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.