To Con A Cowboy (Hunks and Horses Book 3) Page 4

  "I'll bet you got up to a lotta mischief too."

  "I had my share of fun!"

  Suddenly the ugly memory bubbled back to life. Setting down her fork, she grabbed the iced tea and took a long drink.

  "Whoa. Are you okay, Amber?"

  "Yes, fine."

  "I don't mean to pry, but you look kinda shell-shocked."

  "Your truck. What I mean is, something happened in a truck just like yours. It was years ago, but now it feels like yesterday," she mumbled, swallowing back the unwelcome emotion. "Sorry."

  "You don't have to apologize."

  "When I climbed into your pickup, I, uh, it wasn't easy."

  "You should've said something. You could have followed me in your car."

  "I thought I'd be okay. I mean, it's just a truck."

  "So—what was this thing that happened a lifetime ago?"

  "Um, I don't think I can talk about it. To be honest, I've never told anyone. It's very personal. Sorry."

  "Hey, again, no apology necessary. If you ever need an ear…"

  "Thank you," she said, staring across at him, wishing she could share the burden.

  But she couldn't.

  She couldn't tell anyone.

  Ever.

  Especially not him.

  She was too ashamed.

  As delicious as the food was, she couldn't eat another bite.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  An hour later, from the window of his man-cave off his bedroom on the second floor, Brett watched Amber's Subaru drive towards the gate. He had a study near the studio, but that was used for business meetings. His man-cave was where he'd kick back, watch football, drink beers, often write songs, and smoke the occasional cigar while sipping one-hundred-year-old whiskey. The sanctuary had a door off the hallway and his bedroom, and both had been locked in preparation for Amber's arrival. His bedroom and den were off limits. On the walls sat photographs she couldn't see, and on the bookcase, memorabilia from another life.

  As the car disappeared, he ambled over to the well-worn leather couch, plonked himself down, and picked up the glass of bourbon he'd just poured. Taking a sip, he set it on the coffee table, and unzipping his pocket, he pulled out his phone and placed a call to his closest friend, Heath Boyd.

  "Brett, I'm glad you called," Heath exclaimed, picking up on the first ring. "Fill me in."

  "She just left."

  "And…?"

  "The contract left with her. She wants to start right away."

  "Now what?"

  "That remains to be seen, but you know I'll keep you posted."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  One Week Later

  For seven days Amber's life had been a whirlwind. The pandemonium began the moment she'd stopped at the bottom of the mountain road to read Brett's offer. Not only would her salary be generous, Brett had left the term of her employment open-ended.

  Upon completion of said memoirs.

  No deadline!

  Not wanting to appear too eager she'd waited until the middle of the following day to call and thank him, then drove to her parents' house so her father could look over the contract. Her mother had been ecstatic, and her father announced the terms couldn't have been more fair. Her friends had been thrilled, then green with jealousy, and though they had begged her for details of the dreamy country star and his ranch, Amber refused them. She had no intention of shooting herself in the foot.

  Packing had been a nightmare, then realizing she couldn't take her entire wardrobe, she'd stuffed a suitcase with her summer clothes. If she was still writing Brett's unauthorized biography when winter approached, she'd return and pick up what she needed for the cold weather.

  But she'd had trouble sleeping.

  The old, ugly memory she'd buried in the darkest corners of her mind now haunted her, accepting Brett's offer under false pretenses caused painful pangs of guilt, made worse by her intense attraction to the muscled cowboy. Every night her fingers slid between legs, and she'd imagine him towering over her, pinning her wrists at the side of her head, pumping with gusto, or she'd be bent over his lap, hand slapping her naked backside. Powerful orgasms would leave her hugging her pillow and chiding herself for thinking so foolishly. Her fantasy was just that, a fantasy. A dream that would never, could never, come to pass.

  When it came time to leave, though excited to be moving into Brett's house, exhaustion hovered over her like a threatening cloud. Her parents had arrived to say goodbye, and as her father loaded her suitcase into the back of the car, her mother hugged her tightly, then stepped back and shook her head.

  "Amber, you look so tired. This has been a crazy week for you. You tell that man you need a day to recover. Don't let him push you into working right away."

  "Your mother's right," her father agreed. "You can be a workaholic. Don't let him take advantage."

  "For heaven's sake, dad, I'm not a little girl anymore."

  "You'll always be my little girl," he replied, his tone softening. "I told you that when you turned twenty-one, and I'll say it again when you turn thirty-one."

  "I know, but I'm not moving to Europe. I'll only be an hour away, and I won't be a prisoner. I can still come over for dinner."

  "You'd better," her mother exclaimed, hugging her again. "Dear me, this is how I felt the first day you went off to school. Time goes by too fast. Much too fast."

  Fighting an unexpected swell of emotion, Amber kissed them both quickly and climbed behind the wheel.

  "I'll call you tonight," she promised, and rolling from the carport, she turned on to the street and drove away.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, watching her father wrap his arms around her mother, the hot lump in her throat burned into tears. Sleep deprivation had left her vulnerable, and as the droplets continued to spill down her cheeks, she turned on Brett's CD.

  "I'm being ridiculous!" she sniffled as his music filled the car. "I'll never pay off my debt if I don't do something drastic. Maybe he'll understand when he finds out, and maybe he won't, but I can't worry about that. I'll bet he didn't become a big name by being Mr. Nice Guy all the time."

  Pushing back the searing conflict, she focused on her book and the approach she'd take. Ideas began to take hold. As she mentally dissected each, throwing some away and keeping others, the miles sailed by and the exit sign soon came into view. Driving down the ramp, she headed for the twisting mountain road, and she'd just started the climb when a title popped into her head. Brett Preston. The Man Behind The Guitar.

  "No, too boring," she muttered, but as she followed a particularly tight bend, the answer fell into her head. "Twists and Turns!" she exclaimed. "Yes! Brett Preston. Twists and Turns. That's perfect."

  Buoyed by the inspired thought, a second wind offered new energy. A few minutes later, stopping at the gates and pushing the red call button, her lack of sleep seemed insignificant, and her heart less tortured.

  "Hello?"

  "Brett? Hi. It's me, Amber."

  "Come on in. I'm at the house."

  Heading towards the Georgian mansion, she prepared herself. Facing the reminder of her past crime wouldn't be easy, but at least it couldn't take her by surprise. As she expected, the truck sat in front of the house. Already on the porch, Brett ambled down the steps to greet her. She had to grin. Wearing a loose-fitting, pale grey, v-neck sweater and faded blue jeans, he looked ridiculous sexy. Slowing to a stop, she couldn't take her eyes off him as he sauntered forward and opened her car door.

  "Hey, there," he said with a warm smile. "Good drive?"

  "Traffic was light. The miles flew by."

  "Pop the back. I'll get your suitcase."

  "Thanks."

  Pushing the hatchback release button, she grabbed her bag and she stepped from the car, then gazed at the mountains in the distance.

  "You look a million miles away," he remarked, walking up carrying her case.

  "I'm trying to take it all in. I can't believe I'm actually here."

  "Yep, you'r
e here, but damn, girl, did you pack rocks in this thing? Clothes can't weigh this much."

  "Sorry. I had no idea what to bring so I—"

  "Decided on your entire wardrobe," he said with a chuckle, interrupting her as they walked up the steps and into the house. "I'm glad you're on the first floor. I think I'd need Steve to help me carry this thing up the stairs."

  "You are such a tease. It's not that bad."

  "I'm glad there are no girls in the band," he joked, approaching the door to her room. "I'd need another equipment van. Move, Benny, or you'll get squished."

  Walking in behind him, Amber laughed as the big grey cat lifted his head, shot Brett a disdainful stare, and completely ignoring the command, began licking his paw.

  "That worked," she declared, reaching down and picking him up. "I like your style, Benny."

  "Cats are so damn willful," Brett grunted, placing the suitcase on the bed. "Like most females."

  "Our independent spirit is part of our charm, isn't that right, Benny," she said softly, dropping the furry feline on the couch facing the fireplace.

  "I think I hear the welcomin' committee, and I'll bet their trackin' in a pile of dirt."

  "Welcoming committee?"

  "Johnny and Cash."

  "Very funny!"

  "Seriously," Brett said, turning to face the door. "Johnny's the black lab, and Cash is the terrier mutt."

  As he finished speaking, two dogs appeared, panting happily and their tails wagging.

  "Well, hello," Amber murmured, walking across to meet them. "Aren't you a handsome pair?"

  "Amber, do you remember where the kitchen is?"

  "Sure."

  "Jasmine's not here, but she left some savory cups and they're in the oven. Come on through when you're ready. There's fresh coffee as well."

  "I'm ready now. I need to catch my breath and I'd love a cup of coffee."

  "Great. You too, boys. Let's go. Treat time."

  Cash barked, then trotted out the door with Johnny hot on his tail.

  "They're adorable. I can't have pets where I live. This is a slice of heaven."

  "I couldn't live without my animals. There are two other cats here, but they hang around the barn most of the time," Brett said as they followed the two dogs down the hall. "Steve has a Malamute. Loki. He's huge. A real sweetheart, but he sticks with Steve and the horses."

  "They say pets reflect the personalities of their humans."

  "Probably true," he replied, walking into the expansive chef's kitchen.

  "Wow. This is amazing."

  "It looks big when it's empty, but when the band's here the space seems half this size," he remarked, picking up a towel and opening the oven. "Ah, perfect."

  "They smell so good. What did you say they were called?"

  "Savory cups. Pastry shells filled with whatever takes Jasmine's fancy. Today it's chicken, ricotta cheese and spinach. She only makes them for special occasions."

  "This is a special occasion?"

  "Sure is. She wanted to be here, but she said she had to be somewhere."

  "Wow, they look incredible," Amber declared as Brett removed the oven tray. "Why are there six? I'll barely be able to get through one."

  "She always makes extra. She knows I love them. They need to cool for a few minutes. I'll get us some coffee. There's something I wanna talk to you about."

  "Should I be worried?"

  "That's up to you," he said with a wink. "Go and sit at the table. I'll bring it over."

  "My very own waiter," she quipped, walking across to a booth next to a bay window. "You should be in a black shirt and bowtie."

  "That can be arranged."

  "Really?"

  "Maybe," he replied, pouring the coffee. "Cream and two sugars right?"

  "Right, and when you say, maybe…"

  "You never know what might happen."

  Though she loved the titillating conversation, she checked herself. Brett Preston probably had more women than he could count, and as he sauntered towards her, she told herself she had to keep her distance no matter how intense the attraction.

  "Okay, Amber," he said formally, placing the mugs on the table and sitting opposite her, "I'm not one to beat about the bush."

  "That sounds ominous. Maybe I should be worried after all."

  "The subject is serious, but no, you don't need to be worried. In fact, I'm kinda tickled."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You can't ride, and that's okay. I'm happy to teach you, but only if you want me to. Sittin' on a horse isn't a requirement of the job."

  Her face flaming, Amber dropped her eyes.

  "I just wanted—"

  "Hey, I know what you wanted! The job! You bought new clothes just for your visit, and you probably took a couple of ridin' lessons too. How can I not be tickled by that?"

  "I'm so embarrassed," she mumbled, covering her face with her hands.

  His fingers closed around her wrists.

  Her heart stopped.

  His grip was strong, but gentle.

  She could easily imagine his touch caressing her skin.

  "I'm not upset," he said softly, tugging her hands away. "Your determination impressed me. You didn't need to get a new outfit and you didn't need to spend money on ridin' lessons, but you did, and that told me you're like me. We push. We don't give up. When we really want something we pull out all the stops. I admire that."

  "Honestly?"

  "Yep, honestly. But—"

  "I knew there'd be a but."

  "What you did might've been brave, but it wasn't smart. Those two things often go together. I should scold you for pretendin' you know how to handle a horse."

  "I think you just did."

  "I guess so. When you tell someone you know how to ride, you'd better be damn sure you can. I had Millie ready 'cos at the interview my gut told me you were stretchin' the truth. I can put my five-year-old niece on that mare, but you couldn't possibly know that."

  "You're right," she mumbled, feeling a fresh burn across her cheeks. "I couldn't believe it when I drove up and saw those two horses tacked up. Is that why you teased me about that marathon trail ride?"

  "Uh-huh. I thought a scare was in order."

  "It worked. I was freaking out."

  "I know."

  "How?"

  "It couldn't have been more obvious if you'd been carryin' a neon sign."

  "Oh, dear God."

  "The question remains. Do you wanna learn how to ride? It's okay if you'd rather not."

  "I had no desire until I took those lessons. They were frustrating, but they were fun. And the horses—I love them. I truly do."

  "Then I'll be happy to teach you, but you need the right clothes."

  "Wait. You knew I'd have a hard time getting into the saddle wearing those jeans, but you didn't say anything."

  "Yep, but, Amber, you deserved that. You should've told me the truth right off the bat."

  "Okay, okay. You've made your point."

  "I reckon I have. Drink your coffee," he said, sliding out of the booth. "I'm gonna feed the dogs so they won't bother us, then I'll fetch our lunch, but I meant what I said. You're not gettin' on again' 'til you have the right gear."

  Watching him saunter away, Amber brought the mug to her lips. Everything about him turned her on. The way he moved, his confident authority, the glint in his eye, and most especially, how he'd just made her toes curl.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Amber spent the afternoon unpacking and organizing. The chore shouldn't have taken more than an hour, but with a multitude of choices, and feeling so tired, she had trouble deciding what should go where. In addition to the chest of drawers and vanity in the bedroom, the large walk-in closet offered built-in shelving. Watching her with idle curiosity, the big grey cat had remained in the center of the bed, not at all bothered by her scurrying around. When she finally flopped down next to him, he curled into her body, and closing her eyes to the soothing sound of his soft purring, she le
t out a contented sigh.

  Flying through her open window, the owl perched on the footboard of her bed. Not wanting to scare the beautiful bird she stayed perfectly still, but his ghostly white face with its heart-shaped forehead showed no fear. Astonished and intrigued, Amber slowly sat up.

  "Mr. Owl. Why are you here?"

  "Fear blocks your path," the bird replied, his voice a deep whisper. "Speak up. Be heard. Only then will you be free of your past."

  Her eyes flew open.

  The room was dark.

  Pulse racing she stared down the length of her bed and across to the open window. A gentle breeze barely rippled the thin curtain.

  "What the hell?" she mumbled, rubbing her face with her hands, then glancing at the clock on the bedside table she couldn't believe how much time had passed. "No! That can't be. Five hours? I've been asleep for five hours?"

  Taking a minute to catch her breath, she switched on the bedside lamp, then moved across the room to gaze up at the clear night sky.

  She caught her breath.

  With its wings spread, an owl flapped its way past the moon.

  A chill pricked her skin.

  As she closed the window she remembered leaving the slider open in the lounge. Hurrying from the bedroom, she rolled it shut, but as she moved to switch off a lamp she'd left burning, her eye caught a piece of paper lying by the door. Her curiosity piqued, she picked it up and discovered a hand-written message.

  Amber.

  It's dinner time. I knocked but you didn't answer. Perhaps you're napping. When you surface feel free to help yourself to whatever is in the fridge or pantry. If I miss you tonight I'll see you in the morning.

  Brett

  Not particularly hungry, but dying from thirst, she tidied herself up and headed into the kitchen. Walking down the hallway and studying the lineup of Brett's super-selling records, she noticed they'd been placed in chronological order. When she reached the end of the hall where it led into the foyer, an inspired thought fell into her head. She'd suggest to Brett his book should chronicle his rise to fame starting with his first hit song.