dug into her purse and quickly found her comb, but she needn’t have hurried—Mr. Phillips, or whoever was inside, did not answer the door.
Maybe he needed extra time to reach it—the P.I. said he was in his mid-sixties—or maybe he hadn’t heard the bell.
Determined, she rang again, letting her finger linger on the buzzer. After a short wait, she knocked. Nothing.
Frustrated and disappointed, but too curious to leave without at least sneaking a peek inside, she left the porch. Keeping under the shelter of the eaves, she stepped into the neglected garden along the front of the house.
Knee-high weeds raked the calves of her jeans, and mud sucked at her expensive leather slip-ons. Wishing she’d worn sneakers, she leaned forward and peered through the large front window into what appeared to be the living room. A sofa backed up against the window, and two armchairs and a coffee table faced an old TV. The off-white walls were completely bare. Mr. Phillips wasn’t much for decorating.
Suddenly the deadbolt clicked. Sarah froze, but not for long. She turned and made a mad dash for the porch, stumbling over a dip in the ground in her haste. She’d barely regained her balance before the door swung open.
Caught in the garden like a thief. Great way to make a first impression, Sarah.
Her face burned, and she knew she was beet-red. With all the grace she could muster, she brushed off her hands and moved causally toward the door.
It wasn’t until she planted her feet on the concrete slab that she mustered the courage to actually look at the large male standing in the doorway.
When she saw who it was, she almost stumbled again from the sheer shock. What was Clay Hollyer doing here?
The corner of his sexy mouth lifted in the devastating quirk women everywhere swooned over. Not Sarah—not anymore. She’d never thought she’d see him again and hadn’t ever wanted to.
Yet there he was, as imposing and magnetic as ever.
He pushed his longish brown hair off his forehead, momentarily exposing the faint scar along his right temple, the result of an angry bull’s attempt to rid himself of his tenacious rider sometime during Clay’s brilliant career as America’s champion bull rider.
As talented and good-looking as he was, Clay Hollyer was also cocky and full of himself. He was one of the biggest players Sarah had ever met, let alone profiled for a magazine article. The buckle bunnies who buzzed around him, vying for his attention like bees around a honeycomb, only increased his inflated opinion of himself.
That Sarah had been one of them—not a buckle bunny, but just as smitten—made seeing him now all the worse.
It had been nearly three years. Plenty had happened since then, and she doubted he even remembered her. Hoped and prayed he didn’t. But the striking jade eyes known to every rodeo fan in the world narrowed, and his lips compressed into a thin, flat line, and she knew that he did.
She wanted to sink into the ground. Or better yet, make a beeline for the car. But she was no coward. She forced a smile. “Hello, Clay. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Sa—”
“Sarah Tigarden. How could I ever forget you?” His expression hardened, belying his light tone. “What the hell are you doing here?”
* * *
OF ALL THE women Clay had known, one of his least favorite was standing on his doorstep. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d trampled through the dead flower bed to snoop through the window.
He was so not amused.
Despite his nasty-ass scowl, she barely flinched. She lost the phony smile though, and clutched the strap of her purse in a stranglehold. “I’m looking for Mr. Tyler Phillips.”
“You want to talk my landlord.” Clay snorted. “He doesn’t live here, and FYI, he doesn’t know anything about me.”
“But this is his house.”
“And he rented it to me. I don’t do interviews anymore.”
Even if he did, he wouldn’t talk to her. A few years back, her big oh-so-guileless blue eyes and great legs had all but reeled him in. That and the habit she had of pushing her then long black hair behind her ears and catching her provocative lower lip between her teeth.
He’d soaked up her interest in him, had liked her enough that he’d even considered dating her. She didn’t have the voluptuous curves he preferred, but those legs and her sweet little behind compensated for the small breasts.
Early one memorable morning, after ten days of letting her shadow him and answering her endless questions, he’d kissed her, in the stable with the horses, leaning against a clover-scented bale of hay. A sizzling kiss he’d thought about for months—and sometimes still did.
At the time, she’d seemed just as awed by the wallop that kiss had packed. Yet for some reason she’d cooled off, fast.
For the rest of the day and the night, she’d avoided being alone with him. The following morning, a full day before she was supposed to leave, she’d taken off without even thanking him for his time. She’d ignored his calls, emails and texts. Then she’d slammed him in print, calling him shallow, a player with a big ego that needed constant feeding. As if he were responsible for the women who threw themselves at him.
His buddies had laughed and said they wouldn’t mind a similar article written about them, but that article had caused him no small amount of pain and trouble.
“I’m not here to do an interview, Clay.”
Yeah, right. She was probably here to write a scathing piece about the life of a has-been. No, thanks.
Those big eyes widened, once more tempting him to fall under her spell and stay awhile. Not about to get suckered in again, he tore his gaze away. “How’d you find me?”
Not that his living here was a secret. He’d put out the press release himself, mostly to announce his new business venture. Since the accident and his forced retirement, interest from reporters had been all but nonexistent. Which suited him fine.
“Believe me, you’re the last person I expected to run into,” Sarah said. “I have no interest in you at all. None.”
Why that bothered him was anyone’s guess. She wasn’t the first to feel that way. The angry bull that had crushed his knee had ruined more than his career. The buckle bunnies he’d once taken for granted had quickly turned their attention to other bull riders. Never mind that he’d driven them away. He didn’t need their pity.
“Then why are you here?” he asked, not hiding his displeasure.
“I was hoping I could see the house.”
Right, and he was a ballet dancer. “You’re telling me Phillips wants to sell this place? Too bad—a couple of months ago, I signed a nine-month lease. I’m not leaving until the contractor finishes my house, and he just broke ground.”
His bad leg was beginning to ache. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms.
“You’re
