Collide & Burn (2 page)

~ One ~

Charlene (Charlie) Wells

“LATER, DEE,” I TOLD my best friend and put down the phone.

Deidre is a gadabout, and I so am not. As usual she wanted to party, but I’d had a long day toting my paintings from gallery to gallery, and I just wanted to plop in front of the TV and veg out.

So I begged off, and after much bickering back ’n’ forth and her making me promise to ‘party’ Friday night, I escaped, sorta.

Because after shutting off my phone I turned and stared at all the stacks of boxes surrounding me. I had been living in box hell for the past month. Pack ’em up, label the boxes, and then turn around and unpack ’em. Sad to think this place I loved and that had belonged to my family all my twenty-one years was no longer ours—mine. Now, I was a tenant, and there was no guarantee I would continue to be one after next spring. I had never even seen the new owner. The one time he had come to look at our place, I’d been out with friends.

Everything had happened too quickly for me to really assimilate it. I turned away from the boxes, and stared at the tall mirror propped up against them. My red hair was a windy mess around my face. My serviceable old sweater had hay sticking out of it everywhere. The really good part—my part—of this mad bargain is I get the apartment in exchange for very little other than pitching in if the employees need an extra hand and keeping Mr. Devon informed. I moved onto the deck overlooking the many large paddocks with the horses all grazing contentedly on their rolls of hay. It was October, and grass now was scarce, but some of the horses were still looking for that one delicious blade.

A chill swept through me, and I stepped back inside.

This horse farm in the middle of ‘high-end’ Muttontown was where I had grown up. It was a twenty-four/seven job, and my parents woke up one morning and told me enough was enough; it was time for a change. I had graduated from Post University and had even made some money with my paintings, and they needed early retirement. Apparently our farm, because it was ten acres in prime location, would fetch them over a million bucks. I agreed; it was time.

They put it up for sale a few months ago, but until last month no one had even stopped by to look. Out of nowhere, the real estate agent called my dad and told him someone had put down a binder for the farm at full price. No haggling, no waiting, and the buyer agreed to the stipulation that I be allowed to either rent the apartment over the barn for a minimal fee or in exchange for very little time in at the stables. In addition to the apartment, I had a small barn with a nice paddock—behind what used to be
our
house at the end of the drive—to house my quarter horse Sassy and her goat. For the next six months I got a sorta free pass.

Mr. Devon had struck what I thought was a really fair deal with my parents. All that was required of me was to oversee the smooth running of the stables while reconstruction and renovation went on and to be available for meetings with him at some point, to help him get a ‘feel’ for the place.

As I was the proverbial ‘struggling artist’, that was too good a deal for me to pass up. A few of my paintings had been well received, and I’d even started to make ‘real money’, but it wasn’t enough to live on, and it certainly wasn’t a regular income. So, yeah, this deal fit right into my plans.

To this point, I had not yet met the mysterious Mr. Devon.

It all happened all so fast.

One minute it was September and then, whoosh, my parents were gone and October was here. They didn’t take much with them, and off they went to live in a condo at Cocoa Beach, Florida.

I was thrilled for them. They had run our horse farm on a small profit margin that required them to work twenty-four/seven most of the time. It had been a long, good run, and now they wanted to play.

Mr. Devon wanted to make the farm into a thriving business. Apparently it was no more than a ‘new toy’ for Devon, according to the real estate agent. He also told me that Mr. Devon would be arriving shortly to take up residence in what had (until a month ago) been my home. It had been a little heart—not breaking, but straining—to watch everything change. I don’t really like change. I am a nester. I get comfortable and would rather keep an old, beat-up couch than buy a new one and try to get used to it.

I shrugged into my jacket and went downstairs, took some grain in a bucket, and walked down the driveway to Sassy’s paddock. Sassy was nibbling at the rich green hay in her hay roll. Mr. Goat was grazing and ignoring all else, but she picked up her head, grunted in greeting, and trotted over. Mr. Goat, who got that name when I was twelve, looked up casually before returning to munching on weeds and grass.

I poured the grain into Sassy’s feed bucket attached to the post and climbed over the weathered rail to give her neck a stroke and pat while she chowed down.

“Boy, I haven’t ridden you in days. I promise, I’ll find some time tomorrow, and we’ll both have a run.”

“Hi!” The male voice made me nearly collapse into my knees.

I didn’t know I could spin around so fast, but I did, and I realized what people mean when they say their mouth dropped open. Mine did, and a fly dove right in.

I started to choke.

He was on me, slapping my back as I choked to death, when the damned thing came flying out, landed on the ground, recovered, and flew off.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

No, I’m not okay. I’m embarrassed as hell
. But what came out of my mouth was “Ah … yo … ah …” Could I sound dorkier?

He grinned, and I had a chance to do a real double take.
Holy mother of all that is perfect
, he was
perfect
—hunky, hot, drop-dead perfect. Tall, broad manhood stood in front of me, and all my hormones began to flutter.

From the top of his black silky head, which towered over my five feet five inches and made me think he was well over six feet, to the dark boots on his feet, he was flawless masculinity. No other way to describe the man in front of me. His body was tight and lean and made for anything a girl could ever want.

His presence made me feel girly silly and twelve.

I licked my lips and then met his eyes, his so blue eyes. It was like looking into the limitless sky. I don’t go gaga over handsome men—in fact, quite the opposite: I get my back up and get wary. But this one did something to my insides.

All my neglected womanly hormones started humming a tune inside my blood. I don’t play around. In all my years I have only been with one man,
one boyfriend
,
and that had been over long before we both graduated from Post. It had been a comfortable friendship that had played into a comfortable relationship that never really got my juices flowing.

The hunk smiled at me, and as he spoke, I lost my ability to hear.

Shit
!
What was wrong?
I was deaf.
I couldn’t hear anything. I could see his gorgeous lips moving, but … what, what was he saying?

Finally, thankfully, my hearing returned as I watched his smile turn into a frown and he asked, “Are you sure you are okay?”

“Yes, yes, I am sorry.” I could hear and speak again. Life had returned. Thinking he was here about boarding a horse, I said, “The stable office is straight up the drive.” Oh no, was that my voice? It sounded like a creaking door.

He laughed. I continued to stare. He said, “I know—I’m Wade Devon.” He said it with an air of authority.

Sure. Authority. He owned the place.

I gasped. This was the billionaire who had bought our horse farm. This was, in the flesh—and such flesh!—Wade Devon.

Oh, holy hell. What should I do? I stuck out my hand. “Hi … I’m … Charlie Wells.” Okay, no longer squeaking, but was that my voice? It was hardly a whisper.

He laughed again. “Oh,
I know who you are
.”

That snapped me back into myself. “You do? How could you? I know we’ve never met.”

“Let’s just say I do my research when I … er … make an offer to buy a business.”

What was in his words I wasn’t getting? Every instinct told me there was a double meaning in his words, but for the life of me I didn’t know what it was.

He broke the stillness of the moment and changed the subject. “I’m sorry. I apparently took you by surprise.”

“No, no,” I lied. “I
was
expecting you … any day, but since this day was nearly over … I thought it would be another day.” What was wrong with me? I was speaking like a twelve-year-old.

“I did expect to be here sooner, but I only just managed to get away from some business that kept me in the city.”

“Oh,” I said and stopped.
Conversation,
come on, Charlie, make some conversation.
“Are you going to be here long?”

“Now that my contractor has the place habitable, yes, for a few days, at least,” he said noncommittally.

“Is there anything I can help you with? Anything you need to know?” I offered.

“Yes, you can help me with everything. I want to get to know our present boarders, what you think needs improvement up at the two barns, what paddock we can give up to install an indoor riding ring. Yes. Tell me about the employees I hired—are they working out? Anyone slacking? Charlie, there’s a great deal you can help me with,” he said and then eyed me as I digested this. “Look,” he said, “I have an hour for dinner, and I am starving. Do you think you could join me, give me a briefing? We’ll call this our first business dinner.”

Of course, a business dinner. Was I obligated to have a business dinner? Well, free apartment for me, free paddock and feed for Sassy and Mr. Goat. Yeah, I was obligated. That was the deal. “I … I … of course.”
Why was I so ill at ease?

“You must be tired after a long day, but I promise not to grill you,” he offered, and those blue eyes surveyed me with sincere concern.

“It’s okay, honest. We both have to eat, and dinner out beats a frozen platter any day. So sure, dinner and a briefing on what has been happening all week—great idea. I did make a bunch of notes about your boarders and … a few other things you may need to know.”

“Good, but what I really will be asking you about are
your thoughts
.
” He hesitated, and I saw a light in his eyes … a flame that glimmered in the recesses of those baby blues. That flame made me quiver.

I was being nonsensical.

Too many romance books lately. Too many dreams of knights rescuing me from my dull and ordinary life. Why would someone like him be attracted to me? I knew he was from another world, one dominated by money, power, and fashion. I was a farm girl both at heart and in action.

Sure, I knew some guys thought I was really good-looking. I have had my share of compliments, some even sincere, but he was so out of my league. He probably had top A-list models and movie stars making the moves on him. He would never be interested in me, and yet, there I was, shyly batting my eyelashes. Someone help me.

I cleared my throat. “My thoughts on …?”

“We’ll get into that at dinner,” he said.

“Before we do, could I ask you, why this farm? We’re really … have always been a ‘mom and pop’ operation here. Surely you don’t mean to … actually put in time yourself at the farm?”

He laughed. “Well, that’s why I am renovating the house. I needed a retreat. I ride you know, and Prancer and I wanted the country. When I saw … this place, I knew immediately it had potential for growth, much more than the other places my agent found for me. For example, the house—what was your house—is being turned not only into a home but one with a separate entrance for some offices where I can run my operation and still walk out and smell the roses.” He grinned. “Corny, I know, but corny was what I needed, and there are so many areas that could generate additional income that will make this not only the most sought after boarding and riding facility on Long Island but a money jar as well.” He took my elbow and guided me over a fallen branch, which was a good thing because I was just about to trip over it. “We’ll talk more about those plans over dinner. Where do you recommend we have a nice quiet meal?”

“Do you like Italian?”

“Love Italian,” he answered, and again I saw a flame in his blue eyes flicker. Now I wanted to melt into him.

I kept myself intact and under control—no leaning in, no melting. “Then … it is to Syosset, only ten minutes away.”