“Who are you? What do you want?” Not too gracious a welcome, Clara thought, as she did her best to give him a professional smile. “Mr. Paul Eastcott?” “I am.” His frown intensified. “If you’re looking for a job, you’ve come to the wrong place. My assistant, Lisa—” He shut his mouth, swallowed, cleared his throat and finally muttered, “Go back to the desk and ask—” “Mr. Eastcott,” Clara butted in, “we’re so terribly sorry for your loss. We’re huge fans of the rodeo and we just hate to see all the negative publicity about the murder, so we thought if we wrote a glowing review and put it out on the Web for everyone to see they would flock back to the rodeo to see what all the excitement is about.” Steely blue eyes regarded her with suspicion. “You’re the press?” “Freelance.” Clara held out her hand. “I’m Clara Quinn and this is my . . .
