by Claire Marti
A few minutes later, she clicked her remote control and the wrought iron gate silently slid open. She cruised up to the house at a snail’s pace so Holt could follow her through the entrance, shut off the engine, and hopped out. Holt pulled up, his truck’s engine purring quietly, and rolled down the window. He beckoned to her.
“Yeah?” Wary, she stopped a few feet away from him. As a smartass he was dangerous, add the layer of sensitivity and this guy could be lethal.
“Well, the crew will start rolling in tomorrow and if you want me to fill you in on the schedule in advance, come down to the guesthouse later.” He spoke faster than his usual husky drawl, his fingertips drumming on the window frame.
She hesitated and worked to steady her breathing.
“Come on, I won’t bite.” He grinned and the damn dimple in his cheek winked at her. The tingling in her stomach morphed into a long, slow roll.
“Umm…okay. It’s probably the smart thing to do for the horses, I mean I should be prepared and know everything in advance, right? Let me grab dinner and I’ll be down. Angela made tamales and they are to die for. Should I bring you down a plate?” She sucked in a shaky breath and willed herself to stop blathering like an idiot.
“She mentioned them. If there are leftovers, that would be great.” His silvery blue eyes glimmered like aquamarines in the dim light.
“Great, see you in a bit.” She turned and forced herself to saunter back to the house, while his hot gaze seared through her thin leotard.
When she reached the front door, she peeked back and he hadn’t budged. He waved and departed down the drive. She quickly wrenched open the door and bolted inside, pausing to sag against the solid wood and catch her breath.
“So, you sent Holt to my ballet studio?” Sam patted herself on the back for her calm, even tone as she loaded her plate with mouthwatering tamales.
“Well, Samantha, he asked me for a studio close by and you know it’s the only one in the Ranch. I didn’t want to send him all the way down to Solana Beach.” Angela’s voice was neutral.
“The whole five miles down to Solana Beach?” She snorted. “Anyway, I was surprised, that’s all.” More like distracted, aroused, and fascinated. Pesky details.
“Is he any good?” Her stepmom’s voice held a hint of laughter.
“Actually, yes. He’s graceful as a cat.” Her stomach performed another dive and roll as a visual of his sinewy bronzed forearm flashed before her eyes. “Like I said, just surprised. He seems to be everywhere all of a sudden.”
“Ericsson was at the ballet studio?” Her dad piped in when Sam joined him at the huge dining table.
Her sister echoed their father from the doorway, “The stuntman was at the ballet studio?”
“Yes, he was the only guy there, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Go figure.” She shoveled in her first bite and closed her eyes and moaned.
“The tamales are that good, aren’t they?” Her dad laughed. “Well, Harry said he’s the best at what he does. I hear lots of athletes are doing ballet these days. Top stuntman in the country. I know he’s got a brown belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu.”
“Brown belt? Not a black?” Her eyes widened and she stared at her dad.
“Actually, I think the brown is the highest in Brazilian—requires at least five years of dedicated practice.” He nodded.
Sam forked in another bite and the spice and savory taste of the shredded beef exploded on her tongue. Focus on dinner, not on how delicious Holt looked in a black tank top.
She didn’t want to appear too interested. She didn’t want to be interested at all. But, dammit, he was interesting.
“Christopher, how in the world do you know that?” Angela laughed.
He grinned at his wife. “Just one more random fact I picked up somewhere. Who knows?”
“Any updates on the movie? Is everything still on schedule?” Amanda wasn’t laughing as she stared at their father.
“Yes, the crew begins coming in tomorrow. Harry will be down and you can finally meet him.”
“Where’s he staying? I’d imagine you’d have invited him to stay at the guesthouse. It’s kind of strange the stuntman is there instead.” Her sister raised delicate light brown eyebrows.
“Well, Harry has a beach house on the cliffs in Encinitas. He said he wanted someone he trusts staying here and he sees Holt as a surrogate son.” Chris shrugged. “This is a unique situation apparently.”
“Well, I think it’s weird.” Sam said. A surrogate son? “Does Holt not have a father?”
“I actually don’t know about his family, but I know Harry gave him his big break when he was a teenager and they’ve been close ever since.” Her dad frowned. “I know you two got off on the wrong foot. Just try to be civil. He knows horses and movie sets. As long as the press stays away, I think we’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” She stabbed another bite. No need to mention she was going down to the guesthouse. It wasn’t a big deal.
“Dad, do you really think the press will be interested after all these years? Are we overreacting?” Amanda posed the question lurking in the back of everyone’s mind.
“I hope we are.” Chris’s face was now solemn and he gripped his wife’s hand on the table. “It’s old news. We’ll be fine.”
Sam caught her sister’s gaze across the table––her dad’s baritone wasn’t as confident as either of them would have preferred.
After they finished the meal, Sam cleared her empty plate and pulled out some tin foil to cover the heaping meal Angela had prepared.
“Sam dear, will you please bring a plate down to Holt? I promised him my tamales earlier today.” Angela smiled serenely.
Sam jumped. “What?” Why did she feel guilty?
“Can you please bring a plate down to the guesthouse for Holt? I already put it together for him.” Her stepmom repeated, one eyebrow raised.
“Fine.” She shrugged. Now she didn’t have to sneak down there. Not that she needed to sneak, but…
“Do you want me to take it down to the guesthouse? Holt doesn’t bug me like he does you and he is awfully easy on the eyes.” Amanda laid a slender hand on her shoulder.
“Easy on the eyes, seriously?” She shook her head. “It’s fine. I need to talk with him anyway.”
“Hmmm…will you be discussing playing the leads in Swan Lake?” Amanda teased.
“Very funny.” She laughed despite the quickening of her heartbeat imagining the outfit he’d have to wear if he portrayed the prince. “He mentioned he could share some intel before the movie crew arrives over the next couple of days. I want to be prepared, that’s all.” She gripped the plate tightly.
Her sister smirked. “Hmmm…I thought you found him arrogant, annoying, and frustrating? Rude and offensive?”
“Look, he was a total idiot in the barn. But, if I’m going to protect our horses, our ranch, and our privacy, I need to stay close to the action and the more I know, the better. Right?” Who was she trying to convince?
“If you say so.” Amanda’s smile was angelic, but her eyes danced.
Clutching the plate in both hands, she whirled to face her sister. “That’s all it is. Cut out the teasing.”
“You’re just being sensitive, which isn’t like you at all. I think you might have a little crush on the blond god.” Amanda’s green eyes twinkled with mischief. Although she was the sensible sister, she had the McNeill sense of humor.
“Blond god?” Sam sniffed.
“He’s better looking than the star he’s stuntman for and that’s saying a lot. Just be careful—he’s a Hollywood charmer.”
Her pulse kicked and she gripped the tamales like a lifeline. “You’re totally overreacting. I’m an adult, I can handle him.”
“I know, I know. It’s just fun to watch your redhead complexion give you away. You and Dylan can never hide your blushes.” Amanda hugged her. “And it’s better to joke than stay upset the entire time of the shoot. I’m glad you’re being so vigil
ant. I will be too. I just wish Dylan hadn’t run away.”
“It’s probably for the best. I’ll worry about her less in Paris than here on the ranch during the filming. Okay, I’m heading over for a bit.” She bit her lip, and then shook her head.
That’s all it was, right? Watching out for the ranch? Her unprecedented reaction to Holt’s masculinity was irrelevant. She had a duty to her family and said duty included her horses.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Amanda called after her, the laughter bubbling through her voice.
She refused to dignify the ridiculous comment with a response. Her sister wasn’t exactly daring, so the list of potential risks she would take by going to see Holt was limited.
Swallowing a flutter of nerves in her throat, she rapped on the door. She was simply going for business. Ranch business. Bringing him dinner was simply being polite, like her father had raised her to be. So why was her heart hammering against her ribcage?
“It’s unlocked.” A muffled voice called. So much for manners. Holt apparently didn’t seem to bother with them.
She hesitated a moment. She smoothed back an errant strand into the ballet bun she hadn’t bothered to unravel. Although she’d changed out of her dance gear into her favorite old pair of jeans and a super-soft t-shirt, she hadn’t been in the mood to mess with her hair. Briefly, she regretted not being more like her twin sister, talented with makeup and hair. But, nope, Dylan had received the lion’s share of feminine genes.
Whatever. She opened the door, and then froze. He was rubbing his hair dry with a white towel slung over one shoulder. The pristine white material emphasized his bronzed skin. Tiny beads of moisture clung to chiseled pecs and the light sprinkling of golden hair on his chest was the only thing preventing him from looking like a marble statue. Barely. Shredded eight-pack abs and sharp V-cuts of muscle converged at the waistband of a pair of jeans as faded as her own. Her mouth suddenly parched, she swallowed. Hard.
“Sorry, I got stuck on the phone.” He grinned and tossed the towel onto a nearby chair.
She jerked her gaze up to his face, which had to be safer, right? Her pulse thrummed in her temple and heat descended to her belly. Damn. His face was definitely not safer than his gorgeous body.
“How’d you get that scar?” She blurted out the words, desperate to distract herself from his pure physical presence. He really needed to put on a shirt. Pronto.
“Scar? Which one?” He laughed, seemingly oblivious to her reaction, thank goodness.
“Forehead. The one across your forehead.” A flaw. Weren’t scars flaws? Why did it make him look just a little dangerous? And it did save him from utter perfection. Didn’t it?
“Oh, that one. A bar fight. Got cracked over the head with a beer bottle.” He rubbed his forehead with a rueful smile.
“Bar fight? You get into bar fights?” Actually, she wasn’t surprised but her mouth seemed to be moving without her mind engaging at all. At least if she were talking then she wasn’t drooling, right?
He shrugged. “Well, sure. Here or there. But this one happened on set when another stuntman got a little too eager and actually broke the bottle over my head.”
His wintry blue eyes snagged hers and she couldn’t look away. Her mind blanked.
“Something smells delicious.” His shimmering gaze didn’t waver from hers.
Was he complimenting her on her perfume? Wait, she didn’t wear perfume. Her soap? She bit the inside of her lower lip, willing her brain to resume functioning.
“Are those the tamales?” He gestured with one hand toward the foil-covered plate she held.
“Tamales. Of course, the tamales smell as good as they taste.” She marched toward the kitchen and the microwave. Idiot. She brushed his bare shoulder when she passed him and goose bumps erupted down her arm. Control yourself, girl. Simple animal attraction, that’s all.
“I’ll heat it up in the microwave while you put on a shirt.” Oh crap, had she really said it out loud? She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Great, thanks. I’ll be right back.” He sounded totally unperturbed. He was probably accustomed to running around shirtless.
Wiping her damp palms against her jeans, she blew the pesky tendril of hair off her now warm forehead and reviewed the rulebook for how to act like a normal person.
Heat up food like a friendly neighbor.
Discuss the movie like a professional.
Go to bed.
Alone.
She peeled off the foil, placed the plate into the microwave, and punched in the time. What the hell was wrong with her? Men never shook her composure––she’d succeeded in a masculine-dominated field and never lost her self-control like this.
Maybe because she either acted like one of the guys or established authority in her role as breeding manager. If some of the ranch hands couldn’t handle having a female boss, their time at the ranch was cut short. Holt was neither her buddy nor her employee. Since he didn’t neatly fit into a category, she’d try to treat him like one of her stepbrothers. She grimaced. No, she definitely couldn’t look at him like a sibling.
The bell dinged and when she reached to open the microwave her fingers brushed Holt’s strong hand. She snatched hers back, but the damage was done. How was he always able to sneak up on her? He moved as silently as a mountain lion. She scooted to the side. Space, she’d just maintain the space between them.
“Oh my god, this looks amazing.” Holt’s eyes lit up like a little boy’s right before the school bell rang at the end of the day.
“Forks are in the far drawer.” She pointed to the second drawer from the sink. No way would she risk scorching herself against his smooth skin again.
He grabbed silverware and sat on a stool at the granite island and shoveled in an enormous bite of tamale. The only sound in the room was his fork scraping the ceramic plate. Would he ignore her until he’d inhaled the entire plate? He’d invited her down here and now it was as if she weren’t even there.
Fine. She wanted the information he was supposedly going to share so she’d wait him out. She sat across from him and folded her hands in her lap. When he continued to stuff his face—not so perfect now—she gazed around the familiar room. A guitar case propped against the hearth caught her attention. He played the guitar? She swung her head back to look at him, just as he stuffed the last bite into his mouth. Pure joy radiated from his face. Grudgingly, she acknowledged he apparently worshiped food just like she did.
“Wow. Those were the best tamales I’ve ever had.” He dropped his fork onto the plate and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got to get the recipe.”
“You cook?” Seriously, who was this guy? Stunts, horses, ballet, guitar, cooking? No wonder she wanted to jump his bones.
“No, I just love to eat. It’s not for me.” He laughed.
She narrowed her eyes. “Who is it for?” Crap, way to sound like a jealous girlfriend.
“My mom. She’s an amazing cook and loves Mexican food. Her tamales are good, but these are on a whole different level.” He grinned and patted his flat belly.
Sam’s shoulders softened and she returned his smile. “Well, as long as she doesn’t live in San Diego, my step-mom has a reputation to protect.”
“My mom and sister still live in Colorado, in Littleton, just outside of Denver.” He slouched back on the stool, his eyes warm.
“She’ll probably help you out then. What made you leave Colorado?” Was he close to his mother?
“Well, I’m not a big fan of snow and freezing temperatures.” His eyes cooled and he stacked the fork and knife onto the now empty plate.
“So is your dad there too?” Suddenly she wanted to know.
Without a word, he stood up, grabbed the dishes, and headed to the kitchen sink.
And, the rude guy from the barn had returned. “Umm, hello?”
“Yes, just my mom and sister and no, I came for work.” He kept his back to her and began washing the dishes.
Was his short stint at friendliness over? When a few minutes passed in awkward silence, Sam gritted her teeth. She knew better then to let her guard down––he’d made his opinion of her clear. Guys like him dated models and actresses and didn’t go for tomboys like her. The pull of pure animal attraction she’d felt in the ballet studio had simply been a mistake. And obviously one-sided.
“So, did you have something to tell me about the movie or did I come down here as a dinner delivery service?” Keep it all business.
He grabbed a dishcloth and took his sweet time turning around to face her. Where his expression had been friendly before, now his face was an impassive mask.
“Well, if you’re going to snap at me, maybe I won’t.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. Snap? Seriously? “Fine, I’m sure I’ll be able to figure it out. Give me the plate.”
She stepped forward to grab the dish. He lifted the plate out of her reach. “Don’t be in such a rush, brat. Harry did want me to share some information with you.”
She refused to dignify his behavior by straining to reach the plate. Her stepbrothers used to tease her mercilessly for being vertically challenged. “Don’t call me brat. And Harry can go jump in a lake. Give me the damn plate.” Her fingers itched to grab it, but she managed to stand her ground.
“Ask nicely.”
“Oh, get over yourself. Bring it back yourself and make sure it’s when I’m not around.” He was infuriating. She pivoted and marched to the doorway.
She’d deal with Harry tomorrow and avoid Holt. They were oil and water and she kicked herself for lowering her guard and believing anything different.
“Wait, I’m sorry…” Holt’s husky voice was almost a whisper.
The doorknob was cool against her overheated palm. She opened the door and jolted when one large tanned hand pushed it closed. She froze and the hair on the back of neck prickled.
“Look, I’m sorry. Sometimes Colorado brings up bad memories.” His warm breath caressed her ear. Her pulse accelerated. The white scars crisscrossing the back of his hand stood out in stark relief against his bronzed skin.
