James McMillan is half-owner of the most prosperous horse ranch in Golden, Colorado. When a gorgeous redhead shows up at his door waving what she claims is the deed to half his ranch, James tries to send her packing. But the document is authentic, according to his lawyer: little brother sold the sexy opportunist his half of the Double M during a poker game in Atlantic City. So not only must James find a way to buy those shares back, he needs to fight his growing attraction to his luscious new business partner—who turns out to be a lot more than just a pretty face.
Having been on her own since she was a kid, Angela Roberts has never wanted anything more than the security of a real home. Her dreams come true when the chance to own half of a Colorado horse ranch falls into her lap. Only she hadn't counted on the hostile reception she receives from her new business partner. Surly as a bear, James McMillan is also much too handsome for her peace of mind. Refusing to be intimidated, Angela sets out to win him over by proving she has what it takes to help him run the ranch—and ends up losing her heart to both.
“What the hell do you mean it’s legal and binding? It’s written on a hotel letterhead, for chrissakes.”
“I’m sorry, James,” his lawyer said with an audible sigh. “It would be legal if it were written on toilet paper. It’s spelled out to the letter, and both parties signed it, as well as two witnesses and a notary public. I’m afraid Miss Angela Roberts owns forty-nine percent of the Double M Ranch.”
James blew out a hard breath. “Thanks, Cal.” He tossed the receiver in its cradle and leaned back in his leather armchair. Bitterness ate at his soul until he thought he might choke on it. Reese’s resentment of James had been going on for so long he could barely remember how the hell it got started. Over something minor, no doubt. And each year the rift between them had grown wider.
Until Reese stepped over the line and lost James’ respect for good.
He shot to his feet and paced the floor for a few seconds, then headed to the sideboard to pour himself a bourbon. The welcoming burn blazed a path straight to his gut. He downed a second and was about to pour a third when someone knocked on the study door. Shit, the last thing he wanted to do was sit through one of Meara’s lectures. He set his glass down with a thunk, then stalked over and yanked open the door.
Only it was Angela standing there in the dim light of the hallway, gazing up at him with those big blue eyes. She wore an oversized New York Giants T-shirt that hung down to just below her knees, and she’d pulled her thick auburn hair up into a ponytail. She looked vulnerable and uncertain and more beautiful than any woman had a right to.
And the bourbon was suddenly warming more than just his stomach.