by Snow, Nicole
And I’m practically spitting nails while the slick Benz comes cruising up to a halt next to my sister’s Taurus, making her car look even rattier next to a beast that screams money, power, bossypants.
Just the kind of bull that attracts Sierra and chases me away.
Disgust wells in the back of my throat like the morning after a bad bender. But I just can’t peel my eyes off the shiny black car.
The door opens, and a man who’s absolutely everything I expect steps out, adjusting the lapels of his finely pressed double-breasted suit.
Oh, yeah.
I know his type.
Swarthy. Strong jawline. Neat, almost razor-sharp trimmed beard.
Hair black as sin, of course, everything smooth, raked back in a classy sweep.
At least he’s big and must hit the gym. He looks like the kind of brute who’s too big for the kind of suit he wears, but it’s been tailored so perfectly that it sits on his body like he was made to wear it. Like he carries his bulk and solid, trim muscle with more grace and elegance than the usual white-collar hooligan.
Perfectly knotted tie.
Pewter freaking cufflinks.
Nice nails, but his hands are square and worn and work-weathered, like maybe, just maybe, he knows what the business end of a hammer actually does, but I doubt it. He probably got those calluses sailing his yacht around or something.
Yeah.
He looks like money.
And those sly, confident, snaky golden-brown eyes look like a big fat screw you to any chances of this day having a happy ending.
He comes closer. His face is downright sculpted, graceful angles and sloping, sharp edges, so precise he’s almost beautiful.
Fun fact: Fallen angels were pretty, too.
They say Lucifer himself was once the finest creature ever made.
And watching this hulk stuffed in a suit looking over my land like it’s already his, his dark, sly brows shadowing a possessive gaze...
I can believe it.
But I won’t fall for his lies.
I’m already set to get rough and tumble if I have to, swinging off Frost’s back and vaulting over the fence, not even bothering with the gate.
I want Mr. Slick Dick out of here like yesterday.
No, I’m not here to sample whatever pretty sprinkles he puts on my crap sandwich.
That’s how men like him get you, but I know a thing or two about making deals with the devil. And the first rule is real easy to remember.
Don’t.
2
Serious Horsepower (Holt)
When Sierra Potter warned me her little sister might be difficult, I didn’t think she’d mean this damn tricky to rip my eyes off of.
Because Liberty Potter is a natural knockout.
That’s my first mistake.
Mistake number two: I’m so busy gawking at her that it doesn’t register, her coming at me like a charging grizzly, until she’s up in my face.
I’m pretty sure I’m in legit fucking danger from this pint-sized terror glaring up at me with her blue eyes like knives.
She hesitates the last couple steps, giving me a second to remember how I jumped at the chance to off myself with this deal.
I won’t lie.
I’ve had a bad feeling about this contract ever since Sierra and her financial rep—which is what I guess we’re calling fuck buddies now—showed up in my construction office trailer, settled at my desk, and acted like their cheap knockoff designer clothes made them too good for my mobile base.
Right.
Look, I know style like ducks know ponds.
I know rich.
I know fashion.
I know class.
I’ve spent years of my life living in a swanky New York City penthouse. The suit I have on right now could make a dent in the back taxes on this ranch.
And Sierra Potter and Declan Eckhard wouldn’t know class if it jumped up and chewed their faces off.
I know sob stories, too, and I wasn’t really sure how I felt about Sierra sitting in a folding chair across from my desk, dabbing at her completely dry eyes with a tissue and spinning me this tale.
Her poor father died last year—yeah, I remember Mark Potter, a nice, quiet guy always pottering around up in the mountains, pun intended.
I wasn’t around when he died. Sorry for their loss.
But I haven’t been out of Heart’s Edge so long that I don’t remember Sierra Potter running off in the back of some sleazeball’s van. Sheriff Langley had missing person notices tacked up around town for days.
So it’s hard to buy that now she’s just so concerned about her sister Libby, who’s fallen on such hard luck with her property taxes, and how if she’d just sell the land and split their inheritance, it’d make their lives so much easier.
Sierra said it was all for Libby’s own good.
Utterly selfless.
No ulterior motives.
And Declan, well, he was just there from the bank. New place, just opened up in town. Confederated Bank & Credit Union.
Never heard of ’em, but supposedly they’re a big deal in Chicago.
Declan said he could get the land for pennies, or just wait until enough time passed to seize it in a foreclosure.
But it’s in the bank’s best interest for Libby to pay off the property taxes when they’re acting as collectors for the tax man. That way, the bank gets the most money out of it, and Libby gets to keep a big stack of cash instead of losing her home and the equity in one blow.
Which means she needs an outside buyer willing to take on the property plus the tax lien.
And apparently, I’m the right man to sweet-talk Liberty out of shooting herself in the foot, if these wonderful altruists with zero ulterior motives are to be believed.
Believe me. I know better than to stick my head in a tiger’s mouth for nothing.
Turns out, Libby Potter’s property is actually the key to a major construction contract I’ve got out on bid with the city council.
If I can go the extra mile to get the land they need for a new road to a planned shopping mall that should bring tons of new businesses into town, then I’ve got the contract to build that mall in the bag.
Maybe that’s why I’m dizzy watching her transform before my eyes.
I can’t lie. When I saw Libby sitting on top of that pretty dappled horse with its shaggy mane, I felt like I was looking at something out of a story.
Sun shining off wild blonde hair.
Blue eyes like a frozen lake.
A short, tight body with all the right curves packed in a pair of cutoff jeans.
Tanned thighs. Calf-high cowboy boots. Ass like a peach.
Flannel shirt tied up around her midriff and barely holding in those tits, her chest straining tight against the red-and-black checker squares until I pity what those buttons are dealing with.
That goes double for the horse, who just might be the luckiest bastard in the world.
My reaction to seeing a pretty girl with her legs wrapped around a few hundred pounds of solid muscle, her hips bobbing with every stride?
Fucking primal.
I might kill a man in cold blood to trade places with that horse.
And damn, when she swings her legs so wide, the muscles in her inner thighs rippling as she dismounts, her hair trailing behind her like a splash of liquid gold...go ahead and shoot me now.
Sure, it’s been a while.
I haven’t looked at a woman naked since I left New York City.
Sierra even tried to chat me up a little right in front of a sneering Declan, playing on my old reputation as the hotshot panty ripper of Heart’s Edge who’ll do you dirty in the streets and in the sheets.
I didn’t even glance her way.
But I’d sure as hell love to do more than window shopping with the younger Potter girl right now.
And I realize how far I’ve got my head up my ass when she’s standing close enough to hit me.
I can
smell the sweat beading on her slender, suntanned neck.
Yeah. I think she’s been yelling at me for a good sixty seconds without me processing a single word.
Shaking my head, I remind myself where the hell her eyes are, and focus on them.
Nah, at second glance, they’re not winter ice.
More like pure blue lasers, and I think she’s trying to burn me to a crisp with her hell-stare.
I blink. “Sorry, what did you just say?”
She eyes me up and down, then rolls her eyes.
“You heard me,” she snaps, though I honestly didn’t. “I said I know I don’t keep cattle, so I don’t get how a piece of crap this big wound up on my property.”
The fuck?
I scowl, wondering if I forgot I made a pit stop in her coffee maker.
She’s definitely not one of the girls in Heart’s Edge with plenty of good reason to hate me.
She’s too young. Gotta be mid-twenties at most.
With me pushing forty, by the time she’d have been legal to join my trail of broken hearts, I’d have been long gone out of town.
So.
Either she hates me on my reputation alone.
Or she’s just pissed at the guy in the nice suit coming out here to talk to her about the land.
When Sierra said difficult, she’d been sugarcoating complete and utter hellion.
“Okay, look,” I say, holding my hands up. “I get that you don’t trespass on a cougar’s territory without getting scratched. But you don’t even know m—”
“I know exactly who you are,” she snaps. “And I know exactly what you think you’re doing. I’m not the kinda girl who falls for your bull, playboy. Your shitty tongue won’t work on me.”
I arch a brow. “No intention of using my tongue on you.”
Only, I’m damn well thinking about it now.
About that gap between her thighs, and how that suntanned, velvety skin would taste as I lick my way higher, higher, and higher still.
Rein it in, cowboy, I tell myself.
Especially when it just makes her glare at me harder.
Her little red mouth twists up in a furious rosebud, her cheeks flushed. She’s got amazing cheekbones, and that blush—I want it to be a real blush, not just a hot rush of anger—highlights how graceful they are.
She’s got the face of an angel and the mouth of a trucker.
“That’d make a first fucking time,” she says scathingly. “I hear you’ve used your tongue to get your way in just about everything else, and I don’t mean by talking, Holt Silverton.”
“Glad to hear I need no introduction.” I smirk. “You must’ve been thinking about my reputation pretty hard to remember my name so well.” I’m trying to play nice, so I hold my hand out. “It’s Libby Potter, right? Haven’t seen you since you were knee-high to a rattlesnake. Sorry to hear about your old man.”
Her dagger eyes just sharpen with the cold way she looks at me.
And pointedly doesn’t take my hand.
Okay, then.
I’m here on business. Not to let this pint-sized firecracker get under my skin, and I plan to keep it that way.
So I let my hand drop but hold my smile. I let my gaze roam over the ranch, taking it in.
It’s a tidy little place; a low, sprawling ranch house made out of timber set far back from the main fence. A few well-kept, freshly painted barns loom on the horizon, scattered around.
The land around the buildings looks nice enough. Heart’s Edge can get pretty dry and dusty out on the outskirts of the mountain valley, but she’s managed to cultivate some impressive grazing grounds—places where horses and even several sheep move under the lazy summer sun, chewing away peacefully.
There’s a hint of an old, overgrown road breaking off from a trail circling the fences just outside a long irrigation ditch running the length of the property.
I barely get a glance at it, keeping my eyes trained on her, noticing the gun on her hip.
Let’s hope she’s not that pissed.
Shame to ruin the quiet here by blowing my head to kingdom come.
All in all, it’s a pretty nice place. Cozy. Everything a cowgirl could want.
I see why she doesn’t want to give it up.
Too bad this is prime real estate. And I can’t help but see the business opportunity in every sprawling inch of these gorgeous assets.
Gorgeous assets.
Yeah.
I need to keep thinking about the property, not her.
So I focus on the pastures, dredging up every bit of patience.
Then, as pleasantly as I can, I say, “I can tell you’ve put a lot of love into this place. Never seen horses shine like that.”
“Oh, so you remember what horses are?” she throws back. “As old as you are and as long as you’ve been away, I’d thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Keep calm.
“Think I can tell a horse from anything else that’s been between your thighs, woman.” I’m just as surprised at how it falls out of my mouth.
She sucks in a breath so loud it’s almost a rasp, echoed by Sierra’s choked laugh.
Fuck me sideways.
I’m screwing myself over.
I risk glancing back at Libby, but she’s got her mouth twisted up in something that’s part smirk, part frown, like she wants to laugh at my stupid mouth but she’s just too mad.
“What gets between my legs ain’t any of your business, Silverton,” she whispers. She’s got a little of that small-town twang going, just enough to give her voice this alluring, husky lilt. “But I can promise you, mister, it’ll never be you in ten lifetimes.”
“You think I was offering? Maybe I prefer thoroughbreds to draft horses.”
Her nostrils flare.
“See, the problem with you,” she says pleasantly—suddenly all sweetness hiding incoming venom, “is I don’t know if you meant that literally or not. Considering I’ve heard you’ll take anything on two or four legs...I guess that overdone suit’s compensating for something.” Her gaze drifts over me slowly from head to toe. “Maybe you should stick to two legs. I don’t think you’ve got enough to handle a horse.”
Goddamn, this girl hits below the belt.
Literally.
That’s one area, though, where I’m never insecure. I’m actually grinning.
There’s a fire in her, and frankly, I respect her more for calling me the douchebag I am for coming out here and sizing up her land without even a how-do-you-do?
“Don’t even try it,” I say. “I grew up around here. I know how to handle horses.”
“I hope you mean riding. Wouldn’t know it just looking at you.” Another once-over, like my suit’s some kind of scarlet letter branding me an outsider. “You look like New York. Tell you what—you ever want your country edge back, I’ll break you in until you’re raw around the edges and leave you begging.”
I arch both brows. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you meant that to come out the way it did,” I say, biting back a bigger grin.
Libby makes a disgusted huff, rolling her eyes so hard they go white.
“Keep it in your pants, cowboy.”
“Again,” I point out, “you seem to be putting a whole lot of thought into what’s in my trousers. You been missing me, Libby? Had a little crush I never knew about and now we’re all grown up and you want to play?”
I step closer to her.
I can’t help it.
Women look at me like I’m dinner. Sure, they hear the stories.
I’m bad news, but the kind of bad news you want to hear to learn a few dirty tricks.
Everybody wants a ride.
Nobody ever tries to buck me off.
Not like Libby.
And that just makes me want to get under her skin and live there. I smile slowly, leaning down toward her, close enough to purr in her ear.
“You want to play house,” I say, “you gotta call me Daddy.�
��
Her eyes go wider than the moon.
She makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat.
That hot-pink flush in her cheeks turns brilliant red, and there’s no mistaking the fury.
Her mouth thins to a tight line.
The only warning I get is Sierra shouting.
“Oh, no, Libby, don’t—”
Too late. Libby plants her hands square on my chest and pushes me.
I mean, hell.
It’s a miracle she catches me off kilter, considering she barely comes up to my collar.
But I’m thinking less about being impressed and more about the sky spinning and the world whirling by as I topple backward.
My ass lands hard in a puff of yellow dust that flies up and spills back down, coating my freshly dry-cleaned black suit.
I’m dusty all over in an instant. Hurting like hell, too.
Big things fall harder, and I’m a tall man, so damn if my own muscle mass hasn’t left me bruised and throbbing in places I’d rather not be.
For a second, I lie there groaning.
Just taking it all in, my arms and legs akimbo while I stare up at the sky.
Then I can’t stop laughing.
That gets her attention. I blink, and she’s bending over me, filling my field of vision and staring down at me with a scowl like a storm, but her eyes are a little too wide to be pure anger anymore.
“Did you just...hit your fool head or something?” she asks. “What’s so damn funny?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Except you just did exactly what I thought you’d do. A simple slap across the cheek seems too easy for Libby Potter.”
I push up, sitting, not even bothering to dust myself off.
With her bending over me, suddenly we’re nose to nose. Eye to eye. Breath to breath.
Lips far too close.
She freezes, her eyes widening more.
I flick my gaze down to her mouth. Her lips are parted like she’d started to bite off an insult and then just stopped.
For a second, I’ve got her.
And while I’ve got her, I lean in close, murmuring in that tiny thin skim of air separating our mouths.
“Look at you, gawking at me all scared like you hurt me. Just like I knew you would.” I grin real slow. “Regret pushing me yet?”
