“It’s so cold out there,” Daisy said to Martha, shivering as she made her way into the warmth of Clint’s house on Monday morning. “I’ve lived here all my life. You’d think I’d be—”
“No time to chitchat,” Martha scolded her. “Get in there and help him before he blows up the new computer.”
Daisy raced down the hall to the office. “I told you not to touch it!” she cried.
“A simple email to a textile company,” Clint grumbled. “That’s all I wanted to do and now it’s glitching.”
“It’s a new computer,” Daisy said soothingly. “You probably accidentally hit the wrong button. I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“You have five minutes,” he said, frowning at her. “This has to go out today.”
“It’ll take longer than that,” Daisy assured him, thinking of those hours and hours of instruction she’d been looking forward to and wondering if they were going to be any fun, after all. “I’ll finish typing the email for you, then when you have time, we’ll—”
“I want my old computer and programs back.”
“I’m afraid you can’t have your old computer and programs back. They’re on their way to the landfill. New computers have new programs. You have no choice but to move into the twenty-first century.”
“Why, when the old program worked just fine, do they have to dream up another one?”
“To make it better?”
Clint snorted. “It’s not better. It’s impossible to use. I wrote the email already. I just can’t figure out how to send it.”
Daisy looked at his email. The default font was small and a little bit artsy. When she saw how much information he’d imparted in so few words. “…adjust the invoice of August to reflect our conversation of November.” With the current font, it didn’t look serious.
“I’ll fix it,” she promised him. “You go do something else. I haven’t gotten around to setting up the program for you with icons you can find easily, so I’ll do that this morning.” She gazed at him sadly. “I should have bought you a more user-friendly computer, the kind schools buy for the kids. Even preschoolers use them. But since you already had the other kind, I assumed—”
“I’m not a preschooler,” he growled. “You think I can’t learn a new program? I can and I will.”
He paused, and Daisy leaped into the silence. “I’m happy to teach you,” she said humbly. She’d manipulated him again and felt sort of bad about it, but in both cases, Clint had been acting like his own worst enemy—and somebody had to save him from the enemy.
He stood, staring at her. “You wear orange a lot,” he said.
Talk about a non sequitur. Daisy glanced down at her orange turtleneck. “Orange is supposed to look good on redheads,” she explained, “and besides, not many people like the color, so I get some great bargains.”
His gaze burned into her. She was afraid to move, and he didn’t come toward her. “It does look nice,” he said. Then he added, uncommonly politely, “I’ll see you later, then. At lunch.”
He’d invited her to have lunch with him! Now she felt confident it was all right to say, “Maybe at five we could spend an hour figuring out the new accounting program.”
“I could be free at four, I think,” he said, surprising her with his acquiescence.
Then she noticed the hunger in his eyes, and desire danced through her. She wanted to put her arms around him and tell him he could kiss the breath out of her if he wanted to, but it wasn’t time…yet.
He would know the right time, and she’d wait for him. She knew he’d kiss her again someday.
“Better get to work.” He pulled his gaze away from her, then glanced at his wrist, where his watch didn’t seem to be, and frowned.
“Me, too,” Daisy said. “I’ll see you at noon.”
Clint left then, but not angrily. In fact, he waved from the doorway. In just a few minutes he’d been transformed from a furious man to a calm and peaceful, nearly normal one. Daisy wouldn’t ask herself what had happened. She’d just count her blessings.
Clint had felt more relaxed yesterday and had slept better last night than he had in years. Trying to use that computer had frustrated the heck out of him, but who didn’t get frustrated when a machine didn’t work? But then, when Daisy had barreled into his office in that silky, tight-fitting orange turtleneck, looking like a summer sunset, he’d felt himself calming down.
Oh, yeah, he had to hide it for a while as a matter of pride, but he was thinking, Daisy’s here. She can fix everything.
Why did that make him feel better? He’d have to think that one over. In the meantime, he actually did have work to do.
Joe caught him just as he entered the barn. “The boiler’s on the blink again,” he said.
“Buy a new one,” Clint said distractedly.
“Rayford wants to know if you need any more help,” Tim signed when Clint and Joe stepped into his office. “His brother just lost his job. He’s got three kids.”
“Hire him,” Clint signed back.
Tim’s eyes widened ever so slightly. After a pause, he signed, “He’s an alcoholic.”
“Reform him. I’m a little busy this morning. I’ll let you guys handle everything.” He turned to Joe. “And shop for a new boiler.”
It was like a siren call, his need to go to the studio. Convinced he’d left his business in perfect order, Clint went there immediately.
There was tension at the lunch table, but not enough to have the slightest effect on Daisy’s appetite. Feeling they’d crossed a barrier, she chattered happily about Clint’s new computer, town gossip, and the festival. From him she got nods and the occasional slight smile.
Until he blurted out, “How were you thinking of showing these paintings?”
He actually cared. She was touched by that. In fact, she’d been thinking about it a lot and had come up with a plan. She rested her chin on her hand and said, “My first idea was to put you right out in the center of the room with the ‘sheep to sweater’ demonstration, but it would be hard to display the paintings. So now I think we’ll put your booth in the center at the back and fill the wall with the paintings. They’ll be the first thing people will see as they’re coming through the door. How many pieces do you have?”
“I was sort of figuring that out today.”
He “sort of” looked as if he was sorry he’d brought up the topic. “Whatever, we’ll hang them and tack a price tag beneath each one—”
“Do we have to put price tags on them?” He sounded nervous.
“Well, no, we could number them and have a corresponding list of prices for people to look at.”
“It’s the prices themselves that bother me, not how you do it. Couldn’t I just leave it open and wait to see if anybody even wants one of them?”
Daisy couldn’t let herself smile because she didn’t want him to misinterpret it, so she quickly forked up a big spoonful of homemade macaroni and cheese and stuffed her mouth with it. Chewed. Swallowed. “I’ll find an art dealer to help us with the pricing—in case anybody wants to buy one.”
“Just so it’s not too much.”
“I promise. Not too much.”
Clint ducked his head toward the table. “How are the festival plans shaping up?”
My goodness, he was making an effort to show an interest! “Wonderfully,” she said, “with a few problems. Like nobody wanting to chair the Publicity Committee.” She might have to be the Publicity Committee herself, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. She already knew how she wanted to advertise in a way that would bring a lot of Texans to taste the pleasures of a tiny town hidden in the Panhandle.
“You should think of a couple of people you know would do a good job and tell them to do it,” Clint suggested. “That will solve your problem.”
Daisy smiled. “Clint, I can’t just tell people that they have to be in charge of a committee. It wouldn’t be right.”
He seemed to consider what she said carefully because he didn’t say a word for a few seconds, just stared at his plate. Then he raised his head. “You can persuade them. You’re very good at that.”
Oops. He’d noticed. He didn’t say the words. He didn’t have to. They both knew what he was thinking, and it had been nice of him not to come right out and say, “You can con them, just the way you conned me.”
But she refused to feel bad about how she’d persuaded him to participate in the festival. It was good for him. Already he was opening up and having real conversations. She liked talking with Clint very much and, frankly, couldn’t see how her persuasion had done him any harm.
“You’re right. I guess I am good at that,” she said, turning her attention back to her plate. “Maybe I can think of someone I can persuade to help.”
“Trust me. They won’t stand a chance,” he said and gave her a quirk of a smile.
The smile was so unexpected and enticing that Daisy found herself laughing. Clint looking happy was something she could get used to really fast.
“Well, that’s just dumb.” And so was he. Clint had been watching the time all afternoon, waiting for four o’clock when he’d get his first lesson from Daisy about using the new computer programs. And now that he was here, she was the one who was driving him crazy, not the program.
“It is different,” she said, “but you’re getting it.” She sat beside and a little behind him so that he could be at the keyboard, but she could see what he was doing. Her light, flowery scent wafted over him, making him want to turn around and sink his face into her shoulder. Her arm brushed his when she pointed to something on the monitor screen, and her face was close enough to kiss. He was losing it, that’s what he was doing, under the stress of being in close quarters with a lovely woman after not associating with anyone but his family and his employees for years.
“What next?” he said gruffly, wanting to latch on to something that would stop him from thinking about sex.
“I think you can send an email now, don’t you?”
The words puffed into his ear, and a zing shot straight down his body. “Probably.” He could barely get the word out.
“So let’s switch to the accounting program. We won’t have much time to work on it, but I could give you an overview. Click on…”
There it was, all laid out before him, the possibility of one digital spreadsheet instead of two accounting books. He had to admit it—this would be good. Daisy’s voice was soft as she explained that he’d be doing the work all at once, that the program would subtotal each time he made an entry.
When she drew closer to him, Clint’s breath quickened. He realized he wasn’t listening to her, that his mind was on nothing but her mouth, her scent, her small body he wanted so badly to hold.
“…all right,” she said.
“Sorry…” He’d lost track of what she was saying.
“It’s all right to kiss me.”
The shock made him whirl toward her. Her lips parted, and he accepted the gift she gave him. He met her kiss, drew back, then brushed her mouth again with his. She accepted his touch willingly, then eagerly. Her hand went to his face, cupped his chin, pulled him deeper into the pleasure of desire.
When he lifted her from her chair and put his arms around her, his need was so great that he had to hold back, press her gently to him, caress her lightly, until it was apparent that she wanted more. She crushed herself against him, her arms circling him, stroking his back with a rhythm so maddening that he couldn’t wait any longer. Heat filled him, suffocated him. Breaking away, he reveled in the sound of her soft moan. He couldn’t take much more without whisking her up into his arms and carrying her off to his bedroom—past the kitchen, where Martha would be cooking dinner.
Although he cast a longing glance over Daisy’s shoulder at the sofa in the study, then checked the door to be sure it was closed, Clint faced the reality that they weren’t alone. The heaven he wanted to share with her couldn’t happen here and now.
Slowly and carefully, he pulled back. Daisy’s eyes were closed, her lips swollen, her face flushed. He didn’t want to let her go, but he had to—for now.
“Don’t you dare run away,” she whispered, still not opening her eyes.
He buried his smile in her soft, springy hair. “I’m through with running away,” he said.
“Well, good, because I’m fed up with it.”
He gripped her face in his hands. “You are one bossy woman, Daisy Banks,” he said.
“Yep,” she answered, at last letting go of him, “and the sooner you learn it, the better.”
“Clint!” It was Martha calling from the kitchen. With none-too-steady hands, he shoved his shirt back into his waistband and smoothed his hair. “You two about finished in there? Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Yes,” he called back, so filled with joy he almost felt like laughing. “We’re through for today. Be there in a minute.” And to Daisy, he said, “Stay for dinner?”
“Oh, I couldn’t bear to,” she said, her voice still whispery. “One second of me sitting at the table with you and your ranch hands and we might as well advertise in the paper that we’ve reached the kissing stage.”
“You’re right,” he said, because she was. “See you tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” It was so wonderful to return the smile she sent him, and so hard to let her go out that door.
Thanksgiving came and went, a veritable tsunami of too many people and too much food. Not too many people for Daisy, but she could just imagine how Clint felt. In fact, he’d told her how he felt when she’d found an excuse to dash to Rafe’s house for a few minutes of total bedlam that made her parents’ house seem like being in church.
“I want to be alone,” he’d muttered, “with you.”
The next week went by in a haze of sidelong glances, stolen kisses, and, yes, Clint’s taxes. At times Daisy had to convince herself that they had any importance whatsoever, but in fact, she had to be ready for that audit, and she would be armed to the teeth.
Daisy would also be armed to the teeth for a successful festival. With the enthusiastic help of her assistant, Amy, and the help of half the town, the event was taking shape. She’d taken Clint’s advice and convinced Marjorie Latham that without her directing the publicity, they might as well give up on the entire idea of the festival. Which, of course, freed up more time for Daisy to be with Clint. Time she really wanted. Each morning, excitement coursed through her veins as she drove to his house. Once safely inside his office, they’d steal a few precious kisses and caresses before she’d make him leave so she could get some work done.
Then she’d try to force herself to focus, which wasn’t easy. She knew Clint was on the property, and her gaze kept drifting toward the window, wondering if he would walk by. In her entire life, Daisy had never been this thrilled by a new relationship, if that was what they had. She wasn’t sure. They kissed like two sex-crazed teenagers, but did they have more than that?
She wasn’t sure because they never talked about what was happening between them. She was reluctant to say anything because she didn’t want to ruin what they had. If she tried to discuss it with Clint, she was fairly certain she’d lose ground. Clint just wasn’t a talker. He’d never start the conversation, and she got the distinct impression that he was afraid she might.
So she didn’t question it, just reveled in the pleasure of it. But she knew they couldn’t go on like this forever. Sooner or later, she’d have to ask him where this was leading. But she couldn’t do it here, not in her office with Amy eavesdropping, or at his house surrounded by people.
No, she needed to talk with Clint alone. Dinner seemed like the logical solution. She’d invite him to her apartment, cook something there, and see where things led. Daisy glanced toward the window. She’d left the wooden blinds open so she could keep an eye on the barn. As soon as Clint returned to the house tonight, she’d ask him to come for dinner.
But not until she’d kissed him. A woman had to have her priorities straight.
“Dinner?” Clint frowned. “Why?”
“Because it would be fun,” Daisy said, sliding her hands up his arms. “I’d like you to see my apartment. It would be fun to cook for you.”
Clint didn’t like the sound of this. Dinner meant being polite and talking. He didn’t want to talk, especially not about what was happening between them. “I don’t know,” he said, then reluctantly moved away from her. He’d let this thing between them go too far. He should have stopped it a long time ago.
Daisy laughed. “Clint, nothing bad is going to happen. It’s just dinner.”
“And talking.” He pinned her with his gaze. “About us.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Or not.”
Clint blew out a deep breath. “I know women need to talk about things like this.”
“Not all women,” she assured him. “I’m okay with the way things are. Well, for the most part. But we should meet somewhere besides your office for a change. My apartment seems like the logical choice.”
Looking at her sweet smile, he realized he couldn’t say no without having a reason. “What will I tell Martha?”
Her eyebrows peaked. “You have to ask Martha’s permission to go out?”
“Of course not.” Where was that reason?
“She’ll wonder, though, and might start other people wondering.”
Her face got that thinking look. “Tell her,” she said, “that we’re looking at my computer and the programs I use.”
Clint gave in. Might as well. He knew he would sooner or later. And the thought of being alone with Daisy was seriously tempting him. If he kept her mouth shut by keeping his on it the whole evening, maybe he could avoid that talk. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.” Daisy took a step toward him, then the sudden banging on the door to the office made them both jump. Clint muttered a curse and yanked the door open. Martha stood on the threshold. Marjorie Latham stood behind her. Flanking Marjorie was a perky little blonde woman with a notepad and a man with a camera.
“Sorry to bother you,” Martha said, her sharp gaze darting from Clint to Daisy, then back again. “But Marjorie’s here with some people from the Amarillo Free Press.”
Clint turned to Daisy, who looked as shocked as he felt. “What’s this about?”
Marjorie moved forward. “Daisy appointed me head of publicity for the festival. Your paintings will definitely be a big attraction.” She tipped her head toward the two other people. “They just want to ask you a few questions and take a few shots of you and your paintings.”
“Marjorie,” Daisy said pleasantly, looking calm now, “could the three of us have a few minutes together first?”
“Coffee,” Martha said, whirling the press duo around, “in the kitchen.”
When the door closed behind them, Daisy said, “Marjorie, you should have talked to me before you invited reporters to Clint’s house.”
Marjorie stiffened. “Excuse me, but when you asked for my help, you said I could do whatever I wanted and that I should decide what would work best. I think that getting information into this Amarillo newspaper is a great way to draw crowds to the festival.”
“You’re right,” Daisy said, “but not without asking Clint’s permission first.”
For the second time in the last hour, Clint felt like he was getting in over his head. First, Daisy had invited him to dinner. Now, Marjorie wanted his face plastered in the newspapers. This was what happened when you let people into your life.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said flatly. “Tell those two to go home.”
“For pity’s sake, it’s not a big deal,” Marjorie said in a huff. “The reporter will ask you a few questions, and the photographer will take a picture of you with one of your paintings. The reporter also might want to interview Daisy and me. Five minutes, and they’ll be out of your life.”
Clint turned to Daisy. She seemed chagrined, so sad he wanted to hug her. This was his fault, really. He’d told her to choose the best person to do the publicity and talk him or her into the job. Marjorie Latham probably was the best person for the job. Look what she’d done. Twenty-four, forty-eight hours into it and here she was with reporters.
He sighed. “Okay, bring ’em back.”
Daisy looked relieved, which made him feel good about his decision. Marjorie looked triumphant, which made him regret it. She scurried into the hall and called out, “Okay, we’re ready now.” And when the newspaper people came down the hall, she added, “He just needed to freshen his makeup.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” the reporter and photographer said.
Clint glowered. He pointed at the reporter. “A short interview.” Then he turned to the photographer. “One picture. Me with a painting. No pictures of my studio. Or my house. Or my barn. Or my sheep.”
The man shrugged. “Sure. One picture is all we have room for in the paper, anyway.”
Clint sighed and felt Daisy’s hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry, Clint,” she said again. “But it won’t be so bad.”
He glanced down at her, at her pretty face and crazy hair, and knew he was doomed. Yes, it would be bad, at least for him. And they both knew it. But he’d do it for Daisy.
“One picture,” he reminded Marjorie, leading the way to his studio. This festival was getting out of hand. First, he had to shear a sheep in public; now, he had to put his paintings on display for the whole world to see. “One picture and that’s all. I mean it.”
And he still meant it an hour later when Marjorie and newspaper people left with two pages of notes—and more than a dozen photos.