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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
About the Author
Bestselling Desire™ author and RITA® Award finalist EMILIE ROSE lives 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 [email protected]. Letters can be mailed to PO Box 20145, Raleigh, NC 27619, USA.
Her Tycoon
to Tame
Emilie Rose
To the Man upstairs for giving me more
time with my mom. Each day is a blessing.
One
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.
