Personal Assets (Texas Nights) (25 page)

Her heels made a muffled sound on one of those ornate rugs stretched down the hallway leading to the library, parlor and sunroom. With five bedrooms and over four thousand square feet, it was too much house for one man. She preferred her little hodgepodge house a few blocks away.

As was his habit, her father had closed the door to the library, his sanctuary. She smoothed her hair, inhaled a breath of courage and tapped twice on the oak door.

From inside, her father called, “Mrs. Gill, it’s still fifteen minutes before the dinner hour. Do not disturb me again.”

Allie pushed the door wide.

“Mrs. Gill, really...”

“Hi, Daddy.”

He gazed at her over the lenses of his bifocals. “Allie, this is a surprise. I didn’t realize we’d made dinner plans tonight.” He marked his place with a metal bookplate and arranged his book on the arm of his leather reading chair. Allie glanced at the hardback’s spine.
Of Mice and Men.
Appropriate.

“We didn’t.” Without invitation, she sat in the matching reading chair and placed a paper on the Rococo side table.

Her father removed his glasses and picked up the sheet. “What is this?”

“You made a mistake when you registered the title to my car. Both our names are listed as owners.”

“Yes, of course.” He donned his glasses and reached for his novel. “There’s no mistake.”

“The Escalade was a birthday gift. Gifts aren’t supposed to come with strings.” Even as she said it, Allie realized using a gift from him to pay back the loan she owed him would be one more way he’d controlled her.

“Parents have a duty to supervise and counsel their children on responsibilities they shouldn’t manage on their own. Obviously, you’re planning something irresponsible if you’re concerned about both of our names being on the title.”

The tiny spark of hope inside Allie’s chest sputtered and died.

Every time. Every time she came back hoping for understanding, compromise—or God forbid—acceptance from him. Every time, she was disappointed.

When her clients faced similar circumstances with the men in their lives, she explained that the odds of one person changing another made a long shot look like a sure thing. A person did not change simply because another person longed for it.

Her father was already refocused on his reading, having dismissed the issue as settled.

This issue—what else could she call it but a battle?—between them wasn’t over, but allowing him to control her was. If she didn’t take a stand now, she was setting herself up to be treated that way by every other man in her life.

She reached into her purse and slid a key from her ring.

With absolute conviction, Allie centered the key on the vehicle title. She rose from her chair before she could change her mind about what she’d just done. It seemed her stomach, head and heart were arguing about whether she should feel ill, alarmed or elated.

“Call Mildred and she’ll schedule a time for us to have dinner together next week,” her father said, never glancing away from his reading.

Allie slipped down the hall and into the sunroom, pausing to appreciate her favorite location in the Shelby family home, knowing she might choose never to visit again. She unlocked the French doors to the lush lawn her father had trimmed to two and a quarter inches each week. As she made her way across the formal expanse of emerald, the scent of grass and regret faded behind her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Cameron walked into Shelbyville Bank and Trust for the second time in less than two weeks. Didn’t feel any more comfortable this time than it had the first. How the hell could a man stand to work inside all day, tapping on a computer and being strangled by a silk noose?

He cruised into the executive suite and caught sight of the slick dude whose office was down the hall from Allie’s dad. The nameplate next to his door read Nelson Bramhall. Bramhall smiled, but it was coated in oil a month past its change date, dark and sticky. Cameron nodded once but walked past into Shelby’s reception area.

“Morning, Ms. Mildred. I’m here to see Robert.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she patted her tightly curled hairdo. “It’s always such a pleasure to see you, Cameron.” She hopped to her feet and rounded the desk. “I’d be happy to get you some coffee or a scone or...” She caught sight of his faded, frayed jeans and trailed off. Her attention was riveted on something below his belt buckle.

Shit, had he forgotten to zip up? He glanced down, but everything was contained.

Holy hell, was she checking him out? He resisted the urge to cover his crotch with his hands. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

Good and freaked out.

“Then let me show you in.” She gestured him in front of her and trailed behind. Dear Jesus, please let her be looking at anything besides his ass.

When he walked into Shelby’s office, the man was as buttoned up as ever, dressed in a suit and one of those nooses.

“Cameron, I’ve been looking forward to talking with you about how the Chikkalo Bill’s deal is coming along.”

“We have a town visit and tour scheduled for them,” Cameron said, “but that’s not what I came to discuss.”

“Oh, well then, have a seat.”

“Thanks, but it won’t take long.”

Shelby’s eyebrows raised. “This doesn’t sound pleasant.”

Way to put him on the defensive right off the bat. “I heard you called your daughter’s business loan due.”

“Yes.”

At least he didn’t bother to deny it. “Was that necessary?”

Shelby strode to the window, stared out at the pine trees and a trio of squirrels playing chase. “Until you’re a parent, you don’t know what it’s like to have ultimate responsibility for another person. For the person’s life, livelihood and happiness.”

No, he’d never been a parent, but he’d had plenty of experience with responsibility for other people.

“I’ve heard the two of you have been...keeping company,” Shelby said. “I hope you don’t let that sway you from making the right choices for this community. This is a case of the good of the many versus what my daughter thinks is for her own good.”

“She’s a grown woman.”

“If that’s truly the case, then she should be able to either find a solution to her problems or change her current path.”

“You’re setting her up to fail.”

“I only want the best for my daughter, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep her from ruining her life.”

“Does that include losing her?”

Shelby didn’t respond, never turned away from his fascination with the landscape.

Damn it all to hell and back.
Cameron walked out because there was nothing more to say.

* * *

When Emmalee called them, Allie’s “special project” ladies all agreed to meet at her house without asking why. She had coffee cake, plates and drinks ready. Strategy sessions required fortification. When she’d heard some gossip about Robert Shelby calling in Allie’s business loan, it hadn’t surprised Emmalee in the least, not after her financial history with the man. But it had pissed her off.

Suzanne Jensen arrived first and gave Emmalee a hug like they’d been friends forever. “What’s the fire, honey?”

Relief warmed Emmalee’s heart. She had friends, and even more important Allie had supporters. They wouldn’t let Robert Shelby run his daughter out of town or crush her dreams.

Forty-five minutes later, the coffee cake was history, except for sugar-cinnamon crumbs, and the women were all on the edges of their seats, bristling with indignation.

Suzanne’s mouth was tight. “This is one more example of a man trying to decide what’s right for a woman.”

Of all the women in the world, Emmalee knew what it was like to have money—or lack of it—tie her to the wrong man.

“How much does she owe?” Suzanne asked.

“I’m not sure, but every penny we can raise will get Allie one step closer to keeping Personal Assets’ doors open.”

“Then we’ll get out there and find our girl some money.”

Emmalee inhaled, praying for the courage to be bold. “I have an idea. Some people won’t like it, but I can promise you it’ll cause a stir.”

Suzanne smiled and sat back on the couch. “I love it already.”

* * *

The Pinewoods Country Club wasn’t one of Allie’s favorite places on the planet. The stuffy faux-gold-accented furniture and reproduction still life prints reminded her of the times her father requested her presence at post-golf tournament award dinners or monthly members’ luncheons.

She’d been scorned by many in the country club set when she opened Personal Assets because they considered themselves above any type of therapy, especially the sexual kind. Some acted like their children had been conceived through immaculate conception.

Multi-martini conception was more like it.

When Nelson Bramhall called this morning inviting her to lunch, he’d dangled a compelling carrot. He wanted to discuss how he might be able to help her resolve this “regrettable misunderstanding” with her father, and Allie couldn’t ignore any possible source of money at this point. Because however uncomfortable he made her personally, Nelson was a canny business strategist. So she’d suffer an hour of him groping her thigh under the damask tablecloth and boasting about his profitable stock trades.

Roxanne was doing her part, making the rounds among her Houston business contacts. They hoped to either find that angel investor or a banker willing to take a risk.

Lord, why had she taken a financial shortcut instead of securing a loan through a neutral party? She tried to breathe through her panic, but jagged remnants were permanently lodged in her midsection.

When Allie asked for Mr. Bramhall’s table, the maître d’ led her to a private room off the main dining area. Her stomach shrank. With Nelson, she preferred to be surrounded with as many people as possible. The table was empty but the room overlooked the eighteenth green. Golfers on the green squatted to look at the tiny hole they were so eager to sink a ball into. Her dad had required her to take lessons, but when every golf pro he hired quit, he accepted she was hopeless at the sport.

She tried to imagine Cameron spending a Wednesday afternoon on the golf course, but couldn’t picture him dressed in crisply starched white shorts and a pink golf shirt.

The maître d’ seated her at the place setting with a small envelope centered on it. She was slipping her fingers under the flap when the waiter appeared. Instead of the water she’d requested, he carried a sterling silver wine stand.

“Excuse me—” she checked his name tag, “—Jerrod. I didn’t order wine.”

“Mr. Bramhall requested champagne when he made the reservation.”

“When was that?”

“Two days ago, I believe.” He pulled a bottle of Bollinger from its nest of ice and poured.

Just because he’d served it didn’t mean she had to drink it.

When Jerrod left, Allie opened the envelope. Inside was a linen card monogrammed with
B
in flowery script. Nelson urged her to enjoy the champagne until he could arrive. Allie glanced at her watch. He was already fifteen minutes late. What was it with men and their need to always run the show?

Another ten minutes passed before the pocket door slid open and Nelson walked in.

Nelson ignored her outstretched hand and took her by the shoulders, drawing her forward for a kiss to each cheek. “Allie, I’ve missed you.”

Huh? It wasn’t like they’d been great buddies, just had those two horrible dates. The urge to wipe her skin with the back of her hand swamped her, but she resisted and stretched a social smile across her face.

“Wonderful,” Nelson said. “I see the staff delivered my note as well as the celebratory champagne.”

“What are we celebrating?”

Nelson held the chair for her and took his own. “I’d like to propose a toast to your future, both personal and professional.” He touched his glass to hers with the melodious clink. His smile reminded her of a toothpaste commercial model’s. “I asked the chef to prepare a special menu today.”

“How thoughtful.” Allie gritted her teeth around the social fib. Her father had too often chosen for her—her food, her friends, her future.

Their waiter approached the table with a tray holding two delicate soup tureens. “As requested, a chilled cantaloupe bisque garnished with lemon poppy seed croutons.”

Nelson didn’t spare the waiter a glance. “Wait fifteen minutes before serving the entrée, Jerome.”

Allie didn’t bother to correct their server’s name. Nelson didn’t care enough to remember. She also didn’t mention her allergy to cantaloupe. “You have an idea about Personal Assets’ loan repayment?”

“Allie, Allie, Allie.” He waved away her question with his spoon. “Let’s not ruin a delightful meal by tainting it with business talk. We’ll dine first. We can discuss options over dessert.”

The tension headache that had been stirring since before she left her office began a brisk tap dance behind her eyelids.

They spent the next hour in a torturous ballet of small town gossip, analysis of Nelson’s golf handicap and his critique of the meal he’d ordered. While he described his last three golf games stroke by stroke, Allie pushed tuna tartare around the edges of her plate.

As he droned on, she couldn’t help but compare him to Cameron. Nelson’s palms were smooth and his nails wore a manicured sheen.
Ick.
Allie remembered the feel of Cameron’s rough hands moving across her skin, both in slow gentleness and ever increasing urgency. It had been torture not to have them on her that night in his garage, but what they’d done “together” had been amazingly erotic.

Nelson’s hair was a thinning dishwater blond. To his credit, he kept it trimmed short, not trying to camouflage his receding hairline. The span of his forehead gave the impression that he was perpetually surprised by something. Cameron’s dark hair was full of swirls and cowlicks he seldom attempted to tame.

“...don’t you think?” Nelson asked.

“Excuse me?” Darn it, she’d missed something.

Nelson leaned in and slid his palm over her knee. Allie shifted sideways and crossed her legs to stop his upward exploration. Why hadn’t she worn slacks?