Page 1 of One Scorching Summer

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, Ulen …

Jorja exchanged her gym shoes for the dark blush, patent leather Manolo Blahniks and slid the Italian leather messenger bag over her shoulder. She pressed down on the pitted chrome door handle of her grandfather’s bottle-green '67 International truck and threw her shoulder into the door. Nothing. Dammit. She gave it another go, mustering all of her might. The door protested. Encouraged, she did it again, muttering under her breath. “The third time’s a charm.” The old hinges creaked and groaned loudly as it sprang open.

The momentum of her efforts propelled her out of the cab and into the weeds poking through the gravel.Oomph.She got her hands out just in time to brace and avoid a face plant. The messenger bag landed several feet away, and her pumps scattered elsewhere. Rough stone bit into her palms and knees and toes.

Dammit, that hurts. She grimaced and pushed herself onto the balls of her feet, squatting and flinching as she gently dusted off the stinging flesh. The stones, weeds, and dirt beneath her were splattered with red. She surveyed the damage. Both palms seeped in places, but her knees … Some areas bled generously.Blood pooled onto one toenail, but it seemed that it was part of the trail seeping from her knee. Great. She had hit the ground hard.

The doors had stuck for as long as she could remember. Why didn’t she just get them fixed?You know why. Those sticking doors make it seem as if Granddad is still alive.

Her breath hitched as she gingerly tucked the floral shirt back into the khaki-colored skirt and smoothed her flyaway hair, trying not to leave blood on either, praying that the man she was here to meet had not witnessed her less than-elegant arrival and that she had time to access the first aid kit in the bed of the truck. Why had she worn a body-hugging skirt and favorite heels to wild, rural Texas? And why had she driven the beloved ancient beast of a truck instead of her late model Mercedes coupe full of creature comforts?

You know why. To distract Rake Carpenter and get the lease signed. He has to sign with someone. It needs to be me.

Mortified, it took nothing to imagine what her hurling out of the truck might have looked like. A woman in her late twenties wearing a sleeveless silk blouse, pencil skirt, feet bare, on her hands and knees in a weed-infested gravel drive. Said driveway and ranch were owned by a rumored alpha male, serial womanizer, and an ass of epic proportion. Now to get to her feet ...

Too late.

Crunching gravel under heavy footsteps announced a human. More than likely male. A silhouette stretched over her, holding a shotgun in one hand and her newly scuffed shoes in the other, giving Jorja a reprieve from the Junes’s afternoon sun. She froze, stared at the ground, and swallowed, wanting to cry, searching for any scraps of her earlier composure. The position made her feet cramp, tested the tensile strength of the skirt, and had her in a submissive posture that was discomfiting.

“Howdy. Need directions?"

"Hi." She mumbled, thoroughly humiliated.

"That was something. My laugh for the day. You fuckin’ sailed out of the cab. Didn’t quite nail the landing, though.” His rich chuckle rumbled through her, igniting a spark low in her belly. “Rarely is a woman on her hands and knees before we even talk.”

The unexpected lust was doused by icy irritation pulsing through her veins.I have met the ass.It had to be. She stared at the worn, filthy work boots and groaned inwardly.Pull yourself together.Jorja gulped down the snide retort.

“Hurt yourself?” He actually sounded concerned.

Jorja gazed upward, past the shotgun in his hand, to the approximation of where his face was. With the sun at his back, the dark shadow from the ball cap’s bill concealed his expression. “I’m fine.” She muttered.

“You don’t seem fine.”

Unwilling to reveal any pain, she exhaled forcefully, relaxed her shoulders, and enunciated each word with careful control, declaring. “I am.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“That’s because your mouth is running.” She snapped, then bit down on her bottom lip.Dammit.“Are you going to use that?” She motioned her head at the gun.

“Don’t think it’s goin' to be necessary.” He shook his head and barked a laugh. “You’re a firecracker, I’ll give you that. Can you stand?”

“Of course I can.” Good lord, she sounded bitchy. In her defense, this was a compromising situation. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her, likepoof.

“Let’s git you on your feet.” His voice was laconic and laced with the flattened-out vowels and emphasized first syllables endemic in long-time Texans’ diction, something she had triedto mitigate from her speech all of her life. He transferred the shoes to the hand holding the shotgun and thrust the free one in her direction. “Then you can be on your merry way to wherever you’re headed.”

“I’m—” Electricity sparked in her skin when she grasped his forearm.Holy hell. Get a hold of yourself, girl. He’s just a man.

“These are useless out here.” He helped Jorja to her feet as if she weighed nothing, handed over the marred shoes, then rested the shotgun on his shoulder. “Got a fancy afternoon date?”

Although she was now standing and in closer proximity to the man, Jorja was still unable to discern his features—other than his height. He loomed over her barefoot five-foot-six. “No. No date. A meeting.” She disclosed confidently, glancing toward the charming old two-story building she assumed might be the ancestral home, then back at him. “Here.”

He dropped her hand as if it was poison. “I don’t think so.”

“Iknowso—” She tottered while slipping into the Manolos, almost crumbling to the ground again. She waved off his outstretched hand, avoiding another powerful surge of sexual hunger. After adding the substantial inches to her height, she stated firmly. “I have an appointment with Rake Carpenter.”

“I’m him. I have an appointment with George. A man. Not some woman who shows up looking like a model and wears fuck-me shoes.”

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