Platinum Cowboy

Platinum Cowboy

Rita Herron

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

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 Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling to kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at PO Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, USA or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com.

To the Diamonds and Daddies team of writers –

you’re the greatest!

Chapter One

His best friend, Prince Viktor Romanov, and the entire royal family had been killed.

Grief welled in Flint McKade’s chest as he strode through the atrium to the airport bar to meet his friends and business associates, Jackson Champion and Akeem Abdul.

Flint’s Aggie Ring winked beneath the fluorescent lights, reminding him of their college days at Texas A&M and that the four men had called themselves the Aggie Four.

But now one of them was gone.

Emotions clogged Flint’s throat. How could they be the Aggie Four with only three men? It wasn’t right…

And to think that when he’d first met Viktor, he’d scoffed at his title. Hell, he’d been a poor cowboy with a bad attitude and a chip on his shoulder, a kid who’d grown up with no chance for a future.

Unless he made it himself.

A cowboy and prince as friends—never.

After all, he’d never lived anywhere but on the ranch where his parents worked. Viktor had grown up as a middle-class boy in London and had gone to schools all over the world. His entire family had been exiled from their country, Rasnovia. So Viktor had gone to school on scholarships, with the goal of giving his life to his country.

That had impressed the hell out of Flint. Seeing Viktor so determined had inspired Flint to believe that he could accomplish big goals himself. Then he’d learned that Viktor had lost his father when he was a teen, and they’d bonded over shared grief.

Viktor had introduced him to Akeem, a sheik from Beharrian, and another unlikely friendship had formed. In their fraternity, their tight-knit brotherhood had spread to encompass Jackson, sealing the Aggie Four.

Each of them had had to overcome almost insurmountable obstacles to achieve success. But they were driven, ambitious and determined.

Instead of future business leaders of America, they’d vowed to become future billionaires. Self-made billionaires.

And each had succeeded.

Once they’d built their financial empires, they’d decided to give back by creating a nonprofit foundation to raise money for charities.

Flint spotted his friends’ dejected faces as they sat slumped at a bar table, a pitcher of beer untouched in front of them, with three mugs waiting.

Three, not four.

One member of their brotherhood was missing.

Killed, of all times and places, in a violent explosion at the palace on Rasnovian Independence Day.

Sweat trickled down his jaw. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t have happened.

Akeem caught his eye as he approached, the devastation on his face mirroring Flint’s. They were supposed to be celebrating their latest venture tonight, not mourning Viktor’s death. Although Flint’s five-hundredacre ranch bred and trained thoroughbreds, quarter horses and beef cattle, Akeem had convinced him to try his hand at Arabians, and he was expecting the shipment within the hour. Jackson’s company Champion Enterprises had handled the arrangements.

Flint always met his shipments in person.

He claimed a chair across from Akeem, with Jackson on his right. In the midst of the crowded airport terminal, the strained silence grew tense. No one wanted to speak.

Saying the words out loud would make it all too real.

Flint lifted the pitcher and filled the three mugs, then watched the head on the beer fizzle as he contemplated what to say.

“I can’t believe it,” he finally said.

Akeem scraped his hand over his chin. “The country isn’t releasing any details.”

“Do you think the rebels in Rasnovia killed the royal family?” Jackson asked in a gravelly voice.

Flint shrugged. “That would be my guess. Once the democracy was established, the royal family had intended to stay on as ambassadors.”

Viktor had been an icon to his country; he’d worked diligently to repair Rasnovia’s infrastructure and jumpstart its economy.

The Aggie Four had also invested in Rasnovia’s businesses. But money wasn’t the issue tonight. Their friend’s death was all that mattered.

Flint raised his mug to toast their departed buddy, and Jackson and Akeem followed, but then Flint’s cell phone trilled.

His pilot. He connected the call, frowning at the sound of static popping over the line.

“Reuben?”

“T-trouble,” Reuben said in a choked voice. “Help…”

Flint’s heart pounded, and he lurched up. “I’ll be right there.”

“What is it?” Jackson asked.

“Something’s wrong. Let’s go.” He tossed some cash on the table to pay for the beer; then the three of them raced toward security.

Joey Stamos, the chief of security, met them at the gate and transported them to the plane, which had already taxied up to the loading dock. The runway lights had been cut as well as the exterior lights, pitching the plane into total darkness.

“What the hell is happening?” Jackson muttered.

“You think someone’s trying to steal the Arabians?” Akeem asked.

Flint cursed. “Over my dead body.”

Suddenly all hell broke loose, and gunfire exploded outside. The security guards at the loading dock scurried into action, crouching down as they surrounded the plane.

“Stay down and inside!” Stamos ordered as he slid from the vehicle.

Flint reached for the door handle, but Stamos grabbed his arm. “I mean it, McKade. Those are automatic weapons.”

Dammit, Stamos was right. He hadn’t exactly come packing to the airport.

Another round of bullets pinged back and forth. The guards exchanged fire, their bullets pelting metal, dust flying, for what seemed like hours as Flint and his friends waited.

Finally, things settled down, and Stamos returned. “It’s clear, but not good.”

Flint imagined the worst as he climbed out of the vehicle. “I have to see.”

Stamos put a hand to his chest to stop him. “No, wait on CSI.”

“Stamos, those are my people in there,” Flint growled. “And I have to check the Arabians.”

Stamos finally nodded but ordered Jackson and Akeem to remain behind and wait for the local police and forensic team.

Fear and anger gnawed at Flint as he followed Stamos to the plane and climbed on board.

The moment he stepped up to the cockpit, the coppery scent of blood assaulted him. Then he glanced inside, and his chest clenched at the sight of the bloody massacre. His pilot had been shot in the head at close range, his blood and brain matter splattered across the instrument panel.

He spun around, fury churning through him, then spotted two ranch hands sprawled on the floor, dead in the galley. One was an older guy he’d known for years. The other was a young man, but his face had been shattered during the massacre and was unrecognizable. Multiple gunshot wounds marked their chests and limbs, their blood running like a river down the aisle.

Choking back bile, he sidestepped the bodies and rushed to the stalls to check the horses.

Normally sedated, now they were kicking and whinnying madly, the small plane rocking with the force.

“Shh, guys. It’s over.” He gently soothed the animals, scrutinizing each one for injuries, but thankfully, they appeared to be unharmed.

“We got the shooters,” Stamos said as he came up behind Flint. “There were two, both with heavy artillery.”

Flint’s jaw tightened. “I want to question them.”

Stamos shook his head. “Too late. They’re dead.”

Flint fisted his hands, wanting to pound something. A dozen questions raced through his head. Questions the cops would ask. Questions he wanted the answers to himself.

Who were the shooters? Had they been working alone, or had someone else orchestrated this attack?

“Looks like someone either wanted the horses or wanted to hurt your business,” Stamos said quietly.

Flint nodded. Damn right, they had. And he’d find out who had endangered his Arabians and killed his men.

Then the SOBs would pay.

DR. LORA LEIGH WHITTAKER hated Flint McKade.

Yet here she was, driving past the giant live oaks flanking the private road to the Diamondback Ranch—McKade’s mega-conglomerate estate—to work for him. He’d named the huge operation after his prized stallion, Diamondback Jack, a thoroughbred that had won him millions in races and stud fees, and not, as she’d first thought, after the diamondback rattlers so prominent on the rugged Texan land.

Bitterness swelled inside her. He was a snake himself. Always coiled and ready to strike and take advantage of the small-time ranchers.

She had to suck up her pride and hatred, though, because she needed answers.

Her younger brother, Johnny, was missing.

The last time she’d spoken to him, he’d been working incognito on the Diamondback.

No matter how brilliant McKade seemed through the lens of the press, she was convinced he’d made his money by cheating small-time ranchers and farmers out of their homes and property and built his empire like some sort of shrine to himself. He probably had a gargantuan ego to match that fat bank account of his, too.

She’d read the business sections, the numerous features of him in various magazines and newspapers, and knew he was worth at least a billion.

And to think what he’d bought her father out for.

No amount of money would have been enough. The Double W had been their home, her parents’ dream. They’d poured blood, sweat and tears into the place, their entire life and soul into farming and ranching, and had raised her and Johnny to love the land as they did.

It was the only place Lora Leigh had ever called home. The place where she’d run and played with Johnny when she was little. Where she’d gotten her first horse, Miss Whinny, where she’d learned to ride and developed her love of animals. Where she’d decided she wanted to be a veterinarian.

In the house on that ranch she’d shared cozy Christmases with her family, stringing the tree they’d cut down themselves with popcorn and decorating it with handmade ornaments. There her mother had painted bird feeders for the yard and planted flowers in the spring.

It had killed Lora Leigh to lose her home.

Especially knowing her father had taken out a second mortgage to fund college and vet school for her.

She swiped at the flood of tears streaming down her face, gulping back grief and anger. Two days after her father had sold their home to Flint McKade, he’d killed himself.

All because of McKade. The bastard.

A choked sob tore from her chest, the tendrils of grief clawing at her. Life had taken an even nastier downward spiral then. Johnny had turned to booze and trouble. Even while grieving for her father, she’d tried to drag him up from the bottom of the barrel and convince him to straighten up. She couldn’t lose him, too.

But when he’d finally sobered up, his anger had surfaced, and he’d started talking revenge.

Six weeks ago, he’d gone to the Diamondback and landed a job under another name. He thought he could find some dirt on McKade to destroy him, something to prove he had cheated their father out of his land. But she hadn’t heard from Johnny in over two weeks, and he always checked in weekly.

What if he’d found something incriminating, and McKade had discovered what he was up to? Would McKade be so ruthless as to get rid of her brother to keep him silent?

Panic threatened, but she tamped it down, tightening her fingers around the steering wheel. If she found out he had, she’d go to the police.

She’d considered it already, but then she’d have to admit that her brother had gone to the Diamondback seeking revenge on McKade. And what if Johnny had done something or planned to do something illegal…?

Her gaze was drawn to the pastureland and the horses galloping in the pens as she neared the Diamondback’s main house. Nerves on edge, she parked in the circular drive in front of the house, noting the nearby corrals and bunkhouse, and inhaled a calming breath as she removed her compact to repair her tearswollen eyes.

She’d wondered if McKade would recognize her name and refuse to hire her because of her father, but she hadn’t dealt with him directly or even met him yet.

He probably didn’t know half the names of the families he’d destroyed.

Money was obviously the only thing that mattered to him.

Well, family was the only thing that mattered to her. Family and her home.

He had already stolen two of those from her.

If he’d hurt Johnny, he’d be sorry.

“THE ARABIANS ARE SAFE and in quarantine now on my ranch,” Flint told Amal Jabar, the Middle Eastern contact who’d arranged for him to import the new breed. “I’m not sure if the attackers wanted to kill my men or steal the horses, but I intend to find out. I’m going to need a list of everyone who works for you, and anyone else who knew about the shipment.”

“You’re suggesting that one of my people sabotaged the plane?” Amal said, with an angry edge to his voice.

Flint was skating on thin ice here: Akeem had referred him to Amal and trusted the man. “I’m not implying anything,” Flint said. “But men died tonight, so we have to investigate every angle.”

Amal hesitated. “I’ll fax you the list. And I’ll also question each one of them myself. If I find anything suspicious, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Amal. I appreciate it.”

“Take good care of the Arabians,” Amal said.

“Don’t worry. I will.”

He hung up, undressed, then climbed in the shower. He closed his eyes as the warm water sluiced over him and the images of the dead men haunted him. Three men had lost their lives on a job for him, which meant their blood was on his hands.

He would find the responsible party if it killed him.

Then the families could have some closure, knowing that the killer had been brought to justice. It was the least he could do for them.

He stumbled from the shower, then dragged on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, tensing at the sound of the doorbell ringing. The last thing he wanted right now was company.

He wanted to down a stiff drink, to mourn his friend in peace, and to figure out who had attacked his shipment and his men tonight, because they had attacked him.

And what if someone came after the Arabians again?

He’d gotten them settled into the quarantine area for the two weeks necessary to run the veterinary tests required under state and federal law. Maybe he should hire extra security.

A knock sounded at his suite door. “Mr. McKade, you have a guest.”

Hoping it was the police, with answers, he opened the door and found Lucinda, his housekeeper and cook, staring up at him with swollen eyes. She’d worked for Flint for ten years now and felt more like a mother to him than an employee. He’d asked her repeatedly to call him by his first name, but she refused.

And she had been friends with Grover, the older ranch hand who’d died tonight, and had taken the news badly. “Who is it?”

“Dr. Whittaker.”

Oh, hell. He’d forgotten she was supposed to arrive tonight.

“Tell her I’ll be right there.”

Lucinda nodded and descended the stairs. He buttoned his shirt and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. He’d been dreading this meeting for weeks, ever since her father had committed suicide. He’d been shocked when she’d applied for a job as one of his vets and he’d wondered if she had somehow discovered the truth about the deal he’d made with her father.

Maybe she wanted to thank him for bailing out her father before he lost everything they owned. And then for giving her a job…

Not that she couldn’t practice anywhere in the state. He’d read her credentials; she’d graduated top of her class. Besides, she was an Aggie grad as well, and Aggies took care of their own.

He heaved a weary breath and went down the stairs, half expecting her to be short and stubby like her father, a boyish girl who was strong enough to handle the horses.

But his gut clenched when he spotted the woman sitting in his office, in one of his overstuffed leather chairs.

Dear Jesus, she was nothing like her old man.

Not stubby or boyish, but petite, and so delicate looking that the chair nearly swallowed her slight frame. Slight but curvy, he thought as his gaze landed on her full breasts, which were straining against that damn suit jacket.

Long golden hair brushed her shoulders, shimmering beneath the lamplight like finespun silk, and her skirt showcased a pair of killer legs, with firm calves that could grip a horse—or a man—when riding him. His gaze raked south, to her heels, long, spiky things with pointed toes that made a man’s mouth water, made a man imagine having her in bed, wearing nothing but the damn shoes.

She was his new vet?

He swallowed back a knot of hunger that suddenly shot through his body with lightning speed and caught him completely off guard.

She looked up and saw him, then stood, the scent of honey and softness emanating from her. And her cobalt-blue suit was the same rich color as her incredibly big blue eyes.

Eyes that turned icy cold when he extended his hand.

His shoulders stiffened. She obviously hadn’t come here to thank him for saving her father’s ass.

In fact, judging from her pursed mouth and the brusque handshake she offered, she didn’t like him at all.

So why in the hell had she accepted the job on his ranch?

Chapter Two

Lora Leigh’s chest tightened as Flint McKade’s gigantic palm swallowed hers. She’d seen photographs of him in the newspaper as well as in several magazines—once on the cover, as one of the top ten eligible bachelors in Texas—and had braced herself to remain unaffected by his good looks and his money.

She refused to swoon over a man, especially one who ran roughshod over the working people.

But in spite of her resolve, a sliver of undeniable attraction splintered through her as his dark brown eyes raked over her. He was taller than he looked in his photographs, at least six-two, and had a linebacker’s shoulders and a washboard stomach. She knew that from the charity calendar for which he’d posed shirtless. His skin was bronzed from the sun and his shaggy, dark-brown hair brushed his shoulders like a renegade cowboy.

And surprisingly, his hands were calloused.

So the stories were right: he actually did work on the ranch himself, and did not just delegate and oversee his minions.

“Dr. Whittaker, it’s nice to meet you,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

His comment immediately shattered the moment, jerking her back to her mission.

And the fact that she hated Flint McKade. That she was here to get dirt on him and find her little brother.

She dropped his hand yet refused to reveal her emotions, so she shifted slightly and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

He nodded, then gestured for her to sit again, and he claimed the soft leather chair across from her. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, or something stronger?”

“No, thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, and she settled her sweating palms on her legs and inhaled. His big body was taking up all the air in the room.

“I trust my manager worked out the details of your contract,” Flint said. “Your salary, benefits, days off.”

She nodded, hating to concede that his offer had been more than generous. And she needed the money, dammit. “Yes, that’s all settled.”

“Housing on the Diamondback is optional,” he continued. “If you prefer to commute, that’s up to you. But we start early around here, at the crack of dawn.”

“Housing on the ranch is fine,” Lora Leigh said curtly. “And I’m well aware of how early ranch life starts, Mr. McKade. I grew up on a working one myself, with horses and cattle.”

His eyes darkened, narrowing beneath thick dark brows. “Call me Flint, Lora Leigh.”

She licked her lips. She didn’t want to get personal, and the way his hoarse, throaty voice murmured her name sounded way too personal. “I’d prefer Mr. McKade.”

“I’d prefer Flint.” His voice deepened, brooking no argument. “All my employees, including my ranch hands, are on a first-name basis. I consider them part of the Diamondback family.”

Unprepared for that comment, she bristled. He had destroyed her family, so thinking of herself as part of his was unacceptable.

“Can I ask you a question, Lora Leigh?”

She stiffened. “Of course.”

“Why did you accept the position here?”

A sliver of unease rippled up her spine. Had he discovered that her brother had come there to spy on him?

Did he know that she was here for the same reason?

FLINT COULD BARELY DRAG his eyes away from Lora Leigh as she squirmed under his scrutiny, her efforts at maintaining that cool facade failing miserably at his question. She looked as if she was sinking into quicksand, and he almost wanted to toss her a rope to save her. Instead, he remained focused, intent on waiting her out. If she was going to work for him, he wanted to know she was loyal, especially after today’s horrific events.

“Lora Leigh, why did you accept the job on the Diamondback?” he asked again, quietly.

His gut tightened at the way she clamped her teeth over her lower lip. A lip that was going to be bruised if she didn’t stop chewing on it.

His hand itched to reach up and soothe the delicate skin with his finger—or his lips.

He silently cursed. He didn’t like the way she’d mesmerized him a damn bit. He had enough on his plate right now, dealing with Viktor’s death and the sabotage and murder of his employees. He didn’t need the distraction of a woman.

Especially one who obviously didn’t like him.

The reason intrigued him and pissed him off at the same time. She’d made up her mind about him before they’d even met, no doubt because he’d bought her father’s property, and instead of seeing him as a good guy who’d saved her father from financial ruin, she saw him as the enemy.

“You have one of the largest and finest spreads in Texas,” she said. “You breed thoroughbreds for racing, with incredible results, as well as quarter horses that have won numerous awards.” She gestured at the Triple Crown trophy encased in glass, along with other trophies his quarter horses had earned. Just last year, Salamander won the National Cutting Horse Association Championship. “What veterinarian wouldn’t want to work at such a famous and prestigious ranch?”