Книга - Texas Millionaire

Texas Millionaire
Dixie Browning


THE OIL BARON He was the epitome of masculinity - and rich as sin. But with midlife approaching, Texas baron Hank Langley was in sore need of a wife. And finding a Mrs. Langely from the bevy of social-climbing beauties was a challenge even for this ex-military man. Until Callie Riley, his new, much younger secretary, breezed into his life and took Hank's hardened heart by storm. Suddenly he was learning more about love than he'd ever thought possible.Could the millionaire convince this fresh-faced country girl to say "I do" to an older man? Five wealthy Texas bachelors - all members of the state's most exclusive club - set out on a mission to rescue a princess… and find true love.









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#uacf67250-60cb-5c0a-ae43-b8669815d0cd)

Excerpt (#u7def6e12-8e94-5f8a-8a3c-c468db24a1c3)

Dear Reader (#ueb1c217b-46e1-590e-a5e9-dc6e38c8a036)

Title Page (#u1ff17260-39df-5011-9913-594aca8308d8)

Dedication (#u684ebbfc-8a34-5664-964a-201fd4091b55)

About the Author (#u40f26061-b00d-5140-8df3-86c81ac5d78e)

Praise (#ua78cd419-606b-55b5-a06a-cee415857465)

Chapter One (#uf399009b-0ce5-5528-ad58-b1ed0f7e2573)

Chapter Two (#u1ddbf644-aaf3-5dde-bcb0-5e63792e24f9)

Chapter Three (#u882ee82f-0c7b-5741-9b77-e39ca0f62756)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)



This month, in TEXAS MILLIONAIRE by Dixie Browning, meet oil baron Henry “Hank” Langley, owner of the prestigious Texas Cattleman’s Club. Nothing fazes Hank, not even the dangerous secret mission he’s about to undertake, until…homemaker-at-heart Callie Riley—a fresh-faced, understated, younger beauty—walks into his life!




SILHOUETTE DESIRE IS PROUD TO PRESENT THE







Five wealthy Texas bachelors—all members of the state’s most exclusive club—set out on a mission to rescue a princess…and find true love.

* * *

And don’t miss CINDERELLA’S TYCOON by Caroline Cross, next month’s installment of the Texas Cattleman’s Club, available in Silhouette Desire!


Dear Reader,



Silhouette Desire matches August’s steamy heat with six new powerful, passionate and provocative romances.



Popular Elizabeth Bevarly offers That Boss of Mine as August’s MAN OF THE MONTH. In this irresistible romantic comedy, a CEO falls for his less-than-perfect secretary.

And Silhouette Desire proudly presents a compelling new series, TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB. The members of this exclusive club are some of the Lone Star State’s sexiest, most powerful men, who go on a mission to rescue a princess and find true love! Bestselling author Dixie Browning launches the series with Texas Millionaire, in which a fresh-faced country beauty is wooed by an older man.

Cait London’s miniseries THE BLAYLOCKS continues with Rio: Man of Destiny, in which the hero’s love leads the heroine to the truth of her family secrets. The BACHELOR BATTALION miniseries by Maureen Child marches on with Mom in Waiting. An amnesiac woman must rediscover her husband in Lost and Found Bride by Modean Moon. And Barbara McCauley’s SECRETS! miniseries offers another scandalous tale with Secret Baby Santos.

August also marks the debut of Silhouette’s original continuity THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS with Maggie Shayne’s Million Dollar Marriage, available now at your local retail outlet.

So indulge yourself this month with some poolside reading—the first of THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS, and all six Silhouette Desire titles!



Enjoy!



Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3




Texas Millionaire

Dixie Browning













www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For fellow Cattleman’s Club members Caroline Cross, Peggy Moreland, Metsy Hingle and Cindy Gerard. Ladies, I’ll ride the range with you anytime! Move ‘em out!



Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Dixie Browning for her contribution to the Texas Cattleman’s Club miniseries.




DIXIE BROWNING


celebrates her sixty-fifth book for Silhouette with the publication of Texas Millionaire. She has also written a number of historical romances with her sister under the name Bronwyn Williams. A charter member of Romance Writers of America, and a member of Novelists, Inc., Dixie has won numerous awards for her work. She divides her time between WinstonSalem and the Outer Banks of North Carolina.




“What’s Happening in Royal?”


NEWS FLASH, August 1999—The town of Royal, TX, is all abuzz as to which society beauty Hank Langley, the owner of the prestigious Texas Cattleman’s Club, will take to the annual Cattleman’s Ball. Will it be socialite Pansy Ann Estrich? Or glamour girl Bianca Mullins? And will his date become the future Mrs. Langley?

And speaking of women in the wealthy Mr. Langley’s life, who is Callie Riley, his new young secretary, who’s just appeared on the scene?

Rumors are also running rampant about some late-night meetings at the Texas Cattleman’s Club. What could be brewing among the members? Stay tuned…




One (#ulink_cb58cdf1-dccd-53af-9542-93cc4bc03bf3)


Boot heels propped on the polished walnut windowsill, Hank Langley watched a small jet plane cross his field of vision with deceptive slowness. Absently he tugged up his pants leg and massaged the expanse of scarred, muscular flesh between the top of his custom-made boot and the bottom of his custom-tailored jeans.

He ached. Damn front coming through. If it would bring rain, it would be worth the ache, but it hadn’t rained enough to lay the dust all year. August was August. West Texas was West Texas.

And hot was hot.

Miss Manie rapped once on his door and entered. She was scrupulous about affording him a five-second warning, in case he was up to God knows what behind closed doors.

“You’re hurting again, aren’t you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Don’t you tell me one of your teewydies, young man, you were out until all hours, giving that limb of yours a fit, weren’t you?”

Teewydie was Romania Riley’s euphemism for a polite lie. Evidently it was a Carolina thing. Hank had never heard anyone from Texas use the term. “You know where I was. You know who I was with. If you want a blow-by-blow account, grab yourself a tall, cold beer and take a seat.”

He’d been out with Pansy Ann Estrich, as Manie damned well knew. Wining and dining her, trying to work himself up to committing to something he was nowhere ready to commit to, for no better reason than it was time—it was past time—and the choice had narrowed down to two women. Pansy and Bianca Mullins. Both women were in their middle thirties. Both knew the score. Neither was looking for more in a relationship than he was capable of offering. Personally he thought it was a pretty good deal. Sex, of course. Security, insured by a prenuptial agreement that was fair to both parties. Companionship, and at least one, preferably two, offspring. Preferably male.

“Well?” Miss Manie’s wattles quivered as she waited for enlightenment.

“Well?” Hank tossed back at her.

“Don’t get smart with me, Henry Langley. I knew you back when you couldn’t step out the front door without running head-on into trouble.” She glared at him through the upper half of her bifocals, then glanced down at her notes. “Speaking of trouble, Miss Pansy was on the phone first thing this morning about the Cattleman’s Ball. You didn’t ask her last night, did you?”

“Ask her which, to the ball or to marry me?”

She gave him a look she’d perfected before he’d ever been born. Manie was going to be a problem, no matter which woman he married. “The answer to both questions,” he said dryly, “is not yet.”

He had to be the only six-foot-two, ex-special services millionaire in Texas who allowed himself to be pushed around by ninety-odd pounds of outspoken spinster.

“I wouldn’t jump into anything too fast, if I were you. There’s plenty of time. Oh, and while I’ve got you, Preacher Weldon wants to know about the belfry, and they were short of red roses at the florist, so I sent Bianca pink ones, instead. If you ask me, she was hoping for something a lot more substantial than a bunch of flowers.”

Hank refrained from sighing. He’d gone out with Bianca Mullins three times last week, exploring the possibility of spending the rest of his life with a woman who had the body of a centerfold and the brain of a high school dropout.

At least she had a sense of humor. Pansy didn’t.

He flexed his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension, stroked his pants leg down to cover his scarred flesh and swung his feet down off the windowsill. Miss Manie had lectured him more than a few times about his habit of plopping his feet on the furniture, but dammit, it was his furniture, his office—damned near his town.

And he ached. His left leg still carried a few pieces of scrap metal from the crash that ended his military career. It caused some problems with airport security, but otherwise, it was no big deal unless there was a sudden drop in barometric pressure. According to the team of surgeons who had worked him over, retrieving every last fragment would have caused more damage than it was worth.

That was a matter of opinion, but he willingly accepted responsibility for the occasional ache. He’d been the one to run off and join the Air Force against his parents’ wishes. Back in those days he’d been into rebellion, big time.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “I’ll deal with Pansy and Bianca, you can tell the reverend to call in his carpenters, and pink ones are fine, unless you know something about the language of flowers that’s going to land me in trouble.”

“Hmmph. Nobody these days pays any attention to that kind of thing. Leastwise, none of those women of yours.”

“You make it sound like I’m supporting a harem.”

Saved by the bell. Hank had two cell phones and a private line, but most calls were routed through Miss Manie’s desk. On the second ring, Manie said, “I’d better get that, it’s probably the kitchen about those temporaries we’re fixing to hire for the ball, but remind me to tell you about my great-niece when you have a minute.”

Her great-niece? What, had the kid graduated from high school or something? He’d send her the usual. There was always somebody on his staff with a kid graduating from somewhere. Manie could handle it. She always handled the personal side of his life. Not that her relatives were his personal business. He hadn’t even known, except in the vaguest terms, that she had any relatives left back in North Carolina. Considering how long she’d been a part of his life, he knew surprisingly little about the woman who served as conscience, security guard, surrogate mother and outspoken personal assistant, other than the fact that her only brother had died a year or so ago.

One more testimony to what a self-centered bastard he was.

The streak of dirty tan sky that showed between the linen drapes grew paler as the wind picked up, blowing clouds of sand and salt from the dry bed of Salt Lake. “Rain, dammit,” Hank grumbled. “Go ahead, cut loose. I dare you.”

He was limping. He almost never limped. Hated any sign of weakness, in fact. But then, when a man was facing middle age, it was only natural that he began to show a few signs of wear and tear.

Pity he had so damned little else to show for his years, but he was working on it. He’d given himself until his rapidly approaching fortieth birthday to settle the course of his future.



He took Pansy Estrich to dinner again that night, because she’d waited until Miss Manie had left for the day and poked her head into his private office, offering him one of her winsome smiles. “Hank, can we talk?”

He’d been looking forward to a long, hot soak in the king-size bathtub he’d had installed a few years ago, followed by a double order of his chefs garlic-grilled gulf shrimp, a fine cigar, a stiff drink and good night’s sleep.

Fat chance. Until he came to a decision, talking to either woman was risky business. He was still hovering on the brink of making a decision, and dammit, he refused to be shoved. But he said, “Give me time to wind up some business, and we’ll have dinner. Pick you up in an hour?”

“Why don’t I just browse the shops and then come back?”

“Fine. Meet you downstairs in one hour.”

Hank lived above the sprawling, exclusive gentlemen’s club his grandfather, Henry “Tex” Langley, had established nearly ninety years ago. He maintained an office there, with an anteroom office for Manie, the only woman with free access into his private domain. For a single businessman it was an ideal setup, but if he chose to marry, he was going to have to make some changes. Wives were territorial. Neither of the two finalists liked Manie, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

Besides, the club was no place to raise a family. Despite the ladies’ parlor his father had set aside, it was still primarily a male domain, and Hank intended to enjoy it until the bitter end.

“Or I could wait for you up here,” Pansy said hopefully.

He nearly blurted, Good God, are you still here? “Thanks, but old Tex would roll over in his grave.” Hank knew better than to set any precedents. Give a woman an inch and the rest was history.

For the next forty-five minutes he played phone tag with club member Greg Hunt, who’d left a cryptic message earlier, talked to his broker, to the head of his accounting firm and to the chief designer at the avionics firm that built his new Avenger with a suggestion for making the flight deck more pilot-friendly.

Through it all, the feeling of being in the crosshairs persisted. Being a matrimonial target was nothing new to a bachelor pushing forty who happened to be the sole owner of the exclusive Texas Cattleman’s Club as well as the state’s biggest oil baron, according to a prominent financial journalist.

All the same, there were days when he felt like nothing so much as a side of fresh beef thrown into a pool filled with hungry sharks.

Oil baron. He hated the sound of it, but it had been applied to the men of his family for three generations. It had started out way back in the early part of the century when Langley One had blown in, followed within the week by three more, all flowing at better than ninety barrels per day. His father, Henry, Jr., had expanded the family business by leasing drilling rights all across the south, including the Gulf of Mexico. Some were still operative, but only about ten percent of the Langley wealth was tied up in oil at the moment. Most of Hank’s investments were in technology, Texas having already moved ahead of Silicon Valley in the computer field.

But wealth was wealth and women were women, and regardless of his decision that it was time to marry if he ever intended to, Hank had no intention of going meekly to the highest bidder.

At Claire’s, the town’s finest French restaurant, Hank ordered his usual rare sirloin with a side of lobster, hold the fancy sauces. Pansy, wearing a casual outfit the color of dry sand that matched her hair perfectly, spent fifteen minutes poring over the menu, then ordered her usual Bloody Mary, snails in plain butter, salad with extra dressing, fresh croissants and diet soda.

The long-suffering waiter nodded, and Hank gave him a look of silent commiseration.

Pansy wanted to talk about the club’s annual ball. “You didn’t invite Bianca, did you? She said you hadn’t.”

“I’ve been too busy worrying with the business end to think about the personal end.” It was no less than the truth. He’d had a steady stream of charities in and out of his office for the past couple of weeks, eager to hop aboard before the train left the station. Fund-raising was the biggest growth industry in town, and the club’s annual ball was the charity event of the year, the proceeds being divided among a varying, carefully selected list of local charities.

On the personal side, at last year’s event one of Bianca’s friends had announced her engagement. The year before, Pansy’s younger sister had chosen that particular arena for the same announcement. It was becoming the place to announce plans of a matrimonial nature. Hank couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the sharks were moving in for the kill.

Pansy waited for the waiter to open her napkin with a fine French flourish and spread it over her lap before launching onto a fresh topic. “Hanky, don’t you think it’s time to have that old place redecorated? I mean, all that heavy paneling and those ugly old animal heads. It’s depressing. Nobody has animal heads these days.”

Hanky? “Mounted trophies are traditional.”

“Oh, poo on tradition, what you need is something light and cheerful. I could give you a few suggestions,” she added coyly.

“I’m sure you could. Look, Pansy, I appreciate it, but the members—”

“They’d love it. You can’t tell me anyone wants a herd of gloomy old moose heads glaring down at them all the time. Didn’t you ever hear of animal rights? Give the poor things a decent burial.”

“What did you have in mind, mounted teddy bears? Or maybe some dried-flower wreaths?”

“Oh, God, you’re in one of your moods again, I can tell.”

One of his moods? Was he really that bad? He’d thought he was being pretty damn reasonable for a man who was starting to think seriously about marriage for the first time in his life.

The second time, actually, but his first marriage didn’t count. If he’d had a functioning brain back then, it had been below the belt.

All the same, Pansy was getting a little too territorial. When anyone, man or woman, moved in on him too fast, old military habits took over and he threw up a barricade.

Or in this case, a red herring. “Speaking of decorating, I’ve been considering doing something to the Pine Valley house, maybe putting it on the market.” It had been his father’s house, bought for his fourth wife only two years before they’d both been killed in an avalanche on a skiing trip. Hank had inherited it, along with everything else. He’d hung onto it, not for sentimental reasons, because his father had lived there, but because good real estate was a sound investment.

Pansy pounced like a hound on a ham bone. “Why don’t we run out there after we leave here and look it over? I know this perfectly marvelous decorator in Odessa—Mama had him last spring.”

Pansy’s mama had had half the men in Texas. That was no recommendation.

“Uh…I’ve got to fly up to Midland tonight—” He invented a business trip on the spur of the moment. “Maybe when I get back…” He checked his watch, and then checked it a few more times when she was slow in taking the hint. There was something about that avid look on her face that made him distinctly uneasy as he led her outside the restaurant and signaled for his car to be brought around.

Go ahead, pop the question. What are you waiting for, violins?

Hank told himself he was waiting for his gut to settle down. Even without all the fancy sauces, French food was too rich for his blood, but Pansy loved the place.

He drove her home, as she’d sent her own car home earlier, and walked her to the door. Declining her invitation for a nightcap and whatever else she had in mind, he left her on her doorstep, but not before she kissed him goodnight. Latched on to him like moss on a wet rock and let him have both barrels.

Hell, he was only human. He kissed her back, tasting buttery lipstick, inhaling her overpowering perfume, wishing he felt a spark of interest. Objectively speaking, she was a gorgeous piece of work, and it had been a long dry spell, seeing as how he was inclined to be particular where his sex life was concerned.

And besides, if he was going to marry the woman.

It wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Didn’t know exactly what it was he was holding out for, but he suspected that Pansy Ann Estrich didn’t even come close. So he managed to escape unmolested, then asked himself on the way home if he was being a damned fool to turn down what she was offering, with or without a commitment.

Nah…he wasn’t. He was finally facing up to the depressing fact that unless he married and had children of his own, Henry Harrison Langley, III, was a dead end, the last of three generations of spectacularly successful men. The trouble was, he was increasingly certain that Pansy wasn’t the answer. For one thing, she didn’t like children. For another, she lacked even a vestigial sense of humor.

And then there was the inescapable fact that odds were against any man of his age, and with his family history, making a successful marriage. His grandfather had been widowed twice and divorced once, back in the days when divorce was tantamount to disgrace. His father had run through three more wives after Hank’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter.

Aside from all that—or maybe because of it—he was pretty much of a loner. At the age of seventeen he’d eloped with a fifteen-year-old cheerleader who’d lied about her age. Hank’s idea of marriage had been nonstop sex. Tammy’s had been nonstop shopping. Major incompatibility. His father had paid her off and had the marriage annulled, which had broken Hank’s heart, but opened his eyes.

Inherited wealth had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, despite the fact that he had managed to triple his inheritance by careful management and shrewd investments. He had a low tolerance for sycophants which, over the years had led to a growing sense of isolation. From youthful recklessness that had carried him through a few high-risk military actions, he’d gradually slipped into a dull sense of reserve that occasionally bordered on the paranoid. He put it down to being who he was: the richest kid in town, who’d done little to prove his own manhood.

Not that he hadn’t tried. But ever since his youthful fit of rebellion, his lawyers, both corporate and personal, tended to get antsy if he went out with the same woman more than three times in a row. Pansy and Bianca checked out because they were in his income bracket, give or take a few sets of zeros.

As for Miss Manie, she turned into a fire-breathing dragon whenever she thought he was about to be trapped by one of the women she called scheming hussies and shameless gold diggers. And while he depended on her judgment on most things, the truth was, he was getting pretty damned tired of playing dodge-the-wedding-ring, and the only way he could figure to end the game was to pick out the best of the lot and do the deed.

The red light on his message machine was blinking rapidly when he let himself back into his rooms over the club. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he cleared the decks, he switched on the playback. Greg’s voice erupted into the quiet room.

“Greg here. Listen, Hank, I think I’ve got a situation brewing and I’m going to need your help. Probably Forrest and Sterling, too, before it’s over. I won’t lay it out over the phone, but I need to see you as soon as you can spare some time. It’s urgent.”

A situation? What the hell was that all about? Methodically, Hank unbuttoned his shirt, eased it off his shoulders, stretched his arms over his head and yawned. God knows, he could do with a distraction. This business of getting himself engaged was the pits.



Romania Riley eased her bunions into a basin of hot Epsom salts, breathed out a sigh and took a swig of her homemade blackberry wine. She’d learned to make it at the age of fourteen, when a jar of improperly sealed, homecanned blackberries had fermented and blown the lid off, spattering everything in the kitchen, Manie included.

For months she’d been fretting over what to do about all the women who were making nuisances of themselves over her boy. Not a single one of them wanted him for the kind, sensitive man he was. All they were interested in was the wealth and position he represented. As if money was the answer to life’s problems.

Money hadn’t made Hank’s father a happy man. As for that old goat, Tex Langley, he’d been the worst scalawag that ever walked on two legs, not that you’d ever hear a word of criticism from the folks of Royal, Texas. He might’ve fooled most of ‘em into thinking he was some kind of saint, but Manie had known the man behind the legend.

She’d been eight and a half years old when her mama had run off and her father, Alaska Riley, had picked up and moved to Louisiana, following the oil company that had been drilling off the coast of North Carolina. They’d lived there for a few months, camping out like gypsies, just the two of them and Pa’s old dog, Dog. Dog ran off one night in a thunderstorm. He never did come back, and it broke her father’s heart because Dog was family. He’d been even older than Manie at the time.

Manie didn’t know how old she’d been before she understood about her father’s drinking. She’d always been aware that his moods swung from high good humor to the mean miseries. Following the miseries he’d lay out for a few days, sick as a dog, and then he’d swear off drinking. Manie always got her hopes up, but it never lasted long.

From Louisiana they migrated to Texas. Pa swore off the bottle for nearly six months, and they moved into a tworoom house and Manie got to go to school. For a little while, everything was nice as pie. But then, her father fell into bad company. Before long he’d gone back to his old ways. Manie fussed at him because she was scared, but fussing only shoved him into the mean miseries.

There came a time when he took real drunk two days before payday, and Manie without so much as a bean or a biscuit in the house. She couldn’t even scrape up ten cents for a loaf of bread, so she hitched a ride into town in a feed truck—back in those days, Royal had been nothing at all like it was now.

Everybody knew where old Tex lived. The man owned practically all of West Texas. She’d hopped off the back of the truck, marched right up the front walk, banged on the door of the Langley mansion, and when the housekeeper had opened the door, she’d demanded the money owed her father for three days’ work.

The housekeeper had tried to shoo her away, but Manie refused to budge. Pa would skin her alive if he ever found out what she’d done, but she was desperate and hungry, and she couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn.

“You go ‘round to the back door, I’ll see if Mist’ Tex’s home.”

Manie went. Back door, front door—what difference did it make as long as she got what she came for?

Only she hadn’t. The housekeeper had come back and told her that Mr. Tex said to go by the field office Monday morning, and then the woman had slammed the door in her face.

She’d felt like throwing a flower pot through the window, but they’d only sic the dog or call the law, and Pa would find out and get really, really mad.

But she couldn’t wait, she was too hungry. She didn’t want a check from the field office, either, she wanted real cash money that she could take to the grocery store and buy food before her father got his hands on it and spent it all on whiskey.

So she banged on the door again, reminding herself that she was a Riley, and Rileys were Good People. She could still remember hearing her father say so, back before her mama had picked up and left. In Pa’s case, the stock might have run to seed, but Manie knew better than to act like trash. She might be hungry, but she had her pride.

Her knocks went unanswered, and she was too short to reach the big brass knocker. Finally, blinded by tears of sheer frustration, ten-year-old Manie had slammed out the front gate and run head-on into young Henry, who had heard her out, tears, sobs, runny nose and all. Then he’d kindly explained that her father couldn’t work out at the field any more because he was too unreliable, and on a drilling rig, that could be dangerous, but that he’d see that she got any back pay coming to him.

Then he’d taken her home to his wife—his first wife—who had given her a glass of buttermilk and offered her a job after school and on weekends helping out in the kitchen.

Mercy, had it really been almost sixty years since then? It had been a wild ride, keeping up with the Langleys, but she wouldn’t trade a speck of it for any amount of money. Child to woman, she’d been there through good times and bad, first when old Tex died, then when her father had passed away with the liver trouble, and a year later when Hank was born and a few years after that when Mr. Henry lost his wife and his newborn daughter.

She had watched young Hank grow up, loved him as if he were her own, and done her best to look after him when his father had taken up with one woman after another and gone chasing off to all those fancy places in Europe.

She’d done a fair job of raising the boy, too, if she did say so herself. She knew his shortcomings and his longcomings and would be the first to admit he had his share of both.

But right now, he was going through another dangerous stage, and it was up to her to see him through it. Temptation was a hard thing to resist when it came all dolled up in tight dresses and blue eye shadow, reeking of fancy perfume and using language no lady ever used in front of a gentleman. That kind of temptation spelled trouble, sure as the world.

But Manie had a plan.




Two (#ulink_8acdf1a6-4066-5f80-81fd-d7d8e70a5a2d)


Early on a Saturday morning, shoulders squared, head held high, Callie locked the front door, took one last walk around the house to be sure she’d remembered to close all the windows and fill all the feeders and headed for Texas.

“Grace, I’m on my way. Feed my birds about Wednesday, will you?” she called to her neighbor at the foot of the road.

“I’ll check every couple of days. See you in a week or so. Drive safe, have a good time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Callie promised, her mind already miles ahead. This was a mission, not a vacation. Never given to impulsive acts, she had thought it through carefully, made her lists, pro and con, and checked one against the other. And now here she was, finally on her way.

By Tuesday, second thoughts were rapidly piling up. Back home in North Carolina, it had all sounded so logical. Now that she was actually in Texas, she was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t have talked her plan over with Aunt Manie first instead of springing it on her out of the blue.

Quit fretting, Caledonia, it’s too late now. You’ve done all that work on the house and shut off the mail and paper delivery. You buttered your bread, now lie in it.

She was tired, that’s all it was. Besides, everything out west was so blessed big. This was the first time she’d ever even crossed to the other side of the Blue Ridge mountains. What in the world had she been thinking?

Back when the idea had first come to her, it seemed like the most logical thing in the world. She’d never even met Great-Aunt Manie until Grandpop Riley’s funeral last September, but the two of them had hit it off right away. Aunt Manie was so much like Grandpop, which was perfectly logical. They’d been brother and sister, after all. They shared the same common sense approach to life, the same dry sense of humor. They even looked alike, both being spare of frame and stern of face until you caught the twinkling eyes and the little twitch at the corner of the mouth.

And besides, Aunt Manie used to live in Grandpop’s house. It was Callie’s now. Nobody else wanted it, at least not to live in. Her father, who had grown up there, called it an old relic, which it was, which was why Grandpop had left it to Callie and not his own son.

It had taken practically all her savings, but she’d fixed the old place up so that Aunt Manie wouldn’t give it that sad-eyed look, the way she had after the funeral. A new roof, at least on the south side, where the sun baked the shingles so that they curled up and leaked. A fresh coat of paint in a lovely shade of gray, with contrasting trim. Next she was going to tackle the plumbing and wiring, but first she’d have to find another job and build up her savings again.

But the yard was in fine shape. Surrounded by rhododendrons and weeping cherry trees, flame azalea and the day lilies that Grandpop had called backhouse lilies, it sat plank in the middle of seven acres of woodland a few miles from Brooks Cross Roads. For someone who preferred life in the slow lane, it was ideal.

And Callie was definitely slow-lane material. Driving to Yadkinville five days a week to work was fast enough for her. And at Aunt Manie’s age, she was going to fit right in.

Callie’s father, Bainbridge, had expected her to sell out as soon as the will had been probated. Ever since he’d given up his position with the insurance company and gone to being a full-time potter and part-time fiddler, he’d been looking for ways to make money. Unlike Callie, he hadn’t inherited his father’s philosophy of work hard, live cheap and lay by for a rainy day.

He should have thought of that before he’d quit. Her mother was just as bad, but then, Sally Cutler was only a Riley by marriage. Riley tradition didn’t mean doodleysquat to her, never had. After working her way up to assistant manager at Big Joe Arther’s Motors and playing the organ at the Brushy Creek Church for as long as Callie could remember, Sally had hit menopause. She’d dealt with it by bleaching her hair, eating a lot of soybeans and playing keyboard with a homegrown country rock band who called themselves The Rockin’ Possum.

For the past few years Bain and Sally had taken in every fiddler’s convention and craft show between Galax and Nashville, leaving Callie and Grandpop to take care of each other. Which suited Callie just fine. She’d had her job, and Grandpop had had his garden.

But then last fall Grandpop had passed over. Died in his sleep, peaceful as a dove. And Callie had finally met his sister Romania, and one thing led to another, and now here she was in Texas, of all places.

Manie had told her back when she’d come east to the funeral that her own roots were in Texas, but Callie hadn’t believed it, not for a minute. Her leaves and branches might be in Texas, but Manie’s roots were back in the thick red clay of Yadkin County, North Carolina.

Callie hadn’t mentioned it at the time, but the plan had already started to simmer in her mind when they’d driven around to see all the new development and the old familiar places. Callie was a good planner. So far as she knew, she was the only truly reliable member of her immediate family, because even Grandpop had run off and joined the Merchant Marine when he was barely old enough to shave.

As for Aunt Manie, it was too soon to tell. If she needed looking after, then Callie was the one to do it. If, on the other hand, she was simply looking for a place to retire, why then, what better place than the home where she’d once lived as a girl? The plain truth was, Callie was lonesome in that big old house. And family was important. Now that Grandpop was gone, and her parents didn’t need her—not yet, at least—she was free to look after whichever family member needed her most.

It was the perfect answer for both of them. Once Manie was back in Yadkin County, where Rileys had lived since they’d crossed the Yadkin River on a ferryboat, driving a mule-drawn cart, she’d forget all about the Langleys.

Langleys. To hear her talk, you’d think they were second cousins to God, or something. In the week her aunt had been there, Callie had heard more than enough about their wonderful oil wells, their beautiful mansion and their fancy, exclusive, rich-man’s club. At the age of sixty-nine, according to Manie—seventy-two, according to Grandpop—poor Aunt Manie was still slaving away for the last of her precious Langleys. She’d described him as sweet, sensitive and vulnerable, with women trying to marry him for his money.

There was nothing sweet, sensitive, or even decent about a man who would allow a woman to work years beyond retirement age when she had a perfectly good home to go back to and a niece willing and able to look after her.

Besides, he sounded like a wimp. While the term sensitive might apply to old Doc Teeter, the man Callie had worked for ever since she was sixteen years old, she couldn’t see it applying to a rich, middle-aged bachelor. The man was obviously spoiled rotten. Probably one of those playboys who had their picture taken for People magazine with models and actresses draped all over him.

Well, Callie was calling the shots now. She hadn’t worked for a family practitioner all these years without learning a thing or two about handling people. Male, female, rich, poor, young or old, they were all the same when they were sick and scared. She stopped in Odessa for a chicken sandwich and a glass of iced tea, placed a call to her parents’ downtown loft in Winston-Salem and happened to catch her father in. Even though she disapproved of their lifestyles and some of the wild company they kept, she worried about them.

“Daddy? I’m in a place out in Texas called Odessa. It’s not too far from Royal, so I guess I’ll be getting in late this afternoon. Are you and Mama going to be home for a while? I worry about you when you’re on the road.”

“We’re heading out for Nashville come morning. I’ve got a big craft show this weekend, and the Possums are going to make a demo.”

“Oh. Well, call me when you know where you’ll be staying, all right? I gave Mama Aunt Manie’s number. And remember to take your pills with you, and don’t forget to walk at least a mile a day. I know it’ll be hot, but if you set out first thing in the morning—I know, I love you, too, Daddy. You be sure and go with Mama to those clubs, y’hear? You know what kind of people hang out in those places.”

Callie didn’t even know herself, not firsthand, but she’d heard things and read things, and her mama wasn’t exactly famous for her common sense. She had to trust her father to look after them both, which didn’t give her a whole lot of confidence, but she didn’t know what else to do. They were both in their middle fifties, but neither of them had a lick of common sense.

Had she remembered to bring Grandpop’s old photo albums?

She had. They were packed with the tube of Moravian cookies and the Moravian sugar cake, which was squashed and probably starting to mold, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Reminders of home, of childhood. It couldn’t hurt.

Lordy, she was tired. She’d never driven any farther than Raleigh, and now here she was, striking out across the country like a pioneer. Not that the interstate was any wagon trail. Not that her little red car was any covered wagon, either, but all the same, she felt proud of herself for setting out to rescue an elderly relative in need.

The Riley women—at least those who’d been born Rileys—might be short on looks and weird on names, but according to Grandpop, they had never lacked for gumption when something needed doing.

And Callie had convinced herself that Manie needed rescuing. She had the house all ready. She had taken her time looking for a new job after Doc retired, knowing she’d be heading west for a week or so, but as soon as they were back and settled in, she’d set out and find something that suited her.



Hank was tired when he got back from Midland. The unscheduled trip to his corporate headquarters, as it turned out, had been timely. He had an outstanding board of directors, but as Badge One, he occasionally found it necessary to question what he considered a risky move. Nine times out of ten, he was proved right. The tenth time served to keep him humble.

Greg Hunt was standing by the massive fireplace under the life-size portrait of old Tex Langley when Hank walked in. There was a private entrance to the second floor, but it was seldom used. The two men met in the middle of the room.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, come on upstairs.” A close friend, Greg also served as his personal attorney, but Hank had a feeling this was about something entirely different. “You mentioned a situation. What’s up?” He led the way toward the broad staircase. There was an elevator, but like the private entrance, it was seldom used.

“I’d better fill you in on the background first, then we can take it from there.”

Hank poured his friend a drink, lit his own cigar and settled in to listen. He’d learned a long time ago that a moment of distraction during a briefing could spell disaster down the road.

“You remember my mentioning a woman named Anna?”

“Real looker? You had something pretty heavy going with her a while back? Family’s European and big on rules?”

“Yeah, well I forgot to mention her family name. She’s Anna von Oberland, of the Osterhaus von Oberlands. Crowned heads of a small European country. They’re pretty big on arranged marriages.”

“The hell you say. You’re marrying into royalty?” Hank stumped out his cigar and leaned forward.

“If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a problem. They’ve got her in exile. I’m not even sure how she managed to get a call through, but thank God she did.”

Hank waited. Greg was a lawyer. The information would emerge in the proper form, at the proper time.

“You’ve heard of Ivan the Terrible?”

Hank nodded. Greg scowled. “From what I hear, this guy who’s determined to marry her is a dead ringer. Prince Ivan Striksky of Asterland, who’s interested in expanding his holdings any way he can. Marrying Anna is easier and cheaper than a full-fledged invasion. Did I mention she has a son? She’s also the guardian of her late sister’s twins, which is probably going to mean a separate mission as I understand they’re being held in another location. Getting all four of them out of the country is going to take some tricky maneuvering and a whole lot of luck.”

“Count me in.”

Greg drained his glass, sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I already have. I’ll get back to you after I talk to the others.”



For a long time after Greg left, Hank sat tilted back in his favorite chair, booted feet on the windowsill, staring out the window as another hot day drained from the colorless sky. Aside from the creak of his chair, the only sound to be heard was the quiet whisper of cold air feeding through the elaborate system of ductwork.

A situation?

Hell, it was a full-blown technodrama. Romeo and Juliet out of Indiana Jones.

At thirty-two, Greg Hunt was nearly eight years Hank’s junior. The man was brilliant, experienced, old enough and smart enough to avoid trouble of the female variety. This Anna of his must be something special. With three kids, yet.

He only hoped she was worth it. They’d left it with the understanding that Greg would consult with Sterling Churchill, Forrest Cunningham and Greg’s younger brother, Blake, who was into cloak-and-dagger stuff for the feds. All five men, Hank included, were ex-military. It was one of the things they had in common, besides being highly successful in their individual fields.

Hank had assured Greg of his support, both financial and otherwise. Talk of undertaking a mission brought back a rash of old memories. For the first time in years, Hank felt the familiar surge of excitement, as if he were back with the First Battalion of the 160th Special Ops, being briefed for another black SOF mission.

His career with the military had been the most rewarding period of his entire life. Never before or since had he felt so fully alive. He might even have made the service a permanent career except for the confluence of several events, including his father’s death, a crisis in the oil industry and the crash that had landed him in a Turkish hospital with a flock of surgeons squabbling over whether to do a chop job or try to patch up his mangled left leg.

The truth was, he missed it.

Hank had been eighteen when he’d enlisted. Reckless, resentful and still raw from his aborted marriage. Toting a redwood-size chip on his shoulder, he’d been determined to prove something—God knows what—to his old man.

Instead he’d proved something to himself. Now, some twenty-one years later, he knew who he was, what he was made of and what he was capable of achieving, either as a part of a team or on his own.

And none of it had anything to do with the fortune amassed by previous generations of Langleys.

Of the five people Hank trusted most in the world, four were ex-military and Cattleman’s Club members, like himself. The fifth person with whom he would trust his life was Romania Riley. Prim, scrappy Miss Manie, a woman who smelled like lavender and who could throw the fear of God into the club’s two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-marine chef with one look over the gold rim of her bifocals. The lady might drive him nuts on occasion, but she did it with the best intentions in the world.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, there came a familiar rap on his door. Hank managed to lower his feet a moment before Miss Manie marched into the room with that familiar look that invariably spelled trouble.

“Now, you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but just listen and don’t interrupt until I’m done, all right?”

“If it’s about—”

“Hush. I haven’t even started yet.”

Hank hushed. When she was done, he decided she’d been right. He didn’t like it. Naturally he started arguing. “Look, just go ahead and take off as long as you need, you haven’t had a vacation in years. Your brother’s funeral last fall didn’t count. Just get me someone down from the main office before you go, okay? Helen will do just fine.”

“Helen’s not going to drive all the way from Midland every day just to—”

“She can put up in staff’s quarters for the duration.”

“What, and leave her family behind?”

“Helen’s got family?”

Manie shook her head, causing her bifocals to slide down her long, thin nose. “I declare, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t have a speck of decency in you. You don’t know doodle-squat about all the folks who work their fingers to the bone for you.”

“Maybe not, but I pay ‘em damned well. And I do know Helen can suck data out of a computer faster than anyone else on my payroll.”

“That may be, but did you know she has two sons and a husband, and teaches Sunday School at the First Baptist Church? Did you know—”

“Manie, get to the point. What does all this have to do with your niece?”

“Great-niece. She’s all the family I’ve got left in the world, poor little thing.”

When Manie put on her “poor lonesome me” act, it was time to take cover. “Fine. Or sorry, depending on your sentiments. Is the kid weaned yet? Do I need to hire a nanny?”

“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

“Enough to know you want me to baby-sit while you go up to Midland. Have you and Helen planned a big shopping spree or something?” The two women had kept in touch even after Helen had transferred to headquarters after Hank’s father’s death.

Manie made a sound that was part snort, part huff. He used to try to reproduce it as a kid, but he’d never been able to come close. “What I want is for you to listen,” she snapped. “Now, I’ve put off this surgery for—”

“Surgery! What surgery? You didn’t say anything about surgery!”

“I just did. Now hush up and listen.”

“What kind of surgery? I can fly you to Austin—”

“I don’t want you to fly me to Austin, I’ve got a perfectly good doctor in Midland, and she’s scheduled me for next Friday morning at seven, which gives Callie just enough time to get settled and learn how we do things around here.” She said it all without giving him a chance to get a word in, and then glared at him over her spectacles, daring him to argue.

“Callie?”

“My great-niece. I just finished telling you all about her, didn’t you hear a single word I said?”

He’d heard it all, only he was having trouble collating all the data. “Just back up a minute, will you? First, I want to know the name of your doctor. Next, I want to know exactly what she told you, and dammit, I want to know why you never mentioned it before. Hell, I thought you just wanted a vacation. How long have you known about this? Why didn’t you say something before now? Does it-” He scowled and shoved back the thick, gray-spangled hair that fell over his tanned forehead. “Here, sit down, take my chair. Want me to get you some water?” He hit the intercom button that connected him to his chefs office. “Mouse, send up a pot of tea and whatever the hell goes with tea. Crackers, cookies—whatever. It’s for Miss Manie. You know what she likes.”

Everyone knew what Miss Manie liked. She was an institution at the club. A roughneck’s kid his father had taken in out of the oil fields and raised like his own daughter. Outspoken, occasionally outrageous, she’d earned the respect of everyone in town, even the women she called floozies. They might not like her, but they sure as hell respected her.

“Now, tell me what this is all about.” He squatted before her. It damned near killed him, but he needed to see her eyes. Taking her knotty-fingered, blue-veined hands in his, he said, “Manie, sweetheart, level with me. I want to know everything—diagnosis, prognosis, treatment—whatever you know, I need to know. We’re going to beat this thing, I promise. No way am I going to let anything happen to my Manie. Now what is it?”

She sighed, and he braced himself for the worst. He’d get her the finest specialists in Texas. In the U.S. In the world. What good was money if it couldn’t help the ones you loved?

“If you must know, it’s nothing at all serious. Just a simple repair that should have been done years ago.”

“Repair what? What’s broke?”

She snatched her hands from his and clapped them to her withered cheeks. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, it’s called female trouble,” she hissed. “Now, let’s get down to brass tacks, young man. Callie will be here late this afternoon, and I’m planning to bring her into the office tomorrow. She’s smart as a whip, she’ll be able to take over without a speck of trouble. By Thursday I’ll be—”

“Whoa, back up again, honey. Take over what?”

If there was one thing Manie Riley was good at, it was coercion. Done politely, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with a bit of gentle blackmail to her way of thinking, not when it was done for the good of all concerned.

And this certainly was. All she needed was a little nip and tuck to keep her from traipsing to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. What Hank needed was a decent woman to save him from all those floozies who judged a man by the size of his bankroll instead of the size of his heart, while her Callie…

Well, Callie needed a man. Some women didn’t. Manie had thought, until recently, that she herself didn’t need one, either, but then, live and learn, they said.

They also said there was no fool like an old fool, but that was another matter.



“Gracious, are you sure about this?” Callie exclaimed. Pushing away her plate, she tried to focus on all the lists her great-aunt had presented along with the sweet potato pie. She was still reeling from the trip, amazed that she’d actually managed to get here after driving for what seemed forever.

Royal was a tiny little town, hardly more than a speck on the map. She’d been afraid she’d miss it and wander around forever in the most desolate country she’d ever seen, but suddenly, there it was, green as a pool table, right in the middle of a desert. No wonder they had all those windmills going full tilt day and night, hauling water up from way underground. It must take a zillion gallons just to keep all the lawns watered.

“Wake up, don’t you dare fall asleep at the table. Now pay attention, I promised Hank I’d bring you in tomorrow and show you the ropes.”

“Aunt Manie, I’m not very good with a computer and my bookkeeping is probably not what he’s used to. Honestly, are you sure—?”

“I’m sure. Secretaries aren’t what they were in my day. What with all these machines people use nowadays, they’re practically obsolete, but don’t worry about that, what you’ll be is more like a personal assistant. If you worked for that crochety old man I met at Wharrie’s funeral, you can work for anybody. My Hank’s a sweet boy. All he needs is someone to screen his calls and keep folks from pestering him for donations, or papas wanting to take him home to meet their daughters, or these jumped-up schoolteachers wanting him to endow a chair at some university. You’ll be taking care of his personal needs, that’s all.”

Callie’s eyes widened, but before her imagination could shift into overdrive, her great-aunt continued, “Now, I’ve listed everything you need to know right here. What calls to put through right off, which ones to stall, who to let in, who to keep out, who to interrupt if they stay more than ten minutes. This list here is the numbers of his favorite restaurants for making reservations. If he’s taking a woman, he’ll likely take her to Claire’s, but if it’s one of his friends, they’ll go to the Royal Diner for hot dogs and coconut pie. The Royal don’t take reservations. Here’s the number for the florist, the cleaners and the pharmacy where he gets his migraine medicine. He won’t need it often, but when he does, he’ll need it right quick. They deliver. Here’s his private pilot’s number and—oh, yes, here’s the phone number where I’ll be staying once I get out of the clinic.”

Merciful heavens, Callie felt as if she’d run head-on into a Texas tornado, which couldn’t be much worse than the Carolina variety, only after a four-day drive, she wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a fight. “Yes, but—”

“I can’t tell you how much it means to know I can go off with a clear conscience, I’ve been putting it off for so long.”

“But, Aunt Manie—”

“This way, I can rest easy about my plants. Every third day for those in the east window, every day for the south side. I’ve left instructions in the kitchen.”

“Yes, but—” Callie tried again. Manie had hit her with this thing before she’d even opened her suitcase. “Shouldn’t I go with you? To the clinic, I mean? I could stay with you—even working in Doc Teeter’s office, I learned how to—”

“Pshaw. No point in turnin’ a real nurse out of her job. With you looking after things here, I can rest easy in my mind. You’ll be a darn sight more good to me here than you will in Midland. Besides, I’ve got plenty of friends there.”

They went back a forth a few more times, but youth and determination were no match for age, experience and a conniving turn of mind. Callie knew when to give in. Her own plans would just have to wait. “All right, I’ll do my best, but don’t blame me if your Mr. Langley sends me packing. I know a lot about men, and—”

Manie snorted again.

“—and one thing for sure, they don’t like any changes in their routine. Doc Teeter is the sweetest man alive, but just let me slip up and send in the first patient before he finishes his second cup of coffee, and he’ll growl all day.”

“You won’t have to worry about that with Hank. He’ll bend over backward not to cause you a speck of trouble. Like I said, he’s the sweetest boy in the world.”

Callie, shoulders slumping, eyelids at half-mast, had her doubts about that, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. The arrangements had already been made. Her aunt needed her, if only to water her precious plants and set her mind at ease so she could heal properly.

And after this, she thought smugly, Manie was going to owe her. “All right then, if your sweet boy agrees, I’ll do my best.”

Manie beamed. Face flushed with pleasure and two glasses of blackberry wine, she looked far younger than the sixty-nine years she admitted to. “I’m just as sorry as I can be the way things worked out, but when I scheduled my operation, I wasn’t sure you’d actually come to visit.”

“Yes, well…I guess it worked out for the best. Just remember, once the operation’s done, we’re going to have a serious talk about the future. I’ve had a wonderful idea, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

The elderly woman nodded, and then nodded again. Leaning over, Callie peered up into her face and saw that she was dozing.

Well. She was pretty tired, herself, after driving practically nonstop all the way across the country. A few hours of sleep in a series of cheap motels hardly counted as rest.



Hank stared morosely at the blinking red light on his answering machine, tempted to ignore it. Discipline took over. Besides, it might be Manie. He still wasn’t convinced she hadn’t made light of her illness just to keep him from worrying.

The first message was from Pansy. She wanted him to call her the minute he got back to town. The next two were from headquarters, about some drilling rights that were coming up for renewal. Another one was from a candidate in the upcoming election, wanting money. He happened to know the man was the biggest crook in six counties, not that that meant he wouldn’t be an effective politician, but all the same, he’d pass on this one.

The last message was from Manie. “Hank, I’ll be bringing Callie by in the morning to show her around and introduce her to the staff. She’s tired, so we might not be in before ten, but I want you to promise me you’ll be nice to her.” As if he’d be anything else to one of Manie’s relatives. “She’s a hard worker and real good with people. Give her a day or two and she’ll do just fine. I’ll be bringing you a slice of my sweet potato pie, too, so save room for it.”

Sighing, Hank dropped into his chair, raked his fingers through his hair and wondered, not for the first time, if he was too old and beat-up to get back into the service.




Three (#ulink_f5c128bd-e71d-589c-99c2-fa4f90c955d9)


How could anyone perspire with a ceiling fan going full blast? Callie wiped the sweat from her eyes and plopped her aunt’s iron back on the stove to cool. She hung her white camp shirt over a chair, folded away the ironing board, and called down the hall to where Manie was watching the morning news on TV.

“I’ll be ready in ten minutes, all right?”

“Take your time, I told Hank we’d be late.”

Callie didn’t want to take her time, she wanted to get it over with. Manie’s Hank might be a paragon of all virtues, but no man liked having his routine disrupted. Bringing someone new on the job with little or no notice was the sort of thing Doc Teeter had always hated. Even Grandpop, the sweetest man in the world, used to grumble when she happened to call during a Lawrence Welk rerun or his nightly bowl of ice cream and the Channel 8 news. Women were adaptable because they had to be, but men were creatures of habit.

She did the best she could with what she had to work with. Blond hair. At least, in the summer it was blond. At least the top layer was blond. Underneath, and in the wintertime, it was more the color of tree bark. She’d had it cut really short just before she’d come west, because it was too thick and too curly to manage otherwise. Her eyes were too big, too pale, but fortunately, her glasses hid the faint shadows that always seemed to show up just when she wanted to look her best.

As for her clothes, they were neat, clean and serviceable. She’d been told more than a few times that she had absolutely no sense of style, but as it was her mother who’d told her, she’d taken it with a grain of salt. Any fifty-twoyear-old woman who wore fringed miniskirts, cowboy boots, satin blouses and half a pound of silver dangling from each ear the way her mother did these days didn’t have a whole lot of room to criticize.

Her father was just as bad. The day he’d turned in his resignation he’d given his suits to Goodwill and held a ceremonial necktie-burning. Since then all he wore were torn blue jeans, waffle-stomping boots and risqué T-shirts. On really dressy occasions, he added beads and an earring.

Callie would be the first to admit she was dull as ditchwater. It was a good thing somebody in her family was, or else who would take care of them all when they were too old to run wild any longer?



By the time they entered the Texas Cattleman’s Club, Callie had gnawed off a thumbnail. Why couldn’t Manie have worked for a nice, respectable family doctor in a small suburban clinic instead of a high-powered millionaire in a fancy gentleman’s club in a plush little oasis in the middle of a desert that bristled with windmills and oil derricks? Callie felt as if she’d wandered onto a movie set. She wasn’t at all sure she could cope.

Well, of course she could cope. She always had, hadn’t she?

All the same, she stopped dead in her tracks, her sensible beige pumps sinking into a richly colored rug, and stared at the vast, high-ceilinged, dark-paneled room filled with heavy leather furniture, a massive fireplace and decorated with rows and rows of huge oil paintings, animal heads and antique gun displays.

She forgot to breathe, and then breathed too deeply, inhaling lemon oil, floor wax and the essence of roughly a hundred years’ of cigar smoke and brandy.

“Come along, honey, the stairs are right over here. I reckon we could’ve taken the elevator, but nobody ever does.”

Callie swallowed hard. Her blouse was stuck to her back. The place was chilled down to goose bump territory, but her palms were wet and her mouth was dry, and she knew, she just knew, that Mr. Langley was going to take one look at her and realize that she was scared silly and way, way out of her element.

You can do this, Caledonia Riley. You survived your parents’ midlife crisis, Doc’s retirement and Grandpop’s passing. You can do anything you set your mind to, and besides, Aunt Manie’s old and sick, and she’s counting on you.

Callie knew her role in life. She was a caretaker. A looker-after. She might not have a college degree, but she was real good with people. She lived by the Golden Rule. The one about doing unto others, etc. If she could do it without hurting feelings, she always spoke her mind to avoid misunderstandings.

Only this time she hadn’t…not completely. At least, she’d told her aunt she wanted to take her back home for a nice, long visit. Which was more of an understatement than an outright lie.

Manie’s office was a cul-de-sac near the head of the stairs, consisting of a rosewood desk, an oak filing cabinet and a French provincial library table holding a stack of books, a copier, a fax machine, a telephone and an old manual typewriter. Across the way was a tall window bracketed by heavy linen drapes and walnut louvered blinds folded back to display a row of African violets.

There were two wing chairs upholstered in a dainty chintz print, but instead of stopping there, Manie crossed to the massive walnut door a few feet beyond and rapped sharply. Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and waved Callie into the lion’s den.

“Here she is, here’s my Callie. Honey, meet Hank Langley. He’s just as sweet as he can be, so don’t let that scowl of his fool you.”

It was a good thing she was wearing panty hose. That was the only thing that kept her knees from buckling as the big, dark, unsmiling man rose from another of the massive leather-covered chairs. How many cows had been sacrificed for this man’s comfort?

More to the point, how many secretaries had been sacrificed on the altar of his personal convenience?

“Say hello to your new employer,” her aunt urged. Callie must have made a sound of some sort, because the scowl disappeared.

“Miss Riley.” Her new employer nodded gravely.

“M-Mr. Langley,” she said, trying to sound as if she weren’t sweating like a horse under her neat cotton blouse and tan poplin skirt. This was Hank Langley? Her aunt’s sweet, sensitive boy? The man who wouldn’t swat a fly if he could open a window and let it out?

No way. This man was a…

Well, she didn’t know what he was, but he was no sweet, harmless little boy. She’d heard all about Texas men. According to those songs her mother played on the kitchen radio and sang along with, they rode harder, drank more, made love better and broke more hearts than any other twolegged creature in the known world. The songs didn’t even begin to do justice to the real thing.

Oh, my…

“Does she need anything? A glass of water?” His voice was just like the rest of him. Deep, dark and dangerously masculine.

“It’s all that driving,” her great-aunt replied. “I reckon her poor body’s still stuck on Eastern Standard Time.”

They were talking over her head as if she weren’t even there. Callie took a deep breath and said, “If you think I can do the job, Mr. Langley, I’m perfectly willing to give it my best effort. If not—”

“No problem, Miss, uh—Riley. Your aunt vouches for you.”

He was a full head taller than she was, but then, so was almost everyone else. His hair was thick and so dark it absorbed the light, except for a few glints of silver scattered evenly throughout. His eyes were blue. So were hers, only where his were the color of one of those deep blue mineral oil bottles, hers were more the color of a sun-faded denim shirt.

They talked some more, at least Mr. Langley and her aunt did. Callie was having trouble trying to sift through so many new impressions and get her brain back in working order. Evidently it had gotten scrambled during the trip, because the thoughts that were racing through her mind like a pair of courting squirrels spiraling round and round a poplar tree were the last thing she needed at this point in her life.

“—sent word to the committee head about the meeting next week—”

“—cancel the tickets and call—”

“—deliver tomorrow. Callie can sign for it, I told them all about her.”

Told who what? Callie wondered. That she was here in body, but her brain was suffering jet lag?

Well, car lag. Four days of driving, living on fast food and diet colas, her mind busy framing arguments that would convince her aunt to forget Texas, move back home to Carolina and let Callie take care of her, produced more or less the same results.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Miss, uh—Callie. Manie won’t have a thing to worry about, will she?”

Wordlessly she nodded, then shook her head. “No, sir.”

He looked as if he might be suffering from acute dyspepsia. She’d never had that particular effect on a man before. The truth was, she’d never had much effect at all, not being the type of woman men went wild over. Wholesome was about the nicest thing that had ever been said about her looks. This man, like all the others, had glanced at her once, shaken her hand, and two minutes after she left he’d have forgotten both her name and her face.

She stood outside his door a few minutes later, waiting for her aunt to finish her conversation, and thought, The Invisible Woman Meets the Invincible Man. It sounded like one of those high-tech movies, full of sound and fury and special effects.

She was hallucinating. She told herself it had to be something in the water. Because for one split second when she’d gazed up at the man she was going to be working for for more than a week, she’d felt as if someone had struck a note that resonated on her inner tuning fork, the one her mother the musician swore all women had. Sort of like meeting someone for the first time and feeling as if you’d met them somewhere before. None of which made a speck of sense.

“We’d better get you something to eat before you pass out,” her aunt said, emerging from the inner sanctum a moment later. “You didn’t eat enough breakfast to keep a grasshopper alive.”



Hank tilted his favorite chair, lifted his feet to the windowsill and stared out at the colorless sky, visualizing dark gray clouds rolling in from the northwest. He imagined himself in the cockpit of one of the old MH-60 Blackhawks, his field of vision transformed by night-vision goggles. For some crazy reason he was feeling the same familiar rush, the heady mixture of determination and invincibility, he used to feel when he first headed out on a mission.





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