Lone Star Courtship (2 page)

His old friend was correct, as always. Barrett had failed to identify his calling within the multifaceted practice, and now he was down to his last chance with their financial division. His test would be to review an international opportunity for one of the firm's most valued clients. His report would determine the future of the partnership. To protect his own future he had no option but to make a trek to the States.

Scratch States. Make that
Texas.

“Come along before the rain starts chucking it down. We'll get curry takeaway and have a talk while you pack.”

Barrett's shoulders sagged as he accepted the finality of the situation.

“Give me a minute, Sig?”

“Of course.”

Barrett lifted his face to the dark, heavy clouds that hung low, blocking Tintagel from the midday sun and the splendor of the heavens. He stood in the increasing drizzle, waiting on a sign. He began to pray aloud, without a care for Sigmund, who'd discreetly turned aside.

“Lord, You've blessed me with every advantage, yet I'm a failure at all I've attempted. I'm prepared to do anything necessary to make my parents proud while I find Your will for me, but must I leave the land I love to discover those things?”

The declaration was sucked from his mouth and flung into the ocean before him. A gale-force wind roared across the black currents, scooped up icy sea-water by the bucketful and swept up the steep cliff. A torrent of stinging ocean spray splashed Barrett hard, soaking him to the marrow and dissolving the last of his doubt.

The drizzle turned to a drenching rain. A fresh blast of wind hit him full in the chest, knocking him off balance. He struggled to keep to his feet, the leather soles of his shoes slipping on the wet ground. He pitched backward, his arms thrown out in a useless effort as he tumbled hard to the seat of his trousers.

An uncontrollable slide toward the sheer cliffs caused Barrett to cast about with his hands, grasping for jutting chunks of stone that slashed his palms as he inched toward Traitor's Gate. He dug his heels into the earth, pushing with all his might. A gush of water coursed beneath him in its rush to blend with the sea. It picked up speed, swept down the slope, whooshed over Barrett and pulled at his sodden clothes, sucking him toward the ledge. Having spent countless days sailing the always-freezing water, there was no terror in Barrett at the thought of falling, of drowning. There was no fear of death, only wry irony that life could end on the cliffs of this magical place, never having found his own Camelot.

Barrett shuddered at yesterday's memory. The Heavenly Father had never taken His eyes away and neither had his friend, Sig. If ever a man had wanted a sign, that was most surely it.

The humid air of Galveston, Texas, was a warm and welcome change.

“Let's sit over here in the shade while you answer my question.” Casey lifted first one heavy boot and then the other across a wooden bench, sat and motioned for him to do the same.

Having lost the thread of the conversation, he simply followed her example. “I'm sorry, what question was that?”

“I asked if you just arrived this morning.” She busied herself with the contents of the sack, laying out napkins and plastic ware.

“Oh, yes. My flight from Gatwick landed in Houston just after daybreak. I rented a car and drove straight down,
Miss
Hardy.” They exchanged smiles. He fancied hers. It was a lovely distraction from the memory he planned to bury forever once the telltale signs were gone from his hands. “It was my intention to introduce myself to your…” He paused, expecting her to fill in the blank.

“Brother. Guy is my big brother. He recently married and settled in Austin, and I've taken over his position as the executive of corporate expansion.”

“That presents quite a different situation than I'd been led to expect.” He couldn't help wondering if his father had known about this all along. “It was my intention to make your brother's acquaintance and agree together on a brief timeline to review all necessary materials.”

She stopped her work of laying out their meal and narrowed unforgettable eyes that reminded him of the bluebells in his mother's garden.

“Who did you say you were with again, Barrett?”

“Forgive me for not presenting my identification when we made introductions.” He drew a slim leather case from his breast pocket and positioned a business card on the table before her.

“Westbrook Partners, Esquire. My family has provided legal representation for nine generations.”

“And your family is diversifying by investing in the U.S. home improvement market?”

“Good heaven's, no,” he insisted, possibly louder than necessary.

The rag the woman had twisted around her head must be too tight. He would never suggest such a thing to his family and wasn't at all sure he'd recommend the client do so, either. This mission was critical and he had no intention of failing. Again.

“Well, you don't have to make it sound like a bad thing.” The tilt of her brows indicated he'd offended her.

“Please, allow me to explain. I represent the U.K. group interested in Hearth and Home. I'm here to review and report on the legal implications of moving forward.”

“So, you're a financial adviser?”

“More accurately, I provide legal guidance on financial matters.”

“You're a
lawyer?
”

She used the word as if it were synonymous with ax murderer.

“I'm a barrister, that's correct.”

She dipped her chin, looked at the items she'd put on the table and muttered something under her breath that clearly included the phrase, “An ambulance chaser with an accent.” She began to unroll one of the tinfoil objects.

He mirrored her actions with the mystery food, having no idea what to expect inside. Hopefully a hearty serving of pork pie or Cornish pasty.

“I see you have high regard for my profession,” he observed, not at all offended. It seemed to be a common opinion the world over.

She raised her face, met his gaze.

“My family lost a small fortune and spent months in court thanks to money-hungry lawyers. Even so, that doesn't give me the right to be rude.” A charming pout puckered her lips. “The simple truth is I'm disappointed. I was expecting your client in person.”

“I'm sorry to let you down. I'll do my best to make amends.” He offered up a smile, removed his suit coat and loosened the Windsor knot in his tie.

Her grin was sheepish. “Now it's my turn to apologize. I've reacted like a petulant child and that is not the first impression I usually give.”

“Nonsense, you cast a lovely image, and perfectly suitable for the surroundings.” He angled his head, indicating the catering coach. Her eyes widened with exaggerated offense.

He raised a sore palm to shield him from the expression. “You must admit, we've both had a bit of a shock in the past half hour. What do you say we start over?” He lifted his soft drink and offered a salute. “To new beginnings?”

The blue eyes narrowed while she considered the proposal, as though it were possible she'd refuse his toast. Then a sly smile curved what might be the most perfect mouth he'd ever seen. She raised her soda.

“To new beginnings,” she agreed.

The two cans made contact with a clunk.

As they flipped the tabs of their drinks and took first sips he considered his interesting change of circumstances. The hard-driving American businessman he'd expected to find had turned out to be an attractive young woman. If her footwear was any indicator she was more concerned with work conditions than appearance. Quite a nice change from most females in his life and nothing at all like Caroline. Maybe his luck was turning about. Maybe this woman would be so involved with the nuts and bolts of construction that she'd leave him to his work.

He felt a burden lift from his heart. Yes, things were looking up. In no time at all, his task would be complete. This trial by Texas would be a thing of the past and he'd be heading home.

He remembered the quote for the day on the calendar in his office.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

He didn't yet know which she was, but either way during his stay in Galveston he'd stick close to
Miss
Casey Hardy.

C
asey watched with fascination as Barrett studied his tamale. His grim confusion was priceless, reminding her of the first time she'd encountered a plateful of boiled crawfish.

“What is this part?” He poked at his food with the tines of a plastic fork.

“A corn husk.”

“So, swine food is to be my first meal in Texas.”

“You don't eat that stuff. It's used to roll the tamale and then hold it together while it's cooking.” She took pity on the guy, something she never thought she'd do with a lawyer. “Here, like this.”

With practiced fingers she peeled away the moist husk to reveal the steamy contents.

“So that's how it's done.” He smiled as he followed her example, but resumed his look of concern when he raised a forkful to his face and studied it.

“The meat on the inside is roasted pork and the stuff on the outside is made from Mexican cornmeal.” She lifted the food with her fingers and put away the tasty Mexican staple in two unladylike bites. Her mother would raise her eyes heavenward and wonder where she'd failed, but with her kids there always seemed to be a connection between clothing and table manners. When they were casually dressed, proper behavior seemed to fly out the window.

To atone, Casey dabbed her lips daintily, wiped her fingers with a paper napkin and then motioned for her company to eat up. Barrett disposed of the initial suspicious bite then forked the rest and popped it in his mouth. He closed his eyes while he chewed as if giving all his concentration to the flavor.

“Jolly good,” was his simple declaration as he motioned toward the sack. “May I have another? I'm famished.”

“That's why I bought a dozen.”

He reached into the brown paper bag. “I'd like to hear the details of your expansion plan. Would you mind telling me something about that while I eat?”

She glanced at the time. Cooper had arranged for their primary contractors to join her in the construction trailer at three o'clock sharp and she still had plenty to do before their meeting. Savannah was nothing if not efficient, so Casey was certain every thing would be pulled together and ready when she took her place at the head of the conference table.

Still, there were things she had to handle herself.

“I've caught you at a bad time, haven't I?”

The worried crinkle around his eyes gave away his anxiety over her response. She waved away his concern while she fished a cell phone from the pocket of her grubby shirt.

“No, but I do need to juggle some stuff. You enjoy your lunch, I'll step away for a few minutes to make some calls and we'll wing it from there.”

In response he expertly shucked his second tamale, ate it in two bites and then mimicked the way she'd dabbed at her lips with a napkin.

No doubt his way of saying he wasn't missing a thing.

Just like a lawyer.

She glanced over her shoulder at the visitor and tried to ignore the tingling in her fingers as she rounded the flatbed trailer piled six feet high with tons of Sheetrock. Guy answered her call on the second ring.

“What's up, kiddo?”

She ducked into the truck's shadow for cover and privacy.

“What's up is there's a lawyer here to see you and it seems he came all the way from London,” she snapped at her brother.

“Oh, he must be the rep from Westbrook Partners.”

“You knew this guy was coming? Why didn't you warn me?” With the first question her temples began to throb. With the second her voice crescendoed to a squeak.

“Easy, girl! You'll shatter a windshield.” His chuckle buzzed in her ear.

“Don't you dare make jokes. Just answer my questions.” She squeezed her cell phone, wishing she could do the same to his neck. It was so like him to test her with a surprise.

“Of course I knew he would be coming eventually but not for another month at least, so I hadn't thought to warn you about him. What does he want?” His calm and lack of excitement was the right medicine to slow her heart from the racing that had begun.

“He says he's supposed to go over our expansion plan.”

“Well, cooperate with him. Let the man have what he needs and then he'll leave.”

“Guy,
he's a lawyer.
We can't trust him with that kind of information.”

“Casey, you can't let our experience in court make you bitter for the rest of your life.”

“But that Nashville lowlife faked his injuries in our store and those lawyers not only went along with the deception, they fought tooth and nail to get that huge settlement.”

“Hon, lawyers are
supposed
to trust their clients and they don't get paid if they don't win.”

How her brother could be so forgiving was a mystery. He'd suffered the most during the dragged out proceedings of the personal injury claim. But he'd given his anger to God and forgiven the people who'd made false claims. Today, he was happily married and about to adopt his wife's precious little son.

“So you've told me a hundred times,” she continued, “but I'm not ready to offer wholesale absolution. In my book the entire legal community is guilty of being money hungry until proven otherwise.”

“Well, reserve judgment and give this fellow the benefit of the doubt, Warden. Westbrook Partners is the most respected law firm in England. Their influence on the investor could make or break our deal.”

“Okay, okay, I hear you. I won't let the family down.”

“Hey, Casey?”

“Yes, Guy?”

“The last thing any of us worries about is you letting the family down. Dad hired you to replace me because you've trained for the opportunity and everybody knows you've earned it, because you keep reminding us. Call me tomorrow.”

“I will. Thanks, bro.”

“Now go leave your mark on Hearth and Home.”

She closed her cell phone and smiled. Guy's reminder of her number-one personal goal was just the thought to get her through the afternoon.

“Yeah, I hear you and I'll do my best to follow your advice, but I'm keeping a close eye on this limey legal eagle, just in case.”

Barrett's clothes were sticking to his skin. Even though he'd shed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, he'd still perspired through his undershirt. His trousers were streaked with whitish dust and his button-down looked and smelled as though he'd worn it to shear sheep.

He was hot, he was uncomfortable and he was beginning to feel the effects of two sleepless nights and jet lag. Add the unaccustomed seasoning of his gluttonous lunch and he was closing in on a sensory meltdown. Still, as much as he wanted to check into the famed Galvez Hotel, take a cool shower and fall across a king-size mattress, he wanted to make progress on this assignment more. Once he had details and a starting point, he could begin organizing his thoughts. He would treat the exercise like the writing of a graduate school research paper. The kind of work he loved. And the reward would be returning to London with a mission successfully accomplished.

Finally.

But right now he had to take his sticky, rumpled self to, of all unappealing places, a construction trailer to observe a woman in dirty work boots giving orders to her hired help. Two hours earlier she'd excused herself and left him in the company of her man Cooper for a tour of the site. While it had been an enlightening use of his time, Barrett's gut told him the gangly old guy was a decoy. In fact, he had the distinct feeling the aging foreman was stalling for his employer. As he aimed disgusting spittle into a paper cup, Cooper was forthcoming enough on matters related to construction but questions beyond that were deflected with shrugs and feigned ignorance. The old boy was about as ignorant as a Scotland Yard detective. Years of Oxford-trained cross-examination skills were essentially wasted on this Cooper fellow.

At the end of the tour Barrett was given directions to the meeting place. He parked his luxury sedan alongside several ostentatious pickup trucks and entered a building that was nicely, if temporarily, constructed.

A blast of cool, dry air greeted him as he stepped inside. Barrett noted the professional decor of the interior, dimly and comfortably lit in contrast to the glaring afternoon sun. For a moment he battled the desire to locate and stand beneath the air-conditioning vent directing the chilly breeze down the neck of his unbuttoned dress shirt.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Westbrook.”

A smiling creature crossed the room.

“I'm Casey's personal assistant, Savannah, and I've been warned about your injuries so I won't offer to shake hands. May I at least get you some tea?”

“That would be lovely. Yes, please. And do call me Barrett.”

“I'll just be a moment, Barrett. There's a powder room through there if you'd like to freshen up.”

The curvy brunette in jeans and sneakers gave him a cheeky smile, made a tick mark on the clipboard she carried and turned to leave.

He seized the opportunity to duck into the small room where he washed his battered hands and splashed cool water on his face. As he stood before a large decorative mirror, he reviewed the day's damage. Dark smudges beneath his eyes, hair askew, clothes limp and wrinkled. He looked as disheveled as he felt. A strong cup of Earl Grey with lemon would help him endure the afternoon. He considered going out to the car for his jacket and tie, but hadn't the energy.

“When in Rome,” he reminded himself of his best friend Sig's advice to blend in rather than stand out. So far everybody he'd encountered was in laborer's attire so there was no need to drag back on the wool jacket that had been so appropriate twenty-four hours ago in fog-dampened London.

Back in the reception area he stepped close to a wall of framed photos that seemed to chronicle the growth of the company. Interspersed with aerial shots of the huge stores were smiling faces of employees at various gatherings. Casey's eyes flashed at him from several of the pictures as she stood arm in arm with people who resembled her too much to be anything but family members. They appeared to be a large and cheerful lot.

“Barrett, if you'd like to join them, the other men are waiting for Casey in the conference room.” The assistant motioned toward the double doors at the end of the reception area.

“Super,” he agreed.

She went before him and pulled one of the doors wide. It was immediately clear his lack of more professional attire was a blunder. Three men were grouped together at the far side of the room, impeccably dressed in summer-weight suits and gleaming leather cowboy boots. Three wide-brimmed straw hats hung behind them on a rack made of some deceased animal's antlers.

“Gentlemen, this is Barrett Westbrook of Westbrook Partners, Esquire.” Savannah made the introductions. “Barrett, may I present Doc Mosley, George Duncan and Manny Fernandez. Keep an eye on your wallet around these three. They're known as the Cowboy Cartel and they'll make a partner out of you quicker than you can sing ‘The Eyes of Texas.'”

“Well done, little lady.” The man identified as George winked at Savannah, a woman less than half his age. “Nice to meet ya, Westbrook. Put 'er there.” He thrust out a tanned and weathered hand.

Barrett extended his palm upward but before he could explain his injuries George had him locked in a grip that nearly induced tears. Doc stepped forward next and clasped with equal fervor. By the time Manny ended his bone-crushing assault, Barrett's hand was numb. He gently flexed his fingers and slipped his right hand into his trouser pocket, determined not to check for bleeding.

“Would you like lemon in your tea, Barrett?” Savannah stood at a sideboard with her back to the men.

“Yes, please. And milk if you have it.”

Her dark head turned as she lifted a glass filled with ice and amber liquid. “It's cold tea and it's already sweet. I hope that's okay since it's the only way to drink it here in Texas.”

“Yes, of course. Even better after such a warm day.”

“Yeah, doggie.” Doc slapped a beefy hand on Barrett's shoulder. “You can't ask for nicer weather than this. Bet the water's eighty in the bay today.”

Barrett's concern for his hand abated. “Eighty degrees Fahrenheit?” That was a Roman bath compared to the ocean temperature back home. He had to find a marina where he could rent a sailboat. Suddenly a short stay in Texas held some appeal.

“Marine report said eighty-one.” Manny nodded.

“Perfect for specks. You fish, Westbrook?”

“Not since I was a youngster on holiday with the family. My grandpa fancied a bit of wading with a surf rod. I myself am partial to a sail over an outboard motor.”

“How 'bout joining us anyway?” Manny extended the invitation. “We're making a run out to Trinity Bay. I'll put you on a mess of trout. What do ya say?”

Barrett glanced toward Casey's assistant who waved away his question before he voiced it.