Bravo Tango Cowboy (WEST Protection Book 7), page 1
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Bravo Tango Cowboy
WEST Protection
Book 7
Copyright Em Petrova 2022
Ebook Edition
Electronic book publication 2022
Cover Art by Bookin’ It Designs
All rights reserved. Any violation of this will be prosecuted by the law.
SUBSCRIBE to Em Petrova’s Newsletter to keep up to date and for special reader features.
WEST Protection
HIGH-STAKES COWBOY Prequel Noah’s Story
RESCUED BY THE COWBOY Ross’s Story
GUARDED BY THE COWBOY Boone’s Story
COWBOY CONSPIRACY THEORY Mathias’s Story
COWBOY IN THE CROSSHAIRS Silas’s Story
PROTECTED BY THE COWBOY Josiah’s Story
BRAVO TANGO COWBOY Corrine and Panic’s Story
BREAKING IN THE COWBOY Casey’s Story
SHIELDED BY THE COWBOY Landon’s Story
CLOSE RANGE COWBOY McCoy’s Story
Opposites don’t only attract—they combust…
Retired pilot Michael Modeen is happy to be part of the WEST Protection security team. Usually, anyway. But his current mission has him grounded—and working with a snarky and very sexy woman who happens to be his boss’s little sister. She’s totally off limits. And knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to keep his mind—or his hands—off her.
Corrine Wynton would rather be raising barrel-racing horses than overseeing security on an archaeological dig. But here she is, fighting fossil hunters and her irritating, overprotective coworker. And since he also makes her hotter than she cares to admit, this is shaping up to be the worst job ever.
When a security breach threatens the dig (and Corrine), Michael will do anything to keep the cowgirl safe, even if it means hogtying her with her own lasso.
Can they make it out alive? That’s anyone’s guess. The only thing they know for sure is that the road to happily ever after is a lot more dangerous than they ever thought possible…
A steamy former Marine getting ALL tangled up with his forbidden crush and a punch of action and adventure will set you on fire with every page you turn. Don’t miss out on this novel in the WEST Protection Series and 1-click your copy now!
BRAVO TANGO
COWBOY
by
Em Petrova
Table of 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 One
“Hello, WEST Protection, can you please hold?”
Corrine huffed out an exasperated breath and stabbed the button to switch to the other line. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting again. You’re interested in some cybersecurity for your NFT sales site? You need to speak with Silas Shanie. He’s out of the office today, but I’ll shoot him an email and he will be in touch ASAP.”
She listened for another second while scribbling on a legal pad: Look up NFT.
“Can I get your full name?”
As the caller gave their name and the best number for contact, the little light on the phone angrily blinked at her.
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Got it.”
On the desk, her cellphone buzzed several times with a text message from the person she’d contacted hours ago—when things were less hectic in her family’s security office. She stole a glance at the screen and quickly tore her attention away.
She had to concentrate on the phone right now, even though that message was about something very important to her. After spending an entire year training her prized barrel-racing horse in anticipation for this, the auction date had been set. She needed to get Gypsy Moonlight into that auction catalog—today.
“Okay, Silas will be in touch. Thank you for your interest in WEST Protection, bye!” She quickly hung up the line and reached for the button to pick up the other caller, when the radio buzzed.
“Corrine, can you get that file to me now?” Her brother Ross’s voice rang with irritation. And no wonder—she’d forgotten he was waiting on an important file on a contract. She should have gotten that to him hours ago, but then she’d been bombarded by phone calls for bodyguards and cybersecurity and—
Her phone buzzed again. The auction would have to wait a second. She snatched up the radio instead and depressed the button on the side. “Corrine to Ross. It’s crazy over here. The phone’s ringing off the hook and—”
She shot a glare at the light on the phone. Oh god, that poor person was still on hold.
“Just gimme a moment, and I’ll email that file to you,” she said to Ross, dropped the radio to the desk and lunged for the phone.
“WEST Protection! This is Corrine Wynton speaking.” The end of her words was drowned in the noise of a chopper.
Oh.
My.
God.
Only one person used a helicopter as his personal mode of transportation—Michael “Panic” Modeen, retired Marine pilot who’d been hired by WEST Protection on a part-time basis.
He can’t even drive here like a normal person.
She couldn’t even hear the person on the other end of the line—the office seemed to vibrate from the air currents beating off that damn chopper’s propeller. The Wynton Ranch where the office was located had acres and acres of fields Michael could land in, yet he loved to choose the plot of grass right beside the building.
She launched to her feet and aimed a dirty look out the window. She hoped he saw her. Maybe she should flip him the bird for good measure.
A nagging tone came into her ear. “Hello? Can you hear me? This is…” More muffled words.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to call you back. There’s a disruption on the line. I have your number on caller ID. Bye!”
She slammed the phone and her sleeve caught on a stack of files. In impotent horror, she watched their slow slide from the desk to the floor, cascading in a graceful waterfall.
“Aghhh!”
“Corrine? The file?” Ross’s voice projected over the radio.
“I’m getting it!” she yelled to be heard over the ruckus the chopper made, but the noise cut off just as she spoke, and her words exploded in the silence.
“I’m killing him,” she muttered, plunking down in her chair to locate that file for her brother.
Her phone buzzed a second time to alert her that she hadn’t yet answered that guy about the auction. And of course, another call came in, when she hadn’t even gotten a chance to call back the last client.
Modeen strutted through the door. In mirrored sunglasses, he turned to her and slid them down his nose.
She stabbed a finger at him. “We need to talk!”
Ignoring her salty tone, he swaggered farther into the office and stopped at the pond of files and papers on the floor, now all jumbled. It would take her an hour to fix them—an hour she didn’t have. She needed to get into the training ring with her horse, return a call, get Ross his file, answer that text…
Modeen reached toward the phone. “Want me to answer that?”
“Yes! It’s your fault I’m so frazzled!”
“WEST Protection,” he drawled out, pulling off his shades and bringing the phone to his ear.
“Where is that file?” she muttered, swinging her gaze to the computer instead of taking in their newest employee’s appearance. Of course, her brain already had a clear vision of him fixed in place.
Six-three, broad shoulders. Powerful biceps leading down to yummy forearms roped with tendons and veins.
And layers of tattoos.
Her insides gave a little jerk every time she caught herself studying the ink, which ranged from tribal art and roses to a skull and torch. And those were just the ones she could see.
His Texas drawl continued to roll through the office as he asked the caller a few questions. His cowboy boots scraped on the hardwood floor when he moved to the desk where she sat.
As he leaned over her, she sucked in a breath of surprise. Her fingers froze on the keyboard, and she looked up with a scowl that quickly faded when she was faced with a big, solid shoulder. Tight white cotton was stretched over the muscle.
And it smelled good.
“Ugh! What do you want? Get out of my space!” She reverted to irritation rather than admit Michael Modeen possessed a single good trait.
“Just grabbin’ a pen,” he drawled in response.
She watched his long, tanned fingers pluck one from a cup on the desk and he took the notepad out from under the corner of her keyboard.
“Get lost!” she scream-whispered to him.
&nb
sp; Modeen cast her a quirk of a smile and drifted a foot or so away to scribble yet another note she’d need to answer.
She attached the file to an email to Ross and sent it off with a press of a button. Then, since Modeen was busy dragging out this call with all sorts of grunts and similar Neanderthal noises, she grabbed her cellphone and read the messages from the auction company.
The date had been set. A few weeks from now, Gypsy Moonlight would be on that auction block, prepared to go to some amazing barrel racer who wanted a champion horse. And that would land Corrine’s name at the top for breeders and trainers both. The Wynton Ranch would have a bigger stake in the game, and with luck, generations to come would benefit from this one little sale.
Or not so little. Barrel-racing horses went for big money, which she planned to use to invest in more horses.
If she could find the time to ready Gypsy Moonlight, that was. Today she couldn’t even get out of this damn office, let alone into the training ring.
Michael had ended the call. He dropped the notepad beside her, and the pen hit the page after it.
She slanted a look at him. “Do you do anything normally?”
“Meaning?” Using his knuckle, he nudged his white Stetson up.
Corrine sniffed and looked away. All the men wore white Stetsons. It was a signature look in the company. Modeen didn’t wear it better than anyone else, even if he thought he did.
All that cocky swagger was a complete turn-off.
“Being from Texas doesn’t make you a better cowboy, Modeen,” she shot out.
His dark blond brow lifted in question. “I’m not followin’.”
“That’s because you’re deaf from the noise of your helicopter. Which you landed far too close to the office. Next time, why don’t you land in the empty pasture down the road and use those”—she cast a look over his long, powerful legs clad in worn denim—“tree trunks you call legs to walk here?”
“Oh. You’re mad at me flying in again.”
She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger spread millimeters apart.
“What’s with the mess on the floor?”
Ugh, she’d forgotten about the files. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and pick them up for me? I need to return this text and a call.”
He pulled away from the desk he’d been leaning against, and shuffled to the mess on the floor. Her stare lingered on his back for a moment. Why did he move like he was doing a country line dance? Like each gesture and glide of his feet were keeping time with music only he could hear in his head?
He threw a look over his shoulder as he dropped into a crouch by the files, and of course, he caught her staring. “Thought you had something to talk to me about.”
She spun her chair to face him and pushed her long braid over her shoulder. “I do. You owe me paperwork.”
Arching his brow again, he eyed her from under the brim of his hat. He wore a different band on it than the other guys who made up WEST Protection, crocodile with intricate metalworking splashed across it. Her brothers, cousins and family friends who’d founded the company didn’t dress so flashy.
She widened her eyes at him. “The flight records? Does that ring a bell? Or is your hat too tight for that big head you got?”
The corner of his beautiful, full lips tipped up, but he didn’t look away from his task of gathering up the mess she’d made.
“I’m not good with paperwork, Corrine. Can’t I just tell you what my hours worked are and you type it up for me?”
She watched his thickly muscled arm swing toward her desk with the papers like the arm on a piece of heavy machinery. He dropped the files on her desk and pushed to his feet.
With no intention of staring at him anymore, she still caught herself taking note of just how well those jeans fit him, riding low on his hips and—
She jolted to her feet. “You know what? You could use a little more experience in the company. Why don’t you stay and man the phone?” She thrust the note with the call-back number on it. “This needs to get to Silas. And this,” she gave him another note, “is a person you’ll be calling back because I couldn’t hear them over your helicopter.”
She stepped around him.
He stepped in front of her.
She moved to the other side.
He followed like they were doing a two-step.
A growl of frustration worked up her throat. She planted a hand on his steely chest and shoved him out of her way, the same way she’d shove one of her irritating brothers when they pushed her too far.
On the way to the door, she grabbed her own white Stetson off the peg on the wall.
“Where are you goin’?” he called out.
Without turning to look at the man, she tossed out, “I’ve got a horse to train.”
Another noise followed her out the door—the rumble of his chuckle.
* * * * *
Michael was tired from a long day of flying billionaires to their ranches. With all that money came drama. And he didn’t do drama.
Which was why he liked getting a rise out of Corrine Wynton so much. The woman could turn anything into a problem, but in her own way, it was cute.
Michael rocked her desk chair back and hitched his ankles up, crossed, on the corner of her desk. Oh, she’d complain later about the mud he’d left there, but he looked forward to hearing about it.
His stomach let him know it would much rather he was down at the local bar grabbing a beer and a burger instead of being here. He’d texted the information to Silas and received a “Where’s Corrine?” in return. He’d also made notes on the other call and planted the sticky note smack in the middle of Corrine’s computer screen.
That would get her fired up for no good reason.
Glancing around the office, he wondered why the little sister of his boss got so flustered. This job didn’t seem too difficult. He’d like to see her put up with snobby billionaires’ daughters who were concerned about where he set down the helicopter transporting them to their daddy’s multimillion-dollar ranches, because they didn’t want to get their overpriced boots dusty.
Today’s spoiled young ladies were demanding and condescending to “the help.” After taking their abuse for half the day, even carrying their shopping bags to the chopper for them, they didn’t even tip him.
Having his own transport business was going well for him. Most days he made trips between the Montana mountains in the Stone Pass area to various big cities all over the West. Not only did billionaires hire him, he’d medevacked more than a few injured people to large hospitals too.
The best gig by far, though, was with an animal rescue shuttling some abandoned dogs in kill shelters to areas where they had a better chance of adoption. That left him yearning for a dog of his own.
But to own a pet, he’d need a yard, and his apartment in town wasn’t cutting it. Besides, he wasn’t home all that much. Someday he’d adopt a dog, but not anytime soon.
Despite having little time to spare, he’d been roped into coming to work for his buddy Ross here at WEST Protection as well. So far, his jobs consisted of quick transports, night flights and dropping an unnamed woman off at the airport.
He swiveled toward Corrine’s desk and spotted a scribbled note. Look up NFT.
Brow crinkling, he ran through a few guesses as to what that could mean. He picked up a pen and jotted three words underneath her note.
Naughty Freaky Terror
That described Corrine, all right. Born and raised right here on the Wynton Ranch, the wildcat pampered baby of the family got her own way using some pretty extreme methods, from what Modeen had seen.
He swiveled the chair, and his attention was caught by the big expanse of glass overlooking the spread. Damn, it was beautiful here. A flat, lush valley perfect for raising cattle and the horses that Corrine was so caught up with. The land backed up to the mountains, which were capped with snow even now, in summer.
He loved flying over that range, and passing over the Wyntons’ place always made him feel close to his home in Texas. He wasn’t born to camo and choppers—he’d practically come out of the womb wearing a hat and boots. But he loved both.
Swinging his legs off Corrine’s desk to the floor, he strolled to the bank of windows and stood looking out for long minutes. The office was completely quiet. Wait until she asked if he was busy and he told her the phone stopped ringing after she walked out the door. That would burn her up.
