Rope Burn: The Boot Knockers Ranch, Book 5

She wants to turn up the heat. He’s got the skills to whip her into a frenzy.

The Boot Knockers Ranch
, Book 5

TV food show host Tabbart Tracy works hard to give viewers her best recipes. But while her fans are legion, her personal life is colder than a meat locker. Most men just want her to serve up some pie—in the nude.

One glance at her assistant’s sexy brother, though, and her body skips straight from low simmer to rolling boil. Especially when she tracks him down at a stud ranch. Where he’s the stud.

When a certain little TV foodie personally requests Stowe’s company for a week, he’s flattered as hell. She needs to give up some control, and as a sex therapist otherwise known as the “Dom from Down Under”, Stowe has the leather, rope, and paddles to do it.

Just as Tabbart melts into a puddle under Stowe’s hands, her worst fear chills her back to reality: someone recognizes her. Worse, her Master frowns on opening her checkbook to make it all go away. But trusting him means hanging onto their connection with both hands—while he takes her for the ride of her life.

Warning: This book contains a TV chef looking for some R&R (as in rough and raunchy) and a whip-wielding Aussie cowboy Dom intent on showing her she can take the heat. As hot as—and anywhere—she wants it.

Rope Burn

Em Petrova

Dedication

To the hero of this book, Stowe. You’ve been my book boyfriend for months now, and I can’t shake you. If the readers fall as deeply in love with you as I have, I’m willing to mud-wrestle for you.

Chapter One

“Ms. Tracy? Tabbart?”

The cautious voice made Tabbart pivot in her makeup chair. Her gaze fell on a young woman who, judging by the notepad and pen in her hand, could only be a fan.

Tabbart waved away the artist applying mascara to her already long lashes and gestured the woman to come into the room. “Hi, what’s your name?”

“S-Sarah. I’m such a fan! Oh my God, you’re even more beautiful in person!”

Tabbart had heard it all before—from producers, fellow chefs in the television industry and even magazine photographers. But the way people viewed her always came as a shock. Sure, she was a household name. She had a collection of food on the store shelves and cooking utensils on QVC. But deep down, she was just plain old Tabbart.

“Would you like me to sign that, Sarah?”

The young woman’s eyes fired with excitement and she bounced on the toes of her Converse sneakers. “Yes! I’d love that. You’re my idol. I have my own cooking show on YouTube and I try to channel the energy you put into your shows. I hope to someday cook delicious food like you do.”

Tabbart almost laughed. For all Sarah knew, everything Tabbart cooked in front of the live audience and cameras tasted like plastic. Tabbart was known as a top chef, but very few people had actually sampled food created by her hands.

“Are you here in the audience today?” she asked as she scrawled her name across the sheet of paper—
To Sarah. Always cook with passion. —Tabbart Tracy.

“Yes!”

Tabbart looked around at her assistant, who was flipping through clothes on a long rack, selecting Tabbart’s wardrobe for today’s show. “Mindy, would you mind showing Sarah to the VIP room and letting her sample the buffet?”

For some reason it was very important that Sarah walked out of the studio today believing in Tabbart’s abilities offscreen as well as on. If the young woman truly did desire a career in cooking, she needed to realize what went on behind the camera was more important than in front of it.

Too bad not many cared.

Sarah squealed. “Oh, it’s your food, isn’t it? I’d be so honored to sample your cooking, Ms. Tracy!”

Tabbart smiled at her enthusiasm. “I hope you enjoy it.” The makeup artist came at her from the side with the mascara wand again.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Tracy,” Sarah gushed as Mindy led her from the room.

“Thank you for believing in me,” Tabbart murmured as the door closed.

For the four years she’d been a TV food star, she’d met dozens of girls like Sarah. She always took time for them, and not only because the paparazzi would love to capture her being a total bitch. No, Tabbart had once been one of those girls—enthusiastic, hungry for a show on national TV and her name in every home in America.

“Mindy’s selected the blue sweater for you today,” the artist said with one last pat of powder to her nose and cheeks, ensuring the stage lights didn’t make her appear too shiny on camera.

Tabbart sighed. She was sick and tired of blue. The network put her in blue three times a week. The packaging of her cookware was even blue. It shouldn’t matter, except she had little say.

Or maybe she did. Somewhere along the way she’d quit caring.

As the artist assisted Tabbart out of her robe and into the blue sweater with jeweled buttons, she said, “This royal blue makes your skin glow. If you ever decide to get married, forget white. Blue is your color.”

Fat chance I’ll ever get married
. She was thirty-four years old and hadn’t dated seriously in two years. When fame had first struck, she’d been on dates with a film actor with a career much, much bigger than his personality—and cock. A hockey star and even another TV chef. Then she’d turned to dating a studio executive. That had lasted the longest and seemed the most promising—it had taken him exactly a month before he expected her to serve him homemade pies in the nude.

As she turned to the mirror surrounded by fat bulbs, she gazed at her reflection. Dark, glossy hair waving over her shoulders and brown eyes highlighted by enormous lashes. In person they looked over the top, but on camera, they’d be perfect. She sighed. After the show, another magazine would probably ask her for a guest feature in which she provided makeup tips.

Just once she’d like to tell the magazine editor that she didn’t know jack shit about applying more than a smear of lipstick. When she was off camera, she didn’t wear any.

Mindy returned as Tabbart was stepping into a flared skirt with a graphic white-and-black pattern. “You look perfect. Now for the heels.”

Tabbart preferred flat shoes for cooking, but being on the shorter side of five feet, she required high heels for the set. She stepped into the designer leather that molded to her feet perfectly.

For a moment she twisted her foot side to side, admiring the shoes. “I love these.” Shoes were one of the few things she liked about getting primped for a taping.

“I knew you would.” Mindy smiled and knelt to fiddle with the pleats in Tabbart’s skirt.

Two raps on the door. “Five minutes, Tabbart.”

Tabbart’s brain blanked suddenly. What was she even cooking today? She cast her mind about the week’s schedule. She had created the menu and damn if she could remember. After forty weeks of meal plans for the past four years, the dishes all ran together.

“Is today the guest chef from the Hilton Head Hotel?”

Mindy exchanged a look with the makeup artist. “No. It’s seafood day.”

“Oh yes.” Baked stuffed Maine lobster tails, an appetizer of mussels in garlic butter and a summer pilaf. Dessert was… She racked her brain. What was wrong with her?

Burnout. She was one of the few people in this industry who worked so hard. While many had twenty-four weeks of shows, she had forty. Her downtime consisted of QVC appearances and traveling to get inspiration for new dishes. She hadn’t had a proper vacation since…

Since a lonely trip to the Maldives. She’d hoped to lie on the beach and rest, maybe dance the night away with a tall, dark and hung vacationer, but she’d spent most of her time writing new recipes in her journal.

Citron splash martini with a twist. That was her dessert—a cocktail.

She’d need it after this taping, if she continued to be so unfocused.

The minute she stepped out of her dressing room, her brain returned. She followed the stage manager through the maze of hallways leading to the set. The lights raised the temps about thirty degrees. Why had they put her in a sweater? Her wardrobe didn’t even match her food today. A seafood dish in a sweater and flared skirt? She glanced down at herself. Well, she did look as if she’d walked out of the Hamptons.

“Five, four, three…”

Her mind zeroed in on the task before her. Onstage she was in her element. Comfortable, engaging the live audience as well as the television one. She pasted a smile in place and stepped out.

Stowe watched the woman cross the stage to the set kitchen. Her warm dark-brown hair gleamed under the bright lights. She moved with a fluid grace and knew how to work a pair of heels. He dropped his gaze to her lean calves. She was a runner.

His mind automatically reached for her file. In his line of work, every woman who set foot onstage had a file—photo, application, history. And several paragraphs on her needs.

But not this one. He wasn’t on the Boot Knockers Ranch today.

As he watched the TV chef take her place behind a long marble countertop, he studied her face. Not a hint of fear or nervousness shone there. Yeah, he was far from home. Each lady visiting the ranch got onstage to be chosen by a cowboy who would entertain her for a week. Very few weren’t nervous.

His sister Amelia stood at his side, arms folded, smiling at a joke the TV food star had made after introducing her menu. When Amelia had asked him to join her at her workplace for a few hours, he’d been happy to see what his li’l sis did with her talents on a daily basis.

It didn’t shock him that she was behind the scenes in this type of business. In contrast, he was front stage, center, in his line of work. Yeah, he was far from his element today.

No cowboys were within a country mile of this Hollywood set. He felt out of place in his black Aussie cowboy hat with the scalloped band. Not to mention his black boots. Out of respect for Amelia, he’d worn tailored black dress pants and a white button-down shirt. He didn’t want to embarrass her by looking like a bumpkin relation.

The woman onstage—what was her name? Tabbart Tracy—smiled and nodded. Her hands moved as if they belonged to another person. She really had control of herself in front of the audience and cameras and knew how to entertain while cooking. She pulled a big knife from a wooden block and began to chop shallots.

He rocked back on his heels and studied her. It wasn’t his job to analyze her, but it was hard to remove himself from his own work. He’d gotten so good at it, he could usually glance at a woman and see what she needed, what she was missing in her life.

As a sex therapist, he treated a lot of control freaks—especially in his area of specialty. They didn’t call him the Dom from Down Under for nothing. He spent a lot of time on a stage under hot lights too, teaching women control and submission. And often women in positions of tight control needed to let loose—to give some up.

Amelia whispered something into the headset she wore, then shot Stowe a look.
I’ll be right back
, she mouthed. She slinked into the shadows to take care of a job duty, leaving Stowe to watch.

Tabbart held up the knife and pointed to the flat of the blade before crushing it against something on the cutting board. The scent of garlic reached him, making his stomach rumble.

That was something he missed about the BK Ranch—home-cooking. Amelia was no master of the hot plate in her little one-room apartment. Stowe had been eating soup and toast since his arrival. He could afford to treat them both to several meals a day, but his sister wouldn’t let him spend his hard-earned money. She was frugal like their mother.

A trace of homesickness passed over him. Actually, since hearing Amelia’s Australian accent, he’d been overwhelmed with the feeling. Texas had been his home for several years but he missed his family. Having a link to Amelia in the same country felt good, and he wished he could visit her more often. Except LA wasn’t exactly his thing.

Tabbart swirled a spoon in a bowl and then brought it to her lips. Lush lips, full and kissable, stained red. He shifted from boot to boot, his trousers suddenly tighter. He loved having a woman’s red lipstick smeared all over him—mouth, neck, chest and a ring around his cock.

Amelia returned and he tamped down his thoughts. His sister knew what he did for a living, but he tried not to be a horndog while visiting her. He had crazy-hot sex too many weeks a year to count. He could take a few days off.

Then Tabbart ran her pink tongue over her lower lip. On the huge monitor in front of him, the action was amplified. In a blink, he was rock hard.

Damn.

She was pretty but he had no intention of acting on it. He’d just have to take care of himself once he was alone in the shower tonight.

As Tabbart moved through preparations of the appetizer to the main dish, he leaned close to Amelia.

“Isn’t she great?” Amelia whispered.

He nodded. “Is she single?”

She punched him in the arm and one of the cameramen shot them a grin. “You’d better be kidding.”

“I am.” Sort of. Tabbart’s smile beckoned on the monitor. Too easily he saw her strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross, giving him that coaxing smile. Charming him even as he punished her for disobedience.

He shook himself.

Time to focus on anything but the beautiful star. He wasn’t interested in a one-night stand, or anything else for that matter. He was here to find his roots with his sister again.

“I hope you have a nice dress,” he said to Amelia.

Her eyes widened and she gave him her full attention. “Why?”

“I have tickets to
Calamity Jane
.”

“The musical?” She sounded like a little girl on Christmas morning.

He nodded.

“Wow, I haven’t been to any performance since coming out here. I thought I’d have all the time and money to experience the city’s cultures, and here I am years later, living on ramen noodles.”

“We have dinner reservations too.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You’re full of surprises. Except one.”

“What’s that?”

“
Calamity Jane
? You just can’t get enough of being a cowboy, can you?”

“Never.” Pride filled him. Back in Australia he’d rodeo’d. Once he’d hit American soil, he’d thought work would be easy to come by. Ranching work meant busting his ass for long hours and low pay. Stowe knew he was cut out for something better. That’s when Hugh had found him and offered him a job at the Boot Knockers Ranch.

He loved wielding a whip for a living, using his knowledge of the BDSM life every day. He had great friends and a true love of Texas. But he’d been ready for a break. After one female client a few months ago, he’d lost a little passion.

Watching Tabbart carefully concoct a buttery sauce to drizzle over the stuffed lobster, he drifted in memories of that client. She’d been a sub abandoned by her Dom. He’d welcomed the challenge of fulfilling her need to please and serve. Trouble was, it had knocked him off balance.

Amelia slipped away on another errand and he turned his attention to Tabbart. Her beauty was arresting. If he saw her in the supermarket in sweats, she’d still be beautiful. Her coiffed hair was on one monitor and a perfect manicure on another as she worked. Both could go and she’d still be lovely.

That was it—she had a femininity he rarely saw. Some women possessed it without effort. Grace Kelly was a good example, and Tabbart had an old-Hollywood glamour.

With a smile and flourish, she placed her lobster tail in a wall oven. A crew member called a cut. Tabbart took a sip from a bottled water hidden somewhere out of sight. As she wrapped her lips around the bottle, his erection returned full force.

God, he was conditioned to need sex and kink all the time. He’d probably be turned on by the grizzled old stagecoach driver in the musical tonight.