Lone Star Wedding (15 page)

“Do you have those earrings I asked to borrow?” she asked.

“What? Oh.” Adrienne came to with a start. Flipping her deep purple boa over one shoulder, she took a pair of amber earrings from her pocket. “I still don't understand why you want to borrow these when Ryan gave you those gorgeous sapphire earrings.”

“I'm saving those for a special occasion. Besides, blue sapphires with this dress?” Hannah put the borrowed jewelry on. “What do you think?”

Again, Adrienne was so preoccupied she didn't answer.

Eyeing her friend, Hannah said, “Is everything okay, Adrienne?”

“What? Oh, of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

Hannah returned the lip gloss to the vanity. “You were miles away just now.”

“Maybe I was. I called my mother a little while ago, right after she sent me an interesting fax. It seems that a former beauty contest judge and his wife who now reside in Nashville are being investigated for tax evasion.”

Hannah knew that Adrienne's mother had been waiting for this day for years, which was how long she'd been planning her retaliation for the wrong that had been done to her daughter. “Your mother must be pleased.”

“Shoot, sugar, she's ecstatic. Says she wishes she would have thought to have them investigated.”

“It wasn't her?” Hannah turned at her makeup table so she could look directly at Adrienne.

“Nope. Who else could it be?”

“Fate?”

Adrienne shrugged.

“My mother always says what goes around comes around.”

Adrienne shrugged again. “Something doesn't add up.”

“That's probably what the IRS thought,” Hannah agreed.

Adrienne was quiet. Shaking her head as if to clear it, she said, “That dress is going to knock Parker's socks off. And you're right. The earrings are perfect. While you're enjoying a cultural evening, I'm going to be trying to balance my accounts.”

“If Parker shows up.”

Hannah had Adrienne's full attention. “Why wouldn't he show up?”

Hannah couldn't say why. It was just a feeling she'd had all day. It had to do with the way Parker had looked when he'd crawled out of her bed that last time. He'd kissed her goodbye, but he'd seemed distant, aloof, as if his mind had already been on something else by then.

“He'll show up,” Adrienne insisted. “Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else he'll hear an earful from you. Besides, somehow I have a feeling that last night was more than a one-night stand. If all Parker had wanted was a fast, hard romp, he could have gotten it with Maria. And he turned her down, remember?”

Hannah pulled a face. Adrienne was, among other things, painfully blunt. She was also usually right.

“I'd better get back to my accounting,” she said. “I'll talk to you tomorrow. In the meantime, don't worry. Remember, whatever happens, you have control.”

Listening to the click of her own front door, Hannah wanted to believe Adrienne was right. But when Parker hadn't shown up an hour later, she couldn't help wondering whether he was simply late or if he had decided not to come at all.

By the time another hour had crept by, she faced the fact that he was more than fashionably late. A flash of grief ripped through her. First Maria. And now Parker.

Staring at her reflection, she remembered Adrienne's words. Repeating them to herself, she whispered, “I am in control.”

Keeping her shoulders up and her upper lip stiff, she reached for her purse. Maybe there was no explanation for what Maria had done. But Parker had darn well better have a good excuse for standing her up tonight.

 

Adrienne punched a couple of numbers on the old adding machine, double-checked her figures, then punched a few more. She was penciling in the total when a sound filtered through her concentration. She turned her head slightly. Listening. Was someone at the back door?

“Hannah,” she called. “Is that you?”

There was only silence. It was Saturday night and the
restaurant was officially closed until Monday. The high school boys she'd hired to wash dishes had left an hour ago. Which meant that she was alone in the building. Just her and her shadow.

There were people who told Adrienne she worked too hard, spent too many Saturday nights balancing books. She didn't mind. The Pink Flamingo was her favorite place to be. Just a few short hours ago her mother had asked how long she was going to wait before thinking about starting a family. Hannah was the only one who seemed to understand that Adrienne didn't necessarily want to have children. It wasn't that she wasn't drawn to a baby's smile, a preschooler's prattle, a teenager's humor. She loved children of all ages. She just didn't feel the need to have any of her own.

The Pink Flamingo was her baby, a mix and match of soft lights and strong flavors. Everything about it was her creation, from the stained-glass window decor, to the pink flamingo on every table. She chose the menu, and she decided who she wanted to hire. Her instructors in culinary school had said she'd never be successful. Not because she couldn't cook, but because she refused to be chained to the norm. What was wrong with putting whimsy with bright colors? Of course she watched the flavor pallet. Nobody would taste bread pudding after eating three-siren chili. That required something cold and rich and soothing, like ice cream, or cheesecake, or four kinds of chocolate. She knew her wine, but she preferred Scotch. As soon as she finished these books, she was going to treat herself to a sip or two out of her most expensive bottle, which she kept in the small kitchen in the apartment upstairs.

A quiet thud carried to her ears. It sounded like footsteps, and reminded her of the special effects in the horror show she'd watched a few nights ago. Of course, in the
movie a machete had come crashing through the door inches from a poor victim's head.

Heart in her throat, Adrienne cursed her overactive imagination. She wasn't imagining the fall of footsteps outside her office door. An alarm went off in her head.

Think, Adrienne. And whatever you do, remain calm.

She'd been working by the light of the green lamp on her desk. The rest of the office was in shadow. Rising blithely to her feet, she pressed her back against the wall, and waited. She took a deep, silent breath, and caught a whiff of aftershave. A heartbeat later a hand reached for the light switch a few inches from her elbow.

She let loose a blood-curdling scream. For once she wished she'd have chosen flat shoes. Her three-inch heels were going to make running impossible. Not about to be a victim, she dove into action. Keeping the element of surprise on her side, she swung around.

She saw the shape of a man materialize in the doorway. Everything happened quickly after that. She planted her feet solidly at the same time she grabbed the man's arm. She tugged with all her might to throw him off balance, then stuck her foot out before he could right himself.

He toppled to the floor like a felled oak.

“What the hell—”

The voice sounded deep, surprised and angry.

Adrienne flipped on the light. Squinting beneath the sudden glare, she gasped. She knew her mouth was gaping, but she couldn't help it.

She and the intruder both froze. Adrienne, where she stood near the door, and J. D. Malone, on his back in the middle of her office floor.

“W
hat the hell are you trying to do, kill me?”

Adrienne stared at J.D. Even flat on his back, the man was formidable. And it really ticked her off. “Don't yell at me!”

He groaned, and she felt compelled to defend herself. That ticked her off, too. “You scared me half to death! What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I'm lying on your floor.” He groaned again. “Call 9-1-1.”

She uttered the same expletive that had gotten her kicked out of charm school more than twenty years ago. He simply looked up at her, his features stark, his mouth pinched, his face drawn. Although it seemed highly unlikely that they taught young girls how to handle themselves in situations even remotely similar to this one, she found herself wishing she would have paid a little closer attention to what her charm school teacher, Miss Prichart, had said back then. Any help or insight would have been welcome.

“Do you really need an ambulance?” Adrienne asked.

He moaned gruffly, and pushed himself to a sitting position. Adrienne had always heard it wasn't wise to move an injured person. She figured the notorious J. D. Malone knew what he was doing. What she didn't know was what he was doing in her restaurant after closing.

“How did you get in here?”

If he heard the distrust in her voice, he didn't mention it. “I came—” he grimaced as he rose to his knees “—through the back door.”

She continued to eye him warily, even after he'd climbed stiffly to his feet. “I locked that door myself.”

He met her stare. “The lock is faulty. Anybody could have gotten in.”

“Anybody did.”

“You're lucky it was me, and not an ax murderer.”

She shot him a withering stare. Roughly translated, it meant drop dead.

He lumbered closer. She noticed he gave her a wide berth. She figured she'd given him good reason.

“That was one hell of a self-defense technique,” he said.

She nodded. “It was one of three I learned at a class sponsored by and held at the women's center when I first moved to Texas. One involves applying pressure to an assailant's eyeball. Another is the old knee in the groin maneuver.”

She thought she saw him wince.

“I had never put any of them to the test. Until now.”

He ran a hand through his hair, another down the front of his starched shirt. “I'd say I received the lesser of three evils.”

Adrienne really did not want to smile. And yet she felt one hovering dangerously close to her lips. Keeping a tight rein on her expression, she raised her chin a notch and asked, “What are you doing here, Mr. Malone?”

He stared into her eyes, his gaze hypnotic, no doubt a tactic he used to his full advantage in court. He lowered his voice, and she wasn't sure, but she thought he'd eased slightly closer. “I can't seem to stop thinking about you.”

Refusing to let him get to her, she gestured to her untidy desk. “As you can see, I'm busy.”

He glanced at the account books and ledgers and receipts spread out on the cluttered surface. “You do your own bookkeeping?”

She nodded. “I try. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd better try to keep Uncle Sam happy.” When he made no move to leave, she said, “Or did you want to watch?”

“Our accountant hates quarterly taxes. Since the IRS frowns when you miss a payment, they're a necessary evil.”

“The IRS?” Adrienne asked.

“Did you say watch?” he said at the same time.

They regarded each other somberly. J.D. was the first to speak. “I normally prefer to participate.”

He took a step closer and then, more cautiously, another. She hid a smile. “Why did you stop by, J.D.?”

He held her gaze. “Since all my earlier efforts have failed, I'd hoped to have better luck face-to-face.”

“Better luck with what?”

He didn't answer her. Leave it to an attorney, she thought, to take the fifth. They'd reached a standstill, a stalemate, an impasse. She could send him on his way. And she would. But his mention of the IRS seemed a little too coincidental to be, well, a coincidence. She glanced at the fax her mother had sent her. He followed her gaze.

“It's interesting that y'all mentioned the IRS,” she said.

He made a tut-tut-tut sound. “Those audits can keep a person busy for months. Nasty things. They can strike anytime, anyone. Even the former judge of an ill-fated beauty contest.”

Adrienne could count on one hand the number of times in her life she'd been struck speechless. Once when her father had died. Once when an anonymous caller had
played the incriminating tape over the phone two nights before the beauty pageant. And now. She studied the man who was somehow responsible for the latest episode. She could see the resemblance to Parker, but J.D. was even more intimidating. There was a little gray in the hair at his temples, squint lines beside his eyes. As far as Adrienne was concerned, no fifty-one-year-old man had the right to look so handsome. She read the society pages, and she vaguely remembered seeing his name and photo from time to time these past few years. Reportedly, men either feared or respected him, but apparently women adored him. Now that she'd seen him in person, she didn't scoff at them. After all, J. D. Malone was a handsome, rich, powerful man. She understood why so many women succumbed to his every wish.

She reminded herself that she wasn't like a lot of women. She would tell him to leave, as soon as she satisfied her curiosity. “How did you do it?”

J.D. made a show of glancing nonchalantly around the cluttered office, but he doubted he was fooling Adrienne. She was too smart for that. Still, it never hurt to take a look around, to get a feel for a person's surroundings. The desk was large, the computer antiquated, the filing cabinets old. He wasn't certain what to make of the purple boa draped over a chair, but he knew what to make of the woman tucked so nicely into a matching miniskirt.

She was an interesting woman. Her clothes were brightly colored, her eyes a deep moss-green. Her hair was a gorgeous shade of honey-blond, styled in easy, chin-length layers. Her grip had been strong, and yet her hands, soft. Her smile, the few times he'd glimpsed it, was the softest of all.

He didn't normally go to so much trouble to see a woman. He didn't normally have to.

Smoothing a hand over his chin and down his throat, he strolled to the edge of her desk and perched on one corner. “I didn't do anything, really,” he said in answer to her question. “I might have gathered a few names, dates, facts. After that, I put in a phone call to a friend of mine in Washington. A person who makes as much money as your former contest judge really should hire more qualified people to handle his money. His finances are a mess. And they're going to get messier.”

She strode closer. It occurred to him that he had no idea how she would react. He prepared himself for any possibility. Anger. Disdain. Loathing. To be on the safe side, he crossed his legs.

Nothing could have prepared him for her smile.

“Hannah was right,” she said. “If you wait long enough, what goes around really does come around.”

“I'm not a particularly patient man, Adrienne.”

His declaration brought her right eyebrow up, but she remained silent.

“I want you,” he said matter-of-factly.

She started to speak, but he cut her off. “Come on, Adrienne. Admit it. You want me. You don't want to, but you do.”

“If I do, it's my problem, not yours.”

His smile wasn't a conscious decision. “I've decided to give you what you want, sugar.”

She opened her mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut again. “Me. You.” Shooting him a withering stare, she said, “Don't call me sugar.”

There was plenty of smug satisfaction in hearing her stutter. “What do you want me to call you?” he asked.

Walking past him, she slid into her chair. “I don't want you to call me anything. I may seem like a challenge, but I'm not your type.”

“Describe the kind of woman you perceive to be my type.”

She picked up a pencil, sharpened it in the electric sharpener on one corner of her desk. “I've found that most people have more than one type. I'd say yours are probably either rich socialites or bored divorcées who show their appreciation in myriad ways.”

“Such as?”

She tested the point of her pencil on her fingertip. “Hannah told me about the client who slipped her panties into Parker's pocket.”

J.D. shrugged. “It comes with the territory.”

“A perk of the trade, I'm sure. Like a good insurance plan or retirement benefits.”

“Some consider it a benefit, others a damned nuisance. It hasn't happened to me in a long time. Care to remedy that?”

She looked up at him coquettishly. J.D. uncrossed his legs and studied her unhurriedly. She was doing that helpless dame routine, complete with fluttering fingers and batting eyelashes. She was about as helpless as a mountain lion in a flock of sheep. He had the backache to prove it.

“I can't,” she said simply.

“Come on. Give it the old college try.”

“I mean it. I can't. It so happens there's a good reason for that.”

“Sure you…”

“I'm not wearing any.”

A zing went through J.D., heading straight for his lap. He stood, hoping to ease the sudden tight fit of his pants.

He didn't know Adrienne Blakely well, but something told him she wasn't lying. The idea that she wasn't wearing underwear beneath that adorable purple skirt was potent and stimulating as hell. Since he didn't relish the idea
of being on the receiving end of another of her defense maneuvers, he decided a change of subject was in order.

“Would you like to get out of here for a while?” he asked. “Have a drink with me, or dinner. Or we can fly to Rome if you'd like.”

“I really have to get back to work.”

He gestured to the bookkeeping on her desk. “Isn't there anything else you'd rather do tonight, Adrienne?”

She looked up at him. “Of course there is. But I have responsibilities.” Her voice was amazingly free of sarcasm.

“Can any of them wait an hour or two?” he asked.

She was silently thoughtful. Suddenly she said, “There is one thing I wouldn't mind doing.”

“Yes?”

She lowered her voice provocatively. “It involves an increased heart rate, a dark room, and buttery fingers.”

He almost smiled. “That sounds adventurous.”

“Are y'all in the mood for a dangerous adventure, J.D.?”

His senses reeled as if short-circuited. “I think I could be persuaded.”

She slapped the book closed and rose to her feet. “We don't have much time.”

“And why might that be?”

“The movie starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Movie?”

“There's a new horror movie playing at the mall theater.”

“You want to go to a horror movie?”

The Southern tart grinned. “Why, of course I do. Whatever did you think I was talking about?”

He swallowed. “Never mind.”

“Do y'all want to go or not?”

He hadn't been to a horror movie in twenty-five years, and he could honestly say he hadn't missed it. Yet suddenly he found the concept extremely appealing. “You're the boss, sugar.”

“Don't call me sugar. Sugar.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She turned in the doorway, and slanted him a smile that went straight to his head. “I think we're going to get along just fine,” she said, her voice so charmingly Southern it nearly buckled his knees.

He followed her from the room, thinking she wasn't going to get any argument from him.

 

For the second night in a row Hannah clutched the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white. She tried to ease the pressure, but the effects didn't last.

Maybe she should have done this over the phone. No, she was even less confrontational over the telephone than she was in person. Maria was the one who loved a good fight.

Don't think about Maria.

Hannah squeezed the steering wheel tighter. At this rate, it was going to disintegrate beneath her fingers.

She took a deep breath and turned onto Ridgewood Drive. She was going to drive by Parker's house. If he was there, she planned to knock on his door and ask him who he thought he was, standing her up after the night of passion they'd shared. She was going to find out if once had been enough. Technically, they'd made love three times. But it had all been in the same night, and that constituted one date.

She hoped to high heaven it didn't come down to trying to put
that
into words. Still, she'd made her decision. There was no turning back now.

She pulled into his driveway. Every light in the house was on. She thought that was strange. Even more strange were the loud voices shouting above the blaring rock music carrying to her ears through an open window.

She wondered what was going on.

Pulling the keys, she got out of her car, her heels clicking over the sidewalk. As she approached the steps, she paused.

“Where do you think you're going?”

She recognized Parker's voice, but not the somewhat younger one yelling, “Out!”

“Out where?”

“What difference does it make to you where I go? You're not my father.”

She started to ring the doorbell, but knocked instead.

“We've been over this, Reed.”

Reed? she thought to herself. Wasn't that Parker's nephew's name?

“I'm not going to do anything. I'm just going to Brad's house.”

“Brad who?”

“None of your business.”

“I'm making it my business.”

“We're going to get fast food.”

“You're not going anywhere, buster.”

“Who's gonna stop me?”

“I am, dammit.”