Chapter 2

Five years later

Just. Say. No.

Melanie had been practicing for days, knowing this moment would come, and still the damn word wouldn’t fall out of her mouth—just like every other time her boss had shoved work off his desk and into her lap.

Leachman smirked at her as he massaged his chest, two fat little fingers slipping between the buttons of his shirt in a way that was downright obscene. “I’ll need that back from you first thing Monday morning.”

She paged through the proposal, fingers trembling with the urge to ball it up and toss it in his face. Only two of the sections he’d highlighted had any direct correlation to marketing. The rest were all technical or financial. In other words…not her job.

“It’s Wednesday afternoon,” she pointed out in a miraculously level voice. “I’m in the middle of putting together the monthly client newsletter, and I have to spend most of tomorrow with the graphic designer, working on packaging for the new line of probiotics.”

“Our last marketing director didn’t mind logging a few extra hours when we were in a pinch.” He let his gaze make a leisurely trip over her severely cut suit, past the pencil skirt to linger on her legs. “But then, I don’t imagine he had your, um, social life.”

What social life? This was the third week in a row her evenings and weekend would be consumed by a last-minute project the Leech had dumped on her desk, and for a month before that she’d been on the road, traveling across the country to trade shows and seminars. This was the first spring in her life that she hadn’t been able to get out to the ranch, saddle up a horse, and spend hours meandering through the Canadian River breaks, admiring the wildflowers and the flush of new grass. The yearning for wide, open spaces, the thud of hooves on red dirt, and the musky scent of horse and sweat-stained leather was a low, permanent ache lodged behind her breastbone. And just when she’d finally had a whole Sunday to break loose.

“If you can’t handle it…” Leachman half extended a hand in what they both knew was a token gesture. He wouldn’t take the application back unless she crammed it down his throat.

Hell. She could already hear Violet’s disgust when she called to say she wouldn’t make Sunday dinner after all. But dammit, the competition for this grant would be stiff, and the team down in research and development needed every penny.

And that’s where the bastard knew he had her. Their odds of acceptance were at least doubled if Melanie wrote the proposal. With the extra funding, Westwind could accelerate their research and development of the next generation of livestock supplements, greatly reducing the need for antibiotics and the related risk of triggering the emergence of drug-resistant bacteria. Melanie could rattle the whole spiel right off the top of her head. After all, she had written the press releases.

And once again, she would have to take one for the team.

She tucked the grant application under her arm, and her heart gave a single, painful squeeze as images of endless blue skies and this year’s crop of slick, rambunctious calves faded away. “I’d better get cracking if I’m going to—”

She turned sharply at the rap of knuckles on the doorframe. The man who stood there smiled apologetically from beneath the brim of a well-shaped white straw cowboy hat. “I don’t mean to interrupt. The receptionist said to come on back, and the door was open…”

“No, no, come on in!” Leachman lunged to his feet. “Good to see you.”

Melanie stepped aside to allow the newcomer to accept the proffered handshake.

“Glad I could make it.” He paused, angling a glance at Melanie from warm, hazel eyes. “Michael Miller, from Great Plains Feeders.”

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow morning.” Her smile was genuine as his hand closed around hers, firm and callused. “I’m Melanie Brookman. We spoke on the phone. I’m so glad you agreed to come down and take a closer look at what we have to offer.”

“Me too.”

Her face started to heat as she realized how her words could be misinterpreted, but Michael’s smile didn’t waver, and his gaze didn’t wander from her face. He was the prototype of cowboy, with his close-cropped brown hair and a body that did wonderful things for a sage-colored, pearl snap shirt and starched jeans. “It took a hell of a sales pitch to make my boss agree to even consider working with anyone besides our usual feed company.”

“Well, I was glad to make the trip to Pueblo so we could sit down and iron things out,” the Leech declared. “I’ve always believed business should be done in person.”

Michael made an apologetic face. “With all due respect, it was the data that won him over. Miz Brookman is a genius at translating all that science into what you can do for our bottom line.”

Melanie felt like the Grinch, her heart swelling three sizes at the unsolicited praise. Leachman stuck out his chin and ran a hand over sparse silver hair—classic signs of repressed anger. Even if Melanie hadn’t made a point of becoming an expert interpreter of body language, he would’ve been an easy read. A danger, danger signal dinged in her head. His ego had been pricked, and he certainly couldn’t take it out on the client. Melanie, on the other hand…

Then suddenly, he was the soul of benevolence. “Since the two of you are already on the same page, I’ll let Melanie give you the full tour of our facilities. She doesn’t have anything on her desk that can’t wait.”

She sucked in a breath so sharp that Michael flinched. Leachman beamed, pleased to draw a visible response.

“I can wait until tomorrow.” Michael gestured toward her skirt. “She’s not really dressed for slogging around a feed mill.”

Leachman waved him off. “She doesn’t mind getting a little dirty, do you, sweetheart?”

She forced her lips into a tight smile that eased slightly when she turned it on Michael. “Give me a couple of minutes to throw on jeans and boots, and I’ll meet you out front.”

* * *

When they returned from the mill two hours later, she was shocked to see Leachman’s car still in its assigned spot. She’d assumed he’d pawned Michael off on her so he wouldn’t have to break his weekly golf date with Jimmy Ray Towler, the head of Sagebrush Feeders and the second biggest slimeball in the Panhandle. Did either of the wives realize that their husbands’ traditional post-golf meal had less to do with the truck stop’s famous chicken-fried steak than with the services offered by women who prowled the parking lot in search of drivers who’d been alone on the road a little too long?

Melanie blocked that grotesque vision as she escorted Michael inside, unable to ignore the excellent fit of his bootcut jeans when he walked ahead into the Leech’s office. If she was gonna picture anyone naked…

She glanced up and caught Leachman narrowing his eyes, his expression more shrewd than normal. Damn. She had to be careful. He wasn’t as dumb as she let herself believe.

Then he blinked, and he was once again his usual smarmy self. “Well, what do you think?” he asked Michael.

“Your people are doing some really interesting stuff. I’d love to be a part of it, but I’ll have to convince my boss it’s worth the extra hassle to sign on as a test site.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “It’s a lot of information. I’ll need time to process everything.”

“Take all you need. In fact…” Leachman’s expression was so bland it made Melanie’s antennae quiver. “Since Melanie is so good at translating, I’ll let the two of you continue your conversation over dinner while I catch up on a few other things.”

That son of a bitch. It wasn’t enough that he’d robbed her of most of the afternoon. Leachman was going to milk every precious hour he could out of this visit, knowing what it would cost her to have to make them up.

And, no doubt, use the planned dinner as an excuse to get home very late tonight. I had a meeting, honey…

Melanie ruthlessly wiped any reaction from her face. “Of course. I’ll see if any of the R&D team can join us so they can answer his questions.”

And so she wouldn’t be alone with him. Michael Miller looked a little too much like a possible antidote to her stubborn fascination with a certain fair-haired boy, and even though consorting with the clients wasn’t expressly prohibited, it wasn’t exactly smart, either.

* * *

Conversation at dinner centered on nutritive values of different grains, nutrient availability and absorption, and how bioactive compounds could improve health and feed efficiency. By the time they finished, Melanie was happily stuffed with both information and excellent barbecued brisket. They’d been joined by Anna from the lab and Tyler from production, so she’d teased out and made note of nearly everything she needed to kick ass on that grant application, which would save her hours of weeding through reports.

Take that, you slimy Leech.

She was feeling especially pleased with herself as she waved good night to the others and strolled with Michael to where he’d parked beside her SUV after following her to the restaurant. The night air was fresh, but with a soft-edged promise of spring. She drew in a deep, appreciative breath and caught a whiff of Michael’s scent, hints of citrus and sage underpinned by warm male.

Yum. But sadly, not on the menu.

She beeped open her door, then turned, startled to find him closer to her than she’d expected in the narrow, shadowy space between their vehicles. When he smiled this time, he made no attempt to keep it professional.

“Can I talk you into coming by my hotel for a drink?” he asked.

“I can’t.” Shaking her head regretfully, Melanie reached for her door handle. “I don’t date business associates.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Who do you date? As far as I can tell, your boss keeps you too busy for anything but business.”

Which would account for why it had been far too long since a man had gotten this close. Her breath caught when he reached up and brushed a fingertip beneath her chin.

“You need to take some time for yourself now and then. I’m sure Leachman didn’t put in fourteen hours today.”

Resentment flared, gasoline on the flame of attraction she’d been trying to squelch. No, Leachman definitely would not be the one staying up until the wee hours, converting those notes she’d taken into persuasive language for the grant application. But she shook her head again. “Very tempting, but way too complicated.”

“Not really. We can keep it just between you and me.”

She frowned. “I’m not a fan of sneaking around.”

“Not sneaking. Just being discreet.” As if realizing he’d pushed his luck as far as he dared, he stepped back, giving her space. “No rush. I intend to convince my boss that it’s worth our while to work with you—which means I’ll be making regular trips down here.” His eyes warmed as they met hers. “I definitely like what I see at Westwind.”

Ever the gentleman, he waited for her to drive away first, giving a short, good-night beep of his horn as she turned in the opposite direction from his hotel. When she reached her apartment, Melanie dumped her briefcase and purse on the couch and went straight to her laptop, pulling up an Internet browser and typing in Michael Miller, Pueblo, Colorado.

Because seriously. A man like that still running around single was too good to be true.

There were plenty of Michael Millers, but none of the men posting photos of their kids’ soccer games online looked anything the one who’d brightened her day, and the only mention she found was related to his work at the feedlot. He was obviously not a fan of social media, and didn’t blog or maintain a website. And unlike certain people, searching his name didn’t bring up reams of highlight videos from rodeos across the country.

Her fingers hovered over the keys for a tempting moment, but then she slapped the laptop shut. Wyatt had put himself firmly out of reach. She would find a way to drive him out her mind.

* * *

Two months later, Michael perched on the edge of her desk, pretending to study the chart on her computer monitor. As he leaned in, he lowered his voice and let his leg rub against her thigh behind the desk. “I don’t suppose we could spend some extra time going over these at lunch tomorrow before I leave?”

She felt a warm tingle at the contact—a side effect of the late lunch they’d just wrapped up—but also a niggle of irritation. He’d worn her down in part because he’d promised to be one hundred percent professional at the office, and to a greater degree because Leachman had pawned off the entire project on her, putting her and Michael in constant contact.

Hearing the thud of boots in the hallway, she scooted away and touched a finger to the screen. “As you can see, your rate of gain should continue to increase with the tweaks we’re making to improve palatability.”

“Looks good.” Michael straightened and turned as Leachman walked in the door. “How soon can we have a batch of the latest mix delivered? I’ve got five loads of calves coming in next week.”

Leachman glanced at Melanie in question.

“It’ll be tight,” she said.

The Leech puffed out his chest. “We can make it happen. Let’s go twist some arms down in production.”

Her phone rang as the front doors whooshed shut behind Michael and the Leech. She checked the number and winced. Damn. Melanie heaved a sigh and answered. “Hey, Violet.”

“I don’t like that tone,” Violet said. “You’re going to tell me you’re not coming tonight, aren’t you?”

Melanie propped an elbow on the desk and pressed her forehead into her hand. “I’m sorry. I just… Michael’s in town.”

“So bring him. It’s about time we met the mystery man.”

Her mind instantly rejected the idea. But why? An elementary science fair might not be the most romantic date, but Michael was a small-town, ranch-raised boy. He should fit right in with her friends. Why did she keep making excuses not to introduce them?

Possibly, she admitted reluctantly, for the same reason she hadn’t pressed him to move beyond moments snatched during his visits and infrequent texts in between, mostly about work. She didn’t have a burning desire to share random thoughts or ridiculous moments with him. Her desire for him didn’t really burn at all. It was more of a warm tingle, unlike…

A vision of taut muscles and Caribbean-blue eyes swam into her head. She tried to harpoon it, but the damn thing was slippery as always, even though she knew Wyatt was a non-option, and getting more so all the time. At the beginning, she’d assumed they’d eventually act on the attraction that sizzled between them, despite that idiotic vow. They were all—Violet and Joe included—reasonable, intelligent adults. Those friendships were strong enough to weather any fallout. But Wyatt obviously hadn’t considered her worth the risk—and then he’d started picking on Hank.

Her heart clenched at the thought of her brother. Dammit, Hank. Where are you?

“Excuse me,” Violet broke in. “We were having a conversation here?”

“Sorry,” Melanie said again. “I’m not ready to drag Michael in front of the jury yet.”

“Uh-huh. Who are you ashamed of, Mel…us, or him?”

“I am not ashamed, so don’t try the guilt angle.” She already felt bad enough for canceling…again. “It’s just…”

That her last argument with Wyatt had been more of a rush than the very adequate orgasm Michael had served up at lunch.

Damn him. Wyatt Darrington was the itch she’d never had a chance to scratch, a perennial what-if that wormed its way into every potential relationship. The physical comparison was stupid, and grossly unfair. Hat and boots aside, Michael was a businessman, while as a bullfighter, Wyatt’s life literally depended on keeping his body tuned to perfection. Mentally…

Well, you didn’t stumble over Ivy League–educated cowboys every day. Wyatt forced her to up her game, and she’d always loved a challenge. On the other hand, for all the dinners they’d shared, she hadn’t once been tempted to stab Michael with her fork.

“It’s just…?” Violet echoed.

“It’s your fault,” Melanie said, shoving Wyatt firmly out of her mind. “You and Tori and Shawnee—you’re all so freakishly happy that I can’t settle for anything less than total bliss.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet said, smug as all get out.

“No, you are not. And I have to go. Unlike you, I am not the boss of things around here.”

“Fine. But you and I are going to talk, even if I have to make an appointment.”

Melanie glanced at her overflowing schedule. “I’ll pencil in the CFO of Jacobs Livestock for lunch on Friday.”

“I will be there.”

“Tell Beni good luck tonight, and try not to blow up the school.”

Violet’s tone went grim. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Melanie laughed and hung up.

She was frowning at an email from one of their longest-running customers when she heard Leachman clomp through the front door. Leaning out and craning her neck, she watched him disappear into his office…alone. He must have left Michael down at the plant. Well, then. No time like the present. She picked up her paper copy of the email and dragged herself across the reception area to his open door, where she rapped on the frame.

“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked when he looked up.

“Is it important?”

No. I’m here because I treasure your company. She held up the email. “I just got this from the manager at the H Bar C Ranch. He is not pleased that he was sold the wrong mineral for their operation.”

She walked over and handed him the email. Leachman barely glanced at it before tossing it aside. “So fix it.”

“I smoothed things over, but it’s going to cost us two tons of replacement mineral and a lot of goodwill.” She paused for breath, stepping cautiously. “This was Jeffery again. He can’t seem to get a handle on the correct applications for each formula.”

And refused to consult anyone else before making recommendations. If it had been any other sales associate—especially Kimberly—they would have been booted out the door after the first mistake. But Jeffery was Leachman’s pet, and a major suck-up. The surly, overconfident ass Melanie dealt with could turn on the charm in the blink of an eye when the boss was watching.

“You said you were going to give him additional training,” Leachman said.

“And I did. It doesn’t seem to have made any difference.”

“Maybe he needs a better teacher.”

Melanie bit down on her rising temper. “He has alienated so many of the staff that I’m not sure I can persuade anyone else to work with him. Plus, he’s already had more training than the rest of the sales team combined. Pulling someone out of production to go over it again would be a waste of time.”

Leachman stiffened, his mottled cheeks reddening as he leaned forward and stabbed a finger into the top of his desk. “I decide what’s a waste of time around here. And if we’re talking about unprofessional behavior, maybe you’d like to discuss this thing with you and Michael.”

The sucker punch caught her right in the kidneys. Shit. Shit. Hadn’t she known it was a bad idea? She’d told Michael, over and over, until even she’d stopped listening.

But she refused to cower, or to make excuses. She stood square and kept her gaze and voice level. “That has no bearing on this conversation. Michael and I are unattached, consenting adults who happen to work together.”

“Are you now?” Unease trickled down her rigid spine as Leachman tilted back in his chair and laced his hands over his potbelly, oozing malice. “I’ll bet Mrs. Miller would be surprised to hear that. What’s her name? Ah, that’s right. Sara. Sweet little thing.”

“He’s…married?” The walls tilted and the floor swayed, as if the building had been hit by an earthquake. He had to be wrong. Michael couldn’t have—

“Of course. Why wouldn’t he be?” Leachman snorted in contempt. “Women are so gullible, especially when they get to your age and haven’t snagged a man. As soon as I saw how he was buttering you up, I knew this deal was in the bag as long as I put you in charge of servicing the client.”

“You…you…” The words jammed up in her throat, trying to elbow one another aside. “You used me.”

He lifted both hands, but the triumphant glitter in his eyes made a lie of the innocent gesture. “I just asked two consenting adults to work together. The rest was all you.”

Rage tore through her, so all-consuming she couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Her gaze skittered over his desk. There must be a paperweight, a letter opener, a shotgun left conveniently loaded…

She spun around and walked out before she could make a grab for the putter leaning in the corner. Assault and battery would not look good on her résumé. Her breath roared in her ears as she stalked to her office to grab her purse and the phone she’d left on her desk. She was already dialing when she burst out the side door.

“Jacobs Livestock, Violet speaking.”

“That son of a bitch,” Melanie hissed, her voice shaking.

She set out on foot, sweating through her white blouse in the June heat as the words poured out of her, laced with the bile that had gathered at the back of her throat. She tried to draw a breath, calm herself, but that only made her stomach clench because, God, she could still smell him on her—sage, citrus, and horribly tainted sex. It was all she could do not to claw at her own skin. “Geezus, Violet. I’m the other woman.”

“It doesn’t count if you didn’t know!”

“I should have! Me, who’s supposed to be such an expert at reading people, and I let him play me like a used car salesman.”

Violet made a noise that was probably meant to be soothing, but came out more like a growl. “Obviously he’s a pro if he pulled one over on you. And he had help. Who would think that he’d dare when the Leech had met his wife?”

Michael would dare, because he knew fellow scum when he saw it. And maybe Melanie was that desperate, sex-deprived thirtysomething Leachman had mocked, closing her eyes to the signs that now glowed neon red. She mashed her hands over her ears, as if she could un-hear that snide voice. Those ugly words. “I could just…just…aighh!”

“Do not go back in there, Mel,” Violet ordered. “Come out to our place, right now.”

Melanie was on the verge of agreeing when her gaze fell on Michael’s pickup. The one she’d ridden in when he’d taken her to his hotel for lunch. Her hands fisted. Keying his pickup was too clichéd. Ditto puncturing tires. She could cut a few important wires, though. Or a brake line.

Keys.

She stopped dead, her thoughts snapping into focus. As she took one centering breath, then another, she turned it over in her mind. Finally, she said, “I’d rather be alone tonight.”

“Melanie.” Violet stretched her name into three distinct, warning syllables. “You sound awfully calm all of the sudden. That’s never a good sign.”

Crap. It was hard to slip anything past a woman who’d known you since before you’d thrown your first punch—Jeffrey Dillard, wannabe kindergarten bully. Melanie smoothed out her voice, injecting a note of fatigue. “I just ran out of steam. I’m going home to burn these clothes and scrub myself under the shower until every inch of skin that man touched falls off.”

“You won’t do anything—”

“Trust me.”

“Hah! Who do you think you’re talking to? Get your ass out here, Melanie Brookman, or I swear to God, I will come in there and duct-tape you to your couch until I’m sure he’s long gone.”

She probably wasn’t kidding, but… “You have to go to the science fair.” Melanie added a pleading note. “Just let me wallow, okay? I can’t face everyone right now. But keep Friday night open—a meeting of the ladies’ club is definitely in order.”

She hung up on Violet’s protest, then silenced the immediate ring of her phone. Melanie studied the pickup for a moment, typed in a text, made a minor adjustment to strike just the right note, and hit Send.

I think I lost an earring in your pickup. Any chance I can get your keys?

It seemed like hours before his answer popped up. Yep. Just as she’d expected. Michael was the type to always have a fallback plan, which included being sure no incriminating evidence was left where the little woman might find it.

There’s an emergency key stashed inside the rear bumper, but don’t let anyone see you.

With a grim smile she replied: Don’t worry. I never leave witnesses.