Read an Excerpt
Copyright © Sara Ohlin 2019. All Rights Reserved, Totally Entwined Group Limited, T/A Totally Bound Publishing.
Cruz stood at the edge of the bluff above the Pacific. The ocean brooded, inky-dark and dangerous, while the wind whipped it onto the shore. He let the cadence of wild, crashing waves and gusting wind wash over him. He loved the water in its fierce and powerful nature as much as he loved it when it was calm and patient. Wide and open, the beach stretched on, completely untouched by footprints, secluded and vulnerable all at the same time.
He took one lasting breath of the misty sea air and headed towards his farm. His farm. He still had moments when he couldn’t believe it.
Wispy slips of fog teased and lifted around Cruz, revealing the morning dew on the grass as he made his way up towards the main house of Brockman Farms. Mornings on the farm were his favorite, the way the new light barely stroked the land, how the hues of everything were rich in those few moments of soft sun and leftover darkness. The salty air mixed with the scent of damp earth as it rose up. Home—Cruz was finally home—a place most people took for granted.
He’d been back in Graciella for five weeks after more than a decade away. His relief on hearing that his father, T.D. Brockman, was finally dead had been such that he’d nearly wept like a baby when his brother Adam had called with the news.
Thank goodness no one had seen his near breakdown. And that it hadn’t lasted long. He could finally breathe clear and easy here on this land he loved, knowing the monsters were gone. He aimed to do more than breathe easy, however. It was his time to take care of the farm and all the people who depended on it—and to put his stamp on something valuable.
As much as he liked helping out at the barns, this morning dictated that he make a dent on the estate paperwork and duties. That didn’t mean he had to do it without a fresh cup of coffee. Cruz entered the main house through the back to grab a mug of their housekeeper Elena’s rich espresso brew in the kitchen before he got to work.
Fueled by caffeine, he sat at T.D. Brockman’s old desk, going through bank statements and employee schedules. Since he’d returned, the phone hadn’t quit ringing with condolences for his father’s death and calls from the press. He wasn’t sure which group won the award for insincerity.
Who could blame them? T.D. Brockman had taken pleasure in his ruthless way of doing business. But he’d been a wealthy bastard, owning most of the commercial properties in downtown Graciella. And the farm was spread out over two hundred and fifty thousand acres, nestled between Oregon wine country and the prized breathtaking Pacific coast. Money was involved, and where money was involved, people were curious. What would happen now that he was dead? Everyone wanted to know.
The phone rang again. “Brockman Farms,” Cruz answered, the words clipped at one more interruption.
“Mr. Brockman? This is Ms. Selby from the Oregonian.”
Another reporter. “The family has no comment at this time.”
“Please, Mr. Brockman—”
“No comment!” Cruz said through clenched teeth and slammed the receiver down. The only reason he’d left the damn thing plugged in was because there were legitimate calls from banks and people regarding T.D.’s investments that Cruz had to deal with as executor.
“You must be Cruz Brockman.”
Cruz looked up at the musical voice. Normally he wouldn’t have to force a smile for anyone, let alone for an elegant woman. “Hello,” he said and tried to punch down his irritation. “Can I help you?”
“Do you ever wait to see who’s on the other end or are you that rude to everyone on the phone?” she asked as she walked into the room. Her body language might have said cool and put-together, but the haughty tone in her voice gave away one serious, pissed-off attitude.
“Excuse me?” He pushed his chair back and stood. “This is my office and if I remember correctly, I smiled and said hello. Perhaps you’d like to start over—”
“Mr. Brockman,” she snapped.
He locked his gaze with hers and came around from behind the desk. “I said, perhaps you’d like to start over.” His tone was sharp, no longer concealing his frustration.
“I’m Miranda Jenks, the audit accountant. I’ve been trying to contact you for days to let you know when I’d be arriving, but your phone etiquette made that impossible. The times you actually picked up the phone, you hung up on me before I could say more than three words. I finally got hold of your lawyer. He should have mentioned I’d be here today.”
Gorgeous and haughty, what a combination, like a goddess rising from the morning’s crashing waves. The image, unbidden, teased through his temper. Cruz half-listened as he studied her. In her charcoal-gray suit and black high heels, with that tone of reprimand in her voice, she reminded him of his finance professor in college, who’d believed Cruz’s choice of photojournalism a waste of time. That was where the similarities came to a screeching halt. His professor had been in her sixties, very short and very thick.
The woman in front of him certainly wasn’t sixty, short or thick. In fact, she looked more like she could stand to eat a good meal or two. Contradictions surrounded her. Deep, confident and extremely sexy, her voice was like a rich port. It also vibrated with indignation. But the rest of her seemed guarded. Her long dark hair was pulled back and held in a simple ribbon at her neck. Tall and stiff, she did a good job of trying to pretend calm. Gaunt cheekbones shaped her face and dark circles rested under her eyes. Very green, very frustrated eyes. That expressive gaze and sultry voice were at odds with the rest of her controlled, veiled demeanor.
