Helen Brenna - Her Sure Thing

This—this—was why she’d rented this house. God, how she’d loved spending time with the horses, brushing, riding and feeding them. Arlo Duffy had even hired her to work for him when she’d been only twelve, and from that point on the time she’d spent at Arlo’s stables had been the only time she’d enjoyed while on Mirabelle. She’d have lived in the barn if he’d let her.

Time to go find Arlo. Rushing down the stairs, she called out to the movers, “If you need me call my cell.” Then she took off out the back door.

A path through the woods brought her out near the paddock closest to her rental. After a short, narrow trail, probably a deer path, through some scrub separating the two properties, she came out in a clearing by Arlo and Lynn Duffy’s iconic red farmhouse. As she reached the road, a man leading a very familiar solid black horse passed through the main gate and headed toward her. Louie. Her horse was clearly tired, but the moment he noticed Grace his pace quickened and his step lightened.

“Perfect timing,” she whispered, reaching out to stroke Louie’s sleek neck.

“You can say that again,” the handler said.

“He’s tired. Aren’t you, boy?” The horse let go a long sigh, as if agreeing, snuffled his muzzle in her hair, and another one of those incessant stomach knots eased. “Thank you for taking care of him.” She glanced at the handler. “I’ve got him from here.”

“No problem.” He handed over the lead. “I’ll make sure your tack and other supplies get delivered here today.”

“Thank you.” Grace was barely aware of the man disappearing down the road as she closed her eyes and rested her cheek against Louie’s warm, muscular neck.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Startled by the deep voice, Grace glanced up. Leading a pretty bay, a man walked across the dry dusty road toward her. Wearing faded jeans, scuffed-up boots and a navy blue T-shirt, he was dressed much like the college kids working out in the pasture, but that was where the comparison ended. The breadth of this man’s shoulders and his confident gait clearly separated him from the others. Too rough around the edges to be considered classically handsome, he was still a sight to behold as he led the saddled-up bay by the reins.

Within seconds, Grace could’ve listed off at least five designers who would’ve been falling all over themselves to dress this rough-looking cowboy in their latest styles. If he’d been ten to fifteen years younger. As he came closer, the laugh lines around his eyes gave away the fact that he was likely in his mid-thirties.

His gaze, hard and unreadable, flicked over her, and then seemed to take in the horse. “If that isn’t a beautiful sight,” he murmured. “I don’t know what is.”

Was he talking about Louie? Or her? The slight smile playing at his mouth caught Grace completely by surprise.

He has the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen.

The moment the thought crossed her mind, she sucked in a breath. She thought about men as photogenic or stylish, not kissable, and out of her element as she was, her defenses rose. Straightening her shoulders, she glared at the man. “He’s a Friesian.”

“I can see that.” He came to stand on Louie’s other side, opposite Grace. “Don’t run into this breed of horse every day.”

A solid jet-black, Louie’s coat gleamed silver in the clear afternoon sun. With typical Friesian characteristics, his mane and tail—which almost touched the ground—were long, thick and wavy, and his fetlocks were silky and untrimmed. His conformation was close to the shape of a light but powerful draft horse, but he’d been bred to be taller and finer-boned than his ancestors. The lines of his neck, long and gracefully arched, showed the quality of his bloodlines.

Laughing about what to give a woman who had everything, Jeremy had given the gelding to Grace for her twenty-fifth birthday, almost as a joke. Her ex-husband hadn’t realized it at the time—he’d probably never fully understood—that the spirited but loyal animal had been the dearest gift he’d ever given her.

Grace watched the man slowly run his hands down Louie’s neck before patting his back. There was something inherently sensual in the way he moved that she couldn’t help but notice his tanned skin, trimmed nails and the light dusting of dark hair on his fingers. First his lips and then his hands. What next?

“Nice horse,” the man said. He crossed his arms, causing his biceps to flex and bulge. His blue eyes regarded her unemotionally, making him appear as unmovable as a mountain. “What’s he doing here?”

“EXCUSE ME?” THE WOMAN glared at Sean as if he was horse dung stuck to the soles of her obviously expensive gold sandals.

Sean did his best to dismiss her superior attitude, but since she didn’t seem to be anything but attitude, it was difficult. “Is the horse yours?”

“Yes,” she said, stroking the animal’s neck.

“We’re the only stable here on Mirabelle.” It was a damned small island with limited pastureland and even more limited paddock and barn space. Anyone with a lick of sense would know you didn’t take a horse anywhere without first arranging his keep. “So what’s he doing here on the island?”

“I’m boarding him here for the summer.”

Oh, no, she wasn’t. Not without asking him first.

She straightened her shoulders, clearly preparing for a fight. “Who are you?”

“Sean Griffin. And you?”

“Grace. Just Grace.”

So this was Grace Andersen Kahill? The face that had launched the covers of hundreds of fashion magazines? The body credited—or accused, depending in which camp you fell—for having first made lingerie catalogs and swimsuit editions of popular sports editions look like soft porn? That explained a lot.

Sean had heard she was coming back to Mirabelle and renting the Schumacher’s old place, but he wasn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized her. He’d seen Grace and her husband at Jean Andersen’s funeral, but that had been several months ago and he’d never met, let alone spoken, to either one of them. Afterward, talk about her breezing in one day for her mother’s wake and out the day immediately following the funeral had fueled the gossip channels for weeks.

Strange, but for a woman known for baring more skin than any other American model, she looked pretty covered up if you asked him. Dressed in a hip-length jean jacket, a couple of crewneck T-shirts and some beady-type necklace, she looked as if she were heading off to some trendy Hollywood hotspot for a two-appletini lunch with friends. Sean had lived in L.A. long enough to know. Too long, in fact.

“Well, Just Grace,” he said. “We’ve got a problem.”

“The only problem I’m aware of is that the boarding rate hasn’t been settled. That really doesn’t make a difference because I’ll pay whatever it takes. Problem solved.”

As if money solved everything. Typical. “Boy, you really are something, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “But I don’t board horses.”

“You don’t?”

“That’s right. I don’t. It has nothing to do with money. This is a stable and livery operation.” Boss, his horse, pulled on his reins and struck his nose toward her Friesian. “We have over sixty horses here and limited acreage. All the horses here work for their keep. I can’t spare a stall, let alone a paddock or pastureland for someone’s…pet.”

“Well, it’s not really your decision, now, is it?” She stalked toward the barn.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Arlo Duffy.”

“You won’t find him in there.”

She spun around. “Then where is he?”

“Home. Eating lunch.”

She turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction toward the ranch house.