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  Big Bad Cowboy

  A Billionaire and a Virgin Romance

  By: Tia Siren

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  Table of Contents

  Big Bad Cowboy: A Billionaire and a Virgin Romance

  Mail Order Bride Collection

  Regency Romance Collection

  Sports Romance Collection

  Billionaire Romance - The Billionaire’s Love Child

  Billionaire Romance – The Bad Boy Billionaire

  Billionaire Romance – What the Boss Wants, He Gets

  More Steamy Romance by Tia Siren

  Big Bad Cowboy: A Billionaire and a Virgin Romance

  CHAPTER ONE: Miranda Carson

  I hated my life.

  Okay, hate was probably too strong of a word to use, because my life was not all horrible all the time. It was just mostly horrible most of the time. So maybe I should just say I hated parts of my life at different times. And this moment was one of those times when I pretty much hated everything all at once.

  And I blamed it all on my dad. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be in the spot I’m in today. My life would be a hundred and ten percent different. Then again, I probably wouldn’t be the person I am today, but honestly, I didn’t think that would be such a bad thing. I was certainly nobody’s idea of a prize.

  Please don’t get the wrong idea about my relationship with my dad. He was never anything but kind to me. The truth is, I loved my father, more than anything. I still do. He was a great guy, the best dad a girl could ever ask for. He worked hard to support his family, taking as much overtime and as many weekend shifts he could get working as an oil driller in our hometown of Fort Worth, Texas. Even though he worked his ass off to keep us fed, he never missed a dance recital or a softball game or a school play.

  We remained close even after he got married again two years after my mom died of cancer. And the fact that he married Mom’s best friend, Helen Anderson, didn’t bother me a bit. Helen was great. I loved her. She had been like a second mom to me all my life. If Mom could have picked Dad’s next wife, she would have picked Helen.

  Okay, maybe Dad getting remarried bothered me a little. Not because it was Helen, but because I had always been daddy’s little girl and having to share him with a woman other than my mom just took a little getting used to.

  Hey, give me a break. I was just eighteen years old when they got married, and I was your typical, selfish teenage girl. It was bad enough that I had to share my dad with my younger brother, Scotty, who was thirteen at the time. I understand it now, but at the time it was just hard for me, watching him open his heart to share all that love with someone other than me.

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, Helen, who was nearly forty-five at the time, got pregnant a year after they married and gave birth to TWINS!

  Can you imagine that, at her age? Twin boys named James and Josh. Thank god I was heading off to college by then, so I didn’t have to put up with two screaming babies in the house like Scotty did. He says it was pure torture.

  They turned my old room into a nursery and all seemed right with the world for a while. I’d never seen Dad so happy, and I had to admit, those had been some pretty cute babies. They still were.

  Then, when the twins were two and Scotty was fifteen, Dad and Helen were killed by a drunk driver on the way home from a cookout at Helen’s sister’s house in Lakeview.

  They were less than a mile from home when the guy veered into their lane and hit them head on. Scotty and the babies were in the backseat asleep and somehow walked away without a scratch. Scotty says he doesn’t even remember the crash. He just remembers waking up and seeing blue and red flashing lights and wondering why the babies were crying. They say our brain blocks out the most traumatic moments of our lives to keep us sane. For Scotty’s sake, I pray that’s true.

  A few days later, we buried my dad and Helen. I had to drop out of college without finishing my degree to take care of Scotty and the twins. I came home just two semesters away from earning my physical therapy degree. All I had to show from three years of college was a grungy Texas A&M sweatshirt and a shit-ton of student loans that I didn’t know how I’d ever pay back.

  At the ripe young age of twenty-two, I became the legal guardian to two-year-old twins and a fifteen-year-old boy who was pissed at the world because it had taken his father from him. We had to sell the house at a loss and move into a tiny apartment, because on my paycheck as a waitress at Red Lobster, it’s all we could afford. The place was a shithole, but it beat living in a cardboard box by the railroad tracks. Or having my brothers taken away from me. That would be the last straw on an already-breaking camel’s back.

  It had been two years now and things had just gone from bad to worse. Or from horrible to even more horrible. I spent eight to ten hours a day, six days a week, waiting tables at Red Lobster while my neighbor, Sheila, watched the twins. Scotty just ran amok. I gave up trying to keep up with him long ago.

  If it wasn’t for food stamps and government assistance, we’d all be living in the street.

  I loved my three brothers with all my heart, but like I said, at this moment, I hated my entire life and I blamed it all on my dad.

  Thanks for nothing, Dad…

  Wish you were here.

  * * *

  “Come on, guys,” I pleaded, waving the pair of Winnie the Pooh onesies in the air as I chased the twins through our tiny apartment. As usual, Scotty was plunked down in front of the television with headphones covering his ears, seemingly oblivious to it all. That was what he did every night if he wasn’t out with friends. He just put on those damn headphones and shut out the real world. I wished I could do the same, but I was the adult, the responsible one, the one determined to hold this family together no matter what.

  The twins ignored me and continued to run stark naked through the house, dripping bath water along the way. I finally cornered them in the room they shared with Scotty. I managed to hem them in and lock the door. I swear, it was like herding cats, dealing with those two.

  I had just gotten their pajamas on and tucked them into the little bed they shared when Scotty pounded on the door.

  “What?” I screamed, jerking open the door. For some reason the twins didn’t irk me nearly as much as Scotty did with his pissy teenaged attitude. I didn’t know what he had to be upset about. All he had to do was go to school and keep his grades up so he could get a scholarship someday. God knows I didn’t have the money to put him through school. I didn’t even have the money to finish out my own degree.

  “Wanda Jean is on the phone,” he said, giving me the “go fuck yourself” look that was his usual expression these days. I was pretty sure if he showed up to get his picture taken for the school yearbook, that was the face you’d see. He shoved the phone at me. “Here, she says it’s important.”

  He started to turn away, but I grabbed the cowl of his hoodie and pulled him into the room. The twins were lying in bed, watc
hing us. I picked up the Cat in the Hat book I had been about to read them and shoved it at Scotty in the same manner he had shoved my cell phone at me.

  “Read this to them,” I ordered. “I have to take this call. It’s important.”

  “I’m not reading this crap,” he said, tossing the book onto the bed like a frisbee.

  He gave me a defiant look that let me know I had no control over him. I could not make him do anything, and we both knew it. He was an angry seventeen-year-old, a head taller than me, who was always pissed at the world, starting with me.

  “You’re not the boss of me!” was Scotty’s motto. “Fuck you, Miranda!” was his other one. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  I took a deep breath and let the anger drain from my body. I told Wanda Jean to hang on and tried a new approach.

  “This is Wanda Jean about that temporary job in Amarillo I told you about, the one at Big Sky Ranch & Spa, the one that could pay our bills for months. I have to take this.” I picked up the book and held it out to him. “Please, read them a story, and if I get this job I will get you your very own cell phone.”

  I thought I saw a spark of excitement flash through his eyes. It had been so long since I’d seen anything but a scowl that I couldn’t be sure. He bit at the inside of his cheek and stared at me.

  “Seriously? My own cell phone? Not one that we have to share and you always take with you?”

  “Your own phone,” I said with a smile.

  I knew I was lying to him, but I had no choice. We would need every cent of the money I could earn in the month I would be at Big Sky Ranch & Spa, but if I had to lie to get him to read the twins a fucking Dr. Seuss book, then brand me a liar.

  “Okay,” he said, taking the book and frowning at the cover. A rare smile crossed his lips. “This used to be my favorite. Dad read it to me every night.”

  “I know,” I said, tears coming to my eyes. I put my hand on the back of his neck and drew his forehead down to mine. It was a rare moment of solidarity. “Don’t worry, little brother, we’re going to be all right.”

  “How can you be sure?” he asked, staring into my eyes.

  “Because we’re due for a little good luck,” I said, pulling back and wiping my nose on the back of my hand. “In fact, we are way overdue.”

  CHAPTER TWO: Conner Blackstone

  “This is bullshit!”

  I wadded up the DNA report and threw it across the table at Wesley, my best friend since kindergarten and my corporate counsel since I took over as CEO of Blackstone Enterprises from my father five years ago.

  We were flying at 30,000 feet in the air in the corporate jet somewhere over Nevada. I usually found the serene landscape below and the quiet hum of the engines to be soothing, but not today. Not with the news I was getting.

  “It’s not bullshit, Con,” Wesley said calmly, picking up the report and smoothing it out on the table with the back of his hand. “I had the lab run the report twice just to make sure. Like it or not, you have a five-year-old half brother.”

  “I still don’t believe it,” I growled. “DNA reports can be wrong.”

  “Like I said, I had the lab run it twice because I knew you wouldn’t believe the results otherwise,” Wesley said with a long sigh. “The report is not wrong. Hell, you can tell by looking at him that he’s your brother.”

  Wesley opened the folder that was resting on the small table between us and flipped through it. There were two tumblers of Jack Daniels whisky on the table between us. I picked up the one closest to me and drained it dry. Then I held it up so the flight attendant could see that I needed another. I really needed another.

  The flight attendant, a blonde with blow-job lips and big tits whose name I couldn’t recall until I saw it on her nametag—Patsy—sauntered over with the bottle of Jack and refilled my glass.

  As she poured the whiskey I let my hand slide up the back her thigh and up under her short skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties. I caressed the curve of her tight ass and dipped the tip of my little finger into her cooch. She was warm and moist. She just looked down at me and smiled.

  The last time I used the corporate jet, Patsy and I fucked like mile-high rabbits in the sleeping quarters at the rear of the plane. I had planned to give her the same pleasure this trip, but then Wesley ruined everything by telling me about this kid that was supposedly my half brother.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” I said, watching her sashay away. I put the tip of my little finger into the whiskey and swirled it around.

  “Con, focus,” Wesley said, waving a hand in front of my face to get my attention from the girl’s ass as she walked away. “Can you please stop thinking with your dick long enough to address this? This could be a real problem for you.”

  “Fine, whatever. Go ahead.”

  From the file, Wesley brought out a photograph of a little boy with dark hair and dark eyes. He was looking at the camera with a big smile on his round face. The old man holding him was smiling, too. The old man had ghost-white hair and a bushy white beard. He was wearing a plaid cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a straw hat pushed back on his head. He looked like an old cowboy who’d just come in from the roundup. He had his cheek resting against the boy’s head.

  The old man was my father, Jefferson Davis Blackstone, one of the richest men in Texas. He died of a heart attack eight months ago at the ripe old age of seventy-five. He was fucking a hooker in the back of his Cadillac when his ticker stopped. He was on the way to a charity event at a children’s hospital. Reckon the rotten apple doesn’t fall very far from the crooked tree.

  “The boy’s legal name is Jefferson Davis Blackstone, Junior, named after your father. They call him Jeffie. He’s been living in Galveston with his mother, a woman named Pearl Ramirez, since birth. Have you ever heard the name? Ever hear the old man mention anyone named Pearl?”

  I stared out the window at the dark night sky and twinkling lights below and shook my head.

  “Pearl was a secretary at Blackstone Oil in Galveston. I assume that’s how they met.” Wesley pulled out a sheet of paper covered in columns of numbers. I barely glanced at it.

  “Your dad put his name on the boy’s birth certificate and did everything but marry the mother. He bought them a house in Galveston and set her up with bank accounts with regular deposits from his personal holdings.”

  “So the company wasn’t supporting his whore and their bastard child,” I said after taking a sip of the whiskey. “That’s one good thing, I suppose.”

  Wesley gave me the look he always gave me when he felt I was being a dick—which was most of the time. “God, Con, how can you be so fucking cold? He’s just a little boy.”

  “Someone has to be cold, Wesley,” I shot back. “My old man would have bankrupted this company if I hadn’t taken over when I returned from college six years ago.” I shot back the rest of the whiskey and shook my head. “What was wrong with that old bastard?”

  “That old bastard, as you call him, was one of the nicest, most compassionate men I’ve ever met,” Wesley said. “Unlike you, he cared about people. He wasn’t a self-centered prick who only thought of himself.”

  “Careful, Wesley,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “You work for me now, not my old man. I’m a self-centered prick who would fire his best friend if he had a reason to. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “You wouldn’t fire me, Con,” Wesley said, meeting my gaze without an inkling of fear in his eyes, “because I’m the only friend you have.”

  I waved at him like he was a pesky fly. He still didn’t shut up.

  He said, “Everybody loved Jefferson Blackstone. Very few people love his son. And it’s your own damn fault.”

  My blood began to boil, as it always did when someone intoned the virtues of the great Jefferson Blackstone. I leaned forward and growled at him.

  “All I know is the old bastard was never there when I was growing up,” I said, spitting the words a
t him. I held out my fingers to tick off all the ways the old man had disappointed me.

  “He wasn’t there when my mom died of a blood clot when I was six. He wasn’t there when his second wife was beating the shit out of me for spilling Kool-Aid on the fucking carpet when I was nine. He wasn’t there when I broke my back riding the horse he gave me as a token gift for my thirteenth birthday.” I wiggled my fingers at him. “Should I go on, Wesley, or do you get the picture?”

  “I get the picture,” he said, holding up his hand. “He was building this company and was never there for you. I get that. But, that does not change the fact that you have a half brother who now has a Dallas lawyer suing for half of everything you own.”

  The flight attendant was standing at the bar, waiting, giving me the eye. I wanted to shove her into the bedroom and take my frustration out on that sweet ass of hers, but Wesley wasn’t done getting on my last fucking nerve.

  “Why is this coming up now?” I asked, forcing my attention back to the topic at hand.

  “When your dad died, he left the boy and his mother set up so they wouldn’t want for anything,” Wesley said, closing the file and resting his hands on it, probably so I couldn’t sling it across the plane. “She got a monthly allowance and the boy has a trust fund that will make him a very wealthy young man when he turns twenty-one.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Pearl Ramirez died two weeks ago,” Wesley said, his eyebrows raised. “Complications from diabetes.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, meaning it. “And the boy?”

  Wesley took a deep breath and opened the file again. He took out a thick document and turned to a page he’d marked with a pink Post-it. He set the document on the table and slid it toward me. He tapped a finger at a short paragraph containing my name.

  He said, “When the boy’s mother died, that activated a clause in your father’s will. The clause concerns the legal guardianship of the boy.”