Troy's Surrender

…Troy stepped outside and leaned against a corner of the bar. “I like him,” he blurted into the phone. “You know,
like
him, like him.”
“What are you, a thirteen-year-old girl?” Ken asked. “So you have a crush on the mark. Big deal.”
“The mark? Shit, when did I turn into a con man?” Troy ran his free hand through his hair, thinking that maybe the description wasn’t too far off. He
felt
like a con man. Every day that he continued to lie to Rafe chafed at him, like an annoying bug bite on the back of his knee that just wouldn’t go away.
“Troy?” The serious note in Ken’s voice caught his full attention. “Have you broken the, and I quote, ‘number one PI rule of all time’? Have you fallen for a client?”
“He’s not a client,” Troy protested. He actually squirmed a bit in the uncomfortable silence that followed. “All right, maybe a bit,” he finally admitted. “But Rafe is nice and gorgeous and, oh God, you should see his ass.”
Troy clamped his mouth shut before he could continue gushing. Damn, he really
was
acting like a teenaged girl. Maybe he should stop drinking for the night.
Then again, maybe he hadn’t had enough.
“Troy, you need to finish the job and get your ass back home,” Ken said. “Don’t complicate the situation.”
Troy hung up without saying goodbye. He let his head drop back against the siding with a loud thump. He should probably take Ken’s advice. Probably.
Didn’t mean he would. Or even could.
Troy thumped his head against the wall a few more times before he pushed away and stuck his phone into his pocket. He needed another drink. Or three…

This book is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

Copyright © 2010 by K. M. Mahoney ISBN 978-1-60272-757-1 Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

“What’s that?” Troy fixed the offending object with a suspicious glare.
“What does it look like, dumb ass?” his best friend replied.
“No, hell no,” Troy protested loudly. Heads turned in the tiny café, at least heads of anyone not a regular customer. The waitress just refilled Troy’s glass, completely inured to loud arguments from the two men.
“I’m going on vacation, remember?” Troy pretended not to see Ken’s smirk. “Sun, sand, hot guys. You know va-ca-tion. That thing normal people do to forget real life.”
“The pay’s good.”
Damn. The three little words he could never ignore. Troy accepted the offered photograph with an exaggerated sigh.
“It’s an easy job,” Kenneth Saunders, attorney-at-law, protested.
“That’s what you said about the last one.”
Ken shrugged. “How was I supposed to know the ex was going to follow you?”
Troy sighed again, quietly this time, studying the back of the picture. He didn’t want to look at it. He’d been thinking lately about finding another line of work. This one was getting to his last nerve.
He flipped over the picture. “Damn,” he murmured. Was he drooling? He surreptitiously checked his reflection in the window. No, but it was a close thing. Fuck him raw, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a gorgeous sight.
“Who is he?” Troy asked, unable to tear his eyes from the vision. Even in an amateur photograph with bad lighting, the guy was stunning. Tall and muscular, mile-wide shoulders narrowing down to slim hips and thighs roped with visible muscles. The tight, tight blue jeans left nothing to imagination. His dirt-streaked shirt hung open, giving a tantalizing glimpse of chiseled abs through the thin white tank top. Troy would just bet that a taut, mouth-watering ass went with that body. The face was shadowed beneath the wide brim of a well-worn cowboy hat, but who cared? A body like that made up for all kinds of ugly.
“His name is Rafe Morgan. A horse breeder from Wyoming.”
“So where do I come in?”
Damn, for a minute there he’d forgotten why he had the picture. If Ken was bringing it to him in the form of a job, then the hunk was probably distressingly straight.
“Inheritance case.”
Score! Maybe not so straight. Or at least, maybe corruptible. That could be fun.
“All right, lay it out.”
“I thought you might say that.” Ken dug through a briefcase big enough to double as a suitcase. He tugged on the edge of a manila folder, yanking until it ripped free. He handed it over.
Troy eyed the ragged edges and coffee stains with wry amusement. It was a damn good thing that Ken was brilliant in the courtroom, because his organizational skills seriously sucked.
He flipped the folder open and scanned the contents.
Rafe Morgan. 37. Single, no kids or exes. Sole owner and proprietor of the Double M. Breeds an even mix of quarter horses and Appaloosas. Known for producing solid reining horses, both for competition and work. Mother and father deceased. Siblings…
“Mark Morgan?” The name popped off the sheet and caught his attention. “He’s your client?”
Ken nodded. “Yeah. A half brother. Seems Dad sometimes got a little wild on Saturday nights.”
“Isn’t that a song?”
“Focus, Troy.”
“Sorry. So what does he want with Morgan?”
“Which one?”
“Now you’re the one who needs to focus. What does little Morgan want with big Morgan?”
“Oh, right. Well, Mark Morgan just turned eighteen and got a good look at Morgan Senior’s will. He brought it to me. It’s a vague sucker.”
“Let me guess. Rafe inherited the ranch from dear old Dad, and Mark wants a piece of the pie?”
“That about sums it up. Morgan Senior was a bit of a bastard and didn’t leave much to his illegitimate family. Mark’s strapped for cash.”
“So how’s he affording you? And for that matter, how’s he affording me?”
Ken shrugged, a hint of red staining his high cheekbones. His delicate features, courtesy of a Japanese mother, were etched with a touch of chagrin. “Just doing a friend a favor. And don’t worry about the payment, you’ll get it.”
Troy smirked, but managed to hold in his snappy comeback. The look in his friend’s eyes said it wouldn’t be appreciated. And there was little worse than an unappreciated snappy comeback.
His gaze wandered back to the photo, staring so innocently up from the faux wood tabletop. Troy ran his finger around the top of his water glass, chewing on his bottom lip in thought.
“So what am I supposed to do? Go talk to Rafe?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that. As far as Mark knows, Rafe has no clue he even exists.”
“Seems to me like Rafe might want to know he’s got a brother around, particularly with his folks dead.”
“Yeah, well, Mark says no go on that front.”
Troy shrugged. Made no matter to him. What the client wanted and all that shit. Sometimes he really hated being a private investigator. He kind of understood where the nickname private dick came from, ’cause there were times—many, many times— where his job forced him to be a real bastard.
Unfortunately, even without knowing any more details, he had the feeling this job was going to be one of them. Figures. Rafe was really, really hot. He would have liked to get to know the man in a more…personal setting.
“I already know I’m not going to like this, so lay it out for me. Talk real slow and use short words.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Thank you.”
“Mark wants dirt on his brother. What he does, where he goes, the best places to apply pressure. He wants to know everything about his brother, from what he likes to eat to who he likes to fuck. Anything that might give Mark an edge when we take this to court. And particularly anything that might persuade Rafe to settle out of court.”
Troy rubbed his eyes, feeling weariness seep into his bones. See, this was why he had planned to take this week as his vacation. Leave the cell phone behind, head for the beach, and just forget real life for a couple of days.
“We make a great pair,” he said with disgust. “A couple of slimeballs extraordinaire.”
Ken threw up his hands. “Hey, if you don’t want the job, just say so.”
Troy dropped his head against the back of the booth, a low grunt escaping him when his skull connected with the firm padding a little harder than he’d intended. “You know I’m not going to turn you down,” he said, staring at the water stains in the ceiling tiles.
“I know. We’re getting you in as a consultant, to go over the ranch’s books. Apparently, Morgan’s looking to make some big changes and wants a thorough audit. Works out well for us, anyway.”
“Yeah, just fantastic.” And Ken would have to know the only PI in town capable of pulling that role off. Damn his dad anyway for making him finish that degree in bookkeeping and accounting. It may have been fifteen years ago, but he still remembered how it all worked. Hell, he dealt with enough paperwork just running his own office to keep himself current.
Ken glanced at his watch and grimaced. “My paycheck beckons. I’ll leave the file with you. Mark’s number is in there if you want to get anything else from him. He’ll be checking in occasionally to see how it’s all going.”
“All this and you’re going to make me deal directly with the client, too?”
Ken shrugged. “It’s a tough world.”
“Damn right it is.”
Ken gathered up his stuff, carefully tucked away his Styrofoam container of leftovers, and left.
Troy rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. He needed to start giving serious consideration to a career change. The divorce cases were bad enough, but he truly hated all this family shit. As someone who didn’t have much family left himself, Troy had learned long ago to appreciate what he did have. It always made him a bit nauseous to see families go at it. It shouldn’t work like that.
He really hated his life. He didn’t want to take this case. But he would. Why? Because he was a horny bastard who thought too much with his cock and not enough with his brain.
The minute he’d seen that picture, Troy had known he’d be taking the case, no matter how messy it might become. Because he wanted to meet the guy in the photo. Wanted it so bad he could taste it.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he muttered to himself, placing the picture in the file for later viewing. He was getting exactly what he wanted. And it was probably going to blow up in his face.

Troy stopped the car and got out slowly, shoving his sunglasses on top of his head. The Double M wasn’t what he’d been expecting, not even close. Considering how eager Mark had sounded to get his hands on the place, Troy had been picturing miles of white fence, lazily grazing studs and fancy barns. You know, Kentucky horse farm pretty. What he got was a lot of dust, miles of electric wire and some precarious structures with peeling paint. No horses in sight. Hell, there were even two tumbleweeds trapped against the warped, unstained wooden fencing of the nearest paddock.

Hardly a multi-million dollar operation. Maybe he should take a few pictures. Show the kid what he was getting into.
Troy had spoken with Mark for the first time that morning, not an hour before arriving at the ranch. His first impression was of a bratty, confused kid who needed a swift kick in the pants. His second impression was the same. He was beginning to think that taking this job had been one of the bigger mistakes of his career, which was saying something. Troy wasn’t exactly known for his good judgment.
He probably should have stayed in the city.
Oh, damn. There, striding toward him in the afternoon light, was the reason he hadn’t. Tall, dark and muscular rounded the edge of the paddock, moving with that lazy-hipped stride so common to horsemen.
His first thought was a rather stupid one—Rafe Morgan wasn’t ugly. In fact, the face more than lived up to the promise of that amazing body.
“Can I help you?”
The voice matched the look, a low, steady drawl that sent tingles up Troy’s spine and…other feelings…to his lower body. He silently willed his cock to keep its composure. It didn’t work. Instead, he took refuge in angling his body a bit, ostensibly to greet his new boss but more importantly to disguise the growing bulge in his jeans.
“Yeah.” Troy had to stop, clear his throat. “Yeah, I’m Troy Maxwell. You talked to someone at my firm about setting up an audit.”
The lie tasted like dust in his mouth. He resolved then and there to do the best damn job possible for Rafe. Maybe it would balance out the fact that he would also be gathering information intended to be used to destroy the guy’s life.
Yeah, right. He really, really should have told Ken no.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rafe Morgan.” Rafe took his hand in a firm, friendly shake. “Have to say, you don’t look like any accountant I’ve ever met.”
Troy grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that a lot.”
He hardly fit the stereotype of a numbers geek. In fact, he’d once been told he looked more like a thug. Well, by his mother, right before she told him to get a haircut. He had. It hadn’t helped. He was shorter than average, more muscular than average, and dark. Add the tattoos on both arms and his appearance fit more with the private investigator he was than the accountant his Dad had wanted him to be.
Rafe grinned, the expression inspiring jitters in Troy’s stomach. Wide and happy, the smile took years off those harsh features. “Heck, you could have pink hair and three arms. As long as you can fix the books, I don’t care what you look like.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Glad you could come,” Rafe said with genuine sincerity. “The books are a mess. If you can decipher half of it, you’ll be doin’ better than me.”
Troy grinned back at Rafe, unable to resist the expression on the cowboy’s face. For a burly guy with weather-roughened features, he had a very boyish grin. Damned adorable.
“Why don’t you show me around, tell me what you’re planning, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Not much to see right now,” Rafe said, starting to walk. “The cattle are up in the north valley. I’ve got two mares ready to drop in the small barn, five usable mounts in the main barn. Two of my studs are out on loan with a third doing the circuit with a former ranch hand. I’ve got two full-time cowboys on payroll right now, riding the fence line. Two more are part-time, they come in a couple days a week to help with odds and ends.”
“So you do have cattle? I was under the impression that the ranch was strictly an equine breeding facility.”
Rafe chuckled, a touch of self-deprecation in the tone. “That was the plan, but I couldn’t make enough with my guys to make it viable. I picked up a few head last year just to keep us going. We’ll go up in a week or so to check on the herd, make sure they’re fattening up enough.”
Rafe shoved open the sliding door to the big barn. It had clearly been there a while, quite possibly longer than the house. Troy had parked his car next to the main paddock that ran along the back of the barn. They’d circled the structure to get to the front doors. A path led at an angle from the barn to the house, a good quarter mile away. Between the barn and the house Troy could just make out the shape of another barn, tucked into a stand of trees. A similar stand surrounded the house. The rest of the space was barren dust covered in hoofprints. Any bits of grass around the main barn had either been trampled or snatched up by hungry teeth.
Rafe paused in the doorway, brow wrinkling in thought. “You are familiar with horses, aren’t you? I mean, you can ride? ’Cause otherwise I’m not sure you’re gonna be a lot of help.”
Troy chuckled. “It’s been a while,” he admitted, “but I think I remember the basics.”
Rafe nodded in satisfaction and strode into the barn, flicking a switch as he went. “Main barn,” he said over his shoulder.
Troy looked around, nodding his acknowledgement. Dust? Check. Manure? Check. Cobwebs? Check. Yep, it was a barn, all right. The horses must be outside, because no large heads popped over the stall doors when they entered.
The tour didn’t take long; there wasn’t much to see. Two wobbly barns and some decent looking horses. At least, Troy assumed they were decent. They weren’t all wiggly like the ancient wooden siding on the barns. He’d spent a lot of time at different summer camps and had a lot of experience riding. What he didn’t have was experience in judging horses. He could tell if they were obviously swaybacked or ancient. Otherwise, well, they just looked like horses to him. Still, he made the requisite murmured approval noises when prompted and tried to appear fascinated.
And he was, too, but not with the horses or the ranch. No, he was fascinated with his tour guide’s tight, jean-encased ass. Oh, yeah. Definitely a sight worthy of approval. And far more beautiful than the horses munching lazily in the corner of the paddock.
It was nearly an hour and a half later before Rafe finally led Troy up to the house. The cowboy paused on the rug to knock the dirt-like substance off his boots before crossing the threshold. The door squealed and the floor creaked and groaned when they walked down the dim hallway.
Rafe winced. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I don’t spend much time up here. I tend to crash in the bunkhouse. Closer to the barn, ya know?” He pulled his hat off, hanging it on a hook and giving Troy his first unobstructed view of the man’s face.
And what a face. A tousled head of curls stuck up at odd angles and hung into his eyes. At one point probably light brown, the locks had been bleached to blond by the sun. So, Cowboy didn’t always wear the hat. He had high cheekbones and a long, narrow nose, the crooked bridge testifying to a bad break. Or more than one. His light green eyes were warm and edged with lines from squinting in the sun.
Troy was simply dying to find out if that bronzed skin extended past what he could see. He hitched his duffle bag higher onto his shoulder and tried not to drool.
Oh, yeah. It was going to be a long couple of weeks. He followed that ass around the house and told himself firmly that it was bad form to jump the boss on the first day. Very bad.
Troy slung his duffle into a corner after the quick tour of the house and rubbed his face with both hands. He should probably get out while he still could. This guy could get to him, already was. From the sideways looks Troy had gotten over the last two hours, he had the feeling any advances on his part wouldn’t be met with a fist to the nose.
Troy was used to lying, playing roles, digging up dirt. But the thought of lying to this guy was making him nauseous. Not good. Not good at all. The smart thing to do would be run.
Unfortunately, Troy had never been accused of being particularly smart. Especially when it came to hot guys and potential bed partners. And Rafe? Definitely fit both descriptions.