Rita Herron - Platinum Cowboy

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?

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.