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get going on it right away.”
    â€œAgreed.”
    â€œI’ll need you to pull it together in two weeks, if you can manage that. There is some leeway—just not much.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œI’m thinking I can get Lupe to go with you to California for the pictures.” Lupe Martinez was their top contributing photographer. “Is there snow in the Sierras yet?” she pondered aloud. “There had better be. This is the Christmas feature, after all.”
    Buck let out a low chuckle, one that sizzled annoyingly along every one of her nerve endings. “I’ll see what I can do about the weather.”
    â€œThank you.” B.J. realized it was time to be gracious—and grateful. “I’m…so pleased about this, I truly am.”
    â€œGlad to help out.”
    â€œI know you’ll write us a terrific Christmas feature. I can’t wait to read it.”
    â€œBut I’m not writing it.”
    B.J. opened her mouth to lay on more compliments—and snapped it shut without speaking. Surely she hadn’t heard him right. “Excuse me?”
    â€œI said, I’m not writing it. You are. You’re going with me. And you’re right. We should leave tomorrow. I’m guessing L.T. will provide one of his jets.”
    â€œHappy to help out.” Her father beamed, an over-bearing Santa in a smoking jacket. “No problem. The jet is yours.”
    Stunned and appalled at the mere idea of being thrown into constant contact with Buck for days running, B.J. gaped. Openly. Her head swiveled from her father to Buck and back to her father again—and she saw the truth right there in L.T.’s pewter-gray eyes. He had known this was coming. How could he do this to her—and not even give her a heads-up in advance?
    A thousand volts of pure fury blazed through her. She was certain her hair must be standing on end. Her stomach clenched tight—and then rolled. She looked down at her coffee, at the creamy chocolate dessert with its topping of fresh whipped cream. The few bites of food she’d eaten lurched upward toward her throat.
    She gulped—hard. “Excuse me,” she said quietly—and then she shoved back her chair and dashed for the bathroom.
    Â 
    â€œIs she sick or something?” asked the doe-eyed Jessica as B.J. raced toward the door to the entrance hall, pointed heels tap-tap-tapping.
    â€œYeah. Sick of me,” Buck replied with a grimsmile. Things weren’t going exactly as he’d hoped. Uh-uh. Not as he’d hoped—but pretty much as he’d expected.
    â€œMaybe it was the venison,” said L.T. philosophically. He shrugged and blew a few smoke rings. “Seemed fine to me, though.”
    â€œShe’s upset.” Jessica, distressed, stated the obvious. Both men turned to look at her. “Well, she is, ” Jessica insisted in that breathy way of hers. “I’m sorry, Buck. But, you know, I don’t think she likes you.”
    â€œNo kidding?”
    â€œAnd I don’t get it. Why would you want to make her write the story? You’re the one who writes.” Jessica’s smooth brow furrowed as if great thoughts troubled her. “Aren’t you?”
    L.T. chuckled and puffed on his cigar and, for once, didn’t comment.
    That left Buck to make a noncommittal noise in his throat and take a sip of the excellent brandy and wonder if he was biting off a big wad more than he would ever be able to chew.
    Maybe so.
    Should he back down, agree to head home to California with only a photographer for company? Write the damn story and turn it in and forget it—forget B.J.?
    Hell. Probably.
    But then there she came, tap-tap-tapping back to the table in her skinny little skirt and dangerous black shoes, shoulders back and head high. She looked sexy as all get-out—and also ready to start spitting nails.
    Buck still wanted her. He wanted her bad. The past year