Designed for Love (Texas Nights) (13 page)

“Maybe.”

With her lips twisted in a little pout, the only thing he could do was kiss her. Really, just a comforting brush of his lips across hers. But his body remembered all the things he and Ashton hadn’t gotten around to indulging in, and it wanted them now.
Shitty timing
,
dude.
Still, he put a little more force into the kiss, coaxed her into opening for him, letting him really taste her. She put her arms around his neck, drew him so close she would have dust smeared all over her pretty outfit. Which was the perfect reminder why he shouldn’t be messing around with this with woman.

Reluctantly, and much to his body’s aggravation, Mac ended the kiss. Then pressed another to the corner of her lips.

God, she really was beautiful. And in more ways than that made-to-be-spread-on-Mac-McLaughlin’s-pillow hair and blue eyes. She didn’t want to disappoint people, yet she couldn’t see that if she didn’t risk all that, she’d end up disappointed in herself. “You could do this by yourself, but I will stand right there beside you when you face Wurzenbach and those bloggers.”

“What if they’ve already done so much damage that we can’t bounce back from it?”

“There’s no such thing.” But even as Mac said the words, he mocked himself as a liar. Because there were some things in life a person never bounced back from. But damned if he would let it happen to the woman who’d somehow begun wiggling her way into that empty space inside his chest.

* * *

With as much experience as Ashton had with the
Houston Newsworthy
society columnists, she had a hunch about how to handle any type of press. But that handling would take some cash, something she was hideously short of these days.

“We need to get to the lake,” Mac said.

“I...ah...need to run a quick errand.”

“What in hell is more important than that wacko running all over our job site?”

“I have a plan, but I need half an hour.” She glanced down to find Napoleon snuggled next to Mac’s boot. Why was her dog staring up at him as if he was a doggie god? Her normal leg pat didn’t nab his attention. “Sweetie, we need to go.” Napoleon inched closer to Mac. Something was wrong here. “What’s going on with you and my dog?”

“Nothing.” Mac’s expression was bland. Too bland based on the bomb she’d just dropped. Then he voluntarily swooped her dog under his arm. “He can go with me, but I need you out there as soon as possible. I’m not a dogsitter.”

Giving them one last look over her shoulder, Ashton headed to her office to grab her keys. On the interstate, she put the pedal down and made it to Designer Diva Consignment in record time. Today, she didn’t have the time to be humiliated, but just pressed through the front door and ignored the shoppers who all turned from the racks to stare at her. The owner, Stacey, however, glowed at her from behind the counter and said, “Did you bring me more items today? I can’t tell you how well your clothes sell. Of course, when people can pay pennies on the dollar for names like—”

“How much?” Ashton leaned over the counter. She had to look like a wild woman, with her hair a mess from Mac’s hands and the desperate gleam she no doubt had in her eyes.

“How much what...?”

“Cash? I need those pennies you were talking about.”

“Ms. Davenport.” She at least had the grace to lower her voice and check that her customers weren’t eavesdropping. “I told you my policy. I pay once a month, the last day of the month.”

“That won’t work.”

“But you signed a consignment agreement stating—”

“As of today, how much will you owe me at the end of this month?”

“If I don’t sell another item?”

Ashton did a quick scan of the store. The only remaining piece of hers she spotted hanging on the rack was the Camilla cocktail suit her brother had given her two birthdays ago. Not a particularly big loss for her or gain for another woman, so it wasn’t surprising. That meant Stacey should be giving her a top number. “Yes.”

“Twelve hundred.”

That number had her swallowing a wad of sickness in her throat. The designer clothing she’d brought in had retailed for twenty times that. Pennies on the dollar indeed. “What if I told you I’d be willing to take three-quarters of that? But I need it now. In cash.”

Stacey’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her gaze wandered up and to the right. She was considering it. “I could do six hundred.”

Down and dirty calculations tumbled through Ashton’s head. She had no idea how many bloggers were meandering around Lily Lake, waiting to tear her apart. If she said twenty, that would give her thirty bucks a head. Throw in anyone extra and that number became even more dismal. Then again, beer at Dirty Harry’s was cheap, cold, and ever-flowing. She’d make it work. “It’s a deal.”

Stacey opened her cash register drawer, and her eyes went round with fake dismay. “I’m sorry, it looks as though I only have four in the—”

Ashton shot around the counter so fast the woman backed away from the open drawer. The drawer that was stuffed with twenties and a couple of hundreds. “If you don’t have at least eight in there, I don’t know a Louboutin from a Weitzman.” She smiled her best I-will-mess-you-up smile and added bite to her words. “And if you don’t want me to tell these lovely ladies—” she angled her head toward the racks, “—that you’re passing off Barrese as Versace, then you will kindly remove six hundred dollars. I will then politely place that money in my bag and walk out of here.”

Stacey swallowed and fumbled with the clips keeping the money in place with shaking fingers. “You seemed so nice when you first came in.”

“Desperation does strange things to people.”

Chapter Twelve

By the time Ashton made it to the lake, she had to park out by the main road because cars, trucks and a couple of VW vans were lined up nose-to-ass down the gravel lane to the lake. Apparently she should’ve consigned the pair of pumps she was wearing today because three-quarters of the way into her walk, she’d sunk her heels twice each and red mud clung to the spikes. Dammit, her lug-soled boots were replacing the extra pair of heels she normally carried in her bag.

She cleared the trees and found people swarming all over the site like ants at a gourmet picnic. And not just on the dirt, but also gathered in the middle of the pavilion slab, milling around as though they expected hors d’oeuvres to be served at any time.

A shrill whistle cut the chatter and a voice bellowed, “If you don’t get the fuck off this slab, I’m gonna carry every sorry one of your asses off it myself. This isn’t your property. Show a little respect.”

Mac, her knight in tarnished armor. But she would take that man over her former Houston pretty-boys any day. None of them had ever made her feel as frustrated, as perplexed, as excited, or as safe as Mac did. He was the whole package wrapped up in flannel and denim, now two of her favorite fabrics.

Head down, she tried to weave through the crowd without being recognized, but she didn’t make it ten feet before a ripple ran through them and they began to surround her.

“Ms. Davenport, can you tell us why you’re involved in a project of this scope when you have absolutely no experience in the construction industry or residential and commercial development?”

“Is it true Adelaide Chappell is on her deathbed?”

Wait a minute, who were these people? Environmentalists or something else?

She continued to plow forward. Suddenly, the path parted in front of her and Mac broke through. A man with shoulders the width of the Grand Canyon could do that. He grabbed her arm, bared his teeth at the people pressing in on them. “If you don’t take three steps back, Ms. Davenport won’t answer a single question.”

That sent the worst of them skittering back.

He pitched his voice low. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Trying to gather the resources to do damage control.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Answer a few questions, then get rid of them.”

“You must have something pretty damned impressive up your sleeve.”

Six hundred bucks could hardly be called impressive, but it was what she had to work with. And Ashton was damn well done with whining about getting short-sheeted in the bed of life. “Where’s the professor?”

Mac nodded toward the lake. “Doing a goddamned sit-in with the lily pads.”

Which would make for a fabulous photo-op. “You call Beck?”

“Yeah, he’s sending someone as soon as he can. They had some big call on a bomb threat at the high school.”

Lord, things like that shouldn’t happen in a place like Shelbyville. A good reminder that it was a small town, but it wasn’t nirvana. Then again, the timing was awfully convenient for the so-called bloggers.

She finally caught a glimpse of Wurzenbach wearing rubber fishing pants and a broad-brimmed hat to shade his face, sitting in the water near a clump of the plants he claimed were endangered. She slapped on her best sorry-about-my-crazy-uncle-we-usually-keep-him-in-the-attic smile and marched toward the man. “Professor, how...nice...to see you today.”

He had the grace to look sheepish, his body slumping slightly and allowing lake water to trickle inside his waders. “Ms. Davenport, you really left me no choice. Please understand, the plants must be protected.”

Her heels were slowly sinking into the lakeside muck, so her raised chin was deliberate this time. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“For you to move on to some other supposedly endangered plant.”

He stiffened, which unbalanced him, causing him to flail and almost go under the surface. “Are you—” he spluttered, “—are you trying to bribe me?”

Was that a rhetorical question? Of course she was. Bribe money might kill the need for beer money. “I understand your love of plants must be as important to you as the Lily Lake project is for me.”

“No, Ms. Davenport, the plants are my life.”

Well, she wouldn’t have much of one if she couldn’t get him to move on, letting her and Mac get back to work. “If I promise to answer a few questions for these people, will you encourage them to leave? Give me time to get a second opinion on these water lilies?”

“You won’t try to hornswoggle me?”

She wasn’t even sure what that meant, but she said, “Absolutely not.”

“Fine.” He stood and water rolled off his olive-green pants.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ashton called out. “Professor Wurzenbach and I will give you ten minutes for questions. At that time, you’ll be required to leave the area.”

They advanced like an offensive line to the point that Wurzenbach danced around in the water and shouted, “No closer, you Philistines. If you trample the lilies, you’re no better than the capitalists looking to profit from the natural world’s destruction.”

“And do you see Ashton Davenport as one of those greedy capitalists?” someone hollered back.

Wurzenbach avoided Ashton’s stare. “I’m not saying she knew the potential impact of her actions when she began this project, but now that she’s been informed of the fragile nature of this ecosystem, she has a moral obligation to stop construction.”

“What’s the big deal about some lily pad?” a guy typing rapid-fire on his iPad called out. That didn’t sound like someone who cared too much about the environment. “They’re in every pond all over the state.”

“Not this lily,” the professor replied. “And although the inherent beauty of the plant is reason enough to protect it, we have no way of knowing how this species might help the world in the future. It could be an essential element in the cure to cancer.”

“Ms. Davenport, how does it feel to know you’re standing in the way of curing cancer?”

For God’s sweet sake. She’d like to march right out there in the water and dunk the professor’s head under the surface a few times. “That was a hypothetical example given by Professor Wurzenbach. The only thing that’s being thwarted here is a development project that will benefit people in the Shelbyville community and eventually people all around the state.”

“Is it true your interior design business is about to go bankrupt?”

She tensed, but that only sank her heels further, and mud oozed inside her shoes. “I’ve scaled back on those projects to focus my attention on Lily Lake.”

“Nice dodge,” a guy near her muttered.

“What’s your reaction to your father’s statement that you’re...I believe the phrase he used was...piddling around...out here in the boonies?”

“If you call what will ultimately be a thirty-million-dollar project with an even larger economic impact piddly, then I suppose he’s right.”

“And what about the Davenport Lingerie stores—can you tell us why you no longer run those? Did it have something to do with the trumped-up lawsuit you filed against Roxanne Eberly?”

And to think she used to court the Houston press. The society reporters were a little less in-your-face than these people though. “I discovered that retail wasn’t my true calling.”

“And managing a major residential development without a shred of prior experience is?” The muttering guy snorted. “What does Adelaide Chappell think about you prostituting the land in order to make a buck?”

Engaging these jackals at all had been a mistake. “No more questions, please. It’s obvious that we need to determine if these plants are, in fact, an endangered species. And to do that, we’ll have to ask you to clear the property. However, you’re welcome to an informal get-together I’m hosting at Dirty Harry’s.” Nothing like the promise of beer and frog legs to lure them away before she had to toss Wurzenbach’s meddling little butt off her property. Again.

It took thirty minutes before they’d all packed up, leaving her to face Wurzenbach. “Dr. Wurzenbach, I’m going to ask you one more time—politely—to remove yourself from my property. If I have to call the sheriff again, I doubt it will go well for you. Please do us both a favor and leave.”

“How do I know you’ll honor your word about getting a second opinion on the water lilies?”

This man... Retirees were dangerous. Too much time, not enough to do with it. “I suppose you’ll have to trust me.”

* * *

When Ashton returned from walking Wurzenbach to his car and sending him on his way, she found Mac sitting on his truck’s tailgate. And her dog sitting close to his hip. Just sitting, not plotting Mac’s murder. Very suspicious.

“What are you thinking?” Mac barked. “Inviting those assholes to not only stick around, but throwing them a damned party at Dirty Harry’s?”

“I know press people—regardless of their medium. They can’t resist free booze and food. And if I give it to them, they’ll owe me, even if it’s just a little. Besides, how many of them do you think will take one look at Dirty Harry’s, turn right around, get in their cars and scuttle back to wherever they came from? This
piddly
little story isn’t worth them risking their lives over. They’re not stupid.”

Her phone rang. Unknown number, but it was a local area code. She chanced it and answered. “Ashton Davenport.”

“I got a bunch of fancy-ass people wearing loafers what just walked in to my place saying to start a tab and charge it to you,” Dirty Harry’s owner, Clyde, huffed out. “That right?”

“They’re inside?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just came up in here like they owned the floor they’re walking on.”

Shoot. They were braver than she’d given them credit for. “How many?”

“Prob’ly a dozen or so.”

“Then yes, open a tab, but I need to know when it hits five hundred.” That also meant she needed to get over there herself and charm the few who’d decided sticking around was a good idea. “Thanks, Clyde.” She hung up.

“You’re spending five hundred bucks on booze for a bunch of people who could rally behind Wurzenbach and tank this whole project?” The way Mac was staring at her, Ashton patted her forehead to make sure she hadn’t sprouted a horn in the past thirty seconds. “When we have a grinder to rent, another truck of cement to buy, not to mention extra labor costs? We were already on a tight budget for the pavilion, but now we’re scraping the bottom of the bucket. Hell, we’re not scraping, we’ve already gone clean through the metal.”

“I’m not paying for it out of the Lily Lake budget.”

“Clyde doesn’t take Amex either.”

“I have cash.”

“Well, that’s interesting when you haven’t paid me your next installment for Napoleon’s march through the Piggly Wiggly.”

If the day hadn’t been crappy enough, he had to remind her how she was failing him. She’d never in her life owed someone money. “Mac, I...” There wasn’t a sincere enough apology for what she’d done to him. He needed that money to work on his mom’s shop. Rolling a hand toward their trampled job site, she forced herself to look Mac full in the face. “You’ll get yours next, I promise.” Didn’t matter if she had to sell an organ to get it. Surely she could get ten grand for a kidney.

“So how are you paying for beer? Did you call up Daddy asking for a loan?”

“Is that what you think of me? We’ve worked closely together for a while now and you still see me as so shallow and spoiled that I would go running home the first time I hit a snag?” It had been a first-class—and she knew first-class—shitty day, but it wasn’t until now that she’d felt gutted. Mac had said nice things, things that she thought meant he not only liked her but actually had a little respect for her. She wrapped her arms around her stomach to ease the empty ache inside. An ache that had nothing to do with her lack of money.

Mac paced a tight circle. Came back to stand before her. And then paced again. “I don’t know anyone who could actually walk away from that kind of cash.”

“Allie returned the Escalade her dad gave her.”

“Tens of thousands is a little different from—” His brows lowered as he cut himself off.

“Millions.”

“Jesus Christ.” Another circle.

“You’re carving a rut.”

“What?”

“Does it bother you—that I gave up the money? I guess you think I should’ve done something productive with it. Funded a mission trip.” Maybe she should’ve thought about that before she just tossed it back in her father’s face. Sure, he made charitable contributions but only to pad Davenport Holdings’ tax deductions.

“Doing good things for people is an admirable way to spend money, but just walking away, that takes a different kind of guts.”

Warmth seeped into the hollowness in her midsection, slowly filling her up. “As soon as I get a little more cash, I’ll pay you back every cent I owe you.”

“Have you worked on any design jobs since we started this project?”

“I have a couple of proposals out, but—” Too late, she stopped the overflow of words from her mouth.

“But you don’t have any current jobs.”

“I bill net 30, but sometimes clients pay late and—”

“Don’t even try to bullshit me. Where’d you get the money? If you’ve done something that could jeopardize this project, our project, I need to know.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t strip copper wire or pawn the subcontractors’ tools.”

“That doesn’t leave you a lot of money-making options.”

She might not have made the money through honest labor, and in a way, she had just spent her family’s money because her trust fund had paid for those clothes and shoes. “I took some items to a consignment store.”

“What does that mean?”

Just had to have every humiliating detail, didn’t he? “It means I took clothes, shoes and accessories—” one Tom Ford bag that she was still having second thoughts about, “—to a boutique specializing in upscale pre-owned women’s clothing and had them sell part of my wardrobe.”

“Part?” His eyes narrowed as his attention homed in on her shoes and trailed up her body, leaving her mildly overheated and a little breathless. “Haven’t I seen you wear that—” he angled his chin toward her chest, “—dress thing before?”

“Fine,
most
of my wardrobe.” Just her luck Mac was the one man in the entire universe who recognized when a woman wore the same outfit over and over again.