My Secret Fantasies. Joanne Rock

purposely looking for a brush with anyone remotely famous.”

      He’d heard enough. He handed her back the picture.

      “Listen, if this was just some random piece of property, I would sell it to you in a minute.” He tucked his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “But I’ve got too much at stake in a business where the overhead is staggering. I can’t afford to have any operation on what is basically my property that might detract from what I’m trying to build.”

      He’d invested every cent of his finances and himself in the Thoroughbreds. This farm had given him stability and purpose at a time when he needed to escape escalating family drama. He’d built a very different kind of life here. A stable life. There were no more weekend trips to Europe to help his mother solve some so-called urgent crisis that turned out to be an uneven number of men versus women at her latest dinner party. No more scandals involving his father’s revolving door of twenty-year-old girlfriends. Definitely no more would-be starlets who’d do “anything” for a chance to meet his father. Even pretend to give a rat’s ass about Damien.

      Now, he kept in touch with his brothers, Trey and Lucien. But he was finished with the movie business and he was done with his high-profile parents.

      “Interest in the show is dying down,” she pressed. “And I can make this tearoom kick butt.”

      He was already heading for his truck. “I’m sure you could, but I just can’t take chances right now. If I get a bunch of tabloid reporters camping out on the property, it’s going to scare off the clients I’ll be inviting up here to check out the operation firsthand.”

      He’d worked too hard to take this place to the next level, and he owed it to the former owner, who was also his mentor—a man who’d been better to him than his own father. Ted Howard had provided a job that allowed Damien to feel productive when he’d parted ways with his family, at age seventeen. He’d also shown Damien a different lifestyle—one that valued hard work. Physical labor. Mental fortitude. It had been exactly what a screwed up Hollywood kid had needed to reroute his life. So Damien wasn’t going to relax until Fraser Farm was an equestrian showplace and—more quietly, in a new part of the facility—a humane retirement home and retraining center for Thoroughbreds who didn’t achieve racing stardom. That had been Ted Howard’s dream, a dream the guy might not be around much longer to witness.

      Damien’s jaw flexed, his shoulders tensing at the thought. He wanted that dream, too. He’d bought into it at seventeen, while working part-time to earn enough to go to college, and he was fully committed now. This life had saved him, so he planned to make the most of it.

      “I am not afraid of hard work.” Miranda dogged his steps. “A tearoom has low overhead and I can get this place up and running before your next guests show up. I realize the car breaking down makes me look kind of, uh, low budget. But I’ve got enough investment capital stashed away for the tearoom. I just won’t spend it on fluffy stuff. Like a car.”

      “Sorry.” He paused before the driver’s side door. “But the offer stands if you need a ride. Actually, do you want me to take you somewhere now?” He’d been thinking one of his handymen could cart her around, but how rude would it be to just drive off and leave her stranded? Hell. He’d been an antisocial horse breeder for too damn long.

      Checking out of the fast lane didn’t mean he could quit society altogether.

      “I’ve got nowhere to go.” She stuffed her hands in the front pocket of her jeans, making him realize she was way too thin. Hot, yes. But she definitely looked in need of...

      No. He would not think about her needs.

      “You can’t be serious. You’ve got a check for ten grand in that backpack, along with God knows what else.” He had the feeling Miranda Cortland, Gutsy Girl winner and—according to Scotty—the famed Nebraska Backstabber, had a wide assortment of talents to fall back on.

      He didn’t think he wanted to be around when the backstabbing skill was revealed, although from what Scotty described, her method of winning the show hadn’t sounded the least bit underhanded.

      “My savings are all for a bankable business. And until I find another perfect opportunity—the way this one was supposed to be—I’m not spending a nickel unless I earn it. So...need any help here?” She peered around at the empty fenced pastures.

      Damn. It. He could almost picture himself standing here as a seventeen-year-old kid, looking for a job and hoping against hope that Ted Howard would find a way to make him feel useful. Damien hardened his heart, knowing her motives couldn’t be good.

      “Not unless you know something about mares in labor,” he drawled, even as he took out his phone to text Scotty, so the kid could drop her at the nearest hotel. Manners be damned, Damien couldn’t deal with Miranda Cortland right now. He’d had a foaling attendant in the birthing stable all day, but he planned to take the night shift himself.

      “Are you kidding? I grew up in the heart of Nebraska, surrounded by cornfields and cattle. I guarantee we think just as highly of our cows as you do your fancy racehorses.” She tipped her chin at him, all bold defiance and attitude. “It just so happens I spent more time in the barns than I did in my own living room, thanks to a dysfunctional family.”

      Again, she reminded him of himself once upon a time. Hiding out from dysfunction? Yeah, he understood that. Still, he held firm. She had to go.

      But when he checked his phone to send Scotty the SOS, he saw the video feed from the birthing stable, where Tallulah’s Nine was circling with restless frustration.

      Crap. The mare became front and center in his thoughts. That foal had been sired by one of his most promising studs, and he didn’t have time to boot out Miranda.

      “Then get in if you mean it. I’ve got a mare ready to foal tonight.”

      * * *

      THREE HOURS LATER, I’d shoveled enough straw to fill that stable ten times over. Or so it seemed.

      I stopped for a moment to wipe away the sweat on my forehead and check out the miracle going on at my feet, now covered by a pair of huge boots I’d borrowed from Fraser Farm’s extremely well-equipped tack room.

      Giving birth was a messy business, and since the foaling attendant—Bekkah, a local vet’s assistant—was busy keeping both the mare and Damien calm, I took up the less glamorous job of keeping the birthing stall filled with fresh straw. Damien had told me twice I didn’t need to, but since Scotty had a sick sister at home and couldn’t stay to do the grunt work necessary to help Tallulah’s Nine, I could tell Damien was glad I was there.

      I knew how to stay out of the way. I’d done it from the time I was a pudgy-cheeked kid who didn’t compare to my big sister’s beauty. And I’ll admit, getting into the horse breeder’s good graces was definitely a high priority on my agenda now. My novel heroine, Shaelynn, wouldn’t have just given up and gone home. Especially not once she ran across a hero as hot as Damien. Besides, I loved animals. And I hadn’t had so much as a goldfish since leaving Nebraska. Yet another reason Fraser Farm would be ideal for me.

      “Thanks, Miranda.” Damien worked to clean the new bay foal, while Bekkah waited for the afterbirth, the sweet scent of new straw hanging in the air. “With any luck, we’ll get this little guy nursing in the next hour, and then I can find someone else to sit with Tallulah. I just want to be sure there’s no need to call in a vet for anything. After that I’ll be able to take you home. Or wherever you’re staying.”

      “Why don’t I sit with her tonight?” I offered, stroking the mare’s nose. “I’ll be able to tell if she’s comfortable.” I peered around the exhausted horse’s flanks to look at Bekkah for confirmation. “Right? Putting a new mother at ease shouldn’t be hard.”

      My father’s small farm hadn’t been much, focused more on hybrid varieties of corn than the animals. But my dad had been old-school about farming, and just enough of a doomsday believer to think we ought to have access to our own milk and eggs. The