Chapter 2
Chase: Who’s coming to the Yankees game tomorrow?
Logan: Nah, got work.
Chloe: I’ll come!
Zeke: No, you won’t.
Chloe: I’m coming.
Zeke: Chloe, you’re two weeks overdue. You are not risking going into labor in a packed stadium with gridlocked traffic.
Chloe: Ok, he just came into the kitchen and used his boardroom voice. Looks like I’m not going after all.
Chase: Sorry, boardroom voice??
Chloe: Yah. It’s hot.
Mia: I’ll come if you promise to introduce me to Jackson Straite after.
Mason: Did you forget your husband was in this chat??
Mia: Oof, my bad.
LOGAN
“We still have one hold-out.” Michael frowns down at the report in front of him on the glass boardroom table, the soft, irritating tap of the end of his pen on glass acting like a red flag to the bull that is the migraine trying to tear out my left eye.
Seven months of straight-laced, liquor-free, sex-free, distraction-free dedication and I choose the night before Michael breezes into town in his pristine Zegna cashmere suit to sink my body weight in tequila.
With my father arrested and extradited for the murder of two innocent Colombian children, and my brother Zeke playing happy family with his soon-to-be wife, Chloe, Guerra Industries Group falls to me to save.
As one might predict, the CEO being charged with homicide didn’t exactly boost our position within the market.
The stock price plummeted, investors backed out of a number of projects like rats fleeing a sinking ship, and banks started to pull our lines of credit faster than you can say “fucked.”
That’s where Michael York comes in. I don’t particularly like the dude, but anyone with half a brain cell knows he is one of the best in commercial land development.
We traded a hefty portion of shares in exchange for access to his exceptionally deep coffers.
The corporate equivalent of selling your soul to the devil.
Even so, the survival of the business boils down to one project: an airport and luxury spa resort we plan to build just east of Vancouver.
Hundreds of millions of dollars have already been invested over the last two years to buy up the land we need.
We’re overleveraged and behind schedule.
There have been battles with environmentalists, opposition from state officials, and more than a handful of residents who weren’t willing to give up their homes.
Ultimately though, money talks. Everyone and everything has a price and it’s just a matter of finding it.
“Who?” The hinge on my chair squeaks as I lean forward and I can almost hear the grind of my molars as his dark eyes flick to mine.
“Sunpine Ranch, exactly where we want terminal five to be.” Plink, plink, plink, plink, plink.
My eye twitches and I have to root myself to the spot to avoid launching over the table and snatching that fountain pen out of his hand. I mean seriously, who even uses a fountain pen these days?
“Didn’t we send Miles Compton to negotiate with them?” I swipe a hand over my face, suddenly feeling very, very tired.
“Yeah. Burned right through him.” Michael uses a palm to smooth back his already slick black hair.
Fuck. Miles is one of the best closers in New York. If he couldn’t do it, then this really must be a hard old bastard to break. “How much have we offered?”
“We’re up to three percent above the land valuation, any more than that—”
“Investors get twitchy.” I growl, annoyance flaring bright in my gut.
The thing about Michael that pisses me off is that he treats me like I need to be schooled.
What he fails to understand is that I grew up watching my father run this business from the sidelines.
Michael may be good, but I’m better, and if it wasn’t for the fact we needed his money, I never would have taken on a business partner in the first place.
The leather in my chair groans softly as I lean back, my elbows on the arm rest and my hands laced in front of me as I tip my head back to stare at the ceiling.
The problem we have is time. Or lack of it, to be precise.
Construction is due to start in twelve weeks and every day that is delayed will cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars.
The worst-case scenario would be this ranch owner finding out he has the power to make us sweat.
Guerra Industries? Meet the proverbial barrel.
Please drop your drawers, bend over, and prepare to be fucked.
“Fuck it, I’ll go,” I grumble, pushing myself to stand and forcing leaden feet toward the glass-walled doors.
“Worst thing you could do is let them know how much we need this land, Logan!” Michael shouts after me.
“Yeah, and the sky is also blue, asshole,” I mutter through clenched teeth as I round the corner to my office.
***
Gravel crunches under tires as I pull up to the enormous natural wood and river rock ranch house.
Little rows of hanging baskets line the porch awning, lending vibrant bursts of purple and orange and pink to the otherwise sun-bleached wood.
I pull to a halt in front, wincing as gravel leaps up and bites the underside of the Mercedes-Maybach rental.
The tip of my spine prickles with awareness and my gaze is dragged sideways like a moth to a flame.
Sitting on the porch step with a long-necked beer in her hand, watching me, is one of the most striking women I’ve ever seen.
Long silky black hair cascades in soft waves down to her waist against warm mocha skin, high cheekbones, and pillowy pink lips that part slightly as she…
scowls at my car. I suck air in audibly through my teeth.
Maybe the car choice was a little tone deaf.
Perhaps I should have pulled up in a truck so that I could attempt to fit in with the locals.
I open the car door and lift myself out to stand, running a finger around the rim of my shirt collar as the heat steals away the chill of the air conditioning.
I flick the door shut with one hand and head for the woman who now leans back on the heel of her palm while her big, slanted hazel eyes zero in on me.
Gravel slices and protests underfoot with every step.
She twists her beer bottle around on top of her knee, quietly contemplating me as I come to a halt, making no move to greet me.
“Excuse me, ma’am, could you point me in the direction of the owner? A Mr. Landry, I believe?” I slip my hands into the pockets of my slacks, feeling slightly irritated by the way her eyes slide down my frame like I’m something she found on the bottom of her shoe.
“Who’s asking?” Her voice is light yet raspy at the same time as her gaze flashes back up to my face. Her eyes are the most striking combination of jade green and warm brown I’ve ever seen—like polished Amazonite.
“I’ve come as a representative for Guerra Industries, are you a relative? His daughter?” I cast my eyes around the porch, clocking the little hand-stitched pink flowers on the curtains that hang behind the nearest window. How very fucking quaint.
“Yep. That’s me. I think he went to the bunkhouse.” She stands and dusts her hand on the side of her jeans. The movement brings my reluctant attention to just how well she fills them out.
She’s short, barely over five feet, from what I can surmise.
But her petite frame in simple Levi’s, white tank top, and open red-checkered shirt boasts generous curves that would make most men I know drop to her feet and worship at her altar.
Blood rushes south and I clench my jaw as I tear my eyes back up to her face.
Damn, it’s been too long since I’ve been laid if I’m salivating over the farmer's daughter in the ass crack of nowhere.
“The big red barn at the end of the track.” She flicks a finger to the right of the property and turns on her booted heel to walk into the house, giving me a spectacular view of her heart-shaped ass.
“Right,” I mutter, shaking my head as I head in the direction she indicated.
Grasslands sprawl for miles in every direction on either side of the track, an endless bowl of green between craggy mountains.
Sweat beads at the nape of my neck and Italian leather starts to bite at my feet as I head toward the large painted timber A-frame structures in the distance.
I itch to take off my suit jacket and ditch the tie, but first impressions count, and I need this guy to know I’m serious.
A cowboy works two horses around in a training pen outside the first barn, kitted from head to toe in dust-covered Carhartt everything, while a handful of other men lounge against the natural wood fence and watch with cans of beer in hand.
The sound of my feet on rocky dirt draws the attention of a tall guy with his elbows braced on the top panel.
“You lost, city boy?” He snorts, lifting a grubby Stetson off the top of the post and cramming it back onto his dirty blonde head. It’s white, or at least it was at one point, and makes him look like an overgrown Milky Bar Kid.
I pause and draw myself up to full height.
In Manhattan, I'm hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t know who I am, especially after months of press coverage of the Guerra Industries scandal.
But even before that, my family is well known in elite circles.
I’ve had my fair share of tabloid stories about who I’m dating, or what I’m doing.
Not that I care for it, but sometimes it has its benefits.
This asshole doesn’t know me from Eve, but even so, he shrinks a little as my eyeline towers above his.
I’m a big guy and I’m not above using that to save myself the hassle of a misplaced dick-measuring contest with Hillbilly Hick here.
“Mr. Landry's daughter told me to head to the bunkhouse and find him. That’s it, I presume?” I tilt my head toward the large barn-like building that doesn’t have horse noises spilling out of the open doors.
Milky Bar Kid’s brows jump into the rim of his hat and he glances right at the dark-haired cowboy next to him who keeps his eyes pinned on the horses neatly trotting in a circle.
The only indication he gives that he’s listening is a low grunt from the back of his throat.
“Sure, man.” The blonde guy snickers. “He’s right in there. ”
My gaze bounces between the two. I’m beginning to get the sense I’m missing a vital piece of the picture here, but all the same, I nod my head curtly and head for the barn.
The hinges on the door creak in protest and cigar smoke fills my nostrils when it opens to reveal a busy space lined with bunks.
Posters line the walls, some of scantily dressed women, others of bull riders or musicians.
Sitting around the rough wooden kitchen table littered with cards and liquor bottles are a handful more men dressed like something out of a Wranglers ad.
A lick of honey blonde catches my eye and a tall chick leans back in her chair and gives me a feline smile.
“Hey handsome, you here for me?” She grins, tilting one brow.
A couple of the guys laugh, but there are others who have gone wholly silent. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under right now. These boys don’t like me muscling into their territory.
“I’m looking for Mr. Landry.”
A small crease forms between her brows as she stares at me like I’ve just landed from space and started waving a white flag.
Her blue gaze travels down my thousand-dollar suit and I see a flicker of comprehension spark into life there.
“Oh, right. Mr. Landry. You just missed him, he’s gone to the office.
” She nods, flipping a poker chip between her fingers.
A muscle ticks in my jaw as my irritation flares. “Where is the office?”
“About half a mile that way, behind the stables.” Blondie hikes a thumb over her shoulder and turns her back on me. “Which one of you asshole’s money am I taking next, then?”
I blink in disbelief. Sucking in a deep breath through my nostrils at the obvious dismissal, I fight to retain control of my expression.
People don’t dismiss me. I’m the one everyone pays attention to.
The one everyone takes orders from without a second thought.
Turning on my heel, I stride out of the bunkhouse and take the path leading around the stables.
By the time I reach the dilapidated old red brick building that I presume to be the office, I’m pissed.
I’m sweating, covered in dust, I’ve likely got blisters, and I’m beginning to feel like this is a wild fucking goose chase.
The door bounces off the wall when I throw it open a little too hard, and the old guy sitting at a computer which looks like it was purchased in the nineties, snaps his head my way. “Mr. Landry?” I don’t quite manage to cover the ire lacing my voice.
“Nope, who’s asking?” The old man’s grey whiskers turn down into a frown as he looks me up and down.
“Logan Guerra. Guerra Industries. Mr. Landry’s daughter said he was at the bunkhouse. Bunkhouse said he was here,” I snap, pinching the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb.
“Ah.”
When I look back at the man, he’s taking his straw hat off slowly with an amused smile on his lined face, taking his time in neatly placing it on the ancient, grime-coated keyboard in front of him.
“Care to enlighten me on why that’s so funny to everyone around here? ” I growl through clenched teeth.
He turns steel grey eyes back to mine and pulls an unlit licorice roll-up from behind his ear, tapping it twice on the desk.
“Well son, Mr. Landry died six months ago.” I blink twice in rapid succession, which causes the old man to laugh.
“His daughter runs the place now. Nour Landry. If I know her, she’s probably hiding out in the barn. ”
My brain flashes through the brief conversation I had with Miles Compton before I landed. Fuck. He didn’t actually say the owner was male. I grit my teeth. Fuck it all to hell.