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He chuckled softly, and she felt that darned heat spread over her face. “You need some help?” he asked.
“Help? Oh, yes. Er...uh, are you Cherokee Pete?”
“Nope. Pete’s my grandfather. I’m Kyle.” He tossed the towel aside, grabbed his shirt and hurriedly donned it. “Kyle Rutledge.”
“I’m Irish. Irish Ellison.”
Kyle almost said, I know, but something stopped him. In his California practice, a dozen or more women had brought him her photograph from some magazine or another, wanting her nose or her cheekbones or that lush mouth of hers. Instead, he tipped his hat and said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Ellison. How may I help you, ma’am?”
“Could you tell me if that’s the road to Crow’s Nest?” She gestured over her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s it.”
“Oh, dear. I was afraid you were going to say that. I’m supposed to meet Jackson Crow, but the gate’s locked.”
Well, damn it all to hell! Here was one of the world’s most gorgeous women in the flesh, one who rang his bell and had him standing to attention, and be damned if his cousin hadn’t staked her out first. As usual, Jackson was the luckiest son-of a-gun walking. “Jackson’s gone.”
Her astonishing emerald green eyes widened in alarm. “Gone?”
“Gone.”
“But—but I have an appointment. I’m supposed to spend several days at the retreat working on an article. On him and the men in the young millionaire’s club.”
“You don’t know Jackson?”
She shook her head. “Never met him.”
Kyle relaxed. His smile returned. “He and that crazy bunch of his buddies decided to go to Dallas for the Cowboys game Sunday. They’ll be back Monday.”
“But this is Friday.”
“They started the party a little early. You must have just missed them.”
“Our appointment was for a couple of hours ago. My plane was late, and I had some problems at the car rental agency.”
Kyle watched her chew the inside of her cheek and look worried. He had a fleeting urge to go after Jackson with an ax handle for causing those furrows to form between her perfectly arched eyebrows. “I wouldn’t let it upset me. Jackson will be back Monday—if he’s sober enough to fly.”
“Sober enough—Does he drink a lot?”
He bit back a grin. There was no way that he was going to exalt Jackson in this lady’s eyes. His cousin had all the women he could handle now. Kyle had seen this one first. “Like a fish. The man’s a sot.” Sorry, cuz he said silently.
A shot rang out, and Kyle flinched, afraid for a moment that the powers-that-be were about to strike him dead for lying.
Startled, too, Irish jumped. “What was that?”
“That’s just Grandpa Pete. He’s in bed with a broken hip, and when he needs some help, he fires his pistol out the window.”
“Wouldn’t a bell be better?”
He grinned. “You don’t know my grandpa. Come on up to the store with me while I see what he needs, and then we’ll see what we can do to get your problem straightened out. It’s about time for lunch. You hungry?”
“Famished.”
“You like chili?”
“With beans?”
“Bite your tongue, woman. This is Texas. Only a Yankee would spoil a perfectly good pot of chili with beans. You a Yankee?” he drawled.
She laughed, and the throaty sound of it made him think of cool sheets and warm flesh. “I’m from Washington, D.C.,” she said. “At least that’s where I live now. I’m originally from Ohio, but I lived in New York for several years.”
“New York City?” he asked with an exaggerated drawl. “Did you like that place?”
She shrugged. “For a while.”
“That’s the way I felt about California. I found out the hard way that Texas is the only place for me.”
Inside the store, Kyle settled Irish at one of the tables. “Let me go check on Grandpa Pete, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with the chili.”
Irish watched his long-legged gait as he walked away and went up the stairs at the end of the bar. Wow, what a man. Handsome as buttered sin. She’d never met anyone in her life who oozed such sex appeal. And from the little that they had talked, she felt that he would probably be lots of fun to be with. He was as smooth as a river stone in putting her at ease.
She sighed. He probably had everything a woman could ask for. She looked around the dusty, junky store.
Except money.
Why is it, Mama, that if it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, that I’m always attracted to the ones who don’t have two nickels to rub together?
It was a crying shame that she was so captivated by Kyle Rutledge. Especially now.
She sighed again. She couldn’t afford to let herself get sidetracked. Her plans were made; her bank account was committed. She was out to snare a millionaire.
And if Jackson Crow had a problem or two, well... one couldn’t have everything.
Two
Sweat popped out on her upper lip. Irish ignored it and spooned another bite of chili into her mouth. After all, it was a free meal, and with less than twenty dollars left in her wallet, she couldn’t afford to be choosy.
“Too hot for you?” Kyle asked.
“It’s fine. Just fine.” She gulped half a glass of iced tea.
With her tongue and her esophagus cringing at what was coming, she forced another bite into her blistered mouth.
Tears came to her eyes. She gulped the other half glass of tea and shook out an ice cube to suck on.
She glanced up at Kyle. He was frowning. “You don’t have to be polite,” he said. “It is too hot for you. Sorry about that. Grandpa Pete likes his chili fiery enough to singe the pin feathers off a chicken, and I’ve gotten used to it. Let me fix you something else. How about a bologna sandwich? I make a mean bologna sandwich.”
Relieved that she wouldn’t have to finish the rest of the chili and too hungry to turn him down, she smiled. “I’m crazy about bologna sandwiches.”
“Mustard or mayonnaise?”
“Mustard.”
“Be right back.”
Irish watched him pick up a loaf of bread from the rack and a jar of mustard off a shelf, then walk back to the meat case. He took a big sausage from the case, and she heard the whine of an electric slicing machine. In a few minutes, he returned with a neat sandwich on a piece of butcher paper. An individual bag of chips sat atop the sandwich.
“Thanks,” she said. “That looks great.”
“Not exactly Carnegie Deli, but it will do in a pinch. Alma Jane usually does the sandwich and soup making and helps tend to the store, but she came down with a bad case of poison ivy. I’m hoping that she’ll be back tomorrow. I’m not much of a cook.” “Me, either,” Irish said. “I don’t even know how to work the pilot light on my stove. Olivia usually does all the cooking.”
“Who’s Olivia?”
“One of my housemates in Washington.”
“One?” He filled her glass with tea from a pitcher.
“Yes,” she said. Between bites she gave him a thumbnail sketch of Olivia and Kim.
“How long have you been a reporter?” Kyle asked.
“A reporter? I’m not a reporter. Where did you get that idea?”
“You said you were doing an article on Jackson and his buddies, and I assumed that you were doing it for a newspaper.”
“Heavens, no. I’m doing the article for Esprit.”
“Esprit, the magazine? You work for them? I would have figured that someone with your looks would be modeling for them instead of writing.”
“Thank you very much. I used to be a model.” She smiled graciously. “But I don’t work for the magazine full-time. This is a freelance piece.”
He pointed to her uneaten bowl of chili. “Mind?”
“Not at all.” His digestive tract must be lined with lead. She couldn’t believe that anyone could eat an entire bowl of that blazing concoction, much less two.
“I love this stuff. It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent bowl of chili. Grandpa Pete makes it in a wash pot over an open fire, then freezes it in bricks. Why aren’t you a model any longer?”
His sudden switch of topics took her aback for a moment. She nibbled a potato chip before she gave him one of her stock answers. “I’m getting too old.”
“Bull. You’re gorgeous and still in your prime.”
“I’m almost thirty.”
He laughed. “Just a kid.”
“To you maybe, but models are getting younger and younger these days. Too, I—I was getting tired of the work, of New York.”
“Now that I can understand. The crime rate in that place is out of sight. Why, around here, the worst crime committed lately was when Newt Irwin got drunk and—Irish?”
She startled. “Pardon?”
“You flinched and looked very nervous. Did I say something? Stray into sensitive territory?”
“No. Not at all,” she replied, which was a polite lie. He’d touched a nerve. “What were you saying about Luke?”
“Not Luke, Newt. He got drunk and stole one of Henry McKenzie’s goats.”
“Whatever for?”
“To barbecue. But the next morning Newt’s mama found the goat staked out in the front yard eating her pansies, and she called the sheriff. Henry got his goat back, but Newt had to spend three days in jail.”
“But Henry got his goat back. I’m surprised he pressed charges.”
“Henry didn’t. Newt’s mama did. The sheriff is married to her cousin, and Mrs. Irwin was proud of those pansies.”
Irish laughed. “Sounds like you have some real characters around here.”
A pistol shot sounded from upstairs, and Irish almost jumped out of her skin.
“That we do,” Kyle said. “And one of them lives upstairs. That’s Grandpa Pete again. Eighty-four years old and still rambunctious. Be right back. Look around the store and find yourself a dessert.”
Deciding to do just that, she was looking through the assortment of Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, and Little Debbie cakes when an RV stopped out front. An older couple in loud jogging gear came inside. He was balding and his jacket was stretched tightly over his rotund belly; she was rail-thin with badly colored black hair and wearing a plethora of diamond rings.
“Oh, look, Edgar. Isn’t this a charming little place?” To Irish she said, “We’re passing through on our way from the Gulf coast and decided to take the scenic route. I’m so glad we did. It’s just beautiful around here, isn’t it, Edgar? We wanted to pick up a few snacks, and—Edgar! Look at this. Carved Indians. Life-size. Wouldn’t one of these be just precious by our pool? And look at the price. Why, it’s a steal.”
“Mmmm,” Edgar said, not glancing up from the row of snack crackers he was inspecting.
With Kyle nowhere in sight, Irish pasted on a bright smile and went into her retail mode. “Aren’t they wonderful? The sculptor is very gifted. Have you seen the animals outside? The eagles are fantastic, and there’s one bear that you should see. A delightful conversation piece that was just finished. We call him Vince. Come, let me show you.”
When Kyle finally got Pete settled down and made it back downstairs, Irish was at the door waving goodbye to an RV. “Sorry I took so long, but my grandfather needed some TLC. Who was in the RV?”
“Corrie and Edgar.”
“Wanting directions to Dallas?”
“Nope. They came in for snacks. I sold them a carton of soft drinks, two boxes of crackers, three jars of peanuts, two jelly rolls, two little pecan pies, two life-size Indians, an eagle and Vince. I made change for their traveler’s checks from the register. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? You sold more in thirty minutes than I’ve sold in a week. They bought Vince?”
“Yep.”
“But his ear is missing.”
“That makes him even more charming. An original.”
Kyle chuckled and shook his head. “I hope that you gave them a discount.”
“Certainly not. I didn’t know exactly how much the bears were since none of them had a price tag, but I charged fifty dollars more than the Indian was marked.”
