One Ticket To Texas. Jan Hudson
his eyes as busy over her as hers were over him. “Vincent. Vincent Van Gogh.”
Her brain didn’t register. “Vincent Van Gogh?” she asked blankly.
“You know, the artist who chopped off his ear.”
“Ohhh,” she said, feeling like a dolt. “That Vince.” Her gaze went to his chest again. His gaze must have mimicked hers for she felt her nipples suddenly pebble.
Stripping off his leather gloves, he grabbed a towel that hung on a nail and swiped it across his sweaty, bare skin. “What can I do for you?” he asked as he wiped away sawdust and a particularly intriguing rivulet of perspiration that she’d been watching as it trickled downward toward his navel.
“Do for me?” What a loaded question. As she noted his long, supple fingers, she could name at least a dozen things—all of them extremely intimate—that she would love for him to do for her.
He chuckled softly, and she felt that darned heat spread over her face. “You need some help?” he asked.
“Help? Oh, yes. Er...uh, are you Cherokee Pete?”
“Nope. Pete’s my grandfather. I’m Kyle.” He tossed the towel aside, grabbed his shirt and hurriedly donned it. “Kyle Rutledge.”
“I’m Irish. Irish Ellison.”
Kyle almost said, I know, but something stopped him. In his California practice, a dozen or more women had brought him her photograph from some magazine or another, wanting her nose or her cheekbones or that lush mouth of hers. Instead, he tipped his hat and said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Ellison. How may I help you, ma’am?”
“Could you tell me if that’s the road to Crow’s Nest?” She gestured over her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s it.”
“Oh, dear. I was afraid you were going to say that. I’m supposed to meet Jackson Crow, but the gate’s locked.”
Well, damn it all to hell! Here was one of the world’s most gorgeous women in the flesh, one who rang his bell and had him standing to attention, and be damned if his cousin hadn’t staked her out first. As usual, Jackson was the luckiest son-of a-gun walking. “Jackson’s gone.”
Her astonishing emerald green eyes widened in alarm. “Gone?”
“Gone.”
“But—but I have an appointment. I’m supposed to spend several days at the retreat working on an article. On him and the men in the young millionaire’s club.”
“You don’t know Jackson?”
She shook her head. “Never met him.”
Kyle relaxed. His smile returned. “He and that crazy bunch of his buddies decided to go to Dallas for the Cowboys game Sunday. They’ll be back Monday.”
“But this is Friday.”
“They started the party a little early. You must have just missed them.”
“Our appointment was for a couple of hours ago. My plane was late, and I had some problems at the car rental agency.”
Kyle watched her chew the inside of her cheek and look worried. He had a fleeting urge to go after Jackson with an ax handle for causing those furrows to form between her perfectly arched eyebrows. “I wouldn’t let it upset me. Jackson will be back Monday—if he’s sober enough to fly.”
“Sober enough—Does he drink a lot?”
He bit back a grin. There was no way that he was going to exalt Jackson in this lady’s eyes. His cousin had all the women he could handle now. Kyle had seen this one first. “Like a fish. The man’s a sot.” Sorry, cuz he said silently.
A shot rang out, and Kyle flinched, afraid for a moment that the powers-that-be were about to strike him dead for lying.
Startled, too, Irish jumped. “What was that?”
“That’s just Grandpa Pete. He’s in bed with a broken hip, and when he needs some help, he fires his pistol out the window.”
“Wouldn’t a bell be better?”
He grinned. “You don’t know my grandpa. Come on up to the store with me while I see what he needs, and then we’ll see what we can do to get your problem straightened out. It’s about time for lunch. You hungry?”
“Famished.”
“You like chili?”
“With beans?”
“Bite your tongue, woman. This is Texas. Only a Yankee would spoil a perfectly good pot of chili with beans. You a Yankee?” he drawled.
She laughed, and the throaty sound of it made him think of cool sheets and warm flesh. “I’m from Washington, D.C.,” she said. “At least that’s where I live now. I’m originally from Ohio, but I lived in New York for several years.”
“New York City?” he asked with an exaggerated drawl. “Did you like that place?”
She shrugged. “For a while.”
“That’s the way I felt about California. I found out the hard way that Texas is the only place for me.”
Inside the store, Kyle settled Irish at one of the tables. “Let me go check on Grandpa Pete, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with the chili.”
Irish watched his long-legged gait as he walked away and went up the stairs at the end of the bar. Wow, what a man. Handsome as buttered sin. She’d never met anyone in her life who oozed such sex appeal. And from the little that they had talked, she felt that he would probably be lots of fun to be with. He was as smooth as a river stone in putting her at ease.
She sighed. He probably had everything a woman could ask for. She looked around the dusty, junky store.
Except money.
Why is it, Mama, that if it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one, that I’m always attracted to the ones who don’t have two nickels to rub together?
It was a crying shame that she was so captivated by Kyle Rutledge. Especially now.
She sighed again. She couldn’t afford to let herself get sidetracked. Her plans were made; her bank account was committed. She was out to snare a millionaire.
And if Jackson Crow had a problem or two, well... one couldn’t have everything.
Two
Sweat popped out on her upper lip. Irish ignored it and spooned another bite of chili into her mouth. After all, it was a free meal, and with less than twenty dollars left in her wallet, she couldn’t afford to be choosy.
“Too hot for you?” Kyle asked.
“It’s fine. Just fine.” She gulped half a glass of iced tea.
With her tongue and her esophagus cringing at what was coming, she forced another bite into her blistered mouth.
Tears came to her eyes. She gulped the other half glass of tea and shook out an ice cube to suck on.
She glanced up at Kyle. He was frowning. “You don’t have to be polite,” he said. “It is too hot for you. Sorry about that. Grandpa Pete likes his chili fiery enough to singe the pin feathers off a chicken, and I’ve gotten used to it. Let me fix you something else. How about a bologna sandwich? I make a mean bologna sandwich.”
Relieved that she wouldn’t have to finish the rest of the chili and too hungry to turn him down, she smiled. “I’m crazy about bologna sandwiches.”
“Mustard or mayonnaise?”
“Mustard.”
“Be right back.”
Irish watched him pick up a loaf of bread