Her Tycoon to Tame (7 page)

“I'm not married, Sam.”

Wyatt took one last glance at Hannah striding down the driveway toward the barn, her anger giving her hips an
attention-getting sway. The fight in her eyes before she'd stormed off had been impossible to miss. And attractive. Damned attractive.

He had to figure out how to get his hands on her land and get rid of her before he did something stupid. Her horses were her most obvious weakness, and he'd expected his offer of free room and board for her and her nags to win him this war. Obviously the lady veterinarian had a higher price tag.

He forced himself to turn away from the tempting and taboo view. “Nellie made muffins. Come inside and have one.”

Sam preceded him into the study and grabbed a muffin. “I could have sworn you bought the farm because you had marriage plans. Horse farms are a good place to raise kids. Fresh air. Hard work. Told your mama so.”

Sam's confusion only reinforced Wyatt's decision to relocate. He'd hoped getting Sam back in horse territory might result in more lucid moments.

“I was dating someone but we didn't have marriage plans.” And she'd bailed the moment Sam had become a significant part of Wyatt's future.

“Lana. Leggy blonde? High maintenance? Bit enamored with herself? No patience with old men?”

“That's her.” How could Sam be so astute about some things and completely clueless about others? Alzheimer's didn't make sense. It cast a net, catching random memories and letting others slip through. Some days the weave of the net was tighter than others. The disease defied every rule of logic Wyatt lived by.

“Where's Carol?” Even as he asked the question Wyatt stepped to the door and scanned the hall and foyer. He saw no sign of the nurse who should be shadowing his stepfather.

“Who?”

“Carol. Your nurse.”

“Brunette?”

“No. That was the last one. This one is in her early fifties
with salt-and-pepper hair.” He'd hoped a mature woman would be more diligent than the younger caregiver had been.

Sam's face scrunched in concentration as he ate his muffin. “Is she the one who likes soap operas?”

“I don't know. Is she?” If Carol had let Sam get away because she was watching TV, then she'd be fired on the spot.

“One of 'em did.” Sam frowned as if searching his malfunctioning brain. “I think that was the little mousy girl, the one who didn't talk.”

“Sam?” Carol's panicked voice echoed through the two-story foyer followed by quick footsteps descending the stairs.

“He's in here.”

She hurried down the stairs wide-eyed and breathing hard. “Thank God. Sam, you scared me half to death.”

“He was outside. How did he get away from you?” Wyatt demanded. He would fire her on the spot if she weren't by far the best qualified of the applicants he'd interviewed.

Dark flags of color swept Carol's cheeks. “I honestly don't know. I was using the bathroom, and—”

“The suite door wasn't locked?”

She grimaced. “I thought it was. I'm sorry, Mr. Jacobs. I'm not used to having to lock in a client. I must have forgotten to take the key from the dead bolt after Nellie brought up breakfast.”

“Confining him is for his own safety. He likes to wander.” Wyatt hated caging Sam like an animal, but after the near disastrous balcony incident at his penthouse… Wyatt's gut knotted. He severed the thought of how easily he could have lost Sam that day.

“I understand, sir. It won't happen again.” She turned toward his stepfather. “Sam, you've already had two muffins. Are you sure you want another one?”

Sam blinked. “I have?”

“Yes, and eggs and juice, too. You ate quite a big breakfast because we're going for a walk today.”

“Where are you taking him?” Wyatt asked.

“I thought it would be nice to let him visit the stables.”

Alarm kicked through Wyatt's system. “No. Stay away from the barns. I don't want Sam getting hurt.”

“But he stands at the window for hours watching the horses in the pasture. Didn't he used to work with horses?”

“'Course I did and quit talking 'bout me like I'm not here,” Sam groused.

“I apologize, Sam.” Wyatt surveyed his stepfather, trying to assess today's mental state. Some days Sam seemed as sharp as he had in the old days. Others he was a shell of the man Wyatt had once idolized. “I know you miss the horses, but we don't know these animals well enough to know which ones are safe and which aren't.”

Sam puffed out his chest and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I would know. Common horse sense. Just 'cause you made me retire doesn't mean I've forgotten everything I ever knew.”

Only most of it. Intermittently. “Let's get settled in first.”

“I am settled. Been here a week.”

Carol looped her arm through Sam's. “Why don't we walk to the pond and check out that flock of geese that flew over this morning? They passed so quickly we didn't get to count them.” She led him toward the door, looking over her shoulder with what Wyatt assumed was supposed to be a reassuring expression.

“Don't let him out of your sight again.”

“No, sir. I won't.”

Frustration, helplessness and sadness twisted like a corkscrew deep in Wyatt's chest. Over the past two years Sam had been fading away right before his eyes, and none of the specialists Wyatt had consulted could do a damn thing about it. Neither the medications nor the supplements seemed to help much. But he'd be damned if he'd give up without a fight. He owed Sam that much.

H
annah had sixty days to work a miracle.

Panic welled inside her as she studied the new mare. Would that be enough time to change Wyatt's mind?

Sipping her coffee, she sagged against the fence post at her back, stretched her legs out into the grass and watched the birds flying above the tree line.

The mare tossed her head and snorted, looking beyond Hannah's shoulder, then she galloped a few yards away and circled back, pausing with her nostrils flaring and muscles twitching, ready to flee.

“What's wrong, girl?”

“She's afraid of men,” an unfamiliar male voice said from behind Hannah, startling her. She twisted abruptly, spooking the horse even more, then slowly rose to face the stranger. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt and down coat even though the sun had long since chased away the morning chill.

“Can I help you?”

“Just inspecting the pastures. My guess is a man is responsible for the bay's scars.” He nodded toward the mare.

“You'd be right.” Who was he? A prospective Sutherland client? Someone interested in observing FYC's morning session? Or maybe an agent verifying the abuse report she'd filed? After dusting off her hands she reached across the fence. “I'm Hannah Sutherland. And you are…?”

“Sam Reynolds. A little bacon grease will help those fetlocks heal faster.”

An old-school remedy, but modern science was her thing. “I'll keep that in mind. Did someone from the office send you to find me?”

“Nope. Found you on my own. Who's in charge of the mare's wound care?”

“I am.”

He grabbed the top rail and hoisted himself over the fence. He wasn't frail, but he had the shrunken look older people sometimes got when their lives became sedentary. She saw a lot of that in the newcomers who joined FYC. He wobbled a little at the top.

She moved forward in case he slipped. “Mr. Reynolds, I'd prefer you stay out of the pasture.”

“Don't worry, missy. I know what I'm doing.” He strode toward the horse surely, rapidly, scaring her farther away, then he stopped.

Apparently not. He was upsetting the mare. “Sir, please leave the pasture.”

Hands relaxed by his side, he faced Hannah, turning his back on the animal. “Give her a chance to get to know me.”

The horse quivered, attention riveted on her new visitor.

Hannah kept a wary eye on the mare who'd revealed a few bad habits once she'd gotten over the shock of being relocated. The mare's ears twitched forward instead of back like an angry animal intent on inflicting injury. Nose outstretched, she gingerly approached the interloper.

Hannah's breath caught as the mare leaned in for a sniff. “Be careful. She bites.”

“You should be working her in a round pen. She has too much room to avoid you here. And sit on the top rail not on the ground. Shows her who's boss without you lifting a finger.”

Still ignoring the horse, he paced several yards to the right. The mare trailed him, then he returned to Hannah's side. Again, after a brief hesitation, the horse followed.

Surprised, Hannah could only watch. “I've tried the Horse Whisperer method on her, but it hasn't worked before now.”

“I've always had the touch.”

“No kidding. Okay, I admit it. I'm impressed at how easily you snagged the mare's attention and cooperation.”

He pivoted abruptly. When the animal didn't race off he rewarded her by offering his palm, then rubbing her forehead and scratching beneath her ears—something she hadn't allowed Hannah to do. “Good girl,” he addressed his new friend, then angled his head toward Hannah. “It's all in your body language. If you're wary of her, she'll be wary of you.”

“I'm aware of that, Mr. Reynolds. I have some experience with horses, but I still think getting you out of harm's way is a good idea.”

He patted the mare's neck and raked his fingers through her matted mane. “I've missed this.”

“Missed what?”

Before he could reply, a car crested a hill in the driveway at a high rate of speed. The idiot driver was going to get someone hurt. Hannah kicked into action mode, putting herself between Sam and the horse. The sedan's tires locked and skidded to a halt.

A woman threw open the door and sprang from the driver's seat. The mare bolted to the far side of the enclosure.

“Sam, you can
not
keep wandering off.”

Who was this woman advancing on them in near hysteria?

Sam shook his head. “I wasn't wandering. I knew where I
was going. Now look what you've done. I'd just begun to win the bay's trust. Now I'll have to start over.”

“Get in the car,” the woman ordered, pointing at the vehicle. “Mr. Jacobs will be furious if he finds out you escaped again.”

Escaped?
Mr. Jacobs? This guy knew Wyatt? “I'm Hannah Sutherland. Could you please explain what's going on?”

The harassed woman parked her hands on her hips. “I'm Carol Dillard. Sam—Mr. Reynolds is not supposed to leave the house without me. Mr. Jacobs specifically ordered me to keep Sam away from the barns.”

“I'm not at the barn,” Sam added logically.

Hannah focused on the woman. “But Sam likes horses and he's good with them.”

The older woman frowned. “Sam is under my care.”

“You're a doctor?”

“No. I'm his nurse. He suffers from Alzheimer's.”

Understanding dawned, but the diagnosis only led to more questions. “Sam lives with Wyatt?”

“Stop talking about me like I'm not here. Wyatt is my stepson. He worries because I'm a little forgetful sometimes.”

Wyatt took care of his stepfather. Imagine that. The jerk might have a shred of decency in him after all. “Are you the one who used to own a thoroughbred farm?”

“I am.”

“Wyatt's mentioned you. You should get him to bring you to the stables. If he saw how easily you worked that mare, he wouldn't keep you away. You made more progress with her in two minutes than I have in a week.”

Sam smiled. “I'll do that.”

Carol tsked and shook her head. “Good luck with that. Now get in the car, Sam, and let's get back to the house before Wyatt calls to check on us.”

That caught Hannah's attention. She'd been dreading and anticipating a possible visit and another demand for a tour from the new boss since the first one had been postponed. “Wyatt's not home?”

“He had to fly to the distillery on business this morning.”

That meant he probably wouldn't oversee today's riding classes. If she couldn't get him to observe, then how could she win him over?

Sam hoisted a foot to the bottom fence rail, pausing to look over his shoulder at Hannah. “Thank you for your company, Hannah. Meeting you was truly a pleasure.”

“You, too, Sam. Bring Wyatt with you next time.”

Hannah's skin tingled the way it did when she suddenly thought of a mare-stud genetic combination that couldn't help but produce a contender. She'd found Wyatt's weakness, or more precisely, Sam had found her. And like her übercompetitive cousin, Hannah would have to find a way to use the new knowledge to her advantage.

“Sam, do you ride?” she called as he approached the car.

A sad smile stretched his mouth. “I used to. Before I retired. Haven't been near a horse before today since…” He scratched his head, suddenly looking flustered. “I can't remember. I used to work with horses back in…back when I had a horse farm and a life.” His shoulders drooped.

Hannah's heart tugged. “It's okay, Sam. I'll get the details later. And you still have a life. It's just a different one.”

She saw a chance to benefit herself and Sam, but especially FYC. She turned her attention to the nurse. “We run a therapeutic riding school on Sundays. Our roster is full, but I'm sure I could pull some strings and get Sam a slot by next week. Why don't you bring him down for a ride?”

“I'll mention your suggestion to Mr. Jacobs, but I don't expect he'll approve. He's overly protective of Sam.”

That meant Hannah would have to confront the very man she'd been trying to avoid, the man whose kisses knocked her out of the saddle. “I'll talk to Wyatt.”

When she helped his stepfather, she'd not only prove her point about FYC's value, she'd win over Wyatt and at least part of her problems would be solved.

 

Anticipation Wyatt should not be experiencing coursed through his veins along with a strong dose of suspicion as he stood on Hannah's front porch.

Why had Hannah invited him to dinner? Had she decided to accept his offer and sell him the property or would the evening yield yet another attempt to milk something from him?

The door opened, revealing his hostess in a peach-colored sweater that clung to her breasts and a black skirt that displayed her long legs to lust-inducing advantage.

Not lust. Approval. There was no room for lust in business.

A tight smile flitted across her lips. “Wyatt, thanks for coming.”

Wyatt forced his eyes to her face. She'd done something to her blue eyes that gave them a sleepy, sultry look that he couldn't help but appreciate. Her hair lay like a shiny curtain over her shoulders and breasts, the thick chocolate strands glistening in the overhead light—a far cry from her usual windblown appearance, and try as he might, he couldn't dam the rising tide of his libido.

Life had taught him time and time again that women used their beauty as weapons of coercion. Hannah had to be up to something. The question was what?

“Is there a reason we couldn't have had this conversation in my office?” Where he could have kept the desk between them.

“I thought it would be more relaxing to talk away from work.”

The slightly husky timbre of her voice slid over him as smooth and thick as sourwood honey, reminding him of lazy mornings after a vigorous night of sweaty sex. “About?”

Her gaze slid away. “The farm. What else? Come in. Dinner's ready.”

He followed her through the living room, his gaze involuntarily drawn to her rear in the snug skirt, then his eyes
traveled down her legs to her low, open-backed heels. Nice. Seductive in a rich-girl-next-door kind of way. She hadn't gone for the blatant hard-sell look.

Then he spotted the candles flickering in the middle of the dining room table lending an intimacy to what should be a business dinner and corrected his assessment. “What's going on, Hannah?”

She followed his gaze to the candlelit trap. “I don't cook often and when I do I like to enjoy the effort. Would you pour the wine while I get the food?”

She disappeared through an archway without waiting for an answer. Whatever game she was playing, she'd reveal her hand soon enough.

He lifted the open bottle and studied the label—an award-winning Riesling that sold for hundreds of dollars at auction. After filling the crystal goblets, he scanned what he could see of the cottage. On his first visit he'd been more focused on the financials than decor and then that kiss had blown his observation skills to hell.

This time he noticed the antiques—not reproductions—filling the rooms. Translation: expensive furniture. Like the wine, the BMW Z4 in her driveway, the diamonds in her ears, the watch on her wrist and the crystal on the table. Hannah Sutherland enjoyed the finer things in life—things she shouldn't be able to afford on her salary. That meant she depended on someone else's deep pockets to keep her in the manner to which she'd become accustomed. Her father? A lover? The latter thought kinked the muscles between his shoulder blades.

She returned and set two china plates on the table. “I hope you're hungry. Please take a seat.”

He automatically pulled out her chair—some habits were hard to break. Satiny strands of her hair caressed his knuckles, sending a ripple of awareness through him. Her floral perfume—minus the eau de barn additive—mingled with the roasted pork in his nostrils, stirring a hunger that had
little to do with dinner. He stepped away and took his seat across from her.

“You have expensive tastes in wine. A gift from an admirer?”

“You could say that. One of our German clients owns the winery. Our association made him very happy, and he sent a few cases of his best vintages as a thank-you gift.”

Something about the private smile teasing her lips irritated him like a whining mosquito. His fingers tightened around his utensils. “Was he your lover?”

“Heavens, no.” Her surprise seemed too genuine to be faked, but then most women were accomplished actresses. “But we made a beautiful baby together—with his mare and Sutherland's stud. I was engaged at the time.”

“
Was
engaged?”

She studied her glass then took a sip, savoring the Riesling slowly—the way she did everything, he'd learned.

Everything?

He derailed the sexual thought, but not before his groin pulsed to life.

“The relationship didn't work out.”

“Why?”

She took a bite of asparagus then chewed, swallowed. “Does this fall into the none-of-your-business category or the tell-me-or-you're-fired column?”

“Do you have something to hide?”

Seconds ticked past while she toyed with her food. “My father loved Robert. I didn't. Not enough, anyway.”

“Shouldn't you have realized that before you became engaged?”

“Probably. But on paper he seemed like the perfect match.”

“On paper? Did you run a financial report on the guy?”

“I didn't need to. Our families had known each other forever. We shared the same background and interests.”

“You mean he had money.”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows dipped. “Of course he had money. That means I knew he wasn't marrying me for mine.”

“Are you wealthy—in your own right?” If she had money stashed elsewhere, he might have more trouble getting rid of her than he'd expected.