by Joanne Rock
Tearing his eyes away from the building where Miranda had slept, Damien hauled himself out of bed and vowed not to let her distract him from his work here. He had no intention of screwing up the operation that Ted Howard had entrusted him with. Damien had thrived under the man’s guidance at a time when his every move had been chronicled in teen magazines. As the son of someone famous, he’d had cameras following him everywhere, even though he had no interest in the movie business. Damien’s father had laughed off his worries, purposely shoving him into the spotlight to, as the old man put it, “get over himself.” If not for Ted, Damien might have ended up completely severing ties with his father.
But he’d learned patience working here. Learned to separate himself from a father who thwarted his every effort to succeed, in some misguided attempt to make Damien “tougher.” So he wasn’t going to let his mentor down now, even though he was tempted to ignore what was best for the business and just sell that old farm stand to Miranda. After seeing her go to work in the foaling stall yesterday, he had to admire her grit.
A shower and a cup of coffee later, he headed out into the mist of another Northern California–winter morning, inhaling the earthy scents of the land that had saved his sorry ass when he’d first come here. The closest pastures were bordered by olive trees, the green-red of the fruit muted by a heavy coating of dew.
Carrying his second cup of coffee with him, he was making his way to the barn to check on Tallulah’s Nine and the new foal when he heard a woman’s off-key voice lifted in song.
“Bekkah?”
The singing stopped.
“Damien?” A dark head popped out of the birthing stall. And while the woman’s features were familiar, they did not belong to the veterinarian’s assistant. “Good morning.”
“Miranda?” He blinked and refocused as he closed the distance between them, and realized she was alone with the foal and the mare. “Is it just me, or were you a blonde when you went to bed last night?”
Heat crawled up his spine as soon as he asked the question, the mention of Miranda and “bed” mingling the concepts damned attractively in his mind. He liked seeing her in a borrowed canvas coat with the Fraser Farm logo on it, as much as he’d liked seeing her in lace and a belly-button ring—both of which had figured heavily in his dreams the night before. To distract himself, he edged past her to stroke the mare’s nose.
“Funny thing about that.” She set aside a pitchfork that she must have been using to spread more straw. The stall appeared spotless, the scent of fresh hay stronger than the smell of horses. “I’d meant to dye my hair before I came up here, but it slipped my mind. After Scotty recognized me from Gutsy Girl yesterday, I remembered how much I needed to try life as a brunette.” She settled on a worn wooden stool in one corner of the stall. “I took over for Bekkah a few minutes ago so she could grab some breakfast, by the way.”
He’d almost managed to forget that Miranda was an actress, until she’d brought up that show again.
He nodded, knowing he ought to be grateful for the reminder to keep his hands off her. He wasn’t. “Bekkah sent me a few updates last night. Sounds like the foal has been nursing regularly.”
“He looks really healthy, doesn’t he?” Miranda settled her palm on the foal’s flank, both animals calm and accepting of her presence.
It was beneficial to accustom the horses to handlers early in life, one of many reasons Damien liked having an attendant around the new foals. Better to think about that instead of the subtle curve of Miranda’s hip.
“Thanks for checking on them.” He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. So different from every other Hollywood type he’d ever known.
He’d had a lot of experience with wannabe starlets, and most of them had been high maintenance. Cautious of their appearance at all times. His mom, in fact, had met his father back when she’d been acting. Motherhood had turned out to be a bit too hands-on for her.
“No problem.” Miranda rubbed her fingers together, and when he saw a hint of her breath, Damien realized she must be cold.
“There are heavier jackets in the tack room, where you found the boots.” He pointed to the big rubber footwear she’d helped herself to this morning. He’d insisted she wear them last night, since she couldn’t go into the barns in flip-flops.
“Maybe in a minute.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “I was actually trying to send a hint about the coffee.”
She pointed toward his insulated mug.
He had the feeling she would have taken his and chugged straight from his cup.
“There’s a fresh pot up at the house.” Picturing her in his kitchen proved almost as potent as envisioning her in his bed. But when she didn’t move to take him up on the offer, he extended his mug. “Or you can have—”
“Ohmigod. Thank you.” She accepted the stainless-steel mug with both hands and drew it to her face so she could inhale the steam. “I’ve been awake most of the night, and when I smelled this, I was seized with this major caffeine craving.”
Intrigued by her in spite of himself, Damien leaned against the stall wall while Tallulah’s Nine nursed her foal. He noticed Miranda didn’t wear nail polish, but her fingernails seemed to bear stickers of different flowers. A daisy on one thumb. A daffodil on the other. Some purple blooms on the pointer fingers. It was easy to see them, with her hands clutching the coffee cup. She treated drinking like a ritual, all her attention devoted to the task until she’d taken three long sips.
“Perfect.” She caught his gaze with pale blue eyes shadowed by dark circles. “So what do you think of the color?”
“Hmm?” He’d been lost in thought about her eyes, so the question caught him off guard, as if she’d read his mind.
“Caramel taffy?” She held up a curl of her new dark hair. “I was picturing something more along the lines of butterscotch, but this is...brown.”
“Sorrel.” He found himself reaching for the lock of hair before he could stop himself. He lifted it to the light, examining it. “Chestnut.”
Smoothing the strand between his fingers, he savored the silky softness. Underneath her big personality and crazy accessories, everything about her seemed delicate. Fragile, even. If he’d seen a photo of her as she looked right now, unmoving, he would imagine she had an elegant British accent and gentle demeanor. But her mobile features and expressive voice demanded as much attention as her bright clothes. While she was dressed more appropriately for the barn today, the thin, purple cotton T-shirt under her open jacket featured an image of a campy fortune-teller, and floral print jeans covered her long legs. She wore a green Fraser Farm hat over her newly colored hair, the short strands curling close to her jaw.
“Chestnut seems a far cry from caramel taffy, wouldn’t you say?” She peered up at him and he remembered he still held one soft curl in his fingers.
He released it so fast it sprang back against her cheek with a bounce, making her blink.
“It looks...” Sexy. Hot. Tempting. “...nice.” He cleared his throat and wished he could clear his thoughts, too. He needed a reset button on this morning, preferably going all the way back to the moment he’d woken up, so he could change that first thought about Miranda. “Did you want some breakfast?”
Maybe offering to feed her wasn’t strictly in line with his desire to stop thinking about her. But damn it, she was too thin and too exhausted, with way too many shadows around her eyes. He didn’t like the idea of sending her away without giving her a good meal or two. Hell, she’d worked so seamlessly at his side the day before that she’d earned that much, at least. He would have paid Scotty time and a half for working late with the foal.
“Depends.” She winked at him over the rim of the coffee cup, a gesture more friendly than flirtatious. “I have a hard time eating by myself. Can’t sit still.”
Did she have a tough
time sleeping by herself, too? The question blared in his brain before he could filter it. She said she’d been awake half the night.
And with that visual jumping around in his head, he didn’t dare offer her company for breakfast.
“I already ate.” It was a lie, and it sounded like one, since he practically growled the words. But Miranda had been on his property for less than twenty-four hours and she’d already mounted a full-scale invasion of his thoughts. He needed to reinforce some personal defenses more than he needed those fences restrung in the north pasture.
“In that case...I’m good.” She hopped to her feet, handing him back his coffee mug. “I have a lot of things I need to look into before I move on, anyhow. Would you mind if I stuck around a few more hours to use the wireless connection here? I’ve got to research some new places for a tearoom.”
Guilt—both for denying her company at breakfast and for refusing to sell her the farm stand—weighed heavy on his shoulders.
“That’s fine,” he said slowly, distracted by the faint print of shiny lip gloss on the rim of his coffee mug. The urge to fit his mouth over that spot damn near overwhelmed him. “Stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you.” The warmth in her voice, the obvious gratitude, only made him feel like more of a heel. “And if it’s all right with you, I might grab one of those heavier jackets, after all.”
She stood close to him, gesturing past his shoulder in the direction of the tack room. For a moment, he breathed in her barely-there clean fragrance and the lemon scent of her shampoo, imagining touching her. Tasting her.
“Is that okay?” Her low voice twined around his senses, drawing him near. Her pale eyes turned a shade darker, her pulse fluttering fast in the smooth column of her throat.
His chest felt tight. Constricted. He wanted nothing more than to—
“Um, Damien?” She pointed past him. “May I...”
Belatedly, he realized he was blocking the door like a freaking oaf. Where the hell were his brains?
“Sorry.” He stepped aside to let her pass, cursing himself, his thoughts and the unwanted attraction.
Yet as he watched her hurry by, her determined walk barely slowed by the heavy boots, Damien wondered if he’d imagined the shared moment, or if it had been there and Miranda Cortland was simply unwilling to acknowledge it.
“Um...Damien?” she called from somewhere else in the barn, her raised voice echoing around the high rafters.
He took a deep breath, inhaling hay and horses, reminding himself of his real life.
“Yeah?” He stepped into the wide aisle between the stalls.
Miranda stood near an open door at the far end of the barn, where sunlight poured in from outside.
“You’ve got some visitors asking for you out here.” She gestured toward the driveway looping around the fountain.
Frowning, he left the birthing stable and shot a quick text to Scotty to take over for him here. Damien squinted into the sunlight as he neared Miranda.
“Do you know who it is?” People didn’t just drop by his farm. Especially not to see him. Maybe he just needed to redirect a prospective buyer to the yearlings manager, or put his stud director in touch with someone looking to breed a mare.
“Sounds like they want to look over your horses?” She tucked a dark curl behind one ear as he brushed past her, then tried to ignore the flare of heat she ignited.
“Damien!” a hearty male voice called as a young couple approached. “It’s Charlie Whiteman. Thought we’d take you up on your offer to have a look around the place.”
It took Damien a minute to place the guy—someone he’d met at his brother’s bar a few weeks ago when he’d dropped by to help Lucien move equipment in the microbrewery. Luke had insisted he stay for a drink, which led to a conversation with Charlie Whiteman. Damien had told the guy he could drop by the farm anytime, because he was richer than Croesus and was looking to invest in some young bloodstock. But hadn’t Damien also suggested “spring” might be the best time?
Damn.
The couple looked straight out of Town and Country in front of their sporty Mercedes, him in a khaki jacket and light blue dress shirt and his very blonde wife in a long plaid skirt with high leather riding boots. The guy had designed some kind of app and made huge amounts of money by the time he was twenty-five.
“I’m Miranda Cortland.” Miranda spoke up to fill the awkward silence, holding out her hand to the wife.
“Violet Whiteman,” the woman answered, extending her palm. “Charlie has been really looking forward to touring your property. He’s mad for racehorses this month. I hope it’s not a bad time for us to stay a few days?”
The guest suites weren’t even finished. There was no food service in place unless Damien jumped in to personally cook for them. While he calculated the difficulty of finding last minute help to accommodate them, Miranda spread her arms wide and grinned.
“You’ll love it here,” she announced, twirling in place to showcase the three hundred sixty-degree view she’d laid eyes on only yesterday. But Damien had to hand it to her for making the unexpected pair feel welcome.
As she spun around, she caught his eye briefly, a questioning glance. He nodded, giving his approval for her efforts. And just like that, Miranda had made herself indispensable to him. Again.
She turned her megawatt smile back to Violet. “Did you want to see the barns, or would you rather come up to the house for a cup of tea?”
Violet couldn’t say yes to tea fast enough. As she joined Miranda on a walk toward his house, Damien wondered how his temporarily homeless guest would find the kitchen, let alone the tea. But one thing was certain—Miranda wouldn’t be leaving the farm today. And if she was already this comfortable in his kitchen, how much longer until he could make her even more at home in his bed?
Shaelynn took his strong hand in her wet fingers, sinking deeper into the bubbles of the gigantic hot tub so she didn’t inadvertently give him a free show. Because, of course, that would be brazen and inappropriate, right? Bad enough she’d made herself at home here while he was gone. But with her bare breasts close to the surface, her whole body responded to his touch and the wicked heat of his hazel gaze.
“My name is Damien....”
I tapped out a revised scene for my heroine later that day as I relaxed in a den off the back of Damien’s monstrous house. I’d spent all day either entertaining Violet Whiteman or prepping rooms for her and her husband in the half-finished wing that Damien had built for future guests. Since I’d taken the best suite for myself the night before, I’d had to move my stuff out and clean things up—change the linens, wash towels and whatnot.
I’d misplaced some stuff that I still needed to look for, but I was too tired tonight. The flash drive that had been in my laptop was missing, the biggest cause for concern, since I liked to back up my manuscript each time I worked on it. Knowing me, it had fallen out while I was moving things from the SUV into the guest room the night before. I’d been so tired after helping with the new foal, I’d hardly known my own name. I couldn’t find a shirt I’d had from the Gutsy Girl show, either, but since my whole life had been stashed into a vehicle for the move, I guess the disorganization wasn’t a big surprise.
Now I waited for Damien to get home so I could give him an update on his guests. Before Scotty left for the day, he’d told me his boss had escorted a stallion to another breeder about an hour away. I might have made myself comfortable in a different guest room if Damien had one, but the rest of the visitors’ accommodations were unfinished, so I’d come here.
His house was huge. As was his hot tub, which I’d noticed while wandering around the massive house. Seeing it tucked in one corner of a lower-level living area had made me think of my manuscript, and I’d decided to write a little more. The words came faster, now that I could visualiz
e the hero so well. I had come to think of Damien as the stranger who owned the house in the woods where my heroine had crashed her snowmobile. The man who sparked sexy thoughts in Shaelynn with a simple touch of his hand had become so real for me. So vivid and enticing...
...She needed to release him before the moment turned awkward. But it was as if this gorgeous man had walked out of a sexy daydream when he’d appeared out of nowhere. The moment was surreal, as if the night had no consequences.
So, against all social conventions, she dragged his hand down into the water. Placing his palm on her bare left breast.
She watched his eyes widen for the briefest of moments before they narrowed. He plunged his hand deeper, cupping the weight of the taut mound and lifting it above the water. Her nipples pebbled to impossibly tight peaks as he lowered his head to capture one pink tip between his lips—
“Miranda?”
The unmistakable male voice in the hall behind me made me sit up so fast I knocked over my laptop. It fell with a clunk to the thick carpet beneath the love seat.
“Here!” I announced myself, feeling oddly guilty and more than a little overheated. My heartbeat raced. “In the den.”
I stood up and yanked the power cord stretched over my legs out of the device. I reclaimed the laptop from the floor and closed it with a click, ensuring the screen went dark.
“Hey,” he offered by way of greeting, looking far too gorgeous in faded jeans and a long-sleeved black tee. “Sorry I left you here by yourself all day.” He stepped deeper into the room and I noticed he’d taken off his shoes. There was something intimate about a man walking around in his socks. “I forgot about a stud appointment at a nearby farm. Normally I have a transportation guy come in to do that, but since it was close...”
