he been there the entire time? It would be easier to flirt with him if he hadn’t seen her flirting with the old man.
Of course, it would be easier to flirt with this cowboy, period. Even though he was wearing a thick sheepskin coat, she could tell his shoulders were broad. He didn’t look like a man pretending to be a cowboy—he looked like a man who worked with his hands day in and day out. What kind of muscles were underneath that coat?
“Who are you looking for?” he asked, his voice deep and low and carrying just a hint of menace.
A delicious shiver went through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Her gaze dropped to where his hands rested on his hips. Dear God, look at those hands. Massive and rough-looking—a working man’s hands. Not smooth and polished and manicured. Not perfect. But real. How would those hands feel on her skin? Her body tensed at the thought of his fingers tracing a line down her chest, circling her nipples...
Oh, she could have a lot of fun with a cowboy like him. If she hadn’t had an audience, she might’ve told him that she was looking for him.
But she did have an audience. And a lead to chase. So she put on her most sultry smile. “Have you ever heard of Isabel Santino or Carlos Santino?”
His reaction to these names was so subtle she almost missed it, but a muscle ticked in his jaw. He tilted his head back—not far enough that she could see his eyes, but far enough she knew he was looking her up and down. She rolled her shoulders forward and popped out a hip—her Marilyn Monroe pose. It was usually very effective.
Today must not be her day, though. Not even the best that Marilyn had to offer got anything out of this cowboy. He might look like a fantasy come to life, but he clearly wasn’t going to play along. “Wilmer’s right—I’ve never heard of either of those people, certainly not here. And this is a small town.”
“What about Wesley?”
She saw that muscle in his jaw twitch again. “Pat Wesley? Sure, everybody knows Pat.” He tilted his head down again, hiding the rest of his face in shadows. “He’s not here, though.”
All the smiling was beginning to make her cheeks tight. “Where is he?”
She had couched the question in a sultry tone but the corner of the cowboy’s mouth twitched up—was he laughing at her?
He leaned an elbow against a stack of feedbags. He wasn’t her type—but there was something so gritty about this cowboy that she couldn’t look away. “Why do you want to know? Pat’s just a rancher. Keeps to himself—lived here his whole life. Not much to tell, really.”
This cowboy was not following the script. He wasn’t taking her seriously and he wasn’t falling under her spell. Most importantly, he wasn’t giving her anything she could use. Quiet ranchers who kept to themselves did not make for good headlines.
“Do you know if he has an adopted son?” She knew that Carlos Julián Santino would be thirty-four years old. She didn’t know how old this cowboy was—there was no way to tell, with his face in the shadows like it was.
There was that twitching in his jaw again. But he said, “Ma’am, I assure you he does not.”
What if she were wrong? Of course you’re wrong, the voice in the back of her head scolded her.
It was ridiculous for her to have thought she could find the one man nobody else could. She was ridiculous, pinning all her hopes and dreams for ratings gold, for fame and fortune, onto the Beaumonts and their various and sundry bastards.
She swallowed down the bitter disappointment. Unexpectedly, the cowboy tilted his head to one side, letting a little light spill across his features. It was a damn shame he wasn’t more helpful—or more interested—because he was simply gorgeous. He had a strong jaw with a healthy two-week stubble coming in that made her want to stroke his face and other things. What color were his eyes?
No, she shouldn’t be thinking about this guy’s eyes. She should be focused on her end goal—finding the lost Beaumont bastard. What would his eyes be like? Dark? Or light? Zeb Richards’s eyes were a bright green—which really stood out on a black man. She didn’t know if Carlos Santino’s eyes would be light or dark.
Still, she wanted to see what this cowboy’s eyes looked like. Would they tell her something that his body wasn’t? If she could get a good look at his eyes, would she see wariness—or want?
He tilted his head back down, throwing his face completely in shadows again. Crap. This was not her lucky day. This man was immune to her charms and she couldn’t stand in a feed store all day. She might not be very smart, but even she knew when to cut her losses. She pulled out another card and offered it to the cowboy. “If you find out anything, I can make it worth your while.”
He didn’t take the card. “I’m sure you can, Ms. Baker.” He stepped toward her and Natalie tensed. He knew who she was? Was he a viewer? A fan? Or was he one of those anonymous internet trolls who made her skin crawl even as she craved their attention?
Because when they were insulting her, at least they were paying attention. She was someone, even if she was someone they despised.
But he stepped around her, careful to cut a wide enough berth that there was no accidental touching. Instead, he went to the counter and leaned against it, his entire body angled toward Wilmer.
The body language was clear. It was them against her.
She did what she always did when she felt insecure—she took up as much space as she could. She straightened her shoulders and shot another one of her best smiles at the two men.
She said, “Gentlemen,” even though it was pretty clear that was a loosely applied term at best. And then, head held high, she walked out of the Firestone Grain and Feed and contemplated her next move.
* * *
“What the heck was that all about?” Wilmer asked, scratching the back of his head.
CJ Wesley kept an eye on the woman through the grimy windows of the feed store. She stood on the front step, no doubt plotting where to look for him next. Jesus, Natalie Baker was even more gorgeous in real life than she was on television. And in that outfit?
He knew what she was wearing was part of her act. No sane human would drive out to the windswept northern hills of Colorado in December in a skin-tight black skirt that, with black lace overlaying a black silk lining, looked exactly as warm as a bathing suit. Between the skirt and the sky-high heels—he was damn impressed at how she walked in them—her legs were what men wrote poetry about.
CJ cleared his throat. He wasn’t a poet and he wasn’t interested in Natalie Baker. As he watched, she stepped carefully down the stairs and moved toward a red convertible—a Mustang. Was there any car less appropriate for December in Colorado than that one?
Then again, everything about Natalie Baker was inappropriate, from her amazing cleavage to her fake smiles to her terrifying questions.
“No idea,” CJ lied.
“She’s one of those TV people,” Wilmer said, and CJ had to wonder if Wilmer had just figured that out. He was many things, but Wilmer was not a morning-chat-show guy. If anyone paid even the slightest attention to the morning shows, they’d recognize Natalie Baker immediately. She kept her finger firmly on the pulse of
