tightened. “Yes. Then I guess you also heard about the trouble at the airport.”

She shook her head and he explained, pure horror mounting on her face. “Are the horses all right?”

Ah, so she did sincerely love horses. She’d do a good job.

Except she was so damn small and delicate. Could she really handle herself?

Only time would tell.

“Thankfully, yes.” He checked his watch, then scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, fatigue wearing on him from the strain of the day.

“I’m anxious to see them, along with the rest of your stock. I watched Diamond Daddy win the derby. What an incredible animal.”

He nodded and smiled. “That he is. He’s a descendant of Diamondback Jack—”

“The horse you named the ranch after.”

He angled his head to study her again. “Right. You obviously researched me.”

“Oh, yes. I wanted to be prepared.”

He grinned. Prepared for what? To dislike him?

Hell, the fact that she did irritated him, but he’d change that. He could be charming when he wanted. Sooner or later, he’d win her over.

And get into her bed.

Don’t go there. You have enough to do with breeding season, and with a murderer to catch.

He stood, shaking his head to clear it. “It’s too late to show you around tonight. How about we meet in the morning, and I’ll give you the grand tour?”

She tensed slightly. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. McKade—”

“Flint.”

She sighed. “Flint. One of your ranch hands or managers can give me a tour.”

He gritted his teeth. Her attitude was starting to annoy him. “Nonsense. If you’re going to work with my horses, I want to see how they react to you.”

She arched a brow. “So this is a test?”

“No, it’s just that I can usually judge if an employee is going to click by their interaction with my other workers and with the animals.”

Her blue eyes darkened. “And how am I doing so far?”

He grinned. “Let’s see how it goes in the morning. Now I’ll show you to your quarters.”

She stood, brushing down her skirt. “Fine.”

He dragged his gaze from her legs and started to tell her to dress for work in the morning, but then he remembered her comment about growing up on a ranch and bit back the gibe. He didn’t want to piss her off any more than he already had.

He just hoped she was more endearing to his animals than she was to him.



LORA LEIGH CLIMBED IN her Jeep and followed Flint in his truck down the graveled road, past the most beautiful pastureland she’d ever seen and several barns, to a small white wooden cottage shaded by giant live oaks and elms. A large weeping willow also shadowed the porch with its sweeping, spidery arms, as if to reach out and embrace her.

A swing on the small front porch and a pot of pansies added a homey flair. Dust swirled around her as she parked and climbed out. She went to retrieve her suitcase from the back, but Flint grabbed it and her cosmetic bag, so she retrieved her laptop.

“I have some apartments on the west side and a few small cottages throughout the ranch for other employees,” he said. “But I thought you’d be more comfortable here. It’s closer to the barns for the horses you’ll be in charge of and will give you some privacy from ranch hands.”

She’d read about his housing projects, the apartments both on the ranch and in town.

“Besides the ranch hands, grooms, trainers and their assistants and vets, I have a wildlife biologist on board as well as scientists specializing in crop production. Each of the vets is assigned to a specific area, but I also have a vet clinic near the main house. It has an office and a computer set up and is fully equipped with medical supplies and equipment. It adjoins the office space for my managers.” He gestured toward a long white building from which a plume of smoke arose.

“That’s the cafeteria. We serve breakfast starting at five o’clock, and meals are available throughout the day.” He led her up the narrow pebbled walkway to the porch, then climbed the steps. She couldn’t help but notice the way his tight jeans hugged his butt and the way his denim shirt stretched across those massive shoulders.

Heaven help her. She had to stop ogling him. He was the enemy.

Flint unlocked the door and pushed it open, then gestured for her to enter. “It’s not fancy, but it’s comfortable, ” he said as she entered.

“It’s fine,” she said, although it was more than fine. A comfortable oversize blue sofa and a chair sat in the living room, in front of a braided rug, and the area opened to a modern kitchen with a breakfast bar and a pine table.

“It’s just one bedroom,” he said, “but there’s a nice bath, and the view’s not bad. You can see the sunrise from the porch in the mornings. The kitchen is stocked with basics to get you started. You’re welcome to take meals at the cafeteria, or you can eat on your own.”

She enjoyed cooking, and when she closed her eyes, she could still smell the scent of her mother’s homemade cinnamon rolls and buttermilk biscuits in the oven and the fresh sausage frying in the pan.

But she intended to use every minute she could here to find out what had happened to Johnny.

Flint strode into the bedroom and settled her suitcase on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed. Two windows, with billowing curtains, flanked the antique four-poster bed, which was covered by a quilt in various shades of blue and white calico.

She stopped to admire the intricate pattern and tiny stitch work. “Oh, my, this is a Dresden plate pattern. Is it handmade?”

He nodded, an odd expression lining his chiseled face. “My mother made it. Quilting was kind of a hobby of hers.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

He stepped back from the bed, his gaze meeting hers. “Do you quilt?”

She hesitated, reluctant to share anything personal with this man who she was supposed to hate. “Yes. My grandmother and mother were both quilters. They taught me when I was a little girl.” And her mother had left her a wedding-ring quilt for her hope chest, the last one she’d made before she died.

Not that Lora Leigh ever planned to marry. She didn’t trust men. Some were intimidated by her degree, some thought she was too much of a tomboy, while others implied she wasn’t sophisticated enough. She just never seemed to fit…

“Well, I guess we have something in common,” Flint said quietly. “Other than our love of horses.”

Emotions bounded up to her throat. She didn’t want to have anything in common with him. To like him at all.

In fact, she felt like a traitor for being on his land. And especially for thinking for even a moment that Flint McKade was handsome.

That he might not be the bad guy she’d pegged him to be.

No, he was bad. He’d said he was sorry about her father’s death, but he hadn’t apologized for driving him to suicide. Stealing her father’s land had been the last straw.

Flint might as well have put the rifle in her father’s hand.

All that blood on the wall…

She couldn’t erase the image from her head. Her father’s vacant eyes, pale skin, his body covered in blood…

“Well, it’s late,” Flint said quietly. “I’ll let you settle in, and I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll come by around six.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded and forced herself not to turn around and watch him leave. But when she heard the door click shut, the tears began to fall.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she walked to the window and looked out into the night. Somewhere in the distance, frogs croaked, a coyote howled and horses whinnied, reminding her of all she loved about ranch life. The land was rugged in places, dotted with rocky areas, boulders, sagebrush and wild animal life, yet crops survived, cattle thrived and breeding season was in full swing. The stars shimmered in the inky night sky like glittering diamonds, the smell of horses and hay and lush green grass welcoming her as if she were home.

But she wasn’t home. She’d lost her home because of Flint.

Angrily, she swiped at the tears and cursed herself for being weak and for admiring for even a second the ranch that Flint had built. She’d find out what had happened to Johnny, make sure he was alive and safe; then she’d get the hell off the Diamondback and start over someplace else.

But she’d have to watch herself, force herself to be nice and professional. Flint was so influential in the ranching and farming community; if he wasn’t pleased with her work, he could ruin her professional reputation in Texas. And she had no one to take care of her now, no one to turn to, no one to rely on but herself. She had to maintain her reputation and integrity, no matter what.

Of course, if worst came to worst, she could leave the state. Once she found Johnny, there would be nothing holding her here.

She turned to look at the northernmost part of the ranch, at the acreage that had held her home around which swirled the memories that had shaped her life. She had no idea what Flint intended to do with the paltry spread.

But that piece of land would always hold her heart.

And no one would ever touch her heart, especially not Flint McKade.




Chapter Three (#ulink_447ce93f-23c0-50cc-bfaf-2a4ce2f02a4f)


The first rays of sunlight streaked the bedroom with various shades of red and orange and gold, waking Lora Leigh from a troubled sleep. She brewed a pot of coffee, then sat in the porch swing to watch the sun slowly rising behind the willow trees, soaking in the quiet as she observed a mare and her foal roaming in the pasture nearby. Others ran across the open space, their manes whipping in the slight breeze. The brilliant colors streaking the horizon made the rolling, lush pastures of the Diamondback look elegant and peaceful, although peace evaded her.

She removed the letter her father had written before he died and unfolded the single piece of plain stationery, studying the scrawled writing. She’d always teased her father about his chicken scratch, but now the narrow print and jagged lines of his penmanship made her long for him even more.

She’d read the suicide note a dozen times, but once again, she reread his last words, needing them to fortify her for the day ahead.

My dearest Lora Leigh,

I write this to you today with a heavy heart, but I do not want yours to be heavy or for you to mourn me when I’m gone. I have had a wonderful sixty years. I loved your mother with all my heart, and you and Johnny completed my life in a way the ranch couldn’t even do.

The Double W was my dream. The smell of the earth, the feel of soil beneath my hands as I planted crops, the sound of cattle grazing and horses galloping across the land—these were precious to me and reminded me of how fleeting and beautiful life is. I only wish that I could have held on to it for you. But I don’t regret a moment of my life or the sacrifices we made as a family together.

That is what families do.

As I said, the Double W was my dream. I hope when I’m gone that you both find your own dreams and make them come true. Now it is time for me to join your mother. Don’t cry for me. Know that I am with the love of my life, and that we’ll both be watching over you.

I love you always,

Dad

Lora Leigh wiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks, finished her coffee, then headed to the cafeteria for breakfast, bracing herself to face Flint, take care of his prized animals, and pretend that she didn’t despise him for breaking her father’s heart.

FLINT READ THE NEWSPAPER over his morning coffee and his breakfast of steak and eggs in his home office. The front page spread about Prince Viktor Romanov’s death reminded him of his personal loss. Memories of Aggie tailgating, frat parties, and bonding over beer and chili flashed back.

Dammit, the news reports stated that the bodies of the royal family had been burned beyond recognition. The authorities were still sifting through the debris and bodies from the explosion that had destroyed the palace, trying to make sense of the mess and identify all those lost. But they were convinced that Viktor and his entire family were gone.

Flint scrubbed his hand over his face, his chest aching. But his personal loss was nothing compared to the loss of Viktor’s fellow countrymen.

The people of Rasnovia would suffer. In the wake of the political unrest, Viktor had been instrumental in guiding them from Soviet rule to a free and democratic society. The Aggie Four Foundation had invested in the country’s infrastructure and burgeoning local businesses, which had improved Rasnovia’s economy.

Now the country was in turmoil again, and all the assets would be tied up. And who would bolster Rasnovia’s fledgling democracy and protect the people from the rebels?

He finished his coffee, knotting his hand into a fist. He hoped to hell they found the party responsible for the royal family’s demise and punished the perpetrators for what they’d done.

Lucinda tottered in, with a smile and more coffee, but Flint shook his head as his cell phone rang. He checked the number—Norton International. Deke Norton, another Aggie grad, who was a few years older than Flint, Viktor, Jackson and Akeem, had built his empire with a focus on his import/export business and had also offered each member of the Aggie Four financial advice over the years, which had aided them immensely. He was also a good friend and was mourning Viktor’s death.

Flint connected the call. “Good morning, Deke.”

“Is it?” Deke asked, with an edge to his voice.

Flint pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, not really. I was trying to be optimistic.”

“What’s going on?” Deke asked. “First Viktor is killed. Then your business is attacked.”

Flint frowned. The two couldn’t be related. “I know. I still can’t believe Viktor is actually gone. I keep expecting him to call and say it was a horrible mistake.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Deke said bleakly. “But what about you? Were you hurt at the airport?”

“No, but two of my ranch hands and my pilot were killed.”

“The Arabians weren’t injured?”

“They’re fine and in quarantine now. I hired a new vet to oversee their medical care. Are you still interested in a purchase?”

“Absolutely. I’ll try to get out there soon to take a look. Remember, I get first pick.”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to the auction house today to look at a few yearlings from promising lines.” Deke hesitated. “Do you know if there’s going to be a memorial service for Viktor here in the States? I thought someone at A&M might be planning one.”

“I haven’t heard, but if I do, I’ll let you know.” They agreed to talk later, and Flint disconnected the call.

He thanked Lucinda for the meal, stood, grabbed his Stetson and headed toward the door, but his cell phone rang again. He checked the number and saw it was his half brother, Tate Nettleton. Tate was a pain in the ass, and he didn’t have time to deal with him now, so he let it ring.

That afternoon he had to attend funerals for Grover and his pilot, but this morning he planned to pick up Lora Leigh and show her around his ranch. Pride bloomed in his chest as he stepped into the warm spring sunshine and inhaled the scent of grass and hay. For a moment, he paused to drink it all in, his land, his horses and cattle, his home. He smiled as he watched two mares gallop across the pasture, their foals trotting awkwardly behind.

He was damn proud of what he’d built here, and for some odd reason, he wanted Lora Leigh to be impressed.

But he sensed she might be immune to his accomplishments.

Although she had liked the handmade quilt he’d had Lucinda dig out from his mother’s collection for her bed. Lucinda had questioned him about using items from his treasured personal collection for an employee, but he’d shrugged off her curiosity by saying that it was time he put the quilts to use.

But that wasn’t entirely true. He had seen the homemade quilts at the Whittaker house when he’d stopped by to meet with Lora Leigh’s father, and he’d decided that using one on the bed in the guesthouse would make her feel at home.

He climbed in his truck, started the engine and drove to the guest cottage, his stomach tightening when he spotted Lora Leigh waiting on the front porch. She was dressed in a baby blue T-shirt that hugged her breasts, jeans that molded her lean, muscular legs and work boots, and she had a jacket tied around her waist. Her beautiful blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, which she’d fitted through the back of an Aggie baseball cap, making her look impossibly young and…sweet.

He’d never seen anyone wear denim the way she did. He’d never thought anything was more beautiful than his horses, but Lora Leigh took his breath away.

But judging from the professional expression tacked on her face as she strode toward him, she didn’t think the same about him.



LORA LEIGH SETTLED INTO the passenger seat, trying to ignore the tension simmering between her and Flint as he began the tour. She’d wanted to flash Johnny’s picture around the cafeteria this morning and ask about him, but she’d forced herself to wait. She couldn’t draw suspicion to herself on the first day at work. She had to be patient, to slowly begin to ask around.

Still, she had searched the sea of faces and had introduced herself to a few ranch hands, assistant trainers and grooms, as well as to two other vets.

Much to her consternation, they had all sung Flint’s praises. He was fair. A great boss. He cared about his employees. He offered great benefits and competitive salaries.

He was innovative in farming, cattle ranching and horse breeding, crossing American and European strains in line breeding to develop the ranch’s thoroughbreds.

Flint handed her a map of the Diamondback. “Basically, the ranch is divided into four quadrants: northeast, northwest, southeast and southwest. I know that’s simplistic, but it works. The northeast and northwest quadrants are the largest and hold the cattle, the southwest quadrant is our agriculture and farming mecca, with fruit groves and wheat our core specialties, and the southeast, where we are now, is designated for horse breeding. We also have race tracks for training.”

She nodded and glanced at the map, then at the pastures, barns, stables and small housing areas, as they drove. Live oaks, cedar trees, large pinion pines and elms dotted the property, along with natural shrubs and grass.

“We have about fifty-five thousand cattle in our herd in the north quadrants. The terrain is more mixed, with rugged, high hills, large canyons and valleys with dry creek beds and limestone bluffs. But we get water from the river and also have several running creeks throughout.”

“You use helicopters and ATVs for herding?” Lora Leigh asked.

“Yeah, I have the Falcon. But we’re still a little old-fashioned around here, and we sometimes work on horseback. ” He pulled down the lane to a large stable, where she saw two grooms brushing down quarter horses.

“This stable houses the working quarter horses,” Flint said. “You’re welcome to take your pick if you want to ride.”

He stopped, and they got out so he could show her inside. A lean-looking cowboy glanced up from where he was organizing tack.

“This is Dr. Whittaker, our new vet,” Flint said. “Lora Leigh, this is Jake Kenner. He’s new with us, too. A trainer. But if you’ll let him know which horse you want to use, one of our hands will have him saddled for you.”

Lora Leigh extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jake. But I can saddle my own horse.”

Flint frowned, but Jake smiled and shook her hand.

From there, Flint showed her the vet clinic and introduced her to Carol, a charming, robust woman in her forties, who served as the office manager. Carol greeted him affectionately.

Flint grinned. “Carol does everything around here. She’s in charge of ordering medical supplies, coordinating communication between the veterinarians, shipping medical tests to the lab, arranging for assistants. You know we have interns to check the animals nights and on weekends, to give you time off,” he said. “Although we might need you for an emergency.”

“Of course,” Lora Leigh said. “And I don’t mind working weekends.”

“Everyone needs a life,” Flint said. “I don’t want my people burning out.”

Darn it. He sounded nice. Not what she had expected at all.

Then again, he’d fooled her father into selling him his ranch. That was Flint’s game: he knew how to woo and seduce and get what he wanted. She couldn’t fall for his act.

Back in the truck, they headed into the horse quadrant. “That’s the stud barn, and there’s the turnout area for the stallions. The breeding area is part of that barn. We have a separate area for the Thoroughbreds and quarter horses. Broodmares are turned out in pastures, except those getting ready to foal or to be bred.” He gestured to some outdoor pens, where she noticed three gorgeous, sleek mares.

“The yearlings are kept separate, and some are being sent to the auction house now. I keep the show horses and sale horses separate as well.”

“Do you keep them under lights in the winter to keep their coats slick?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “We have some race horses on the road in training, but a couple of our younger ones are kept here near the track.”

“You retired Diamond Daddy to stud?” Lora Leigh asked.

“Yes, his first season.” Flint smiled again, obviously proud of his prized stallion. “I’m anxious to see if he produces another Triple Crown winner.”

“You board and train a lot of horses for Middle Eastern owners?” Lora Leigh asked.

He nodded. “I’ve got contacts there through my friends. We’ve raced the quarter horses as well as competed in reining, cutting and roping and in some of the big rodeos.”

“I saw that one of yours won the National Cutting Horse Association Championship.”

“Yeah. Salamander. We’ve racked up some quarter horse world championships.”

Lora Leigh noticed a bald eagle soaring gracefully above the land. “I heard you’ve instituted hunting regulations on your land.”

“Absolutely. I had to in order to protect the quail and deer. We also have turkeys and whistling ducks. I installed windmills at various intervals and fenced off areas from the cattle to provide water for the wildlife. We have a lot of quail, and we half cut the shrubs to provide shelter for them. We also planted prickly pear cactus plants in open areas to serve as cover for the wildlife.”

Impressive. “Have you had any problem with feral pigs?”

He cut her a strange look. “Some. If you spot them, keep back and let me know. And I’d advise you against riding alone in the more isolated areas, especially near the cattle land. Occasionally, we’ve had trouble with rustlers trying to steal our stock. I’ll supply you with a pistol for protection against them and the snakes.” He hesitated. “Do you know how to shoot?”

She gave him a sardonic look. “Of course. My father taught me when I was a kid.”

He veered to the left and drove to an isolated barn set among ancient trees, a stable and outdoor pens that opened to luscious green pastureland. “This is where we house the Arabians.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the spurt of excitement budding in her chest. She jumped from the truck before he had a chance to come around to her side and followed him up to the barn, determined to prove herself worthy of her job. Too many men had assumed that due to her size, she wasn’t strong or capable enough to handle the magnificent beasts she worked with.

But size had nothing to do with it. She understood the horse’s nature, listened to him speak, honed in on his mood and anxieties, and soothed him with her voice and manner.

She reined in her excitement as she entered the barn, knowing the animals would respond to her mood, as she would to theirs and lowered her voice as she approached the stalls.

Four incredible horses had been stalled. Two bays, a chestnut and a gray, which was the largest of the four, standing at least fifteen hands, compared to the average of 14.1 hands of the others.

“What are their names?” she asked.

“The larger bay is Sir Huon, and the other, Lord Myers. The chestnut is Iron Legs, and the gray one, Eastern Promise.”

“Nice,” she said, stroking Eastern Promise’s mane. One of her jobs would be to verify a horse’s good disposition before reproducing; another was to meet the quarantine standards and administer medical care.

Iron Legs whinnied and kicked the stall, as if agitated, while Sir Huon stood almost docile. She eased from stall to stall, quietly assessing each horse, noting the refined, angular heads, the large eyes and nostrils, and the small muzzles, searching for any indication that they weren’t well bred. But the distinctive concave profiles, the arched necks and structure of the throatlatches looked good, as did the well-angled hips, high tail carriages, and well-laid-back shoulders of the beasts.

“So what do you think?” Flint asked.

She reached out and stroked the taller of the bays. “They’re incredible. Of course, I’ll conduct some tests, but I think you made a wise choice.”

When she angled her head to look at him, he was smiling. “I’m glad you appreciate my animals.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart tripping as she met his gaze. Of course she did. The fact that he was a talented, cutting-edge breeder and an intelligent rancher and businessman wasn’t in question.

The fact that he cunningly used people to ensure his own personal success was. His choices had driven him to ruin her father and others.

That was why she needed to take him down.



FLINT’S CHEST SWELLED with Lora Leigh’s compliment, even though an odd tone tinged her words, as if giving him praise pained her.

But why?

He’d read her résumé and files. She was smart—possibly brilliant—and specialized in equine care.

And she was a horse whisperer. That hadn’t been in her file, but it was obvious by the way the animals had quieted the moment she entered the barn. Her quiet, melodic voice had mesmerized them.

As it did him.

Workwise, they would make an incredible team.

But there was definitely an underlying tension between them, a disdain for him, which he couldn’t ignore. Besides, he wasn’t looking for a partner—just an employee who could complement his staff.

His cell phone trilled, jarring him from his thoughts. The chestnut Arabian whinnied and started to kick at the stall. Flint excused himself and stepped outside to check the phone number. The police.

Maybe they had information about who had sabotaged his shipment and killed his men. “Flint McKade speaking.”

“Mr. McKade, this is Detective Brody Green. I’d like to talk to you today.”

“Do you have a lead on who attacked my plane?”

“Let’s discuss it in person. I’ll be at your house at noon. Meet me then.”

Flint agreed and hung up, although anxiety knotted his gut. Knowing he had an enemy put him on edge.

He glanced back at the barn, then across his land. Overhead in the distance, he spotted a lone vulture soaring above a copse of trees, its talons bared, as if preparing to swoop down and attack, reminding him that he had a stalker of his own.

Was it possible that one of his own employees had sabotaged him? Had they wanted the Arabians or just to hurt his business?

Who had it in for him? Was it someone he knew and trusted, someone who worked for him or for a competitor?

He mentally ticked down a list.

His half brother, Tate, who hated him because Tate was a leech and Flint had cut him off financially? Lawrence McElroy, because Flint had outbid him for Diamond Daddy? Someone who didn’t like his connections to Viktor and the Middle East?

He hated to suspect his own men, people he considered part of his family, but having money meant making enemies, and he obviously had garnered at least one.

He had to figure out who it was before anyone else got hurt.



HE STUDIED THE DIAMONDBACK mansion from his horse. Dammit, how had things gone so wrong at the airport? Nobody was supposed to die that night.

But someone had betrayed him, and that was the cost.

He just hoped to hell that Flint McKade and the police didn’t figure out what was going on.

But the murders had attracted the attention of the cops. Not a good sign.

He had to do something to distract them, throw them off the scent.

First, he’d hack into McKade’s files, doctor a few things, then sabotage the ranch.

And if anyone interfered, he’d get rid of them, just as he had the men on the plane.

Nothing was going to get in his way now. McKade would go down, one way or the other.

And he’d be laughing as the arrogant bastard fell.




Chapter Four (#ulink_e48aa282-ca72-5407-977a-063907343dbe)


Flint pocketed the phone, then stepped back inside the barn. Lora Leigh was talking to the chestnut in a soothing voice that he could barely discern. Iron Legs slowly calmed, pressing his nose into her hand as she continued to whisper to him.

Flint hated to interrupt the moment, but he needed to finish the tour and get back to the house before the detective arrived. “Lora Leigh, we should probably move along. I have to meet the police at the house at noon.”

She checked her watch and nodded, unable to suppress the faint glow to her cheeks, which hadn’t been there before. “Did they find out who tried to sabotage your shipment?”

“The detective didn’t say. Maybe he’ll tell me more in person.” He gestured toward the exit and followed her back to the truck. She had to climb up to get inside, and he almost reached out to give her a lift. But the sight of her tight butt in those jeans made his body twinge, and he knew if he touched her, he might go too far.

Gritting his teeth, he hurried around to the driver’s side, then drove toward one of the race tracks. The truck rumbled over the graveled road. The sun was beginning to heat up as noon approached.

A slight breeze ruffled the trees and stirred the intoxicating scent of the outdoors as he parked in front of the racetrack. “I wanted you to see where we begin training our hopefuls.”

A young black quarter horse with white markings on its face trotted inside the arena, its lean body and long legs silhouetted by the brilliant sunshine. A trainer worked with the animal, another led a roan outside and a gray stallion whinnied and bolted away from its trainer inside the paddock.

“He looks like he lives up to the Thoroughbred’s reputation, hot-blooded,” Lora Leigh murmured.

Flint tensed, his own blood heating as he watched her. The transformation from ice queen when she looked at him to gentlewoman when she studied the horses, intrigued him. She might be small, but she was a natural horsewoman.

He suddenly itched to have her look at him with that same softness, with admiration, but quickly tamped down the thought. He’d given her a job because he felt bad about her father. Becoming involved with an employee was strictly against his rules.

“We just got him, but he’s one of our most promising, ” Flint said.

“He’ll be worth the work,” Lora Leigh added.

Flint nodded. “The feisty, independent ones are the most challenging but the most rewarding.”

Her gaze swung to his, and her eyes flickered with some indefinable emotion. He wondered if she had grasped his underlying meaning, then chastised himself.

A second ago, he’d latched on to his control.

But in spite of his resolve, she stirred desires he hadn’t felt in a long time, including the need to understand a woman, to really know her, not just lose himself between her legs and in her body.

His gaze dropped to her breasts, and his mouth watered.

He had to admit he’d like to do that, too.

“They remind me of the prickly pear,” he murmured, unable to tear his gaze from her face. “The flowers are beautiful and exotic.” He rubbed the upper part of his backside, with a teasing grin. “But those glochids sting. And they’re damn hard to get out.”

Lora Leigh laughed, a beautiful musical sound that twisted his insides and made him ache for more. The sun shimmered off her golden-blond ponytail. Her eyes were shaded 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 detective shrugged. “Looks that way. If he were Hispanic, I’d think he was an illegal, but this guy was Caucasian. Could be he’d had trouble with the law and wanted to hide out on your land.”

Flint squared his shoulders. “If he was a criminal, you think he might have had something to do with the sabotage?”

“It’s a possibility. We’re running DNA, checking prints and looking at dental records, but that will take time.” Detective Green leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees. “Meanwhile, I’ll need a list of all your employees.”

Flint’s pulse pounded. “You think this was an inside job?”

“Whoever did this had knowledge of your plans, the time your shipment would arrive, where the plane would land.”

Flint shifted, anger mounting in his gut. He didn’t like suspecting his own people.

“Who all was involved in this shipment?” Detective Green asked.

Flint rapped his fingers on the desk. “My business manager, Simon Cornwall, of course. Reuben Simms, the pilot who brought them in. Amal Jabar. He’s my Middle Eastern contact who helped arrange the importation. Then the two hands who were on board.” He paused, seeing their bloody faces in his mind.

“Who else?” Detective Green asked.

Flint sighed. “My partners in the Aggie Four, and Deke Norton of Norton International. But they all had vested interests in the Arabians.”

Detective Green pursed his mouth. “I’ll still need to talk to them. Any problems between you guys?”

“No,” Flint said. “Not at all. I’d trust any one of them with my life.”

Detective Green gestured toward the computer. “Now that list?”

“Right.” He clicked a few keys, entered his password, then accessed the file and hit Print. While they waited, Detective Green pressed on.





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