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"You're going to give up all this…and go country?"

"Yes." Warren Drake calmly palmed a paperweight, eyeing Richard Cunningham—his childhood friend—and wondered about the wisdom of his mother's request. Even more, he was second-guessing the sanity of his agreeing to do what she wanted.

The fact was, in leaving his plush condo located in the tony town of Paradise Cove and "going country," as Richard put it, Warren wasn't giving up anything. By moving twenty miles east of where he'd grown up to the sprawling countryside, he was gaining a front-row view to the business he'd cultivated for the past five years—almost seven hundred acres of top-quality grapes. This was one of the most lucrative crops one could grow in California, and taking his cousin Donovan Drake's advice to do so was one of the best business decisions he'd ever made. But Richard didn't need to know this. Because of his mother's kindness, this New Orleans native whom Warren had known since childhood was deep enough in the Drake pockets already.

"If you're having second thoughts about working with me and thinking about going back south, I understand." And I'd be grateful.

"No, man, your mother was kind enough to give me a chance, helping me to get back on my feet after all this time spent away, to get a new start in life. I'm going to try and do her proud, War. And honor the memory of my mom."

Warren nodded. Maybe he was being too hard on Richard, too judgmental. Unlike Warren, who'd grown up in a comfortable, loving two-parent family, Richard had grown up in a single-parent family, on the bad side of town, barely knowing his father and basically being the man of the house by the time he was ten. He'd met Warren's grandfather Walter during a mentor program sponsored by the Boys & Girls Club and became a fixture in the elder man's household. During Warren's summers spent in New Orleans and frequent visits in between, the two became as close as brothers. They'd even chosen to attend the same college and roomed together for a time. Then came senior year and Richard's bad choices. Errant focus. Wrong crowd. He dropped out of college and began dabbling in illegal activities. Warren flourished in the family business. Richard floundered in jail. They hadn't seen each other in eight or nine years.

"So are you sure you can handle it, Rich? Working construction? I don't remember you ever working with your hands."

"I'm a quick learner. But I still think you should make me a supervisor. I'm a born leader, man. And I'm used to managing a crew. The product I was pushing may have been illegal, but while it lasted my ship was tight!"

Warren shook his head as he answered his ringing phone. "Hey, Jackson. What's up?" He paused to listen, and watched as Richard picked up and examined the paperweight. "All right, then. I'll see you in about fifteen." He ended the call and stood. "That was my brother-in-law. He's at the site. You want to roll out with me?"

"Sure." Richard palmed the paperweight. "Is this solid gold, man?"

"Yes. Mined right in this part of the country."

"Word?"

Warren said nothing further, and silently berated himself for that slip of the tongue. He'd known Richard his whole life, but they were no longer close. People changed. He reminded himself that the less this former best friend knew about what had once been found on his family's land—and anything else about the family businesses—the better.

Picture-perfect scenery flew by them as Warren's sporty Maserati ate up the short distance between his condo located in the gated community of Golden Gates and the property located in what would one day be zoned as Paradise Valley. The weather had turned hot on this August afternoon, lazy clouds floated across an azure-blue sky and sunflowers dotted the landscape before row after row of grapevines, encased by a newly built wrought-iron fence, signaled the beginning of Drake land. He turned onto a plot that had been cleared for building, noting Jackson's rented pickup and another car belonging to the local subcontractor. The two men exited the car, careful of the jutting rocks and clods of soil.

"Mr. Wright!"

"Mr. Drake!"

They gave each other a fist pound.

"Boss, this is an old friend of mine, Richard Cunningham. Richard, this is my brother-in-law, Jackson 'Boss' Wright, owner of one of the best construction companies this side of the Mississippi."

Richard stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Boss, huh? A pleasure."

Jackson shook it. "Yes, but I had the nickname before owning a company. My mother gave it to me when I was about two years old and owned nothing, not even the wet diaper on my behind."

The men laughed. Warren nodded at the roll of paper that Jackson was holding. "So what have we here?"

"The final blueprints for your house." He pointed to various sticks with twine around them. "We've got everything marked out, rooms, deck, swimming pool, guest houses and the expansion for your stables. Just wanted to walk you through everything one final time before we get started. If everything meets your approval, we'll start excavating for the foundation right away. Brandon, the foreman, will keep things flowing smoothly during the days that I'm gone."

"I'm ready to get started," Warren said, rubbing his hands in excitement. "Let's…" The sentence died on his tongue as the sound of hard-hitting hoofbeats caught his ear. As one, the three men turned toward the sound. A lone rider, looking strong and sure in the saddle, was approaching. He wore jeans, an oversize button-down shirt, a cowboy hat and a red bandanna over his mouth and nose. The rider jumped a small bush in the horse's path effortlessly, standing in the stirrups as the horse landed, then continued to what was his clear destination—them.

"Good rider," Warren mumbled, clearly impressed.

"A real-life cowboy," Richard drawled. "You're going country for real."

The rider reached them and pulled up on the reins. From his superior position, he peered in silence, eyes shielded with a pair of dark shades. After a few seconds he dismounted, pulled down the kerchief and took off his hat.

The three men stepped back in unison, brows raised, dumbstruck.

Long curly hair tumbled around the rider's shoulders and lips that at least one man guessed were soft and quite attractive were fixed in a firm line. A slender hand pushed the dark glasses up on her head and the hair from her face. Chocolate orbs framed by curly black lashes seared them with their intensity.

A subtle look of incredulity passed between the men.

He was a she?

Indeed. And a sexy she at that.

But Ms. Sexy did not look happy.

"Charli Reed," she announced, her eyes narrowed, her stance defensive. "Is one of you the owner of this place?"

Warren stepped forward. "I am. Warren Drake." He held out his hand, noting a flash of something—recognition, maybe—in her eyes. "Are you my neighbor?"

"I am," she replied, ignoring his outstretched hand and crossing her arms instead. "And we've got a problem."

Chapter 2

You've got a problem?" Richard, pretty boy and eternal ladies' man, took a step toward Charli, eyeing her much like a hungry dog would a biscuit. "Well, baby girl.I'm a problem solver."

If looks could kill, for Richard it would have been time for ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Her eyes slid from him to Jackson and back before returning to Warren.

Richard backed up, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"I've got a problem with your fence. You've enclosed the stream that my cows have used for the last ten years. The next water source is two miles away."

Warren's first thought was wondering how her cows were his problem. He didn't have long to wait for clarification.

"That stream is on Reed land."

Warren looked at Jackson, who gave a slight nod and walked to a large black pickup. "My people had the land surveyed five years ago, when the first vines were planted. The fence was erected based on those specs."

"I don't care what the paper says. That stream is for my cows. We need access. You need to move your fence."

Warren scowled. Who did this gorgeous cup of cocoa think she was? "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken."

Jackson returned from his truck with survey in hand. He unrolled it, giving one end to Warren to hold while he held the other and pointed to property lines. "Here is the lake, Ms. Reed," he said, pointing to the paper. "And here is the Drake property line."

Charli glanced at the paper and said nothing.

"We had everything double-checked before we erected the fence," Warren said as Jackson rolled up the proof and placed it under his arm. "Not only against the original paperwork filed at the courthouse, but with another top-rate surveyor." He crossed his arms, matching her stance. "All of the property within the fence is mine."

"How many acres is this—" she spread her arms "—property of yours?"

"I can't see how that's any of your business."

"Maybe not. But it's a shame that with all that you own we're standing here squabbling about a half acre or less that you probably won't even see, let alone that you'll need."

"Be that as it may, it's my land and my fence."

A stare-off ensued, during which time Warren took note of a few things: the color of her eyes, her kissable long neck and how even with an oversize shirt he could tell that she was wearing the hell out of that pair of jeans.

"My contractor and I need to get back to work. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes." Charli spun on her heel, placed a well-worn boot into the stirrup and swung up onto the chestnut-colored stallion in one fluid motion. "You can go to hell."

Warren watched the trail of dust that followed his feisty neighbor down the winding drive. "You know," he drawled to Jackson and Richard as she rounded the bend and galloped out of sight. "I think Miss Charli needs to learn how to say how she really feels."

Charli used long, strong brushstrokes on the horse's coat, thankful to have something to do. She was still ticked off—okay, livid—after her encounter with her jerk of a neighbor, Warren Drake. Even after riding hard all the way home, going past her house and giving the horse his head for a good five minutes. After helping the ranch hands round up a herd of cattle, and tossing up heavy bales of hay for the next day's feeding, there was still enough pent-up frustration for her to go fifteen rounds with a punching bag. Or a neighbor.

For the past two years, ever since she'd returned to the land she loved and regained the reins of her grandfather Charles Reed's dream to stave off a foreclosure, Charli had been exhausted but content. She'd finally found the peace that had eluded her for the past few years, peace that had first been shattered when her grandfather—her rock—died, and then had further been obliterated by the dissolution of an engagement that never should have occurred. Coming back to the ranch had been like coming home. Most of the old hands still worked there, and treated her with the respect they'd given Charles Reed. The house manager, whom she called her play uncle, Griff, was now the closest thing she had to family and treated her like his own. It hadn't hurt that all of them had known her since she was knee-high to a gnat, or that she could ride and rope with the best of them—a country girl through and through.

"I can't believe the audacity of that man," she grumbled in time with the brushstroke. Or how tall and handsome he is, or how his muscles flexed when he crossed his arms.

"Arrogant jerk." Blessed with a cleft and dimples? How unfair! Her grandfather had talked about the Drakes, how they'd swept into town decades ago, buying up acres of land. What had once been miles and miles of empty fields eventually became Paradise Cove, incorporated by Walter's son, Ike Drake Sr., and his highbrow friends.

"They're a bunch of self-absorbed, bourgie possums, Gramps, just like you said." But what he hadn't told her was how handsome a Drake man could be, or what to do when just five minutes in his presence had made her heart go boom.

Chapter 3

Son! This is a surprise." Jennifer Drake stood back from the door so that Warren could enter the oversize foyer.

"Hello, Mom."

She reached up to give him a hug. "Where are Richard and Jackson?"

"Dropped Richard back off at his apartment. As we were wrapping up, Boss got a phone call that forced him to cancel his plans to join us."

"From whom?"

"Diamond. She flew up to surprise him with a romantic weekend in San Francisco."

"Oh, that's a lovely thing for his wife to do."

Warren's father, Ike, came around the corner, a predin-ner tumbler of scotch in hand. "Hey there, Warren. How'd it go today?"

"It was interesting."

"Son, can I fix you a drink?"

"Sure, Mom. Thanks."

"Will you be staying for dinner? The twins are coming over."

"Don't they always?" They could consume a whole pig between the two of them, but it was no secret that neither Terrell nor Teresa, Warren's younger siblings by two years, liked to cook. "What about Niko?"

"Out on a date." Jennifer didn't try and hide her chagrin for Warren's older brother's choice. "He must be with Ashley."

"I don't know why he can't see what's painfully obvious. That girl is chasing dollar signs."

"Now, Jennifer," Ike said, his voice somber and a tad chiding. "He's a grown man. We've done our job in raising him. He has to make his own way."

Jennifer prepared to say something, thought better of it and left the room to get Warren's scotch.

"Come on, son." Ike headed into the great room. Warren followed behind, noting the vases of colorful and fresh flowers they passed on the way, evidence of his mother's artistic hand. When he married, Warren wanted someone like her: beautiful, strong, intelligent, classy.

His father took a seat in one of two leather wingback chairs. Warren took the other one. "So you say your day was interesting. How so?"

"I met my neighbor." Ike took a sip as he nodded, listened. "She wasn't too happy to see me."

"She?"

"That was my reaction." He paused as Jennifer brought in his tumbler of scotch. He took a taste as his mother sat on the nearby couch. "Her name is Charli Reed."

"Reed?" his parents said at once.

He looked from one to the other and didn't miss their raised-brow exchange. "What's up with that reaction?"

"Just surprised, son, that's all. We thought the Reeds had sold that place a few years ago, after Charles died."

"Who's Charles?"

"He used to be in business with your grandfather," Jennifer offered, placing her crystal flute of sherry on the table.

"It was after he was honorably discharged from the service."

"After his injury?"

Ike nodded. "They had another buddy who told him about the property, which at that time went for pennies on the dollar. They bought up all one thousand acres and at one time had a modestly profitable dairy farm."