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Victoria pictured a smartly dressed, brunette interior-design person. A female. She imagined that most of the people in Clint Griffin’s entourage were females. Or at least she’d gathered that from all the tabloid stories she’d read about the man. He’d probably seduced the designer into bringing in the best art that money could buy to show he had some class.
Victoria wasn’t buying that. She’d researched her subject thoroughly. Part of the job but one of the most fascinating things about her work. She loved getting background information on her subjects but this had been an especially interesting one. When Clint’s name had come up in a production meeting, she’d immediately raised her hand to get first dibs on researching him. That, after trying to forget him for over two years.
Rodeo star. Hotshot bull rider, and all-around purebred cowboy who’d been born into the famous Griffin dynasty. Born with a silver brand in his mouth, so to speak. Money wasn’t a problem until recently but that rumor had not been substantiated. Credibility however, had become a big deal. Former rodeo star, since he’d retired three years ago after a broken leg and one too many run-ins with a real bull. Country crooner. Shaky there, even if he could play a guitar with the same flare as James Burton and sing with all the soul of Elvis himself, he only had one or two hit songs to his credit. Rancher. She’d seen the vastness of this place driving in. Longhorns marking the pastures, Thoroughbred horses racing behind a fence right along beside her car, and a whole slew of hired hands taking care of business.
While he lolled around in boots and a bathrobe.
But his résumé did impress.
Endorsement contracts. For everything from tractors to cars to ice cream and the next president. His face shined on several billboards around the Metroplex. Nothing like having one of your favorite fantasies grinning down at you on your morning drive.
Women. Every kind, from cheerleaders to teachers to divorced socialites to...giggly, leggy blondes. He’d tried marriage once and apparently that had not worked.
And again, Victoria wondered why she was here.
“Come in. Sit a spell.” He pointed toward the big, open living room that overlooked the big, open porch and pool. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Would you like something to drink while you wait? Coffee or water?”
“I’m fine,” Victoria replied. “I’ll be right here waiting.”
“Make yourself at home,” he called, his boots hitting the winding wooden stairs. He stopped at the curve and leaned down to wink at her. “I’ll be back soon.”
Victoria wondered about that. He’d probably just gotten out of bed.
* * *
CLINT GOT IN the shower and did a quick wash then hopped out and grabbed a clean T-shirt and fresh jeans. He combed his hair and eyed himself in the mirror while he yanked his boots back on.
“No hangover.” That was good. He at least didn’t look like death warmed over. The tabloids loved to catch him at his worst.
But he’d had a good night’s sleep for once.
The determined blonde named Sasha had obviously given up on him taking things any further than a movie and some stolen kisses in the media room and had fallen asleep sitting straight up.
She’d probably never be back, but she’d be happy to tell everyone she’d been here. Since he’d had the house to himself all weekend, he’d expected her to stay. But...they almost never stayed.
And now another woman at his door—this one all business and different except for the fact that she wanted him for something. They almost always did.
He thought of that Eagles song about having seven women on his mind and wondered what they all expected of him.
What did Victoria Calhoun expect of him?
This was intriguing and since he was bored... The woman waiting downstairs struck him as a no-nonsense, let’s-get-down-to-business type. She didn’t seem all that impressed with the juggernaut that was Clint Griffin, Inc. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t all that impressed with him, either, these days.
But the executives and the suits had sent her for a reason. Did they think sending a pretty woman would sway him?
Well, that had happened in the past. And would probably happen again in the future.
It wouldn’t kill him to pretend to be interested.
So after he’d dressed, he called down to his housekeeper and ordered strong coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon and wheat toast. Women always went for the wheat toast. He added biscuits for himself.
When he got downstairs Victoria wasn’t sitting. She was standing in front of one of his favorite pieces of art, a lone black stallion standing on a rocky, burnished mountainside, his nostrils flaring, his hoofs beating into the dust, his dark eyes reflecting everything while the big horse held everything back.
“I know this artist,” she said, turning at the sound of his boots hitting marble. “I covered one of his shows long ago. Impressive.”
Clint settled a foot away from her and took in the massive portrait. “I had to outbid some highbrows down in Austin to get it, but I knew I wanted to see this every day of my life.”
She gave him a skeptical stare. “Seriously?”
It rankled that she already had him pegged as a joke. “I can be serious, yes, ma’am.”
She turned her moss-green eyes back to the painting. “You surprise me, Mr. Griffin.”
“Clint,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her out onto the big covered patio. “I ordered breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, glancing around. “Nice view.”
Clint ushered her to the hefty rectangular oak table by the massive stone outdoor fireplace, then stopped to take in the rolling, grass-covered hills and scattered oaks, pines and mesquite trees spreading out around the big pond behind the house. This view always brought him a sense of peace. “It’ll do in a pinch.”
She sank down in an oak-bottomed, cushioned chair with wrought-iron trim. “Or anytime, I’d think.”
Clint knew all about the view. “I inherited the Sunset Star from my daddy. He died about six years ago.”
She gave him a quick sympathetic look then cleared her pretty little throat. “I know...I read up on you. Sorry for your loss.”
Her clichéd response dripped with sincerity, at least.
“Thank you.” He sat down across from her and eyed the pastureland out beyond the pool and backyard. “This ranch has been in my family for four generations. I’m the last Griffin standing.”
“Maybe you’ll live up to the symbol I saw on the main gate.”
“Oh, you mean a real griffin?” He leaned forward in his chair and laughed. “Strange creature. Kind of conflicted, don’t you think?”
Before she could answer, Tessa brought a rolling cart out the open doors from the kitchen. Clint stood to help her. “Tessa, this is Victoria Calhoun. She’s with that show you love to watch every Tuesday night on TRN. You know the one about cowboys and cars and cattle, or something like that.”
Tessa, sixty-five and still a spry little thing in a bun and a colorful tunic over jeans, giggled as she poured coffee and replied to him in rapid Spanish. “She’s not your usual breakfast companion, chico.”
Clint eyed Victoria for a reaction and saw her trying to hide a smile. “Comprender?”
“Understand and speak it.”
Okay, this one was different. “Coffee?” Clint shot a glance at Tessa and saw her grin.
“I’d love some,” Victoria said, thanking Tessa in fluent Spanish and complimenting the lovely meal.
Clint watched her laughing up at the woman who’d practically raised him and wondered what Victoria Calhoun’s story was. Single? Looked that way. Prickly? As a cholla cactus. Pretty? In a fresh-faced, outdoorsy way. But when she smiled, her green eyes sparkled and her obvious disapproval of him vanished.
He’d have to make sure she kept smiling. But he’d also have to make sure he kept this one at arm’s length.
“We have toast or biscuits,” he said, serving the meal so Tessa could go back inside and watch her morning shows. “Tessa’s biscuits make you want to weep with joy.”
To his surprise, she dismissed the skinny toast and grabbed one of the fat, fluffy biscuits. After slapping some fresh black-cherry jam and a tap of butter on it, she settled into the oversize chair and closed her eyes in joy.
“You’re right about that. This is one amazing biscuit.”
“Try her scrambled eggs. She uses this chipotle sauce that is dynamite.”
“I love spicy food,” Victoria replied, grabbing the spoon so she could dollop sauce across her cluster of eggs.
Clint hid his smile behind what he hoped was a firm stance of boredom. But he wasn’t bored at all. For someone who’d insisted she wasn’t hungry, she sure had a hearty appetite. He sat back and enjoyed watching her eat. “Where did you learn to speak Spanish?”
She lifted her coffee mug, her hand wrapped around the chunky center, bypassing the handle altogether. “This is Texas, right?”
He nodded, took in her tight jeans and pretty lightweight floral blouse. “Last time I checked. I mean, where did you go to school?”
She gave him a raised eyebrow stare. “In Texas.”
“Hmm. A mysterious...what are you? Producer, docu-journalist, director?”
“All of the above sometimes. Mostly, I’m a story producer, but I’ve worked in just about every area since joining the show a few years ago, first as a transcriber and then as an assistant camera person.”
“Are you always this tight-lipped?”
She finished her eggs and wiped her mouth. “Yes, especially when my mouth is full.”
And it sure was a lovely mouth. All pink, pouty and purposeful. He liked her mouth.
He waited until she’d scraped the last of her eggs off the plate and let her chew away. “When was the last time you had a good meal?”
She squinted. “I think yesterday around lunch. Does a chocolate muffin count?”
“No, it does not.” He loaded her plate again. “So you television people like to starve?”
“I’m not starving. I mean, I eat. All the time. I just got busy yesterday and...well...the time got away from me.”
“You need to eat on a regular basis.”
She gave him a look that implied he needed to back off. “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.”
Clint drank his coffee and inhaled a buttered biscuit. Then he sat back and ran a hand down the beard shadow on his face. “Okay, fair enough. So, now that you’ve had some nourishment, why don’t we get down to business? Why do you want me on your show? And I do mean you—not the suits.” He leaned over the table, his gaze on her. “And what’s in it for me?”
Tilting her head until her thick honey-streaked brunette ponytail fell forward toward her face, she said, “That’s three more questions from you. I think it’s my turn now.”
Clint liked flirting, but business was business. “You don’t get off that easily. You came looking for me and I’m not signing on any dotted lines until I know what the deal is with this television show. And I’m certainly not making any decision this early in the morning. At least not until you answer my three questions, sweetheart.”
She glared at him and grabbed another biscuit.
CHAPTER TWO
VICTORIA RUBBED HER full stomach and wished she’d resisted temptation with those incredible biscuits. She was not a leggy blonde, after all. More like a petite and too-curvy brunette. And she had a job to do.
She also had another temptation to resist.
Him.
He smelled like freshly mowed hay. With his hair still damp and his five-o’clock shadow long past that hour, he looked as dangerous and bad as his reputation had implied. But he also looked a little tired and worn down.
Long night with the blonde?
Squaring her shoulders, she took in a breath and got back to business. After all, she was burning daylight just sitting here chewing the fat with this overblown cowboy.
“Okay, my producer, Samuel Murray, is a whiz at doing reality television. He has several Emmys to prove it.”
Clint nodded, leaned forward. “I got trophies for days, darlin’. And my time is valuable, so why should I sign up to have you and that fancy camera poking around in my life?”
How to explain this to a man who obviously thought he was so above being a reality?
“Well, you’ll get instant exposure. You’ll become famous all over again. You can revive your—”
Clint got up, stomped around the flagstone patio floor. “My what? Rodeo career? That’s been over for a long time. My songwriting? That’s more of a hobby, according to what I read in the papers and heard on the evening news.” He lifted his hand toward the vast acreage behind the yard. “This is it for me right now. Just a boring cattle rancher.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear and read,” Victoria replied, surprising herself and him. Why should she care how he felt or what he thought? “And the viewers love anyone who is living large.” She indicated the house with a glance back at it. “And it certainly seems as if you’re doing just that.”
Once again turning the tables on her, he asked, “And what do you believe? What have you read or heard about me? How am I living large?”
Should she be honest and let him know upfront that she despised everything he stood for? That beginning with high school and ending with a called-off wedding and later, one long kiss from him, she’d dated one too many cowboys and she’d rather be in a relationship with a CPA or a grocery store manager than someone like him? That she thought he was one walking hot mess and a complete fake?
“No need to answer that,” Clint replied, his hands tucked into the pockets of his nicely worn jeans. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t like me and you don’t want to be here, but hey, you have a job to do, like everyone else, right?”
Victoria didn’t try to deny his spot-on observation. “Right. If we can work together, we both win. I get a nice promotion and you get the exposure you need to put your name back out there, so to speak.”
Clint lowered his head and gave her a lopsided grin. “Meaning, I can either make the best of this offer or I can show myself in a bad light and make things worse all the way around.”
She’d thought the same thing, driving out here. If he acted the way the world thought he acted, he wouldn’t win over any new fans. Or they’d love him and watch him out of a morbid fascination with celebrities doing stupid things. Watch him to make themselves feel better, if nothing else. Why the world got such a perverse pleasure out of watching others have public meltdowns was beyond her. Victoria valued her own privacy, which made her job tough sometimes. Filming someone in a bad light had not been her dream after college. But a girl had to earn a paycheck. She’d get through this. Right now she needed Clint Griffin to help her.
“I won’t lie to you,” she said, hoping to convince him. “This could work in your favor or it could go very bad. But I think people will be fascinated by your lifestyle, no matter how we slant it.”
“Oh, yeah.” He turned to grab his coffee then stared out over the sunshine playing across the pasture. “Everybody wants a piece of Clint Griffin. Why is it that people like to watch other people suffer?”
Wondering how much he was truly suffering, Victoria watched him, saw the pulse throbbing against the muscles of his jawline. Hadn’t she just thought the same thing—why people liked to watch others suffering and behaving badly?
She ignored the little twinge of guilt nudging at her brain and launched back into trying to persuade him to cooperate.
“I think people like reality television because they get to be voyeurs on what should be very private lives and they see that celebrities are humans, too.”
He turned to look at her, his eyes smoky and shuttered. “They like to watch people hurting and trying to hide that hurt. They like to see someone who’s been given everything fail at it anyway. That’s why they watch.”
“I suppose so,” she conceded. “It’s a sad fact, but today’s reality television makes for great entertainment. And I do believe you’d make a great subject for our show.”
