My Secret Fantasies. Joanne Rock

off to the right, near a small sign for Fraser Farm.

      Intrigued, I saw four rail fences on either side and wondered if I’d missed the property I wanted to buy. It felt as if we’d turned right into horse country, with Thoroughbreds swishing their tails in green fields dotted with shade trees.

      “Here it is.” He pulled off the road to the left, in front of the building I’d seen online. It looked smaller in reality, probably because it was surrounded by vast expanses of horse pasture.

      That didn’t deter me. I slipped out of the passenger seat and hopped down to the ground, feeling the pull of destiny.

      The structure resembled a bungalow, with a wide porch, where I could imagine setting up a few outdoor tables. There was enough space for a small parking lot; no doubt it had served as one in the building’s former life as a farm stand. I might be able to squeeze in a little garden around a patio if I used the space wisely.

      I was already through the door, dreaming about how to convert the walls into shelves full of teas and tea-related products to sell to happy wine-country tourists, when I heard Damien clear his throat behind me. I turned, unsure how long I’d been planning my future in a total mental fog.

      “Does it suit your purposes, Ms. Cortland?” His close proximity was not an unpleasant feeling. If I shut my eyes, I could imagine myself backing against him. Leaning into all that maleness.

      What was it about him that had me thinking sexy thoughts so easily?

      “Miranda. And yes. Very nicely.” There was a studio upstairs that would be quite enough room for living space. No one from my past would bother me—no one would even find me in the middle of a Sonoma County Thoroughbred farm.

      I’d sell tea, bake scones and after hours I’d write my novel, under a pseudonym. In fact, I felt all the more compelled to write my book now that the hum of sexual attraction pulsed just below the surface of my skin. If ever I needed inspiration, I’d just look out my window and wait for Damien Fraser to ride by on a horse or in a pickup.

      Definitely liking this vision of my future.

      “You said in your original email that you hoped to put a tearoom here?” he prodded.

      “Yes.” I tried to think about business details and not secret fantasies, but I was really distracted, imagining what he’d look like astride a horse.

      Mmm.

      “If I sell it to you, I’d need you to commit to that. The contract would include a stipulation that I’d have some say in the kind of business operating here. We can work that out with the lawyers, but I want to be up front with you.”

      I had no idea about the legality of that, but I understood why he’d want that kind of control, since my little piece of property would essentially be surrounded by his.

      “Certainly.” I set my backpack on the scarred hardwood floor that would gleam after I refinished it. I dug through my things to find my wallet, so I could hand the man my check and unpack a few things before it got dark.

      I noticed the electricity had been turned off, so I wanted to get started ASAP, while I could still see.

      From outside, a man’s voice called. “Mr. Fraser?”

      “In here, Scotty.” Damien backed up a step and opened the creaking front door, allowing a wide swath of sunlight into the main floor.

      A wiry young guy stepped inside. He wore a trucker’s cap, with a big pair of old-fashioned headphones clamped around his ears. I could hear the wailing steel guitar and fiddle music from where I stood across the room, so I had no idea how he heard anything else.

      I smiled at him, ready to make his acquaintance. But when his eyes met mine, I knew.

      I’d been recognized.

      My heart sank even as his face lit up.

      “Miranda Cortland?” He shoved off his headphones and stepped closer, with the familiarity of someone who’d known me all his life. “No freaking way. The Nebraska Backstabber in my own backyard.”

      I swallowed hard, hating that stupid nickname the press had jumped on. Resenting that they’d dug up details about my past, even though I’d listed “Los Angeles” as my hometown.

      “Scotty.” Damien did not sound amused. His hazel eyes flashed a deeper brown and he tugged the kid back a step. “What the hell kind of manners are those?”

      I would have been touched by that moment of chivalry if I wasn’t sure that Damien Fraser would turn on me in another minute.

      “It’s okay,” I rushed to explain. “Just a dumb nickname the media stuck me with after I won a reality TV show.” If I downplayed it, maybe he’d let it drop.

      Of course, Joelle had tried ignoring it when I returned to work at her tearoom in L.A. At first, she hoped my notoriety would be good for business. But two weeks in, she was so fed up with the paparazzi harassing the other employees for an “angle” about me, and Hollywood watchers clogging up the tearoom so her real customers couldn’t get a seat, she’d asked me to take a paid leave.

      Seriously? I wasn’t about to collect a check I didn’t earn.

      “Don’t let her fool you, Mr. Fraser. She’s totally famous.” Scotty shut down his music and reached for his iPod. “See? The Nebraska Backstabber won last season’s Gutsy Girl by stepping back and letting everyone else fight it out. It was totally epic.”

      He tried shoving the screen under his boss’s nose, but Damien’s eyes stayed locked on mine. “Maybe later. For now, can you finish up the fence on the northern pasture? I didn’t get to the last couple of acres in the southwest corner by the creek.”

      “Yeah, boss, I’m on it. Wait until I tell my girlfriend about this.” He was already texting as he walked out the door.

      Belatedly, I remembered that cashier’s check in my hand. More than happy to change the topic, I offered the down payment to Damien.

      “I’m sure any way you write the contract will be fine,” I reminded him, all the while crossing my fingers.

      Take the check. Take the check.

      He didn’t take the check. His square jaw flexed, a five o’clock shadow only making him more handsome. Too bad I knew what that uncompromising look meant.

      “Miranda, this is going to be a problem.”

      2

      HOT WOMEN WERE usually trouble.

      Hot Hollywood women? They ought to come with a skull and crossbones taped to their foreheads. The potential for danger was just too damn high.

      Damien Fraser knew this firsthand, having been born the son of a prominent American director and a flamboyant Italian actress. Their affair had produced three sons neither had time for, and the boys had grown up without much supervision, which meant Damien had tangled with his fair share of grasping Hollywood actresses who’d wanted to date him because of his famous father. But since he’d moved to Sonoma County and taken up horse breeding—a calculated move to distance himself from the Fraser fame—he’d figured his days of dealing with this kind of crap were done.

      “I don’t understand.” Miranda Cortland ran a weary hand through blond curl that went in every direction, her pale blue eyes shadowed with dark circles that didn’t do a thing to diminish her appeal. “I love the place. I’ve got a deposit. You want to make a quick sale, here you go. I’d like to rent out the spot until the official closing, so I can throw in whatever you think is fair for a month’s rent. Or two.”

      She dug deeper in her backpack and emerged with a wallet.

      Damien scratched his forehead, which was smeared with dirt and sweat from his time in the fields. He couldn’t make the pieces add up here. The woman was sunburned. Her car was old and in need of repair. Actually, all her stuff looked like