The Tycoon and the Texan

PHYLISS MIRANDA

eKENSINGTON
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Staring out the fifteenth-floor window of the Los Angeles Elliott Towers, McCall Johnson tried to ignore Nicodemus Dartmouth's presence. He filled the impressive, finely appointed boardroom, reminding her of a Texas Blue Norther, blustery, wild, and unpredictable.

Dying down long enough to catch his second wind, Nick left no doubt that he knew exactly where he was headed. “Mother, you know I really don't give a rusty rat's ass what decorations you use for tonight's benefit.” His words were tinged with exasperation as he took his favorite Mr. Clean stance. Offering McCall a sly, irresistible grin, he surveyed the boardroom table covered with vases and flowers.

McCall closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew he thought one of his smiles would make things bearable, but it didn't. She'd prefer to fight a forest fire with a water gun rather than witness another Dartmouth family scrimmage, but she had no choice. After four nail-biting years as administrative assistant with the prestigious Elliott-Dartmouth Foundation, not even counting the years spent as Nick's personal secretary in his construction business, she'd heard the same old arguments, the same old positions, and the same old battle of wills more times than she could count.

Okay, so scrubbing toilets could be worse. Although she was paid well, in order to keep her independence in the current economy, not to mention saving money for her mother's headstone, she figured she had to accept her Costco lifestyle and suck it up big-time. Someday, once her parents' estate was settled, maybe she'd find financial security. For now, her job had to remain top priority.

She looked up at Nick, an intense and focused man. The few times he'd let down his guard, McCall had seen a gentle, flirtatious, even lovable man behind his façade. But, she hadn't seen that side of him for a while.

Nick folded his arms across his chest and leveled a stare at the purple and white flowers floating aimlessly in a rose bowl.

As if seeing Nick for the first time, breathless, McCall's free hand moved to her neck, and her gaze settled on the physique of the hardfisted hunk of testosterone. As hard as she'd tried to disguise it, Nick had always made her weak in the knees; and she could bet her bottom dollar he knew it, too.

Nick's raggedy, sleeveless jersey showcased taut muscles bulging beneath rock-hard shoulders. Tight fitting baseball pants stretched like a thin coat of latex over narrow hips and emphasized his ironclad build.

A tear in the right pant knee allowed a full view of bloody road rash. Apparently, he'd had an altercation with home plate. She suspected he lost, something the man didn't do well.

How could the CEO of one of the largest construction companies on the West Coast, not to mention the owner of a Double A baseball farm team, run around looking like a Salvation Army reject? And why did this sudden change of appearance intrigue her, making her absolutely giddy? Maybe those irresistible smiles had worked better than she realized.

Nick ripped off his ball cap, slapped it against a thigh, and sent dust flying before plopping it back on his head. “I don't care what you call them, Mother, those stupid decorations aren't suitable for a roadside memorial.”

“You might not take this seriously. However, darling, I do,” aristocratic Madeline Elliott-Dartmouth sparred. “I need your honest opinion.”

“So, you called me away from one hell of a good baseball workout for my opinion?” Like summer lightning, his dark eyes flashed. “If it's an
honest
opinion you want, then that's what you'll get. They look like someone took a leak in a jar and stuffed weeds down its throat. They're crap.”

“Please refrain from using such despicable language, my dear. We are not running a construction crew. We're holding a gala for the crème de la crème of Orange County.”

“Creamy mint or not, they're still crap!” he boomed.

“Now, Nicodemus—”

“Nick, Mother, Nick . . . N-I-C-K—”

“I should know your name. After all, I named you.
Nicodemus,
you are being most unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? I'll show you unreasonable—”

“Darling, you must remember this is a charitable foundation, not one of your—”

“What? One of my uncouth construction crews? Or one of my sweaty baseball players?” Nick placed his hands behind his back and took a stance that reeked of unbridled energy and unwavering zest for life. He gave a sideways glance at McCall and raised an eyebrow.

“If you would put as much effort into this event as you do your monkeys—”

“If you're referring to my baseball club, they are the Gorillas, Mother, Gorillas—”

“An ape is an ape.” Madeline waved her hands in a gesture of dismissal.

Nick shook his head. “I don't know why in the hell I agreed to this.”

“Because, one of these days you will inherit all of
this
.” She swept the room with her arms. “And you need experience in the charitable side of our businesses.”

“Bullshit!” Nick's well-honed body moved around the conference room with the grace of a skilled prizefighter. Floating, agile, wearing away his opponent one jab at a time.

McCall's back stiffened. She'd heard enough. It was time for her to slow Nick down a bit. “Nick, listen to your mother. You're being totally disrespectful—” Interrupted by the soft ring of the telephone in the distance, she closed her notepad and headed for the doorway. “You should be happy to have a mother who loves you and cares about your opinion.”

In a well-bred Southern voice, Josephine Sawyer, the Foundation's Executive Director and resident mother hen, took charge. “She's right. Why don't you listen to Madeline for once?”

Reaching the outer office, McCall snatched up the phone and settled into her chair. After being asked to hold by the caller's secretary, McCall keep a surveillant eye on the doorway.

Nick removed his hat, ran his hands through his hair, and glared at his mother before turning to Josie. “You two are teaming up on me, and I damn well know it.”

After a brief conversation, McCall hung up. So far, it had been one heck of a day and a sure bet it was about to get worse. From the inception of the idea for the gala, she had fretted that tonight's charity event would be nothing but a disaster hunting a home. If the argument over the decorations wasn't enough, she now had to go back into the boardroom and deliver more bad news.

“Hellfire and brimstone, Mr. Impatience is going to get his cojones twisted in a wad over this one,” she muttered under her breath, hoping to relieve some of her frustration. “But, he'll survive. He always does.”

McCall marched back into the raging storm. “Excuse me—”

“What?” Nick and Madeline's responses rippled into one volcanic chorus.

“That was Colleen Overton. She specifically asked me to give Nick a message.” McCall clenched her jaw, expecting an outburst. She didn't have long to wait.

“What in the hell did she want?” Nick spun to face McCall. Sharp, unfathomable eyes of a wild mustang stampeded hers. “To make sure we ordered enough Dom Pérignon?”

“No, Nick, she wanted—”

“Caviar? No, cream puffs. Is that soft enough for you, Mother?” Nick called over his shoulder.

His stare lingered on McCall, bored into her, unnerving her. If only his captivating presence didn't exude such virility. His ruggedness unsettled her.

She took a deep breath, determined to deliver the message without giving either of the Dartmouths the opportunity to launch another assault. “Miss Overton has the flu and can't attend tonight.” McCall, a true-blue born and bred Texan with a decade in California under her belt, knew her thick West Texas drawl still showed up in every word that came out of her mouth.

Ignoring their strange expressions, she took her seat and opened her notebook. Under the heading
NICK
she added a mark and studied Mrs. Dartmouth's column. So far, Madeline Dartmouth remained three wins ahead of her son. McCall wondered if she should add a heading for the normally neutral executive director who suddenly seemed entrenched in the argument.

Staring at the score sheet, McCall gnawed on her lower lip. A strange feeling knotted tight in her gut.

Something wasn't right.

When she delivered the message about Colleen, Nick seemed truly caught off guard and infuriated, but then anything not going according to plan frustrated the bigger-than-life man.

Yet, the look Mrs. Dartmouth exchanged with the strange and suddenly quiet Josephine Sawyer wouldn't have gone unnoticed by a blind man. The two women accepted the bad news as though they'd been informed that crescent rolls would replace croissants on the evening's menu.

For all the years McCall had served as administrative assistant to the Elliott-Dartmouth Foundation, coupled with her time working for Nick at Dartmouth Construction, she had been privy to arguments about everything from major expenditures to whether fennel was a spice or a vegetable. This skirmish was definitely different.

Maybe Nick was right. Josie and Madeline had teamed up against him. Mrs. Dartmouth opposing her son was nothing out of the ordinary, but why the executive director's sudden interest in this battle?

A new wave of chaos ignited.

“Nicodemus, you are being rude. And, for your information, we are serving
pâte á chou
and caviar,” Madeline said.

Not wavering, Nick continued. “I warned you from the start that even for charity the whole damn idea of auctioning off bachelorettes for dates was asinine. This proves it—”

“It proves nothing except you are the one who is being, as you so delicately called it, asinine.” Madeline punctuated each word with her best boarding school English.

“Why doesn't everyone settle down?” Josie's words pierced the air. “Madeline. Nicodemus. Both of you, listen to me. We're not getting anywhere by arguing.”

Silence engulfed the room. Only a low hum could be detected from the air-conditioning duct. It seemed almost as if Josie had blown a whistle and sent the quarrelsome twosome scurrying to the penalty box for time-out.

“Then by damn—” Nick's deep-timbred voice was that of a man determined to remain in control.

“Nicodemus!” Madeline warned.

“Josie's right. We've got bigger problems than those jerkass flowers. In less than eight hours the benefit begins, and we're short one woman.”

“We can auction off only nineteen—” Josie spoke up.

“No!” In unison, Nick and Madeline responded.

Nick took charge. “We advertised twenty women, and by damn—sorry Mother—by damn—crap—I meant, oh hell, we're going to have twenty. Not nineteen, not eighteen, but twenty. One. Two. Three.” Nick spoke with depth and authority that impacted the room in the same manner as his six-foot-three-inch frame.

“We can count,” his mother retorted.

“Just make sure that we have twenty women on that catwalk by eight o'clock. We're in LA, and the last time I checked, this town's overrun with beautiful women. So I don't give a damn where you get her. Just make it happen,” Nick stormed.

“Why don't you call that gold-digger Lauren, dear? If you can find her, I am sure she would be more than willing to come to your aid,” his mother said in a crisp emphatic tone.

“If I recall, you made certain that she'd never speak to me again, much less do me
or you
a favor,” Nick's voice cracked like a bullwhip. He grabbed a bottle of Penta from an ice bucket. “Is anyone else thirsty?” He addressed the room, but only looked at McCall. A slight smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

All three women shook their heads.

Nick snapped off the cap in one twist of his long, strong fingers, lifted the water to his lips, and drank. Oh, Nick didn't just take a drink; he took pleasure in the whole process.

McCall took pleasure in watching him.

Like a field of bone-dry wildflowers, the man accustomed to getting what he wanted drank until sated and tossed the empty bottle in the trash.

McCall wondered if making such a production was nothing but a way to give him time to think or possibly linger on pleasant thoughts. Considering his silence after the mention of Lauren, it must have been the latter.

Regardless, McCall could never understand why he seemed to place the blame for his many failed relationships squarely on his mother. In McCall's estimation, Lucifer himself probably couldn't live with the unpredictable but devilishly handsome son-of-a-biscuit-eater.

“If we're through, I'll go back to my desk.” McCall closed her notepad.

“Go ahead. I'm sure you can dredge up more bad news.” Nick's smile was without malice, almost apologetic. “I'm out of here.”

“Nicodemus, I'm not finished. And, as far as Lauren is concerned, I did you a favor.” Madeline continued. “When are you going to stop protecting the underdog and learn if you sleep with dogs you will get fleas?”

“Never, Mother. Hopefully, never.”

McCall retreated to her desk outside the boardroom and rested her head in her hands. She heard footsteps and looked up to see Nick standing in the doorway. Windswept and sun-bronzed skin that would make the most avid California surfer jealous peeked from above the gaping neckline of his jersey. A smile, which deepened the cleft in his chin, could melt iron.

Not that McCall noticed.

From inside the boardroom, Madeline's steely words drew McCall back to the matters at hand. “Nicodemus, I have made a decision. As Chairwoman of the Board, I do not wish you to return to the Foundation until you take some time off to take a long, hard look at yourself and get an attitude adjustment.” She seemed to regroup for her final assault. “I simply will not tolerate it. Take a vacation.” There was no doubt in her voice she wasn't making a suggestion, rather issuing an order. She then added, “Of course, after tonight's gala.”