Love, Lies and High Heels (2 page)

Pivoting around he saw Rusty talking to a man near the front door. Luke recognized him immediately. He was none other than Burke Marcel, the race car driver she’d been seeing.

“Burke,” Rusty said, “this has gone far enough.”

“But you barely looked at the ring.” Marcel shoved a small blue velvet box toward her.

Crossing her arms in front of her, Rusty ignored the box.

“Do you want a bigger diamond? Something more flashy? Is that it?” the man asked, pocketing the ring in a huff.

Rusty’s hands dropped to her sides with a slapping sound. “No,” she said firmly. “I just want you out of my life.”

Marcel’s mouth fell open, and he ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “You don’t mean that, Rustina.”

Hands on hips now, she said, “Yes, I do. Burke, I’ve told you a dozen times that I don’t want to marry you. I don’t love you.”

“What the hell does love have to do with it?” he asked, looking at her as if she were crazy.

She closed her eyes momentarily and let out a long sigh, then folded her arms again. Her gaze drifted toward Luke, then back to Marcel. Lowering her voice, she said, “Burke, please leave now. I have a guest waiting.”

“Who?” he asked, jerking his head around and spotting Luke. “What’s he doing here? Looking for a job?”

Luke straightened his shoulders and met the man’s accusing stare. He didn’t like this guy one bit. “Did you strike up a deal with your pawnbroker for that ring, Marcel? Figure you can pay back all your gambling debts once you’re married to Ms. Paris?”

The man’s face turned red and he clenched his fists. Turning back to face Rusty, Marcel asked, “Who the hell is this yahoo?”

“You’re in debt?” she asked, ignoring his question.

Marcel glanced at Luke, who raised his brows. Let’s see you get out of that one, pal.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Marcel said. “Rustina, are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” Luke intercepted and moved toward them. “As a matter of fact, she is. Now take a hike.”

Turning his full attention on Luke, Marcel said, “Look, cowboy, why don’t you get on your horse and ride on out of here. This doesn’t concern you.” The man was tall, a little taller than Luke’s six-feet-two. But Luke had the power, and both men knew it.

“Burke, please,” Rusty said, then glared at Luke with burning reproachful eyes.

Apparently she wasn’t at all pleased by his announcement that they were seeing each other. Well, that was just too damn bad, Luke thought.

Leveling his gaze on Marcel, Luke said, “I asked you once nicely to leave. If I have to ask you again, I’m going to throw you out.” Okay, so maybe telling the guy to take a hike wasn’t exactly nice, but it was as nice as he was going to get.

Marcel’s expression clouded in anger. “Rustina, just who the hell is this guy ordering me around?”

Luke moved in closer and threw his arm around Rusty’s shoulder in a possessive act. “I’m the other guy,” he told Marcel. “Now get lost.”

Feeling Rusty trying to squirm away from his hold, Luke held her even tighter. Her face colored fiercely until it was almost the same color as her red hair. “Mr. Calloway!” she demanded, managing to break free.

“It’s Galloway. Luke Galloway. I’m surprised you don’t remember, after last night,” he said with a devilish grin.

Marcel spun on Luke and brought his fist up to swing at him. But Luke was faster. Ducking to avoid Marcel, he countered with a right hook, his fist connecting with the man’s nose. Bone crunched, and blood spattered on the man’s white dress shirt and expensive silk tie.

Burying his nose behind his hands, Marcel said, “Ow, goddamnit, you broke my nose, you no good son of a bitch.” Or at least that’s what Luke thought the man mumbled.

“Well,” Luke said, feeling rather pleased with himself, “maybe you should go see a doctor.” With that, he walked the few steps to the front door and held it open while Marcel continued to groan.

Luke noticed the housekeeper, a tray of drinks in her hand, lurking in the hallway and shaking her head as if he should be ashamed of himself. Hell, he was only trying to help. And besides, he wasn’t the bad guy; Marcel was.

Looking disgusted, Rusty said, “Zuri, Mr. Galloway won’t be staying for refreshments, after all.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said and quickly disappeared.

Then, spinning on her heels to face Luke, Rusty said, “Mr. Galloway, you are not helping here.”

“Really? I thought I was.”

Marcel advanced on Rusty, and keeping one hand on his nose, reached for her upper arm with the other. “Rustina, tell me it’s not true, that you’re not sleeping with this guy.” He gave her arm a little shake.

“Let go of me, Burke.”

“Let the lady go,” Luke warned, moving toward him. But before he had a chance to knock the guy on his ass, Rusty stomped on the toe of Marcel’s alligator shoe with the heel of her yellow, three-inch, designer shoe.

“Ow!” the man screamed, hopping on one foot.

“Burke, if you don’t leave this instant I’m calling the police, and the press can just have a field day. And I’ll tell them how pathetic you’ve been behaving. Now, get out of my house!”

To Luke’s amazement, Marcel walked through the door and out onto the front step. Turning to look over his shoulder, he said, “This is it. It’s over between us. I’m not going to ask you to marry me again.” Then he headed for the red Italian sports car that had followed Luke almost the whole way from the airport.

Rusty marched to the door, slammed it shut and sighed with relief. “Thank God for small favors.”

“You’re welcome,” Luke said.

Pivoting around to face him, she said, “I wasn’t talking to you.” She ran her gaze down the front of him and back to his face. “What was it you wanted to see me about?” The look she gave him said she wasn’t used to cowboys calling on her. And apparently she didn’t like the idea either.

“I’m here about your father.”

“Sam?”

Did she have another father? Well, he supposed she’d had six if he included all the stepfathers. “Yes. Sam. He’d like you to come home to the ranch.”

“To Kentucky? To the horse farm? They’re called horse farms in Kentucky, Mr. Galloway, not ranches.”

“Yes, well excuse my ignorance, but calling it by a fancy name doesn’t change what it is. Anyway, Sam sent me here to get you. Escort you, I meant to say.”

Placing both hands on her hips, she said, “Well, as much as I’d like to visit, this isn’t a good time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Galloway.”

“Yes, I can see you’re probably very busy. What is it you do again?”

She dropped her hands to her sides and served him a haughty expression. “Mr. Galloway, please tell Sam that I have a life, and the next time he’d like to arrange for me to visit, he should phone ahead. Maybe he won’t wait twenty-one years the next time.”

Ignoring her, Luke went on. “As I was saying, your father—Sam— would like for you to come home. In fact, our plane leaves in a few hours. Do you think you could throw a few things together in a hurry?” he asked, raking his gaze down the front of her. “Maybe something warmer than what you’re wearing.”

“Like I said, I’m afraid I’ll need a little more notice than—”

“He’s dying.” He’d sworn he wouldn’t say that unless it was absolutely necessary. He hated lying about something as serious as death. Especially Sam’s death, even if it was a hoax. But he’d promised the old man he’d bring Rusty back. And Luke was a man who never went back on his word.

He heard her suck in her breath, saw the mournful look in her green eyes. Maybe she wasn’t as cold as he thought she was. Maybe she had a heart, after all.

Suddenly, she looked as if she were about to collapse, and his hand shot out to steady her, clutching her by the elbow. “You okay? You want to sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, he slid a wingback chair toward her and lowered her into it.

Noticing the bar in the library across the hall, he asked, “Can I get you something to drink? A whiskey, or a brandy?”

“No, thanks. I don’t drink, other than a little wine once in awhile.” He gave her some time to compose herself. Finally, she spoke. “How much time does he have?”

“We’re not sure.” He avoided looking directly at her as he continued the lie, but managed to catch her nodding her head.

“I’ll have Zuri pack some of my things.” Luke helped her to her feet. “I’m fine,” she said, disengaging herself from his grip and giving him a look of annoyance. She glanced at her arm and then back at him before shuddering. As if his hands had somehow left a nasty residue on her creamy, white skin. The back of her left arm had already started to bruise from the rough way Marcell had handled her. The bastard.

Luke watched her walk down the hall and around the corner. While he waited for her to return, he drifted across the hall and nosed in the library. Spotting a photo of Marcel with his arm around Rusty had him narrowing his eyes. They were standing next to his race car, smiling at each other. It was enough to make Luke sick.

He couldn’t imagine making a fool of himself the way Marcel had. To think the man had proposed to her more than a dozen times. Luke shook his head in dismay. He must have been crazy in love with her, or else he wanted her money pretty badly.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Galloway?” Rusty asked, staring at him from the doorway.

“I just realized I forgot to get Marcel’s autograph,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

With her housekeeper on her heels, she rolled her eyes and headed up the staircase.

RUSTY RECOGNIZED THE BLACK Ford out front. The one she’d passed in her hurry to get home earlier.

“Is that everything?” Galloway asked, closing the Ford’s trunk. Zuri had helped Rusty pack some of her things, and he had carried the four bags—two at a time—downstairs and out front. He’d offered, although he looked extremely agitated with her now that the deed was done.

“Yes, for now. Zuri promised to box and ship some more of my things as soon as I call her.”

He rolled his eyes, as if to say, what more could you possibly need. Not that she expected him to understand.

“Then, let’s get a move on,” he announced in that Texan drawl and proceeded to get into the car, ignoring her completely; he hadn’t even offered to open the door for her. Stupid, ill-mannered cowboy, she thought. With her still standing on the curb, he started the engine. When she remained standing, he lowered the passenger window.

After a long, breathy sigh, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No. Not a thing.” She didn’t like him. He was rough around the edges and too sure of himself. And then there was the way he’d man- handled Burke. She had appreciated Galloway coming to her defense, but surely he could have been more civil. She didn’t care for men who tried to settle their differences with their fists. It was not only childish, but barbaric as well.

She thought about giving him a lecture on chivalry, then decided not to waste her time or energy. Pulling open the door handle, she slid onto the seat. She’d barely shut the door, when the man jerked away from the curb. Fumbling with the seat belt, she managed to buckle it as he made his way onto the main road.

Luke Galloway looked a lot like a dark-haired Nick Nolte. Tall, lean and very muscular. He sported a crooked nose, as if it had been broken, and five-o’clock shadow covered his square jaw. There was a small scar above his left eye. And his too-long, straight, ink-black hair kept falling forward. Couldn’t he afford a barber? she wondered, but had no intention of asking.

Next, she took in his clothing. Worn out blue jeans, a faded, red, flannel shirt, and dirty, scuffed boots. A cowboy hat and a sheepskin- lined suede coat sat on the back seat of the car. Although she knew most women would find Luke Galloway attractive—sexy even—he simply didn’t appeal to her. Not in the least.

“You’re not from Kentucky, are you?”

“No, ma’am.” He deliberately added emphasis to his accent, but didn’t bother to say where he was from. He didn’t have to. He was Texas bred, that was obvious by the way he spoke and dressed.

Kentucky horse breeders were a different lot than the Texans. The ones she’d met wouldn’t be caught dead in blue jeans and cowboy boots. But Galloway seemed right at home in his choice of clothing.

She turned her head and stared out the window. For the first several miles, all she could think about was her dying father. She hadn’t seen Sam in twenty-one years. With the exception of her mother’s funeral. He hadn’t looked sick then, older than what she remembered, but certainly not sick. Of course, he hadn’t stuck around very long. He’d come, paid his respects, asked if she needed anything, and left. He’d never even offered to buy her a cup of coffee, chat with her, something, anything, after not seeing each other in a blue moon.

Her parents had divorced when she was only a baby. And she couldn’t remember much about Sam. She had only one photograph of him. He’d been holding her on a horse when she was no older than five or six.

She couldn’t remember much about the farm either, only what little Natalie had told her. Her mother had said it was dirty, primitive, vile, and no place for a young lady. Rusty used to visit her father at that farm every summer. Until the year she’d turned seven. That summer, she’d fallen from a horse and broken her arm.

Natalie had screamed like a banshee when she’d seen Rusty’s cast. She’d accused Sam of trying to turn her daughter into a tomboy. Then she’d announced that Rusty would be attending boarding school that fall— in Switzerland—and would not be returning to the farm. Ever again.

Rusty had cried most every day her first year away at school. A strange country. With no mother, and no father. She’d written to Sam several times, had begged him to come and get her. But he’d never come. And he’d never answered her letters. Finally, after a year, she’d stopped writing to him and accepted the fact that he no longer wanted her in his life.

But now he was dying, and he wanted to see her. She couldn’t just ignore him when he needed her. She couldn’t be cruel.

Turning her attention to Galloway, she asked, “Is he in pain?”

The man shifted his olive eyes her way. “Who?”