The C.E.O. & the Cookie Queen Read online

  “I can’t use the excuse of sun in my eyes. I’ll admit I was staring.”

  He stated the offhand compliment with an intimate kind of amusement that made Carole blush. She hadn’t blushed in years. She thought she’d forgotten how.

  “And you are…?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m still excited about my daughter’s win. Carole Jacks,” she said, forcing herself to smile pleasantly when she wanted to gawk at the blue-green eyes of the stranger like a sixteen-year-old.

  His expression changed from intimate interest to disbelief in a flash. Seconds later he blinked and schooled his features into a painfully benign mask. “You…I don’t suppose you have another relative by the same name. A mother or aunt, perhaps?”

  THE C.E.O. & THE COOKIE QUEEN

  Victoria Chancellor

  To my daughter April and her roommate Becky for all the hours watching Trading Spaces and Survivor, for help with cookie recipes, for our great Kentucky road trip and all the other fun things we do together

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  After twenty-eight years in Texas, Victoria Chancellor has almost qualified for “naturalized Texan” status. She lives in a suburb of Dallas with her husband of thirty-one years, next door to her daughter, who is an English teacher. When not writing, she tends her “zoo” of four cats, a ferret, five tortoises, a wide assortment of wild birds, three visiting chickens and several families of raccoons and opossums. For more information on past and future releases, please visit her Web site at www.victoriachancellor.com.

  Books by Victoria Chancellor

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  844—THE BACHELOR PROJECT

  884—THE BEST BLIND DATE IN TEXAS

  955—THE PRINCE’S COWBOY DOUBLE*

  959—THE PRINCE’S TEXAS BRIDE*

  992—THE C.E.O. & THE COOKIE QUEEN

  MS. CAROLE’S NEWSLETTER

  Hello. My name is Jennifer and I’m Ms. Carole’s daughter. Last summer my new dad met my mom and me at the arena where my steer, Puff, won first place. Most steers don’t get a second chance because they get barbecued, but Puff is really happy now in my aunt Cheryl’s petting zoo. He really loves this cookie my mom created. I know you’ll like it, too.

  PUFFALICIOUS WHOLE WHEAT APPLESAUCE COOKIES

  ½ cup brown sugar

  ½ cup butter or margarine

  ¾ cup all-natural applesauce

  ½ cup all purpose flour

  ½ cup whole wheat flour

  ¼ cup wheat germ

  ½ tsp baking powder

  ¼ tsp baking soda

  ¼ salt

  ½ tsp ground cinnamon

  ½ tsp ground nutmeg

  ¼ tsp ground cloves

  ½ cup dried cranberries (or substitute raisins)

  ½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

  Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray baking sheet with nonstick spray. In a bowl cream together butter or margarine and sugar. Strain applesauce if there is excessive liquid. Beat in applesauce. Sift in flour and other dry ingredients. Stir to blend thoroughly. Fold in cranberries or raisins and walnuts. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto baking sheet, spacing cookies approximately two inches apart. Bake for 8–10 minutes until golden brown. Transfer to wire rack to cool. Makes approximately 36 cookies.

  Note: Make two batches if you are feeding them to a hungry steer!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  Greg gripped the metal fence, resisting the urge to step backward as a wild-eyed black-and-white calf ran right at him. Following closely on the poor animal’s heels, charged an evil-eyed horse and determined rider. Dirt sprayed across Greg’s new snakeskin-and-cowhide boots as the calf suddenly turned and raced down the arena.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, he watched the pursuing cowboy swing a rope overhead, then toss it in the direction of the calf. The noose settled over the desperate calf’s neck. The rope cinched tight and flipped the animal to the ground. Greg winced.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked the tall, raw-boned man next to him.

  Both eyebrows raised, the man pushed his sweat-and dust-caked hat higher on his forehead. “Hurt what?”

  “The cow,” Greg answered, nodding toward the rodeo drama unfolding in the arena.

  The man narrowed his eyes, gave Greg a look that said, “I can’t believe you asked that,” then asked, “You’re not from around here, are ya?” He raised a battered red soft drink can to his lips and spat into it. Gross. Chewing tobacco, Greg suspected, or perhaps the disgusting snuff that permanently imprinted the back pockets of many of these cowboys.

  The contestant threw the calf to the ground after it struggled to get up, then proceeded to loop another rope around three of its legs. “Yeah, but it’s just a baby.”

  The man shook his head. “Son, ain’t you never been around beef cattle?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Ever eat any veal?” the man asked with a gaptoothed grin. Greg silently thanked the orthodontist his parents had dragged him to. They might not have given him everything, but he did have good teeth.

  Instead of answering the man—or thinking about where veal came from—he turned back to the action in the ring. The cowboy finished looping the rope, then stood up and thrust both hands in the air. Showoff, Greg wanted to mutter. So what if the guy could wrestle a poor defenseless animal to the ground and tie it up? Should he get some kind of medal?

  “Ten point three seconds,” the announcer reported. “That puts Tim Roberts in third place. Nice try, Tim. And that wraps up today’s calf roping competition.”

  A smattering of applause and a few “whoops” followed the recitation of the winner and second-place finisher. From the end of the arena, a loud tractor entered, pulling a devise that smoothed the surface of the dirt into some version of level. A small cloud of dust rose only slightly from the ground, then settled back as though it was also hot and tired in the summer heat.

  If the rest of the crowd could tolerate dust up to their knees and sweat pouring down their backs, Greg could, too. Besides, he had a real good reason for traveling to Texas in August, then standing in a metal barn that could have doubled as one of Huntington Foods’ huge ovens. He wasn’t going to let the dirt and hot temperatures keep him from his goal.

  The man who had been standing beside Greg wandered off. Unsure what was coming next, he reached into his back pocket—where his round, flat canister of snuff would have been if he were a real cowboy—and retrieved the rolled-up flyer listing the county 4-H events. Sure enough, the junior steer competition was next. Greg wasn’t sure whether that meant the people showing them were young, or the steers were young, but whatever was going to happen next in the arena involved Ms. Carole Jacks.

  And she was the only reason he was standing in this hellish Texas inferno, sweat pooling inside his new Justin ropers and running down the legs of the stiff boot-cut jeans he’d bought hours earlier in Austin. His secretary had laughed at the idea of dressing like a cowboy to visit this small community, but Greg wanted to make a good impression. He knew he wouldn’t fit in if he were wearing a suit, or even his normal Chicago casual attire.

  One of the principle rules of salesmanship he’d learned at Ohio State was to
blend in with the customer, to make them feel comfortable. He wasn’t sure his professors would have encouraged him to go quite this far to make someone believe he fit in, but the disguise had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, his mother had warned him that Carole Jacks didn’t take to outsiders. She rarely left Ranger Springs, Texas, and preferred all her correspondence by mail.

  No e-mail. No fax. There wasn’t even a photograph of her in the file. For all he knew, she could be pushing ninety and senile. Personally, he imagined her as the no-nonsense Alice on The Brady Bunch. At best, she’d resemble a kind, portly Aunt Bea. He just hoped she’d accept the wardrobe and makeup consultants necessary before her photo sessions and public appearances. As long as she managed to smile and remained well mannered while in public, she was the best hope they had for reforming Huntington Foods’ image.

  Of course, it would have been nice if his mother had given him a description of the formidable Carole Jacks. Instead, Roberta Huntington Rafferty had shrugged, smiled, and told him to have a nice trip. If he hadn’t known for a fact that his mother possessed a very limited sense of humor, he would have suspected she’d been laughing at his first big challenge as C.E.O.

  Whatever her age or disposition, Ms. Jacks had negotiated a hell of a contract. She’d gotten the privacy she wanted in exchange for her recipes. He’d tasted each selection Huntington produced, and the “food police” might have a point; they weren’t low cal, low carb or low fat. They were, in fact, delicious.

  The tractor chugged by, sending dust and diesel fumes Greg’s way. He rubbed his watering eyes and wished he’d bought something cold to drink from the refreshment cart he’d spotted on his way into the arena. He wished he knew what he was looking for. All Ms. Jacks’s neighbor had said was that she’d be at the ring for the junior steer competition, and no, there was no Mr. Jacks. Maybe she wasn’t related to anyone showing. She could even be a judge.

  As the dust and diesel fumes settled, a flash of silver caught his eye. Blinking against the bright sunlight coming through the open windows, he needed to make sure he wasn’t seeing a mirage. No, she was real.

  Standing directly across the dusty arena was a woman who would make any man forget his parched throat. Blond hair, tied back in a low ponytail, escaped the black cowboy hat she wore. A white T-shirt left little to his imagination, molding to breasts that appeared just the right size. And that big silver belt buckle fastened around a waist that obviously hadn’t eaten too many of “Ms. Carole’s Cookies.” He could tell she wasn’t too tall, but in those tight blue jeans, her legs looked as if they went on forever.

  She stepped onto the bottom rail of the fence, then folded her arms along the top and rested her chin. The position caused her to bend a little, curving her rear out just enough to send a stampede of wicked fantasies through Greg’s imagination. Unfortunately, the pounding affected more than his mind. He propped one boot on the bottom rail and hoped no one noticed his new jeans were even tighter than before he’d fantasized about the blonde. Or worse yet, thought that he had a predilection for either tractors or cows.

  She must be waiting for something…or someone. The thought of her watching one of those overposturing cowboys sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. He gripped the top rail and vowed not to leap over the fence, no matter what she did or who she cheered for. He would not make a fool of himself over the blond cowgirl, not in front of the formidable Carole Jacks. Not when he was here on a mission to save his family’s company from the unfortunate remarks of his hotheaded older brother, who just happened to be the former C.E.O. The man who’d publicly insulted the “food police” on national television not once, not twice, but the magic three times. And now he was “out” of Huntington Foods.

  Greg tore his eyes away from the blonde when some official-looking people began filing into the arena. He forced himself to focus on his image of Carole Jacks, but none of the people standing there looked like America’s favorite “cookie queen.”

  “And now for our final event, the Junior Steer Championship. After the grand champion is named, we’ll have our annual auction this afternoon at two o’clock. The highest bid will help send one of these young people to college. Let’s have a round of applause for these 4-H-ers who have raised these fine steers.”

  Before the applause ended, the cows—no, steers—entered the ring. They were led by a variety of kids, which obviously explained the “junior” part of the competition. Perhaps one of them was Ms. Carole’s grandkid. Greg forced himself to scan the bleachers, but his gaze came back to the blonde. He couldn’t stop looking at her, especially when she tensed, then waved at one of the kids entering the arena.

  A brown-haired girl smiled back, then tugged on the rope leading her huge steer into the ring. The large black creature had big dark eyes and looked around calmly, as though it trusted the girl to lead it to victory.

  Surely this ten-or eleven-year-old child wasn’t the blond cowgirl’s daughter. Greg looked between the alluring curves at the rail and the pixyish braids of the girl and couldn’t reconcile the image. Still, the look of love on the face of his cowgirl seemed to confirm a strong relationship.

  His cowgirl. Now that was a surprise. He’d never developed such strong fantasies or compelling questions about a woman he had yet to meet.

  As the competition progressed, he watched the steer, the child and the cowgirl. When the judges motioned for the little girl to lead the animal to the center of the ring along with four others, his cowgirl put her hands over her mouth and tensed even more.

  Greg turned to the man with the battered soft drink can. Apparently he’d returned sometime during the steer judging. “Is it good that they’re in the center of the arena?”

  “Means they’re in the final round,” the man explained before spitting into the can.

  Greg winced at the disgusting habit and turned his attention back to the ring. The judges circled the animals. One red-and-white steer stamped its foot. Another sidled away from the judge, nearly bumping the black animal held by the girl. She leaned close and spoke to her steer, rubbing his cheek with her fingers. He stood quietly, his feet even and steady.

  “The big black one,” Greg said, motioning toward the pair. “Is he doing okay?”

  “Standing good and square.”

  “Do you think he might win?”

  “Might.” The man spat into his can again.

  Greg turned his attention back to the girl again. She seemed to be blinking back some tears. Probably tears of happiness that she was a finalist and her steer was behaving so well.

  In less than a minute the judges began handing out ribbons. A purple banner, two feet long at least, went to the little girl with the black steer. Greg applauded, a genuine smile surprising him as he watched her accept the congratulations of the judges.

  When he looked at his cowgirl, though, he was surprised by the mix of emotions she seemed to be feeling. She smiled, but wiped tears from her eyes at the same time. Her heart seemed to be going out to the girl, and Greg’s suspicions were confirmed that the brown-haired pixie was indeed her child.

  The little girl hugged the big steer, burying her face in his slick, thick coat. She seemed to be holding on for dear life.

  “She doesn’t seem too happy to have won,” Greg said out loud.

  The man beside him nodded. “She got that steer from Billy Maddox over in Boerne when ever’body else said it weren’t big enough. Look at it now.”

  “So she should be proud.”

  “I ’spect she is, but she’s got to say goodbye to him now.”

  “Why? She won.”

  The man looked at him as though he was crazy. “What the hell do you think they do with the grand-champion steer?”

  Greg searched his mind but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Give it a ribbon, I suppose. Maybe she can show it somewhere else.”

  “None of these steers are going to the State Fair. That’s a whole ’nother class of animal.”

  �
�So what do they do with them?”

  The man spat into his can. “Auction ’em off.” He nodded toward the tent. “Big Jim usually bids the highest.”

  “So what does Big Jim do with them?”

  “Why, he has just about the finest barbecue you’ve ever seen for all his favorite customers over at Big Jim’s Autorama on Highway 281.”

  As Greg watched in stunned silence, his cowgirl slipped between the rails of the fence and hurried to the little girl, who still had her face buried in the neck of the huge beast. Her thin shoulders shook, and Greg knew without a doubt that he couldn’t let that pet steer end up on Big Jim’s barbecue grill.

  AS THEY WALKED out of the ring toward the barn, Carole could have kicked herself. She should have spent the extra money and bought a heifer instead of a steer. But she hadn’t expected that runty calf to grow into the grand champion at the county show. The look on her daughter’s face when she’d been handed the banner had nearly brought her to her knees, right there in the arena. Jenny had a soft heart, and darn it, Puff was a big old sweetheart—all twelve hundred pounds of him.

  “We have a few hours, sweetie. What would you like to do?”

  Jenny shrugged as if it didn’t make any difference, but Carole could see her daughter’s white-knuckled grip on Puff’s halter. “I think I’ll just hang around the barn. Put my stuff up.”

  Say goodbye to Puff, Carole felt like adding. She had always told her daughter that she could do or be anything she wanted, but that didn’t mean life was always easy.

  “I could bring you a snow cone or some cotton candy,” Carole offered as she wrapped her arm around her ten-year-old’s shoulders.

  “Thanks, Mom, but I’m not hungry.”

  “We’ll celebrate later, then.”

  Jenny nodded, but couldn’t hide her sniff.

  They stopped at their spot along the cattle rail. Carole hugged her arms around herself as Jenny attached the tie-down to Puff’s halter. “Sure I can’t get you anything? A cold drink?”