Rich, Rugged Ranchers. Kathie DeNosky

he and Hoss had never once sparred over a woman.

      There was a first for everything, apparently.

      “She’s off-limits.” The words came out as more of a growl than a statement.

      “Yeah?” Hoss puffed out his chest and met J.R.’s mean stare head-on. “I don’t see you doing a bang-up job of getting her into your bed. If you aren’t up to the task, maybe you should stand aside, old man.”

      J.R. bristled. He was only six years older than Hoss. The idiot was intentionally trying to yank his chain, and he was doing a damn fine job of it. J.R. did his best to keep his voice calm. As much as Thalia’s reappearance pissed him off, he still didn’t want to walk into the kitchen with a black eye or a busted nose. “I don’t want her in my bed.” Hoss snorted in disbelief, but J.R. chose to ignore him. “I don’t want her in my house. And the more you make googly eyes at her, the more Minnie gushes at her, the more she’ll keep coming back. She doesn’t belong here.”

      Hoss didn’t back down. But he didn’t push it, either. Instead, he turned and headed for the house at a leisurely mosey, still whistling. Still planning on making a move on Thalia Thorne.

      Cursing under his breath, J.R. groomed his horse at double-time speed. He did not want Thalia in his bed, no matter what Hoss said. She represented too big a threat to his life out here, the life he’d chosen. The fact that she was here again should be a big, honking sign to everyone that she was not to be taken lightly.

      So why was he the only one alarmed? And why, for the love of everything holy, was his brain now imagining what she’d look like in his bed?

      He tried to block out the images that filed through his mind in rapid succession—Thalia wrapped in the sheets, her hair tousled and loose, her shoulders bare, her everything bare. Waking her up with a kiss, seeing the way she gazed at him, feeling the way her body warmed to his touch …

      J.R. groaned in frustration and kicked a hay bale as he headed toward the house. When had this become a problem? When had he let a woman get under his skin like this—a woman he didn’t even like? When had his body started overruling his common sense, his self-preservation?

      And when had Hoss decided a woman was more important than their friendship?

      His mood did not improve when he walked into his kitchen to find Thalia, sitting on his stool, leaning into a hug with Hoss. That did it. J.R. was going to have to kill his best friend.

      He must have growled, because Hoss shot him a look that said I got here first and Thalia sat up straight. The way her cheeks blushed a pale pink did not improve J.R.’s situation one bit.

      “J.R., look who’s back!” Hoss’s tone of voice made it plenty clear that he was going to keep pushing J.R.’s buttons. His arm was still slung around her shoulders. “I was telling Thalia how good it was to see her pretty face again.” The SOB then gave her another big squeeze. “You found a casting couch for me yet?”

      Thalia laughed nervously as she pulled away from Hoss’s embrace. “Sadly, I haven’t found the couch that can handle you, Hoss. But I’ll keep looking.”

      Then she turned her bright eyes to him. “Hello, J.R.” She made no move to get up, no move to shake his hand—much less hug him. He wouldn’t have trusted her if she had, but damned if it didn’t piss him off all over again that she didn’t.

      Behind the Thalia and Hoss tableau, Minnie tapped her big wooden spoon on the counter as she looked daggers at him. Be nice, her eyes told him. Why was it his job to make nice when everyone else was flaunting his rules in his house? Screw it. Without a word, he turned away from the interloper and the two traitors and walked—not stomped—upstairs. He heard Hoss coming up behind him, but he didn’t wait.

      The shower did little to improve his mood, mostly because he couldn’t stop thinking about that woman. At least this time, she was dressed appropriately. A cowl-neck sweater in an ice-blue color that matched her eyes had clung to her curves, revealing as much—if not more—than the short dress. Instead of those teasing tights, she was wearing jeans that hugged every inch of her long legs. And instead of delicate stilettos, she had on a pair of real cowboy boots. Her hair had been freed of the severe twist so that now it fell in loose waves around her face and shoulders.

      She looked like someone who did, in fact, fit out here. Worse than that? She looked like she belonged out here.

      It’s a costume, he reminded himself as he rubbed dry with more force than normal. That wasn’t the real her. He didn’t know what the real her looked like, but it couldn’t be that cowboy’s dream come true down there.

      If Hoss touched her again, J.R. would have to kill him.

      He almost put on his favorite frayed shirt in protest of this whole ridiculous situation, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. He went with the sweater Minnie had knit him two years ago for Christmas. It usually made her happy when he wore it. Clearly, it was his only hope of keeping her on his side right now.

      He could do this. He wouldn’t lose his temper, and he wouldn’t add fuel to the fire. If need be, he wouldn’t say anything. If he didn’t engage, sooner or later Thalia Thorne would get tired of asking. It was that simple.

      The glint of sunlight off gold slowed him up, and he found himself staring at his Oscar. He didn’t know why he kept the damn thing out—after all, his Golden Globe and all his other awards were in a box in the back of his closet. Oscar had brought him nothing but heartache, today included. He hefted it off the mantle, feeling the cold metal. He’d been terrified the night he’d won, hoping and praying someone else—anyone else—would win, but knowing that the race was his to lose. And when they called his name, the terror had spiked right on over to panic. If he hadn’t figured it out before that moment, he knew then that he’d lost any semblance of control he’d had over his life. People had always expected things of him—his mother, his agent, film people—but he’d known when he’d won that the life he’d barely managed to keep a grip on was going to be wrenched from his control. And he’d been right. He’d stopped being a person and become nothing but a commodity.

      He’d hated feeling powerless then, and he hated it now. That was the problem with Thalia Thorne. Her unwelcome intrusion left him feeling like he wasn’t in control anymore.

      He looked Oscar in the face. “I’m the boss around here,” he said, more to himself than the inanimate object. So that woman had him a little spooked. So she’d won over Minnie and Hoss. He was not about to cede control of his life to the likes of her and, by extension, Levinson. No pretty face, no sweet touch and no amount of money would change his mind.

      His resolve set, he headed downstairs. Nice? Sure. Polite? Barely. But he wasn’t taking the part. He wasn’t taking anything from Thalia Thorne.

      At least he’d gotten back down to the kitchen before Hoss. Thalia was still on the stool with Minnie standing next to her. From the look of it, they were poring over Minnie’s latest People magazine.

      “I love this dress on Charlize,” Minnie was saying in a wistful tone that was far more girlish than normal.

      “Really? I thought the one she wore at last year’s BAFTAs was better.” Thalia glanced up at him, and damned if her face didn’t light up almost exactly like it had when he’d woken her up two days ago.

      He was not being swayed by her face. So he crossed his arms and glared at her. It didn’t have the desired impact. Instead of paling or shrinking away, she favored him with a small grin. Damn.

      “The BAFTAs?” Minnie was thankfully too engrossed in her fashion daydreams to notice his lack of manners.

      “The British equivalent of the Oscars.”

      “Oh.” It was hard to begrudge Minnie this little bit of fun, because she was clearly in seventh heaven. “Would pictures of that be online? We could look them up!”

      “Sure.” Although Thalia was talking