to keep control of the conversation, making sure Jess Granger learned only what he wanted her to. Reporters could be ruthless, but his job for the next four days was to give this New York journalist a peek at his life and his sculpture without actually revealing anything important. The gallery where he’d be showing his work had insisted on a big publicity push. Their bottom line: no article, no exhibit. After the way he’d sabotaged his career two years ago, Dylan knew he was lucky to get this chance for a significant show. If he wanted his work to be seen, he had to cooperate with the gallery—and with Jess Granger.
But he didn’t want his emotional guts dissected in a fancy magazine for strangers to read. His three brothers deserved their privacy, as did the kids staying with them for the summer. Fortunately, Dylan considered himself an expert in the art of shooting the bull. Try as she might, he’d make sure Ms. Granger discovered only the most harmless details.
He set her bags by the hallway door while she sashayed inside and circled the living room. “Nice,” she said, with a surprised expression. “Quite upscale for a bachelor pad.”
“We try to stay civilized.”
“So I notice.” She homed in on the one sculpture in the room, a bear figure he’d made while still in high school. “Is this yours?”
And so it started. “Yep. An early piece.”
“It’s...clever. Obviously talented.” Her words echoed the art critics he remembered from his time in that world—conceited and condescending. “But not at all similar to the work you were doing when you came out of college.”
Hands in his front pockets, Dylan tried to stay relaxed. “I took a different direction for a while there, exploring new materials, new techniques. I tried to give people what they appreciated. What they wanted to see.”
Jess Granger nodded, setting the bear in its place. “You certainly did that. For five years, you were the darling of the international art scene, the name everybody talked about. You had sculptures in the major art fairs and showed up at all the right parties.
“Then—” she turned around and snapped her fingers “—you disappeared. Just gone, without an explanation or a goodbye. There hasn’t been a hint of news about you in more than two years. My editor was surprised to hear that you have a new show opening, and downright shocked that Trevor Galleries would sponsor this article.”
Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, the reporter stared at him. “They sent me to get the story, Dylan. They want to read all about this comeback of yours. What does it mean, personally and artistically? What are your plans? Will you be returning to New York, or Miami? Or working in Europe? And, the most important detail... Why in the world did you drop out in the first place?”
Dylan cleared his throat. “You dive right in, don’t you?” he asked. “Would you like something to drink or eat, first? A chance to get settled?”
“No. Thanks,” she said, after a beat. “You had scholarships to European art schools. Blue ribbons at juried shows around the country. The critics all raved. You were a sensation before your twenty-fifth birthday. Why would you give that up?”
“Inspiration comes and goes,” he said. “You can’t always predict where it’ll lead.”
Jess Granger shook her head. “Artists don’t just abandon their careers. What have you been doing in the two years since?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a ranch—there’s a lot to do. In fact,” he added, “I won’t be able to sit around talking for four days. We’ve got a full schedule here in the summer, from sunup to sundown. Not including studio time.”
“I’m not here to disrupt your life.” Her hands went up in a gesture of surrender. “This article is supposed to provide positive press for you and your show. I intend to convey how you blend your art with your lifestyle.”
“Sure. ‘A Day on the Ranch’ is all you want.”
“I can’t force you to confess.” She actually pouted at him, making the most of that beautiful mouth.
Dylan only grinned at her. “With your looks, I suspect you can persuade a man to confide all his most dastardly secrets.”
Her face eased into a sassy smile. “I promise not to reveal where you hid the bodies, anyway.”
“I don’t worry about that.” Flirting was much more fun than dueling over the truth. “This is the Wild, Wild West, after all. It’s the superhero tights in my dresser drawer I’m concerned about. We artists are a weird bunch, you know.”
Jess Granger laughed out loud. “What a story angle!”
He enjoyed the sound of that laugh. “Anything to draw readers, right?”
“I do try to stay on the right side of the truth.” Her sudden frown said he’d hit a sore spot. “So you’ll have to show me the tights before I commit to print.”
Dylan chuckled. “Once you’re in my bedroom,” he promised, “we’ll see about that.”
* * *
JESS WINKED AT HIM. “An interesting prospect.” Maybe flirting was the way to get Dylan Marshall loosened up and talking. Otherwise, he’d stonewalled her so far.
And she certainly had no objection to trading banter with such a gorgeous specimen. He’d always been handsome, thanks to those long-lashed, dark chocolate eyes and a sensitive mouth framed by a square jaw and determined chin. Three years ago, though, he’d seemed too young to take seriously, wearing designer suits and an edgy haircut, dating top models and rich socialites. Observing from a distance, she’d considered him a brat. Talented, but spoiled.
Today, Jess had to admit that his exile had caused a huge change in Dylan Marshall, on the outside at least. There was a maturity in his face she found immensely appealing. With his narrow hips, long legs encased in snug jeans and broad shoulders under a blue-checked shirt, he could certainly lay claim to the legendary cowboy assets. He even wore a white hat, to finish off the hero image.
But her assignment was to get behind that image and discover the truth. Judging from his evasions so far, an aggressive approach did not bode well for the interview. She would have to handle him carefully, or she wouldn’t get the details her editor demanded.
Before she could renew her offensive, a husky blonde dog padded into the room from the rear of the house followed by a big man with light brown hair and dark eyes like Dylan’s.
“Welcome to the Circle M,” the man said in a bass voice. “I’m Wyatt.” He wore jeans and boots but had a back brace fitted over his chambray work shirt. “Make yourself at home.”
Jess shook his hand, noticing calluses indicative of physical labor. “That seems pretty easy to do. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“No trouble.” He glanced at the canine standing beside him wagging her tail. “This is Honey. She runs the place.”
“She’s beautiful. Can I pet her?”
“She’ll be insulted if you don’t.”
Bending over, Jess carefully stroked the tawny head. “Nice to meet you, Honey. You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” She didn’t have much contact with animals, so she was never quite sure what to do with them. But Honey’s brown eyes seemed friendly. Her tail wagged and she licked at Jess’s wrist with her long red tongue.
“Wyatt’s on restricted duty,” Dylan explained as she straightened up. “He took a fall and broke a couple of bones in his spine. We’re attempting to fill the gap he’s left, but that’s about as easy as trying to drive a truck with the engine missing.”
“An exaggeration,” Wyatt said, giving her a slow smile. “I understand you’re from New York. Have you traveled much in the Western states, Jess?”
“I’ve