from his core and cast an aura around him like the glow of a sizzling neon sign. She could only stand there, openmouthed and mute, and stare at him. At bits of sawdust caught in his light chest hair and at beads of sweat glistening on his spectacular pecs, on his lean, muscled abdomen where the skin glistened golden tan. His jaw was as finely carved as the huge wooden bear he worked on with the chain saw. Unbelievably handsome, he had wonderful high cheekbones, a perfect nose.
And his eyes...his eyes took her breath away as their mind-blowing blue bored into hers.
He lopped off one of the bear’s ears.
“Damn!”
He killed the chain saw and laid it aside.
Mortified by the sudden amputation she’d caused, Irish said, “Oh God, I’m sorry I startled you. Now your thing is ruined.”
“My thing?” he asked in a deep, sexy voice that resonated inside her from gut to womb to toes.
She felt her face heat. If she hadn’t known better, Irish would have sworn that she blushed, but she hadn’t blushed since she was in puberty. She gestured toward the rough carving. “The bear.”
He flashed a blinding smile that, if she hadn’t already been awe-struck, would have laid her low. He removed his goggles, repositioned his hat over his damp blond hair and patted the bear’s head. “No problem. We’ll just rename him Vince.”
Mesmerized, she continued to gape at him as all sorts of switches were being thrown inside her body. “Vince?”
His smile broadened into a grin, and her heels slowly sank into the ground. Another few minutes of this man and not only would her boots be beyond repair, but she would be a mindless puddle in the sawdust.
“Vince,” he said, his eyes as busy over her as hers were over him. “Vincent. Vincent Van Gogh.”
Her brain didn’t register. “Vincent Van Gogh?” she asked blankly.
“You know, the artist who chopped off his ear.”
“Ohhh,” she said, feeling like a dolt. “That Vince.” Her gaze went to his chest again. His gaze must have mimicked hers for she felt her nipples suddenly pebble.
Stripping off his leather gloves, he grabbed a towel that hung on a nail and swiped it across his sweaty, bare skin. “What can I do for you?” he asked as he wiped away sawdust and a particularly intriguing rivulet of perspiration that she’d been watching as it trickled downward toward his navel.
“Do for me?” What a loaded question. As she noted his long, supple fingers, she could name at least a dozen things—all of them extremely intimate—that she would love for him to do for her.
He chuckled softly, and she felt that darned heat spread over her face. “You need some help?” he asked.
“Help? Oh, yes. Er...uh, are you Cherokee Pete?”
“Nope. Pete’s my grandfather. I’m Kyle.” He tossed the towel aside, grabbed his shirt and hurriedly donned it. “Kyle Rutledge.”
“I’m Irish. Irish Ellison.”
Kyle almost said, I know, but something stopped him. In his California practice, a dozen or more women had brought him her photograph from some magazine or another, wanting her nose or her cheekbones or that lush mouth of hers. Instead, he tipped his hat and said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Ellison. How may I help you, ma’am?”
“Could you tell me if that’s the road to Crow’s Nest?” She gestured over her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s it.”
“Oh, dear. I was afraid you were going to say that. I’m supposed to meet Jackson Crow, but the gate’s locked.”
Well, damn it all to hell! Here was one of the world’s most gorgeous women in the flesh, one who rang his bell and had him standing to attention, and be damned if his cousin hadn’t staked her out first. As usual, Jackson was the luckiest son-of a-gun walking. “Jackson’s gone.”
Her astonishing emerald green eyes widened in alarm. “Gone?”
“Gone.”
“But—but I have an appointment. I’m supposed to spend several days at the retreat working on an article. On him and the men in the young millionaire’s club.”
“You don’t know Jackson?”
She shook her head. “Never met him.”
Kyle relaxed. His smile returned. “He and that crazy bunch of his buddies decided to go to Dallas for the Cowboys game Sunday. They’ll be back Monday.”
“But this is Friday.”
“They started the party a little early. You must have just missed them.”
“Our appointment was for a couple of hours ago. My plane was late, and I had some problems at the car rental agency.”
Kyle watched her chew the inside of her cheek and look worried. He had a fleeting urge to go after Jackson with an ax handle for causing those furrows to form between her perfectly arched eyebrows. “I wouldn’t let it upset me. Jackson will be back Monday—if he’s sober enough to fly.”
“Sober enough—Does he drink a lot?”
He bit back a grin. There was no way that he was going to exalt Jackson in this lady’s eyes. His cousin had all the women he could handle now. Kyle had seen this one first. “Like a fish. The man’s a sot.” Sorry, cuz he said silently.
A shot rang out, and Kyle flinched, afraid for a moment that the powers-that-be were about to strike him dead for lying.
Startled, too, Irish jumped. “What was that?”
“That’s just Grandpa Pete. He’s in bed with a broken hip, and when he needs some help, he fires his pistol out the window.”
“Wouldn’t a bell be better?”
He grinned. “You don’t know my grandpa. Come on up to the store with me while I see what he needs, and then we’ll see what we can do to get your problem straightened out. It’s about time for lunch. You hungry?”
“Famished.”
“You like chili?”
“With beans?”
“Bite your tongue, woman. This is Texas. Only a Yankee would spoil a perfectly good pot of chili with beans. You a Yankee?” he drawled.
She laughed, and the throaty sound of it made him think of cool sheets and warm flesh. “I’m from Washington, D.C.,” she said. “At least that’s where I live now. I’m originally from Ohio, but I lived in New York for several years.”
“New York City?” he asked with an exaggerated drawl. “Did you like that place?”
She shrugged. “For a while.”
“That’s
