that folder, and there was nothing she could do to change it. It was, she admitted, inevitable.
“He’s in town for about three weeks,” Jerry said. “Follow him around. Shouldn’t be hard. He wants this piece as much as we do. Decent publicity and all that garbage. Get to know the real man. Write me something brilliant and it just might be your ticket out.” Jerry looked at her. “A bigger publisher or maybe even a book deal. Do it right, kid. Breaks like this don’t come along very often. Now get out of here. I’m busy.”
With that Jerry picked up his ringing phone and probably forgot she’d ever been in the room.
Chloe gingerly took the folder and returned to her cubicle. She didn’t want to open it. Maybe if she waited long enough, it would go away. Wishful thinking, she thought, and drew in a deep breath. She flipped back the top cover and saw him. He was standing on the edge of a mountain, leaning against an outcropping of rock. She recognized the clothes, the place and the man. She knew that just around the corner was a cave and in the cave was a fire and a bed of straw.
“I don’t like this,” Chloe whispered. “It’s too strange.”
“I brought it,” Paula said as she walked into the tiny space and dumped a stack of folders onto the spare chair pressed up by Chloe’s desk.
“What is it?”
“Research. All the stuff Nancy had gathered on that Smith guy. She said to call her at home if you want any tips.” Paula’s gaze drifted to the photograph. “Wow, he’s good-looking. Just like that guy in the movies. You know—Indiana Jones. Although he doesn’t really look like Harrison Ford. He’s taller. Still, I wouldn’t shoo him away if he turned up in my bed.” She waved her fingers and left.
“Apparently I wouldn’t either,” Chloe said glumly. So much for escaping her destiny. In the space of twelve hours a strange man had invaded her subconscious and now her work. What was she supposed to do?
But Chloe already knew the answer to that. An assignment like the one Jerry had just handed her was one any junior writer would kill for. Talk about a stroke of luck.
Or destiny, a little voice whispered.
“I don’t believe in little voices either,” Chloe muttered, “So I’m going to get to work now.”
She spent the rest of the day reading through Nancy’s notes, clippings from other articles and some information she’d pulled from the Internet. By four-thirty her eyes hurt and she had a major headache. She still didn’t have a strategy for dealing with everything that had happened, but she needed to get one and fast. Her first meeting with Mr. Smith was in the morning at the university. Nancy had already set it up. He was taking her on a private tour of the gem exhibit.
She gathered up all the papers and stuffed them into her briefcase. Maybe she could work better at home.
Forty minutes later she pulled into the driveway of the Victorian mansion that had been in her family for generations. Safe at last, she thought as she climbed out. She walked up the steps and into the foyer.
“It’s me,” she called. Cassie’s car hadn’t been in the garage, but Aunt Charity’s had.
“We’re in the kitchen.”
Chloe made a face. Aunt Charity had spent much of her life traveling the world. She seemed to know someone from every possible corner of the globe, and at one time or another they all liked to visit. Who was it this time? A tribal elder from Africa or some obscure prince from the Middle East? She felt that familiar wave of resentment toward her aunt Charity for not being around when she’d needed her the most. But she filed those unpleasant thoughts away. She just wasn’t up to dwelling on that tonight. And she wasn’t in the mood to play hostess, either.
Still, she straightened her shoulders and forced herself to smile as she crossed the hallway and entered the kitchen. She already had her arm extended so she could shake hands with Charity’s mystery guest.
She came to a complete stop just inside the oversize room. Her jaw dropped. She told herself to close her mouth, but her body wasn’t paying attention.
He was as tall as she remembered. Lean, powerful and too good-looking by far. Not a tribal elder, or even a prince. No, he was much more dangerous. He was Arizona Smith—the man from her dream.
CHAPTER TWO
“ARIZONA, this is one of my nieces. Chloe. She’s the journalist. Chloe, this is Arizona Smith. I think you were watching him on the morning news show earlier today, weren’t you?”
Charity’s question hung in the air, but Chloe didn’t answer. Arizona shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the round table. He was used to fans being tongue-tied in his presence, but Chloe Bradley Wright didn’t look like the rabid fan type. Plus, she was staring at him as if he’d grown a horn in the center of his forehead. He brushed back his hair, casually letting his fingers touch the skin there, just to be sure.
“Hi, Chloe,” he said, and held out his hand. In the past he’d found that polite, social niceties often put people at ease.
Her gaze dropped from his face to his hand. She still looked panicked, but she responded automatically. “Mr. Smith. What a pleasure.” Her attention shifted to her aunt. “You didn’t mention company for dinner. I think there’s a roast, but it’s not defrosted. I could put it in the microwave and—”
“All taken care of,” Charity said, and patted the empty chair next to hers. “Get yourself something to drink and join us. Arizona and I were just catching up on old times. He has some wonderful stories. I’m sure you’ll be interested in them.”
Chloe didn’t respond right away. Her gaze settled back on his. Arizona read concern in her eyes and something that looked like apprehension. He held in a sigh. No doubt Charity had been telling tales out of school again. The older woman loved to brag about his exploits. Okay, he was willing to admit that there had been a time when everything they said about him was true, but that was long ago. These days his life was practically boring. At least when it came to his conquests with women.
Chloe moved to the refrigerator. “Would either of you like anything?”
“I’m fine, dear,” Charity said.
“Me, too.” Arizona motioned to the bottle of beer in front of him.
Chloe gave him a tight smile, then collected a diet soda for herself. She walked back to the table.
Arizona told himself it wasn’t polite to stare, but Ms. Chloe Bradley Wright was very easy on the eyes. Tall, at least five-eight or -nine, slender with big brown eyes and a cascade of reddish-brown curls that tumbled to the middle of her back. She might not have a lot of curves, but she was woman enough to get his blood pumping.
If he had a type, she would be it. Fortunately he didn’t have one, nor was he looking for anyone to keep him company during his brief visit to Bradley.
“I’m trying to convince Arizona to stay with us while he’s here,” Charity said, picking up the conversation where they’d left it when Chloe had arrived home. “I’ve explained there’s plenty of room and he won’t be any trouble at all. What do you think?”
Chloe was staring at him again. Whatever the reason for her attention,
