Emilie Rose - Her Tycoon to Tame

Greedy for a taste of her, Wyatt stroked his tongue across the lush, moist curve of Hannah’s bottom lip.

Her flavour hit him with the punch of a straight shot of single malt whiskey, making his head spin and his body temperature spike.

Why her? Why did this woman who stood for everything he despised get to him? Hadn’t he been burned by her type often enough to learn his lesson? Before he could make sense of her strange magnetism or get his fill, she jerked back, eyes wide and wary, and pressed her fingers over her mouth.

“You can’t do that. You’re my boss.”

Reality slammed into him like an oncoming train. Stupid move, Jacobs . “You’re right. A personal involvement would be unwise.”

But even as he spoke the words he registered her heavy-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks and erect nipples—sure signs that her hormones were pumping as rampantly as his. And as impractical and ill-advised as it might be, he wanted her.

Dear Reader,

Horses were a huge part of my childhood, and I miss them terribly. If I ever win the lottery, you can be assured my first purchase will be a horse farm somewhere in central North Carolina.

Fortunately, Hannah and Wyatt’s story gave me an opportunity to revisit one of my first loves, although my horse experiences were never anything as lavish as Grand Prix show jumping! There is nothing more breathtaking than watching a spindly legged foal take its first steps or taking those initial tentative steps into a new love.

I hope you enjoy the often unsteady steps of Wyatt and Hannah’s journey. Let me know what you think. You can reach me online at my website, www.emilierose.com.

Happy reading!

Emilie Rose

Bestselling Desire ™author and RITA ®Award finalist EMILIE ROSElives in her native North Carolina with her four sons and two adopted mutts. Writing is her third (and hopefully her last) career. She’s managed a medical office and run a home day care, neither of which offers half as much satisfaction as plotting happy endings. Her hobbies include gardening and cooking (especially cheesecake). She’s a rabid country music fan because she can find an entire book in almost any song. She is currently working her way through her own “bucket list,” which includes learning to ride a Harley. Visit her website at www.emilierose.com or email EmilieRoseC@aol.com. Letters can be mailed to PO Box 20145, Raleigh, NC 27619, USA.

Emilie Rose

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Man upstairs for giving me more

time with my mom.

Each day is a blessing.

Hannah Sutherland pressed the pedal of the golf cart to the floorboard, racing the battery-powered machine up the long curving driveway toward the main house.

Guest. My office. N.O.W.

That had been her father’s text, and as irritable as he’d been lately, she didn’t dare keep him waiting. But who could be so important that she had to drop everything and hurry to the house?

When she reached the stairs leading to the back patio, she slammed on the brake, leaped from the vehicle and hustled into the house, straightening her hair and adjusting her hastily changed clothing as she crossed the black-and-white marbled foyer. The sound of her boots echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

At the sight of the closed office door, her step hitched. She hadn’t seen that door closed since the day her mother had died. Apprehension climbed her spine like a spider.

She shook off her uneasiness and knocked on the glossy surface. A moment later, the panel opened revealing Al Brinkley, the family’s lawyer. He’d been her father’s friend as well as his legal council for as long as Hannah could remember.

“Good to see you, Mr. Brinkley.”

Brinkley’s smile seemed forced. “Hello, Hannah. I swear you look more like your mother every day.”

“So I’ve been told.” Too bad looks were all she’d inherited from her mom. Hannah’s life would have been so much easier if she’d picked up a few more traits.

His expression sobered, resurrecting Hannah’s concern. “Come in.”

Her father stood behind his desk, his face tense, a highball glass in his hand. It was a little early for cocktails.

Movement by the French doors overlooking the east paddock interrupted the thought. Tall and lean, the other occupant of the study smoothly pivoted in her direction.

His glossy brownish-black hair had been clipped short, but not short enough to hide a tendency to curl that did nothing to soften his uncompromisingly hard jaw and a square chin.

And while his features combined to form a tough but attractive face, nothing would soften those cool, distrusting eyes, and no amount of expensive tailoring could conceal his broad shoulders and firm, muscled body. He had the lean, mean, fighting machine look often displayed on military recruiting posters and an alert and dangerous air. She estimated his age as mid-thirties, but it was hard to say. He had old eyes.

“Come in, Hannah.” The odd tension in her father’s tone made her wary. “Brink, close the door.”

The lawyer did as he was bid, sealing Hannah into the wainscoted room with the three men and a tense atmosphere. Private discussions were not the norm in the house. Nellie, who served as housekeeper, house manager and surrogate mother, was the only one who might overhear, and she was family in every way but blood. So why the secrecy?

“Wyatt, this is my daughter, Hannah. She’s the veterinarian overseeing Sutherland Farm’s breeding operation. Hannah, Wyatt Jacobs.”

Jacobs’s searing scrutiny strangely repelled and yet attracted her. Duty compelled her into motion. She crossed the Aubusson carpet. Who was he and what kind of closed-door business could he have with the stable?

Judging by his expensive clothing and the platinum watch on his wrist, he had money, but then all of their visitors did. Grand Prix show jumping wasn’t for paupers or even the middle class. Their clients ranged from nouveau riche to established royalty, spoiled brats to dedicated, die-hard horsemen. Where did Wyatt Jacobs fit in?

She’d bet he looked good on a horse with that erect, confident carriage. His eyes were the color of roasted coffee beans, the pupils barely discernible with the sun streaming through the French doors at his back.

“Welcome to Sutherland Farm, Mr. Jacobs,” she recited by rote and extended her hand.

His long fingers closed around hers, and his firm, warm grip combined with the impact of that hard, dark gaze made it difficult to breathe. She might as well have had a girth cinched around her chest considering the sudden pressure on her lungs.

“Dr. Sutherland.” His deep, slightly raspy and seriously sexy voice would be perfect for radio.

He held her hand, extending the contact and making her wish for a split second that she’d taken the time to freshen her makeup, unbraid and brush her hair and splash on some perfume to mask the scent of stables when she’d quickly changed from her soiled work clothes in her office. But she’d been rushing and done only the absolutely necessary repairs.

Stupid girl. He’s a client. And you’re not looking for romance, remember?

She tugged her hand and after a brief resistance he released her. She pressed her prickling palm to her thigh. She’d broken her engagement fifteen months ago and in that time she hadn’t thought about sex even once. Until now. Wyatt Jacobs made her tingle in places that had been dormant for a long time.

Her father offered her a highball glass of amber liquid. “Dad, you know I can’t drink when I’m working. I still have to deal with Commander this morning.”

Her frustration with the stallion she’d left in the stables resurfaced. Commander wanted to kill everyone—especially the vet in charge of collecting his semen. In the arena he’d been a phenomenal competitor, but in the barn he was a bloodthirsty beast. His bloodline and list of championships meant she couldn’t ignore him. His ejaculate was liquid gold. But she, her team and the stubborn stud had needed a cool-down period after an unproductive hour. Her father’s interruption had actually come at a good time.

Her father set the glass on his desk beside her as if he expected her to change her mind, reactivating the warning itch on her nape. Hannah brushed aside her misgivings and returned her focus to their guest. Jacobs watched her with an unwavering, laser-like intensity that stirred a strange, volatile reaction inside her, and try as she might she couldn’t look away.

She’d met movie stars, congressmen and royalty with less charisma. For pity’s sake she’d dated and even kissed a few of them with no effect. So why did Jacobs rattle her cage?

Wait a minute. Was that anger lurking in his eyes?

There was only one way to find out.

“What brings you to our stables, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Luthor, would you care to explain why I’m here?” Jacobs deferred. Funny, she would have sworn on her mother’s earrings that he wasn’t the type to defer anything and doing so now appeared to irritate him.

When the silence stretched, she pried her eyes from Jacobs’s handsome face and discovered her usually unflappable father looking defensive and uncomfortable, his pale features set—totally unlike his usual calm demeanor. He drained his glass in one gulp and set the tumbler on the desk with a thump.

Her anxiety level spiked. “Daddy, what’s going on?”

“I’ve sold the farm, Hannah,” her father stated baldly.

She blinked. Her father had never possessed a sense of humor. Odd time for him to find one. But the idea was too ludicrous to be anything but a bad joke. “Really?”

He glanced at Brinkley’s stoic expression, then back. “I have places to go and things to see—none of which I can do if I’m tied to this business every single day of the year.”

She searched her father’s resolute face. He wasn’t joking. The floor beneath her feet seemed to shift. She clutched the edge of the desk for balance. Her knuckles bumped the cold highball glass, but the chill of the crystal couldn’t compare to the ice spreading through her veins.

She could feel her mouth opening and closing, but couldn’t force out a sound. She shuddered in a breath then stuttered it out again while struggling to gather her shattered thoughts.

“You couldn’t have sold the farm. You wouldn’t have. You live for the stables.” As far as she knew he had no other interests, no hobbies. Nothing except horses, winning and Sutherland Farm. He didn’t even have friends outside the horse biz.

“Not anymore.”

Something had to be wrong. Terribly wrong. Fear splintered through her and cold sweat beaded her lip.

Her neck felt like a rusty hinge as she forced her head to turn to Jacobs. “Would you excuse us a moment, Mr. Jacobs?”

Their visitor didn’t budge. He studied her—as if trying to gauge and anticipate her reaction.

“Please.” She hated the desperate edge of her voice. It verged on begging. And she never begged.

After a moment he nodded, crossed the room in purposeful strides and stepped through the doors out onto the veranda. A fresh-cut grass-scented breeze drifted in the open door, but the familiar aroma failed to do its usual job of soothing her.