“What?”

“Ryan broke his leg,” my brother, Matt, repeats patiently.

“How the hell did he do that?” I yell into the phone.

“He got tossed off Thunder.”

“That dumbass! What was he doing with him?”

“Trying to ride him,” my brother says dryly.

“Why in heaven’s name? I told the damn fool to keep away from that beast.”

“You know how he is. He was trying to please you.”

I take a deep breath to calm myself. This is the last fucking thing I need. “Right. We have to find a backup trainer. The spoiled brat has to be picked up,” I look at my watch, “in an hour. Who do we have?”

“Nobody,” my brother says cheerfully. “Thunder put Jimbo out of commission last week with a few cracked ribs, remember?”

“So, who’s going to pick her up and train her?” I almost growl.

“You.”

“Like hell I am. I’m not taking one damned minute out of my day to train a talentless, uninteresting, fake ass, ditzy drama queen.”

“Don’t hold back. Tell everybody how you really feel about a girl you’ve never met. She could turn out to be nice, you know.” My brother sounds amused, which pisses me off even more.

“Nice? God vomited and there was Tamara Honeywell is how one film critic described her, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“One man’s vomit and all that…”

“Why do I have to do it? Why can’t you?” I demand.

“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 are 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?”