Rob wore a cocky expression and a half-smile as he took my hand and kissed it. “I wasn’t expecting a beautiful woman. I’m a little caught off guard here, Emily. I’m suddenly wishing now that I was the stallion with the issue.”

Uh oh.

Logan was standing behind me, but out of nowhere he was in front, the bulldog effect. I put my hand on his arm and squeezed. Please don’t ruin this for me. Rob was willing to pay whatever it took, and the horse needed me.

Rob laughed; it was more of a fake crackle really. “Sculpt from Tear Asunder. Just saw your picture in the Toronto Now magazine. Didn’t know you had a hand in horses. Not thoroughbreds, I imagine. I know everyone in the racing world. Shetlands, perhaps?”

I balked. I knew Logan wouldn’t have any idea what a Shetland was, and I was thanking God for that. The miniature ponies were cute and fuzzy, not something Logan would find amusing coming from Rob.

“Emily and I bring in abused horses. We’re not prejudice about the breed.” Logan looped his arm around my shoulders and tugged me close. Logan obviously believed that possession was nine-tenths of the law.

Suddenly Logan had made us into a couple, and I was uncertain whether he was just saying that to give Rob that impression or if he really did consider us together.

Rob’s brows rose. “Oh, I didn’t realize. And the pretty blonde in the picture?”

Wow. Rob knew how to play hardball, and I tried to ignore the comment, but still a wave of jealousy sifted through me at the thought of any pretty blonde on his arm. Was she a groupie maybe? Kat said the band was pretty popular now, and there would be tons of girls wanting more than just a picture with Logan.

I cleared my throat trying to draw both of their attention away from one another. “So, where’s the horse?”

Logan set his helmet down on the seat of his bike. It was a calculated move—slow, deliberate, and it freed up his hands. I’m sure Rob had no idea that Logan grew up fighting.

And I was going to lose a client which possibly meant a whole slew of new clients.

“I don’t play games, Richard. Emily belongs with me. You want to fuck with that then we have a problem. Give me a problem, then it makes Emily have one. She wants to work for an ass like you, that’s her business. You hitting on her, that’s mine.”

Yeah. I just lost a client.

My heart was racing probably just as fast as a thoroughbred’s in a starting gate. Rob was watching us both, his face showing me nothing as to whether he was going to kick us off the property or not.

“Let’s see that horse, shall we.” Rob turned and walked towards the barn, and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Then I smacked Logan in the chest. I hurt my hand, but refused to admit to it.

Logan didn’t react, but what he did do was cup my face, lean down and meet my eyes. “You, Emily. You’re worth fighting for. I fought all my life, but never for anything worthwhile. Now ... Now I’m fighting for my heart. Bullshit ends here and now.”

Any argument I had was burned with those words. But I couldn’t help still imagining him with his arm around some blonde. I pulled from his grasp and stepped back. “And the blonde?”

His look of surprise changed to a smile. “Blonde was a fan, baby. Wanted an autograph for her little brother.” He was quick as he snagged me around the waist and kissed me on the lips. “But I love you being jealous. It’s hot.”

“Hey, you coming? Horse is behind the stable,” Rob called.

Logan dropped his hands from my waist and I turned and headed for the barn, hearing Logan’s sexy chuckle behind me.

Logan

Logan watched Emily work with the chestnut stallion in the round pen. The dance she played with the horse was mesmerizing. She became another person, calmness settling over her as if nothing the stallion did could unglue her. She was patient and relaxed with a steady, consistent confidence that the stallion tried to test time and again with his antics.

It was magical. Emily was magical.

This bullshit she kept putting up between them had to stop. The bike—Christ, the bike with her up against him—was hot and pure torture. He could feel her body quivering, the pulse of her heartbeat against his back. It took two years to get the shit out of his life that robbed both of them of a chance together. According to Deck last night—that shit still wasn’t gone.

Rob had sent him into fight mode. He made it damn clear that Emily was his, and if developer slime ball didn’t respect that, then he was hauling her ass out of there. Not a chance was she working for some guy who didn’t respect her. Shit like that led to unwanted attention, and unwanted attention led to worse shit.

Rob came to stand beside him, arms hooking over the third rail of the fence. Logan didn’t bother acknowledging him.

“She’s good.”

Logan remained silent.

“I was skeptical when I heard about ‘the girl who speaks to horses.’ Googled her, but didn’t find much. Surprising considering how good she is.”

Logan kept his eyes forward. Emily was in the middle of the ring, eyes downcast, her body language inviting the stallion in. The horse’s eyes were calmer now. Then he lowered his head and walked slowly toward her. It was a beautiful sight. Ten minutes ago the whites of the stallion’s eyes were blazing, his muscles contracting, fear emanating from his every pore.

The stallion nudged her in the back with his muzzle, and Emily slowly turned and began stroking his nose.

“Ten minutes,” Rob said while shaking his head. “My guys have been trying to get near this horse for weeks.”

Logan chin-lifted toward her. “She’s always had a way with horses.”

“Sounds like you’ve known her a while?”

“Yeah, a while.” Logan kept his eyes glued to Eme. God, it reminded him of when they’d sit and watch the herd of quarter horses all day and she’d explain what they were doing, how a horse was telling the other to screw off. He could never see it, but Eme ... It was like she saw into them.

“Where did you meet?”

He really didn’t feel like explaining his past to some dick who hit on his girl, but he’d play semi-cordial for Emily’s sake. “An underground fighting ring.”

“Damn.” Rob cleared his throat then continued, “She needs a website. Your girl is good. She’d do well in the racing community. High profile. Lots of money.” Rob nodded toward Emily. “She’s a natural. If word gets out, and I’ll make sure it does, she’ll be turning down clients she’ll be so busy.”

He liked Rob calling Emily “your girl.” Maybe the guy wasn’t so bad after all— Fuck no. He was a guy, and he’d been thinking of getting in Emily’s pants. That thought doesn’t disappear because the guy got shot down. He’s still thinking what’s beneath her tight ass, and it pissed Logan off.

“Emily doesn’t have a website, might be because she doesn’t want to be busy.”

“Money talks. Never known anyone who’d turn it down. You ever turn down a gig if the money is good?”

No. But he would if need be.

“Better clear it with her before you go publicizing.” And she wasn’t traipsing off to every dick’s farm alone, not fuckin’ now. Jesus, he was on edge every second she was out of his sight. Shit had to go down soon or he’d have to tell her what was happening and he’d do everything he could to avoid that. Seeing that fear in her eyes again—no. Never. Again. Deck said they were close. That he was handling it.

Rob turned to him, brows raised, eyes questioning. “Pretty hard to stay in the shadows when you’re dating the lead singer of an up-and-coming band.”

“Yeah well, Eme’s tougher than she looks. She’ll deal with whatever is thrown her way.” And those words were truer than Rob would ever know. Eme had spirit, more than she gave herself credit for; he’d seen it in her the day they met.

Shit, Emily had come right up to him at in an abandoned warehouse where he’d just pulverized his opponent. He had a cut on his temple, blood running down his face, and no shirt.

She’d wrapped her small, delicate hand around his bicep, and he remembered wondering where the sexy blonde who had latched onto him had fucked off to. He’d just won a shitload of money and was running off adrenaline. Raul had been there that night. It was the first time Logan had seen him since he was sixteen; so he was revved up and fucked up.

Emily had been wearing short cut-off jeans, a cute little pink top with sparkles on the front, and her hair was a mess. Her long, brown strands reached past her shoulders and were having a hard time deciding which side to part on.

Did he fall in love right there? No. Not even close. She was timid and couldn’t meet his eyes; there was no sexiness about her. Fuck, he could remember thinking that fucking her would be boring as hell. He told her he didn’t do brunettes. Not a lie, he never did.

He would’ve walked away and never given her a second thought except when she said, “I need to learn how to fight.”

He’d laughed, pretty damn hard, and he rarely laughed. She looked like a mouse—small, couldn’t be more than five foot four, tiny little nose, petite waist, sweet hips. He remembered thinking for one second, despite her meekness, that those hips would be nice to grab as he pumped into her from behind. That thought pulverized when she told him why she wanted to learn how to fight, and then he felt like a goddamn schmuck for thinking that.

Then Kite came up, and that was it. Girl forgotten.

But she persisted, and that’s when he knew there was something more to her than he first thought. When she grabbed his arm, fingers curling around his bicep, he’d looked down at her small hand against his skin and felt strange warmth shoot through him. He told her to let go, but the words didn’t stick, because for some reason he didn’t want her to let him go. At the time, he’d put it to the adrenaline still rifting through him.

He watched as she shook her head to tell him she wasn’t listening. Her hair fell in front of her eyes, and he had the urge to push it back. It was like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. He didn’t like getting sucker punched—at all.

She looked down at her feet, shuffled a bit then met his gaze dead on. When she said, “I was attacked after work by a guy ...”

Rage rose up in him so fuckin’ high that he was ready to get in the ring and beat the crap out of his next opponent. The words tearing out of his mouth felt like acid, and he could only hold his breath waiting for an answer, because if this chick was getting— Jesus, he couldn’t even say the word and the thought made him sick to his stomach. It brought back memories of the screams, the girls beaten, the abuse, and his father. It may have hit him harder than usual because of seeing his father that night. But when he asked if she was sexually assaulted and she told him no, it was like a wave of cool relief blanketed him.

Thank fuck.

He had stared down at the delicate fingers over his bulging muscle. Imagining that hand curled into a fist ... No, he couldn’t.

Then he was being an asshole, telling her how she could never fight, because really, picturing this girl having to fight anyone was pissing him off. He felt like wrapping her up in his arms and carrying her away from all the bad shit in the world.