“Me? Why should I? Bucking Bronco is your ranch.”
I swear under my breath. “If I get stuck with Honeywell, I swear she’ll be working her pampered ass off until she breaks every fucking artificial nail on her fingers.”
He laughs.
“I don’t know why you don’t take her? I hear she’s a gem at riding dick,” I say persuasively.
He chuckles. “Thanks for the kind offer, but I’ve got my hands full with Erika. You’re on your own with this one, bro.”
“Fine.” I don’t like it, but I don’t have an option in the matter, so I’ll cowboy up and take it on the chin. “I’ll pick her up. Maybe I’ll put her on Thunder.”
“Be nice,” he says. “Even vomit is precious to its father.”
“Whatever.”
“What should we do with the racehorse, Lars?” Matt asks.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck in frustration. Thunder is one of the fastest stallions this side of Montana. I know he has potential stored up in him, but I just can’t understand why he won’t work with any of our men. They’ve never had a hard time with any other horse.
“I just hope he has not become of one of those wildly independent horses that can never be tamed.”
“We spent good money on him, so I’m not giving up yet,” I insist.
“If he keeps hurting our trainers, we’ll have to get rid of him. Money doesn’t matter in a situation like this.”
“Understood,” I say. My brother holds no power here, but he makes a valid point. It will be tragic to get rid of Thunder, but until he takes to a trainer, we’re wasting time and funds on him.
I hang up the phone and stand up from my office chair. There’s a farmhand who tends to the broncos, so I don’t often interact with them, but I’ll have to do something about Thunder soon. However, there are more pressing priorities that need to come first.
I walk through my house and go outside. Bucking Bronco is a cattle ranch about 44,400 acres and expanding. With eleven full-time employees, the spread supports a sizable herd of Angus cross, mostly black hided, fall calving cows. We also farm one thousand acres of baleable forage crops and nearly two hundred acres of permanent pastures.
“Hey, Lars. Did you hear about Ryan?” Chance, one of the ranch hands shouts.
I nod and stride in the direction of the cattle barns.
“Yeah, Thunder made him chew gravel too.” Catching up with me, he keeps pace by jogging backward a couple of paces in front of me. “So, is it true that Miss Tamara is coming right here to this very spread for a couple three days?” he asks.
I spare him a glance. Chance is a good kid but naïve. His eyes are fucking on fire with excitement. “Chance, she’s not staying for a couple three days. She’s staying for a whole damned month. And stop looking so pleased about it. It’s not a good thing.”
“Whoopee. She’s hot,” he hollers, and taking his hat off, throws it into the air.
I sigh and hop into my truck. “Hot or not, she’ll still be a pain in my ass.”
It takes me forty-five minutes on dusty roads to make it to our meeting place and I am expecting her to pull up any minute. Most men would be thrilled to meet Tamara Honeywell, but brainless, pointless celebrities like her just make my skin crawl. I don’t even want to be in the same room with them. I swear, if she’s not careful, she’s going to end up bent over my knee getting what her daddy should have given her.
Fifteen minutes later, she arrives right on time in a blacked-out limo. I fill my lungs with air, step out of my truck, and lean against the hot metal. The back door of the car doesn’t open immediately. Instead, the driver exits the car and nods at me before going around to open the door for her. I scowl at the act. It is completely unnecessary for the driver to leave the vehicle. Tamara is perfectly capable of getting out herself.
Once the door opens, one sparkle infested, sky-scraper high shoe makes its way out of the car. Attached is a disconcertingly smooth, long, golden leg. Another shoe slips out. Followed by another endless leg. Something starts happening to my temperature. Both shoes hit the ground, rustling up small clouds of dust.
Languorously, God’s own vomit unfolds itself from the limo and…whoa! It goddamn kills me to admit it, but hell, blood rushes south and I pop wood right there for Tamara Honeywell. I was a pimply-faced kid the last time just the sight of a female had that effect on me. Somewhere at the edges of my vision, I notice the driver of the vehicle moving toward the back of the car, but I can’t really focus on anything except the shining vision in front of me. I’ve had my share of women, more than my share, but this one, I can’t take my eyes off.
Sunglasses cover her eyes, but her hair is glowing like white gold—a color not one woman around these parts would dare —and her skin is apple fresh. She is wearing a short white dress that clings to her every curve, and fuck me, she has a lot of those. Like some sex zombie, my eyes latch on to and get unwittingly stuck on her full, round tits. I must look like one of those cooking show chefs who pretend to smile while they are stuffing bread up a bird’s ass.
“Up here, buddy,” she scolds. Her voice, contrary to what Rolling Stones magazine once claimed sounds something like a mix between a screeching cat and a Baccarat champagne glass being smashed in a fit of temper, is sweet and despite the angry undertone, is all kinds of sexy.
“Lars,” I introduce myself, extending a hand to her.
She doesn’t take it. “Yeah, well you know who I am. So, are you going to get my bags?”
That brings me down to earth with a bang. Reality check. That’s right, I detest what this woman stands for. Despite the banging body, she’s a lousy excuse for a human being. I turn my head toward the bags left behind the limo, which the driver has unloaded while I was examining her with my mouth hanging open. I bring my gaze back to her face. I wish she’d take those fucking shades off. It’ll help if I can see her eyes and look into the empty voids behind them.
“You came here to work. Start by carrying your own damned bags,” I tell her.
I notice a small smile on her lips before she tosses her hair like some goddamn horse and tilts her head. The minx pushes her sunglasses down her little nose and peers up at me with laughing blue eyes. Oh, man, I’m so fucked. How could these eyes belong to a vapid creature pairing all the sad dick hopping with alcohol and drugs?
“I figured a handsome cowboy like you wouldn’t mind carrying a few bags for little old me,” she says with a teasing lilt.
Fuck. Part of me wants to do it. Manipulative little bitch. I’m gonna need all my wits about me. “Lil’ old you had better get strong fast because you’ll be lifting things much heavier than those bags.”
She pushes her sunglasses so they lie on top of her head. “I have a secret to tell you,” she whispers with pouting lips. Tamara takes another step closer and stands on her tiptoes to speak into my ear. Her lips only come as far as the middle of my neck because of our height difference. Her breath fans over me and goosebumps run down my arms. Jesus, she smells like a slice of heaven.
“I’m not really a bitch,” she whispers. “I’m very sweet if you do what I want.”
Even the dust motes stop swirling. And for one crazy second, I experience the primitive urge to grab her sweet smelling soft body and kiss the hell out of that sexy, pouty, slutty mouth. My hands open into claws, ready to squeeze her flesh. Then sanity asserts itself. What the fuck am I thinking? This is Tamara Honeywell. STD-guaranteed-Tamara-Honeywell. Suddenly, I see the thick layer of greasepaint she has troweled on her face. The blazing heat must have affected me while waiting for her in the midday sun.
I take a giant step backward.
The suddenness of my action makes her teeter in her high heels, and she almost loses her balance. It would have done her good to land on her pampered ass, but she manages to right herself. Shame.
“You think you’re so hot ice cream would melt on your fingers, don’t ya?” I ask, laughing.
“Says the man who stared at my breasts like they ar
e a saucer of milk and he’s a cat dying for a drink.”
I suppress a smile. “I know I was looking at your chest, but I got news for you, honey. I’m a man. That’s what we do. We look at breasts. Especially big ones. And yours are…big. However, let’s get something straight. I’m not attracted to you. You might be smoking on the outside to…some people, but beneath that, you’re a manipulative, selfish, lazy, careless, ditzy bitch.”
Her eyes widen.
“You nearly killed someone because you were so zoned out on drugs and alcohol, and as far as I’m concerned, the right place for you is behind bars or in one of those fancy rehab centers. If I catch you making those kinds of skanky offers to me or my men again, I’ll send you back to your father so fast you’ll be nursing an ass full of rope burn.”
I feel as if I have gone too far, but I swear, she doesn’t look disappointed or put out in the least. In fact, she looks a mixture of relieved and extremely pleased with herself.
“Okay,” she agrees coolly.
That is not the response I expected. This is turning out to be nothing like I thought it would be. I clear my throat. “Good. I’ll wait in the truck. Put all your shit in the back,” I order gruffly.
I walk to the front door of my truck and jump in. Surreptitiously, I watch her break into a sweat from my rearview mirror as she struggles to walk toward her bags in her tall heels. She has a fine ass on her.
She’ll have to make at least three trips to load them all into the truck—especially since she’s likely never carried a bag in her life; then it will be interesting to see her haul everything into the truck. She starts with the largest suitcase, dragging it behind her, the wheels catching the gravel and causing the bag to shake and tip dangerously. Once she reaches the truck, instead of lifting it, she grabs the bottom of the suitcase and flips it into the truck bed without much effort.
My jaw drops open.
As she moves away, I notice her shoulders shaking and for a second, I think I’ve reduced her to tears, but then she turns sideways and I realize she is laughing!
In a couple of minutes, her bags are expertly stacked. Quickly, she ties the straps of the bags to one another to prevent them from falling. Is this girl full of surprises or what?
She must have inherited the old cunning fox’s brains.
She hops into the passenger’s seat, takes the heels off her feet, and sits up straight. I stare at her curiously, but don’t say anything.
“Are we leaving, or are we just going to sit here, cowboy?”
Chapter 9
Cass
First impressions can be everything and I hate that I blew mine with the hunk who came to meet me at the dirt strip. If it had been a movie, that moment I got out of the car and our eyes met should’ve had the Blues Brothers track, Rawhide, playing in the background. I can almost hear it playing in my head.
Rolling, rolling.
I’ve never seen anything as mind-numbingly and fabulously macho in Chicago. A real, honest-to-goodness cowboy. His skin is deeply tanned, his hair sun-streaked and curling around his shirt collar, and his features cut as if from pure granite.
He is casually leaning against a beat-up truck with the thumb of his right hand hooked into one of the belt loops of his faded jeans. It makes the big muscles of that arm strain against the sleeve of his plaid shirt. And the low riding jeans that hug his lean hips and fall onto cowboy boots...someone, anyone, just kill me now.
As I watch, one tip of his hard mouth curls into a sarcastic, lazy grin, and my mouth goes bone dry. It should be a crime to smile like that. He tips his solid black Stetson back. Nice. When he pulls away from the dusty pickup and starts walking toward me, my heart hammers like crazy. No, it doesn’t happen in slow motion, but it sure feels like it does.
Act one, Scene one.
Spoilt bitch meets to-die-for cowboy.
Tearing my eyes away from his approaching form, I pretend to nonchalantly dust my clothes with my sweaty palms and take the first step. I can feel my hands fidgeting and twitching as he walks toward me. I get OCD when I’m nervous and I’m shaking with nerves.
Even under the shade of his hat, his icy gray eyes, framed by paintbrush eyelashes, are piercing. When they drop to my chest and stay, I feel as if I’m gonna melt into a puddle. I know then I need to cool down and hit the right note of blasé or I’m gonna to ruin everything for myself.
There’s only one way I know to do that. I channel Tamara Honeywell. And to be honest, I’m a much better actress than I thought. I take a gamble and offer myself to him in the most unsubtle way possible. That’s usually good to scare all but the most desperate man. And this one is definitely not desperate. Jessie always says men like a chase. Put it on a platter and shove it under their noses and they’ll run a mile. He falls for it like a rat falls for cheese. He doesn’t run a mile, but his lips thin and he takes a long step back.
I can tell by the expression in his eyes that he has declared war, which is fine by me. I’m not here to get laid or have my heart twisted and torn. I’m here for a month because I have bills to pay, and then I’m gone. Forever. With chivalry dead and buried in the dirt, I start dragging my suitcase toward the truck. I’m used to hard work, but I’m wearing high heels. It’s boiling hot and I nearly break my ankles. All the while I can see him watching me in the rearview mirror.
Asshat!
Once I’ve thrown everything into the bed of his truck, I join him in the front. I don’t care about sweat or dirt, but Tamara would, so I make a big deal about it. When I sit on the dust covered seat and my skirt rides up my thighs, so high it’s nearly obscene, he gives me an odd look before quickly looking away. The backs of my legs stick to the leather and I want to wiggle under his glare, but I know not to do so. Tamara would be confident about getting attention.
“Are we leaving, or are we just going to sit here, cowboy?” I ask, putting extra sass into my tone.
“I’ll pull away whenever I damn well please,” he responds, but he starts the engine with a scowl. Even when he is angry he looks as delectable as three scoops of ice cream and a big ole cherry on top.
“Are you smiling or just breaking wind?” I ask cheekily.
“Yeah, very classy,” he says sarcastically.
Hmmm…what would Tamara do? Be obnoxious. I stick my lower lip out in a belligerent pout the way I saw her do to Ms. Moore and snarl, “Don’t talk to me like that.”
He fixes the brim of his hat. “Maybe if you’d stop acting like a spoiled child I’d stop talking to you like that,” he retorts, his big brown hands clenching the steering wheel.
I contort my face and pick up my discarded heel—which probably costs more than my old apartment—and hit him on the shoulder with it. I’d love to say that I’m acting, but his manners are starting to piss me off.
“Quit acting like a selfish bitch.” He snatches the shoe from my hand, cranks his window glass down, and without any hesitation, hurls it out. “Oh, whoops. There goes your precious designer shoe,” he says, smiling smugly.
I gasp. I don’t care about the shoe as much as the money it costs. I hope Tamara doesn’t expect to get it back. All the same, he is insufferable. “You act like I give a shit about a stupid pair of shoes. There’s plenty more where that came from,” I scoff as I crank my glass down and toss my other shoe out into the endless stretch of prairie extending out on either side of us.
He stares at me in shock for a moment before turning back to the road and roaring with laughter. It breaks the tension and I bite my lip to keep from laughing along with him. I have to stay in character.
When I look in his direction, I notice his straight black hair blowing around his face from the breeze of the open windows. He has two dimples, but the one on his right cheek is more noticeable than on the left. He is a truly gorgeous specimen. One I would love to have for myself. Christ, where did that come from? I hope I don’t have to spend too much time with him or there could be trouble.
“You’re not going to be
my trainer, are you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The man who should have been training you broke his leg,” he explains morosely.
“Are you good enough to teach someone?” I ask. I know the terms of the deal—I have to be able to ride well enough to fall off of a horse at the end of the month and not hurt myself too much. I might as well get the pieces into their rightful places on the chessboard.
“That’s up to you. Will you listen and do exactly as I say?”
Cass would listen to everything he says while being respectful toward him, but I’m not Cass. I’m Tamara Honeywell, Queen Bitch. “Probably not.”
“Well then, you’ll probably fall off the damned bronco,” he says with a frown.
He swerves suddenly for no reason at all and I grab the holy-shit bar over the window and glare at him. “Are you sure you’re qualified to drive?”
His laugh has an edge to it. “I was avoiding a gopher.”
“What is a gopher?”
“Technically, it’s a ground squirrel.”
I turn my head back quickly but all I see are clouds of dust.
The rest of the ride is silent. I don’t want to push the man’s buttons too hard, even though I know Tamara would. She went out of her way to push mine and if I had not needed this job so badly, we would have come to blows. We drive through a tall wooden arch with Bucking Bronco Ranch written on a hanging wooden board and pull up at a large white house with a deep wraparound porch. I automatically reach to open the car door, then halt in my tracks and sit inside the car instead. Tamara would wait to have the door opened for her.
Lars opens his door, steps out, and slams his door shut. “What are you doing in there?” he asks, staring at me through the open window.
“I’m waiting to have my door opened,” I say, sitting a little straighter.
He shakes his head in wonder. “You’ll be waiting a long while if that’s the case.”
I sit back in my seat stubbornly. I hope he doesn’t concede to opening my door. I hope that he teaches me to be independent soon so I can drop this snobby act. “And I don’t have shoes,” I add. “I need to be carried in.”
The CEO & I Page 18
