The Cowgirl's CEO

“NASCAR fan or not, let In the Groove drive you to distraction.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)

“A fairy tale that succeeds.”

—Publishers Weekly on Scandal

“This is the kind of book that romance fans will read and reread on gloomy days.”

—Publishers Weekly on Tempted

“Passion and humor are a potent combination…author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend.”

—Oakland Press

“This nonstop read has it all–sizzling sexuality, unforgettable characters, poignancy, a delightful plot and a well-crafted backdrop.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (Top Pick) on Tempted

“It isn’t easy to write a tale that makes the reader laugh and cry, but Britton succeeds, thanks to her great characters.”

—Booklist (starred review) on Seduced

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to believe that my Rodeo Wranglers series is at an end. It seems like just yesterday I was planning each book. Now here we are, and the series is over. Where has all the time gone?

I hope I saved the best for last. The Cowgirl’s CEO is a definite change of pace from my other Rodeo Wrangler stories. Each of my previous books featured hunky cowboys, but this time I turned things around a bit and wrote about a cowgirl.

I hope you enjoy Carolyn and Ty’s story, and that you’ve had fun spending time with the townspeople of Los Molina. It might interest you to know that Los Molina is based on my own small hometown of Cottonwood, California. I’ve even been so bold as to steal real business names such as The Elegant Bean, our local espresso shop, which is where I write my books. (If you’re ever in town, stop by!)

If a trip to Northern California isn’t in your plans, please stop by my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com. Or “friend” me on Myspace: www.myspace.com/pamela_britton.

Thanks for riding along with me. As one of my heroes might say, “It’s been a real pleasure, ladies and gentlemen!”

Pamela Britton

The Cowgirl’s CEO

Pamela Britton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

With over a million books in print, PAMELA BRITTON likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine. Channel surf and you might see her on The Today Show, Nightline or World News Tonight.

But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including a National Reader’s Choice, and has been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.

When not following the race circuit, Pamela writes full-time from her ranch in Northern California, where she lives with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.

Books by Pamela Britton

MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE

985—COWBOY LESSONS

1040—COWBOY TROUBLE

1122—COWBOY M.D.

1143—COWBOY VET

HQN BOOKS

DANGEROUS CURVES

IN THE GROOVE

This one’s for my husband because it’s been a while since I’ve dedicated a book to him even though, truth be told, they’re all for him. I know you’re reading this, Pooh Bear, because I always see you sneak a peek at this page (and you thought I wasn’t paying attention!). Thank you for always being there to give me the man’s perspective, and for coming up with silly plot devices that turn out to be not so silly after all, and for all the other things you do that are too numerous to list.

I <3 U!

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

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

The horse reared.

“Easy there,” Caro said, her chest making contact with the paint’s mane. She tightened her legs, holding on. “Whoa,” she added, her black cowboy hat almost falling from her head.

Thumper came back to earth with a snort and a shake of his black mane, only to spin around. Caro did her best to point toward the narrow alley that led to the arena—and Thumper’s freedom.

“Easy there, boy,” she said, jamming down her hat.

The gelding half reared again, his mouth working the bit, flecks of foam landing on his sweaty chest. Fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh tensed, muscles at the ready, all waiting for one thing: Caro to let him go.

“Not yet,” she told him, glancing left.

He was still there.

She’d noticed the man during her warm-up. The indoor sports complex didn’t have a big practice pen, and since only rodeo competitors were allowed behind the chutes, spectators were rare. He stood out like a tick on a hound in his brown sports coat and beige cotton slacks. His tan cowboy hat shielded his eyes from her view at the moment, but they’d been trained on her the whole time she and Thumper had been loping around the ring. Eyes as black as the hair beneath his hat.

The roar of the crowd caused Thumper to lift his head, ears pricked forward. The rider on course was nearing the end of her run. Caro couldn’t see inside the arena; the sports venue had been built for basketball and hockey, not cowgirls and cowboys. She and Thumper were tucked around a corner, so that when it was their turn to run, they’d have to race through a narrow corridor lined with aluminum fences, veer left and then crank up the speed.

Thumper lunged. Caro checked him again. Linda charged out of the tunnel right then.

Time to go.

The gate man called her number over the roar of the crowd. “One seventy-nine!” Caro could hear the voice of the rodeo announcer, but was too far away to catch how good a run Linda had had.

“Easy, boy,” Caro said, because she could see Thumper’s shoulder twitch, a certain sign he was about to erupt.

All right, Daddy, Caro prayed. Here I go again. Help me out if you can.

She applied pressure, and that was all it took. A simple squeeze. No kick, no leather strap, nothing. And even though she expected it, Caro’s upper body still jerked back, her hat almost knocked off again. The paper number pinned to her back rustled. She righted herself about the time she passed by the man who’d been watching her, her left hand on her hat, holding it in place. The arena opened up before her. She focused, not even hearing the screams of the fans. Thumper’s stride grew long. There it was: the first barrel.

Three…two…one…

They began to turn, Thumper’s hooves digging into the ground. The smell of dirt filled her nose as they leaned and tilted some more, lower still….

Her knee brushed the barrel.

She gasped. The obstacle rocked. She stretched out her arm and tried to right it, but couldn’t reach it. And now Thumper was moving on to the second barrel. Had the first one fallen? She didn’t know. Couldn’t look back. Rodeo fans rose to their feet as she careered toward the next obstacle.

Three…two…

Too fast. She tried to pull up. Thumper didn’t respond, but began his turn. It felt like being on the end of a yo-yo. Caro hung on the whole trip around, and when she looked up, she could see the first barrel. It still stood.

Thank God.

One more to go.

She thrust her upper body forward, her silky shirt with its glittering rhinestones glistening beneath the arena lights. This would be the longest run. They’d have the most speed, too, and so the timing needed to be perfect.

Three…two…one…

There. Perfect. She leaned once more. Thumper shifted, too. It felt fast.

Bam.

Her knee again. Damn it. She shot a glance back as they charged away.

The barrel stood!

Thank you, Lord, she breathed, closing her eyes for a split second. When she opened them again, she and Thumper were halfway down the arena. She could feel the saddle hit Thumper’s back. Thump, thump, thump…her reason for naming him. Faster and faster. The wind made her eyes tear. And then she and the gelding dashed through the electronic beams that tracked the elapsing seconds.

“Thirteen point forty-three!” she heard the announcer say. “Wow! That’s our best time right there, ladies and gentlemen. Caroline Sheppard is leading the barrel racing….”

She tuned the words out. Fast time. That was all she’d needed to hear. But would it hold up?

Thumper resisted when she pulled back, but Caro demanded he obey. He slowed. They passed beneath the concrete archway and into the tunnel, turned right. “Whoa,” she ordered.

Reluctantly, Thumper did as asked. “Good boy,” she said, patting his neck. He was dripping with sweat.

“Nice run,” Melanie said from the back of a horse that was rearing and snorting as badly as Thumper had been.

“Thanks.” Caro trotted past her toward the warm-up arena. She glanced around. Her male friend was gone.

Thumper finally decided to walk, so Caro loosened the reins. Her horse dropped his head, his sides expanding and contracting as he fought to catch his breath. She breathed heavily, too, the adrenaline of running barrels a high that never ceased.

And there he was.

She stiffened in the saddle. The man blocked her path. How had he got into the competitors’ area?

“Caroline Sheppard?” he asked.

Green. His eyes were green, not black, after all. A soul-piercing, breath-stealing green. The guy looked up at her as if he owned her—and in a way he did. Tyler Harrison, she realized. Owner of Harrison’s Boots. The Harrison name was synonymous with quality boots, recognized the world over. The name was also on every piece of equipment she owned: her saddle pad, her horse trailer, her truck. Harrison’s was her sponsor, and she could tell by those eyes that Tyler Harrison was seriously displeased.

Maybe she should have returned his calls—all ten of them.

She was stunning.

Ty had known that. When his PR department had shown him pictures of her all those months ago, he’d realized immediately what a gold mine they’d have if she made it to the Wranglers National Finals Rodeo—the NFR. And here she was, just a few weeks away from doing that very thing.

But what the photographs hadn’t told him was that in person her hair was as gold as summer wheat. And that her grayish-blue eyes glowed with passion. Sitting on her horse earlier, the black-and-white gelding doing his best to unseat her, she’d looked magnificent. Like something out of the Old West: fearless, proud, determined. Ty had been unable to keep from staring at her as she’d rode her pattern, flawlessly guiding her horse around all three barrels.

She excited him.

He hadn’t expected that, wondered if it might be a problem. But, no, he quickly reassured himself. It wouldn’t be. He was good at keeping his head on straight when it came to business matters, and he definitely had business with Ms. Sheppard.

“Mr. Harrison,” she said, with a smile that could only be called impatient. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?”

She’d recognized him. Surprising. They’d never met, although he supposed his picture had appeared in enough western magazines that she might have seen his photo a time or two.

“You know why I didn’t tell you I’d be here.”

She looked guilty, then contrite and finally amused. “You going to arrest me then?” she asked. “Am I in trouble for failure to return a sponsor’s calls?”

“Your horse looks as if he needs cooling down,” he answered brusquely, unwilling to play along. He was still peeved. They’d spent thousands of dollars supporting her rodeo career this year. The least she could have done was call them back. But they’d been trying to track her down for weeks. Rodeo performers, he’d learned, were as fickle as the wind. They could enter two, three, sometimes five rodeos a weekend—but they didn’t always show up at them. Figuring out which ones Caroline Sheppard had entered had been like throwing darts at a board.

“Let me slide off,” she said, dropping her reins before swinging her right leg over the saddle and slipping to the ground.

She was tiny. When he’d seen her out in the arena, her lithe body clinging to her horse, blond hair streaming behind her like the tail of the horse she rode, she’d looked tall. But clearly that had been an illusion. Standing beside him, she barely came to Ty’s shoulder.

“Look,” she said, “I’ve been busy. Making it to the NFR is the most important thing in the world to me.”

“More important than your sponsor?”

She winced, patting her horse’s neck as they went through an opening in the pipe panels. “I don’t really have time to go off and film a commercial or talk to reporters or whatever else you have planned for me.”

“It’s part of the contract,” he said, resisting the urge to add that she was currently in breach of that contract.

“I know that,” she said, pausing for a second along the rail. “But can’t we do it later?”

“No, we need you to film the commercial now. Before you make it to the NFR.”

“If I make it.”

“You will.”

“Not if I’m off filming a commercial.”

She stumbled on a clod of dirt. He steadied her.

Mistake.

“Thank you,” she said.

He released her, clenching his hands afterward.

“The dirt they truck in for a rodeo is never any good,” she said. “It clumps together like kitty litter.”

“I see that,” he murmured.

He’d wanted to meet her face to face he suddenly realized. Had been fascinated by her photo. After watching her ride, he found his interest had only grown.

“We’ll do everything we can to make this easy on you,” he said. “We’re not asking you to fly off and film the commercial at a different location. We’ll come to you. We just need a few hours of your time.”

She watched a horse and rider walk by. Ty followed suit, their gazes meeting again as she said, “Just a few hours.” Her shoulder brushed her horse’s neck.

She was beyond pretty, he thought. Gorgeous was a more apt word. And as he stared down at her, the idea popped into his head that perhaps his interest in her was bordering on personal.

“Will you commit to that?” he asked.

“Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

They’d made it to the warm-up arena he’d been watching her in earlier. She stopped outside the gate.

“You’re right. You don’t,” he said, out of patience. “The NFR is in less than a month. We need to get the commercial in the can well before then.”

She didn’t say anything, just continued to appear irritated.

“When do you have to leave for your next rodeo?” he asked, pulling out his Blackberry.

She let loose a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be in Louisiana on Saturday.”

He checked his schedule. “Then I guess Louisiana it is.”

She shook her head, fiddling with the reins. “Saturday morning. That would be the best time. Before the rodeo starts.”

“Saturday,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

Chapter Two

I’ll see you there.

Caro replayed the words during the long drive to Louisiana. She kept hoping the damn man would call to cancel. Instead, all she’d received was a message from his director informing her that they’d be on location by Friday so they could “get the commercial in the can” on Saturday.

Terrific.

The last thing she wanted, or needed, was a bunch of people getting in her way—not to mention one bossy, overbearing man—while trying to qualify for the NFR. Granted, Tyler Harrison had good reason to be upset with her. Once he’d walked away she’d realized she had no one but herself to blame for her current predicament—but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Filming a commercial now would be a serious distraction, not to mention, inconvenient. Not only was she set to ride in Louisiana, but she was also competing the same weekend in Houston, at a non-PRCA rodeo, which meant once she finished riding in Lousiana, she’d have to pull up anchor and drive.

“Hey, Caro,” Mike, one of the best team ropers she knew, called out after she’d pulled into the Louisiana sports complex. He grinned and waved, his big belly hanging over his belt buckle. “Heard you’re gonna be a TV star.”

Caro slid out of her truck, slamming the door with more force than necessary. She’d parked in the livestock area, out behind the arena. The afternoon sunshine refracted off the polished aluminum of her trailer, causing her to squint in discomfort. She wasn’t scheduled to compete until tomorrow afternoon’s slack, but there was still plenty to do today. She had to unload the horses, bed them in their stalls, feed and water them. Then she needed to ride, maybe even offer to ride horses for other people—an easy way to make an extra buck. Despite her big-name sponsor, she was still always short on cash.

“Yeah,” she said, stopping alongside her trailer. She had all three barred windows open to let her horses peer out, their nostrils flaring as they took in the new surroundings. “And I can’t wait,” she muttered sarcastically.

Mike hugged her to his side. The big man had always treated her like a younger sister since their days riding the college circuit together. He all but tickled her ribs before letting her go.

“Aww,” he said, tipping his tan hat back, breaking into a jowly smile. “You’ll do great.”

“Don’t know about that.” And to be honest, she didn’t know; she was nervous about the whole thing. Funny, she hadn’t realized it until that very moment.

She watched as Mike ducked into his trailer. One of the horses inside her rig nickered—probably Classy, her second-string barrel horse. A chain inside Mike’s trailer rattled, then came the unmistakable sound of a horse backing out, the heavy clumping of hooves like multiple strikes of a rubber mallet. A big-shouldered chestnut appeared, rear end first, and then Mike himself.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Terminator.”

“Excuse me?”

Mike’s blue eyes twinkled. “The guy that used to own him called him that because he’s so big muscled—like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Caro just shook her head.

“But back to your commercial,” Mike said, sliding his hand down his horse’s leg. No doubt he was checking for heat or swelling, since horses sometimes injured themselves in trailers. “You’ve done Harrison’s Boots a favor by signing on as their spokesperson. With your looks, all you’ll have to do is smile to sell their new line of western boots.” He straightened, still holding the end of the lead rope. “But it sure looks like a major production over there. Heard a few of the guys complaining, but I guess when you’re a big-name company like Harrison’s, you can pull a few strings.”

“Major production?” Caro asked.

“There’s a bunch of television equipment out by the practice pen. Someone told me it was for your commercial.”

“Really?”

Mike tipped his head toward the arena out beyond the portable stables. “Go on over there and check it out.”

“I think I will,” she said, patting the trailer. “Keep an eye on the guys for me, will you?”

“Sure thing,” Mike said, squatting down to check his horse’s other leg.

She had to walk through a sea of horse trailers, and then the portable stalls. The white canvas lining them appeared almost gray in the shadow of the big building. When she rounded the end of the aisle, she halted in her tracks. “Holy—!” she muttered.

On the other side of the arena, scaffolding held various lights and film equipment, among other equipment she didn’t recognize. But it wasn’t just that. No. There was snow on the ground, or what looked to be snow. It covered the blacktop—piles of it heaped up, with fake pine trees stuck in it. Every horse in the area was fussing and snorting. A few animals refused to walk forward when they caught sight of not just the snow, but the men and women working up on the scaffolding. To horses, those people probably look like giant, equine-eating monsters.

“What are you doing?” she asked the first person she came across, a tall man wearing a dark suit, his head tipped back as he looked up at the scaffolding.

“Ms. Sheppard,” he said, turning, some undefined emotion flickering for a second in his green eyes. “When did you arrive?”

Tyler Harrison. She had to work hard to keep her surprise from showing. Today he appeared almost intimidating in his dark gray suit and tie.

“Mr. Harrison,” she said. “I, uh, I just got here.”

“You’re early.”

“Yeah. I was on the road by 5:00 a.m.”

“Well, I’m glad you arrived safely. I just got here myself.”

“You might not be so glad when you hear what I have to say.”

“Are you unable to do the commercial?” he asked, the space between his eyebrows pushing together.

“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just that you’re scaring every horse within a fifty-mile radius.”

“Excuse me?”

She pointed with her thumb. “Look at them.”

He peered through the myriad equipment. Several horses in the arena were snorting, a few of them sidestepping. Granted, a couple were loping around as if it was no big deal, but the less seasoned animals were definitely acting up.

“I see what you mean,” he said. “To be honest, when I saw the location of the set, I wondered if that might be a problem.”

“Mr. Harrison?” A small man in a red 49ers cap appeared. The acne on his face proclaimed him to be barely out of puberty. “We’re ready to test the snow blower.”

“The snow—” Caro shook her head. “You can’t shoot fake snow into the air. That’ll only make things worse. Someone’ll get dumped the minute you turn that thing on,” she added.

He glanced toward the arena, the wrinkles between his eyebrows deepening. “I’ve no doubt you’re right, so we’ll wait to test it until nobody’s in the arena.” Tyler turned to the snowblower guy. “Give me a second.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Harrison.”

“This arena will never be empty,” Caro said, watching as the man walked off. When she glanced back at Harrison, she caught him staring at her chest. Instantly, her hackles rose. She hated when men ogled her breasts, which were embarrassingly large, given her small frame. She was just about to give him a piece of her mind when she realized he was reading her T-shirt, at least judging by the smirk on his face.

Cowboys Are Like the Circus: Too Many Clowns, Not Enough Rings.

He met her gaze again, one eyebrow arched.

“People ride their horses here at every time of the day,” Caro added, blushing. Well, now he knew how she felt about cowboys. Actually, not just cowboys, but men in general. “There’ll be competitors rolling in from every part of the country, at all hours. But it’s not just the horses and riders. What about the livestock?” She pointed to the pipe pens not far away, where bulls and steers were calling out to each other. “You’ll set them off, too.”