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“I’ll find a replacement,” J.T. almost snapped. In truth, he didn’t know what he would do. When Lettie Mae went, it would be as if the best years of his life had taken formal leave of him.
“Well,” Cal said with conviction, “what we gotta do is give her a party. Biggest damn party in the history of Crystal Creek.”
While I go up into the attic and hang myself, J.T. thought morosely.
Maybe Cynthia was right. The ranch, the changes in Crystal Creek, the battle with Fabian that could drag on for years—maybe he should retire and try to get his life back.
But if he retired, what would become of the Double C? Tyler was consumed by the business of the winery. Lynn, J.T.’s grown daughter, only cared about raising racehorses, not cattle, and her husband wasn’t a rancher. He was a dentist, for God’s sake.
As for Cal, he had bigger enterprises than a ranch, and he still had his same old footloose streak. He’d been checking out investments all over Australia, and soon he’d head for South America. No. Cal was not one to be tied down to a piece of land.
Cal said, “Let’s put the gals in charge of the party. That’ll give ’em something to worry about besides this damn Bluebonnet Meadows. Lord, what a name. Why didn’t they just call it Cutesie-ville?”
“I don’t care what they call it,” J.T. said grumpily. “I just wish it’d disappear. Hole in the Wall was good ranch land once. I was just getting used to it being a dude ranch.”
Cal shook his head and smiled. “It was a dude ranch for ten years. You don’t adjust to change real fast, do you, Daddy?”
J.T. scowled at him. “No, I don’t. And now I hear this Fabian’s sending Belyle’s own brother down here. Shelby Belyle told Lynn. Plus Nora says we’ll have a reporter on our hands. Not local. Big-time.”
Cal leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “A reporter could be an advantage to us. Exclusive is a national magazine. It could stir up national sympathy.”
“Sympathy? That and a dollar’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” J.T. said. “But don’t try it without the dollar.”
“The pen is mightier than sword,” Cal observed.
“Fabian isn’t using a sword,” J.T. retorted. “He’s using Uzis and flame-throwers and stealth bombers.”
Cal raised an eyebrow. “How good is this lawyer that’s coming?”
“Mel Belyle? I hear he’s good. Very good. And motivated. He’s got a score to settle.”
Cal uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs in his belt and strolled to the fireplace. “How about the other one? The lawyer that deserted Fabian? And married the local girl?”
J.T.’s forehead furrowed. “Nick? He’s good, too. And he’s on our side. But he can’t do much. Fabian’s got him hog-tied.”
“Exclusivity clause?” Cal asked. “Confidentiality clause? Corporate secrets, that kind of bull dooky?”
J.T. gave his son a long, scrutinizing look. It always surprised him when Cal said something knowledgeable about business or law. J.T. sometimes felt that Cal’s wealth was a strange illusion, and that his younger son was still a rambling kid, without a serious thought in his head.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “That kind of bull dooky.”
Nick Belyle had revealed company secrets, and it had cost him. He lost his pension, his company stock, and he would probably never work at the corporate level again.
Nick was hardly poor—he could easily live on his savings and his own investments for years. He could also open a private practice, which he intended to do, right here in Crystal Creek.
What Nick could not do for one full year was get involved in any sort of business that ran counter to Fabian’s. That included the Claro County Citizens’ Organization. Nick wanted to help—but he couldn’t even give free advice. If he did, Fabian could have him fined and disbarred.
“So Martin Avery’s handling most of the legal eagle stuff right now?” Cal asked.
“Some of it,” J.T. said. “With the help of some Dallas lawyers. But Martin’s tired. He says this case is out of his league. He said—he said that he wanted your advice. That maybe you knew some high-powered people—but not too high-powered. I’m not made of money.”
Cal nodded, his expression serious. J.T. had another surge of an emotion he couldn’t identify—or didn’t want to. It didn’t seem fitting that a man as learned and careful as Martin should turn for advice to Cal.
Tyler had always joked that Cal had spent his formative years getting bucked off horses and landing on his head. There’d been times in Cal’s wild years that J.T. could only agree.
“I want to meet Nick Belyle,” Cal said. “Soon. Could you arrange it?”
“He wants to meet you, too,” J.T. said, with the same unpleasant feeling. “He’d come over tonight if you’re willing.”
“I’m willing,” said Cal. “In the meantime I’m going to talk to your better half and mine about Lettie’s shindig.” He paused, then gave his father a level look. “You told Tyler about Lettie Mae—that she’s leaving?”
J.T. muttered yes. He had told Tyler first because it seemed only fitting. After all, Tyler was the elder and he still lived on the Double C. He saw Lettie Mae nearly every day.
Cal said, “How’d he take it?”
“Hard,” J.T. said, suddenly feeling bone-weary. Tyler took everything hard; it was his nature.
“Maybe I should talk to him,” Cal said.
“He doesn’t want to talk,” J.T. said. “He’s out in the vineyard, and he’s not answering his cell phone.”
Cal’s normally playful eyes looked troubled. “Are he and Ruth getting along all—”
J.T. cut him off. “What goes on between them is their business. I don’t interfere.” Neither should you, was the unspoken message.
Cal’s expression didn’t change. “It’s okay to ask Ruth about a party?”
“I suppose,” J.T. said without enthusiasm. “And ask your sister. Don’t leave her out.”
“I wouldn’t leave Lynn out,” Cal said. “You know that.”
“And another thing,” J.T. said. “I want Lettie Mae to have a nice send-off. But don’t go wild. We’ll split the expense four ways—you, me, Tyler, Lynn. This is not some big show for you to put on, understand?”
Cal stood a bit straighter and looked him in the eye. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he said, “I understand.”
And his unspoken message was, I understand better than you think, Daddy. He turned and left the study.
CRONIN HAD TOLD KITT she didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting Fabian’s Crystal Creek man to talk to her. Yet here that man was, ready and eager to tell her about himself. Delightful.
For once, Kitt didn’t allow herself to dwell on journalistic ethics. After all, Mel Belyle had pursued her, not the other way around.
And, Kitt rationalized, she hadn’t exactly lied to him. He’d jumped to a conclusion, and she’d helped keep him jumping. He thought he was making a conquest. He didn’t know he was becoming one.
She decided to pry slowly, not to stir his suspicions. “What kind of a name is Melburn?” she asked, just a hint of teasing in her voice.
“My uncle was named Melburn,” he said, “My grandfather spent time in Australia when he was in the navy. He named him for the city.”
Kitt looked again at his card and frowned. “Melbourne? It’s spelled differently.”
“My family wasn’t known for its spelling skills.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile.
She smiled back. “What were they known for?”
“Ah,” he said, as the waiter set down a pitcher of cola and two glasses. “Refreshment. May I?” He offered to pour her drink.
“Please,” she said. “You were saying about your family?”
He filled her glass as he spoke. “What were we known for? Nothing special, I guess.” As he filled his own glass, his Rolex glinted in the restaurant’s dim light.
She said, “You seem to have done all right for yourself.”
“I was lucky,” he said. He lifted his drink in a toast. “Here’s to getting to know each other better.”
She clicked her glass against his. “Much better.”
He grinned. It was a charming grin, and he used it like a weapon of seduction. Don full mind and body armor, she warned herself.
He said, “I can’t believe it. A story editor for Uptown Girls. You know who my favorite character is? Fleur. The one with red hair like yours. I bet she’s based on you.”
She wagged a finger at him. “Nope. I won’t discuss it. Not until I hear about you. You were saying about your family?”
His face took on a look of mock resignation. “We were just—a family. I don’t remember much about my father. He died when I was four.”
“What did he do?” she asked.
“He was a roofer. He took a wrong step. He died three days later.”
Kitt winced. “And your poor mother?”
“She had three kids. She did what she could. Finally she moved us from Beaumont to New York. She had relatives there. They could help her find work that paid better.”
True, so far, thought Kitt. His story matched her sketchy notes about his past. “Go on,” she encouraged.
“So she worked for this guy who was well-to-do,” Mel said. “He liked her, took an interest in her, wanted to help her out. He was—generous. She was grateful. More than grateful.”
A shadow of moodiness passed over his face. He said, “I know you work with sexy plots and all, but this wasn’t like that. This guy wasn’t interested in my mom that way. She’s a little Italian lady, round as a rubber ball. But she’s got a heart as wide as the sky and personality to burn. She’s got strong opinions and speaks her mind. But everybody loves her.”
He spoke of his mother with such affection that Kitt was impressed in spite of herself. “So how did he help her, this man?”
Mel rubbed his upper lip pensively. “He helped her mostly by helping us. Her sons. With education. Summer jobs. Training in his law offices.”
She studied him with increased interest. He gave few details, but he wasn’t hiding his past. “So,” she said, stroking the water beaded on the side of her glass, “this man put you through college?”
He frowned. “We all got scholarships. But he helped with other stuff. Books. Transportation. Medical. Clothes.”
He glanced down at the cuff of his expensive sweater. She was surprised he mentioned clothes. Maybe his tailored wardrobe and pricey haircut weren’t all pure vanity, but symbolized something deeper to him.
She said, “This guy did this for you out of the goodness of his heart?”
“I think he did it out of the goodness of my mother’s heart,” Mel said. “His own mother died before he made any money. He never got to help her. My mother reminded him of her.”
Kitt looked sympathetic. “And you—and your brothers—reminded him of himself?”
The dark blue eyes took on an unexpected wariness. “Some. And he saw we had potential. That he could help us, and we could help him.”
She cocked her head. “Help him? In what way?”
“He had jobs for us when we got out of school. Good jobs. And we owe him the best we can give him. Without him, I don’t know where we would have ended up.”
She sensed complex emotions behind those words. His face, which she had first thought too handsome, was more interesting when he wasn’t cocky. But why had he suddenly showed a hint of vulnerability? Was it because he was thinking about Crystal Creek and challenging his own brother?
“You said you had scholarships,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t sound as if you’d have ended up as bums in the gutter.”
His sculpted mouth took on a wry crook. “We didn’t exactly fit in, my brothers and I. Well, the youngest one, maybe. He was always more of a regular guy.”
“You didn’t fit in? Why?” She didn’t have to pretend to be fascinated. She was.
“My older brother was a lone wolf.” A trace of bitterness was in Mel’s voice.
“You say that like it’s bad. What’s wrong with independence?”
His jaw tightened. “A man should have loyalties,” he said.
“Your brother didn’t?”
“That’s talking about my brother. I don’t want to do that.”
She inched her chair a bit closer to the table, to him. “Fine. I’d rather hear about you. Why didn’t you fit in?”
Mel gave her an odd look. “You know, you’re really a good listener.”
She shrugged modestly. “I’m just interested. You seem like the sort of guy who’d be captain of the football team, president of the student council, homecoming king, all that.”
His smile went almost shy. He rubbed his upper lip again. “No. Track team. That’s all.”
She traced a question mark on the tabletop. “So. What were you running from?”
“I could ask you the same thing. You were in track. Were you running to something? Or from something?”
She shook her head. “No fair. The deal is that I learn about you first. So tell me. What made you feel different from other people? That your family didn’t have money?”
“Lots of people don’t have money,” he said, a frown line deepening between his dark brows. “Most people don’t.”
“Then what was it?” she asked softly.
His frown changed from thoughtful to unhappy. “It’s really no big deal. It just seemed so then. It doesn’t—”
The waiter interrupted them. He set a plate with a sandwich and pickle before Kitt and an empty plate before Mel. “I’ll let you two divide the goodies.” To Mel he said, “Do you want the check now or later?”
“I’ll take it now,” Mel said.
“No, no,” Kitt protested. “It should be checks, not check. We’re not together. We’re just sharing this table—”
The smile died on the waiter’s round face. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “You looked like a couple. You acted like you belonged together—excuse me. My mistake. Sorry.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” Mel said, “and it’ll be my treat.” He handed the man two twenties. “Keep the change.”
The waiter grinned and eased off into the crowd.
“No,” Kitt said to Mel. “Let me pay my share. I insist—”
“I said it’s my pleasure. Maybe I can see you while you’re in Austin. Does your aunt live in the city?”
“Um, no,” Kitt said carefully. “Kind of—outside it. But you were saying?”
“Nothing, really,” he said. “Put part of that sandwich on this plate, will you?”
Damn, she thought. He’d been about to reveal something. How could she steer this conversation back on track?
She heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. It wasn’t hers. It was his.
He looked irritated at being interrupted, but his voice was pleasant. “DeJames. How are you, my man?” His face hardened and he gazed at Kitt. “Which magazine?” he asked. “Her name is Katherine what?”
The change in his expression was both remarkable and frightening. Kitt felt a swell of foreboding.
“Repeat that description,” he said into the phone, never taking his eyes from hers. As he listened, the set of his mouth grew harsher. “Got it,” he said. “Thanks.” He snapped the phone off.
His stare didn’t waver. Kitt’s face grew hot and her heartbeat speeded in dread.
“That was my office,” he said from between clenched teeth. “With a warning. About a reporter.”
“Well,” she said, “I’ll be going now.” She put her hand on the table to push her chair back and escape.
With cobra-like swiftness his arm shot out, his hand pinning hers in place. “Stay put,” he ordered. “It’s you. From Exclusive magazine.”
“Yes,” she said. “I never said otherwi—”
“You were pumping me.”
“Well, I—”
She squirmed, trying to slip away from his grasp, but he held her fast. “Visiting your aunt. Pathetic.”
“I do have an aunt,” she interjected.
“Uptown Girls. What a cheap ruse. Using sex to lead me on.”
“You’re the one who brought sex into—”
“You little liar,” he said. He released her hand as if letting go of something hopelessly soiled.
“Look,” she began, “you followed me in here. You assumed—”
It was too late. He had already risen and was disappearing into the crowd. Her face burned with shame and anger. She rose, stood on tiptoes, and cried out after him, “You haven’t seen the last of me, you know!”
People glanced at her oddly. She sat back in her seat, feeling small and devious. She shouldn’t have led him on. She wished she hadn’t. But he had started it, and not from the purest of motives. To hell with him.
Her shame died. Her anger sank into a hot, hard ember that she could nurse for a long time and use against him.
She thought about what she had done, and she forgave herself. She ate her half of the sandwich. Then, with a philosophic shrug, she picked up his and ate it, too.
CHAPTER THREE
HER TAUNT RANG in Mel’s ears: “You haven’t seen the last of me….”
He vowed that she’d heard the last of him. He’d sooner cut his tongue out than talk with her again, the lying little minx.
Angrily he strode to the nearest Avis desk to rent a car. He’d be damned if he’d get on the same plane as Kitt Mitchell—she’d probably smirk all the way to Austin.
It was going to be rotten enough to be trapped in the same county with her. She’d be covering the Bluebonnet Meadows battle, and that meant she’d lurk, stalk, spy and breathe down his neck. Tough.
He could not only stonewall her, he could ruin her. Soothing himself with this pleasant prospect, he tossed his carry-ons into the back of the rented luxury car.
He should sic the most rapacious sharks in Fabian’s legal department on that deceiving redhead. Have one of the media experts phone her magazine, threaten action and get her cute little butt fired—that’d teach her.
If Fabian wanted, he could get her blackballed forever from respectable journalism. She’d be lucky to get a job writing space alien stories for the cheesiest tabloid.
Obsessively he listed and relisted the sins of Kitt Mitchell. She’d solicited information under false pretences. She’d used her pixyish face and wide blue eyes to lead him on. She’d shamelessly offered sex as bait—oh, yes, he’d have the office throw the book at her.
No, I won’t, he thought in self-disgust as he drove. Be honest. He was thinking like a bully and an oaf. What had happened was his fault, far more than hers. That’s what made him sick with anger.
She hadn’t set a trap for him; he’d set it for himself. Then, like a fool, he’d barged straight into it. He’d thought she was cute and feisty, and he’d heeded his hormones instead of his brain.
His disgust didn’t disappear; it merely changed its target. Sure, he could punish her because he had the power—or Fabian did. But the author of Mel’s shame was not Kitt Mitchell, but himself.
Still, she was a threat to the job he had to do in Crystal Creek. He needed to be on guard against her. He had reached a nearly empty stretch of highway. He pulled out his cell phone and called New York. He asked for DeJames Jackson, one of Fabian’s top assistants.
“DeJames,” he said, “That reporter you told me about—the Mitchell woman? She’s already crossed my path. Get me all the information on her that you can. I want to know her better than she knows herself.”
DeJames gave a deep, rich laugh. “You think she’s that dangerous? Or are you interested in scoring? Those women over at Exclusive have a reputation for being smart—and lookers.”
Mel felt a fresh sting of resentment. “She’s not that great-looking,” he said. “And yes, she’s dangerous. Very sly.” He thought about her deception and added, “Glib. Manipulative. Not above dirty tricks.”
DeJames laughed again. “Why, Mel,” he said, “it sounds like you finally met your perfect woman.”
AT GATE AA1, the P.A. system crackled into life. An impersonal voice droned an unwanted message: the flight to Austin would be delayed for at least another hour.
Groans and mutters ran through the disappointed crowd, and Kitt, too, felt annoyed. But she was also puzzled. Where was Mel Belyle? He was supposed to be on this flight, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Forty-five minutes later, yet another delay was announced. Still no sign of the man. A mischievous smile teased Kitt’s lips. Had she miffed him so much that he’d canceled his ticket? Maybe she’d dented his pride more than she’d thought.
Well, she told herself, a man as handsome and overconfident as Mel Belyle could use a swift kick to the ego now and then. Did he try to seduce every woman he met? What had he expected? For her to swoon at his expensively shod feet?
But he had looked great in that blue sweater, she must admit. It set off his wide shoulders and unexpectedly sensitive eyes. Enough of that, she scolded. She probably hadn’t taken even a crumb off his self-esteem. He was avoiding her because he was avoiding the press, that was all.
He’d probably chartered his own plane or rented a Porsche upholstered in ermine. With Brian Fabian footing the bill, why not?
Kitt sighed. It didn’t do to dwell on rich, good-looking men who moved among the power elite. She had been foolish enough to do that once, long ago. She would not make the same mistake again.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, two men stood by the carved oak bar in the den of the McKinney ranch house. Cal poured two shots of whiskey. “Thought it’d be good for us to get acquainted-like. Have a couple words in private.”
Nick Belyle nodded.
“Daddy’ll join us pretty soon,” said Cal. “He’s givin’ the kids a ride in the pony cart.” He pushed the filled glass toward the other man.
“Thanks,” said Nick.
“To those three pretty women out there,” Cal said with a nod toward the living room. “You married yourself a beauty.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t,” Nick said. The men touched glasses and drank.
Through the open door, Cal could see Shelby Belyle sitting with his stepmother, Cynthia, and his own wife, his own gorgeous wife, Serena.
Nick’s wife was indeed a looker, thought Cal. She was curvaceous with richly dark hair and eyes. Beside Shelby sat Cal’s stepmother. The two women were a study in contrasts. Shelby was a young brunette earth goddess, Cynthia a coolly blond aristocrat, still stunning at forty-four.
But in Cal’s eyes neither of them could hold a candle to his beloved Serena. Her beauty was quieter, but deeper. Her green eyes still seemed to him the most mysterious in the world. She could give him a look from clear across the room that would shake him to the core with desire.
Just gazing at her now, his thoughts became carnal. He studied the way a strand of her long brown hair trailed over the delightful curve of one breast. Those lovely breasts were covered by a green silk blouse, and he wanted to unbutton it, part it, touch her and lower his mouth to taste her.
Tonight when they were finally alone in the guest bedroom, the first thing he was going to do to her was…
He heard the ghostly echo of his father’s old question. Do you always think with your dick? J.T. had said it half a hundred times back in Cal’s youth. The memory stung, and he hauled himself back to reality.
Nick Belyle smiled, as if he knew where Cal’s thoughts had been and exactly how lascivious they were. Cal cleared his throat and poured them each another shot. Down to business, he told himself. He said, “This brother of yours that’s coming—Mel. Tell me about him.”
Nick’s smile died. “What can I say? He’s the last person I’d want in Crystal Creek.”
“Is that from a legal aspect or a personal one?”
“Both,” said Nick and downed his drink with one swallow.
Cal studied the other man. Nick Belyle was not conventionally handsome, but his face was interesting, or so women seemed to think. Serena had said he looked a cross between an angel and a street punk.
It was a complex face, and it suited him. He seemed like a complex guy. Going counter to Brian Fabian’s orders had been hard on him. J.T. said so, and so did Cal’s sister Lynn, and Nora said it, too.
Cal chose his words carefully. “Are you startin’ to wish you hadn’t got messed up in this?”
Nick pushed away his empty glass. “I don’t regret what I did. It was the right thing.”
Cal nodded. “We think so.”
If Nick hadn’t spoken out, nobody would have known what Fabian was up to. As it was, the McKinneys had been able to throw legal roadblocks in his way, and for the time, they had slowed him. The question was, could they stop him?