What the Bachelor Gets

  WHAT THE BACHELOR GETS

  Billionaire Cowboys Book 1

  Kristina Knight

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2016 by Kristina Knight.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9573-9

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9573-8

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9574-7

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9574-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art ©123RF /kisslilly, ©123RF / Viorel Sima

  Las Vegas is one of my favorite places on the planet. I love the busy-ness of the place, the noise, the games and the neon. To the people of Las Vegas - those born there and those who choose to live there - thank you for the fun.

  For Trent, Roxanne and Jonathan ...the best siblings a girl could ask for. And for Janell, Kevin, Raymond, and Jo, the siblings I inherited through marriage ... I love you all.

  Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our weekly newsletter for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Callie Holliday cleared the memory on her calculator and began inputting the same numbers she had punched in at least five times this morning. They still added up to a paltry seventy dollars and change.

  Crap.

  “Mandy, what do you have for focus, wisdom, and strength?” she called through her open office door to her only employee.

  In addition to being a damn fine masseuse, Mandy was a firm believer in all things woo-woo. Crystals, incense, candles. Just a few weeks before, Callie had attended what Mandy called a ritual burning—she took all the pictures of her jerk of an ex-boyfriend into the desert, set up a stone circle, and burned every last image. Callie had come along for moral support and found herself wishing she could do the same with her lying, cheating ex-husband, Eddie. But she’d sacrificed enough for Eddie—both when they were together and when she left Philadelphia with only her clothes and her car. She wasn’t sacrificing anything else on the man. Today, though, she needed a little of the woo-woo that had left Mandy so peaceful that night in the desert.

  In just under an hour she had a meeting with an angel funding group that might be interested in investing in her upstart day spa. If she didn’t get the money, she could kiss her business dreams good-bye.

  She joined Mandy at the front desk as Mandy rummaged in a filing cabinet drawer and came up with three bottles and two burners. She dribbled several teaspoons of lavender into one bowl, crushed something flaky into another, set a bottle of water to the side, and then lit the tiny tea light candles under the lavender and flaky substance.

  “Lavender for focus.” Mandy pointed to the bluish liquid that was beginning to simmer, and then pointed to the flaky mixture in another bowl. “Sage for strength.” The scents mingled and, along with the Chinese flute CD playing in the background, helped Callie shake off the nerves that hit when she rolled out of bed this morning, and had continued to worsen as the morning wore on.

  “What about that one?” She pointed to the water bottle.

  “Regular water, in case the sage does more than smoke.”

  Callie chuckled. “Don’t tempt the fates; we don’t need any more bad luck around here.”

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the scents until the vultures flapping in her belly calmed. It would be okay. Yes, every bank within a fifty-mile radius of Vegas had turned down her loan application, but angel funding was different. These investors banked on entrepreneurial ingenuity as much as they banked on business plans. Although a solid plan was mandatory. She had the plan. She had the experience. She just needed a little luck—or maybe some good juju—to get her life back on track.

  Forty-five minutes later, Callie sat calmly outside the wide oak doors leading to her future. At least, she hoped they would lead to the future she saw in her mind. And she hoped she looked calm. Even in temperature-controlled seventy-six degrees, she was sweating inside her lightweight Donna Karan suit. She crossed her legs and wiggled her ankle to quiet her tapping foot that echoed off the Travertine-tile floor. She scored a quick fifty-three points on the word game on her phone. Nervously skimmed a couple of emails. Deleted the spam. Opened a puzzle app but couldn’t focus. Apparently Mandy’s lavender-and-sage mixture had worn off already.

  The clock on the wall ticked off a few more seconds. It was fifteen minutes past the time the funding board was supposed to invite her inside to pitch her day spa to them.

  She dropped the phone into her lap, ordering her mind to focus on the meeting. She needed to be poised and ready, not distracted.

  Seventy dollars in her bank account. Thousand-dollar rent due in less than a week. Her personal savings were just as uninteresting. Callie believed in her business, so much that she’d asked the bank for a second mortgage on her pretty little condo in Henderson but was told she didn’t have enough equity for the loan. The vultures in her stomach began beating again. She had zero savings, no property of value.

  She had no options left.

  Her cell chirped, and she jumped. Luckily, the receptionist didn’t seem to notice. Callie glanced at the screen.

  You can do this. Knock ’em dead.

  Optimistic Mandy, at it again.

  But her vote of confidence made Callie straighten her spine. She took a deep breath and tried to channel Mandy’s burning lavender and sage. Lavender for focus. Sage for strength.

  Still waiting. Kill me now.

  She texted back.

  Not before payday.

  Callie grinned, hearing Mandy’s deadpan voice on that last line. Mandy was right; she could do this. She might not have the resources of a global gambling chain, but she knew her business. Knew how to cater to wealthy vacationers. She hadn’t knocked out a cum laude degree from Wharton or come back to Vegas to fail now.

  She loved everything about Vegas, even the neon-lit Strip that drove many of the locals crazy.

  She took another deep breath, drinking in the imagined scent and envisioning signing her name on the signature line of the funding agreement.

  The golden hands of the clock on the wall ticked off another minute, and still there was no movement behind the oak door. No movement at the front desk, either, although the receptionist, with her muted-grey silk suit and her hair pulled back into a classic French twist, sporadically answered calls in a hushed and cultured voice. Callie imagined the woman wore square-toed, square-he
eled pumps. The receptionist had stopped looking in Callie’s direction ten minutes before. Did that mean they were skipping her application? That she wouldn’t even have a chance to plead her case? That this long wait would end in another resounding no and an escort to the sidewalk?

  Callie swallowed and pushed the negative thoughts out of her mind. To solidify the good juju she was trying desperately to channel, she set her phone to vibrate and hid it in the bottom of her bag. No more distractions, not even well-intentioned texts from her assistant. She pulled out the file holding copies of her business plan and skimmed over the bullet points.

  The big problem was her off-Strip location, an issue she’d gambled on when signing the damn lease. She’d been confident in her services, and the pricing schedule, and had very little choice because rentals on the Strip went for at least double what the off-Strip location charged. The first couple of months were fine, but then another spa opened a few blocks closer to the Strip, and her tiny clientele nearly vanished. Now there was just the odd walk-in—many of whom were looking for more than a massage.

  She shook her shoulders. Past was past, done was done. She’d signed the lease, so there was nothing to be done about the business location now; she had to get the funding or her dream of owning a classy, top-flight Vegas spa would dry up like the desert. She could kiss her pretty little condo in Henderson good-bye, too, because the bank would take it back.

  Her father had always dreamed the name Holliday would be big in Vegas. Callie had no illusions that a spa was the same as a big casino or resort, but it was her dream, and it had started with all the fantasies her father wove about turning their small ranch into the cornerstone of a big hotel chain. Holliday Spas. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, and Callie swiped at it with a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

  She would not lose her condo, her business, or the one foothold she had in Las Vegas now that her parents had left to begin a retirement filled with RVing around North America.

  The receptionist rose from behind the massive desk and clacked her way across the tile floor to stand before Callie. No square-heeled, square-toed pumps. Five-inch platform heels.

  “Follow me.” The woman didn’t wait, but continued across the vestibule and opened the doors.

  Callie slung her attaché over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and stepped through.

  Afternoon sunlight drilled through the tinted windows, reflecting off the golden top of the hot air balloon at the Paris. Callie blinked and took the seat the receptionist indicated. She inhaled the imagined sage and lavender one more time and turned on her smile.

  To a completely empty office.

  File folders were laid out around the round table. Chairs were tucked in. A single red light on the phone at the other end of the table blinked at her.

  Callie whirled around but the door she had entered was already closed. She took a steadying breath, but her heart ignored her, continuing to beat erratically.

  Callie crossed the empty room, opening the first door she came to—an en suite bath with hand towels in a deep, dark burgundy. Blowing out another breath that did nothing to calm her nerves, she closed that door and opened the next, which led to a carpeted stairwell. She felt silly but looked over the railing at the empty steps leading down, down, down for twenty-odd stories. She closed her eyes against a quick hit of vertigo and pushed away from the railing.

  The office door opened and closed, and Callie whirled, pulling the door shut. The man in the thousand-dollar Hugo Boss suit didn’t seem to notice her exit from the stairwell as he slid into the vacant chair across from Callie’s. She sat, too, and then forgot to breathe for a moment. Maybe two.

  He was larger than she remembered; slightly taller, yes, but mostly just … larger, in the best way possible. Same black hair sweeping up from a high forehead. Same crooked nose. The five o’clock shadow was new and made him look just a little bit dangerous. Not that he needed the shadowed jaw for that, per se. He exuded danger from the wicked light in his brown eyes to the teasing tilt of his firm mouth and the muscles hidden beneath the smooth suit. He wasn’t dressed in football pads or off-the-field jeans and boots, but it was him. And he was talking. She could see his mouth moving, but she couldn't hear anything over the rapid thumping of her heart.

  Her fingers flexed against the smooth leather armrest.

  Gage Reeves. Local football legend. Relentless tease to every cheerleader at West High and then UNLV. Well, every cheerleader except her. Back then, Tomboy Callie hadn’t registered on Gage’s girl radar as anything more than “friend.” Sometimes not even that. He was the youngest of the three Reeves brothers, the one everyone thought would take the football scholarship in California but who, instead, played at UNLV and studied business.

  Local legend. Hottie McBody.

  Damn.

  “So I ditched the driver and ran the last couple of blocks,” he was saying. “Thank you for waiting.” He paused, looked around the table, and his gaze stopped dead on her. Surprise widened his eyes. “I think we’re alone.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.” Callie couldn’t keep the quip from escaping her mouth. “Sorry.”

  “The Tommy James version was great, but for my money, Tiffany wins hands down.” Gage grinned. “How are you doing, Callie?”

  She tilted her head to the side, and before she could stop them, the words poured out. “My parents have become vagabonds, my boss on the Strip was a pig, I opened my own spa shop, and I’m running out of money. Fast. Other than those little hiccups, I’m doing just fine.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Ignore that. I’m fine, Gage; how are you?”

  He laughed, the sound rich in the room. “You never did pull any punches did you? I heard your dad sold the ranch to a developer last year. Didn’t realize you were back in Vegas, though.” His deep voice rumbled along her nerve endings, just like it had when they were kids. “I thought they bought a condo over on Lake Mead?”

  How many times had she run into Gage near the small lake that formed the border between the big Reeves spread and the small Holliday ranch? Too many to count. She shook her head. “They were about to close on a condo in Henderson. But then they bought an RV, which they’re currently driving to Montana, or maybe they’ll cross over into Alberta. I bought the condo they had in mind.” Callie took a breath, shrugged. “They love to travel, apparently. They send me postcards from some of the places they visit.” And, really, she shouldn’t feel abandoned because her parents were moving on with their lives. Hadn’t they encouraged her to go back East for college? She loved the business school she’d attended, loved that first job she got as a masseur. She’d worked her way up to managing the place and, when she graduated, started thinking about her own spa. Her foot tapped against the thick carpeting.

  Gage played with the pencil in his hand. “And you miss them.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I do. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I miss running over to my mom’s for milk and cookies. Pathetic?”

  He shook his head. “Lucky, I’d say.” There was something under his words. Some feeling she’d never deciphered. When they were younger she thought it was straight-up anger at his father, Caleb, for dying and his mother, Helena, for being a gambling addict, but now there was more. There was still anger, but another emotion skittered beneath the surface. “So Callie Holliday moved back to Vegas. I never would have guessed that.”

  “I always loved Vegas.” How could she not? There were amazing restaurants, always something to do, and when the hustle and bustle became too much, she could escape into the desert for some R&R.

  “You seemed happy enough to leave.”

  “Not to leave, Gage. To make my own mark on things. I worked hard in Philadelphia, both for my degree and to get actual business experience so I could open my own place here.”

  He nodded. “I read your prospectus.” And just like that, talking to her old friend Gage was done and talking to business guru Gage began. Too bad her body didn’t notice t
he change. Her heart was still thumping against her ribs and not because Gage held the key to her future. Because he was Gage, and he was hotter than ever, and because she’d never really gotten over the high school crush she’d had. “You’re asking for $250,000. There are, roughly, a hundred spas in Vegas already. The most profitable are aligned with the big hotels on the Strip, or the fancy boutique salons. What makes yours different?”

  Callie straightened in her chair, but she didn’t answer his question. She needed him to understand why she was there first. “I didn’t know you were part of the funding group. I wouldn’t have applied if I had known. I’m not looking for a favor or a”—there was no other word for it—“handout.” Okay, maybe she had considered calling in a favor or two. But not from Gage. Never from Gage.

  He twisted his tempting mouth to the side. “The angel fund is a pet project of ours. Only a few people know Jase, Connor, and I set up the group once Reeves Brothers Entertainment was on solid ground. Jase is focused on gaming, Connor on entertainment, and I work the property angles. We have other donors, but the project is ours. And if you’d wanted a favor—from anyone, not just me—you’d have used your given name.” He rustled one of the papers. “The application reads Calista Davenport, not Callie Holliday.”

  Callie kept her gaze steady on Gage’s. He didn’t blink. She did. “I’m in the process of changing it back to Holliday. I got married, and then … we divorced last year. And that shouldn’t have any implication on the funding application.” It should have an implication on her, though, because in the four years she’d known Eddie Davenport, he’d never set her nerve endings buzzing like Gage Reeves. She should go. Asking Gage for something like this felt … wrong. He’d been her friend. One of her closest friends, whether he knew it or not. Gage hadn’t cared that Callie struggled to earn enough on her 4-H cows and sheep to make her cheerleading dues and still put enough away for college, or that most of her clothes came from second-hand stores.