Can't Stand the Heat

by Peggy Jaeger

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna ask her to marry me.”

  “Oh! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not a done deal yet. I need a ring. I need to ask her daddy, ’cause she’s old-fashioned that way, you know?”

  “I do.” Stacy smiled. Her heart sighed at the thought of being young, in love, and having a shared future in front of you. Not that she considered herself old, but love wasn’t something she’d ever felt for a man. Instead, she’d concentrated on moving in and out of every day, secure in the knowledge she’d made it through another twenty-four hours without the dark and miserable thoughts of her younger years breaking through and overtaking her once again.

  It had been a long, hard-fought internal battle against her many demons to get where she was today emotionally, spiritually, and physically and she’d come to terms with the fact a lasting, happily-ever-after wasn’t in the cards for her.

  Beau pulled the car off the highway.

  “We should be at the main house in about fifteen minutes. All this land you see is Dixon land.”

  Stacy’s view of the empty and never-ending stretch of highway they’d just exited morphed into a length of road in front of them equally as vast, surrounded on both sides by fenced-in fields of verdant, wind-blowing grass.

  “We’ve got just shy of thirty thousand acres,” he told her.

  True to his word, not more than fifteen minutes later Stacy got her first peek at the Dixon Ranch, or as Beau called it, the main house.

  In her mind she’d pictured the house as resembling the one from the 1980s show Dallas she’d seen a few times on disc. The Dixon house was nothing like that iconic structure.

  Three stories high and filled from side to side with gabled windows, the house was composed of multicolored gray slab in a patchwork design, Ionic columns shooting up from the wraparound porch to the second story across the front of the building, and a set of double front doors made of solid, unstained oak.

  Several American-model trucks and cars littered the gravel road up to the house, but Stacy’s gaze zeroed in on three huge box vans parked off to one side with the initials EBS blazoned across them. Satellite dishes covered most of the three vehicles’ roofs. Several smaller box trucks surrounded them, all belonging to the network.

  “The television trucks and crew arrived a couple weeks ago,” Beau said.

  “Did Mr. Stamp arrive with them?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am—uh, I mean, Stacy.”

  She was charmed when his cheeks reddened.

  “Got here three days ago. He’s been out with Daddy, scouting locales for filming. They’ve been gone most of every day since.”

  When his lips pulled back into a dry grin, she asked, “What’s funny about that?”

  “Not funny, like you mean, ma—Stacy. It’s just Daddy’s been as ornery as a hungry mountain cat. He likes to order people around, does Mr. Stamp. Daddy doesn’t take kindly to following other people’s commands.”

  Great. Now she not only had to try and control her dictatorial director, but she probably had to smooth the waters with their host as well.

  The rumbling sound of a large vehicle coming up the drive had them both turning to the sound.

  “Here they come now, in fact.”

  Stacy’s gaze tracked the truck as it pulled in and parked. The driver’s door pushed open and she got her first view of the ranch’s owner, Amos Dixon. Put thirty years and fifty pounds on Beau and you had his father, right down to the Stetson on his head and the well-lived-in jeans covering the yards of leg.

  Dixon’s eyes zeroed in on his son and then trailed to Stacy. A slow, steady, and welcoming smile drifted across his mouth as he boldly stared at her. She was about to return it when the passenger door slammed, its occupant pushing around from the front of the truck.

  His height mimicked the man next to him at about six-one. The similarities ended there. Where Amos Dixon was stockily built and barrel chested, his physique laying claim to the fact he labored hard for his living, Dominick Stamp was lithe and athletic, narrow hipped, but broad-shouldered. Clad in jeans and a pure-white collared shirt, the last thing anyone would take him for was a rancher.

  His eyes were hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses, his head hatless. Thick and wavy jet-black hair tinged with white at the temples and hairline framed a face that could never be called soft. Angular planes cut into his high cheekbones, deep corrugations running down from the corners of his thick lips to his chin. Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were locked on her, just as she knew behind those sunglasses, heated antagonism was staring at her face.

  Stacy had prepared what she was going to say when they finally met. Her little rehearsed speech died a horrible death before she was ever able to utter it when the director stomped toward her, his mile-long legs eating up the dust and gravel beneath his feet, an angry scowl darkening his features. The hostility blowing from him sliced through her the closer he came.

  Stacy took a deep mental and a physical breath. She’d known his reputation before agreeing to take this job and had decided to take it anyway. Working under his command was going to be difficult and the biggest professional challenge she’d ever set herself up for, but if there was one thing Stacy knew about herself it was she was determined to never quit. Anything. No matter what—or who—the challenge was.

  With her mouth pulled into a determined line and her spine as straight and hard as a steel-forged rod, she moved toward the director, one hand extended.

  Chapter Two

  This couldn’t be the new executive producer.

  She looked like an intern, barely out of college, not the seasoned television producer Teddy Davis had emailed him about.

  The one he’d emailed back saying he neither wanted nor needed.

  Hair the color of champagne fell just below her shoulders in a soft cascade of waves and ripples. Even in the heat and humidity engulfing them, it looked fresh. Her face was a perfect heart, a tiny dip in the center of the hairline bifurcating her brow into two perfectly aligned sections, her flawless chin falling into a delicate point. She had one hand out to shake his, the other shading her eyes from the strong and harsh afternoon sun, but underneath her fingers he was able to make out a pair of sloe-shaped eyes in a deep, forest green.

  Taller than average but small boned, her legs took up most of her lissome body. With her lips held together in a tight line, she reached him.

  “I’m Stacy Peters, Mr. Stamp.”

  He stopped and planted his feet, his gaze shifting to her outstretched hand and then back up to her face without taking it. Her eyes narrowed into a determined glare and it looked as if she wasn’t going to back down until he shook it. With reluctance, he did.

  Like the rest of her, her fingers were narrow and thin as they coiled around his.

  A blast of heat instantly warmed and calmed his entire body like a few shots of his favorite Irish whiskey did after a rough and painful day. The subtle aroma of vanilla floated to him, filling his senses with the sweet fragrance. The persistent, throbbing ache in his left leg the liquor helped chase away was momentarily forgotten with his hand rooted in hers.

  As soon as she pressed her fingers firmly against his palm once, she pulled her hand back.

  For a split second, Nikko missed the touch.

  In the next, he found his anger again.

  “Look, Miss Peters—”

  “Stacy is fine.”

  He ignored her. “I told Davis I didn’t need an executive producer. I don’t need anyone telling me how to run this show, what’s going to make it a hit, how to rip the best from the concept. The show will be fine without someone questioning every decision I make and counting every dollar I spend.”

  Stacy nodded and folded her hands together in front of her, her gaze staying locked on his as he spoke.

  “Those last two he sent me
were worthless and more trouble than I could stand.”

  “Yes. I know there were…problems with the previous EPs—”

  “Problems?” His scornful bark of a laugh was loud and harsh as he cut her off. “Two of the most annoying, incompetent people I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. One was worse than the other. They had no knowledge of how to run a television production. Knew nothing about costs, location shots, or even how to set up food service for the crew. Between the two of them together, I don’t think they had a full brain.”

  Surprised was too tame a word to describe his reaction when she laughed out loud. The sound hit him square in the chest like a bullet ripping through his rib cage.

  Christ, was she laughing at him?

  His eyes narrowed and he took a step closer, forcing her head to lift so she could meet his gaze. If he’d thought to intimidate her with his height, he knew he’d failed when she stood her ground, her gaze never wavering from his, her shoulders staying square.

  A tiny bit of respect warred with the irritation churning inside him.

  “They never even made it out here, one of them quitting an hour after she arrived at the studio. I don’t need incompetents like that around me or this production.”

  “I agree.”

  Her words didn’t stop him. “Davis promised me creative control when I signed on to this show. That included managing the budget and costs as I saw fit. He gave me his word no one would bother me about piddling things like the price of airfare, how many damn cups we use for coffee or how much it would cost to film at night.”

  He took another half step closer, so close now his body almost came in contact with hers.

  “What he didn’t promise me was annoying paper pushers who don’t know a thing about running a television show, so you can get right back in that car and have Dixon take you back to the airport, because you’re not needed or wanted here.”

  From the side of his vision Nikko saw a small crowd had formed around them. Set technicians, a few of the ranch hands Dixon employed, even the food-service people. He knew he should get a leash on his temper, but the annoyance of being saddled with yet another producer—and one who didn’t even look old enough to vote—had him unable to curtail his fury. Added in was the throbbing mess his leg had turned into from sitting in Dixon’s truck for so many hours.

  She’d been nodding at everything he’d said and hadn’t interrupted him once. When he finally stopped, she came to life.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Stamp,” she said, her gaze slicing through him with its intensity, “I have no intention of taking any control away from you. This show is yours. Your name is on it, not mine. It’s your baby. And unlike my two predecessors, I do know what I’m doing.” She took a breath, snaked a side-glance at the gathering group of people, and added, “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  The crew laughed.

  Before Nikko could form a response, she shot her gaze to the senior rancher. She moved toward him, saying, “Mr. Dixon? I’m Stacy Peters, from EBS. Thank you so much for allowing us to film our competition here, for putting us all up, and putting up with us all.”

  Nikko watched a free and easy smile grow on her face, one with twin dimples winking at the corners of her mouth, as she slipped her hand into the rancher’s.

  “Well, aren’t you just the prettiest thing I’ve seen around here all day,” Amos Dixon said, shaking her hand and wrapping the other one around it to cocoon it between his. “And it’s my pleasure, young lady. My pleasure.”

  Stacy giggled at the rancher, her nose crinkling. Nikko’s stomach muscles contracted at the adorable expression on her face.

  “I was familiarizing myself with your ranch on the flight and I have to tell you how impressed I am with your business, and how I’m a little in awe of the scope of everything I’ve seen so far. I can’t imagine living here, seeing all this beauty everyday. It’s breathtaking.”

  Dixon’s barrel chest puffed out at the praise.

  “I’d be delighted to take you on a tour around the ranch anytime, darlin’—you just say the word.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Well, you must be tired from the long trip,” Dixon said, keeping her hand tucked in his. “And I imagine you’re getting hungry too. Little thing like you needs a good, hot meal in her and I’ve got the best cook in the state.”

  She laughed and said, “I can always eat, Mr. Dixon—”

  “Call me Amos, darlin’. Everyone does.”

  She nodded. “And a hot meal sounds great right now, but I’ve got some things I need to see to first before I take you up on your offer.”

  Turning her attention back to Nikko, she was all professional polish once again, the smile gone, a blank, unreadable look on her face when she said, “Why don’t I drop off all my stuff, and then I can meet with you privately, Mr. Stamp? I know filming starts the day after tomorrow and there’s probably a million things that need to get done before that. I’ve been brought up to speed on everything, but I’d like to hear from you what you need, when you need it, how I can help you get it, and how I can make everything easier for you. Would fifteen minutes be good?”

  Dumbfounded, Nikko just nodded.

  “Great.” She turned to Dixon’s son. “Beau, can you show me to my room?”

  Nikko watched father and son jockey for her attention as Dixon senior said, “Boy, you get the little lady’s bags. I’ll show her up. Shall we?” He held a cocked elbow for her to take, while his son pulled luggage from the trunk of the car.

  As the trio walked up the drive and then the porch steps, Nikko’s gaze lasered on the slim back and long legs of his new executive producer as she smiled and listened to the senior rancher wax on and on about his “family’s spread.”

  What the fuck had just happened?

  Nikko turned to see a battery of eyes staring at him.

  “Don’t you have things to do?” he bellowed. “This isn’t vacation camp.”

  Like lemmings, they all turned as a unit and scurried away.

  Nikko rubbed his throbbing thigh, the unceasing pain careening through him. He needed to sit down, put his leg up, and relax for a while.

  Maybe more than a while.

  Unfortunately, the demands of his job weren’t going to allow him that time, not now and not in the foreseeable future. Add in the fact he now had to meet with his new executive producer and listen to a load of network bullshit, and he knew it would be a long, long time before he could sit back and just rest.

  * * * *

  Stacy’s gaze ran around the perimeter of the spacious and brightly decorated rooms she was given. A large bedroom, complete with a walk-in closet, an attached full bath, and its own veranda with wrought-iron table and chairs—the space she’d be calling home for the next eight weeks was almost as large as her Manhattan apartment.

  “My late wife had these rooms done-up for my mother-in-law when she came to live with us,” Amos told her, dropping one of her bags at the edge of the bed.

  “Grandma moved in the day before I was born and stayed with us until she died, two years ago,” Beau added.

  “I’d read you’d lost your wife Caroline several years ago,” Stacy told Amos. “I’m so sorry.”

  “When Beau was ten,” he said. “Luckily Ruth, Caro’s mother, stayed with us. Don’t know how I’d have raised my kids without her.” He shook his head, his Stetson gripped tightly in one hand. “Woman had the patience of a saint, that’s the truth.”

  Beau chuckled. “She needed it, what with me and my older brothers always getting into mischief.”

  “Up to no good is more like it,” Amos said. There was no real heat behind the statement, only paternal love and understanding.

  “Well, we’d better let you get all settled,” Amos told her, cocking his head at his youngest son. “Dinner’s at seven, if you’d care to
join us. Although the television people have mostly been staying to themselves. Heading into town to eat and such.”

  “Mr. Stamp as well?”

  The subtle pursing of the rancher’s lips was an indication of how he felt about the director.

  It was Beau who answered. “Stamp and his daughter have their own place just off the stables. It’s the old foreman’s cabin. They usually stay there for meals.”

  “His daughter? I didn’t know he’d brought any family with him.”

  She thought back to the bio she’d glanced at the night before. Stamp was divorced and his ex-wife had died, tragically, in an automobile accident a little under two years ago.

  In a car Stamp had been driving.

  Beau’s mouth split into a huge grin. “Name’s Melora and from everything I’ve seen so far, she’s not thrilled about being here. Seems like a good kid, though. Just”—he shrugged—“not a happy camper. Cute, but teen-moody, y’know?”

  She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

  Been there. Been that.

  Amos gave her directions to Stamp’s bungalow and then the two left her alone.

  Hands on her hips, Stacy mentally listed what she needed to do.

  First things first. She pulled her cell phone from her bag and smiled when she saw she had full service at the out-of-the-way ranch. She hit a speed-dial number and was immediately connected with her mother’s cell. Her parents were currently on a vacation junket in China, and the time difference, plus the availability of good service, was questionable. She left a message saying she’d arrived and would email during the week. Then she plugged in her laptop and sent an arrival email to Teddy Davis. She noticed she had several messages, including one from Kandy she decided to open.

  Hey cuz. Hope you arrived safe and sound. Meet any cute, available and willing cowboys yet? LOL. Send pictures!! Check in when you can and remember to just be your awesome, efficient, and calm self, and everyone—including Dominick Stamp—will adore you. Love and miss you, K.

  After her brief first meeting with the testy director, Stacy was pretty sure her cousin’s words wouldn’t prove true.