Texas Millionaire Read online

  One of these days he was going to get inside her head and discover who was hiding behind that Little Miss Muffet mask.

  “Hold on,” he said when she started to climb out. He went around and opened the car door, watched her knees swing around, her small, sandal-shod feet hit the ground, and then he walked her to the door of Manie’s house, took her key and unlocked it.

  “Thank you for—”

  “I’ll look around to be sure everything’s all right,” he told her, just as if they lived in a high crime area instead of a town where half the citizens didn’t even bother to lock their doors.

  He made a cursory walk-though while she waited in the front hall, then she thanked him again and held out her hand. Like a blooming idiot, he shook it, thinking about the way Pansy had launched herself at him a few nights ago and kissed the living daylights out of him. He was half tempted to—

  No, he wasn’t.

  “My glasses?”

  “What glasses? Oh, yeah—these.” Smooth, man, real smooth.

  Hank wasn’t used to feeling like a jerk. The fact that the woman who was doing it to him was none other than little Miss What-you-see-is-what-you-get Riley didn’t help much. Hank liked women as much as the next man. Liked to think he understood them, or at least as well as any man could ever understand any woman. Most of the ones he knew socially were as predictable as the weather around these parts. Hot, dry and windy.

  Callie was cool and calm. She could go for hours without saying a word and then come out with the damnedest things. He thought about that cliché about still waters and figured he’d better leave before he did anything he’d regret. Muttering about an early night, he fled.

  Up early the next morning after another restless night, Hank forced himself to concentrate on the latest batch of P&E statements. At nine, on his third cup of black coffee, he swung around to face the window, hoisted his boots to the windowsill and placed a call to his broker concerning a small, innovative software company that was about to go public.

  “Oscar, you know that outfit we talked about last week? I want it. See what you can do about it and get back to me.” He hung up, wondering what old Tex would have thought of the changes that had taken place over the course of three generations. With the feds trying to hog-tie the players with regulations, the silicon trade these days reminded him of the wildcat days here in Royal, back when Tex Langley had brought in his first handful of wells.

  Ten past nine. He’d scheduled a meeting in San Diego for later in the day. With a two-day backlog of work to plow through first, he couldn’t seem to concentrate. Making a deliberate effort, he focused on the Pacific Rim investment group he’d be meeting in a matter of hours, only to drift off into another nonproductive daydream.

  “Crap,” he muttered. He poured himself another cup of coffee, downed it and rubbed his gut, then opened another folder and stared out the window, the refrain from an old blues number tugging at his memory.

  New Orleans. A place on Bourbon Street—a few guys from Special Ops blowing off steam. Slap-bass player with a patch over one eye. Blues singer with a beat-up guitar and a voice like a cement mixer belting out a song about a woman named Caledonia.

  “Cal’donia, Cal’donia…” There was something about her hard head or her big feet, he couldn’t remember which. Grinning, he was grabbing a fistful of air, growling a heartfelt, “Yeah!” when the door opened and Callie said, “Did you call me? I was on the phone and I thought I heard.”

  The chair swiveled around. Papers slid from the folder on his lap, and he started to chuckle. Being caught acting the fool wasn’t something that happened to him often, probably not often enough. “Tell me something, Callie, did you ever find yourself so far up a twisted creek you couldn’t find your way back again?”

  Gravely she thought it over, and then she asked, “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “I’m not sure.” His thoughtful gaze took in the way her tan skirt accentuated a narrow waist and small, nicely rounded hips. For a man who’d always appreciated subtlety, he’d come dangerously close to overlooking her.

  Now he just wished to hell he could.

  “Well, if you really want to know, when I get all muddled up about something, I usually sleep on it. I think my subconscious mind must see a lot of things my conscious mind misses, because as often as not when I wake up, the answers are all laid out on my pillow, plain as day. Does that help?”

  She looked so worried he wanted to gather her up in his arms and comfort her. “Thanks, it helps a whole lot.” So now he’d go to bed thinking about Callie lying there in her maidenly bed, waiting diligently for her subconscious to come up with the orders of the day.

  Oh, yeah. Big help.

  “Anytime, sir.”

  “Anytime, what?” His voice was dangerously soft.

  One hand on the door, she grinned over her shoulder. “Hank. Oh, and Hank, do you mind if I leave for lunch a few minutes early? I thought I’d stop by the library and pick up a mystery. All Aunt Manie has is gardening books, and there’s nothing much on TV this week.”

  “Sure, take as long as you need.”

  After she left, he downed three aspirin, chased them with a pint of milk, then settled down at his desk again. He still had the day’s mail to go though before he left town. She’d sorted it into neat stacks, the way Manie had showed her. Most of the stuff was dealt with at headquarters, his input done electronically. Even so, he got about fifteen pounds a day of periodicals, solicitations, legitimate business, personal mail and unpersonal mail that was marked personal to get his attention.

  There was a birthday card from his insurance agent, a reminder, as if he needed it, that no man, no matter how lofty his position, controlled every aspect of his own life. Hell, he couldn’t even control his own love life. With two of the most beautiful, eligible women in the world on his short list, his attention kept straying over to the other side of the pasture.

  She barely even had breasts, for cripes sake. Never mind that Bianca’s cleavage was mostly silicon valley. Never mind that Pansy thought kids were, in her own words, icky. Both women were the right age, moved comfortably in the right circles and were experienced enough to know what marriage was all about.

  Callie didn’t know scat He wouldn’t be surprised if she crawled into her virginal bed wearing white cotton drawers under a flannel nightgown. So how come all he had to do was look at that fresh, dewy face, those big, guileless eyes to start thinking about rumpled sheets, soft, shared laughter, and the heady scent of sex?

  Was it all part of some devious game she was playing? Trying to lure him into dropping his guard so she could spring her trap? Manie had probably told her all about him. Manie thought he’d hung the moon, not that she cut him much slack when she thought he was getting too big for his britches.

  What if Callie had seen her chance to land herself a trophy husband and jumped at it? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deal with that sort of thing. Groupies were a fact of life for men in his position. He’d always gently but firmly declined their offers, but this time it might not be so easy.

  Callie was still out to lunch when Greg stopped by. Gregory Hunt was one of a very few men who had access to Hank’s inner sanctum.

  “Been hitting the French Roast again, huh?”

  “You’re worse than Manie. Can’t a guy have a few cups of coffee without being hauled up before the D.A.?”

  “Better than being hauled up before the M.D. The stuff eats a hole in your gut, man. Take the cure.”

  “Laying off coffee’s not going to ease the pain in this case.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Greg shrugged. “Your call. Hey, I saw your new secretary on her way into the library. Interesting type.”

  “Not really. She’s Manie’s great-niece, that’s all.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you implying something?”

  “What’s to imply?”

&n
bsp; Hank scowled. As an experienced lawyer, Greg Hunt was an expert when it came to sizing up potential witnesses and jurors. He had a sharp eye for the kind of detail most men missed. He was stalling now, beating around the bush, but two could play that game. “So tell me, what do you make of her?”

  Greg steepled his fingers. “Who, Little Bo Peep?”

  Hank smothered a grin. He’d thought of her as Little Miss Muffet, but then, what the devil did either of them know about nursery rhymes?

  “She’s younger than most of the ones you’re interested in.”

  “What makes you think I’m interested?”

  “You asked me. I’m telling you. As for the rest, I’d say she’s Bible Belt, a lot smarter than she looks, pretty inexperienced sexually—possibly even a virgin. In other words, look but don’t touch, man. She’s way out of your league.”

  “Besides, Manie would kill me.”

  “You got it.”

  Greg’s face turned more serious. “Blake’s in.” Blake was Greg’s younger brother, a wealthy young playboy who also happened to excel at undercover work for the government. “He’s been out of the country for the past few months, but I managed to get through to him last night”

  “These kids you mentioned. How old are they?”

  “The twins? Let’s see, Anna’s boy is four, the twins are only a few months old. The kids make it doubly complicated, but we can’t leave them behind. Anna promised her late sister. She’s not the kind of woman to go back on her word.”

  “You seem to know her pretty damned well considering it’s been four years, and you were together only a few months.”

  Shutters came down over Greg’s clear blue eyes. Hank took the hint and backed off. “I’ll have Pete stand by with the Avenger.”

  “We’ll need to wait until Blake gets into town.”

  “Right. Meanwhile, I’ll have a special safe line installed here at the clubhouse and line up a few encrypted handsets.”

  “I owe you, man.” Indicating that the discussion was ended, Greg mentioned an old Marine Corps buddy he’d seen on the news recently, which brought on a few more stories of their respective military days.

  Both men came from old money, well tended. Both men had joined the military largely as a gesture of rebellion. The fires had since burned low, but Hank wanted to believe the coals were still there, well banked and ready to flare up again if the occasion demanded.

  “Did it ever occur to you that what you’re fighting is part of the aging-boomer syndrome?” Greg asked. “That dirt bike of yours—man, that’s high school stuff. And this grizzly bear mood you’ve been in lately.”

  “You trying to tell me you never race your engines, rev ‘em up to full thrust just to hear the roar of power, to prove you’ve still got what it takes?” Hank asked with a quizzical look.

  “Not out in public, the way you do.” He chuckled. “Ever consider the fact that you might be a throwback to the early wildcatting days? I hear old Tex was hell on wheels in his day.”

  “Yeah, I’ve considered it.”

  He also considered the fact that Greg had jumped on this rescue mission without a second thought and that every last one of them had piled on with him.

  Maybe they weren’t as far over the hill as he’d been thinking. “I’m flying up to San Diego this afternoon. Join me?”

  “I’m expecting another call from Blake.” The younger man rose to go. “How’s the Avenger doing for you, anyway?” Greg’s family owned the company that designed and built the luxury jet.

  “All it lacks is a hot tub.”

  “I’ll pass it on.”

  “Seriously, I’ll have Pete on standby as soon as you give the word.”

  Greg left then, and Hank shoved aside the file folder, turned to his computer and typed in a command. With narrowed eyes he scanned the rows of numbers, called up two more files and then gave it up. Not quite forty damn years old, and already his powers of concentration had started to atrophy.

  Callie. Was it the challenge that turned him on, the lure of the forbidden? The fact that she was strictly off limits?

  Or the fact that she was obviously not impressed by either his Swiss account or his manly charms?

  Callie found the Royal Public Library with no trouble at all. It was in the government center, smack in the middle of town, no more than a block and a half from the club. She walked in on story-time. One small adult surrounded by a swarm of children under the age of six. She’d been hoping to find the assistant librarian alone. Even though she’d soon be heading back to Carolina, it would be nice to have a friend here, and Susan had struck her at the ball as someone she would like to get to know.

  Their eyes met now over two rows of small bodies in small chairs, and Callie detected a silent plea.

  “Children,” said the slender, attractive redhead, “We’ll have a time-out now, and when we come back, there’ll be lemonade and cookies for everyone who remembers how we behave in a library.”

  They were no wilder than the average group of that age after being told to be quiet. Callie watched, amused, as they scattered like a covey of quail, whispering, giggling and fighting over whose turn it was to pass around the cookies.

  “How do you manage alone?” she asked.

  “Usually I don’t. The head librarian’s still out, my volunteer didn’t show up and I woke up with a sinus headache.”

  “In case you didn’t hear me over the noise of the ball, I’m Callie Riley. You might know my aunt, Romania Riley? Shall I herd a few to the bathroom for you? Believe me, I know the drill.”

  “That’s right, you used to work for a doctor, didn’t you? Would you mind? We go in shifts, three at a time. If they take too long, remind them of the cookies.”

  By the time the parents began to show up to collect their offspring, Callie felt as if she’d known Susan Wilkins for years. Once the last child left, she lent a hand to setting the place to rights, shelving books, brushing up crumbs and wiping up spills.

  “How does it feel to know you’re the envy of half the women in Royal?” Susan asked once the children’s corner was in order again.

  “Who, me? You mean they all want to be secretaries?”

  “They all want to be Mrs. H. H. Langley, III. Manie’s been guarding the gates for years, afraid her precious Hank will get his heart cracked.”

  “You think that’s likely?” Callie picked up a rumpled hair ribbon, laid it on the desk, her eyes lingering on the return address of an unopened envelope there. Buddy’s Sperm Bank Clinic?

  That had to be a joke.

  Susan was saying, “It’s hard to tell about Mr. Langely. He’s always been one of those larger-than-life men nobody really knows much about. You hear rumors, though. Did you know he has this great big old motorcycle that he races all over the countryside? Does that sound like the kind of thing you’d expect a man in his position to do?”

  “He’s the only man in his position I’ve ever known, so I’m no authority.”

  Buddy’s Sperm Bank Clinic?

  “Well, take it from me, there are a lot of rich men around these parts, but I don’t know of another one who puts on a pair of ragged, faded blue jeans, old boots and a black T-shirt that fits him like a coat of paint and goes roaring off across country like a member of that heck’s angels gang or something.”

  Callie’s imagination instantly shifted into overdrive. Lordy, the man was enough to contend with in those formfitting jeans and body-hugging Western shirts. Torn jeans?

  The mind boggled.

  She selected three mysteries, placed them on the desk as far away from the intriguing envelope as she could and dug out her driver’s license. “Do you think I could get some kind of a temporary card?”

  “Put that thing away, you don’t need any card. We all know Miss Manie, and besides, if you forget to turn in your books before you go back to North Carolina, your boss will take care of it. He’s already endowed half the town. A few books won’t break him.”

  Fift
y miles to the north, Manie and Marion Jones watched the Astros play Atlanta while they sipped their drinks. Gin and tonic for Marion. Iced blackberry wine for Manie. Marion, naturally, was an Astros fan, while Manie, for obscure reasons of her own, rooted for the Braves.

  Marion dipped manicured fingers into the bowl of popcorn on the antique Italian table between their two chairs. “Have you told her yet?”

  “I’m waiting for the right—oh, shoot! Did you see that pitch? It was a mile off the plate! Get with it, Maddux!”

  “You’re not doing her any favors, letting her go on hoping this way.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” said Manie, an enigmatic smile carving deep creases in her weathered cheeks.

  The Braves won, 3 to 0. Marion shoved a five-dollar bill across the table. Manie took it and tucked it in the pocket of her mulberry silk robe. “I told you so,” she said smugly.

  “One of these days, lady…”

  “Humph.”

  Hank was on the phone when Callie got back, carrying her lunch in a paper bag. His door was open, his feet propped on the broad windowsill. It was his thinking position, according to Aunt Manie. When he had a problem, he put his feet up and stared out the window.

  “Callie, come in here a minute, will you?”

  She swallowed a French fry, shoved the grease-stained sack behind the fax machine, wiped her fingers and adjusted her dutiful smile. “Yes, sir?”

  “I thought we’d dealt with that.”

  “Dealt with what?””

  “That ‘sir’ business.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him that she needed every advantage she could beg, borrow or steal to keep him in his place. Formality wasn’t much of a defense, but it was all she had.

  “Discipline makes for efficiency, sir,” she told him solemnly. Henry Harrison Langley, III on a motorcycle? Wearing tight, faded jeans and a skintight T-shirt?

  “If I want efficiency, I’ll have someone sent down from Midland. Now cut the crap and look at these paint samples. I’m thinking of having Manie’s house repainted while she’s gone, and I want to put in the order before I leave for San Diego. What do you think, cool white? Antique white? Caribbean white? Damned if I can see any difference.”