The chapter of love

--- Cathy arranged to miss breakfast that morning. Alex’s attitude infuriated her. He didn't want her himself, but he was so overprotective that she couldn't get near another man. His attitude was frustrating at best. He had not the slightest idea how she felt, of course. She was careful to hide her feelings for him. A man like Alex, who was wealthy and extremely handsome, could have any woman he wanted. He wouldn't want an unsophisticated woman like Cathy. She knew that, and it hurt painfully. It made her rebellious, too—she didn't want to spend the rest of her life grieving for a man she could never have; it was far better to look in other directions or locations. But how could she when Alex refused to let go? She drove several miles from the farm to the office at the mammoth feedlot in the small, black Japanese sports car she'd talked George (Alex's elder brother) into co-signing for when she graduated from the local vocational school. Because of the attention Alex and George paid to farm hygiene, there wasn't as much odor as most farms that housed animals generated, which amazed a lot of visiting livestock farmers. Cathy had once gone with Alex to tour some other farms and feedlots, and she had come away with a new respect for the one back home. The Fairchild brothers' operation was a little more expensive to run, but there were rarely any animal deaths due to disease—and that was a prime consideration. A rancher who signs a contract with the feedlot to fatten his cattle for slaughter doesn't want to lose the animals to disease. Since Cathy was early, the office was deserted. There were three other women who worked here, all married, and they assisted in keeping records on the various herds of feeder cattle being fattened for ranches all over the country. There were contracts to sort, file, and document; records and accounts on each lot of cattle to keep; and ongoing vacation and management reports. There was the constant hum of the heavy equipment used to feed the cattle and remove waste to underground storage to be used later to fertilize pastures where grains were grown. The phones rang frequently, and the computers had to be programmed. There was a payroll department, as well as salesmen, a staff veterinarian, and a quiet number of cowboys who moved and herded cattle in and out, seeing to feeding them and maintaining the machinery that kept it all going. Cathy hadn't realized until she'd come to work here how big the operation was. The sheer size of it was staggering and breathtaking, even for Texas. Fenced areas filled with steers stretched to the horizon, and the dust was famous, as was the smell—which was inevitable even when sanitary management practices were employed. The Fairchilds didn't possess a packing plant—it wasn't legal for packers to own a custom feedlot. But the Fairchild brothers did own a third of their feeder cattle, and the other two-thirds were custom-fed. Cathy had grown up hearing business terms like *marginal profit*, *break-even prices*, and *ration formulation*. Now she understood what the words meant. She put her purse under her desk and turned to her computer. There were several new contracts waiting to be filled in for new lots of four-footed customers. The feedlot took in feeder cattle weighing about five hundred to eight hundred pounds and fed them up to their slaughter weight of about eleven hundred pounds. The Fairchilds had a residential nutritionist and an experienced stockman who took care of the twice-daily feeding routine with highly automated machinery. They had the feeding down to such a fine art that the Fairchild operation was included in the top five percent of feedlots nationally. That was a real achievement considering all the things that might go wrong, from falling cattle prices to unexpected drought. Cathy was fascinated by the workings of it all. There were thousands of bawling steers, and there were always big cattle trucks coming and going, men shouting, vaccinating, and dehorning. The noise could get deafening despite the soundproof walls. Visiting cattlemen stopped by to check on their investments. Those who didn't come were sent monthly progress reports. Daily records were kept on everything. Cathy fed the first contract into her electronic typewriter, trying to decipher the spidery scrawl of Cornell Ekay, the office feedlot manager. He was second only to Alex, because Alex's name went in as general manager. Alex and George owned the feedlot farm jointly, but George held the lion's share of the stock. George preferred money management to meeting with clients, so Alex handled most of the day-to-day management on the feedlot farm. That was the reason Cathy loved the job: it meant she was going to see a lot of Alex. When Alex walked in the door in a dashing, pale tan suit, Cathy hit the wrong key, covering the contract with a row of *B*s. She grimaced, backspacing to correct her error, only to discover she couldn't—the correction was too little, too late. Disgusted, she ripped the paper out of the machine, put in a clean sheet, and started again. "Having problems again this morning, sweetie?" Alex asked with a cheerful smile, despite the way they'd parted in anger the night before. He never carried grudges; it was one of his virtues. "Just the usual frustration, boss," she answered with a bleak smile. He searched her eyes; they had a peculiar light in them lately. He found her more and more disturbing, especially when she wore close-fitting suits like the red one she had on today. It clung sweetly to every line of her tall, sleek body, outlining the thrust of her high breasts and the smooth curve of her hips. He took a slow breath, trying to hide his growing attraction to her. It was odd how she'd managed to get under his skin so easily. "You look nice," he said unexpectedly. She felt color rush to her cheeks, and she smiled. "Thank you." He hesitated without knowing why, his dark eyes caressing her face, her mouth. "I don't like your hair like that. I like it long and loose." She was having a hard time breathing. Her eyes walked up his broad chest to his face and were trapped by his steady gaze. Like electricity, something burst between them, linking them until she had to drag her eyes down again. Her legs actually trembled. "I'd better go back to work," she said unsteadily, fiddling with the paper. "We both had," he replied. He turned and walked into his office without knowing quite how he got there. Once inside, he sat down behind his big oak desk and stared through the open door at Cathy until the buzz of his intercom reminded him of the day's business. Things went smoothly for a while, but it was too much to expect that the serenity would last. Just before lunch, one of the cattlemen who had feeder steers in the lot came by to check on them and got an eyeful of Cathy. "You sure are a pretty little thing," the man said, grinning down at the picture she made in her red knit suit and white blouse, with her hair in a French twist and a minimum of makeup on her face. He was about Alex's age. She flushed. The man wasn't as handsome as Alex, but he was pleasant-looking and seemed harmless. "Thank you," she said demurely, and smiled at him just as she smiled at other customers. But he took it as an invitation. He sat down on the corner of her desk, giving her a purely masculine scrutiny with his pale blue eyes. "I'm Tom Morris," he introduced himself. "I just stopped on my way to New York City, and I thought I'd take Alex to lunch if he's in. But I think I'd rather take you instead." He lowered his voice, then reached out unexpectedly and touched Cathy's cheek, ignoring her indrawn breath. "You pretty little thing. You look like a tea rose, ripe for the picking." Cathy just gaped at him. All her reading and imagining hadn't prepared her for this kind of flirtation with an experienced man. She was out of her depth and frankly stunned. "Come on now," Morris drawled, caressing her cheek. "Say you will. We'll have a nice long lunch and get to know each other." While Cathy was searching for the right words to extricate herself from this unwelcome situation, Alex came out of his office and stood directly between them, looking suddenly dangerous. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for me. Cathy is my ward, and she doesn't date older men." "Oops." Morris stood up, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry, old boy. I didn't know." "No harm done," Alex said carelessly, but his eyes were dark, cold, and dangerous-looking. "Let's go. Cathy, I want the latest progress reports on his cattle when we get back." Only a few months before, Cathy might have had some snappy reply to that, or she might have jumped on Alex for acting so possessive. But now she looked at him feeling helpless, hungry, and awash on a wave of longing because he was acting jealous. He seemed to stop breathing. His dark eyes searched hers, aware of her embarrassment and confusion. He let his gaze fall to her mouth and watched her lips part suddenly, and his body reacted in a way that shocked him. "Lunch now," Alex ushered the other cattleman toward the door. "If you'll get in the car, I'll just get my hat and be right with you," he told the man with a glued-on smile and a pat on the shoulder. He turned to Cathy, his expression unreadable. "I want to talk to you." Alex took her arm and pulled her up, leading her into his office. Without a word, he closed the door, and the way he looked at her made her feel threatened and wildly excited at the same time. "Mr. Morris is waiting," she faltered, disturbed by the darkness in his eyes as they met hers. He moved toward her, and she backed up until his desk stopped her. Her eyes reverted to his. Maybe he was going to make a declaration. His chin lifted then, and it was anger that glittered in his dark eyes, not possessiveness. "Listen," he said curtly. "Tom Morris has had three wives. He currently has at least four mistresses. He's forgotten more than you've had time to learn, and I don't want you learning that kind of lesson from a professional Romeo." "I'm going to learn it from someone eventually," she said, swallowing hard. Her body felt odd, taut, and tingling all at once because he was close enough that she could feel his warm strength. "I know that," he said impatiently, his face hardening. "But I'd just as soon you didn't join a queue. Morris is no serious tutorial—he's a playboy with a smooth manner! You'd have been screaming for help five minutes after you were alone with him." So that was it. More big-brother responsibility. He wasn't jealous; he was upset because his protective instinct had been aroused. She stared at the steady rise and fall of his chest in dull acceptance. *Stupid me,* she thought miserably, *wishing for a star again.* "I wasn't going to lead him on," she said finally. "I just smiled at him like I smile at everyone—even you. I guess he thought I was sending out smoke signals, but I wasn't. Honestly." His face relaxed. "No harm done." He moved, one long, powerful arm sliding behind her, bringing her lips within an inch of his. She almost moaned at the minty warmth of his breath on her mouth. Her gaze dropped to his lips, tracing every hard line of the thin upper and chiseled lower lip. Her heart throbbed. Her breath seemed to stop altogether, and for one long instant, she felt the full weight of his chest against her soft breasts in a contact that was shocking. She looked up at him with wide, stunned eyes. Then he moved back, the hat he'd been reaching for in his hand, his eyes frankly amused at the look on her face. So she'd never thought of him that way, had she? It irritated him to think that she didn't feel the new, very unwelcome attraction he was discovering for her. It was just as well that he had a business function tonight—it would keep his over-imaginative brain away from Cathy.