Lone Star Courtship (4 page)

“With malt vinegar?”

“Of course!” Picky, picky.

“Cod or haddock?”

“I don't knooooooow! If you're not interested I'll leave it for the security guard.”

“No! I'm fully recovered from the tamales and a bit of fish sounds spot-on. I'll be waiting at the door of the Laredo Suite to tip the porter. And, Casey, thank you for such a thoughtful gesture. Quite civilized under the circumstances. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Civilized? Circumstances?

Did that refer to her feelings about his profession? Or something worse? Her curly roots prickled at the thought.

“No thanks required, Barrett. As we say at Hearth and Home, it's my pleasure to serve you.”

She picked up the sack of food and headed for the elevators.

“And as they say in Texas, you ain't seen nothin' yet, pardner!”

In his custom-made pajamas and favorite leather slippers Barrett made a groggy shuffle into the sitting room and retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. As he drank deeply his eye caught the flash of color from the grinning fishes stuck to his hand.

Casey Hardy.

Was this interesting woman simply being kind or was she up to something? Caring for his cuts was one thing, but delivering dinner was another entirely. While the former act had been spontaneous, the latter was deliberate and required at least some planning. Within fifteen minutes of introduction, the lady had made her feelings about his mission quite clear. She didn't like it. And she had given signals that she didn't much like him, either. So what was driving her late-night concern for his nutritional needs?

A light tap, tap, tap signaled the arrival of the bellman. As Barrett pulled the door open he caught an enchanting scent, not at all the fish he was expecting. And the reason for that stood before him, beguiling eyes gleaming as a small smile twisted her lips.

“Good evening, Barrett.” Her gaze swept his buttoned-up appearance. He self-consciously stepped behind the door so that only his head was visible.

“Forgive me, I'm not dressed for company,” he explained.

She waved away his concern, clearly amused by his modesty.

“It's my fault for showing up at this unearthly hour.” She held a brown sack aloft. “But I think you'll be glad I did.”

A mouthwatering aroma wafted across the short distance.

Mmm…English fish and chips! He imagined it…deep-fried, crispy batter drizzled with tart malt vinegar, dipped in creamy tartar sauce. The enticing thought made his spirit ache for the home eight thousand kilometers away. His stomach grumbled for food.

“Now that I think of it, I am a bit peckish. Why don't you let yourself into the sitting room and I'll be right out?”

He left the door standing open and slipped into the bedroom. When he returned with the hotel's signature pink robe belted securely, she was sitting at the small table. The large paper sack had been torn open at the seams and flattened as if a table topper to protect the polished surface.

The woman was thoughtful. Something he'd become unaccustomed to.

As he settled into a chair with the table separating them, she filled two paper plates and chatted as though her appearance at his door was most natural.

“Thanks for letting me come up and share my dinner with you.”

“It's not as if you gave me a choice.”

She cast her eyes downward in a look of contrition he didn't buy for a moment.

“Would you have turned me down if I'd called to ask?”

“Probably…” He smiled when her head popped up at the answer she clearly was not expecting. “…not,” he finished.

Satisfied with the caveat, she continued.

“Late-night comfort food is meant to be shared. It's a Hardy family tradition. Actually, it's more of a weakness. Anyway, my condo is on the other side of the causeway, too far for Captain Jack's to deliver. But the Galvez is smack in the middle of their zone, so here I am.” She halved a still-steaming filet and dragged it through the puddle of ketchup on her plate.

She closed her eyes to appreciate the taste, giving him the perfect opportunity to admire her smooth complexion and dancing curls. Where he'd ended the day as limp and wrinkled as an empty sausage casing, she was every bit as appealing as she'd been during their meeting in her office hours before. Then he recalled her attire at their introduction and realized this vision of perfection before him was only one perspective on Miss Hardy.

How many more were there?

“Ah, so this isn't concern for my well-being, after all,” he observed.

Her gaze met his. He popped a vinegar-soaked chunk of cod in his mouth and waited.

“Sure it is. Partly,” she admitted, and then busied herself arranging a pile of chips. “I could have gone the other way and picked up fried chicken but eating alone is no fun. For either of us. And as long as you're here anyway, I thought you could tell me all about London. I may have business to conduct there soon and I could use some expert guidance.”

“You're asking a barrister for
free
advice?”

He couldn't hold back the smile. She responded with innocent, wide eyes.

“Not entirely free. I paid for lunch
and
dinner, didn't I?”

“True. Very true. And all selections have been enjoyable, so I suppose I do owe you. Why don't you e-mail your questions to me and I will answer in a day or two when I have some quiet time.”

“Quiet time?” She cocked one brow. “Between me and the Cowboy Cartel you're gonna experience America Texas-style for a few days and there's nothing quiet about that. With luck you can have quiet when you're back home this time next week.” She nodded and popped a fat chip into her mouth. The set of her chin said she expected no further argument.

So, she intends to have me under surveillance until she can get me out of town, does she?

Keeping her enemies close seemed to be more than a Zen Post-it for Casey. Well, two could embrace that philosophy.

And it didn't hurt that this woman was the prettiest assignment he'd had for a long time.

A
t 4:00 a.m. the lobby of the hotel was hushed. Only the squeaking of Barrett's rubber soles against the granite floor broke the silence.

“Good morning, sir.” The concierge spoke softly.

“May I offer you some coffee?”

“Thank you, no. I consumed an entire pot in my suite hours ago.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Actually, I slept quite comfortably even considering the amount of fried food I ingested yesterday. My body clock is still adjusting to the time difference so I've been wide-awake and working for hours.”

“There you are, Westbrook!” a male voice boomed. Doc Moseley stood in the hotel's grand entrance, sporting a Cowboy Cartel cap, his boots planted wide as he waved Barrett over.

“Let's get a move on before the wind kicks up any more. The marina's gassin' up the
Albemarle
right now and the bay's gonna be rougher than a cob pretty soon.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to reschedule?”

“Mercy, no! As long as the good Lord provides a new sunrise I'll always pick the worst weather for fishin' over the best weather for workin'!”

Barrett stepped into the predawn darkness and basked in the ocean breeze that whipped his hair. Although fishing would never be his first choice, he had to agree with Doc's assessment. The majesty of the open sea had never failed to produce an intimate connection with the Heavenly Father. Childhood holidays at the seaside with teeth chattering and a body prickled with gooseflesh were the fondest of all his memories.

Just as he reached the cab of the enormous red truck with the interlocking “C” logo on the door, the darkened window slid down to reveal the passengers in the backseat.

“Good morning, Counselor,” Casey chirped, more cheerfully than she felt.

Barrett's dark brows drew together a bit. The rest of his face remained impassive, seemingly not surprised to see her.

“Ah, so it is.”

“Casey, scoot over toward George to make room for our boy here,” Doc instructed before climbing into the cab and slamming the door, giving them no choice aside from compliance.

Manny twisted from his position behind the wheel. “G'mornin', son,” he offered.

George followed suit with a similar greeting and handed Barrett the custom headgear they all wore. “It's nice to have you young folks join us.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Barrett answered as he took the cap and tugged it on. “It was kind of you to include me.”

“Yes, thanks for letting me tag along, too,” Casey added.

“Little lady, you know you're always welcome to join us. But I gotta admit you coulda knocked me off my feet with a dried cow chip when you asked us to swing by for you.” Manny leveled his gaze, telegraphing that he knew she was up to something. “I'm glad you finally decided to take a day off. I don't reckon you've missed a morning roundup with the crew in the ten weeks since we broke ground.”

“Well, Cooper's always telling me to let go of his six-shooter 'cause he knows what he's doing. I figured this was as good a time as any.”

Manny nodded in agreement then eased the big Ford dually across Sea Wall Boulevard to begin the five-minute trip to the Galveston Yacht Club, where the Cartel kept a state-of-the-art tournament boat at the ready.

“Casey, it sounds as if you put in long days,” Barrett observed.

“My family says if I billed by the hour
like some professions—
” she gave the Brit to her right a poke with her elbow “—I'd be able to buy a bank in Grand Cayman. But it's less about the money and more about repaying my family's faith in me by always giving a fair day's work.”

“That's an understatement,” George chimed in.

“This woman can and does work circles around our best crew six days a week.”

“And during siesta break she pitches horseshoes with the boys. Some of 'em can't speak a word of English but there's no language barrier once they get into that pit,” Doc contributed with a chuckle.

“You'll turn my pretty little head with that flattery,” Casey teased.

“No, it's true!” George insisted, leaning forward to see Barrett in the dimly lit backseat. “Then her winnings go to buy everybody pastries from that little Mexican bakery across the street. At two bits a ringer, you gotta be a natural to pocket that many quarters every day.”

“Impressive,” Barrett agreed.

She'd enjoyed the local notoriety for mastering the Texas-style sport so quickly. Even old-timers like Cooper said she had the touch. But winning was simply like breathing, something she did without thinking.

“Oh, you guys make too much of a little meaningless competition.” She gave a dismissive swipe of her hand.

“Meaningless?”
George let his jaw sag to his chest to exaggerate his point. “If it got any more heated out there we'd have to nozzle up the fire hose to cool down the game. Pablo is never gonna get over you challengin' his undisputed position as pit champion.”

“And I'll earn the title permanently before this project is finished.”

“Well, at the rate we're movin' you'll wrap your store in record time. And I must say on behalf of the Double C that we'd never have known this was your first project from the ground up.”

Casey felt Barrett's weight shift on the seat beside her as he tensed. She pretended to check the lace on her Top-Sider to steal a glace at the man to her right. His forehead furrowed above arched brows, just as her father's did over the expectation of an upcoming checkmate when they squared off over chess. So, the discovery that she was a novice at this work made him think she was somehow trapped, huh? Well, three very wealthy men within arm's length would disagree. Could she carefully coax a reference out of them?

“Thank you, George.”

He returned her smile, a gleam of white teeth peaked through a salt-and-pepper goatee.

“That kind of compliment is what makes the sleepless nights preparing for my quality certification worth the investment. By the way, how's that advice I gave you working out?”

“You know what?” He slapped a palm against his thigh. “Once we took a different look at the problem like you suggested, I realized we were goin' about the solution all wrong. Like a hound dog with a head cold, we were barkin' up the wrong tree.”

Manny spoke up. “But ya wouldn't pay heed to me when I tried to tall ya the same thing.”

“Oh hush, you old buzzard!” Doc thumped the back of his hand against the arm Manny rested on the pickup's console. “Given the same choice, who would
you
listen to? A grizzly old cuss who graduated high school number ten in his class of twelve or a pretty filly…”

He twisted to look her in the eye. “No offense meant, Miss Casey.”

“None taken,” she assured him with an encouraging wink.

“Or a pretty filly with more degrees and awards than Carter has little white pills?” Dock looked to both of his partners for agreement.

“No contest,” they chorused.

It was all she could do not to puff on her nails and buff them against her chest. She never personally relayed any of her credentials, but just as Cooper had predicted, the Cartel had done their homework and learned it on their own.

Thank You, Lord.

Barrett's exhale was barely loud enough for her to hear and she felt him relax against the seat back. Was the shift in his body language relief over her credibility or acceptance of their equality?

Either way, he got the point. Hopefully.

Manny lowered the driver's window at the guard gate as a craggy old fellow shuffled out of the security booth.

“Howdy, Nolan. What's the fishin' report got to allow?”

A face weathered from too much sun poked inside. Squinty eyes peered through thick glasses as he identified the newcomers.

“Mornin', Mr. Fernandeeeez, sir.” Nolan drawled out the name, then nodded respectfully to the rest.

“Bad day. The Gulf Stream's so warm the reds are schoolin' on the bottom, too lazy to feed. Goin' out would be a waste of time unless you're in the market to get your lid blowed off.”

“Well, don't that make you wanna spit!” Manny snatched his cap free and tossed it on the dash. “I guess we can burn the fuel to try to prove you wrong, but you've never steered me off course yet.”

“Thank you, sir.” Nolan blinked. “You folks still need me to check you in? Cook's got cheese grits and belly-burner sausages on the menu today.”

Manny turned toward his backseat passengers. “Can we at least buy you breakfast, Westbrook? Sorry about gettin' you out of bed for nothin'.”

“On the contrary, few things appeal to me more than sunrise over open water. Would it be possible to purchase a temporary pass at your club? I'd like to procure a double-handler for the morning if rentals are available.”

“In this wind?” Casey demanded in what the family called her outside voice. Definitely too loud for the truck.

“The wind is what it's all about.” His response was calm, as if reassuring a child.

Doc nodded his agreement. “But you don't need to purchase diddley squat. Any part of this place we didn't build ourselves, we funded with membership fees that are higher than a cat's back. We won't hear of you paying for anything. Just wouldn't be neighborly.”

“You heard the man, Nolan. Call ahead and tell them we're dropping a guest of the Cartel off at the marina office,” Manny instructed.

Barrett looked from one man to the next; all heads bobbed in agreement. Then his gaze rested on Casey's as if asking for a unanimous decision.

“I think you're crazy, but it looks like a done deal to me,” she agreed. “We can leave you here and send someone back later this morning, or whatever you'd prefer.”

“I'd prefer you remain here and accompany me.”

It was neither question nor invitation. He waited for her response while the tip of his tongue made a quick pass over his lips.

If not for the accent, she'd have sworn her brother had issued the statement. It was just the right blend of assumption and dare. His face remained impassive but humor sparked his eyes. He seemed to enjoy this unexpected turn. Had he seized the opportunity to repay her surprises with one of his own?

Her palms grew moist, pinpricks surged through her fingers.

“Great idea, Miss Casey. My Becky Beth says the ocean spray is better for keeping your skin smooth than anything Estée Lauder ever put in a bottle. And it'd do you good to spend a day away from the site.”

“Breathe some sea air,” Doc chimed in.

“That's probably true.” She did her best to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. “But I honestly don't have the time—”

“Oh, I see,” Barrett interrupted. “You made an exception for a fishing trip but you can't carve out a few hours to show a visitor some kindness?”

She felt sweat break out at the roots of her hair. The assumption-slash-dare was obviously intended to get her goat. There was a hungry cat gleam about his pupils. Apropos, since she felt like a fat mouse in the corner, too slow to make it to the safety she was beginning to realize she needed desperately to find. Normally, she'd like nothing better than to best a man at his favorite pastime but she recognized the symptoms bearing down on her.

Not now, God!

She tried to remain calm, to make her deep intakes of breath seem casual.

“Here we are,” Manny announced as they pulled to a stop beneath the portico.

Barrett swung the door wide and stepped down. Before he could push it closed, Casey slid across the bench seat and hopped out behind him.

“Think I'll run inside to see that Barrett has everything he needs,” she announced.

“Do you mind if we come back for you later, Casey?” Doc checked his wristwatch. “I wanna catch the early-bird newscast. Those environmental purists are on the warpath again. Need to see what they're up to.”

“Sure, go ahead. I'll call for a ride.” Casey tapped the cell phone clipped to her waistband. “Sorry to rush off, but I need a comfort break,” she explained as she stepped around Barrett and made a beeline for the entry.

She pulled the heavy door wide and fought the urge to sprint toward the ladies' room. Once inside a private cubicle, she grasped her T-shirt and swept it over her head, flinging it along with her cap to the floor. She pressed her back to the cool stainless-steel wall and gulped air, unable to get enough oxygen. A paper sack would prevent hyperventilation but she hadn't carried one in her handbag for ten years.

Casey trapped her hands between her thighs in an effort to control the trembling. Sweat trickled beneath her arms and down her sides as she hung her head, squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the misery to pass. After some of the longest minutes of her life, the surging of her heart seemed to level off. She collapsed on the closed toilet lid, propped her elbows on her knees, dropped her head and prayed.