Wilderness, craggy rock covered hills, pickup trucks, lots of trees and cows, for the love of God. Cows! They grazed in green pastures, tucked safely behind fences that stretched for miles. Burgers on the hoof. Gina Leoni was a heck of a long way from concrete, towering buildings, and buzzing traffic that jammed every street like frenzied ants and right now, it seemed to her, she’d landed on an alien planet where everyone spoke in a slow, lazy drawl and each pair of eyes hid some kind of weird steely determination. She’d always heard everything was bigger in Texas and proof of that theory sat across an aged, walnut desk, focused on her with a disconcerting intensity. He was the kind of man who made a woman forget how to breathe. Rugged cowboys were the stuff of legend and this big-as-a-mountain rancher had character stamped all over him. From his sun-bronzed skin to the faint pale lines radiating from the corners of remarkable green eyes, Mitch McBride was the kind of man who made women weak in the knees and forget every ounce of common sense they might possess.
