million-dollar smile. Carly decided not to notice. She was off men like feathers off a plucked chicken. Permanently.
He extended a well-groomed hand. No dirt under those fingernails. “I am Luc Gardner.”
Carly placed her hand in his. She, with hands long enough to have been a concert pianist, was dwarfed by a blond god in cowboy boots. An interesting sizzle of awareness shimmied up one arm. That would not do at all.
“And I am Carly Carpenter, klutz deluxe. Look out for the shine on those boots. If I’m anywhere near, they’ll be toast.”
He smiled, and somewhere an orthodontist rejoiced. “Toast? As in breakfast?”
Carly blinked twice. What kind of guy didn’t understand American idioms?
A lightbulb came on inside her head.
“You’re not American.”
“As you would say, busted.” The corners of his ocean blue eyes crinkled, but she detected a flicker of reservation. Had he not wanted her to realize the obvious?
But Carly had no opportunity to probe further. An elf of a woman bounded down the staircase to the right, long stained-glass pyramids swinging from her earlobes, brown curly hair flying around her shoulders.
“Hi, Luc. So sweet of you to play bellhop. I don’t know where those ranch hands have gotten off to.” A fleeting pucker came and went, replaced by an impish grin. “Out playing cowboy, I imagine.” Then she stuck out a hand toward Carly. “I’m Teddi Benedict and you must be Carly Carpenter.” Before Carly had a chance to answer, Teddi whipped around toward the mousy little receptionist. “Macy, did you tell them about tonight’s barbecue for Carson and the trail ride in the morning?”
Carly’s head swirled as fast as the woman’s colorful gypsylike skirts. This must be one of the Benedicts.
“Today’s my brother’s birthday.” Teddi flashed a grin. “And we’re celebrating with a bash at seven o’clock. A great way to get acquainted with the staff and the other guests.”
“Oh. Well. That’s…good.” Just what Carly didn’t need. To have to make nice when all she wanted to do was go up to her room and fall into a hot bath and a long depression.
“Here you go.” Teddi shoved a piece of paper that looked like something of a schedule into Carly’s hand. “Everything you need to know is right there. Now, Luc, sweetie, would you mind carrying Carly’s bags up the stairs for her?”
No one had carried anything for Carly since Harold Watersnout in the fourth grade. And he’d only done it then so she’d teach him to whistle through his front teeth.
But the man with the designer smile, the continental bearing and athletic body inclined his head and hoisted her bag and laptop one more time. “It would be my pleasure.”
An exaggeration, no doubt, but Carly gave him points for good manners. Carrying a guest’s suitcase couldn’t be a normal occurrence for a Greek god.
Investigator’s curiosity—at least that’s what she told herself—drove her to watch him. Long, athletic, jean-clad legs carried Mr. Golden Gorgeous up the staircase.
She tugged at the neck of her ripped shirt.
My goodness, it was warm in here.
Everything about her new acquaintance screamed wealth and privilege, the kind of man who normally left her as cold as a tile floor on Christmas morning.
But something about the pseudo cowboy intrigued her. Purely detective’s instinct.
What was a man like Luc Gardner doing on an Oklahoma dude ranch?
She shrugged once more to hike the torn sleeve back into place. She was a detective. She’d find out soon enough.
As she clumped up the rather narrow staircase behind him, Carly did her best not to drool. The man was scary handsome. Fairy-tale handsome. And Carly was a realist who did not believe in fairy tales.
“Room three, isn’t it?” He paused outside the door a few feet down the gleaming wood-floor hallway.
“Yes.”
He extended his hand. She stared at him like an idiot for a full minute before understanding that he wanted to unlock the door for her.
Flattered, she handed him the key. “I’m perfectly capable of opening the door for myself.”
“And my mother would be appalled if I allowed it.”
She smiled. “I like your mother.”
He returned the smile, and Carly prayed her eyes wouldn’t cross from the brilliance. “As do I.”
He inserted the key, then stood back, allowing Carly to enter first.
After setting her bag on the floor, he placed the laptop on the small table next to the bed.
“Someone left you a newspaper.” He picked the thing up as he would a dead mouse.
She grimaced. Hadn’t this very Dallas newspaper carried the story of her arrest for breaking and entering? Sheesh. She’d fallen and entered, and the only thing she’d come close to breaking was her own neck.
“The last thing I want to see while I’m here is a newspaper.”
Luc Gardner dropped the Dallas Daily Mirror into the trash can. “I feel exactly the same.”
“You don’t like the media?” She went to a small round table to smell the flowers and finger the fruit. Her shirtsleeve slid down again. This time she gave up and left it.
“Not particularly. Prying into someone else’s private life for gain is not my idea of a worthy occupation.”
Ouch. “Really?”
If he thought reporters were nosy, what would he think of a private investigator? Better lie low with this guy and keep her career goals to herself.
Carly polished a shiny red apple on the tail of her shirt and tried not to watch him from the corner of her eye. He really was gorgeous. “How long have you been here?”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the open door facing her. “Two days.”
“Planning to stay long?” Rats. Where had that come from?
“As long as it takes.”
Interesting answer. “To do what?”
“Get to know you, of course.”
Carly laughed. She knew her shortcomings. Guys liked her. They confided in her. Asked her advice. Treated her like a sister or a best friend. A few even dated her. But no one tossed compliments to Carly the Klutz.
Certainly not guys like this one.
So why had he?
Chapter Two
Luc unlocked the door to his own room and went inside, tossing the white cowboy hat onto the bed. He was still thinking about the latest guest to arrive at the Benedict Ranch.
She amused him, did Miss Carly Carpenter, with her quick wit and baggy attire. Not the usual woman of his acquaintance, but that was the appeal, he thought. She hadn’t simpered and fawned over him.
Probably because, to his enormous relief, she had no idea who he was. For once he was in a place where not one person—other than his old college mate, Carson Benedict—had even a hint of who he was.
Never in his life had he been out of the limelight, though he’d lived in the shadow of his brother for most of the time. But since Philippe’s death, the European paparazzi had turned into blood-sucking leeches, draining every moment of peace from his life. The American press, while fascinated by him during his brief time at university, had yet to discover his presence this trip.
He