The Cowboy

facing that reality since Rafe had walked out the door on Thursday night. She had to find out what, exactly, was going on.
    "All I'm asking is that you keep your eyes and ears open while you're down there. You may pick up something interesting, something we can both use. Maybe something that could save my hide. I'd make it worth your while, Margaret."
    She looked up sharply. "Forget it, Jack. If I go down there, it won't be as your spy. I have my own reasons."
    He exhaled slowly. "I understand. It was worth a shot. I'm a desperate man, Margaret. There's an outlaw on my trail and I'll do anything to survive."
    "You're that afraid of Rafe?" she asked in genuine surprise.
    "Like I said—before we were just business rivals. Win some, lose some. No problem. That's the name of the game. But this time things are different. This time I have a feeling I may be fighting for my life."
    "Good luck."
    Moorcroft turned his cup of latte carefully in his hands. He studied Margaret's face for a long moment. "You're not going to help me, are you?"
    "No."
    "Because you love him?"
    "How I feel about Rafe has nothing to do with it. I just don't want any part of this mess, whatever it is."
    "I guess I can understand that."
    "Terrific," she murmured. "I'm so glad."
    "Margaret, there's something I want to ask you."
    She waited uneasily. "Yes?"
    "If Cassidy hadn't ridden up when he did and swept you off your feet, do you think you could ever have been interested in what I had to offer?"
    "You didn't have anything to offer, Jack. You're a married man, remember?"
    "But if I hadn't been married?"
    "My best guess is no."
    "Mind telling me why not?"
    "First, when I was in the business world I had a policy of never getting involved with my employers, even if they did happen to be single. From what I saw, it's almost always a bad career move for a woman to sleep with her boss. Sooner or later, she finds herself looking for another job."
    "And second?"
    "Let's just say you're not exactly the man of my dreams," she said dryly.
     
     
    R afe was waiting at the airport gate. Margaret didn't see him at first. She was struggling with her carry-on luggage and scanning the crowd for her father. She was annoyed when she couldn't spot him. The least Connor Lark could do after causing all this commotion in her life was meet her at the airport, she told herself. When someone moved up behind her and took the travel bag from her arm, she spun around in shock.
    "I'll take that for you, Maggie, love. Car's out front."
    She glared up at Rafe, who was smiling down at her, a look of pure satisfaction in his gaze. He was dressed in jeans and boots and a white shirt that had the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. His hat was pulled down low over his eyes. The boots were truly spectacular—maroon leather with a beautiful turquoise and black design worked into them.
    "I thought my father would have had the courtesy to meet me," she muttered.
    "Don't blame Connor. I told him I'd take care of it." Rafe wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, bent his head briefly and kissed her soundly. He did it hard and fast and allowed her no time in which to resist.
    Margaret had barely registered his intentions before the whole thing was over. Scowling more furiously than ever, she stepped back quickly. She longed to slap the expression of triumph off his hard face. But at the last instant she reminded herself it would be dangerous to show any sign of a loss of self-control.
    "I would appreciate it if you would not do that again," she bit out in a tight voice.
    "Have a good flight?" Rafe smiled his thin, faint smile as he started down the corridor.
    Margaret recalled belatedly that Rafe was very good at ignoring things he didn't care to deal with at the moment. He was already several feet away, moving in a long, rangy, ground-eating stride. She swore silently as she hurried to catch up with him. Following him was not an easy task dressed as she was in high heels and a turquoise silk suit that had an extremely narrow skirt.
    "Good Lord, it's like an oven out here." Margaret gasped as she stepped through the doors of the Tucson airport terminal and into the full, humid warmth of a July day. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her purse and glanced around at her surroundings.
    The unrelenting blue of a vast desert sky arched overhead. There wasn't a cloud in sight to offer any relief from the blazing sun. Heat welled up off the pavement and poured down from above. Around her