“I’m what?”

“Take it easy, Maxine. You’re just the kind of woman I need to get my family to—”

“I heard that part. What I want to know is what you meant.”

Despite her scorn, the idea uttered in jest was seeping deeper into his consciousness. Maxine was the perfect candidate for a make-believe bride.

“I can’t imagine you’re talking about a real marriage,” she said.

“No way.” He shuddered. “I could just call my folks and tell them I’m married. Voilà! Inheritance released.”

She said, as if curiosity had gotten the best of her, “So give me details.”

“No details. I’ll just tell my mom I’m married. She’ll swoon with delight and declare the terms of the will fulfilled. If worst comes to worst, I’ll let my mom speak to my blushing bride. That’ll be you.”

She grimaced, reflected, then said, “All right.”

Being nobody’s fool, he didn’t push it. He gave her a thumbs-up and crossed to the bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.

At which point Maxine aimed a forefinger at his sleek back, cocked her thumb and silently mouthed a single word: Gotcha!

Dear Reader,

I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to tell the story of Randy Taggart, the spoiled brat in Fireworks!, book one of my TAGGARTS OF TEXAS miniseries. But for Rand to grow up and find his own true love, Thom T., the Taggart patriarch, had to grow old—make that older, because he was no teenager to begin with.

How to give Thom T. his due? The question stumped me for a long time, but the answer came to me in a flash.

So here it is, book five in the further adventures of the Taggarts. I hope you like the way I’ve handled Thom T.’s “little problem.” I also hope those of you who remember the other Taggart men—Jesse James, Daniel Boone and Trey Smith—will enjoy catching up on their lives and the lives of their wives and children.

For me, this book was a joyful homecoming. I hope it pleases you, too.

Ruth Jean Dale

Hitched!
Ruth Jean Dale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruth Jean Dale lives in a Colorado pine forest within shouting distance of Pikes Peak. She is surrounded by two dogs, two cats, a husband (her one and only) and a passel of grown children and grandchildren. A former newspaper reporter and editor, she is living her dream: writing romance novels for Harlequin. As she says with typical understatement, “It doesn’t get any better than this!”

Books by Ruth Jean Dale

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

678—KIDS, CRITTERS AND CUPID

687—THE CUPID CHRONICLES

788—CUPID’S REVENGE

853—FAMILY SECRETS

Other “Taggarts of Texas” books:

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

3205—FIREWORKS!

3242—SHOWDOWN!

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

413—THE RED-BLOODED YANKEE!

HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

768—LEGEND

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

DEAD OR ALIVE, Thom T. Taggart spoke for himself.

But considering that the crusty rancher had been laid to rest less than two hours earlier, his appearance on the forty-two-inch television screen set up special for the occasion in the parlor of the Rocking T Ranch near Showdown, Texas, elicited a collective gasp from the assembled audience.

The old Texas rancher and oilman, spiffy in a dark Western-cut suit and string tie, sat in his wheelchair, holding up a copy of the San Antonio Star. He pointed to the date and his lined face creased in a broad grin.

“Howdy, y’all,” he drawled. “As you can plainly see, today is my birthday. Seems only fittin’ to make my final will and testament before y’all show up to surprise me.” He winked, letting everyone in on the joke. “Not that I ain’t fixin’ to live to be a hundred like I always said, ’cause I am.”

At that point, Kit McCrae Taggart began to sniffle. Her husband, Boone, patted her hand in an attempt to comfort. She gave him a grateful glance and tried to swallow back her tears.

Thom T., all-unknowing, went on. “Folks, it’s been a great life—still is, even if I am mostly stuck in this dang chair these days. I may not be as spry as I usta, but I’m still of sound mind.” His familiar hearty laughter filled the room. “That bein’ the case, I’ll be gol-darned if I’ll let the government get its hands on a penny more a’what I got than it deserves. So here goes.”

It took a lot of hard swallowing and throat-clearing for his nearest and dearest to maintain their poise. Those who shared the Taggart blood had come to hear their departed patriarch’s final words and receive his final bequests.

That included Jesse James and Meg Randall Taggart, who were accompanied by thirteen-year-old daughter, Clementine. Daniel Boone and wife, Kit McCrae Taggart, who were present with their son, Travis, nine, and daughter, Cherish, three. And shirttail relation Thomas Trenton Taggart Smith, always called “Trey,” had come with his wife, the former Rachel Cox, and their eight-year-old twins, Thom T. and Taggart Smith.

Only Meg and Jesse’s twenty-one-year-old, Thomas Randall Taggart, Thom T.’s great-grandson and namesake— “Rand” to friends but still called “Randy” by the family—was missing.

On-screen, Thom T. harrumphed. “As for Randy—” He let out a huge sigh. “I told that boy’s other great-grandpa not to leave him all that money on his twenty-first birthday, but would the old fool listen to me? The boy probably won’t even show up for my funeral, but what the hey—I love him anyway. I admit I been hornswoggled now and again, but not this time. That boy’s better than you know—better than he knows.”

Thom T. took a deep breath as if to steel himself for their disapproval. “That’s why I’m leavin’ my first great-grandchild my dearest possession, my heart and soul—the Rockin’ T Ranch. I’m talkin’ the whole kit ’n’ caboodle, folks.”

This produced a ripple of surprise from the observers. Thom T. reacted as if he’d heard them from the grave. “Yep, I know I always said Jesse would get the Rockin’ T,” he stated, defending his change of heart, “but he’s got the Hells Bells Ranch and he don’t need this place, too. What’a you say to that, boy?”

“You got that right, Grandpa.” Jesse’s voice was muffled and he stared straight at the television screen as if holding himself together with spit and baling wire. “I don’t need anything.”

Thom T. nodded as though he’d heard. “I guess I could leave the home place to Boone, but he’s a big-shot lawyer and politician so he don’t want nothin’ to do with ranchin’—am I wrong about that, Dan’l Boone?”

“Never, Grandpa.” Boone’s voice was uncharacteristically tight. “I don’t recall the last time you were wrong—about anything.”

“And Trey,” Thom T. went on. “He lives a’way out in California and is always tryin’ t’get his neck broke doin’ that movie stuff.” He chortled. “Besides, he’s a damnyankee and don’t want nothin’ to do with no ranch in Texas.”

Tough-guy Trey, eyes bright with unshed tears, joined in the old rancher’s gleeful laughter. Trey, the man who could fling himself down a flight of stairs or jump off a cliff into a damp sponge without a second thought, radiated pain.

Thom T. sobered. “I been worryin’ over this for quite a spell,” he admitted. “I finally decided to let the chips fall where they want to. But the ranch ain’t comin’ easy to Randy. To get it, the boy’s gotta prove he’s worthy. He’s gotta get hitched and become a productive member of society. And he’s gotta do it by his thirtieth birthday because I ain’t made outa patience.”

“Fat chance,” the boy’s father muttered darkly.

Meg gave her husband a quelling glance. “Show a little respect, Jesse. He’s your own son, after all.”

Jesse rolled his eyes but subsided.

Thom T. blithely went on. “And since the lawyers pissed and moaned about how they was supposed to know if Randy had met my requirements, I told ’em to let you three couples decide—yes, you folks sittin’ in front’a this TV sniffling, because if you’re seein’ this tape, I’m pushin’ up daisies.”

“Oh, Thom T.!” Kit’s voice was somewhere between a moan and a gasp. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she was smiling. “You old sweetheart. You know us better than we know ourselves.”

Rachel’s smile trembled. “He always did,” she said. “I hope he knew how much we all c-cared for—” She couldn’t go on.

Thom T., of course, didn’t hear her but sounded as if he had. “Get holda yourselfs, the whole buncha y’all,” he commanded, his expression stern. “That boy and his wife have gotta love each other—that’s the most important thing. Then they gotta convince his ma and pa and his two aunts and uncles that it’s a real marriage, not one’a them make-believe deals just to get his hands on the ranch. Not that he’s likely to go to any trouble, since his other great-grandpa left him more money than he’ll be able to spend if he lives as long as I have.”

The old man’s mouth curved down unhappily. “If I was gonna be around, I’d fix young Randy up with the right gal like I done Boone and Jesse and Trey. Unfortunately at my age I cain’t count on wakin’ up tomorrow, let alone bein’ around long enough to whip my great-grandkids into shape. I’ll just have to count on luck, God willin’ and the creeks don’t rise.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house by now. This did not deter the no-longer present Thom T.

“A’course,” he continued in a musing tone, “there’s always the risk that Randy won’t ever want the Rockin’ T.” His tone revealed pain at such a prospect. “I thought a’that, too. If Randy don’t claim this place by his thirtieth birthday, it goes to the Texas Sunny Days Nudist Colony. They been tryin’ to buy it for years anyway.”

Thom T. then proceeded to parcel out oil wells, oil and mineral rights, valuable Western paintings and sculptures, stocks and bonds—all the trappings of a rich but modest man. Beneficiaries included not only his loved ones but also those who had served him in his declining years—although judging by his image on the screen, he hadn’t declined nearly as much as his advanced age would suggest.

Unluckily the man who’d vowed to see a hundred had expired just ten days short of his goal. As everyone present knew, he’d been wrong about Randy not attending the funeral. The boy had, and he’d been as torn up as the rest of them. He just hadn’t hung around for the reading—or viewing—of the will.

Even his mother had to admit that Randy did have more money than was good for him, and he wasn’t interested in anyone’s opinion about what to do with it. Now it looked as if the Rocking T Ranch, its history and all it had meant to the Taggart family and this part of Texas, would inevitably be overrun by a swarm of naked sun worshipers.

Or so Jesse predicted later over a beer with Boone and Trey.

“He’s my son and I love him,” Jesse said darkly. “But he’s only twenty-one years old and he’s got the bit between his teeth. At this point, I don’t know if he’ll ever be the man me ’n’ Thom T. want him to.”

He sighed and lifted his can of beer. “What the hell. Here’s to the Rocking T.”

Boone clicked his can against his brother’s. “Here’s to Randy. May he do the right thing, and do it in time.”

“And here’s to Thom T. Taggart.” Trey added his can to the cluster above the small table. “That old fox was smarter than all three of us put together. He pulled strings his entire life, as we can all attest—to our great good fortune. It wouldn’t surprise me any if he’s still pulling strings from the great beyond.”

Three hard, handsome, successful men drank to that.

CHAPTER ONE

Eight years later

DOWN TO HIS last hundred thousand in ready cash, Rand Taggart boarded a small Alar Airlines jet in Chicago on a pleasant September afternoon. The day was the only thing that was pleasant, unfortunately, for he was bound for San Antonio and a heaping helping of crow. Even a smile from the pretty blond flight attendant didn’t lighten his mood.

Helluva note when a good-lookin’ woman fails to arouse my baser instincts, he thought glumly, stowing his leather flight bag and briefcase in the overhead compartment in the small first-class section. The best he could manage for her was a nod.

The fact was, he’d rather eat a bug than face what awaited him in Texas: telling his parents that he’d spent, given away and been scammed out of millions of dollars—the latter by his old college roommate, of whom they’d never approved anyway. Then, while they were still in shock, the unmarried ne’er-do-well son would try to coax them into helping him break his great-grandfather’s will.

The mind reeled. Nevertheless he had to do it before he could go after his onetime friend. He wanted his money back, but he wanted to get his hands on the perpetrator almost as much.

“Excuse me.”

He turned to find a gray-haired woman standing in the aisle, trying to juggle a large travel bag and a child. She appeared flustered.

“Young man, could you help me get this bag into the overhead bin?” she asked.

“Sure thing.” He rose and hoisted the bag easily next to his in the open bin. “Anything else I can do for you, ma’am?” He managed a grin for the kid. Only two or three years old, he guessed, although he was no expert on children. The little girl looked back at him with unblinking blue eyes, her mouth turned down petulantly.

“Nothing. Thanks for your help.” The woman set the child into the seat in the last row, directly behind Rand’s. “I hope Jessica won’t be a bother on the flight. She’s cross because she didn’t get her nap today. With luck she’ll sleep all the way to San Antonio.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rand said. If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have tipped it politely. Good manners died hard, even when you were mired in a slough of despond.

Other passengers were trekking down the narrow aisles. Rand seated himself in his usual window seat and ignored them, along with the whole routine of boarding. It wasn’t that he minded flying; God knows he’d done enough of it in the past eight years. Trips to Europe, the Caribbean, back and forth from coast to coast…

He’d hopped a plane and traveled three thousand miles to dine in Pasadena at the mom-’n’-pop café that served up his favorite pizza, the one with cashew nuts mixed in with the meat and veggies. He’d flown to Pamplona for the running of the bulls and to Acapulco for cliff diving, to Japan to buy pearls and to Florida to give them to a woman he hardly knew.

He’d thought the money would last forever.

It hadn’t…but it would have lasted a helluva lot longer if he hadn’t renewed acquaintances with good old Bill Overton. Now Rand either had to get married with lightning speed—God forbid!—or convince his parents, his aunts and his uncles to back his attempt to break the will of Great-grandpa Taggart.

Fat chance, he muttered. They’d want to hear chapter and verse on how he was able to throw away the millions left to him by his other great-grandpa, John Hayslip Randall IV, of the Boston banking Randalls. There’d be richly deserved lectures about responsibility and duty and obligation, and a whole lot of “I told you so’s.”

The worst part of it was, they couldn’t say anything to him that he hadn’t already said to himself, and in much harsher terms than they’d use. He was fairly certain most of them still loved him, which was more than he did at this sorry point.

Nevertheless the Rocking T Ranch had suddenly become his only source of ready cash while he tried to recover his lost fortune—he should live so long. This time he intended to use his head to manage his money—quite a change from the last go-round. At twenty-nine, he knew better than anyone that it was damn well time for him to grow up.

He’d already been thinking along these lines before Bill Overton had revealed himself for the dirty dog he was. Why did Rand always have to learn the hard way?

Time crawled past. Now that he was committed, all he wanted was to get to Texas and get this over with. At last the line of passengers slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Maybe he was going to luck out for once, he thought with the faintest flicker of optimism. Maybe he’d have this entire two-seat row to himself. If he did, it would be the first positive thing that had happened to him since—

“I’m sorry?”

At the soft words, he forced his attention away from the window, where he’d been idly watching the usual bustle of the ground crew. A woman stood in the aisle, regarding him coolly from behind the most unattractive pair of eyeglasses he’d ever seen.

The rest of her wasn’t very impressive, either. Her neat brown dress hung around her waist like a sack with a string tied round the middle. The garment buttoned all the way up to her chin, and elbow-length sleeves dangled limply around her arms.

Her features were regular, but bland to the point of invisibility. Eyes of a nondescript brown were magnified by those miserable glasses, and her hair, an equally ordinary brown, was slicked back to her nape and tied with a droopy bow.

She licked colorless lips. “Uh, I’m sorry?” she said again, making a question out of words that would normally be an apology.

“For…?” Rand encouraged her to elaborate, since he had no idea what she was getting at.

“I think you’re in my seat?”

“No way.” Rand fished into his hip pocket and extracted his ticket. “I always get a window seat. See, right here—” He broke off, staring at his ticket: aisle seat. Even his travel agent had it in for him these days.

“If it’s a problem, I don’t mind trading.” The woman sounded anxious about it, though. “Really, it’s no problem at all.” Bending, she hoisted a large garment bag.

“Let me do that,” Rand said quickly, scooting over and out into the aisle. “Go ahead.” He gestured toward the window seat. “It’s all yours.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind…” She gave him an agitated glance and relinquished her bag to his care. “Thank you so much.”

He swung the ungainly piece of luggage into place, surprised that it weighed considerably less than he’d expected. Apparently she believed in traveling light. After sitting down in the detested aisle seat, he squirmed around to locate the safety belt. To his displeasure, she spoke again.

“I’m Maxine Rafferty.” Turning awkwardly against the confines of her seat belt, she offered her hand.

“Rand Taggart.” He barely touched her hand with his. He wasn’t in the mood to get friendly with anyone on this trip and those feelings had nothing to do with her lack of appeal. He’d have felt the same no matter who took his window seat.

She chewed on her lip with even, white teeth. “Are you going to San Antonio, too?” she asked.

He nodded. That was where this plane was headed, so what did she think?

Her smile was strained. “I really hate to fly,” she said suddenly. “Something bad always happens. The last time, the plane sat on the runway for four hours. It was awful.”

“I can see how it would be.” He should be kind and supportive, but all he wanted was for her to shut up and let him return to his brooding.

Seemingly she caught on, for with a distracted frown she turned back to the window. This left Rand free to resume his dark thoughts, the darkest of which was the absolute certainty that the six people who held his fate in their hands were gonna turn him down cold.

Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been leading that productive life Thom T. had envisioned for him—the word wastrel leaped to mind. Once he reached his parents’ ranch in the Texas Hill Country, he’d have to talk fast. He could count on his mother, of course, but his father…

Jesse James Taggart was not a man who made a lot of allowances, and especially not for his son. Rand had never been able to please his father, had never even come close to living up to the Taggart name. Early on, he’d quit trying.

The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, reciting the usual safety instructions while the plane rolled away from the jetport. He didn’t listen to what she was saying because he could have given the spiel for her he’d heard it so many times. Strapped into his seat, he waited until they were airborne before leaning back with a sigh.

In so doing, his elbow extended into the aisle and somebody smacked into it. Rand yanked his arm aside, automatically mumbling a “Sorry” and glancing up.

The guy never even saw him, probably didn’t even realize what had happened. Rand had just a glimpse of a set, white face and blazing eyes. Several years of sometimes-fast living immediately told him that the man’s expression owed more than a little to the use of booze, pills, illegal drugs, something along those lines.

The guy was probably rushing to the postage-stamp-size rest room to ingest illegal substances. Rand hoped no one was unfortunate enough to already be crammed in there, because this guy was in a big hurry. Whatever. Rand had more important things to worry about.

The die was cast. Nothing could stop the fate flying toward him at breakneck speed.

“THIS IS A HIJACKING!” A rough male voice sliced through the flight attendant’s smooth recitation. “Everybody stay where you are and nobody will get hurt.”

The flight attendant’s voice shot up into a squawk of protest and the intercom went dead.

Ha, ha, Maxine thought crossly. Just what I need—a comedian serving the pretzels.

She glanced at the darkly handsome man in the aisle seat, curious to know how he’d react to this less-than-funny prank. His eyes were closed, so perhaps he was sleeping. That gave her an opportunity to admire him for just a moment.

Rand Taggart wore a butter-soft leather jacket, a shirt with an expensive logo, khaki trousers and pricey leather sneakers. And he wore it all with the kind of nonchalant grace that shouted “Money!” without him ever opening his mouth.

It was more than that, though; the photograph definitely hadn’t done him justice. He was so damn good-looking that she’d caught her breath in surprise at first sight of him. He had a square-jawed suntanned face, dark hair that curled slightly around his ears and temples, long-lashed eyes a shade of blue-gray she’d never encountered…

And a natural arrogance not unexpected, under the circumstances. Nevertheless she was determined to strike up a conversation with him. After taking off her eyeglasses, she rubbed idly at the bridge of a nose unaccustomed to their weight. No way did she intend to waste this flight to San Antonio, especially at first-class prices, when she’d gone to so much trouble to—

The intercom opened again in a hail of static. “We’re being hijacked!” the flight attendant shrieked. “This is not a joke!” A series of grunts and gasps and the sounds of a scuffle followed.

Rand sat bolt upright. “I close my eyes for five minutes and we’re being hijacked?” he demanded. Half rising, he looked about.

Maxine stayed where she was, aware of the increasingly anxious buzz around her. People were confused, their voices growing louder in alarm. From the row of seats directly behind, a child let out a screech that cut through Maxine like a blade.

Even so, she refused to believe the plane was actually being hijacked. No way! She’d been nervous about booking this flight, but fear of flying wasn’t why. Normally as subtle as a sledgehammer, she’d set herself a task that depended on subtlety. She wouldn’t allow herself to be distracted by—

“Hijacked! The hell you say!” This new, masculine voice came from behind the open curtains separating first and tourist classes. “Don’t worry, Robyn, somebody’s gettin’ cute. We’ll see if the FAA thinks it’s so damn funny.”

Rand sat down suddenly, his arm pressing Maxine back against her seat. “There’s a guy with a gun comin’ up the aisle,” he said, a touch of Southern steel creeping into his mid-Atlantic accent. “Lean back and keep quiet. Don’t do anything to attract attention.”

The flight attendant’s shaky voice rose above the babble with a boost from the intercom. “Please, keep calm and nobody will be hurt. Do everything they say.”

“How the hell many are there?” Rand muttered, not turning to see. “Jeez, I don’t believe this!”

A man shoved past, heading for the front of the plane. Turning at the forward seat in first class, he glared back at the hapless passengers. Maxine caught her breath on a little moan at the sight of the guy’s menacing expression.

It didn’t help that he was waving a pistol around in one hand while exhibiting a hand grenade in the other. “Everybody shut up!” he roared, red-rimmed eyes glowing. “Next person who opens his mouth will get a grenade shoved down his throat.”

Maxine snapped her teeth together with a click. In her immediate vicinity, all sound ceased except for the snuffling of the child in the seat behind. Those in tourist class apparently couldn’t hear the man’s warning, though, for it was beginning to sound like pandemonium back there.

“Goddammit!” The hijacker strode back down the aisle, still brandishing his weapons. Rand leaned slightly in, his shoulder touching hers until the man had gone past.

“Two of them.” He was looking at her, but she knew he was thinking out loud. “I hope to God nobody gets any bright—”

The intercom crackled and a new voice came on, a voice rough and threatening. “You people shut up and listen! We’ve got guns and grenades and we’re ready to use them unless we get some damn cooperation!”

He’d convinced Maxine, and everybody else, as well, it seemed. Suddenly she could have heard a pin drop. There was something utterly persuasive about his threats. Wide-eyed, she couldn’t help counting on Rand Taggart for reassurance. He shook his head in silent warning, then took her hand and squeezed it.

He must think she was on the verge of hysteria or something. She wasn’t that weak or stupid…but there was some comfort to be found in his steady grip nonetheless. She didn’t pull away.

“Listen up,” the disembodied voice continued. “I’ve got a gun pointed straight at the captain’s head and my partner will keep you folks in line out there or else—you got that? Try anything and I will surely shoot the shit outa this pilot, in which case we’re all dead meat.” He didn’t sound as if he cared.

The intercom went dead. Rand grimaced. “I’m taking him at his word,” he said. “If everybody keeps cool, we should be all right.”

Small comfort. “Do you think—”

The intercom cut her off. “This is your captain speaking.”

Maxine felt a leap of hope at the new, confident voice—hope dashed by his next words.

“If everybody will just remain calm and cooperative, I’m sure we can work something out with these gentlemen. The seat-belt sign will remain on and I’d personally appreciate it if you’d all stay buckled up. Mr….?”

“Smart-ass,” the other voice snarled. The sound of a blow, a groan.

When the pilot spoke again, his voice was no longer calm and assured. “This gentleman h-has instructed me to, uh, has given me a new flight plan. Sit tight and pray. We have plenty of fuel and no intention of doing anything foolish.”

“Oh, gosh…” Maxi swallowed hard. “This isn’t sounding very good.”

THE WOMAN in the front row likely agreed, because she burst into hysterical sobs. Rand didn’t say a word, just leaned back and closed his eyes. At least his own problems were taking a back seat, what with overwrought passengers, weeping children and erratic flying patterns.

Not that there was a helluva lot he could do, which was frustrating. Beyond occasional comforting words for the woman in the seat next to him—Maxine something-or-other—he was powerless. When this whole thing started, what little color she had in her face had disappeared, apparently never to return.

“Can’t we do anything?” she finally blurted at him.

“Like what?” She must be nuts.

“You’re a man. Men are supposed to know these things.”

He felt his temper soar. “If you think I’m gonna get shot trying to be a hero, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I probably do.” She settled back, radiating disapproval.

Well, hell. What did she expect? Now he had something new to brood about.

Around them, many of the passengers were climbing beyond the point of no return on the hysteria scale. Maxine, although she’d shown no signs of losing it, was obviously scared to death. Hell, so was he. He should be more understanding.

He kept his voice low and easy. “Did you say you live in San Antonio?”

She gave him a startled glance and shook her head.

“Maxine,” he said reproachfully, “I can’t take your mind off your troubles if you refuse to talk.”

She responded with a quick, uncertain smile. She really did have a nice mouth—wide, full lipped. Almost lush. It was a wonder he hadn’t noticed that before.

“I live in Chicago,” she said a bit vaguely. “Mostly.”

“Are you going to visit friends in Texas, then?”

“No. I have a job interview there.” She licked her lips nervously. “What do you do, Rand?”

“As little as possible.”

“Ah.” Her expression seemed to relax a little. “Independently wealthy, I suppose.”

“Depends on what you mean by wealthy. He kept his tone neutral. He didn’t intend to tell this stranger that he’d probably thrown away more money than she’d ever see. “I’m on my way to visit my family.”

“Parents?”

“That’s right. And two aunts and uncles who live nearby.”

“Do you have a close family?”

“Close enough, I guess. How about you? Do you have much family?”

“One sister, and she’s…well, she’s kind of in trouble at the moment.”

“That’s too bad.” He didn’t want to pursue this line of questioning. He wasn’t particularly interested in her or her sister, would never see her again once this was over. He had plenty of problems of his own without getting caught up in hers.

But looking into her vulnerable face, he couldn’t bring himself to break off the conversation. At a loss, he finally said, “I have a sister, too.”

“Has she ever been in trouble?”

Rand laughed. “Clementine? She’s been in trouble since the day she was born, but probably not the kind of trouble you mean.”

“Clementine. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of anyone with that name. Except, ‘Oh, my darling,’ of course.”

“She used to hate it, but now that she’s older, she kind of likes it.”

“Older like…?”

“She’s twenty-one.” He knew she wasn’t interested in hearing about his sister, but he was struggling to keep the conversation going. “How old are you?” About his age, he figured.

“I’m twenty-five.”

“No kidding.” Idiot. You can’t tell her you thought she was at least five years older than that. Damn shame Clemmie couldn’t get hold of Maxine for a few hours and do something about that frumpy exterior.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Rand glanced around to find one of the ashen-faced flight attendants standing in the aisle, holding a basket with cans of soda and tiny bags of pretzels. “Would either of you care for a drink or a snack? It’s not much, but this was supposed to be a short flight.”

“They wouldn’t let you use that big cart, huh?” Rand guessed.

She nodded. “He said if they needed to get through the plane in a hurry, they didn’t want that thing in the way.”

“Which makes sense, I suppose.” He took a couple of cans from the basket and handed one to Maxine. “How’s it going up front?”

The flight attendant licked her lips. “Okay, I guess. They’re obviously doing drugs, though, and you never know where that will lead.” She made a face.

“Maybe if they get enough of that junk in them, they’ll fall asleep.”

“God, I hope so, but it just seems to make them more squirrelly.”

The beefy man across the aisle—an insurance salesman from Dubuque, Rand recalled, Larry something-or-other—leaned into the quietly spoken conversation. “Why doesn’t the captain do something?” he demanded, his face reddening. “We’ve got them outnumbered, for God’s sake.”

The woman in the maroon-and-gold Alar uniform was rendered speechless by this asinine criticism, so Rand jumped in.

“Good idea. You make the first move.”

“Me? I—we—ah…” The man’s bluff had been called and his bravado evaporated.

A bit of color had returned to the flight attendant’s cheeks and she gave Rand a grateful glance before moving on.

Rand turned around to Maxine, who studied him without expression.

“Maybe we should gang up on those hijackers,” she said defiantly. “If we’re going to die anyway—”

“Nobody’s going to die,” he said, appalled.

“Is that a promise?”

“It’s a prediction. Why don’t we just settle down and—”

“May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen.” The pilot’s voice burst from the intercom. “Time to buckle up. We’ll be landing in about twenty minutes at—”

The sound was cut off to a chorus of “Landing where?” Maxine and Rand looked at each other. He smiled. She didn’t.

“See?” he said encouragingly. “In an hour we’ll be off this plane and going about our business again.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” she said with feeling. “In the meantime, keep talking, will you? Tell me the story of your life…anything to keep my mind off them.”

THE HIJACKERS apparently changed their minds with disturbing frequency because minutes stretched into hours while the plane continued on a meandering course through the sky. After a while, Rand found himself running out of things to say and he still couldn’t loosen Maxine up enough to do more than nod or answer “Yes” or “No.” She did show an annoying tendency to ask personal questions, however, which he turned aside with growing impatience.

He wasn’t a man who talked about his personal business, especially when he was ashamed of it.

The hijackers took turns exploding out of the cockpit to wave guns and grenades around, to make threats. Singly, they’d stalk to the back of the plane, get everybody all worked up to screaming and crying, then turn and stalk back, to disappear inside the cockpit again.

Finally the insurance man across the way got fed up for real. “We really oughta rush ’em,” he whispered hoarsely to Rand. “They’re gonna get us if we don’t get them first.”

That thought had occurred to Rand, too, but had quickly perished. Whatever those two hijackers were doing in the cockpit wasn’t making them sleepy it was making them mean—make that meaner. They gave every indication that they’d as soon shoot the passengers as keep an eye on them.

“Take it easy,” he tried to calm the jittery man. “Nobody’s been hurt yet. Why start something we may not be able to finish?”

“Yeah, well…” The man subsided, mumbling.

The next time one of the gunmen appeared, he took one look at the insurance salesman, apparently didn’t like what he saw, raised his pistol and fired point-blank.

At the same instant, the plane banked into a sharp descent, throwing the gunman off-balance. The bullet panged into a vacant seat in the first row, sparing the insurance salesman. The first-class cabin erupted in shrieks and cries, so the hijacker fired a couple more shots after the first, playing hell with the upholstery.

Rand shoved Maxine against the window and turned to shield her with his body. In the aisle, the hijacker was swearing and making all kinds of threats, ending with a bellowed, “You think I don’t know what’s going on out here? You want to jump me, right? Try it! I’m begging you to try it! Hell, I might just throw this grenade and get it over with.”

Fully believing the end was near either from bullet, grenade or a crash landing, Rand braced himself for the worst. So much for his own petty problems. He wasn’t going to live long enough to—

The wheels slammed down onto solid earth. The plane vaulted into the air and landed again, heavily. The odor of burning rubber permeated the cabin.

“Please!” The word was just a gasp from Maxine. “You’re crushing me! Let me up!”

Why the hell not? If the hijacker hadn’t thrown the grenade by now, maybe he wouldn’t. “Sorry.” Rand straightened. A quick glance forward produced an exclamation of astonishment.

The hijacker wasn’t there. And hurtling past the window was a landscape Rand didn’t recognize: sand and cactus and a few stunted trees.

But first things first. “You okay?” he asked Maxine. “I didn’t mean to crush you but I was afraid—”

“Shit!” The insurance salesman was hyperventilating. “He’s crazy! Did you see that? He tried to shoot me!”

Rand grimaced. “Buck up, fella. You survived to tell about it.”

The man groaned. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” He stumbled to his feet and staggered forward to the rest room, bouncing side to side with the motion of the plane.

Into a tense silence, a petulant voice intruded. “Grandma, I’m hungry!”

Jessica, the little girl in the seat behind them. A tug on his sleeve made Rand start; the child stood in the aisle, looking up at him plaintively.

Maxine’s smile didn’t mask her concern. “Honey, you have to sit down.” She dug around in her shoulder bag. “Here.” She held up a candy bar. “You can have this if you’ll get back into your seat and—”

“Jessica!” The little girl’s grandmother sounded panicky. “Get back in this seat at once!”

“Choc-late!” Jessica escaped her grandmother’s clutches and lunged for the chocolate bar. She grabbed it, then fumbled at the wrapper.

Rand tried to take it from the chubby hands. “Let me help you, hon.”

“No, let me help.”

The hijacker had crept up on them all unseen. Now he reached for the candy bar.

Jeez, this guy would take candy from babies? Talk about rotten!

Jessica lunged for the chocolate. “Mine!” she screamed, holding the bar in both hands and backing away. She whirled around, then dashed down the aisle as fast as her chubby little legs would carry her.

The gunman straightened, swaying with the roll of the plane, and his arm came up. All Rand could see was the revolver rising, a finger already tightening on the trigger.

CHAPTER TWO

JESSICA’S GRANDMOTHER let out a bloodcurdling screech and leaped into the aisle, blocking it. Her frantic gaze met that of the gunman and she screamed again. She turned, then stumbled after Jessica, blundering into the curtain.

“Crazy old bat.” All the gunman’s attention was riveted on the floundering woman. His lip curled and he squeezed the trigger.

Rand acted purely on instinct. Grabbing the gun hand, he shoved it up and the bullet whistled harmlessly into the overhead luggage bin. Struggling into the aisle, he wrestled for the gun, slowly forcing the hijacker back.

In the cramped space, the man teetered, swore. Balance gone, he made a panicky grab for the last straw—Rand, who fought off the grasping hands.

The hijacker toppled backward, bouncing off the metal arm of a seat on his way down. He landed flat on his back, his head striking the floor with a solid thump. The gun popped free, ending up at Rand’s feet. The hijacker didn’t move.

Breathing hard, Rand bent to retrieve the weapon. The plane lurched, bounced, skidded, knocking him to his hands and knees—but he had the gun. He struggled up, to find Maxine kneeling in the aisle seat. Her eyes behind the ugly glasses were wide and scared.

She gave voice to the obvious. “You could have been killed!”

“You wanted me to do something, didn’t you?”

The insurance guy, back from the rest room, pointed to the unconscious man in the aisle. “He’s out cold. One down and one to go!”

Rand hefted the comforting weight of the pistol in his hand. He didn’t give a hoot in hell what the insurance guy had to say but for some reason thought Maxine’s opinion might be useful. “Now what?”

“How about this,” she responded promptly. “You stand in the entryway beside the cockpit.” She’d obviously given their situation some thought. “I’ll scream my head off, and when the other hijacker comes out to see what’s going on, you get the drop on him.”

Rand groaned. This sounded like a recipe for disaster. “There’s gotta be an easier way.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “You think of it, then. This plane is going to stop soon and when the guy up front sees what you’ve done to his partner—” She made an appropriate slashing motion across her own throat, complete with sound effects.

Her point was well taken. A gun battle inside an airplane would not be a good idea. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You sure this’ll work?”

“As sure as you were that we’d be off this plane three hours ago.”

She had him there. “Lacking a better idea…”

The level of hysterical wailing in tourist class steadily increased, although first-class passengers appeared too stunned to join in. Jessica’s shrieks soared above all else, but he deliberately shut out the racket. “You.” He indicated the insurance agent. “Keep an eye on that guy. If he so much as blinks, slug him.”

“Hard enough to make him see stars for a month,” the man promised. He dragged a heavy hardcover book out of his seat pocket and held it at the ready.

“All set?” Rand looked at Maxine.

She took a deep breath and nodded. The woman wasn’t short on nerve.

Satisfied, Rand stepped over the unconscious hijacker, then crept toward the front of the airplane. The revolver gave him confidence, although he hadn’t held one in years. His father and great-grandfather had taken pains to teach him how to handle firearms when he was just a kid, before the days of political correctness.

The plane came to a final grinding stop. Holding his breath, Rand placed an ear flat against the cockpit door and strained to hear. Nothing. He turned and positioned himself to the side, where he’d be hidden when the door opened. Maxine, standing near the flight attendants’ galley on the left, looked to him for a signal.

He nodded and she nearly split his eardrums.

“Eeeee…! No! Stop! Don’t come any closer! I’m warning you! Aaargh! Eeeeee…!”

The cockpit door slammed open so hard that it banged against the barrel of Rand’s pistol. For a moment he couldn’t see Maxine and terror swamped him. If he screwed up and she was the one who got hurt—

“Dammit, what’s goin’ on out here? I’ve had just about enough of—”

Rand shoved the door with all his strength and raised the pistol, fully prepared to shoot the crap out of the hijacker. Instead, he looked into the blank face of a man who didn’t know what had hit him…a man slowly crumpling, knocked silly when the heavy door connected solidly with his head.

The insurance salesman rushed up “We got him!”

The pilot barged through the door, rumpled and a bit crazed. Dried blood crusted his forehead, but he didn’t appear to be seriously hurt. He stopped short at the sight of his tormentor sprawled on the floor. “What the hell!”

The co-pilot joined them, taking everything in at a glance. “Where’s the other one?” he demanded.

“In first class, dead to the world.” The insurance guy pointed.

Rand finally got a word in edgewise. “Where are we?”

“Mexico,” the pilot said. “It’s a miracle we’re still alive. Those guys wanted to go to Argentina. By the time they finally agreed to a fuel stop, things were getting desperate.” He slapped the other pilot on the shoulder. “It’s a damn good thing you remembered this old airport, Joe.”

The co-pilot shrugged. “My dad used to fly in and out of here in the fifties. This place was an early Cancún, apparently.” He didn’t look as if he fully believed what had happened, even now. “We’d better get the door open and see what the hell we’ve landed in.”

Rand had more immediate concerns. Where was Maxine? Still hiding in the galley? “Here.” He thrust the revolver into the salesman’s hand. “Take over.”

Turning away, he finally spotted Maxine struggling up the rapidly filling aisle. She was lugging her suitcase and his, his briefcase slung over her shoulder. He pushed his way to meet her, so relieved that he nearly put an arm around her.

She leaned close to be heard. “I don’t know about you, but I want out of here.”

“You and me both.” But now new worries set in. Neither friends nor family were aware he was on this plane and publicity was the last thing he wanted. Was there a way to avoid all the hoopla surrounding a hijacking?

“When the door opens…” she began.

“Just part of the crowd.” He tried to shield her from the press of frantic passengers stumbling over the unconscious man in the aisle as if they didn’t even know who he was.

Suddenly the airplane door blew. Instead of leading the charge to escape, Rand stepped aside, drawing Maxine with him. A dozen or so passengers rushed to the opening where the door had been.

No jetway awaited them, just a too-short metal stairway leading down to a graveled field. The first step was a good six feet below the door, but that merely slowed the stampede instead of stopping it.

Two Mexican officials trying to climb into the plane were instead shoved out of the way by the mob. At the first break in the exodus, they tried again with better results. Shouting in a mixture of Spanish and broken English, gesturing grandly, they forced the passengers back until they could drag the two still-unconscious hijackers to the door and pass them down to colleagues waiting on the stairs.

By then, the flight attendants had gained the upper hand, and the evacuation proceeded in a more orderly manner. When the time came, Rand moved into the line, drawing Maxine with him. At the door, he lowered her to the first step, tossed out the luggage and leaped down beside her. When they reached solid ground again, dry heat hit him a hammer blow.

Even in growing darkness, he could easily see that they’d landed in the middle of nowhere. Off to his right, a few lights glowed in the distance, evidence of civilization. Other than that, all he could make out was a small concrete block building at the edge of the field and an overabundance of cactus and rocks.

The pilot had it right; this was insane. The hijacked plane, on the small size by commercial standards, dwarfed the two private planes parked nearby at the edge of what appeared to be a vast network of crumbling pavement.

Maxine’s whole body sagged. “I never thought we’d get off that airplane alive.”

He slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Hey, don’t cave now. You were great. Hell, we were great.”

She managed a shaky smile. “We weren’t bad at that. Do you suppose—”

“That way, señor.” A uniformed Mexican official bustled up, indicating that they should join the flow of passengers toward a metal shack on the edge of the field. “My colleagues wait to interview all the passengers. We must determine the facts surrounding this crime.”

Rand and Maxine exchanged dubious glances. “We don’t know a thing, but we’re happy to cooperate,” he assured the officer. Once out of earshot, he had a different message for her.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, “I don’t want to get any more mixed up in this than I have to. I’m going to ask that insurance guy if he’ll take the responsibility for bringing down the bad guys.”

“You’ll never get away with it.”

“I will if you’ll go along with me. Nobody really saw what happened except you, me and that salesman. Jessica and her grandmother were heading the other direction, if you recall, and those up front were cowering, not watching.”

“Yes, but—”

“Maxine, please do this.”

“Why? You did a brave thing. You should get credit for it.”

“It wasn’t brave—it was an automatic reflex. I don’t want credit.”

“Or publicity, apparently.”

“That, too.” She was shrewd, that one. “Will you stick with me on this?”

She drew in a deep breath. “Okay,” she relented. “If you can get that guy from Dubuque to lie through his teeth, I suppose it’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks. He’s right over there, so how about you watch the luggage while I talk to him.” The salesman wasn’t going to be a problem, though. He already half believed he’d pulled off the rescue all by himself.

WHEN RAND TOLD the authorities, innocent locals because the big-city boys hadn’t yet arrived on the scene, that the villains were brought down by the heroic actions of the insurance salesman from Dubuque, nobody questioned this version of events. Maxine, however, gave him a look that he found almost…calculating.

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, Maxine and Rand followed their luggage onto the last of three aged buses for the short ride into the village of Platillo Volante. Exhausted and unhappy, the Alar passengers settled into their seats with barely a murmur.

When the pilot rose at the front of the bus, nobody seemed to care much. Clinging to a pole while the bus careered down the rocky road, he called for attention.

Someone at the back of the bus roused enough to shout a question. “What time will we be taking off tomorrow? I gotta get home to Texas.”

“Uh, that’s what I have to talk to you about.”

Dead silence greeted this announcement. In the third seat from the front, Rand and Maxine exchanged startled glances.

The pilot continued. “I regret to inform you that the plane was damaged in landing. It looks like…it looks like we’ll have to bus you folks out of here.”

“Bus us out of here!”

“To the nearest decent airport,” the pilot elaborated. “Alar Airlines will send in a crew to fix the plane, but it would be too dangerous to have passengers on board when we take her up, even if you wanted to wait around.”

“Where’s the nearest decent airport, then?”

The pilot squirmed. “They tell me that Platillo Volante is only a few hours from Tijuana. Alar Airlines will send nice, air-conditioned buses to transport us there just as soon as arrangements can be made. In the meantime, you’ll be staying at the best hotel in town.”

“To hell with this,” Rand muttered to Maxine. “I don’t have time to sit around in Podunk, Mexico.”

“What makes you think you have a choice?” she retorted. “Think of it as a nice Mexican vacation.”

She had a point, but he was still fuming over the glitch in his plans when the bus pulled up in front of the “best hotel in all of Platillo Volante.” A collective groan arose from the captive guests. If the crumbling exterior of the once-grand building was any indication, they were in for a rough night.

Weary travelers dragged off the bus and stood around in dejected bunches, waiting for the driver to unload their luggage.

And in Rand’s case, waiting some more. By the time all the others had picked up their bags and wandered into the hotel, he realized he had a little problem. When the driver would have gotten back on the bus, Rand stopped him.

“Wait a minute. My briefcase is missing.”

All this got him was a blank look and a “¿Señor?”

“I said—”

“Let me try,” Maxine suggested, launching into fluent Spanish.

The man’s response was not encouraging. He shrugged, spread his arms wide, said a few words, climbed into the bus and drove away.

“He says—”

“Yeah, I figured it out. My briefcase is missing.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Dammit!”

She looked genuinely distressed. “I hope there wasn’t anything valuable inside.”

“Just my life,” he grumbled.

An exaggeration, but he was in no mood to worry about that. In addition to a few personal letters, a magazine or two, an address book and a bottle of water, all he could remember sticking in that briefcase was a safe-deposit key to a box in a bank in Boston—a nearly empty box, unfortunately. Nobody in Mexico was likely to figure that out.

“You can always contact the police,” she interrupted his thoughts.

“Think so?” He glowered at her. “You may not have noticed, but I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Really? Even a little?” She appeared dubious. “I mean, you grew up in Texas, after all.”

“What makes you think I grew up in Texas?” He looked around and realized everyone else had gone inside. “I spent most of my time at boarding schools or in Boston with my mother’s side of the family.” He lifted his remaining piece of luggage. “Summers I spent in Texas, but I only picked up enough Spanish to order desayuno, comida and antojitos—breakfast, lunch and something to go with the beer.” He headed for the hotel door.

She hurried after him. “I still think—”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I’ve got enough trouble without that.” He strode through the hotel entrance. “The briefcase is spilled milk. There’s no need crying about it.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Stepping up to an ornately carved desk, he spoke to the grinning clerk. “Wipe that smirk off your face or I’ll do it for you. The young lady and I would each like a single with bath. Tell ’im, Maxine.”

The clerk’s dark eyes flashed and the smile vanished. “Tell the gringo I caught that one,” he replied in accents that could only be learned on the mean streets of Los Angeles. “You say you’d like two singles with bath, huh? Well, I’d like a trip to Europe, which is just about as likely.” The clerk, José, according to his name tag, reached under the counter, pulled out an ornate key and slapped it down in front of Rand. “Room one.”

Embarrassed but too tired and annoyed to apologize, Rand plunged ahead. “Room one—that sounds good. Best in the house, right?” He handed the key to Maxine. “That’ll do for the lady. Now, how about me?”

“I told you, room number one. That’s all we got left. It’s downstairs next to an air conditioner. We don’t usually rent it, but since you ask so damn nice—” José’s mouth curled up. He was really enjoying this.

Rand stared at the key, then at the clerk. “If I apologize and ask real nice, do you think you could find one more room?”

The man’s slowly shaking head ended that line of questioning. “This is all we got. Take it or leave it.”

Rand glanced at Maxine. “Do we take it?”

“Have we got a choice?”

“Apparently not.” His stomach rumbled. “Any chance we can get something to eat?” he asked José.

The clerk seemed to relent a bit. “I guess I could send something to your room. Nothing fancy, though. A couple of burritos, maybe a quesadilla.”

“That sounds great.” Rand’s mouth watered at the mere mention of food. He hadn’t had anything since breakfast, if you didn’t count a couple of cheese cubes and a package of pretzels. He looked around. “There wouldn’t be anybody handy to show us the way?” José’s expression made him add, “No, I suppose not.”

“It’s just me,” the clerk said with a shrug. “I can take you to the room or bring food, your choice.”

It really wasn’t a choice at all.

RAND’S CLOSET in Boston was bigger than this room. His sister’s childhood playhouse behind the Rocking T ranch house was bigger than this room. The desk clerk’s ego was bigger than this room.

Maxine took the high road. “At least it looks reasonably clean,” she said primly, dropping her suitcase at the foot of the bed.

“Reasonably.” Rand sat down cautiously on the double bed. Other than that, the only furniture in the tiny room was a small chest of drawers and a night table with lamp.

“If you hadn’t been such a jerk, this wouldn’t have happened,” she said, abandoning the high road.

“That’s harsh.” He gave her a reproving glance.

“Reality’s harsh,” she countered. “And the reality is, I’m stuck in this cubbyhole with a complete stranger. I don’t deserve this.”

“If it’s any comfort, neither do I.”

“No comfort at all.” She opened the top drawer of the bureau and looked in curiously. “How are you going to explain this to your girlfriend?”

“What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

“You do, don’t you?”

“I sure as hell don’t.” But he wished he did, because then he wouldn’t have to figure out how to get around his great-grandpa’s will. He could just get married and be done with it. “How about you?” he added.

“How about me what?”

“Got a boyfriend?” As unlikely as that seemed.

Her eyes flashed behind the unattractive glasses. “As a matter of fact—”

A knock on the door interrupted. He pulled a bill from his pocket and handed it to her since she was nearer the door than he and the room wasn’t big enough to get past without major maneuvering. She glanced at the bill and her eyes widened; then she passed it on before accepting a small metal tray from unseen hands.

Sitting on the foot of the bed, she put down the tray and lifted the light cloth covering. “On top of everything else, you’re an overtipper.”

“Hell,” he said, “I can afford it.” Or could once, but that was none of her damn business.

The heady aromas of spicy Mexican food floated up to him, and his mouth watered again in anticipation. “I’m starved.” He reached for a burrito.

“Me, too.” She chose a wedge of quesadilla oozing cheese. They ate in silence for a few moments, then opened the two bottles of water and drank.

Eventually she said out of the clear blue, “I wonder what will become of the hijackers.”

“I hope whoever locks them up throws away the key.” He selected another burrito. He could hardly believe she’d been thinking about those two jerks. “They sure played hell with my life,” he went on. “I should be in Hells Bells, Texas, right about now, trying to—” He shut up, musing that he was probably better off stranded here than trying to fast-talk his father.

“Trying to what?”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re nosy?”

“Yes.” She gave him that assessing look again. “Does it have anything to do with you giving all the credit for stopping those hijackers to that guy from Dubuque?”

“What if it does? I just don’t want my name in the newspapers. What’s so strange about that?” One thing would lead to another. If anything got printed about his recent business reverses, he wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing his judges that he was a changed man. “Besides,” he added, “I didn’t do all that much.”

“A guy saves an entire plane full of people and dodges credit for it. You don’t consider that a bit peculiar?”

“No stranger than setting out for San Antonio and ending up lost in Baja California,” he improvised. “Besides, my mother would probably have a heart attack if she heard about this. I want to keep her in a good mood and this wouldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to keep your mother in a good mood?”

“Because…” Fed up with her questions, he glared—and gave in. “Look, I’m on my way to Texas to claim an inheritance. I need my mom’s cooperation.”

“That sounds simple enough.” She brushed crumbs from her skirt.

“You’d think so.” Shut up, Rand. “Unfortunately there’s nothing simple about it. I don’t meet the conditions of the will because, for starters, I’m not married.” Now, why had he said that? Maybe because he was sick and tired of keeping his problems to himself.

She was incredulous. “You’ve got to be married to get whatever this is?”

“It was my great-grandpa’s bright idea. He left me his ranch and everything on it, which adds up to a small fortune. But to get it, I have to not only be married but be happily married before I turn thirty.”

“Which is—?”

“September 30…less than two weeks.”

“Gee, you are in trouble.” She took a swig from her water bottle. “Look at the bright side. The key word is married, because once you’ve done that, who’s to judge what happily means?”

“That’s easy—my parents and two sets of aunts and uncles. The final say is theirs. But since I’m not married, happily or otherwise, it’s a moot point.”

“What is it you’re trying to get out of them, exactly?”

“I want to break my great-grandpa’s will. The only way I can do that is with their help.”

“And your chances of pulling that off are…?”

“Only slightly less than slim and none.” He was desperate enough to give it a try, however. Cocking his head, he considered. Now that he’d had a little food, he felt worlds better. But he was talking way too much, so he changed the subject. “How about you? How important is that job in San Antonio?”

“You mean the one with the interview set for tomorrow morning at ten—make that this morning at ten?” She sighed a bit dramatically. “Not that important, I suppose, since it’s out the window now.”

“Surely they’ll reschedule when they learn what happened.”

“I doubt it. I only got the interview as a favor to my sister, who used to date—oh, never mind.” She shook her head wearily. “My life’s a mess, so what difference will it make if this job doesn’t pan out?”

He felt a pang of sympathy. “You’re young. You have skills. You can find something. Hell, I’ll help you.”

“You? But you said you don’t even have a job yourself. You’re just some rich guy who—”

“Hold on there!” Incensed, he glared at her. “I’m not just some rich guy. I have…business interests.” Yeah, failed business interests. But the situation might improve if he could get his hands on Bill Overton for five minutes. “I also have a certain amount of influence here and there—and even if I didn’t, I could get you a job. How hard can it be?”

“Have you ever done it? Gotten anybody a job, I mean.”

He had very little experience with gainful employment.

“Your hesitation speaks volumes,” she said. “What do your business interests include?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Damn, that sounded hostile.

“I see. You’re clamming up on me again.”

“Not really. I’m a dull boy.”

“Sure you are.” She gave him a disgusted glance and rose, still cold. “Thanks so much for your offer of help, but I think I’ll find my own job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hunt down the bathroom.”

“Okay.” He also rose, disconcerted by her attitude. “Don’t wake me when you come back in.”

She looked him in the eye, which was easy enough at her height, although he himself was a good six-foot-plus. “That brings up something else. I’m here because I have no choice—here sharing this room with you, I mean.”

“I know that,” he said, annoyed.

“I’ll stay on my side of the bed and you stay on yours. If you so much as touch me, I’ll…I’ll make you regret it.”

He rolled his eyes, tempted to say that if he touched her it would only be because he was asleep or delirious. “I have no intention of touching you.”

She didn’t appear to believe him, despite the nod. “I’m going to sleep fully clothed and I suggest you do the same.”

“Dressed? I can’t sleep in my clothes.”

“Under the circumstances, I insist. Your other option is to bed down in the lobby.”

He sighed. “Okay, Maxine. We’ll do it your way…this time”

But never again. If there was one thing she didn’t need, it was protection against Rand Taggart.

PLATILLO VOLANTE LOOKED even drearier by the light of day. Dirt roads and adobe buildings were the norm, with a few dilapidated hotels and more gracious dwellings perched on the surrounding hills. But the air was sweet and clear. Rand drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders for the inevitable crises to come and walked back inside to join Maxine in the crowded dining room for breakfast.

José, the expatriate Los Angeleno, appeared with menus.

Maxine spoke to him in Spanish.

As usual, José answered in English. “I recommend the huevos rancheros.”

“Works for me.” Rand closed his menu.

Maxine nodded. “Me, too.”

“Can I ask a question?”

They both looked at Rand as if he were a nuisance.

“What does Platillo Volante mean?” he asked.

José grinned. “It means flying saucer. They say one visited here in the late forties. Everybody thought it would come back, which is why they changed the town’s name and built that campo de aviación—the flying field that saved your lives. Several fancy hotels went up—” He gestured to the spacious if shabby room. “Rich American tourists came in droves for a while, but when no more flying saucers dropped by, they got mad and went home. By the mid-fifties, the boom was all over.” He shook his head in wonder. “Flying saucers—do you believe it? Some people will fall for anything.”

Rand didn’t need anybody telling him that.

THE TWO-LANE PAVED ROAD wound its way through some of the most beautiful country in Mexico or anywhere else. On the left lay the ocean, miles and miles of unspoiled beaches; on the right a range of low mountains shimmered green in the distance.

Rand and Maxine sat near the front of the rattle-trap bus, sweltering in noonday heat. Rand’s thoughts were not pleasant.

The hijacking had turned out all right, but unfortunately the Mexican detour had given him time he didn’t need, or want, to brood, to question his plan—and to arrive at the unwelcome conclusion that he was on a fool’s errand.

He would never gain his family’s support in challenging Thom T.’s will. Hell, he’d have a better shot at that inheritance if he hired some bimbo to play his wife and—

An explosion rocked the bus. The driver dragged hard on the wheel, bumping to a stop on the shoulder. Rand let out the breath he’d been holding. That had been a close one.

Maxine stared at him, eyes wide and a hand over her heart. “What happened?”

“Flat tire, I think.”

“Do you suppose he has a spare?”

“Who the hell knows?”

There was indeed a spare tire, but it was even balder than the one with the big old nail sticking out of it. While the driver grunted and cussed and toiled, passengers spilled out of the stifling bus and spread out in a vain attempt to find anything cool or shady. Maxine and a few others wandered across the narrow road to stand on the bluff overlooking the ocean.

Finishing the job, the driver wiped sweat from his forehead and lowered the jack. As if sensing imminent departure, Maxine turned from the sea.

Rand caught his breath. For just an instant she stood there framed against a pristine blue sky. Tendrils of hair blew around her face and the dowdy dress molded a figure he’d never imagined. Just for that moment, she looked…fantastic.

But then she walked toward him and it was the same old Maxine who asked, “Are we ready to go?”

He blinked, figuring he was in worse shape than he’d realized if he saw something that couldn’t possibly be there. “Yeah. Get in.”

When everyone was aboard, the driver ground the gearshift into first and once more they were under way.

Maxine said suddenly, “What if the bus driver keeled over with a heart attack or decided he’d had enough of this nonsense? Do you know how to drive a standard transmission?”

“Maxine, don’t we have enough to worry about without that?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes, I know how to drive a standard transmission. My great-grandpa taught me out in the pasture in the middle of a bunch of longhorns.”

“That’s a relief. The way things are going…” She relaxed back against the tattered seat cover. “Is that the same great-grandpa with the kooky will?”

“The very same.”

“He must have been a real character,” she said. “If you want that inheritance so much, I’m surprised you don’t just get married.”

“You think that’s so easy?” he shot back.

She shrugged. “Piece of cake. I’ll bet you’ve got girls lusting after you from coast to coast.”

“Aren’t you funny.” He gave her a disapproving glance.

“I notice you don’t deny it.”

“Would it do any good?”

“Probably not.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “Maybe there’s one special girlfriend and you’d marry her, but she’s…I don’t know, unavailable or something.”

“Why wouldn’t she be available?”

“Lots of reasons. She could be out of the country. Or…in jail?”

Rand laughed incredulously. “You’ve got the damnedest imagination of any woman I’ve ever met. Do I look like the kind of guy who’d hang with some babe who’d get thrown into jail? I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said stiffly. “If you don’t really care that much about your inheritance, I don’t suppose—”

“I do care. I care a helluva lot. But I can’t go waltzing in with some bimbo and expect my family to fall into line.” He grimaced.

“I don’t care for the word bimbo,” she said. “Just what does it cover?”

“You want a definition? It means…Okay, how about this. A bimbo is a woman who goes to bed with a guy on the first date.”

“You mean like me?”

He was so shocked he nearly choked. “You didn’t—” But she had. She’d gone to bed with him and lain next to him all night, even though they were both fully clothed and wrapped in individual blanket cocoons.

Embarrassed, he tried to turn aside her wrath. “Lighten up, Maxine. Don’t take it personal.” Uncomfortably aware that he’d blasted her pretty good without meaning to, he added, “You know what you are.”

“Yes, but you don’t.” She sounded completely exasperated. “Inside, I could be…Madonna.” She glared at him.

“Maybe so, but outside, where the rest of the world can see it, you’re…you’re…”

“I’m what, Rand Taggart?”

“You’re…” Inspiration hit him right between the eyes. “You’re not a bimbo. In fact, you’re just the kind of woman I need to get my family to approve my inheritance.”

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