Exiled.
With a huge groan of dismay, Carly Carpenter popped the
trunk on her green Camry and dragged out the one bag she
always carried on assignment along with her tape recorder
and a laptop. On second thought, she shoved the recorder
back inside. Who in Maribella, Oklahoma, would be worth
taping?
She stared up at the sprawling three-story turn-of-the-
century guest ranch located in the middle of ten thousand
acres of nothing and wondered why on earth her sister,
Meg, had picked this spot for her exile. Oh, she had said
it wasn't an exile, but Carly knew better. Meg's husband,
Eric, owner and head detective at Wright Stuff
Investigations, would have fired her on the spot had Meg
not sent her somewhere to hide until the smoke
cleared. "One little mistake," she muttered. The night had
been dark. She hadn't even seen the flowerpot. Having
finally caught Sam Kensel out of his wheelchair and neck
brace, she'd been too excited to notice the open window.
After all, the guy was suing his workplace for millions,
claiming total disability from an on-the-job injury. And
then there he was, big as Dallas, pumping hundred-pound
weights like Arnold Schwarzenegger, sans neck brace, sans
wheelchair and without a trace of pain on his face. She'd
tiptoed closer, grappled for her camera and stumbled over
the azaleas, through the open window and right into Sam
Kensel's private den.
Sure, the investigation was completely blown after seven
long months of tailing, spying and secret recordings.
Sure, her brother-in-law had lost a boatload of money and
a healthy slice of his reputation as the best in the west.
But was it her fault someone stuck a blasted azalea pot
under the window? And wasn't the embarrassment of being
Carly the Klutz punishment enough?
"Sheesh." She slammed the trunk only to discover the
sleeve of her oversize shirt-jacket was caught inside. She
yanked hard. Then heard a rip. Sadly she looked down at
the shirt borrowed from her dad. She preferred baggy,
oversize clothes, and his fit the bill. They made her feel
shorter, instead of a gawky, lanky five-foot-nine tower of
hair and arms and legs.
Not that she cared about such things as fashion. Not Carly
Carpenter. She was a private investigator — or wanted to
be — with no time for fancy fingernails or frilly clothes
or afternoons spent in beauty parlors. Each morning she
pulled her thick brunette hair into a wad at the nape of
her neck with a rubber band, shoved one of those teeth-
clamp thingies in it and hoped the mess stayed in place.
It never did.
She shrugged, and the aforementioned hair tumbled forward.
Big deal. Let the stuff fall.
Her job was her life, and she was good at it, though her
brother-in-law and half of Dallas would argue that point.
Somehow she had to get back into their good graces.
Breaking a case was the best way, but where would she find
a case worth investigating here amidst miles and miles of
cows and grass? Sheesh, she could just see the headlines
now. P.I. Busts Mayor for Midnight Cow Tipping.
"Take a vacation. Rest up. Recharge your engines," her
sister had said, handing her the brochure for the Benedict
Guest Ranch less than two hours' drive from Dallas. "This
place is a real ranch complete with cowboys and horses and
cattle drives.You're gonna love it."
When she'd tried to argue that she really wanted to be
investigating something, Meg had held up a commanding
hand.
"I'm trying to save your job, sis. You have a paid
vacation coming. Go. Let things around here cool off for a
while. Give me time to work a little magic on Eric."
And so here she was, with one ripped shirtsleeve and a
very bruised ego, exiled to the Benedict Guest Ranch for
an undetermined amount of time. Meg had said not to come
home until she called for her. Now there was a scary
thought.
Refusing to let her shoulders slump, she approached the
large wraparound porch. The three-story house was right
out of a John Wayne movie.
A movement from above drew her attention. On the upper
balcony a curtain twitched and a face briefly appeared.
Her private investigator's curiosity leaped to the fore.
Who would be the least bit interested in her arrival?
She shrugged, and the torn overblouse slid down on one
shoulder. Absolutely nobody. She hiked up the sleeve, set
down her bags, pushed on the brass door handle and entered
a massive foyer. The antique portrait of a sour-faced man
with slicked-down hair and his equally sour-faced wife
glowered down from the Victorian rose wallpaper. Why would
anyone hang such an unwelcoming picture in the entryway?
From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a large
open area to the right complete with a horseshoe-shaped
reception desk.
Still staring at the ugly couple, she stepped sideways
directly into the chest wall of a tall, very well-built
man. An expensive-smelling man. She lifted her gaze past
the pearlized shirt buttons, over the classic Western yoke
and into a face straight out of Greek mythology. Breath
lodged in her throat.
"Hello." He gave her a smile that said he was very
accustomed to having women fall at his feet. What he
didn't know was that Carly fell at everybody's feet,
handsome or not.
Fumbling for words while trying to close her fly-trap
mouth, she managed, however reluctantly, to push herself
away from the hard, muscular chest. "I am so sorry. I'm so
clumsy at times, but that picture..." She glanced over her
shoulder and grimaced.
He removed his hat and Carly's mouth went dry. Oh, man.
The gorgeous cowboy had bad-boy hair, the kind that drove
women wild. Unruly, curly and a tad too long, the dark
blond locks were a fantasy created for a woman's fingers.
"If I understand correctly, those were the original
Benedicts who built this house. And the photograph was
taken on their wedding day."
Carly forced her gaze back to the ugly picture with a
stern reminder that she was not interested in men, no
matter how hunky and hot. "Not exactly a match made in
heaven, was it?"
The cowboy-god laughed. "According to the family, they
were actually very happy together."
"Takes all kinds, I suppose. But it does make you wonder
about the rest of the Benedicts."
"Actually the hospitality is exceptional."
"Thank goodness. Those are not faces I would enjoy seeing
over the dinner table every night."
"So you are a guest here, too. No?"
The odd turn of phrase elevated Carly's investigative
antennae. Did she detect a wisp of an accent? She checked
him out one more time. He looked like a cowboy. But then
this was a dude ranch. Anybody could buy a hat and boots.
"I'll be staying for a while." She thought of herself as
more of a prisoner than a guest.
"And you are not too happy about that?"
"Long story." A humiliation she did not care to share with
anyone, certainly not a gorgeous man who exuded class. She
bent to retrieve her bags, but the cowboy was too quick
for her.
"Allow me."
Carly gawked at the perfectly vee'd back moving away from
her, a bag under each arm. Since when did cowboys talk so
cultured? And walk with the erect bearing of a soldier and
the smooth grace of someone born to privilege? Cowboys
slouched. Or strutted.
But not so this guy. She had a quick vision of servants
and valets and bellboys rushing to accommodate his every
wish. And women lined up to ride in his fancy Italian car.
She didn't care if he wore spurs and chaps and
shouted, "Yee-haw." This fella was no more a cowboy than
she was. An aristocrat, no doubt, with blood bluer than
his eyes. The smell of money and privilege teased her
senses as much as his designer cologne.
She turned up her nose. Guys like this thought they were
so hot. He'd probably expect her to fall all over him,
flirt and generally make a nuisance of herself. And maybe,
just maybe, he'd drop a crumb in her lap.
Carly didn't worry about that in the least. She might fall
on him, but not out of attraction. Not Carly. She'd been
ignored by the best and dumped by the worst. No big deal.
Hiking her torn shirtsleeve, she followed the man across
the gleaming oak floor to the horseshoe reception desk. A
mouse of a woman awaited her.
"I'm Carly Carpenter."
The skinny woman whose name badge read Macy shoved a pair
of enormous black plastic glasses toward her nose.
"Of course, ma'am. We were expecting you." She pushed a
form across the desk. "Please sign this and you'll be set
to go. The second floor is our guest area. You are in room
number —" she squinted at the key in her hand " — three.
Just down the hall past Mr. Gardner. I see the two of you
have already met."
"I guess you could say we bumped into each other."
Lowering Carly's bags to the floor, the man flashed his
million-dollar smile. Carly decided not to notice. She was
off men like feathers off a plucked chicken. Permanently.
He extended a well-groomed hand. No dirt under those
fingernails. "I am Luc Gardner."
Carly placed her hand in his. She, with hands long enough
to have been a concert pianist, was dwarfed by a blond god
in cowboy boots. An interesting sizzle of awareness
shimmied up one arm. That would not do at all.
"And I am Carly Carpenter, klutz deluxe. Look out for the
shine on those boots. If I'm anywhere near, they'll be
toast."
He smiled, and somewhere an orthodontist rejoiced. "Toast?
As in breakfast?"
Carly blinked twice. What kind of guy didn't understand
American idioms?
A lightbulb came on inside her head. "You're not American."
"As you would say, busted." The corners of his ocean-blue
eyes crinkled, but she detected a flicker of reservation.
Had he not wanted her to realize the obvious?
But Carly had no opportunity to probe further. An elf of a
woman bounded down the staircase to the right, long
stained-glass pyramids swinging from her ear-lobes, brown
curly hair flying around her shoulders.
"Hi, Luc. So sweet of you to play bellhop. I don't know
where those ranch hands have gotten off to." A fleeting
pucker came and went, replaced by an impish grin. "Out
playing cowboy, I imagine." Then she stuck out a hand
toward Carly. "I'm Teddi Benedict and you must be Carly
Carpenter." Before Carly had a chance to answer, Teddi
whipped around toward the mousy little
receptionist. "Macy, did you tell them about tonight's
barbecue for Carson and the trail ride in the morning?"