by Joanne Rock
Someone, somewhere, had wanted a neon sign announcement that this woman was taken.
“That’s what I’m worried about.” The brunette turned to him and offered her other hand. “I’m Joelle Johnson.”
“Damien Fraser.” He gave her fingers a squeeze and released her, his arm finding its way around Miranda’s back. Tough to make small talk until he’d discovered whatever news Joelle had brought with her. “What makes you think this guy could be headed out here?”
“A message from my sister,” Miranda interjected, clutching her mug with both hands. He noticed a few of the stickers on her nails were peeling at the edges. “Apparently, Nina called the tearoom Friday and left her name. But that’s all.”
Miranda withdrew a mangled piece of pink paper and smoothed it out on the granite, pressing down the edges.
“See?” She pointed at the note.
“‘Miranda’s sister, Nina, called,’” he read aloud, frowning. “This is the sister you never talk to?”
“I only have one sibling.” Something about the stilted way she said it made him wonder if she was upset. With him? Or with her family situation?
He headed over to the counter to start a pot of coffee, one of the few things he ever used the massive kitchen for.
Joelle cleared her throat. “I was only speculating about what she wanted, but since Nina has never called the tearoom before and has hardly ever called Miranda—”
“Never,” Miranda clarified, staring down at the pink message.
“—it seemed like she might have something important to say. And from all accounts, she had an acrimonious parting with the bastard of an ex-husband.”
While Damien wondered what “accounts” she’d heard and from where, a sharp knock came at the back door a second before it opened. Footsteps sounded along the hardwood in the screened porch.
“Anybody home?” Scotty called, before opening a second door, between the porch and the kitchen.
Damien waved him in. The farmhand usually stopped by most workdays to grab a cup of coffee or to share something his wife had baked. Damien’s easy rapport with Scotty reminded him of the way Ted had treated him when he’d been running the farm. Damien had always appreciated feeling at home here. He may have doubled the size of the house, but some things he kept just the same.
“Come on in,” Miranda said, at the same time he did.
While they exchanged looks at their unexpected chorus, Scotty’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze glued to Miranda in a man’s bathrobe.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting.” Scotty’s feet stayed glued to the mat by the door. “I can come back later.”
“Don’t be silly,” she chided, waving him inside. “There are more quiches in the fridge if you want one.”
“Quiches?” Damien asked, his stomach rumbling, while Scotty practically sprinted to the side-by-side refrigerator.
“I made a bunch yesterday for your staff,” she announced, before turning to Joelle. “I used that recipe for a zucchini, bacon and Gruyère quiche. It was great.”
“The spinach and Swiss was my favorite,” Scotty called, already manhandling the aluminum foil tins stacked and labeled on one shelf.
Damien left the coffeepot to battle for his share of the leftovers.
“How many kinds did you make?” He turned on the oven even as he tried a bite of the light, flakey crust and amazing egg filling while it was still cold. “Wow.”
The doorbell rang before he could mumble anything else around the mouthful of the best quiche he’d ever eaten. Miranda could seriously cook.
“I so should have gotten dressed,” she muttered, sliding off her seat to answer it.
“I can get it.” Damien realized his kitchen—damn, his whole house—had never been so full. He hurried to beat her to the door.
“That’s okay, I’ve got it.” She waved him off, giving him a sexy wink over one shoulder. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
He followed her, anyway. Rumors of that bastard Rick left Damien unsettled, and he wasn’t leaving her alone anytime soon.
But when she pulled open the front door, it wasn’t a dirtbag former boyfriend standing there.
Petite Violet Whiteman had a point-and-shoot camera in her hand. Aimed right at Miranda.
“Miranda Cortland, why didn’t you tell me it was you!” she squealed as she clicked the shutter of her camera. “I had no idea I was visiting with the Nebraska Backstabber two days ago when we had tea in this kitchen!” Click, click. “I can’t believe you didn’t mention it once.”
Damien stepped between them, since Miranda looked too dazed by the flash to take action.
“Violet, this might not be the best time.”
8
“VIOLET.” I RECOVERED MYSELF enough to close my mouth so I didn’t look like a dying fish in all the photographs. “Can we talk privately?”
I hoped I could reason with her somehow, because I sure as heck didn’t want her to post those pictures online. Or anywhere.
“Of course.” She smoothed her camel-colored, pleated skirt and smiled at Joelle, Damien and Scotty, all of whom had ended up in the living area to witness the drama. “It was the dark hair that threw me off, by the way.” Violet pointed to my messy curls, sprouting like demon horns in all directions from my head. “The color is great, but I didn’t recognize you when we met. I kept thinking you seemed familiar, though.”
She peered down at her camera and pushed some buttons, probably reviewing how ridiculous I looked in Damien’s bathrobe with my mouth gaping.
“I was going to take off, anyway,” Joelle assured me. “I’m getting a room at a hotel nearby and I can stop back tomorrow. Maybe we can make a date to tour some other properties and see if we can find you a tearoom to get you settled.”
My friend already had her sweater over her arm.
“I’ll text you and we’ll make a plan,” I offered, grateful for the help. I really did want to talk to her more. “Thanks for checking on me.”
She gave me a hug and a quick kiss on my cheek. “You knew I would.”
Soon, Joelle was gone and Damien had disappeared into the kitchen with Scotty. I knew he probably had some animals to check on, anyhow. I wondered when I’d get to be with him alone again. I could hardly believe what had happened between us last night. I’d taken a monumental step with him, even if he didn’t know the full extent of what a big deal it had been for me. My old insecurities were already jittering around a little bit inside me, making me wonder how important the night had been to him.
I hoped I wasn’t the only one still reeling from the realization that we had a powerful connection. What if I was attaching too much meaning to how great the sex had been?
“So...Violet.” I waved her over to one of the chunky leather ottomans near the fireplace in the front room. “Have a seat.”
“Actually, I’d love to take you to lunch if you have time.” She fiddled with the strap on her camera as she perched on the edge of the ottoman. “I’m visiting some local friends this week and they are big fans of the show.”
My stomach knotted.
“That’s just the thing.” I tightened the belt on Damien’s robe, wishing I was back in his bed and this day could start all over again. “I’m trying to put the show behind me.”
“Why?” she blurted, her delicate, pale features scrunching into a worried frown. “You should be proud! You did a great job and you didn’t compromise your values. It doesn’t matter about the dopey nickname they gave you, right?”
She spoke with such vehemence, I actually did feel a little proud of myself. Not compromising had been important, after all.
“Thank you.
I appreciate that. I really do.” I reached to give her arm a squeeze, an impulsive gesture she returned. “The problem is, I’d like to keep my whereabouts out of the media, and if my picture is posted with any details about me being in Sonoma County—”
“Oh, no.” Violet straightened.
“What?”
“I may have inadvertently—” She bit her lip. “That is—” She pulled a phone from the pocket of her cream-colored blazer. “I think I mentioned...”
“What?” My shoulders tensed. Hot prickles broke out on my skin. What had she done?
Scrolling through brightly colored screens, she slowed down to read a message or text or something.
“I did post a note last night about meeting you. I thought I might have sent it as a private message on Twitter, but it’s on my public feed.” She flipped her phone around so I could see the screen, but the little box with her note didn’t mean that much to me, since I didn’t use the program.
The blurb read: Met THE Gutsy Girl, the Nebraska NICE girl, Miranda Cortland, in wine country this weekend. #awesome
“But the note is only seen by your friends, right?” I had a vague understanding of Twitter. Maybe.
“Actually, I have a lot of followers because of my wine blog.” Her shoulders slumped as she flipped to another screen. “This message has already been re-tweeted like...seventy-five times.”
I tried to process that. “Seventy-five people saw it?”
“No.” She pointed to a box that said “Followers.” “Ten thousand people follow me. My blog has really grown over the past year.”
I felt faint.
“And although I didn’t mention Fraser Farm in the tweet about you, there are references to this place in my other posts about our hunt for a racehorse and the visit to a local winery.” She kept scrolling for another moment and then set the phone aside. “I’m really sorry, Miranda. It never occurred to me you wouldn’t want anyone to know you’re here. Not many people go into reality TV to be anonymous.”
“It’s okay.” I said it automatically, my hand going to my dark hair. The dye job had been a waste.
My future here had ended after a few short days. The knowledge rattled around inside me.
Damien.
“I hope it won’t create any trouble for you?” Violet sounded genuinely concerned, and she probably was. But apparently, the damage had already been done.
An oil painting of an old Derby winner hanging on Damien’s wall went out of focus as I began to feel a little faint. If Rick Barrow was looking for me, he was a Google search away from finding me. As were any psycho fans, star-watchers or TMZ reporters.
The only person who was going to be more disappointed than me? The gorgeous, sexy star of my book and my fantasies. The one man I hadn’t wanted to let down.
Damien.
* * *
“YOU’RE SURE YOU KNOW how to ride?” Damien asked me the question for at least the third time later that afternoon.
For now, I stroked the older mare’s nose while I held the bridle beneath her muzzle. I’d borrowed boots from the tack room that were too big for me, so it was just as well I had a more low-key mount even if I’d always been steady in a saddle. Just because I could ride farm horses at seventeen didn’t mean I’d be able to handle a Thoroughbred six years later. But Windchime didn’t seem as if she was going to give me any trouble, and I was glad to be away from Violet Whiteman, nice as she might be. She’d promised to look into damage control, and wished me luck in ducking the paparazzi who might make the trek to this part of the state.
I still hadn’t told Damien the secret was out about me being here. Call me a coward. I just didn’t want to ruin what was left of our time together. I knew as soon as the world came looking for me, I’d need to leave Fraser Farm. He didn’t deserve the brand of crazy I’d be bringing to his door. I’d tell him during the ride, though. Definitely.
My stomach cramped. Why had I thought I might find happiness here? I felt I’d been running for six years and finally found a place where I’d be safe.
“I’m positive. I love to ride and I’ve missed it.” I enjoyed his protectiveness. His thoughtfulness.
I watched him check the cinch on his horse, Eclipse, a younger gelding that he’d brought into the Thoroughbred rescue program. Damien really lived the idea of “second chances.” He’d sure given me one.
But I couldn’t think about that and how much leaving was going to hurt. It was cooler out today and I was glad for the oversize canvas coat I’d snagged from a hook in the barn, even if I looked like a street orphan.
“Ready?” He turned to me, his flannel shirt layered over a blue thermal one, the sleeves rolled up so I could see the muscles flex in his forearms as he rechecked my horse for me.
“Very.” Mostly, I was ready to be close to him again. Even though we’d been out of bed for only five hours, I missed the feel of his hands on me. Being with him had been...spectacular. That really wasn’t too strong of a word for the way he’d made me feel. So unfair that all those good feelings were already tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that they wouldn’t last.
“Did I catch a hint of a smile?” He ran a thumb beneath my jaw as he tipped up my face and studied me.
Swallowing hard, I tucked away worries about the future and savored the now as I buckled the clasp on my helmet.
“I’ve been thinking about that moment when Windchime and I leave you in the dust.”
“Is that right?” He hovered closer, his hands going around my waist beneath the big jacket I wore.
I got shivers, but they weren’t from the weather.
“Maybe I was also thinking about how good you look in jeans.”
“Are you going to write about it?” he teased, his breath warm on my cheek before he kissed my temple.
I felt melty inside already. Maybe I needed to make up for all the years I’d missed out on sex, because I had the urge to drag him back to the house and have my way with him. A switch had been flipped inside me and now that it was turned on, carnal thoughts were never far from my mind.
This wasn’t just a sexual awakening for me. It was a sexual thunderbolt.
“Keep inspiring me, hot stuff, and I think I might.” I arched up on my toes to kiss him, brushing my lips over his.
The soft, subtle pressure of his mouth reminded me of all the things he’d done to me the night before, the way his kiss had driven me to the edge and back. I inhaled the clean, musky scent of horse and man, my fingers curling into his soft shirt.
His breathing changed, becoming faster, harder, his awareness of me immediately obvious. Arousing. Besides, my pocket of time at Fraser Farm was quickly running out. I needed to act fast to store up more memories before I moved on.
When he pulled back, I barely had a second to meet his fiery gaze before he lifted me by the waist and plunked me into the saddle. Windchime hardly even twitched.
“That’s more than enough inspiration for now,” Damien growled, the warning in his voice making my toes curl inside the too-big boots I wore.
I didn’t bother trying to hide a smile as he stalked over to his horse and flung himself stiffly onto Eclipse’s back. Truly happy moments like this one didn’t come around nearly often enough.
“Ready?” he asked, taking up his reins and turning the dark gelding around.
We were taking one of the trails he kept groomed so guests could ride the horses they boarded at the farm, or potential buyers could wat
ch a prospective horse’s workout.
“I’m ready.” My heart still thundered, anticipation for this man warming my blood.
“She won’t follow me. She’ll wait for you to give her full rein before she’ll let loose.”
“Got it.” I tensed and Windchime shifted. I patted her neck to reassure her I was no nervous horsewoman. Forcing myself to relax, I watched as Damien urged his mount forward.
I waited. And waited. True to Damien’s word, Windchime let me call the shots. And once I knew that I could, I leaned forward over her neck, bracing myself even as I loosened her lead and gave the command.
She took off with gratifying speed, her age and calm demeanor not taking away from the fact that this was a Thoroughbred, a horse bred and raised for racing. Her legs worked hard, churning fast and spitting bits of gravel as she got under way.
But after that initial surge, the big bay mare cruised into a smooth gallop that would have left any other horse I’d ever ridden in the dust. I stayed low over the withers, loving the aerodynamic feel of cutting though the cool breeze, the warm animal beneath me. Her pace seemed so effortless, her stride so long and easy that I laughed out loud at the simple joy of it. No one would ever drive an SUV to work if they could ride one of these gorgeous animals instead. My worries about Violet and my whereabouts coming to light rolled off my shoulders.
With wind whipping through the hair that escaped my riding helmet, I crowed long and loud. I might have beaten my chest with my fist if I didn’t think it’d make me fall out of the saddle. Damien must have heard me whooping with the fun of it because he turned to look over his shoulder. A wide grin spread across his features when he saw me.
No doubt I was smiling like a fiend, probably catching bugs in the shiny white grille of my teeth.
He slowed his pace just a little and so did I. Steering the shiny black gelding off the packed-dirt trail, he led me into a grassy field, a pasture to my mind. On a horse farm, maybe it had another name. But this was no formal paddock with reinforced split rail fences and partial stone gates. It was a meadow of tall grass and wildflowers, surrounded by old trees. If this part of the land was fenced, I couldn’t see any evidence. Maybe we were simply riding the Sonoma County hilltops between Damien’s property and the olive grove.
