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“This should do it.”
He placed the hat on her head, then turned her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks good—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”
Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her.
“Thanks,” she said, appalled at the quavery sound of her voice.
“Uh … you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away.
This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—was comfortable, satisfied … solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips all combined into one seriously hot package.
But she would fly back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article.
But she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.
A Husband in Wyoming
Lynnette Kent
LYNNETTE KENT lives on a farm in southeastern North Carolina with her six horses and six dogs. When she isn’t busy riding, driving or feeding animals, she loves to tend her gardens and read and write books.
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
June
Here comes trouble.
Standing outside the barn, Dylan Marshall watched as dust billowed up behind the vehicle approaching in the distance. He swallowed against the dread squeezing his throat. If he could have avoided this encounter by any reasonable means, he would have. The next four days were going to be absolute hell.
At last the Jeep came into full view, its dark blue paint now mottled with dirt. Going too fast, the car barreled up the last hill and hurtled along the road toward the ranch house, where it screeched to a stop with a spray of gravel.
Dylan shook his head. Somebody needs to slow down.
His boots felt as if they had lead in them, but he managed to move his feet and descend the hill toward the house. After a long day driving cattle, all he wanted was a shower. Dirt had settled in the bends of his elbows and the creases of his jeans, the cuffs of his gloves and at the base of his throat. He could taste it on his tongue.
He also wanted some dinner and a chance to sit down on a chair instead of a saddle. But most of all, he wanted to get clean.
He did not want to meet the press.
The door on the Jeep opened and a pair of high-heeled boots hit the ground. Standing up, the driver saw him coming, shut the car door and walked forward. Like two gunfighters, they moved slowly, warily toward each other, hands at their sides as if poised to draw a pistol and fire.
Dylan stopped with about ten feet between them. “Jess Granger?”
She was tall and slim, with long, shapely legs showcased by skinny jeans and those fashionable boots. Shiny brown hair whipped around her head, blown by the never-ending Wyoming wind.
Pulling the long strands out of the way, she nodded. “From Renown Magazine. You’re Dylan Marshall?”
Her face could make Da Vinci weep—big eyes, the cheekbones of a goddess and a wide red mouth that stirred a man’s blood
