LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Chapter One

       G reat—figures this would be a day I’m in a skirt and high heels …

      Lacey Kincaid sighed as she pulled her sedan to the side of a dirt road and turned off the car’s engine.

      She’d been driving down one backcountry Montana road after another in search of Seth Camden for the last hour of her Wednesday afternoon. She’d found his house and was told that he was out fixing fences and how to find him. The man was not easy to get to even with directions.

      And now that she’d made it to the part of the Camden ranch where she’d been told she could find him, he still wasn’t going to be easy to get to. Particularly not when she was going to have to drop down about two feet from the roadside and cross several yards of field to actually reach him. And she was going to have to do it in a skirt and three-inch heels.

      But today was the day Lacey needed to talk to him, and today—right now—was when she was going to talk to him.

      This would, however, be the first time she’d met Seth Camden—or any member of the infamous Camden family. With that in mind, she wanted to be certain of her appearance, so she flipped down the visor that was just above her head and peered into it.

      For work, she always wore her pale blond, shoulder-length hair swept back. She did it loosely and with a sporty look to it because she didn’t want to appear stark or severe, but she was all business and she didn’t want anyone thinking differently because of some unconscious hair toss that might give a different impression.

      For the meeting to discuss financials that had taken up most of her second day in the small town of Northbridge, Montana, she’d twisted her hair into a knot and let some wispy ends cascade from the top. Checking it out in the visor mirror now she could tell that it was all still the way she’d done it that morning, so she didn’t touch it.

      She also avoided wearing too much makeup. A dusting of blush along the apples of her high cheekbones, a hint of lip gloss on her already rosy lips and a few swipes of mascara to color her lashes and accentuate her green eyes, and she was out the door in the morning. Dolling herself up—that’s what her father would have called it if she did any more than that. And it would defeat her every purpose, because in Morgan Kincaid’s view she would be just another ineffective woman more devoted to her vanity and nabbing a husband than to the job she’d been given.

      Satisfied with her appearance, Lacey flipped the visor up again and got out of her car. She was wearing business clothes—a cotton blouse underneath a tailored coat that matched her straight, gray, knee-length skirt with its slit in the back to accommodate walking.

      At least it accommodated walking anywhere but across the rutted dirt road to the other side, where she awkwardly hopped down the slope from the road to the field.

      Teetering, she barely retained her footing as she got down into the gully. But once she was there, she did her best to walk with some semblance of dignity and headed for the man who didn’t seem to have noticed he was no longer alone.

      It didn’t strike her as strange that he hadn’t noticed her. He was replacing a section of fence that had collapsed somehow. His back was to her and to the road where she’d parked. Plus he was so far from the road that she doubted he’d even heard her car.

      Lacey’s right ankle buckled just then and she veered wildly to one side. She didn’t fall, but it was close, and she checked to make sure she hadn’t broken the heel off of her shoe.

      She hadn’t, so she continued on, focused on the man who was her goal.

      A grayish-white cowboy hat was her only view of him from the neck up, but below that he was dressed in a white crewneck T-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. Lacey could tell that he was tall even from where she was—over six feet tall, she judged. And he had broad, broad shoulders that she watched expand when his massively muscled arms rose in the air, lifting a posthole digger from out of the hole he was working on.

      He gripped the handles of the X-shaped tool in his leather-work-gloved hands and he pivoted slightly to his left with it. He pressed the handles together to open the blue steel head at the opposite end, releasing the dirt he’d taken from the hole. Then he drew the handles apart, pivoted to his original stance and stabbed the closed head into the hole once more.

      As she approached, he stood with his legs apart. Long legs that were thick enough to test the denim of his jeans. Even from a distance she could tell that the twin pockets of those jeans cupped a rear end that rivaled the best she’d ever seen. And being in contact with the players on her father’s new football team—the Montana Monarchs—Lacey had seen some great ones.

      Another near tumble almost landed her

Скачать книгу