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“The receptionist.”
“My sister.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands. There was no ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. That didn’t mean anything. Some married men didn’t wear rings. And… And it didn’t matter a fig whether he was married.
“Your sister,” she said. “So this is a family-owned business?”
“No. I own it. Nora works for me. She’s good at her job.”
“Meaning if she wasn’t, family or not, she’d be canned?”
One broad shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. “Yeah.”
“Do you have a wife?” Doggone it. She hadn’t meant to ask that. She didn’t care. But the rogue part of her subconscious that had temporarily taken over her brain neglected to send that message to her mouth.
“I’m not married.” His gaze was penetrating as he frowned at her. “Now you’ve got six minutes. And if my marital status has something to do with why you’re here, you’re wasting my time. I can put those six minutes to better use.”
“Look, I’m a people person. That makes me curious. It was certainly not my intention to offend you with the question.”
His impassive look gave no clue to what he was thinking. “So you have a security concern?”
Wow. He gave the expression single-minded determination a run for its money. Not to mention that his tone was just this side of abrasive. “Apparently in your line of work, one can be successful even without courtesy and charm.”
“If you’re here about personal safety, home or business protection, I can be as charming and courteous as the next guy. If not…”
“I’m here because I bought the survival weekend you donated to the Charity City auction. I mentioned that to whoever I spoke with on the phone.”
It seemed impossible, but his frown deepened. “I didn’t get the message.”
“And I didn’t actually get an appointment. Is your sister’s job in jeopardy?”
“No. She was sick recently. A temp replaced her.”
His shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly as his mouth straightened into a thin line, telling her he was disapproving. She’d known him about two and a half minutes—although he was the only one keeping exact time—so how she knew he was surprised or annoyed, she couldn’t say. But she’d stake her reputation as Charity City High School’s favorite librarian that he was both surprised and annoyed.
“So you’re the one who bought the survival weekend?” He sounded skeptical.
She nodded. “And I’m here to make arrangements to collect it.”
He let his gaze drop to her cap-sleeved silk shell with the loose-fitting floral jumper over it. “Why?”
“Because I paid for it.”
He shook his head. “Why did you buy it in the first place?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe part of the deal is explaining my motivation.”
“You don’t look like the outdoorsy type.”
The fact that he was right made her resent his attitude even more. “If we’re judging books by covers, Mr. Dixon, you don’t look like the type, either.”
“What type would that be?”
“One who would donate to charity. The type to give back to his community.”
“It was a debt.”
“Oh?”
“The foundation gave me interest free start-up capital for my business.”
“And when one benefits from the auction proceeds, one is obligated to give back.”
“I always pay my debts,” he confirmed.
“Very reassuring. That’s why I’m here. My daughter, Kimmie, belongs to The Bluebonnets—”
“What?”
“It’s an organization that sponsors outdoor activities for girls in her age group—”
“How old?”
“Excuse me?”
What did that have to do with sleeping outside and starting a fire with two sticks when she was on a very tight schedule? She’d be wasting less of her remaining time if he would impart information in sentences of more than three two-syllable words. And she had no illusions. When the allotted time was up, he would throw her out. She stole a glance at his biceps, the intriguing place where the sleeve of his T-shirt clung to the bulging muscle. There was no doubt in her mind that if he wanted her out, he would and could pick her up bodily and make it so.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Six. When I saw the weekend listed for auction, I knew it was exactly what I needed. And I figured I could kill two birds with one stone.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Maybe he was finally listening and they could wrap this up quickly. “I could do my civic duty in support of the town charity. Buying your services to get my daughter her hiking and nature badges—”
“You can’t take her camping?”
“I could,” she said. “But her survival might be in question. I’m afraid you were right about me. My idea of the outdoors involves a lounge chair, a pool and a sissy drink with an umbrella in it.”
“What about your husband?”
Now who was digging for personal info? Although she had to admit Riley had a better reason. It was a logical question. “I don’t have a husband.”
Not any more. And she couldn’t be happier. She was glad she no longer had to rely on flaky Fred Walsh. As an unwed pregnant teenager whose baby needed a father, she’d seriously relied on him. If only she could blame it on pressure from her parents. But they’d made it clear they would support her decisions. As it turned out, the decision she’d made hadn’t been worthy of support.
“So you’re going to dump the kid on me for the weekend?”
“Of course not. Do I look like the kind of mother who would turn her child over to a complete stranger? The two of us will be going on the outing—”
He stood suddenly, interrupting her. “No way.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I said no. It’s a survival weekend.”
“I’m aware of that.” She got to her feet. He was dangerously close to looming and she would not be loomed over.
“I won’t be nursemaid to a kid.”
“Her name is Kimmie. And she needs her two badges. If the necessity for nursemaiding arises, I’ll be the one doing it.”
He shook his head. “You don’t need me for this. It’s overkill.”
“Maybe. But I’ve already paid for you.”
“I’ll reimburse you.”
“I don’t want your money. I want my weekend.”
“No.”
“I want you to sue him, the foundation, Mayor Wentworth, the rest of his family, every person he’s ever known and anyone else I can think of.” Abby paced the length of her small living room.
She loved the fifteen hundred square feet of space she’d purchased six months ago. Unfortunately when she was this angry, the state of Texas wasn’t big enough for the amount of pacing she needed to do. Fortunately, her daughter was upstairs in her room playing with her dolls and wasn’t watching her mother’s display of temper.
“Suing the whole town is a little extreme, don’t you think?” Jamie Gibson asked.
Abby had called Jamie right after leaving Dixon Security and they’d met here at the house. She was the attorney who’d handled Abby’s divorce two years ago. They’d become friends in spite of the fact that Abby envied her brunette curls, which were the polar opposite of her own stick-straight brown hair. And Jamie was beautiful, a fact the attorney didn’t seem to care about. She poured her energy into building a legal career based on integrity, intelligence, and unflagging client support. But Abby felt there was some serious flagging in her attorney’s support on the Riley Dixon issue. And how the heck could Jamie sit so calmly on that overstuffed pink floral sofa when there was some heavy-duty suing to be done?
“The man is a welsher,” Abby cried, hands on hips as she stared at the bemused, indulgent expression on her friend’s face.
“We haven’t established all the facts yet. The way I understand it, he escorted you out of his office after he said no. If he is, in fact a welsher, at least he’s a gentleman welsher.”
“I paid for the weekend he donated to the auction. The check cleared already. And he’s refusing to make good on the deal. Maybe you’d prefer Indian giver?”
“Native American would be a little more politically correct,” Jamie pointed out.
“Politically correct would be for him to give me what I paid for—a weekend campout so Kimmie can earn her nature badges. I should have seen this coming. After all, he’s a man. By definition, that makes him a slacker.”
“Are we talking about Riley Dixon or your ex-husband?”
“They’re interchangeable,” Abby said.
“Is he as hot as I’ve heard?”
“Who? Fred?”
“I’ve seen Fred,” Jamie pointed out. “I meant Dixon.”
“He wouldn’t have to wear a bag over his head in public,” she grudgingly admitted.
An image of the man’s dark hair, blue eyes and flawless physique flashed through her mind and Abby braced herself as her stomach lurched from the same elevator sensation she’d experienced just a short while ago. But, he was a reminder about judging a book by its cover—a hunk with the face of a hero and the heart of a welsher.
“So he’s really good-looking?” Jamie pushed, obviously wanting details.
“He’s weathered,” she said carefully. “A little bent and battered, but buff in all the right places.”
“So you like him,” Jamie declared in a grating I-knew-it tone.
“I don’t like him. But I’m not blind and I don’t tell lies in spite of the fact I don’t like him. Here’s the thing. When he told me he wouldn’t take us on the campout, I got that Fred-feeling in my gut.”
“You’re telling me Dixon is a shallow jerk who’d leave you in the lurch to try out for a TV reality show?”
“It’s not the trying-out part. It’s the finding-Ms. Fear-Factor-who-jumped-on-his-bandwagon-and-his-bones-after-which-he-never-came-back part,” Abby said, remembering that particular brand of devastation. “And I don’t know if Dixon would do that. I never intend to find out. Because in my book, breaking one’s word on first acquaintance is a giant red flag.”
“From what I’ve heard, Riley Dixon is a hard worker. A former Army Ranger who’s built a profitable security business in under five years. Soldiers don’t get to be Rangers by slacking off.”
“Then we’re back to welsher.” She met her friend’s gaze and sighed. “Okay. I’ll admit to some lingering hostility toward the man who shirked most of his responsibilities—the most important one being his daughter.”
“I understand why you’d have this over-the-top reaction. Kimmie doesn’t have a dad, and you’ve got to be both mother and father to her.”
“That’s all true. But I’ve come to terms with it.” She ignored her friend’s raised eyebrow. “Part of coming to terms with it is knowing my limitations. I bought Riley Dixon to fulfill the father role for the weekend. How was I to know that he’s a macho jerk who breaks his promises? In my book, that makes him a Fred The Flake clone.” Abby huffed out a breath that lifted her bangs off her forehead. “Like all men, Riley Dixon is ducking his obligations.”
“Not all men are that way.”
“No? Couldn’t prove it by me.”
“Let me rephrase. Not all men are flakes. Just the ones you meet.”
“Why is that? I’m a high school librarian. Every day I deal with kids who don’t return books, don’t turn in assignments and just generally don’t do what they’re supposed to do. It’s my job to mold them into capable, dependable, efficient, honest adults. Admittedly, I’ve only been doing this for a little over three years, but I’ve had students come back and say I’ve made a difference in their lives. So is it just bad karma that I’m surrounded by irresponsible, dishonest men? Am I a flake magnet? Should I roll over and let Mr. Macho walk all over me? What recourse do generally law-abiding people have when someone doesn’t live up to their obligation?”
“Did you or did you not say he offered to reimburse you?”
“He did.”
“So take the money and hire one of those mounted police guys. I hear they’re quite impressive in their tight trousers and red coats. The hats are a little funny-looking, though.”
One corner of Abby’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Texas is a little far from the Canadian border to make that a viable solution.”
“Too bad,” Jamie sighed. “What about a Texas Ranger? The hats are better, and they’re right in our own backyard.”
“That’s law enforcement, not nature guide.”
“They’re hot, too.”
Abby stared at her. “Maybe you need to go home and take a cold shower.”
“I don’t want to go home,” she said, an odd look on her face.
