A Little Night Matchmaking

“Yeah, I’ll just bet he is. Busy filing nuisance suits. Wait a minute.” His dark eyes narrowed, and his penetrating gaze seemed to really see her for the first time. “I know you.”

She felt the same way but wouldn’t admit the déjà vu he provoked. “Hardly.”

He stalked into the office, and his uninvited and overly masculine presence dominated the room. All Brandy knew about him was that he worked for Hotspur. He probably wasn’t a threat, but as he loomed between her and the door, something about him set off a shrieking alarm in her brain.

“Cripes, lady.” He reached out and ran a brown finger along her cheek. “What’s on your face this time?”

Just as it had this afternoon, his touch incited a breathless, dizzy, queasy feeling. She hadn’t experienced that combination of sensations since being struck in the stomach by a stray softball in junior high.

“What?” She stepped back, her hand clamping to her cheek where she encountered sticky residue. Branded by the ketchup-soaked French fry she’d snapped out of Chloe’s fingers. She wouldn’t act as embarrassed as she felt. “I appreciate the gesture, but really, you don’t have to follow me around to wipe my face.”

“Yeah, well apparently somebody needs to.” This time he removed a clean white handkerchief from the back pocket of his dark jeans and scrubbed the smear from her cheek. The handkerchief was warm from being pressed next to his hip, but that didn’t explain why her skin flamed in response.

Another unnerving reaction smacked her in the gut, and Brandy backed up again. Chloe slipped around her. The little girl stood in front of the man and looked up, hands planted firmly on her tiny hips.

“Celestian left the door open for you. He said you’d come, but I didn’t believe him. You’re tall.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re not.” Stetson looked down at Chloe, and his expression softened. Slightly. He had an intriguing face, full of planes and angles. Rugged. Handsome. Brandy shook the thought from her head. What was wrong with her? She never drooled over men.

“I’m five.” Chloe believed in sharing important information.

“Congratulations.” He turned back to Brandy. “Are you Ulbright?”

“No. My name is Brandy Mitchum. I’m a paralegal here.”

“You have my sincere condolences. So Futterman’s really not here?” He glanced around, his heavy dark brows drawn down in suspicion. Did he think her employer might be hiding under the desk?

Chloe answered. “Nope. Just us three.”

“Three?” The man scowled in Brandy’s direction. Scowling seemed to be a habit with him.

“Two. There’re only two of us here.” Brandy regretted the words as soon as they popped out of her mouth. She was a lousy bluffer. She brandished her cell phone. “But I have 9-1-1 on speed dial. So don’t get any ideas.”

The incredulous expression on his face told her that getting “ideas” about her was the last thing on his mind. “Why were you out on the road today?”

She bristled at his tone. “Considering how it’s a free country and a public roadway, I don’t have to answer that question. But since you asked so nicely, I was doing my job.”

“Your job? Right. Harry Peet.” He practically spat out the name. “And what the hell were you thinking leaving the front door unlocked? Any nut job off the street could have wandered in here.”

“Yeah, I think one did. What I do is none of your business, but I thought the door was locked. And I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child.”

“What? Oh. Sorry, kid.” Though it seemed genuine, he had trouble coughing up an apology. Either he never made mistakes, or he didn’t admit them. He turned his attention back to Brandy. “Are you always that careless?”

“I beg your pardon?” A total stranger was criticizing her? She was no longer afraid of the man, but she was acutely aware of him. He watched her with the same brooding intensity she’d noted earlier today. Which alone would be enough to sap any woman’s strength. Teamed with a magnetic physical presence only fully appreciated in close quarters, resistance didn’t stand a chance. The gut-level reaction he aroused in her was appalling. She had to hang on to what little annoyance she could.

“All I’m saying, lady, is you need to be more careful. It’s dangerous out there. Is this your kid?”

“Yep. I’m Chloe.”

“Uh-huh.” His lips pulled into what might have been a faint smile. Or a grimace. On him, it was hard to tell.

“Since you’re obviously not here to rob the place, what do you want?” Brandy relaxed a little, but not much. The verdict was still out on this good-looking, gimme-a-nail-and-I’ll-chew-it guy.

Dressed in snug black jeans, white shirt and scuffed cowboy boots, he was a rugged poster boy for testosterone therapy. Maybe he wasn’t a thief or mugger, but he’d stolen her breath away. She’d led a nunlike existence since her divorce and was easy prey. Clearly her sheltered hormones revolted against all logic. Nothing else would explain her attraction to this bad-tempered stranger.

On second thought, maybe attraction wasn’t what unnerved her. It had to be that nagging sense of recognition, which had nothing to do with their brief encounter on the road today. This stranger tripped switches she had forgotten she possessed. Why did she feel like she’d seen herself reflected in his night-dark eyes many times? Had their paths crossed long before today?

Ridiculous. If she’d ever met this imposing specimen of male authority, she would remember. Maybe he seemed familiar because once upon a lonely night, she’d glimpsed him in a dream. Was he the Midnight Man?

No, he might look like a dream, but this guy could be a nightmare for all she knew. Since her divorce, she’d formed a clear notion of her ideal man and this dangerous, too-handsome-for-his-own-good hunk was not it. Next time around, she was voting for quiet, stable and unexciting. Safe.

He extended his hand, which was as large and tan as the rest of him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am. I’m Patrick Templeton.”

“Trick!” Chloe chirped.

He frowned again, but managed not to scowl in her innocent, upturned face. “Yeah, that’s right. People call me Trick. How did you know?”

Chloe smiled in the direction of the file cabinet. “I’m a good guesser.”

The name finally registered with Brandy. “You’re Patrick Templeton? The owner of Hotspur Well Control?”

“Yeah. I’m also the defendant in Futterman’s latest bogus lawsuit.” He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk beside her hip. His face was too close. She edged back and drew a deep breath, but still couldn’t breathe properly. Was he sucking all the oxygen out of the room?

“I don’t have time for this, lady,” he said in a measured tone. “I have fires to put out.”

Brandy couldn’t respond for a moment. She was busy fighting an internal wildfire ignited by the disconcerting knowledge that she already knew how kissing him would feel. Impossible. She did not possess that much imagination. Awareness and longing coursed through her like a river of molten gold. What was happening here? Was this what hypnosis was all about?

Finally Chloe tugged on her hand. “Mommy? Trick is talking to you.”

“Sorry.” She marshaled enough energy to step away from him. She was losing her grip. Fantasy men did not come to life and storm into one’s office. She was the one who needed lessons on what was real and what was make-believe. “You have fires to control, and I have bedtime stories to read. Maybe we should call it a night.”

“Harry Peet’s got everything all wrong,” he insisted. “I need—”

“I’m sure you understand why I can’t discuss a pending case with a defendant. If you’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Futterman, call his secretary tomorrow during regular office hours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

“Right.” He seemed confused by her dismissal. Had he never had a request denied before? “Can I help you carry anything?”

Too late to go gallant on her. “No, thank you. I’m quite used to carrying my own load.” At the last moment, she remembered the conference documents stacked in the printer tray. She quickly divided the two copies, placed one on her desk and took Chloe with her to drop the other on Futterman’s desk where he would find it first thing in the morning.

She expected Templeton to be gone when she returned, but no such luck. “Allow me to show you out.”

Apparently no one could show him anything. He led the way to the front door and stood on the sidewalk while Brandy locked the door. The lock didn’t stick or fight back this time. Strange. The shiny white pickup with the flaming Hotspur logo on the door was angled into the space next to her battered Ford Escort. The truck’s impressive automotive good looks were as intimidating to the little car as its owner’s were to her. She tossed her briefcase and purse on the front seat and leaned in the back to buckle Chloe into her booster seat.

“Wait!” Chloe yelled when she started to close the door.

“What, honey?”

“Let Celestian get in first. You don’t want to squash him.”

“No, I don’t.” Brandy paused to give Chloe’s invisible playmate time to make himself comfortable on the seat. She caught Trick Templeton’s amused look. A slow smile transformed his features, making him seem even more familiar.

“Don’t ask.” She cranked the window down halfway and shut the door.

He backed up, his hands in front of him. “I wasn’t about to.”

“Mommy, I didn’t say goodbye to Trick.”

Brandy sighed. Why did her daughter insist on treating this soon-to-be-sued defendant like a long-lost uncle?

“Tell her goodbye,” she said, “or we’ll be here all night.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He braced one hand on the car’s roof and leaned down to look inside. “Goodbye, Little Bit.”

“Don’t leave yet, Trick,” Chloe whispered.

“Why not?” he whispered back.

“We might need your help.”

“Chloe, say goodbye to Mr. Templeton.”

“Bye, Trick.” She extended her little fingers like a miniature queen deigning to accept a subject’s kiss. He reached in, his large hand swallowing hers, and pumped a couple of times.

“Nice meeting you, kid.”

“Don’t leave yet,” Chloe warned again.

“I won’t.” He walked around the car as Brandy slid behind the steering wheel. “How old is she again?”

“Five.”

“Funny. I would’ve guessed thirty.”

“I know.” Brandy grinned. “Be sure to call for an appointment tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, I will. And I’m sorry if I…” His sentence dribbled off.

“Stormed into my office like a renegade SWAT team door kicker and scared the bejeezus out of me and my innocent child?”

“Little Bit didn’t seem scared,” he pointed out.

“I know. She’s more trusting than me.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Demanding?” she supplied cheerfully.

“No, I’m usually demanding. I was going to say rude.” He stood beside the little car, backlit by a street lamp’s light, which cast soft, familiar shadows across his face. His white shirt practically glowed in the dark. Barely controlled energy hummed around him like a powerful unseen electromagnetic field.

“Apology accepted.” She turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened. She tried again with the same frustrating result. She bit back a few colorful curses she couldn’t say in front of Chloe. Thanks a bunch, St. Combustion. For nothing.

“Is the car dead, Mommy?”

“As the proverbial doornail.” Brandy leaned forward and rested her head on the steering wheel. Would this horrible day never end?

“What’s a purveeal doornail?” Chloe loved learning new words.

Trick Templeton interrupted before Brandy could answer. “I think I told you to have the engine checked.”

“That’s right, you did.” Brandy sat up and smacked her forehead in mock wonder. “I don’t know why I didn’t heed your unsolicited, but clearly valuable advice. I could have squeezed in a complete engine diagnostic on one of my many leisurely breaks this afternoon! My mistake!”

“Hey, you don’t have to get huffy.”

“Huffy does not begin to describe how I am about to get.” If she wasn’t careful, she might even cry. It was past Chloe’s bedtime. She was tired. She’d had a trying day. Tomorrow, she’d have to get up and jump through the hoops again. Figure out how to get the stupid car fixed. Pay the bills. Be a good mom. Do a good job. She might be used to carrying her own load, but life would be a lot easier if she could share the burden.

“How will we get home, Mommy?”

“I don’t know yet.” If they camped out in her office, she wouldn’t be late for work in the morning. That should make Mr. Futterman happy.

Trick Templeton squatted down beside the open window. “Want me to take a look? I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“I’ll bet you are,” she muttered. She didn’t dare linger on that thought.

“Look lady, do you want me to look under your hood or not?”

“Sure. Why not? Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She reached down and popped the release lever. Trick walked around to the front of the car, raised the hood and ducked under it.

“Trick will fix the battery, Mommy.” Where did Chloe get her optimism? Better yet, where did she get her mechanical knowledge?

“I hope so.” Brandy let her head drop back against the headrest and closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, she hoped the man poking around under her hood not only had good hands, but fast ones.

Chapter Three

Trick retrieved his toolbox from the truck. Aiming a flashlight into the car’s greasy innards, he immediately discovered the problem. After making a few quick adjustments, he leaned around the car’s raised hood. “Try it again!”

She turned the key in the ignition, and the ancient engine hiccuped to life. Some engines purred like contented kittens; this one chugged like a rusty lawnmower. That had been left out in the rain. Trick lowered the hood and walked around to the driver’s side window, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands. Seeing the ketchup stain sent a riveting surge of emotion spiraling through him. He’d experienced a similar reaction when he’d touched Brandy’s cheek. Twice.

He had no idea where the unnerving sensations came from or what they meant in the grand scheme of things. Sorting out emotions was complicated. Owning up to them was messier than the gunk on his handkerchief. Time-consuming. Denying emotions was easy for a man who preferred to keep life neat and simple.

“That should do it.” He stood by the car. An elusive scent made him draw in a deep breath. Cinnamon. Reminded him of something, but before he could figure out what, he noted Brandy’s relieved sigh. Complacency was dangerous, so he added, “For the moment.”

“Mind if I ask what kind of voodoo magic brought my zombie car back to life?” She gazed up at him, her face pale in the street lamp’s hazy glow. He’d seen her in broad daylight and knew the pallor was artificial. Her smooth skin was warm and golden. Now that she was off the defensive, she was neither coy nor seductive. Her delicate features were arresting in their openness.

A man would always know where he stood with her.

He shrugged off the uncomfortable thought. Didn’t even feel like one of his. “No magic required. The battery cables were loose on the terminals. Easily fixed. All I had to do was tighten them.”

She smiled, and he noticed the indentation of a tiny dimple at the left corner of her mouth. Long strands of hair had slipped from an elaborate braid and fluttered in the evening breeze like shiny coffee-colored ribbons. Unlike other pretty women, she seemed unaware of her wholesome appeal. Her name suited her. Like the liqueur, her intrinsic sweetness carried a surprising kick. A man with a weakness for her type would find Brandy Mitchum’s cheeky charm downright intoxicating.

“The cables were loose?” Her dark brows fretted together. “How could that happen?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All kinds of things go wrong with old cars.”

In the back seat, the little girl clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“Maybe bouncing over those washboard roads today disconnected them,” suggested Brandy.

“Maybe.” Her theory was as good as any. “An old car is a disaster waiting to happen. You should have gotten—”

“I know. The engine tuned.” She held up a hand tipped with bare nails that had probably never had a professional manicure and ticked off the obvious. “The timing adjusted. The brake pads replaced. The leak in the air conditioner line repaired. A new muffler. And oh, how about some new tires while we’re dreaming?”

“That would get you started,” he conceded, “if you don’t mind pouring money down a rat hole.”

“I’m well aware of my vehicular shortcomings. Unfortunately I’ve been a little checkbook-challenged since the move.”

“You’re new to Odessa?”

“We’ve been here a little over a month.”

“We?” Without thinking, he checked the hand resting on the steering wheel. No wedding ring.

If she noticed, she didn’t let on. “Chloe and I. I’m divorced.”

“Ah.” Why was he glad to hear that? Her marital status was irrelevant. Despite the physical reaction that had gut-punched him when he touched her, Brandy Mitchum was not the kind of woman he got involved with. He knew females, and experience told him this one would expect a lot from a man. Like commitment. She should have a big ornate C tattooed on her forehead to warn guys who didn’t possess reliable radar.

Her lack of flirtation is intriguing. Maybe, but only a fool would rise to that challenge. She’ll demand fidelity and promises. Exactly. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. His word was his bond. That’s how he’d gotten where he was. At thirty-seven, he’d maintained his bachelor status by not getting involved with women who wanted more than he was willing to offer.

Which is damned little these days.

Yeah, but who’s keeping score?

Brandy was a mother. Heavily invested in family values. Divorced and unwilling to accept less than her due. No doubt on the prowl for a replacement man. If she hadn’t already staked her claim on a neat little house on a quiet little street with lots of pretty little flowers in the yard and a fluffy puppy for the kid, then she was prospecting for one. He’d met—and run from—women like her before. They needed too much. Loose battery cables today, drippy faucets tomorrow. They were highly skilled at sucking a man into the black hole of domesticity.

The take-over started innocently enough. A little project here. Another there. Hang a curtain rod. Rewire a lamp. Then boom. Before God could get the news, a guy was mucking out gutters and cooking burgers on a backyard grill. His time was no longer his own, and all furloughs from the picket fence prison were carefully monitored by the cookie-baking warden. He shuddered at the thought of being locked in for life with no chance of parole.

No way and no thank you. His risk-taking, nomadic lifestyle didn’t mix with family duty. All his time and all his energy was devoted to his demanding job. Job? Who was he kidding? Controlling oil well fires was more of a calling. There were easier ways to make a living. Safer ways, too.

He’d ducked the big C by avoiding complicated relationships and choosing women with no apron strings or expectations. Women whose desires were easily satisfied in the bedroom. His plan had worked so far, so why change a winning play?

And who the hell was he arguing with?

“So you have family here?” He wasn’t sure why he was stalling. He should climb into the truck right now and get the heck out of Dodge.

“No. Just the two of us.”

Did she have to make her situation sound so pitiful? Little mama and forty-pound kid against the world. Good thing he wasn’t in the damsel-saving business. Trick took a step back, equating physical distance with the emotional variety.

“My daddy’s a sheriff.” The little girl piped up from the back seat. “He has a badge and everything.”

“He does, huh?” Chloe the Uncanny was another complication. Like their mothers, kids needed things too. Time, attention, nurturing. He wasn’t bent that way.

Freedom topped the list of his prized possessions. He could pack a bag and leave at a moment’s notice without having to clear his departure with ground control. Exactly the way he liked things. The key to life was traveling light. No strings, no ties and no entanglements. A family would only slow the rocket of his life.

What? You want to die alone? Never knowing real love.

He was happy with the way things were. He didn’t need the ballast of stability and love.

“Yep, her daddy’s a sheriff, all right.” Brandy gave off vibes of calm determination and seemed unaware of Trick’s internal power struggle. She smiled again, flashing the dimple. “Duly elected by the citizens of Slapdown, Texas.”

Sexy in a nonsexual way, Ms. Earnest Working Mom was definitely not his type. Her beat-all kid compounded the problem. Trick couldn’t relate to humans that small or that smart. He didn’t understand children any better now than he had when he’d been one himself, an only child because his parents had feared unleashing another fearless dynamo on the world.

His father had chased oil wells around the world, and his mother had followed, leaving Trick with his widowed grandmother on a farm in the Missouri Ozarks. Granny Bett’s place had been a growing boy’s paradise. Caves to explore, trees to climb, rivers to swim. He’d been as happy as a left-behind child could be, but had joined the family business the second he was old enough to impose his formidable will.

“What?” Brandy frowned. “You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face again?”

“No.” He’d been lost in a maze of memories. This woman was the worst kind of dangerous. Just being near her conjured up thoughts of hearth and home. Longing for family. “I’m sorry. I know we haven’t met before today, but there’s something about you that’s…”

“Familiar?”

“Very.”

“How strange,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing about you. I’m sure we’ve seen each other around town.”

“That’s probably it.”

“Mommy? Can Trick come to our house?”

“No, honey. It’s getting late, and I’m sure he has other things to do.”

“How about tomorrow?”

The kid was persistent; he’d give her that.

“Can Trick eat with us?” Chloe asked.

“No.”

“Well, can he visit?”

“I don’t think so.” As tired as she had to be, Brandy was patient with her daughter’s wheedling questions.

“I want to show him my princess books.”

He leaned down and peered into the back seat. “Sorry, Little Bit. I have to work.”

“Putting out fires.” Little Chloe was as sharp as a brier. He’d only mentioned firefighting in passing.

“That’s right. Oil well fires.” He gazed into Chloe’s wide, dark, knowing eyes, and the door of his heart creaked open against his will, welcoming her to step inside. Scaring the heck out of him.

“Still slaying dragons, Trick?”

He took an involuntary step back. “What?” The child’s innocent question prickled the skin on the back of his neck. Despite the evening heat, chilly fingers crept up his spine. Who were these people? Being with them felt both normal and extraordinary at the same time.

Still slaying dragons, Trick? He’d heard those words before, asked in the same gentle manner. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember when. Further proof of how confused and addled the Mitchums made him. “I know you’re a good guesser, Chloe, but where did you come up with that?”

“From my princess storybook.” Tiny, pearled teeth filled her grin. “The handsome prince always slays the dragon.”

“Right.” His taut muscles relaxed, and he let out a relieved breath. Man, Little Bit wasn’t the only one with too much imagination. He was attaching meaning where there was none.

“What does slay mean?” Chloe asked.

Before he could answer, Brandy looked over her shoulder. “Slay means to amuse, honey, as in ha, ha, that joke really slays me.”