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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.”
