The Cowboy's Baby Bargain

The Cowboy's Baby Bargain
Emilie Rose

Motivational speaker Brooke Blake spent her life making other people's dreams come true, and yet she'd decided she'd have to go to a sperm bank to make her fondest dream a reality. But that was before one shattering night of passion with a slow-talking Texan rocked her world to its foundations.Then Caleb Lander, the cowboy who'd awakened unsuspected desires within her, discovered she was the outsider who'd bought his family's homestead. So Brooke offered him what she thought was a simple business deal–the ranch for him, a baby for her.Trouble was, the more time she spent in this man's bed, the more she wanted it all–the baby, the ranch and the cowboy!

He’d Tracked Her Down.

Her memories hadn’t done this cowboy justice. She’d forgotten how handsome he was. Six feet of solid muscle. And oh what he could do with those muscles.

“Caleb.”

A passion so hot she nearly ignited replaced the surprise in his eyes, and then he scowled. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“I live here. I bought the ranch.”

“You bought the ranch?” His voice was filled with anger and disbelief.

“Yes,” Brooke replied, “for my motivational retreat.”

His broad shoulders relaxed. “Good. Then you won’t need the pastures.”

“Why are you concerned about my land?” she asked.

“I live next door. For the last ten years I’ve leased acreage from the previous owner for my herd. I need to continue.”

He lived next door. All she had to do to be reminded of the night she’d lost control and loved every minute of it was look over the fence. She struggled for calm and reason. “Caleb, I think you’d better come inside….”

The Cowboy’s Baby Bargain

Emilie Rose

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

EMILIE ROSE

lives in North Carolina with her college sweetheart husband and four sons. This bestselling author’s love for romance novels developed when she was twelve years old and her mother hid the books under sofa cushions each time Emilie entered the room. Emilie grew up riding and showing horses. She’s a devoted baseball mom during the season and can usually be found in the bleachers watching one of her sons play. Her hobbies include quilting, cooking (especially cheesecake) and anything cowboy. Her favorite TV shows include the Discovery Channel’s medical programs, ER, CSI and Boston Public. Emilie’s a country music fan because there’s an entire book in nearly every song.

Emilie loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at P.O. Box 20145, Raleigh, NC 27619 or at http://www.EmilieRose.com.

Thanks, Dad,

for always being there for me and my boys. And thanks to Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, my support team.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

One

Brooke Blake picked up her beer, sipped and grimaced. Success was an acquired taste. Evidently, so was the bitter, yeasty brew in the longneck bottle. But she was determined to experience everything her new home state had to offer—including the beer bottled here.

Glancing at her watch, she granted herself ten minutes to brood over the contradictory state of her life. Professionally, her success as a bestselling motivational author and speaker continued to rise, but her credibility was in jeopardy because personally, she needed a lifestyle makeover. She’d failed to achieve her most important goal ever.

She’d calculated and taken all the appropriate steps, but her goal of having a family by her thirty-fifth birthday had eluded her. What had she overlooked in her approach? Opening her Day Planner, she flipped back until she found her five-year plan.

The door of the bar opened. A draft of fresh air stirred the smoke hovering over the room and ruffled the pages of her planner. Lifting her gaze to the mirror behind the bar, she studied the cowboy’s reflection when he paused to survey the room. Until the door closed behind him the fading afternoon light silhouetted his slim hips and broad shoulders. Nice, but alas, not her type. The only Remingtons she wanted to possess were cast in bronze and made to sit on a mantel. This guy looked like he could have posed for the artist. All he needed were chaps, a horse and a lariat thrown over his shoulder.

He crossed the hardwood floor with the grace of an athlete and the presence of a man used to leading not following. She was abundantly familiar with the type and had discovered that most of them felt threatened by a successful woman.

Specifically her.

He made his way toward the bar and stopped behind her, catching her gaze in the mirror. She hoped he hadn’t considered her scrutiny an invitation, but was prepared to correct him if he had. Unwanted attention was a part of her job. She turned to face him and forgot all about the polite rejection she’d mastered years ago.

The cowboy’s reflection in the cloudy mirror hadn’t done him justice. The hard angles and planes of his face were too rough to be classified as handsome, but she found him compelling regardless. Dark stubble covered a stubborn, square jaw with an incredibly sexy cleft. In his long-sleeved chambray shirt, opened just enough to reveal dark chest hair, and Wranglers snug enough to reveal rather impressive territory, he could have stepped right off the pages of a calendar geared toward women with Wild West fantasies.

Specifically, not her. She preferred the academic type.

His gaze drifted over her the way the lazy stream wandered over her new ranch—slow and easy with numerous detours. His eyes, the rich brown of coffee beans, affected her like a shot of espresso. Unwelcome awareness rippled through her, settling in the pit of her stomach.

He removed his hat, revealing thick, glossy hair the same coffee-rich shade. “Mind if I sit?”

His voice was middle-of-the-night-secrets deep, and his soft, full lips were made to whisper sweet nothings in some woman’s ear. But not hers. She liked her men more refined, more…urban, but for a moment she wondered what it would be like to make love to a man as primitive as this one. She seriously doubted it would be the kind of silent, civilized coupling to which she’d become accustomed. This man would be earthier, noisier. More adventurous.

Shutting down her improper, but stimulating, mental meanderings, she straightened her shoulders and glanced around the room. She’d been so intent on discovering the glitch in her goals that she hadn’t noticed the bar filling. The only empty seat was the one beside hers.

Her type or not, the cowboy would be sharing her space. She lifted her purse from the stool beside her and hung it on the wooden slatted back of her own. “Be my guest.”