Ballbreaker (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Read online

  Ballbreaker

  Samantha Coulton hates her job. She loves father, who she can’t say no to, but unfortunately he is also her boss and relies on her to be the ballbreaker in his hardest assignments. She is the only one that is likely to be able to broker a deal between Jeremy and his brother Mike Sandford after their father dies, over management of their sheep. If they can’t agree, then she gets a vote and the majority wins.

  Trouble is, the Sandford boys have other ideas. With her stuck on their sheep ranch until the deal is done, Jeremy plans to seduce her and Mike scare her off. But as both of them fall for her, and she them, things don’t go exactly according to plan, jeopardising the future of the farm unless Samantha can find a way for the brothers to work together against a common enemy.

  Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Ménage at Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys

  Length: 26,343 words

  BALLBREAKER

  Simone Sinna

  MENAGE AMOUR

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Amour

  BALLBREAKER

  Copyright © 2014 by Simone Sinna

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62741-051-9

  First E-book Publication: January 2014

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Balbreaker by Simone Sinna from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Simone Sinna’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Sinna’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  To EC and SF—thank you for the wonderful long lunches, soirees, and horse rides, to say nothing of the experience helping sort your sheep that allowed me to write the background for this book.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The basis of this book in the wool industry is based on fact. GAP Inc. did indeed stop taking Australian wool because of what was considered inhumane mulesing practices and PETA’s lobbying on this point. There has been breeding to find a fine wool sheep that is less susceptible to fly strike, and wool is delivered to China as described.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  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

  About the Author

  BALLBREAKER

  SIMONE SINNA

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  Samantha Coulton debated how to answer her father in a way he might actually hear. “No” was a word she didn’t ever use with him, at least not in the brightly lit offices full of whiteboards and computers where they worked together. In the end she decided to keep it simple.

  “No.”

  Simple hadn’t improved his hearing. Sam Coulton Snr smiled as he replied. “You’ll have to. You know I can’t afford a month away right now.”

  He couldn’t take the time because he was finally thinking about winding down. It was true she had been encouraging him to do this, but did he have to finally capitulate right now? He wanted to go away for a week to play golf with his mates, but he’d just have to change the dates. His golf or her spending a month with some country yokels? No, no, and no.

  “Dad, the will specified you. He was your friend, not mine.”

  “The will specified S. Coulton, of Coulton & Co.,” said Sam Snr, “to which you may remember, you are the ‘Co.’ Yes, he was my friend, may he rest in peace, but believe me, he would have been more than happy to have me send you.”

  “Well I can’t go,” said Samantha, mind racing. She had to have some reason. Boyfriend? The thought of Russell wasn’t enough to keep her anywhere. Not that he was her boyfriend, it was just that he didn’t seem to take no for her answer. Bit like her father on that point. But that was where any positive feelings about Russell ended. At best she could only feel sorry for him and consider becoming gay if this was the best on offer. She’d never met anyone who forgot his wallet so often on dates.

  Work as an excuse? Having her father as her boss rather negated that.

  “I can’t drive at the moment.” There had been a minor problem with being twenty miles over the speed limit. Though maybe not so minor. It was her third speeding infringement in the last two years and her points total had edged over the limit to ensure some forced time off the road. Her argument that she had been watching the road not the speed hadn’t helped.

  “I’ll have Terry take you.”

  “I don’t have anyone to look after Snape.” This was a rather lame excuse but she was getting desperate. The Chihuahua, named Snap by the original owner, had earned a rename as Snape after staring down her neighbor’s cat and hadn’t made any more friends in the process.

  “Take the dog with you.”

  Samantha glared at him. “I don’t do country. Nor does Snape. She doesn’t even like city streets.”

  “You’ll love High Camp,” said her father. “And what do you mean you don’t do country? I paid for years of riding lessons.”r />
  “Dressage and jumping. I evented.” Until she had ended up sailing over her horse’s head into the water and the picture had ended on the front page of Country Living. After that she’d stuck with dressage, and not even that for years. “Which does not translate as expertise rounding up sheep,” she added.

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t expect that.”

  “Then just what do they expect?”

  Sam Snr grinned. “A complete ballbreaker.”

  * * * *

  High Camp had been named by their great-uncle. He had reportedly had a wicked sense of humor. A painting of him, complete with suggestive smile and lace cuffs, hung over the fireplace that Jeremy was now leaning against. But while Jeremy thought the property was overdue for a name change, it was thoughts of his recently deceased father rather than his ancestors that were troubling him.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “The will is very clear.” Martin, the gray-haired local lawyer who had known Jeremy and his brother Michael all their lives, spoke with authority.

  “It can’t be enforceable.” This time it was Mike who spoke, his feet up on the antique tabletop, beer in hand.

  “It most certainly is,” Martin replied. “Your father went to a lot of trouble to get it just the way he wanted.”

  “Conniving old bastard,” Jeremy muttered.

  “Possibly,” agreed Martin with a hint of a smile.

  “How much say did that asshole Coulton have?” Mike asked.

  “He was consulted, I’m sure.”

  “Yes I can see that.” Jeremy looked down at the copy of the will and then at his brother, resigned. “Looks like you and I have to last a month with the bastard and come to some sort of agreement.”

  “Abandon your stupid idea about wool for Italian suits and you have it now.”

  “Or you could just stop being such a pigheaded yokel and see that my idea will make us a fortune.”

  Martin packed up his papers. “Seems like Mr. Coulton has his work cut out.”

  “But we don’t have to come to an agreement?” asked Mike.

  “No,” said Martin. “The property is yours, fifty-fifty. Apart from what your father put aside for his grandson.”

  Jeremy noticed Mike stiffen. A sore point. At least he, unlike his brother, hadn’t been stupid enough to get the wrong girl pregnant. Or any woman for that matter. He was steering clear of any one woman, still feeling burnt after Sonia had dropped him for a footballer.

  “A majority rules with regards to the business,” Jeremy clarified. He poured himself a wine.

  “Yes,” said Martin. “Either you two boys or one of you plus an authorized representative of Coulton & Co. decides. They have a month to put in their recommendation for the overall business plan, and after that regular board meetings for major decision-making.”

  “You mean forever?” Mike asked with a groan.

  “Yes, as long as you two are both alive and wanting to be involved, or until either of you add a wife once you have had children, or a child who must be over the age of eighteen.”

  Jeremy wandered over to the window and stared out across the fields, already brown under the early summer sun. He already had the beginnings of a plan about how to get around Samuel Coulton. And his brother.

  * * * *

  He’d done it to her again.

  Samantha sat down on her bed in front of the mirror and burst into tears. Life really couldn’t get any worse. Her latest credit card bill meant she would have to work until she was ninety to pay it off, to say nothing of the fact that she couldn’t resign her job. No one was hiring, even if she did have a flawless record of dragging flailing companies up by their bootlaces to get back into the black. A ballbreaking record. The new sob was definitely self-pity. If her own father thought she was a ballbreaker, no wonder she was nearly thirty without a boyfriend. She scared them off.

  “No you don’t, darling,” her Auntie Jane, who was more a surrogate mother, had assured her. “You just need a real man.”

  “No you don’t,” her best friend Tanya had said. “They only have to see one of your disasters to know you have nothing under control!”

  Looking in the mirror, Samantha had to laugh at herself. Her whole life launched from one catastrophe to the next. The apartment had only just stopped smelling of mildew after she’d run a bath and forgotten about it. Her neighbors were even less happy about the water stain on their ceiling than Snape’s cat attack or the homeless man she had given money to for putting the bins out and who had instead set up house in the back garden.

  How she held it together at work was as much a mystery to her as those who knew her well. The only thing she had ever been able to do well apart from music, which she had put aside when her mother died, was doing whatever her father asked, including looking after him since she was sixteen. Until recently she had dropped in every night to cook for him. His changing the lock had seemed a little extreme, but maybe her father had as much difficulty saying no to her as she did to him.

  She supposed she could hold it together for a month, even if it was in the country. The map suggested only a two-hour drive away. There might be a wine bar and a dress shop in the next town. She groaned. She wouldn’t be going into town because she couldn’t drive.

  Still, how hard could it be? She was used to mediating a room full of people. This was only two. Maybe a third. Her father had assured her the uncle—the deceased man’s brother—wouldn’t cause any difficulties. Sheep farming? She knew absolutely nothing about it except a vague memory of a friend of Russell’s talking to her about wool markets until she’d found an excuse to escape him. Her research suggested from a business point of view fine wool merino for Italian suits was what pulled the big dollars. She was sure basic business principles would help fine-tune things and then she could get them to sign on the dotted line. She’d get her money, they’d get the farm, they would run it the way their father had wanted. Simple.

  * * * *

  Mike Sandford looked in the mirror and decided he’d made the right decision. An unkempt beard made him look slightly unbalanced, no beard made him look too nice. A close trimmed beard, however, made him appear hard, maybe even a little dangerous. It was darker than his dirty blond hair and barely more than stubble. It wouldn’t work with Jeremy but he had other plans for him. It was the bastard Sam Coulton who was due any moment that he needed to focus on.

  He smiled when he thought of what he had in store for the man in the next twenty-four hours. Enough to send any city bloke running, even if this guy apparently had a reputation for being tough. Coulton and his dad, Gerry, had been in Vietnam together. His father hadn’t talked much about the war, but he sure as hell had talked about Sam Coulton. Mike didn’t care how much of a war hero this guy was, nor how good a friend he had been to Gerry. Right now, if Gerry hadn’t already been dead, Mike might have hastened the process, or at least talked sense into the old fool. Even with a fist. Wouldn’t have been the first time, though it was true Gerry had always started it and Mike had been only fourteen the last time, after which Gerry decided maybe he’d met his match.

  Thinking of his smarmy, slimy brother, the use of his fist looked even more attractive, but the last time they’d bruised knuckles on each other hadn’t been long after the fight with his dad, and they’d both been battered and bruised as a result. Jeremy had gone to boarding school, the one Mike had refused to attend. When Jeremy had returned he’d been different, and now, fighting him seemed a pretty stupid idea. He had that way of looking at you to make you feel inferior if you were reduced to brawn rather than brains.

  Mike might not have Jeremy’s fancy university degree, but he had studied agriculture locally, and he had worked on this farm all his life. He knew every inch of the land. It was as much a part of him as the clothes he wore. No one, not Jeremy, nor some fancy city hotshot, nor his uncle, were going to take it off him.

  * * * *

  The sleek black limo eased slowly up the drive. Sam took
in her surroundings as Terry crept along the dusty drive, trying not to get the car covered in the red of the landscape. It was hot and windy, but the dirt driveway was lined with huge pine trees that had covered much of the ground with thick, brown pine needles, so the car looked likely to survive intact. The farmhouse was off to the left and she could just make it out through the dense foliage and white fences that looked in need of a paint. It sprawled across the rise, surrounded by a wide balcony that looked to offer spectacular views across the undulating, rocky landscape beyond. To her right were several huge sheds and a stable block. A few sheep and a horse in the paddocks that lined the drive stopped to watch as they went by.

  It was time to take a deep breath and remember Consultant Image Class 101. First impressions were critical. Samantha had dressed and redressed several times. In the end she’d opted for the Grace Jones look. Severe back pantsuit and killer heels. She was already five eight. In these she’d be hitting six feet.

  Terry brought the car to a halt alongside the main entrance to the house. Samantha could see two men standing on either side of the stairs, watching. She’d done her homework and knew who they were. Not that picking the difference was hard. There was a third, older man, she didn’t recognize.

  Mike Stanford was on the right, leaning over the balustrade. Akubra hat, jeans, and cowboy boots. Really? He’d been watching too many westerns. He looked about as pleased to have her arriving as she was to be there. There was no attempt to disguise the scowl. She had hoped that her father warning them she rather than he was coming might have had a softening effect. If so, it wasn’t obvious. The older man beside Mike looked weather-beaten in jeans and a grubby T-shirt. He reminded her of someone but she couldn’t think who. Perhaps he was the foreman.