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He’s in the barn? Grace swiveled a look at the barn, tried not to let her chin hit her knees. That simple? After dozens of phone calls and three wasted trips, had she actually found the mysterious Rand Sloan?
Excitement skittered up her spine.
“Is it all right if I go on in?” Grace asked.
“Help yourself.” Mary walked past Grace and moved up the porch steps. The woman hesitated at the front door, then said over her shoulder. “But if you’re from that lawyer’s office in Wolf River, you best give him a wide berth.”
Grace frowned. “I’m not from a lawyer’s office.”
Mary nodded. “Good.”
The wooden screen door slammed behind the woman as she disappeared inside the house. Brow furrowed, Grace stared after her. Now that was odd, she thought.
But her excitement over finding Rand Sloan pushed the strange woman out of Grace’s mind. Gravel crunched under the sturdy flat heel of her ecru pumps as she made her way toward the large, weather-beaten barn. She wished she’d had time to change her clothes earlier, but if she’d wanted to catch her flight from Dallas to San Antonio, she’d had no choice but to go directly to the airport from the board meeting this morning. The off-white skirt and jacket might fit in at the glossy, teak, ten-foot-long table at Sullivan Enterprises, but on an isolated, dusty ranch one hundred miles from The Alamo, silk and high heels were definitely out of place.
The story of my life, Grace thought with a shake of her head.
She quickly ran through her proposal in her head as she approached the open barn doors. From the time she was old enough to read and write, if she had wanted something, Patrick Sullivan had insisted his only daughter present her case in an organized written and oral form. When she was eight, she’d gotten Princess Penelope’s Tea Party by demonstrating the usefulness of learning social skills; when she was sixteen and wanted her first car, she’d argued the necessity of independence and self-sufficiency. She’d used visual aids for that presentation. Even now, at twenty-five, she still had fond memories of that sleek, shiny black Porsche.
She pushed all thoughts of tea sets and cars out of her mind, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the barn.
“Hello?” she called out, hesitated when she saw the man bent over a stall in the corner of the barn.
When he glanced over his shoulder at her, her mind simply went blank.
Good Lord.
Grace had no idea what she’d been expecting. Someone older, certainly. Maybe middle-aged, with bowed, skinny legs, slumped shoulders and skin like crushed leather. Maybe a bushy mustache and graying temples. Your typical, well-worn cowboy.
There was nothing typical about Rand Sloan.
He was probably in his early thirties, she guessed, though there was something about his piercing black eyes that made him look older.
He straightened, pitchfork in his hand, and turned those eyes on her. Grace felt as if she’d been speared to the spot.
He was well over six feet, lean, hard-muscled and covered with dust. His jeans were faded, his denim shirt rolled to the elbows. Sweat beaded his forehead and dripped down his neck.
And then there was his face.
She thought of Black Knights and Apache warriors, could almost hear the distant drums of battle. The pitchfork he held in his large, callused hand might have easily been a lance or a sword. A dark stubble of beard shadowed his strong jaw. His eyebrows, the same dark shade as his hair, were drawn together in a frown.
His narrowed gaze swept over her, assessing, moving upward slowly, sucking the breath from her as he touched her with those eyes of his.
Her knees felt weak.
“Something I can do for you?” he asked in a raw, hot-whiskey voice.
Now there was a loaded question, Grace thought, and quickly dismissed all the options that jumped into her brain.
“Rand Sloan?” she asked, annoyed at the surprise in her voice and the breathless quality that accompanied it.
He stabbed the pitchfork into the ground and nodded.
“I…I’m Grace Sullivan. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past two weeks. You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”
Grace blushed at her words. What woman wouldn’t want to get a hold of this man?
“Sometimes I am,” he said simply. “Sometimes I’m not.”
“You don’t have an address or phone number and I tried just about—”
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want, Miss Sullivan?” His eyes dropped to her hand. “Or is it Mrs.?”
“What? Oh—it’s Miss. Grace, I mean.”
He lifted a brow. “Miss Grace?”
“No.” Dammit. There was that blush again. She rarely blushed, and now she couldn’t seem to stop. “Just call me Grace.”
He nodded, his expression telling her that he was waiting for her to answer his question.
And what was the question? Oh, yes. He’d asked her what she wanted. She had to think a minute to pull her thoughts together.
“I’m from the Edgewater Animal Management and Adoption Foundation,” she finally managed. “Maybe you’ve heard of us. We rescue wild horses and care for them until they can be adopted out. We’d like to hire you to round up some stray mustangs in Black River Canyon and bring them out.”
“You went to a lot of trouble, Grace.” He turned his back to her and stabbed another flake of straw. “My answer is no.”
No? Just like that? No?
Grace stared at him, did her best not to notice the firm backside he’d turned toward her.
“We’ll pay you very well, Mr. Sloan, plus all expenses and travel costs.” She stepped closer, and the scent of fresh straw, horse and sweat-covered male assailed her senses. Strangely, the combination was not at all unpleasant.
“You’ll have to find someone else.”
He continued to work, his muscles rippling as he tossed another forkful of straw into the stall.
She’d met some difficult people before, Grace thought in annoyance, but Rand Sloan took the prize.
“I don’t want anyone else.” She moved beside him, refusing to be ignored. “I want you.”
Rand straightened and leveled his gaze on Miss Grace Sullivan. In a different situation, he might have taken the woman’s comment and carried their conversation in a different, more interesting direction. But this was not the day, and—he took in her light-colored silk suit and heels and caught the scent of her expensive perfume—this was not the woman.
Not that she hadn’t caught his attention in the looks department. That thick, tousled, auburn hair of hers was enough to catch any man’s eye. It was the kind of hair a man could fist his hand into, then pull that long, slender neck back and dive in. Her skin looked liked porcelain; her eyes were bottle green, wide and tilted at the corners, with thick, dark lashes.
And that mouth. Lord have mercy. Those lush lips of hers were meant for a man’s mouth.
She had long legs—he guessed her to be around five foot eight—narrow waist, full breasts…
He glanced at the fresh straw, then at the woman.
What a damn shame.
“Why me?” he asked.
“Everyone says you’re the best,” she said. “This is a difficult job. Probably dangerous. I heard that’s your specialty.”
Another time he might have been flattered, and he definitely would have been interested. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, and the danger part made his blood race.
Another time.
He unclipped Maggie Mae’s bridle. “You’re wasting your time, Miss Grace.”
“You’re my last hope,” she said quietly.
Her words, spoken with such intensity, made something catch in his chest. He didn’t want to be anyone’s last hope. Didn’t want anyone to depend on him. He closed Maggie Mae’s stall door.
“That’s too bad.” He tugged his handkerchief from his back pocket and swiped at the sweat on his face. “But my answer is still no.”
“Mr. Sloan,” she said when he started to walk away, then, “Rand, please.”
He stopped when she said his name so softly.
“Could you please just give me a few minutes?” she asked.
“I haven’t got a few minutes, Miss Grace.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to my father’s funeral.”
Two
The sound of a car door slamming startled Grace awake. She hadn’t meant to doze off, but after only five hours sleep the night before, the early-morning board meeting, the flight to San Antonio, then renting a car at the airport and driving one hundred miles, her eyelids had simply grown too heavy to keep open.
She rose from the comfortable easy chair in Mary Sloan’s living room and looked out through the lace curtains. Mary and Rand had already stepped out of an old, dust-covered tan truck. A second truck, newer, deep blue with dual cab, pulled up in front of the house, as well. Two men younger than Rand, also tall, with dark-brown hair climbed out.
Grace glanced at her wristwatch, surprised that the Sloan family was back so soon from the funeral. The service must have been a short one, and the reception, if there had been one, even shorter than that.
Grace hadn’t intended to stay at the Sloan house. As badly as she wanted—needed—Rand’s help, she knew she couldn’t intrude at such a difficult time. But it was a long drive to San Antonio, and after Rand had left her standing in the barn, Grace had knocked on Mary Sloan’s door to ask for a glass of water before heading back to the airport. Next thing Grace knew, Mary had sat her down at the kitchen table and asked point-blank what Grace wanted with Rand. Grace had told Mary about the foundation and the horses, then Mary had insisted that Grace stay and join them for dinner.
Grace had politely turned down Mary’s offer, but the older woman had refused to take no for an answer. It had been a long time since she’d had any company, Mary had said, and she would certainly appreciate another female in the house tonight.
The genuine concern in Mary’s eyes, the sadness, made it impossible for Grace to say no. Since Rand had turned her down, Grace had nowhere to go, no one else to turn to, anyway. So why not stay a few hours if Mary wanted her to? Grace could only imagine how devastated her own mother would be if anything happened to her father. If Mary Sloan wanted female companionship, then it was the least Grace could do for the woman.
She looked up when Rand opened the door and stepped inside. He’d obviously showered and shaved since she’d seen him last. He now wore black dress jeans, a white shirt and shiny black boots. He glanced at her, unsmiling. Obviously, Rand did not approve of his mother’s request that Grace stay.
Well, the hell with him. The man was just going to have to deal with it.
Their eyes locked for one long moment, then he boldly slid that dark, intense gaze of his all the way down her body, then slowly back up again. It annoyed Grace when her breasts tightened and, dammit, her nipples hardened. She pressed her lips firmly together. She decided he was crude and coarse and…just about the sexiest man she’d ever met.
“I heard you’re staying for dinner,” he said at last, bringing his gaze back to hers.
“Your mother—”
“Mind your manners, Rand Sloan.” Mary swept in the house behind her son and moved past him. “I asked Grace to stay. A woman needs a breather with all that testosterone that’ll be filling this house tonight. I need some feminine balance.”
“Matt and Sam will be here,” Rand called after Mary, then turned and looked at his brothers as they strode through the front door. “That should balance the femininity about right.”
Surprised, Grace glanced at Rand. The man had actually made a joke, she realized. A sarcastic one, true, but a joke nonetheless. She wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.
“I’ll give you feminine when I’m picking your teeth out of my knuckles.” One of the brothers walked toward Grace and stuck out his hand. “I’m Matthew Sloan,” he said with a smile. “This is Sam.”
Heavens, but the Sloan men were a handsome lot. Though Rand had darker hair and eyes than his brothers and his face was more sculpted, they were all rugged and tall, with killer smiles. Not that she’d seen Rand smile, she thought dryly.
“Grace Sullivan.” She shook each of their hands. “I’m sorry about your father.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, as there always was with condolences, then Matt said, “Thanks for staying. After looking at Rand’s ugly mug all day, my eyes could use a break.”
Rand frowned at his brother, but there was no malice in the look. If anything, Grace thought, it was the first sign of affection Rand had displayed.
“Matthew and Samuel,” Mary called from the kitchen. “Get your butts in here now. I need help.”
Matt and Sam excused themselves, leaving Grace alone with Rand. “I…I should go help, too,” she said.
He took her arm when she started toward the kitchen. “In all the years I’ve known her, my mother hasn’t asked for help in the kitchen once.”
Confused, she simply looked at him.
“She’s thinking we need a minute alone.”
“Oh, I see,” Grace said, then gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sure the last thing you want is to be alone with me.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Grace felt her throat go dry at the flare of interest in his black eyes. She looked down at the hand he’d laid on her forearm. A working man’s hand. Large, with long fingers and tanned, rough skin. Against her smooth, cream-colored silk jacket, the contrast was amazingly sensual. The heat of his fingers burned all the way through the fabric.
She really needed to get a grip on her hormones.
“Rand,” she said carefully, “your mother asked me to stay, but I have no intention of intruding on your grief. Just forget why I came here and think of me as you would any other guest in your mother’s house.”
It might be hard to explain to the woman that his mother rarely had guests in her house, Rand thought. But it really wasn’t anything that Miss Grace Sullivan needed to know, anyway.
“Samuel Sloan, you get your fingers out of that potato salad right now!”
Rand watched Grace’s head snap toward the kitchen. At the sound of a loud thwap, those deep-green eyes of hers went wide.
“Shoot, Mom, someone’s gotta make sure it tastes right,” Sam told his mother.
“You saying I don’t know how to make potato salad?”
Another loud thwap!
