The Tycoon and the Texan (2 page)

Nick groaned. Being out of his mother's sight, he shrugged, and made an animated frowny-face for McCall's benefit.

To fight off a smile, she glared at him and raised a questioning eyebrow. Actually, she agreed. A little self-evaluation was just what the dark-haired hunk needed.

“She's incorrigible.” His lips parted in a dazzling display of perfect white teeth against the most kissable mouth McCall had ever seen.

Not that she had given it a thought.

“And you aren't?” A blush warmed her cheeks and settled over her bosom. She glanced down to avoid his rich, luscious, chocolate eyes, but like a magnet, she found herself drawn to him. “But Nick, she's right.”

“I've heard blushing is good for the circulation.”

No doubt Nick was aware of her discomfort. His mischievous smile said as much.

“What's the count?” he asked.

McCall scanned her notepad. “You won four, and with Josie's help, your mother took ten. I lost count after that.” She offered him a quick, sheepish smile, enjoying the long-standing game they played.

“Round two.” Nick shot her a lazy grin, winked, and casually leaned back to stick his head into the boardroom. “Bye, girls. See you at eight, and I expect one of you out there on the stage if you can't come up with someone . . .
darlings
!”

Patrician Madeline Elliott-Dartmouth, the epitome of sophistication, strolled from the boardroom as though she had just dismissed court. Brushing by Nick, she nodded and smiled sweetly at McCall. Adjusting the brim of her cardinal-red hat, the monarch walked toward the front door, never taking a sideways glance at her son. “I'll do nothing of the sort.” She pulled on a glove. “McCall, I see no reason why you are not one of the bachelorettes.” Squaring her shoulders, she waltzed out.

Nick turned to Josie. “At least Mother and I agree on something. Using Mac is a good idea unless you're concerned she'll put
your
choices to shame?”

Josie let out an audible breath, accentuating her frustration. “You need to be on a leash!” She stormed to her office.

“I'm not a rabid dog,” Nick called to her.

Josie's foot kicked the door.

McCall and Nick made eye contact, sharing an amused exchange.

Throwing up his hands, he lifted his shoulders in mock resignation. “She's gonna break her foot one of these days, and I'm not paying her medical bills.”

Long, Viking legs carried him toward McCall. He reached out and moved her stapler next to her telephone, then turned her desk calendar over to the correct date. April 6th.

Placing one hand on each side of her desk, he leaned close enough that she felt the movement of his words, and whispered, “Take the gig. You won't be sorry. I'll see to it.”

Strangely flattered by his attention, McCall tilted back her head and tucked strands of mahogany hair behind her ears. His gaze branded her as quickly as hot coals seared raw meat.

She grabbed her coffee cup and took a sip of the bitter liquid that tasted as strong as Goliath and as cold as ice.

So the fancy son-of-a-gun thinks a flashy smile and his quick wit will get him whatever he wants? Think again, Dartmouth, think again
, McCall thought.

Nick frowned. “Still drinking that battery acid?”

“Yeah.” She took another swig just for the heck of it and resisted asking what business was it of his?

As if reading her mind, he said, “I'm telling you, it's bad for you.” With casual ease, he pulled upright and stood like a towering oak tree. “See ya . . .”

And then he was gone.

Damnation! Nicodemus did funny things to her. Things that bad boys shouldn't do to good girls. Hell's bells, damn his rich-boy hide for toying with her. Isn't that a game playboys enjoy?

But she had to admit that she enjoyed his flirtatious ways and their inside jokes.

McCall went to the break room and refreshed her coffee. She had never thought of herself as a bachelorette. A strong-willed, leveled-headed, single woman, yes, but certainly not attractive enough for some rich guy to pay good money at a charity for a date.

She tugged at the hem of her bulky cardigan and pulled the lapels tight across her breasts. She was too tall for most men. In high school, fourteen years before, her friends described her as willowy, and nicknamed her Leafeater. That was just a nice way of saying she resembled a giraffe with her long legs. Even in flat-heeled shoes she still towered over the majority of men. Too much hip, legs stronger than most marathon runners, and breasts a tad too small for many men's liking all hid beneath her long skirt, loose-fitting blouse, and baggy sweater.

Five years of ministering to her sick mother had provided her with little time and even less desire to take an interest in her appearance. Maybe her wardrobe and hairstyle needed updating, but at the moment she saw no reason to put forth the effort. Attracting a man and dating were at the bottom of her priorities, right below doing windows and scrubbing the bathtub.

Maybe God hadn't given her an eye for fashion, so she had settled for strength and old-fashioned grit.

McCall's thoughts vacillated between Nick and his mother's tenuous relationship and her own feelings for her dead mother. If Nick only knew how it felt to be an orphan, not having anyone to seek advice from, maybe he'd see Madeline differently. McCall saw it, so why couldn't he?

What could she do to make him see the light?

Her musing served to dredge up feelings she tried to keep hidden deep inside.

Since her mother's death four months before, McCall only cared about the necessities to make it through the day . . . be neat, clean, and unnoticed. She blended in like crown molding on a wall and avoided mirrors, thus steering clear of the reality that she could exist outside the memories of her mother.

She blew on her coffee to cool it before taking a sip. “He's right. This crap isn't fit to drink.” She added a package of pink sweetener.

If she hadn't known Nick better, she would be insulted by his brazen comments about being one of the bachelorettes, figuring he didn't give a flying fig whether he embarrassed her or not. Nick wasn't like that. No matter how perturbed she got with him, underneath it all she pegged him as an old-fashioned heartthrob with a deep festering wound that needed soothing. But first a woman would have to crack his crustacean armor, an impossible feat. A task she certainly had no desire to take on.

Nick's unpredictability and nasty moods didn't come with her job description. But for some reason, when Mrs. Dartmouth's and Josie's patience floundered, they turned to her to deal with the obsessive, hard-nosed rascal. Particularly when he was in the midst of a new business deal. His most recent testy attitude could probably be attributed to his negotiations on a stalled business venture.

McCall bit her lip. As in the past, she'd help the man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted through his newest “whim-wham” as his mother liked to refer to his deals.

She'd do it one more time . . . somehow. It was the Texas thing to do.

McCall made her way back to her desk, moved her stapler to its original place, and rebooted her laptop. While she waited, her mind wandered back to Nick, but analyzing the man that irritated her so, while making her heart flutter with a wink or an easy smile, didn't resolve anything.

She tried to get some work done, but after wasting an hour or more, she logged off and sat there staring at the large aquarium taking up the whole side of one wall.

Watching an orange-and-white-striped clownfish ease through the water, she reflected on her mother's illness and eventual death. Thoughts of taking care of her during her lengthy illness once again surfaced. No matter how hard McCall tried, she couldn't block them from taking over when least expected. But in some ways they comforted her. She'd done the right thing and didn't regret putting her life on hold to take care of her mother.

Day after day, McCall's routine had been the same. After grueling hours at the office and fighting the LA traffic, she'd arrive home barely in time to relieve the day nurse. McCall prepared dinner, not that Mama would eat, and sat by her mother's bedside for hours talking and reading. When she got too restless, McCall turned on their favorite George Strait CD and watched the frail woman fall into a fretful drug-induced slumber.

Around midnight, McCall showered and returned to the sickroom, where she slumped onto the chaise lounge. Eventually, out of sheer exhaustion, she fell into her own restless sleep.

Each night, between a mixture of dreams and reality, strong arms pulled her against the chest of a wonderfully muscular man. A man with no name. A man whose face she couldn't see clearly. A man who gave her the comfort needed to face another day. He held and protected McCall from the hurt, preparing her for the eventual grief that came. He made tending to her ailing mother more tolerable.

Then too soon, the time would come for the dark-haired handsome man to leave. Each night, with a devil-may-care smile and a kiss to her temple, the man would fade from her dreams. Waving from the doorway, he'd say, “See ya, Angel.”

And, he was gone.

Sometime before dawn, McCall would wake and face the reality that her dying mother lay only three feet away, and the man in her dreams was as unattainable as....

She jarred out of her musing.

Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! Why in the blue blazes did her knight in shining armor always have to remind her of Nicodemus Dartmouth?

The sound of Josie's door opening startled McCall back to the present. She looked up to see her boss standing barefooted, unwrapping a Hershey bar.

“Well, have you found Colleen's replacement?” Josie broke off a square of chocolate.

“No, not yet.”

“No need now. It's resolved.”

“Great.” McCall exhaled. Thank goodness the Dartmouths' insane idea was moot.

“It's resolved, but you aren't going to like it.”

McCall became instantly alert. “Anything would be better than my being Colleen's replacement.”

“I called nearly every woman in my contact list and they seem to be avoiding me like I'm asking them to dine with the devil.”

“What do you expect? It's Saturday afternoon, and it's not enough notice for most of those hobnobby old goats to—”

“It doesn't matter, McCall, because Madeline called.”

“I guess she's still in a snit?”

“You might say that. She gave me a directive . . . more of an ultimatum.” Josie leaned against the doorframe and licked chocolate from her finger.

“An ultimatum?”

“She said that you
will
take Colleen's place.”

“Ohhh, no.” McCall rounded her desk. “I can't.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I'm not the right person.” Taking a deep breath, she willed her heart to slow down a bit. Images of her being paraded around like a competitor in the Westminster Dog Show flashed before her.

“Let me put it this way. When Mrs. Dartmouth says ‘jump,' I simply prepare the measuring stick. Get the picture?”

“It would be embarrassing. I'd be the only girl up there without a single bid. Who's gonna bid on me? You?” McCall plopped on the corner of her desk and raised her chin in defiance. More images of her tripping on her gown and falling head over teakettle in front of several hundred people flashed before her eyes.

Josie tossed another square of chocolate in her mouth. “That isn't the issue. Madeline's so angry with Nick and his attitude that she's threatening to cancel the gala if we don't have the twentieth bachelorette right now.”

“It's too late for her to do that.”

“If she's set on it, she will do it. I don't have to remind you that Madeline Elliott-Dartmouth signs our paychecks.”

“I can't do it, Josie. Honestly, I simply can't.” McCall rubbed her sweaty palms together.

“Hey, I know you're kinda shy, and—”

“Kinda? I turn my back when I think the fish need privacy.”

“Oh you're not all that shy, but it's either that or she will cancel the affair. When we don't meet our donor-based budget,
you
can explain it to her son, Mr. Congeniality, on our way to the unemployment office.”

“I'm too tall and flat chested.” McCall stopped to regroup. “And I don't have a dress that's appropriate.”

“A dress isn't a problem. You'll put them all to shame. McCall, why do you think we ordered canapés topped with Kibbles 'n Bits?”

“I'll bite.”

“For the ‘dogs' who are coming.” Josie made quotation marks in the air. “Nick's right about that. Plus, Maddi's on her way back to the office and said she's taken care of everything. Hairstylist, a beauty consultant. The works.”

“Oh, damn! That's great.”

“I've never heard you say a real cussword.” Josie frowned.

“I don't have to. Nick says enough for us all.” McCall had heard enough. She turned back to her desk and clicked on her computer mouse. The black screen flashed into hues of moss green and sky blue. McCall had made a decision. A very difficult one.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing my letter of resignation.”

Josie tossed her candy wrapper in the trashcan. “Then who's going to pay the remainder of your mother's medical bills, huh?” She closed the lid on the laptop. “Do you have a rich grandmother I haven't heard about or something?”

“Certainly not a
something
. I pay my own way. A
something
sounds like a sugar daddy”

“Could be worse things.” Josie shrugged.

Tempted to resort to one of Nick's tantrums, McCall hesitated, then peered up through gritty eyes. “Take my place, please. Mrs. Dartmouth won't care, as long as we have someone up there.”

“Can't. I'm the auctioneer.” Josie folded her arms.

The front door burst open and Nicodemus bolted in. “Hello, ladies. Any luck?”

“I thought they took you to the pound,” Josie said dryly.

“You only wish. I've been sitting in the parking garage talking, rather listening, to Mother on the phone. I need an update.”

“Well, there's now a fly in the ointment,” Josie said.

“Son of a bitch, and Mother's on a rampage.”

“The fly
is
your mother,” McCall retorted tartly.

Nick rubbed a thumb along his chiseled jawline, obviously contemplating her boldness. The twinkle in his eye incited McCall's sizzling temper.

“Uh, your mother called and is demanding that McCall take Colleen's place, but—”

“I'll tell him, Josie.
But, I can 't
.”

“Why not?” He sternly asked.

“I don't have a dress for one and—”

“McCall, Mother wants you there, and by damn, you'll do it or . . . or I'll fire you.” Nick folded thick arms over his chest.

“You can't. I work for your mother.” McCall grabbed for her purse.

Nick's strong fingers caught her by the wrist. “Hell if I can't. I originally hired you, remember?” He released her hand.

“Both of you stop squabbling,” Josie barked. “We've had enough of that for one day.”

Frowning, Nick whirled to her. Turning back to McCall, he said, “I don't intend to fire you, but I know who might.” His voice softened. “Hey, Mac, just do it.” His eyes changed from hard to gentle, understanding. “If for no other reason than to save your job.”

Reaching across her desk, he picked up her stapler.

“Don't move that again.” McCall's hand shot out in protection.

Long, warm, calloused fingers covered hers, searing her skin in the same fashion as his shocked expression. “Okay.”

Unconsciously, she moistened her dry lips with her tongue before she realized that his thumb had curled beneath hers and lifted trembling fingers. “You've got strong hands.” He released them. “See ya.”

And, he was gone, leaving behind the clear, crisp smell of expensive cologne and one pounding heart.

McCall watched as the door closed. For a moment, she'd thought he was about to kiss her. Her hand, that is. She swung around facing Josie. “What kind of a burr does he have under his saddle today? And, don't try to tell me it's the gala. I know him too well not to know that there's more to it than meets the eye.”

“It's that new land acquisition he's been talking about.”

“The one that I haven't been paying any attention to?”

“And which Maddi calls one of his pipedreams. It's not going well. You know how relentless he is when he wants something. Then add his mother to the mix. She's about as enthusiastic about it as when he bought his baseball franchise.”

“All I know is that he's been looking at some investment property. A farm maybe, but I didn't realize his mother was involved.”

“Well, she was until he told her to butt out. She's kinda PO'd at him, but then what else is new? Back to what we were talking about. Don't try to change the subject. I'm still waiting on your answer about who's going to pay off your mom's medical bills if you lose your job.”

“I'm nearly finished with them.”

“Then who's going to replenish your savings and pay that damnable blood-sucking lawyer? Put up that headstone you are so desperately saving for?”

“That's dirty pool and you know it,” McCall flared.

“Why don't you probate your parents' wills? Until you do, you won't have a good picture of your finances.”

“I'm afraid of what I'll find. The medical bills and funeral have already drained me.” McCall rubbed her neck.

“You said your dad had made a hefty investment, so look into it.”

“My lawyer's doing that. Biggest problem is that Daddy invested heavily in a business venture out here in California, and we can't locate the other investors. The attorney is placing a creditor's notice in the newspaper, hoping to flush out who owes Daddy the money, but that can take months, even years, and we may never find them.” She stopped and considered whether she wanted to say more, then added, “If there is truly an investment to be found.”

“What are you really afraid of?”

“I don't know. Maybe that he did most of his investing up at Chumash Casino, and he just told Mama he'd committed it elsewhere. Daddy was a good man, but a rogue. Rough. He worked for the oil companies, a tough-as-nails Texan.”

McCall's fingers moved to her arms and rubbed away little goose bumps. “Back to the gala. As I've already told you, I can't do the benefit because I don't even own an evening gown. I'm not exactly Naomi Campbell who can pick up something off the rack and look good. I'm just a lanky Texan. Mrs. Dartmouth has put me in an impossible position.”

“Look, we don't have much time. It only took Maddi a little over an hour to arrange for her dress shop to send over an assortment of gowns and she's on her way back. You're a beautiful person, McCall, and not just inside, but outside, too. You've got to let go and begin living again.” Josie grabbed her by the shoulders. “You can't continue to lug around memories of your mother like a tombstone. Why not reinvent yourself? Let today be the beginning of a new life by making you as sassy and daring outside as you are inside.”

“Thanks, but you're throwing me to the barracudas.”

“No, I'm not. Sweetheart, someday you'll thank me.”

“I don't know.” McCall inhaled. She glanced at the clock. Time wasn't on her side. “It looks like if I want to keep my job, I don't have any choice. I'll do it, but on one condition.”

“You got it.” The relief on Josie's face spoke for itself.

“That Russell bids on me—”

“My boyfriend?” Josie stuttered a bit on her words.

“Yeah. He won't have to take me out, just win the bid. I'll repay him the money from my income tax refund. No one will be the wiser.”

“One problem. Everyone knows Russell and I are an item.” Josie stepped away. “But I have an idea. Remember his friend Anson?”

“That blond hunka-hunka? The model?”

“Yeah, a real looker, but a gigolo.”

“An honest-to-goodness real-life gigolo?”

“Oh yeah, a conceited pretty boy. Just remember the words
honest
and
gigolo
can't be used in the same sentence. Anson's attending the gala, and I'll get him to be your escort and bid on you. He'd do it just so he can brag that he went out with the Kasota Springs Cotton-patch Queen.”