Rich, Rugged Rancher
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Joss Wood
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One
“So, have you bagged your cowboy yet?”
Seraphina Martinez whipped the rented convertible onto the open road leading to Blackwood Hollow Ranch and punched the accelerator, ignoring Lulu’s squeal of surprise at the sudden burst of speed.
“Slow down, Fee. I don’t want to die on a lonely road in East Texas,” Lulu grumbled.
“Relax, it’s an empty road, Lu,” Fee replied, glad she’d wrangled her thick hair into two fat braids—as opposed to Lulu who was fighting, and losing, the war with the wind.
Lulu held her hair back from her face and glared at Fee. “I’m going to look like I’ve been dragged through a bush when we get there.”
Fee shrugged.
Perfect makeup, perfect clothes, perfect hair...being a reality TV star took work, dammit.
“Well, have you?” Fee demanded.
“Found a cowboy? No, not yet,” Lulu replied.
“What about the lawyer guy who seems to be everywhere we are lately?” Fee asked. While scouting filming locations for Secret Lives of NYC Ex-Wives, the attorney for the Blackwood estate had been everywhere they looked, keeping his lawyerly eye on Miranda Blackwood and the rest of the cast and crew.
“Kace LeBlanc?” Lu asked, aiming for super casual and missing by a mile.
Fee darted a look at her best friend, amused. Of course she had noticed the looks Lulu sent Kace when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Lu thought the attorney was hot. And, with his unruly brown hair and those gorgeous brown eyes, he was...until he opened his mouth. Then he acted like she and her costars and the crew were going to break his precious town of Royal or something.
“The guy is a pill,” Lulu said before sighing. “God, he’s hot but he’s so annoying.”
Fee agreed but she also admired Kace’s determination to look after the late Buck Blackwood’s interests and to ensure the terms of his will were followed to the letter. And the terms of the will were, from the little she’d gleaned, astonishing. She couldn’t blame his kids for being pissed off at Buck for leaving everything he owned to Fee’s co-star Miranda, who was his ex and as New York as she and Lulu were. It had to be a hard slap to their born-and-bred Texas faces.
If they’d scripted this story for Secret Lives, their viewers would think they were making it up—aging billionaire leaves much, much younger second wife everything at the expense of his children. Buck also, so she’d heard, had an illegitimate son and this news didn’t seem to surprise anyone. Buck, apparently, had liked the ladies.
This plot twist was ratings gold, pure made-for-TV drama.
Lulu looked to her right, her attention captured by a herd of Longhorn cows.
“Did you ever live in Texas?” Lulu asked her, still holding her hair back with two hands.
Fee took some time to answer, trawling through her memories. Being an army brat and having a father who jumped at any chance to move, she’d lived all over the country and attended fourteen schools in twelve years. But she couldn’t recall living in Texas.
“I think we did a stint in New Mexico,” Fee replied. “But I was young. I don’t remember much of it.”
Lulu turned in her seat and Fee felt her eyes on her. “I’m still amazed at your excitement over visiting a new place. We’ve been doing this for years, Fee. Aren’t you sick of all the traveling? Don’t you miss your own bed?”
Fee sent her a quick smile. “I rent my apartment furnished, Lu. You know that I don’t get attached to things or places.” She might live in Manhattan but she wasn’t as attached to the city as her co-stars were.
“Because you moved so often when you were a child.”
“I learned that if you get attached, it hurts like hell when you have to leave.” Fee shrugged. “So, it makes sense not to get attached.”
“Do you think you’ll ever settle down?”
That was a hell of a question. Maybe, possibly, she might one day find a town or city she didn’t want to leave. But, because she was a realist, she knew that, while she might stay in a place a couple of months or a few years, she would probably end up moving on. It was what she did.
The grass was always greener around the next corner...
And if you didn’t get attached, you couldn’t get hurt, especially by people. Her nomadic parents and her own brief marriage to the philandering son of one of NYC’s most famous families had taught her that.
She loved people, she did, but underneath her exuberant personality still resided a little girl who knew that relationships (and places) were temporary and believing that any commitment would last was crazy.
She was currently living in Manhattan, in a gorgeous but expensive fully furnished rental in Chelsea. Her practical streak hated the idea of renting when she could easily afford to buy an apartment but Manhattan wasn’t a place where she could put down roots. When Secret Lives ended, she’d move on, but for now she was comfortable. Not settled but, yeah, temporarily okay with where she laid her head.
She was the captain of her own ship, the author of her own book. And if she was using Secret Lives to feather her own nest, to make bank, that was her business. She might be loud, frequently over-the-top, but she was also pragmatic and fully understood how quickly things could change. And if her situation did change—Secret Lives was popular now but that could change tomorrow—she wanted her nest to be well feathered.
Because, as she knew, moving from place to place, town to town, wasn’t cheap.
And that was why she took every opportunity to maximize her little taste of fame: first with the line of accessories she’d created using her husband’s famous last name. Her Not Your Mama’s Cookbook, written last year, was still on the bestseller lists. Maybe she should think about doing another cookbook...or something else entirely.
It was something to think about.
“Have you decided on your Royal project yet?” Lulu asked her, breaking her train of thought.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fee answered, injecting a healthy amount of prim into her tone.
Lulu rolled her eyes. “You can’t BS me, Fee. I know it was you who organized giving last season’s intern a makeover. Who set Pete, our lighting director, up with Dave, the sound guy. Who read the scriptwriter’s—what was his name?—screenplay? Miranda might be our Mama Bear but you are our Little Miss Fix-It.”
Fee wrinkled her nose. Little Miss Fix-It? She opened her mouth to speak then realized she couldn’t argue the point. She did tend to identify a need and try to meet it.
“I don’t know if I’ll find anyone to fix in Royal. I think I’ll take a break from meddling while I’m there.”
Lulu’s laughter danced on the wind. “Yeah, right. That’s not going to happen.”
Fee frowned at her. “What? I can back off!”
“You cannot!” Lulu retorted. “Honey, we’re always getting into trouble because you can’t leave a situation alone! We nearly got arrested when you jumped between those two guys fighting in Nero’s, and we did get arrested when you—” Lulu bent her fingers to make air quotes “—confiscated that abused horse in Kentucky. You are constantly getting trolled on social media because you stand up for LGBT rights, women’s rights, immigrants’ rights. That’s not a criticism, I admire your outspokenness, but you don’t have to fight every fight, babe.”
Fee knew that. But she also knew what it was like to have no one fighting in her corner, no one to rely on. She knew how it felt to feel invisible and when she stepped out of the shadows, how it felt to be mocked and bullied.
God, she’d come a long way.
“I guarantee you will find a project and you won’t be able to resist meddling,” Lulu told her, blue eyes laughing.
“Want to bet?” Fee asked her as they approached the enormous gates to what was Buck Blackwood’s—now Miranda’s—ranch. The gates to Blackwood Hollow appeared and she flung the car to the right and sped down the long driveway. Lu hissed and Fee grinned.
“What’s the bet?” Lulu asked, gripping the armrest with white fingers. “And you drive like a maniac.”
“You give me your recipe for Miss Annie’s fried chicken for my next cookbook, if I decide to do another one.” She’d been trying to pry Lulu’s grandma’s recipe from her since the first time Lulu fed her the delicious extra-crispy chicken at a small dinner five years earlier.
“She’ll come back and haunt me.” Lulu gasped, placing her hand on her chest. “I can’t. Just like you can’t stop yourself from meddling...”
“I can. And you know I can or else you wouldn’t be hesitating...”
Lu narrowed her eyes at Fee as they approached a cluster of buildings that looked like a Hollywood vision of a working ranch. A sprawling mansion, guest cottages, massive barns. Despite visiting the spread days before, it was still breathtaking.
“There’s the crew’s van.” Lulu pointed toward the far barn and Fee tapped the accelerator as she drove past the main house that went on and on and on.
“What could be so interesting down by the barns?” Fee wondered.
“That.”
Fee looked where Lulu pointed and...holy crispy fried chicken. A man riding a horse at a gallop around a ring shouldn’t be a surprise, but what a man and what a horse. Fee didn’t know horses—she thought the speckled black-and-white horse might be a stallion—but she did know men.
And the cowboy was one hell of a man. Broad shoulders, muscled thighs, big biceps straining the sleeves of his faded T-shirt. She couldn’t see the color of his hair or the lines on his face, the Stetson prevented her from making out the details, but his body was, like the horse, all sleek muscles and contained strength.
Hot, hot, hot...
He also looked familiar. Where did she know him from?
Fee took her foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to roll toward to where the other vehicles—the crew’s van, a battered work truck and a spiffy SUV—were parked. All her attention was focused on the horse and rider, perfectly in sync. He seemed oblivious to his audience: a couple of cowboys sitting on the top railing of the fence and Miranda, Rafaela and Zooey standing with their arms on the white pole fence, their attention completely captured by the rider hurtling around the ring in a blur of hooves and dust.
God, he was heading straight for the fence. They’d either crash through it or he’d have to jump it because there was no way he’d be able to stop the horse in time.
Fee released the wheel and slapped her hands over her mouth, her attention completely caught by the drama in the paddock. She wanted to scream out a warning and was on the point of doing so when the rider yanked on the reins and the stallion braked instantly, stopping when his nose was just an inch from the fence.
That collision didn’t happen, but another did when Fee’s very expensive rented Audi convertible slammed into the bumper of the battered farm truck.
Lulu released a small shriek and Fee flung her arm out in a futile effort to keep Lulu from lurching forward. Their seat belts kept them in place but metal scraped against metal and steam erupted from her car as the hood got up close and personal with the back of the rust-covered truck.
“Are you okay?” Fee demanded, looking at Lulu.
“Fine,” Lulu replied, then winced at the carnage in front of her. “Your car is toast, though—the hood is crumpled.”
“I can see that.” Fee nodded, releasing her seat belt. “How come it’s always the crap cars that sustain the least damage?”
“That crap car is a seventy-two Chevy pickup I am in the process of restoring.”
Fee yanked her eyes off Lulu and turned her head to the right, looking straight into faded denim covering strong thighs and a very nice package.
Strong, broad hands rested on his hips, the veins rising on his tanned forearms lightly covered with blond hair. The red T-shirt had faded to orange in places but the chest underneath it was broad and those biceps were big and bitable. His horse—had they jumped the fence to get to her so quickly?—laid its chin on the cowboy’s shoulder but neither she, nor the cowboy, were distracted by the animal’s interference in their conversation.
Fee kept her focus on him, utterly entranced by his strong face, the blond stubble covering his chiseled jaw, the thin lips, the long, straight nose. The feeling of familiarity coalesced into certainty, she’d seen him before, this cowboy—here at Blackwood Hollow a few days before—but she couldn’t recall his name. Probably because he’d just fried most of her brain cells.
She wanted to see his eyes; no, she needed to see his eyes. On impulse, Fee clambered up to stand on her car seat.
God he was tall. Fee pushed the rim of his Stetson up with her finger, her eyes clashing with the deepest, saddest, green-gold-gray eyes.
Hard eyes, angry eyes, sad, sad eyes.
Fee couldn’t decide what she wanted to do more, hug him or jump him.
Save the horse and ride the cowboy, indeed.
Clint Rockwell was a guy of few words but if Buck Blackwood were magically resurrected, he’d have had more than a few to hurl at his friend and mentor’s head. What the hell had he been thinking to ask Clint to mind the property during his long illness and after his death?
Since Buck’s funeral, Clint had been coming over to Blackwood Hollow a few times a week, to check on the hands and to exercise Buck’s demon horse, Jack.
He and Jack were finally starting to bond and their skills were improving. Clint lifted his hand to hold Jack’s cheek, enjoying the puffs of horse breath against his neck.
Animals were cool; people were not.
People hurt people—and sometimes things, his pickup being a case in point. Ignoring Jack, Clint walked over to the hood of the Audi convertible and dropped to his haunches to inspect the damage to his pickup. He didn’t much care about the damage to the convertible, they were dime a dozen, but his truck was vintage and worth a pretty penny.
Hey, Rock, if I don’t make it, finish my truck for me. Only original parts, man, gold and cream.
You are going to make it because if you don’t, I’m going to paint it pink and white, Clint had told him, his hand in the hole in Tim’s chest, trying to stem the river of blood soaking his hand, Tim’s clothing and the dirt road beneath them.
They’d both known Clint’s optimism was a lie, that Tim needed blood and a surgeon and that he was out of time.
I’ll haunt you if you do anything stupid to my baby, Tim had muttered.
This accident probably qualified as a haunting.
Hell, Clint didn’t sleep anyway, so Tim was welcome to pop in for a chat. His army ranger buddies were the only people Clint liked being around for any length of time, the only people on the planet who understood. They’d seen what he had, had watched men they loved be blown apart, women and children die, buildings being ravaged and lives destroyed.
They got him.
Civilians didn’t.
Oh, the people in this town tried, sure. No man with his money and property ever had to be lonely if he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be. His army days were behind him and he was now a rancher and oilman—more rancher than oilman, truth be told. His land and animals were what mattered.
Shaking off his thoughts, Clint stood up, automatically using his good leg to take his weight. He had to stop doing that; he had to start treating his prosthetic as another leg but, shit, it was hard. Leaving the force had been hard, losing a limb had nearly killed him and being forced to deal with people, civilians, was the cherry on his crap sundae.
Clint turned and cursed when he saw he was the focus of much attention and quickly, and automatically, took in all the salient details. Since he was still ignoring the driver of the convertible—he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet—he turned his attention to the passenger. Sporting glossy black hair with dark eyes, she’d left the car and was standing with Miranda Blackwood, Buck’s ex-wife. With them was also a fresh-faced beauty and an Italian bombshell who reminded him of one of Grandpa’s favorite actresses, Sophia Loren.
The four women, Buck’s ex-wife and her reality TV co-stars, watched him with avid interest. They looked as out of place as he would on a catwalk, their spiked heels digging into the grass, designer sunglasses covering their eyes.
The Blackwood ranch hands couldn’t keep their eyes off them...
He uttered a low, sharp order for them to get back to work and they hopped off the fence with alacrity, tossing admiring looks at the New Yorkers as they ambled off.
The next problem was to get the cars untangled so he could accurately assess the damage to Tim’s truck. But first he had to take care of Jack: animals first, things later.
Clint called out to a hand and when he jogged back to where Clint was standing, Clint passed him Jack’s reins. “Can you cool him down, then brush him for me?”
“Sure, boss.”
Clint didn’t correct him since he was, by Buck’s decree, the temporary boss. And ordering people around wasn’t something new to him; he’d been the owner–operator of Rockwell Ranch since he was eighteen and a lieutenant in Delta Force. Despite their enormous wealth, thanks to ranching and business acumen and large deposits of oil, serving was family tradition: his great grandfather saw action in France in 1917, his grandfather fought the Japanese in the Philippines. His father did two years in the military but never saw any action. His dad didn’t see much of anything, having died shortly before Clint’s fifth birthday.
Anyway, it felt natural to join the army, and then it felt natural to become one of the best of the best.
Excellence was what he did.
Jack stepped on his foot as he walked away—bastard horse—and Clint didn’t react. If he’d been alone, he’d have told Jack he’d lost his leg above the knee and having his foot stood on barely registered on his pain-o-meter but there were people about. He never discussed his prosthetic leg, ever.
Mostly because he was allergic to pity and he was terrified of people thinking he was weak. He might be half the man he’d once been but he’d rather die than allow people to coddle him.
He didn’t need anybody or anything...not anymore.
But he did need this damn car moved.
“Look, I’m sorry, I lost focus.”
She sounded more defensive than sorry, Clint decided as he walked back to the driver’s door of the Audi. The driver was now sitting on the top of the front seat, brand-new cowboy boots on the white leather. Clint started there, at those feet, and slowly made his way upward. Now that the red haze had lifted from his vision—he was still mad as hell but he was in control—he could take in the details.
Holy crap...
Slim legs in skin-tight blue jeans, curvy hips and a teeny waist he was sure he could span with his hands. She wore a lacy, button-down shirt and a heap of funky necklaces. Two thick braids, deep brown at the top and lighter at the ends, rested on a fantastic pair of breasts.
He lifted his eyes to her face, his mouth dry. Yep, she had a rocking body but her face was 100 percent gorgeous. A stubborn chin, a mouth made for kissing, high cheekbones and merry, mischievous, naughty eyes—deep brown—framed by long, long lashes and a cocky pair of eyebrows.
A straw Stetson covered her head.
She might be pint-sized but Clint just knew every inch of her was trouble
He jerked his head sharply. “Move.”
She cocked her head and sent him a slow smile. “No.”
Okay, admittedly he hadn’t had a lot of interaction with people lately but when he used his don’t-mess-with-me voice, people generally hustled. “What?”
“Say please.”
Clint stared at her, not sure he’d heard her correctly. Shaking his head, he tried again. “Lady, move.”
The smile grew sweeter. And deadlier. “No.”
What the everlasting...
“Have you heard of the phrases please and thank you?” she asked, cocking her head.
She was lecturing him on manners? She’d dinged his truck, probably putting back his restoration by months and months, had barely apologized herself and then had the balls to throw his manners in his face?
Red haze descending again, he didn’t trust himself to speak so Clint took the next easiest option. Stepping up to the car, he swiftly slid one arm under her knees, the other around her slim back and swung her off her perch.
But instead of placing her feet on the ground, he held her to his chest, fighting the wave of lust running through him. There was something about the soft, fragrant give of a woman, the curve of her hip beneath his fingers, the softness of her breast pushing into his chest. Her minty breath, the surprise in those deep dark eyes.
Soft, sexy lips he desperately wanted to taste...
God, he needed sex. It had been a while...another thing that changed when he lost his leg. He hated pity, from others and loathed a woe-is-me attitude but experience had taught him that normal women, women who weren’t loons and gold diggers, weren’t crazy about one one-legged guys with too many scars to count. His girlfriend sure as hell hadn’t.
“So, this is comfortable,” she purred, looking as relaxed as if she was stretched out on a lounger by a sparkling pool, margarita in her hand.
Did anything faze her?
Wanting to find out, Clint loosened his grip on her and she fell a few inches before he caught her again. Instead of squealing she just tightened her arms around his neck and those eyes, the color of his favorite dark chocolate, met his. “You wouldn’t drop me.”
“Watch me.” Knowing there was a half decimated, now loosely packed hay bale behind him, he whipped her around and released her. Her face reflected her horror and anger as she braced to hit the hard ground. When her pretty butt landed on the hay, her eyes widened and her comical what-just-happened expression almost made him smile.
But he didn’t. Because smiling wasn’t something he did anymore.
Pulling his eyes off his faux cowgirl, he hopped into the convertible, cranked the engine and released the brake. Slapping the car into Reverse, he pulled away from his truck and stared down at the dashboard, noticing the flashing warning lights. Water, oil, temperature were all going nuts. Yep, she wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.
Not his problem...
Clint cut the engine and exited the car. Ignoring the tiny woman who was trying to extract herself from the inside of the hay bale, he walked over to his truck and slapped his hand on his hip. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The tailgate was damaged but he was pretty sure he could find another. The lights were broken but he knew a guy who had spares. It would cost him but he could afford to pay for the damage.
Actually, he should just get the peanut to pay. Judging by the rocking diamond ring on her right hand and the fat diamond studs she wore in her ears, she could afford to pay the bill out of pocket rather than forcing him to haggle with an insurance agency.
He tossed a look over his shoulder at her. “I expect you to pay for the repairs. Twenty grand should cover it.” Twenty thousand was ten times more than he needed but he figured she should pay for inconveniencing him. “I don’t want to wait for the insurance company, so you can pay me and fight with them.”
Her head jerked up and she pushed up the brim of her cowboy hat to glare at him. “What?”
“I want twenty K. Preferably in cash.”
Those eyes hardened. “Are you off your meds? I’m not paying you twenty grand! You could buy a new truck for less than that.”
Sure, but could he buy a 1972 Chevy pickup with an original, hardly used engine, original seats and fixtures? Not damn likely.
“You can find me at Rockwell Ranch. Don’t make me come looking for you,” Clint warned her as he walked around the hood of his truck to the driver’s door. He climbed in, grabbing the steering wheel and pulling himself up, his upper body strength compensating for his missing limb. Slamming the door closed, he rested his arm on the window, surprised to see she was still glaring at him, utterly unintimidated.
Now that was a surprise because Clint knew his hard face, gruff voice and taciturn attitude scared most people off.
Instead of being frightened, she stomped over to him, pieces of hay stuck in her braid. Intrigued to see what she would do, or say, he held her hot gaze.
“You need a lesson in manners.”
“Probably. I also need sex. Are you offering that too?”
Instead of blushing or throwing her hands up in the air, insulted, she narrowed her eyes. “In your dreams, cowboy. Who do you think—”
“Who are you?” he interrupted her, purely to be ornery.
“Fee... Seraphina Martinez.”
Fee suited her. Seraphina didn’t.
And that mouth. It was sassy and sensuous and made for sex. Talking? Not so much.
“Bring the money to my ranch—don’t make me come looking for you,” Clint told her, thinking he’d better leave before he did something stupid, like using his own mouth to cut off the tirade that was, obviously, coming.
Shit, he was losing it.
“I’m ten miles down the road. You’ll see the gates.” Clint cranked the engine and placed his hand on the gear stick. He tapped his Stetson with two fingers.
“Ma’am,” he said, purely to irritate her.
Annoyance and frustration jumped into her eyes. “Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me! I will get you to learn some manners.”
Hell, if she was under him, naked, he’d learn anything she wanted him to. Enough now, Rock, drive off.
“Honey, I don’t do people so I don’t do manners. I just need my twenty K.”
“When pigs fly,” Fee muttered, her hands on those curvy hips. Clint looked at her mouth again and fought the urge to leave the car, haul her into his arms and taste it. To inhale her sweet scent and pull her into his—he looked down—rock-hard erection.
Over the roar of his engine, he heard one of the women shout across to the fake cowgirl. “Is he going to be your next project, Fee?”
Fee looked at him and her smile chilled him to his core. “You know what? I rather think he is.”
What the hell did she mean by that?
Time to go.
Clint slammed his pickup into Reverse, conscious that all the New Yorkers were still staring at him. But he only wanted to see the brunette with the smart mouth and tempting curves in his rearview mirror. She was sexy as hell and, because he wasn’t a total idiot, he’d noticed her attraction to him.
Clint barreled down the driveway and tossed his Stetson onto the empty seat next to him. He’d seen her checking him out and suspected she liked what she’d seen, up to a point. He’d worked hella hard to build his core, chest and back muscles. Women liked his top half but, these days, his bottom half caused him problems.
Hell, both the women—his mom and his girlfriend—he’d ever loved had been unable to come to terms with his disability...
The memories rolled back and Clint forced himself to face them. On returning from Afghanistan, he’d spent a couple of months in hospital recovering after his amputation and when he got back to the ranch, he’d spent a few more months in bed, sleeping and smoking and drinking.
Carla, his long-time girlfriend, had immediately moved in to take care of him and she’d run around, waiting on him hand and foot. It didn’t matter to her that he could afford to hire teams of nurses, doctors and physiotherapists. Family money, lots and lots of money, gave him access to the best health care on the planet but Carla only allowed the bare minimum of people to have access to him.
She’d insisted on fussing over him herself, coddling and mothering him. But, as his depression lifted, he realized that he didn’t like the flabby, bloated, unhealthy man he saw in the mirror. He’d always been a fitness fanatic and because he was sick of feeling sick and miserable, he turned two rooms of his ranch house into a state-of-the-art gym.
As he got fitter, and more adept with his prosthetic, he became more independent and Carla had mentally, and physically, retreated. And when his sex drive finally returned, she’d retreated some more. When he’d finally convinced her that he was well enough, strong enough, for sex and taken his prosthetic off, she bolted.
Never to be seen again.
Thanks to his frequent absences due to his career in the military, they’d drifted apart and his accident pulled them back together again. She adored his dependence on her, loved being so very needed and had he stayed that way, she might’ve stuck around. But being weak wasn’t something Clint did. Weakness wasn’t part of his DNA.
His sex life didn’t improve after she left. He’d tried a couple of one-night stands and neither were successful. One woman left when she saw his leg, another, the next morning, acted like she’d done him the biggest favor by sleeping with him and Clint decided that climaxes with strangers weren’t worth the humiliation.
It had been two years since he got laid and, yeah, he missed sex. And when he met someone he was instantly, ridiculously attracted to, as he’d been to that brunette back there, he missed it more than ever.
But sex was just sex; he wouldn’t die from not getting any.
He didn’t think.
Clint felt his phone vibrating in the back pocket of his jeans and lifted his butt cheek to pull it out. Glancing down at the screen, he saw the Dallas area code and recognized the number as one of his mother’s.
The mother he no longer spoke to.
Clint briefly wondered why she, or more likely her PA or another lackey, was calling. It had been years since they’d last spoken but he didn’t answer the call. He had nothing to say to his mom. Not anymore...
Mila had blown into the hospital to visit with him before his operation and he’d been cynically surprised by her show of support as she’d never been an attentive, involved mother.
Back in his room after the operation that took his leg, he’d hadn’t felt strong enough to deal with his intense news-anchor mother and he’d pretended to still be under the anesthetic, hoping she’d go away. He’d just wanted the world to leave him alone but his hearing hadn’t disappeared along with his leg and Mila’s softly spoken words drifted over to him.
So, I’m here, he’s still out so what now?
I’ve arranged for the press to photograph you leaving the hospital after visiting your war-hero son. Clint had recognized the voice as Greg’s, Mila’s business manager, whom he’d met a few times over the years. He was, so Mila said, the power behind Mila’s rise to being one of the most famous, powerful and respected women in Dallas.
So, try to look worried, distressed. And proud.
I’m going to have to act my ass off, Mila had moaned. He’s, like...repulsive.
Jesus, Mila, he’s your son, Greg had said, sounding, to his credit, horrified.
I like pretty and I like perfect. He’s never been perfect but before he went off to play at war, he was at least pretty, Mila had retorted. Thank God he has that girlfriend because I’m certainly not prepared to be his nurse.
Wow. Her words laid down just another hot layer of pain.
With her words bouncing off his brain, Clint had slipped into sleep and a six-month depression. Carla and his mother were the reasons he’d worked his butt off to become, as much as possible, the person he was before the surgery. He never wanted to be dependent on anyone ever again, not for help, sex or even company. Carla had wanted to help him too much, his mother not at all, but Clint was happy to be shot of them both.
All he wanted was for the few people he chose to interact with to see past his injury to the man he was. And he couldn’t do that if he flaunted his prosthetic so he never, ever allowed anyone to see his bionic leg.
And if giving up sex was the price he paid for his independence then he’d happily live with the lack of below-the-belt action. Nothing was more important to him than his independence. And his pride.
But some days, like today, a woman came along who made him wonder, who made him burn. But he was nothing if not single-minded, and like the others he’d felt a fleeting attraction to, he wouldn’t act on it.
No woman was ever worth the hassle.
