by Sandy James
“Their biggest hit. Now I get it. No wonder he was so pissed.”
“Why?”
Russ thought it over before replying. “Ethan’s spent his whole life trying to distance himself from Crawfish and Dottie. You might as well have asked him to donate a testicle.” He snorted a laugh. “Hell, that might’ve been easier for him.”
So Ethan had a bad case of Celebrity Offspring Syndrome. It had to have been tough growing up in the shadow of his famous parents. She’d been able to convince or cajole the other children of stars she wanted on the album, but she’d been warned by a lot of people that Ethan would never agree. That only made him a challenge.
Chelsea Harris never walked away from a challenge.
“What do you suggest?” she asked.
“Suggest?”
“I really want him on this album. It’s for a great charity—cancer research,” she explained. “What do you think might win him over?”
Russ rubbed the tawny beard stubble on his chin. “I don’t know… I’m not sure it’s even possible. The man hates to sing.”
“He hates it?”
“Maybe that was the wrong word. He sings all the time. He hates to sing for any reason but to please himself.”
“You’re confusing me,” she admitted. “He performed with Savannah Wolf, right?”
Russ nodded.
“Then why won’t he sing with me?”
“Savannah was his friend. He sang with her because she needed his help.”
“I doubt I can make him my friend in time to record this album, especially after tonight.” She considered her options—or lack thereof—for a moment and then resorted to doing what she had to do. “You know him well. Can I call in that favor and ask you to give me some hints on how to get his help with the duet?”
A frown formed on Russ’s face. “I don’t know…”
Chelsea clasped her hands in front of her. “I’ll resort to begging if I have to. This is really, really important to me. Pretty please?”
He let out a resigned sigh, and she knew she’d won. “I’ll try to help, but I can’t promise anything.”
Chapter Three
His horse farm. The only place Ethan had ever found true happiness.
Moving slowly down the wide aisle of the barn, he stopped to greet any horse that poked a head out of a stall. Stroking each velvet muzzle and murmuring to the animals, he let contentment fill him.
The horses accepted him as he was. They didn’t give a shit whether he was the son of famous singers. They didn’t care if he owned a bar. All these beautiful animals knew was that Ethan took good care of them and loved them as much as they loved him.
Sure, he only owned two of the horses—Truman and Chairman—but he knew the other animals boarded at his stable well. The owners had busy lives, often finding little free time to exercise their pets or sometimes even see to their daily care.
That’s where he came in. He and Joe Alvin.
Joe was a veteran of the Gulf War who’d been an employee of his family from the time Ethan had been a kid. The man had done a great job organizing the Walkers’ security at their home, which was open to tourists. Seemed Joe was always there whenever Ethan needed him.
When Ethan’s parents died, he’d offered Joe a pension and the chance to retire. Joe had told him he’d rather work on the farm Ethan had bought. Grateful for the help, Ethan had a nice little house built for him on the property. Now, he and Joe had an almost symbiotic relationship in caring for the horses.
With Joe’s help, Ethan took on the main responsibilities of feeding, grooming, and exercising the animals. People paid him to do exactly what he wanted to do. He was surrounded by verdant fields, warm sunshine, and the scents of timothy hay and fresh straw.
Life was good.
As he led a horse named General to a set of cross-ties, he caught the sound of wheels crunching the white rock on the drive leading to the barn. Accustomed to folks coming and going, he went ahead and hooked the horse’s halter to the cross-ties and opened General’s tack trunk to retrieve a brush, curry comb, and hoof pick.
“Ready to get handsome?” Ethan asked the bay gelding when the horse turned his head to stare at him.
“I think he already is.”
It took all of his self-control not to slam the lid of the trunk when he heard the now familiar voice. The woman was asking the one thing of him he could never give her, and it appeared she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the tenacious Chelsea Harris.” He glanced up to see her grinning at him.
Why did that smile of hers hit him like a punch in the gut? The last thing in the world he needed was to be attracted to her.
But attracted he was. More than he’d thought judging by how he was responding to her physically and he hadn’t even touched her yet.
“Where’s your entourage?” he asked, a little annoyed at himself for the snide tone she didn’t deserve.
Instead of reacting with anger, she grinned. “Flying solo today. It’s a nice change of pace.”
“I already told you I wasn’t singing on your album,” he reminded her.
She calmly took a seat on one of the trunks and watched him while he did his best to consummately ignore her. Which wasn’t an easy thing to do. Her gorgeous hair was in an intricate braid. Dressed in jeans and a pink blouse, both of which hugged her voluptuous figure, she waited patiently as he worked on General.
Neither said a word until Ethan was done and had dropped the grooming tools into the open trunk. Then he spared her a glance. “Are you just here to stare at me all day?”
“Not really,” Chelsea cheerfully replied.
“I can guarantee you that if you came to beg me—”
“I won’t beg you.”
“—to sing with you, you’re wasting your time. Even more importantly,” he added, “you’re wasting mine.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” she said. “And I have perfectly good hearing, so you can stop repeating yourself.”
He strode over to stand in front of her. Staring down at her from his six-three perch, he tried to use his height to intimidate her. “Then why exactly are you here?”
Judging from her smile shifting to a smirk, she found him about as intimidating as a butterfly. “I need your help.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Ethan put his hands on his hips and let his head fall back so he could stare at the dusty rafters. “I thought you said you heard me when I said I wouldn’t sing.”
“I didn’t say anything about singing.”
His gaze returned to her, and all his irritation vanished in wake of her beauty. The woman was exquisite. “Then what exactly do you need my help for?”
“I’m buying a horse, and I’d like you to go to an auction with me. I heard you were a good judge of horseflesh.”
Chelsea couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d told him she was retiring from country music. “A horse? You’re here because you want a horse?”
She nodded.
“You all of a sudden just up and decided you needed a horse?”
“It wasn’t ‘all of a sudden,’” she insisted. “I owned a horse when I was growing up, and I miss her something fierce.” Chelsea’s lips lifted into a half smile as she ran her hands down her legs. “I also miss how firm my thighs were from riding.”
Unable to tear his eyes from her shapely legs, Ethan tried to dissuade her. “There’s no way someone like you has time to properly care for a horse.”
“From what I’ve heard,” she almost too sweetly replied, “a lot of people who board their animals here with you are in the same boat. That’s the other reason I’m here. I’d like to rent a stall—and I’d like you to help take care of my new horse when I can’t.”
The idea of seeing her every day actually held some appeal, until he realized that her schedule would never allow her that luxury. Although it annoyed him to admit it, he simply enjoyed looking at her.
He let his irritation w
ith himself show, hoping she’d think it was directed at her. “From what I’ve heard, I’d be taking care of that horse every damn day. You’re on the road all the time.”
“Not anymore. Just signed a deal that’s gonna keep me close to home for a good, long while. I need a rest from touring. As much fun as it can be, it’s rather draining.”
Ethan realized that he’d avoided country music news and gossip for so long that he knew next to nothing about her. Only a few things came to mind—mostly about her meteoric rise up the charts and her penchant for dating actors. “Nashville’s home?”
Chelsea nodded and jumped to her feet to follow him as he led General back into the stall he’d cleaned out earlier that morning. “Born and bred, but my family moved to Illinois when I was in middle school. Even though we moved back here a few years ago, my Tennessee accent has faded quite a bit, but a y’all slips out from time to time.”
After latching the gate, he turned to find her right behind him, staring up with those incredible eyes. Without a thought, he walked toward her, and she retreated until her back was pressed against the boards. His mouth hovered close to hers.
He’d dreamed about kissing her. Literally. In fact, Ethan had dreamed about a hell of a lot more than kissing Chelsea. His fascination fueled his need. But suddenly worried he might have frightened her, he began to ease back, putting some distance between them before he did something stupid.
* * *
Chelsea couldn’t seem to grasp a thought, let alone hold tight to one. At that moment, all she could do was blink at Ethan and wonder what had stopped him from kissing her.
God knew she would have allowed it. How would he taste? Were his lips as firm as they appeared? Her imagination took control, and damn if her whole body didn’t grow warm with need.
A logical thought finally formed.
This man is dangerous.
Just as he leaned back, she gently pushed against his chest. Her senses were reeling, and she despised feeling that she’d almost lost control. If something happened between her and a guy, she called the shots. She took the lead, and he damn well followed or she quickly left him behind. Whether the connection was emotional or merely physical, she always ran the show.
But Ethan didn’t seem to understand the rules.
“We were discussing my buying a horse,” she reminded him. His arrogant smile swept away the last of the sensual fog, giving her the strength to walk away. “The auction is this Saturday.”
Ethan opened another stall, grasped a compliant horse by the halter, and led him to the aisle. After he placed the animal in cross-ties, he opened the trunk in front of the stall. “I know. I’m planning to go.”
“Great. Then we can go together.”
He plucked a brush from the trunk and leveled a hard frown at her. “You have no business getting a horse.”
She folded her arms under her breasts and returned the scowl. How could the man almost kiss her one minute and then dismiss her the next? “That’s not your call, is it?”
“It is if you want to keep the horse here.”
“You’re worried that I won’t take good care of it?” she asked.
“If you don’t, I have to pick up the slack,” he said.
“A, that’s not going to happen. And B”—she swept her arm down the aisle—“you don’t seem to have a problem picking up the slack for a lot of other people and you get paid pretty well to do it.”
He went about brushing the horse.
Unaccustomed to being so succinctly ignored, Chelsea resisted the urge to stomp her foot. She did, however, bite the inside of her cheek to keep from tossing an acerbic comment Ethan’s way. Her plan had been so simple; win his friendship, then convince him to sing with her. That’s what Russ had basically suggested, and since he knew Ethan a lot better than she did, she trusted his judgment. If she wanted to achieve her goal, giving Ethan the sharp side of her tongue wouldn’t get her a single step closer.
Besides, she’d wanted a horse for a long time. Unfortunately, the last five years had been a brutal schedule of worldwide concerts. Now that she was settling in for what she hoped would be a long time, she could fulfill her wish—and perhaps also be able to use the opportunity to win Ethan over to her cause.
Relaxing her stance, she let her arms drop to her sides. “I’m looking for a nice mare. I went over the info on the auction site, and there are several good prospects.”
The frustrating man kept right on grooming his animal.
“I’m willing to outbid anyone, but only for the right horse.”
At least she got a response as he glanced her way and gave her an amused snort.
“I just don’t want to spend good money on the wrong horse,” Chelsea said. “I’ve got no experience at choosing an animal, so I’m not sure I’d be looking at the right things.” She hurried to add, “I mean, I know about stuff like conformation, but…”
“So if the shoes were made to hide a bad leg, you’d know?” Ethan asked.
“Probably not,” she admitted. “That’s why I need you.”
He smoothed the brush over the horse’s backside. “I’m not cheap.”
A crack in the wall. “I wouldn’t expect you to be, but I’ve heard great things and—”
“From who?”
“Pardon?”
“Who told you these ‘great things’?” he asked.
Chelsea rattled off three names, grateful she’d done her homework before she’d driven out to his farm. While the horse would be a means to an end, she would enjoy the animal and want the best care for it. Ethan, according to her sources, represented that “best care.”
He took his time before aiming a curt nod in her direction.
“You said you were already planning to go to the auction?” she asked.
Another nod.
“Looking for a horse for yourself?”
“For a friend.”
“Then it shouldn’t be too much of a pain for you to help me look as well.”
The man constantly appeared on the verge of blowing his stack. Or did he only seem that way around her? Everyone spoke of his generosity and kindness. She’d yet to see either of those traits.
With a weary sigh, he finally said, “Fine.”
“Fine?” she asked.
“Fine, I’ll help you choose a horse, Chelsea.”
Chapter Four
The crowd at the auction was much larger than Chelsea had expected. In her mind, she’d pictured a few dozen people. Instead, there had to be close to a thousand.
She’d also underestimated the drive time, thinking an hour when it had actually taken her almost two. But then again, she had a bad habit of running a bit late, or so everyone told her. At least this once she could blame traffic and not herself.
Worried she’d missed out on the perfect horse, she reminded herself that there were going to be lots of horses sold over the next two days. Only then did she push her concern aside and focus on trying to locate Ethan in the crowd—something she assumed would be easy, considering his height.
She hadn’t counted on so many of the people sitting down. Even worse, almost all of them wore hats, everything from well-loved baseball caps to expensive Stetsons. From behind, she couldn’t even tell the guys from the girls thanks to the number of men sporting long hair.
How was she supposed to find him and keep a low profile?
Jerking her phone from her pocket, Chelsea texted him using the number she’d wrangled out of him before she’d left the barn. When she’d tried to use it to make firmer plans for today, he hadn’t bothered replying to her texts or the one near-desperate voicemail she’d finally left. The prompt had been a computer-generated voice instead of his rich baritone, so she wasn’t sure he’d even received her message. For all she knew, some teenager now had a frantic voicemail from “the” Chelsea Harris. With her luck of late, Nashville Chat would get a hold of it and play the rambling recording as they speculated who she’d actually been trying to reach.
Just got here. Where r u?
Then she waited and tried to blend in, unsure of whether he could hear his phone in the hubbub and feeling a bit foolish that he might’ve pulled a fast one to get rid of her and given her a fake number. She tried to position herself so she could see faces instead of the backs of head, but that made her feel too conspicuous. She’d only passed a handful of rows when she started to feel eyes on her. She’d developed a sixth sense for when fans recognized her, and at that moment, she knew there were people watching her.
Suddenly, her hat was pulled lower to hide her head and a familiar voice was whispering in her ear. “Come sit down.”
Before she could say a word, Ethan snatched her hand and dragged her down an aisle to where two empty seats waited. “Sit,” he ordered.
Instead of reflexively telling him to buzz off, Chelsea obeyed as he took the seat to her left. The less attention she drew to herself the better. “Keep your voice down,” she cautioned since he sounded agitated.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, straining the buttons on his denim shirt. “I thought you’d keep a low profile like I asked.”
“Asked?” Every time she talked to him, she felt as though she were playing catch up in a conversation that had already been going on for a while. She wanted to tell him she’d been doing fine with blending in until he’d dragged her through the crowd, but she was too angry at his matter-of-fact statement. “When did you ask?”
“When I texted. Remember?”
She shook her head. “You most certainly didn’t text me. I didn’t get a single message from you, even though I sent several—and I left a voicemail message.”
“I texted you a couple of times yesterday to tell you about the auction,” he insisted.
“You didn’t!”
“I did!” He let out a scoff. “It’s not my fault if you gave me the wrong number.”
