One Last Kiss by Kat Martin
Chapter Three
Libby looked up to see a tall man in worn cowboy boots and jeans, his blue denim shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms. One of the ranch hands, she was sure. Good-looking, she had to admit, with a chest that threatened the snaps on the front of his shirt.
His hair was a shiny dark gold and long enough to curl over the back of his collar. He had a solid jaw and a cleft in his chin. Sun lines crinkled at the corners of his dark brown eyes.
He was better than good-looking, she thought, adjusting her first impression. But—she reminded herself—he was a man. That was reason enough to block him from her thoughts.
She waved as he approached, and he stopped right in front of her.
“Ms. Hale?”
“That’s right. I assume you work at the ranch. If you’re here to pick me up, my luggage is over there.” She pointed a pink, freshly manicured nail toward a stack of leather-trimmed bags on a rolling cart, everything she might need for a month in near isolation in some wilderness outpost.
His gaze followed hers to the cart, and one dark gold eyebrow went up. “All of that’s yours?”
She frowned. “If you don’t think I brought enough, I can call a friend, have her UPS a few more things.”
“Oh, I think you brought enough.” He turned toward the valet working behind the concierge counter. “We could use your help over here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take Ms. Hale’s luggage out to my truck. It’s parked right in front.”
“Yes, sir.” The young valet couldn’t seem to move fast enough. The ranch hand did have a commanding way about him. Uncle Marty had spoken with the same kind of authority. People did whatever he asked without question. She knew it was more than just the millions he was worth, though that clearly added to the motivation.
A memory arose of the warmth in her uncle’s eyes whenever they were together and the crooked smile she had come to love. Her eyes misted. Libby blinked away any hint of tears. It was time to move forward, and that was exactly what she intended to do.
Four weeks from now, her life could begin in earnest, she thought as she followed the valet pushing the cart out of the terminal, across the sidewalk to a big black Dodge Ram truck. The weather was warm, but the air was dry, not humid as it had been in Manhattan, and at this altitude, not nearly as hot.
She watched as the tall blond ranch hand started grabbing luggage off the cart and tossing it into the back of the pickup.
“Be careful, that’s Louis Vuitton! It was a gift, customized with my initials.”
He clamped his hands on a pair of narrow hips, and his eyes darkened. “You want to load it yourself?”
“Well, no, of course not, but—”
“Then stay out of my way.” He loaded the rest of the bags with only a little more care than the first few, walked over and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
“How far is the ranch?” she asked.
“It’s about an hour’s drive from here.”
“I guess if we’re going to be together for the next hour, I ought to at least know your name. I’m Libby Hale.”
“Oh, we’re going to be together a lot longer than an hour.” When she struggled to climb into the truck, he gripped her waist, hoisted her up as if she weighed nothing and practically tossed her into the seat. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together in the next few weeks. My name is Sam Bridger.”
The door slammed loudly as the name echoed through her head. Sam Bridger. The man who would determine her fate until she completed the provisions of her uncle’s will.
As the driver’s side door opened and Bridger slid in behind the wheel, Libby felt the color climbing into her face. She didn’t like to hurt people’s feelings, and clearly she had.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I thought the owner would be older, you know, gray-haired, maybe a man a little closer to my uncle’s age.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” Firing the engine, Bridger put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.
“It’s not your fault. I’m just not used to, you know, being around people like you.”
“Country bumpkins, you mean?”
Her cheeks burned. “No, of course not. Rural people. People who live in small towns. I was raised in the city.”
He seemed to relax a little, the tension leaving those ridiculously wide shoulders. “With any luck, you’ll get used to it out here. Maybe you’ll even learn to like it.”
“That’s what Bert said.”
“And Bert is who? Your boyfriend?”
“No. I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t date.”
For the first time, he actually seemed interested in what she was saying.
“What do you mean, you don’t date? A woman who looks like you?” He flicked her a glance that ran from the top of her head to the toes of her five-inch heels. “You have to have men fawning all over you.”
She gave him a look. “Exactly the reason I don’t date.” Men did fawn all over her, but only for one reason—the way she looked. She’d been born with amazing genes, which had given her a near perfect body and a face to go with it. It was nothing more than pure luck.
Men were interested—no question about that. But once a man got what he wanted, he was gone. None of them gave a damn about her beyond sex. Fortunately, it hadn’t taken her long to figure that out.
“When you say you don’t date, do you mean since last week, last month, or last year?”
She sighed. “I mean I haven’t been out with a guy for three years.”
“So, what then? You’re a lesbian?”
She sighed. “Sometimes I wish I were, but no. Not that there’s anything wrong with it and not that it’s any of your business.”
“True enough.”
“What about you? You live out in the middle of nowhere. How long since you had a date?”
Sam laughed. It was the first time she had seen any expression of humor on his face. It changed his looks so dramatically she felt a warm tug in the pit of her stomach.
“Well, it hasn’t been three years.”
No, he was probably another womanizing snake. She seemed to attract them, though so far, Sam Bridger appeared to have no interest in her at all on a male-female level.
They rode along in silence. She was sure she would catch him checking her out. She was wearing a short navy-blue pencil skirt, a pale blue sleeveless silk blouse, and her usual spike heels. Bridger didn’t seem to notice.
His lack of interest should have pleased her. Instead, she felt a trickle of irritation. Fortunately, the scenery along the route to the ranch kept her entertained: rugged sage-and-mesquite-covered mountains at the lower elevations, tall pine-covered peaks in the distance. The road wound through the countryside, climbing upward, each turn more intriguing than the last.
Just before reaching the tiny town of Coffee Springs—a mile ahead according to a sign on the side of the road—Bridger turned off Highway 131 onto a narrower strip of pavement.
“How far are we from the ranch?” she asked.
“About eight miles.”
“So town’s not that far away.”
His head swiveled toward her. “If you can call Coffee Springs a town.”
That didn’t sound promising.
Sam kept driving, finally pulling onto a gravel road that led to a wooden gate. A sign read: BRIDGER RANCH. Below it was a big wrought iron B with a circle around it.
“That’s our brand,” he explained. “Circle B.”
He used a device to open the gate, then continued up the hill, passing lush green pastures dotted with clusters of black steers whose glossy coats gleamed in the sun.
“Black Angus,” Sam said. “That’s what we raise here on the ranch.”
She loved animals. She trusted them way more than people. “They’re beautiful.”
Sam’s gaze swung toward her. “You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“Sure, but that’s different. I live here. I deal with them every day.”
Her gaze went back to the grassy pastures. “Look at those sweet little calves. Such darling faces.”
Amusement touched his features. “On a ranch, you learn very young not to get too attached to them.”
Because they grew up and people ate them. “I’m a vegetarian,” she said.
Bridger’s eyebrows shot up. He cast her a look of pure disbelief. “I can see you’re going to fit right in.”
Libby’s mouth tightened. She didn’t have a problem with people eating meat. After all, humans were carnivores. It was part of their nature. In the back of her mind, she still remembered the taste of a charcoaled hamburger. Her mouth watered at the mere thought of it. It was just that she kept thinking of the animals who provided the nourishment.
She spotted the ranch house ahead, a long, sprawling wood-frame structure. Huge plate glass windows looked out at the mountains. The view had to be spectacular. A barn sat on one side of the house, and a little farther up the hill, there was a row of wood-framed guest cabins, each with a covered porch out front.
Sam drove up to the house and turned off the engine, climbed out of the truck.
“Welcome to Bridger Ranch. Let’s go inside. Clara’s going to need your help in the kitchen.”
“Clara’s your wife?”
Those piercing dark eyes fixed on her face. “I’m not married.”
“Oh.” Why she felt a sweep of relief, she would never know. “So she’s your chef?”
He scoffed. “Clara Winslow’s my aunt and the ranch cook.” Bridger unloaded her bags from the bed of the truck and grabbed the handles of the two biggest pieces. “Grab a couple of those others and let’s go.”
She looked down at the bags. Bridger was already walking toward the front door, leaving her to fend for herself. She grabbed two of the other three bags, which turned out to be a lot heavier than they looked, but her apartment building had bell staff, and one of them had carried the luggage down and loaded it into the limo for the drive to the Teterboro jet terminal.
As she entered the foyer beneath a wrought iron chandelier in the shape of a wagon wheel, one of the bags slipped out of her hands and hit the slate floor in front of a pair of long, jean-clad legs in worn cowboy boots.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No problem. Just pick it up, follow me, and I’ll show you your room. You can come back and get the other stuff later.”
She glanced back the way they had come. “I thought I’d be staying in one of the cabins.”
“Sorry, those are for paying guests. You’re an employee.” Bridger started walking.
Libby grabbed the leather handles, hoisted up the bags, and followed him up the stairs.
“Your room’s at the far end next to the bathroom,” he said.
“What do you mean next to the bathroom? Are you telling me the bathroom isn’t en suite?”
Sam Bridger actually grinned. “Mine is.”
Libby swore a nasty oath beneath her breath. She was surprised he even knew the meaning of the French word. She couldn’t believe she’d have to stomp down the hall in her nightgown in the middle of the night.
Suspicion crept through her. “Where’s your room?”
Sam’s mouth edged up at the corner. There was a ruggedness about him that should have made him less handsome but didn’t.
“My room’s at the other end of the hall.”
“Where does your aunt sleep?”
“She’s got her own quarters off the kitchen.” Bridger opened the bedroom door and stepped back to let her in.
Libby spotted her big bags tossed up on the queen-sized four-poster bed, dropped the ones she was carrying, and fought an urge to rub the muscles in her lower back. Her gaze went to the door.
“There’s a lock,” Bridger said, reading her mind. “But you don’t have to worry. I’d never cross the line between employer and employee.”
Libby clenched her teeth. Dear God, the man was insufferable. She hated the place already, and she had only just arrived!
