The C.E.O. & the Cookie Queen
Page 5
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” he asked as he reached around her to open the gate.
“I’m not wearing any,” she managed to answer as she squeezed through the opening.
“Really? You smell like vanilla.”
“I baked this morning,” she admitted, walking quickly toward the barn.
“A batch of Ms. Carole’s cookies?” he asked in an amused tone.
She turned back and frowned at him. “No, coffee cake. There’s more to life than cookies, Mr. Rafferty.”
His gaze roamed over her jeans and shirt, pausing to look her in the eye. “I’m aware of that, Ms. Jacks.”
She set her lips in a thin line and turned back to where her daughter was waiting. Irritating man. She should have said, “There’s more to life than cookies and sex.”
CAROLE WAVED as Jenny scrambled into the back seat of the minivan with her friends Ashley and Meagan. The other two moms had offered to take the three girls to San Antonio for a day at their favorite amusement park, Schlitterbahn. Which was great for Jenny, because it took her mind off the auction and distracted her from the present location of Puff. Carole was pretty sure she’d want to go over there twice a day if possible.
Jenny had giggled yesterday at Greg Rafferty’s towel-wrapped ensemble, but Carole hadn’t laughed. Not when she remembered how he’d looked before he’d covered up. There was only so much potent male she could tolerate before retreating to the safety of her home. And staying there.
Except today he was invading her space, courtesy of the invitation she’d grudgingly extended. Jenny had insisted on open-mindedness, and Carole wouldn’t disappoint her daughter. That didn’t mean she would agree to whatever Rafferty was suggesting.
As soon as the minivan was out of sight, Carole sighed and walked into the house. The absolute silence reminded her that in another week, Jenny would be gone to camp and every day would sound like this. Quiet. Still. After growing up in a small house with two sisters, then having a baby of her own, she wasn’t accustomed to what some people called peaceful. She much preferred the sound of her daughter’s chatter, the ding-ding of electronic games, the singsong nature of children’s music.
Even Puff was gone, living at the rented house with a man from Chicago who didn’t know alfalfa pellets from sweet feed.
And said stranger was going to arrive here in less than an hour.
With a sigh, she switched on the radio and let the sound of soft rock—since she no longer listened to country music—fill the silent kitchen as she gazed outside. A side bay window overlooked the pasture, but there wasn’t much there to see today. The Texas sun had bleached the grass to a pale golden beige, and until the rains came again in September, the fields would remain lifeless.
“Why did I agree to meet with him?” Carole mumbled as she smelled the coffee still simmering in the bottom of the glass carafe. She wrinkled her nose at the foul odor, quickly pouring out the dark liquid. She wasn’t mean enough to serve that gunk to Rafferty, even if they were adversaries.
Of course, she thought with a smile, she might be able to convince him that “real cowboys” drank that kind of hot acid, but she wasn’t about to subject her stomach to such abuse. She’d make a fresh pot right before he arrived, but darned if she was going to bake any cookies to go along with the coffee. No way. This was strictly business.
GREG PULLED TO A STOP in the gravel driveway behind the nondescript white pickup truck that Carole had driven to his rental property yesterday. Perhaps today they could focus on the issue to Huntington Foods’ image problem—if they could ignore the sexual attraction that simmered right below the surface of her incredibly smooth, vanilla-scented skin.
He promised himself he’d try as he exited the air-conditioned interior of his rental car for the sauna heat of Texas in August. How did these people stand it? At least he had the pool to help him cool off. He enjoyed the luxury of swimming anytime he wanted, although he felt a bit guilty about not working harder on getting this situation straightened out. He hadn’t become C.E.O. of his family’s business by lying around a pool—much less daydreaming about Carole Jacks.
And he wouldn’t solve Huntington’s problem by lusting after their “cash cow,” which was a terrible misnomer, he thought with a frown as he rang the doorbell to her modest brick home. He could either deal with her on a professional level or appeal to her on a private one. He couldn’t do both.
She’d added some homey touches to her house, he noticed as he waited for her to answer the doorbell. A wreath of twisted vines and sunflowers adorned the dark-red front door. A window box of multicolored flowers around the side of the house added color to the brown-speckled brick and beige trim. Even in the flower beds beside the walkway, painted rocks and a few seashells made them special. He assumed Jenny had some hand in those decorations. Overall, the Jacks residence looked very nice and inviting.
“Hello,” she said a bit breathlessly as she opened the dark-red panel all the way, then flicked open the storm door. She smoothed her hair back from her cheek in an unconscious gesture, leaving a slight smudge of flour as she took a deep breath. Three of the buttons on her Western-style shirt threatened to pop.
Oh, man, was he in trouble. Personally, professionally, every which way he could manage.
His gaze jerked from her breasts to her face. “I hope I didn’t interrupt something,” Greg said, taking the open door as a summons to enter. He hadn’t worn his new Stetson today, but he imagined quite a few cowboys had come calling through this doorway, removing their hats as they waited for Carole Jacks to smile at them.
“No,” she said, taking a step back and wiping her hands on her jeans-covered thighs, “I was just doing something in the kitchen.”
He had a mental flash of hooking his hands around her thighs, lifting her to the kitchen counter and exploring every inch of her vanilla-scented body.
Not a good beginning to a business meeting, he told himself as she gestured toward the couch and chairs in the living room. Oh, yes. Those would work, too.
“Where’s Jenny?” he asked, looking around the country-style furnishings that featured little-girl touches and several framed ribbons. He needed a buffer, something to take his mind off Carole Jacks, the desirable woman.
“Gone with friends to San Antonio for the day.” She paused. “Thank you for listening to her advice yesterday and inviting her to visit Puff. She’s still experiencing some separation anxiety.”
“So’s the steer. Last night he bawled like a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” Carole said with amusement in her voice. “Jenny is apparently doing better than Puff.”
“Don’t worry about it. He was fine after I gave him an extra scoop of feed.” Greg grinned. “Of course, I could bring him back here anytime. I’d even contribute a substantial amount to his feed bill.”
Carole rolled her eyes and ignored his comment. “Take a seat. Would you like some coffee? I just made a pot.”
“Coffee would be great. Black is fine.”
She took a deep breath, which again threatened the buttons on her blue plaid shirt. “I’ll be right back.”
Greg wandered into the small living room and put his portfolio down on the couch. He saw evidence of Carole’s homey touch in the fresh-cut flowers on the pine table and the stenciling around the top of the wall.
Within moments she was back with a tray, mugs, and a coffeepot. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Rafferty.”
“Please, call me Greg,” he reminded her again.
They settled on opposite ends of the sofa, and she handed him a mug of coffee. “Would you like a cookie?”
He couldn’t hold back a grin at the irony. “Sure.” He took a bite and let the taste roll around on his tongue like a fine wine. “A new recipe?” he finally asked when he couldn’t identify the specific product.
She nodded.
“These definitely aren’t Prairie Pralines, or Chisolm Trail Chocolate Chip, or even Stampede Surprise.”
“I think Huntington would love to get the recipe,” he answered, reaching for another one. “I’m no expert on food, but I’m tasting pecans, vanilla and chocolate chunks. What’s that other ingredient?”
“A secret,” she said, sitting back against the couch. “I didn’t fix them to entice you with a new recipe.”
“Ms. Carole,” he said in his best imitation of a Western drawl, “darn near everything about you is enticing.”
She looked shocked, then she laughed. He hadn’t seen her so amused before, and the joy transformed her face from beautiful to radiant. Her eyes crinkled and her cheeks took on a darker shade of pink. He wanted to hold on to the warmth that flowed so freely from this woman, but knew that any move would halt her laughter quicker than anything.
“You have potential to be more than a catalog cowboy,” she said finally, wiping the corner of her eye.
“Thanks, I think. What’s a catalog cowboy?”
“Someone who orders all the appropriate gear from a catalog, but hasn’t sat a horse or roped a steer.”
“That wouldn’t be me,” Greg vowed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I have definitely ridden a horse before.”
“Cutting? Roping? Western pleasure?”
“Eastern-riding-stable nag,” he answered, hoping for another smile.
She didn’t disappoint him. “I should have known.”
Greg shrugged. “I don’t have anything against horses. We just didn’t have lots of them in our high-rise condo when I was growing up.” His family also owned a weekend house in the wooded countryside, but he didn’t mention that detail, since they didn’t have horses there, either.
“I don’t suppose so,” she admitted, reaching for a cookie. “I’ve heard the grazing on those small balconies is pretty scarce.”
Greg laughed at the mental image of taking Puff home with him to his Chicago apartment. “You could teach me to ride and rope,” he said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his crossed legs. “I’m a fairly athletic guy.”
“I—” She obviously started to say something, then stopped herself. Her blush gave away her thoughts, though. She was remembering finding him by the pool yesterday. Like the rest of the conservative community, Ms. Carole obviously wasn’t accustomed to seeing men in Speedos.
He wondered if she saw very many men without their Speedos. The thought wasn’t nearly as easy to swallow as her cookies.
“Never mind. I probably won’t be here that long,” he said, mentally shaking away the thoughts of her with another man. “If you’re ready, let me tell you a little about our company so you’ll understand how important repairing our image is to the whole family, even the whole company.”
“Okay,” she said, setting her mug on the tray. “What did you have in mind?”
Greg finished his coffee, then set his mug beside hers. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You know Huntington Foods is an old, reputable company. My great-grandfather founded the firm in the 1920s, but really it grew in size by providing staple elements of the post-World-War-II American diet.”
“As American as apple pie and cheese crackers.”
“Exactly. And until my hotheaded older brother, Brad, the former C.E.O., decided to call a nutritional expert from C.A.S.H.E.W. a ‘food nut’ and appear to come at her across the table on national television, everything was going well.”
“What happened to him? I couldn’t believe the tape I saw on TV. It looked as though he snapped.”
Greg shrugged. “The family is still debating that point, with my mother winning most of the arguments by blaming my father’s Scottish ancestors. But at least he resigned quickly. Unfortunately, we still have a mess to clean up.”
“Yes, but it’s like a funny poster someone gave my sister, ‘Poor planning on your part does not constitute a crisis on mine.”’
“That’s a cute saying, and it might work fine if your job is stocking shelves at the grocery, or working as a clerk in the driver’s license bureau, but that’s not the same kind of situation you’re in. I’m not sure how much of your income Huntington provides, but I do know how much we’re paying you. That could take a big chunk out of your budget. If we can’t get our image improved, sales of all our products, including your cookies, may suffer.”
“Huntington has an obligation to pay me for my recipes.”
“Not if we’re forced to file bankruptcy.”
She frowned, rubbing her arms with her hands in a nervous gesture. “The company is that badly off?”
“Not at the moment, but it’s a possibility.” Greg shrugged. “Brad appeared to be a loose cannon on national TV, giving the impression that the company is somewhat unstable.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “I can’t think of a better person to reform that image than you, a beautiful, intelligent woman who believes in having a plate of delicious cookies ready for her daughter when she comes home from school.”
Carole rolled her eyes and chuckled. “You are some smooth-talkin’ devil.”
“Is it working?”
This time she laughed. “No, it’s not.” She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “Seriously…Greg,” she said, hesitating over his name, “I didn’t refuse to cooperate just to be difficult. I have my reasons for wanting to remain a private person.”
“Does this have something to do with your daughter.”
She paused, taking a deep breath that strained the buttons of her shirt, then said, “Jennifer is part of the reason, but no, not totally. Why can’t you believe that someone would simply want to remain anonymous?”
“Because you really are my best, my only hope.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that’s true.”
“I’m being serious, Carole. Tell me why you don’t want to promote your cookies. I know you believe in the product. I also know you are articulate, presentable and intelligent.”
“Well, thank you for the compliments, but I really don’t want to discuss my past with you.”
He settled back against the couch and frowned. “I don’t understand you.”
She waved a cookie to emphasize her point. “Then stop trying. Just take my word for it—my past is in the past, where I want to keep it. The fact is that I made the deal I wanted with the company. They got what they paid for—my recipes—and I got what I wanted.”
“Anonymity.”
“And privacy. And no hassles from anyone asking me for favors.”
“I’m not trying to hassle you. I’m just trying to save a company that’s been in business since the twenties.”
“I appreciate your dilemma, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.” Carole pushed up from the couch. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Greg rose from his chair, reaching for the tray at the same time her hands closed over the handles. The surprise of touching her startled him as much as her reasonable responses to his explanations.
“Sorry,” he murmured, looking across the tray into her eyes.
Her eyes widened, her hands slipping from beneath his as she stood up. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll get it later. I’ll be back in just a minute.”
She nearly ran from the room. Greg stood beside the chair and watched her move, the worn denim cupping one of the nicest rear ends he’d ever seen. He told himself that looking at her that way was wrong. But he was in trouble. Personal trouble. At the moment he didn’t know if he wanted Carole Jacks’s cooperation on the Huntington Foods deal more than he wanted her naked in his bed. He hoped like hell he didn’t have to make a choice between the two.
Like a kid with a tempting plate of Ms. Carole’s confections, he wanted to have his cookies and eat them, too.
Chapter Four
Carole frowned at her complexion in the mirror. The cold water she’d applied to her hot cheeks had done little except make her look b
lotchy. No telling what Rafferty would think when she returned to the room. She looked positively ill.
As a matter of fact, her stomach was churning, but not from eating one cookie—or had she consumed two?—and drinking a cup of coffee. Her queasiness had been caused by the pseudo cowboy sitting in her living room as if he owned the place. He looked so darned comfortable, while she’d felt as skittish as a calf around a hot branding iron.
At least she’d lived up to her promise to Jenny; she’d listened patiently and with an open mind while Rafferty explained the situation. She’d been very reasonable, she told herself.
Folding the washcloth across the basin, she studied her reflection once again. The blotches were fading, being replaced by the usual slightly tanned glow she struggled to keep from getting any darker. Sunscreen was a must in Texas, and she used it by the quart. If she didn’t keep her skin protected, she’d look like an old piece of tanned leather by the time she was forty.
“Like you’re saving yourself for Mr. Right,” she said to her reflection as she swiped some balm over her dry lips. “What difference does it make if you do look like a fifty-year-old saddlebag? You haven’t kicked up your heels in a month of Sundays. How are you going to find someone special out here in the middle of nowhere if you don’t go looking?”
She knew every eligible man for miles around, and the truth was, none of them tempted her to break her celibate lifestyle. Most of the men her age or slightly older were either married, engaged or good friends who sparked no romantic interest. A couple of years ago, some of the local matchmakers had fixed her up with Grayson Phillips when he first moved to town, but he’d been too suave and sophisticated for her.
The new architect and part-time rancher, Travis Whitaker, who was a good friend of Hank McCauley, was interesting, but she’d heard he was absolutely against getting married again after a nasty divorce. And she wasn’t into casual affairs with people she might sit next to in church on Sunday or at a 4-H event next season.