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The Last Man In Texas
Jan Freed
The Malloy Men: Texas Men, Texas WaysCameron Malloy is handsome, successful and singleBut Elizabeth wouldn't have him if he were the last bachelor in Texas. It doesn't matter that she's loved her boss for years–he takes her for granted. If she's ever going to have a family, now's the time to move on.Of course, that doesn't stop Elizabeth from asking Cameron to help her find Mr. Right. Who better to tell her exactly what men are looking for than a serial monogamist like Cameron? And if, along the way, he starts to realize he'd like to apply for the position, there's nothing wrong with that.In fact, it just might have been Elizabeth's plan from the start…
“My letter of resignation is printing now.”
“Lizzy, it might take you a year to land a comparable position. Are you prepared to give up everything?” Cameron asked.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Then I hope you’ve got cable. That’s a lot of time to spend alone.”
Her fussy movements stilled. “What makes you think I’ll be alone?”
“No offense, honey, but your social life isn’t exactly active. By choice, I’m sure,” he added hastily and much too late.
Ten years she’d waited for him to call her honey, to see his eyes warm with tenderness. But not out of pity.
Deep in that place where insecurity and pride waged war in a woman’s soul, the latter raised a mighty sword and sounded a Valkyrie battle cry.
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Please don’t worry about me. I won’t be alone. Along with finding a new job, I’ll be starting a second career. The most exciting and challenging one any woman can have.”
“And in plain English that would mean?”
That I’m through settling for what I can get. “It means I’m getting married, Cameron. If you really want what’s best for me, you’ll wish me well.”
Dear Reader,
I’ve been an executive in a large financial institution, a co-owner of an advertising agency and a novelist. Each career has provided moments of profound satisfaction, tremendous frustration and everything in between. Sound familiar?
Of course it does. I’ve described the lives of Superromance readers.
Whether you work outside the home or in, own a huge corporation or a mom-and-pop business, you’re required to squeeze too many responsibilities into too little time for too little money and too little appreciation. That’s not a whine. That’s human nature. And life in the world today.
At times, professional goals clash with personal ones, and difficult choices must be made. I hope each and every hardworking one of you enjoys Cameron and Elizabeth’s romance and personal journey. As they learn to redefine “success,” perhaps you’ll be reminded of a truth easily forgotten during hectic stressful days. It comes from a poster hanging in my office, and I share the words with you gladly:
“Happiness is not based on possessions, power or prestige, but on relationships with people we love and respect.”
Warmly,
Jan Freed
Jan is a recipient of RT’s Reviewer’s Choice Award, and a multiple RITA Award nominee. She loves to hear from readers, and invites you to write her at: 1860 FM 359, PMB 206; Richmond, TX, 77469. Or visit her Web site at: www.superauthors.com.
The Last Man in Texas
Jan Freed
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Lesa and Steve Moller,
orange-blooded Austinites, master raconteurs
and my favorite twin sister and brother-in-law.
Hook ’em Horns!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ue1a00b97-007d-54c4-b51c-daca4f41a709)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua66cee23-f6aa-5b5b-8b99-b798d234e044)
CHAPTER THREE (#u31a8b7a6-6f91-5153-bf43-b2cabc65831c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u1e978490-4ad2-53d3-928d-63d47f1e25ea)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
WELL, HELL. He looked more like one of America’s Most Wanted Criminals than one of Austin’s Ten Most Eligible Bachelors.
Cameron Malloy snapped open the newspaper wider—and really wished he hadn’t.
Sharp movements, bad! Slow movements, tolerable. Hangover 101 basics a worldly thirty-two-year-old bachelor shouldn’t forget.
As pain reverberated inside his skull, he cursed last night’s wedding reception. And champagne. The fact that he’d even touched the fizzing stuff, Queen-Mother-of-morning-after headaches, proved he wasn’t as unaffected by months of stress as he pretended. Unclenching his molars, he relaxed by degrees.
Okay. The pain was receding. He just might live, after all. Forcing his attention back to the double-page feature article, he concentrated blearily on the other nine photographs. Informal poses all, taken of each interviewed subject “on the job.” Not a threatening face among them. At least, not in the escaped convict mug shot sense. He supposed one could argue subtle nuances of definition and make a case against bachelor number two.
The poor schmuck had been caught with his eyes three-quarters closed, transforming his slight smile into a sleazy leer. Less than reassuring in any physician. Downright creepy in a pediatrician.
And bachelor number eight wasn’t much better. Behind that startled scarecrow expression, there had to be a brain. The guy was top dog at S-mart Computers, the cutting-edge leader in built-to-order computer hardware manufacturing. Still…he looked like he’d stayed a leee-tle too long in the poppy fields on his way to Oz. Cameron’s spirits lifted.
He swiveled toward his desk and reached carefully for his coffee. Maybe he’d overreacted. He did that a lot, according to Lizzy. Taking a sip, he re-studied his own photograph through a mist of rising steam.
His wince had nothing to do with the scalding liquid, and everything to do with his hot-tempered image on the page.
The lens had captured him leaning over Malloy Marketing’s conference room table, his braced arms straddling an accordion stack of client billing statements, his murderous expression yelling loud and clear “Get out before I break that camera and your nose!”
Damn. Even the lech and dimwit came across better.
Of course, they hadn’t been ambushed by a sneaky photographer intent on one last “candid” shot. Considering the balance sheet Cameron had reviewed seconds before the shutter clicked, who could blame him for appearing upset?
His office door swung open.
I had to ask.
Letting the newspaper fall to his lap, he braced himself and tried to look healthy.
Elizabeth Richmond, senior vice president and second in command of Malloy Marketing, walked briskly toward his desk, her aura crackling with purpose and the crisp light scent of Lemon Mist body spritz. The fragrance, courtesy of his annual birthday gift, suited her analytical mind, tart humor, and the sweet nature underlying it all. She’d dressed comfortably as well as professionally in one of her usual pantsuits.
This morning’s was a dull pin-striped gray. Incongruous next to her mop of curly dark hair, wide-set brown eyes, and Kewpie doll lips. Betty Boop meets G.I. Jane, his youngest brother had once described the woman most men underestimated or overlooked.
For someone who joked his way through life, Jake could be surprisingly perceptive at times.
Cameron watched his colleague sink uninvited into a guest chair, then mustered his best smile. “Morning, Lizzy. You look extra nice today.”
“You look like roadkill.”
So much for idle chitchat. “You know,” he said dryly, “it’s customary to thank a person who compliments you. Maybe even say something nice in return?”
“Okay. I like that navy suit you’re wearing. It brings out the lovely shade of red in your eyes.”
Jeez.
Her teasing gaze moved to his newspaper and sobered. “Aha. No wonder the aspirin hasn’t kicked in, yet. You’ve seen your Most Eligible Bastard portrait.”
Guilt pricked his foul mood. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“What wasn’t? Drinking too much last night, or losing your temper last week?”
“Neither.”
“Neither,” she repeated, lifting a straight dark brow.
“Yes, Mother Teresa, neither. Do I have to say it again, or is three times the charm?”
She waited just long enough to make him feel three years old. “Charm appears to have deserted you, but I think I’ve grasped your meaning. You aren’t in the least bit responsible for your bloodshot eyes or surly mood this morning, correct?”
Despite the headache intensifying with each second, he suppressed a smile. “And people say you’re slow.”
“Yes, well—” her mouth twitched “—I have my moments. Next you’ll say that Carol tackled you in front of the groom’s cake last night and forced free Scotch down your throat.”
“Now, now, no need for sarcasm. That’s a gross exaggeration.” He raised the coffee mug toward his lips. “It wasn’t Scotch.”
She snorted. “Rum and Coke, then.”
Swallowing, he shook his head.
“You mean they served Heineken at a swanky wedding reception?”
Startled, he lowered his forearm and mug to the desk. In all their years of working together, he could count on one hand the number of times she’d attended a business-related social function or client dinner. Yet she’d just named his favorite schmooze booze in order of preference.
“Cameron?”
“Huh? Oh. No, no Heineken.”
“Then what were you drinking?”
“Ayala shooters.”
She blinked. “Gesundheit.”
He barked out a laugh, then sandwiched his skull with both hands. Oh, man. Oh, jeeez! Loud noises bad! Eyes squeezed shut, he massaged the pain battering his temples.
“Good grief, Cameron, what’s in an ayala shooter?” Equal parts fascination and sympathy rang in her tone.
“Poison,” he said in a near whisper.
“Really?”
Lowering his hands, he cracked open his lids. Sure enough, her distracted expression said she was scanning her encyclopedic memory.
“There’s a traditional liquor in Japan that’s produced by taking live venomous snakes, mashing them into a fermenting potion, then collecting the runoff. But I don’t think it’s called ayala.…” Her unfocused gaze lit with triumph and snapped to his. “Yes, mam!”
“Yes, ma’am, what?”
She smiled indulgently. “Mam is the name of the liquor I told you about. Spelled m-a-m, shortened from poisonous snakes called mamushi. They’re indigenous to the Pacific islands, but related to our copperheads in North America. Remember that oral report on Japanese customs that I gave in Mrs. Conner’s class?”
Actually, her red-faced stumbling delivery was one of the few things he did remember about Lizzy from their high school days. He struggled for a tactful answer.
Her enthusiasm dimmed. “Stupid question. It was a long time ago.”
His heart squeezed. “O-o-oh, yeah, mamushi. I remember, now. Crazy party animals, right?”
