That Touch of Pink. Teresa Southwick
anyone else.
“Going, going,” the mayor said, searching the crowd to make sure this was the best he could do. “Gone. Sold to Roy and Louise Gibson.”
Abby and Molly exchanged surprised glances that silently asked why the Gibsons wanted a cop. She started to ask when the mayor cleared his throat.
“Our last item is a survival weekend donated by Riley Dixon of Dixon Security. He’s a hometown boy, a retired Army Ranger—that’s Special Forces for those of you who don’t speak military. If anyone’s looking for a weekend of thrills and chills, he’s just the man who can provide it.”
Riley Dixon sounded like Mr. Macho and her worst nightmare. Unfortunately, this was the man she’d come here to buy. She hated that she had to rely on a man for anything. But this wasn’t for her; it was for Kimmie.
When the bidding started and she raised her number, whispers commenced around her. She cringed at how needy she must look—buying two men. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Molly to return the favor and bid for her? It was too late now. Competition was hot and heavy, but she hung in there and held tough. Every time the amount was increased, she waved her number until, finally, everyone else gave up.
“Going, going, gone.” The mayor banged his gavel. “Sold to the little lady in the third row. After you’ve got that home repair taken care of, you can get away from it all for the weekend.” He winked at her. “Thanks for coming, folks. You’ve done Charity City proud.”
Abby got in line to pay and find out how to collect her purchase. Six years ago, she’d needed a man to give her child a name. He’d been a dismal failure. This time, what her child needed wouldn’t cost Abby any more than what she’d just paid to buy a guy for the weekend.
Chapter One
Abby Walsh took a deep breath, then punched the Up arrow on the elevator. His office was located in the heart of downtown, taking up an entire floor in one of the city’s most prestigious buildings, right across the street from Philanthropy Plaza. With streets named Benevolent Boulevard and Welfare Way, Charity City, Texas, was a place where folks took care of their own.
The money she’d spent at the auction would help fund scholarships, businesses, women’s shelters and other worthy causes. That was all well and good, but Abby actually needed what Riley Dixon had auctioned. Now it was time to collect.
When the elevator doors whispered open, she stepped inside and sucked in another deep breath. The car went up while her stomach stayed on the main floor. She hated elevators. She hated macho guys. And she hated venturing out of her comfort zone. Hopefully her daughter would appreciate this and the trade-off would be zero rebellion during her teenage years. If Abby had done less envelope-pushing and more rule-following, she wouldn’t be here now. But she also wouldn’t have Kimmie, and she couldn’t imagine her life without her child.
When the elevator stopped, Abby stepped out on the top floor into what was the reception area of Dixon Security. An impressive semi-circular cherrywood desk dominated the center of the room, with a sofa and chairs in a grouping off to the side. The thick carpet in a warm, rich shade of beige made her feel as if she were walking on a cloud.
Behind the desk sat a pretty redhead with a nameplate that read Nora Dixon. Hmm, Abby thought. He had good taste in women.
“I’m here to see Mr. Dixon.”
The woman glanced up, then did a double take. “And you are?” Her tone was on the cool side.
“Abby Walsh. I have an appointment.” When the woman checked her computer, she asked, “Do you have me down?”
“Sometimes he writes things on his calendar without bringing it to my attention. Of course, I found out the hard way that I have to cross-reference his calendar with my computer schedule.”
“Okay.” Abby hadn’t talked to him yet. That’s why she was here. But far be it from her to butt in when she didn’t understand the office’s work flow.
The receptionist looked up. “I’m sorry but I don’t have you down. And he’s running late today. You’re welcome to wait if that’s not a problem?”
Abby looked at her watch. She had to pick up Kimmie from Kid’s Klub before six and it was five o’clock now. “I won’t take up much of his time.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” After picking up the phone and announcing Abby, the redhead listened, then waved her to a chair. “He can give you ten minutes.”
“That works for me.” Abby sat and smoothed her hands over her skirt.
When she was standing, the hem hit her about mid-calf and her sensible, low-heeled shoes only added about an inch and a half to her five feet two inches. Since high-heeled pumps wouldn’t add nearly enough height, she settled for practical and comfy instead of willowy and statuesque.
After ten minutes of staring out the window, she glanced at the array of reading material on the end tables. Military Monthly. Self-Defense. She wondered where he’d hidden Guns & Ammo even as she lamented the absence of People, Us or a sleazy gossip magazine with a juicy alien abduction story. She glanced at her watch again and huffed out a breath. He’d given her ten minutes. Unfortunately, he’d been conspicuously absent during that time. She stood and paced the waiting area, glancing at the time every few minutes.
Just when she’d decided she couldn’t wait any longer, the door to his office opened and he walked out. “Ms. Walsh?”
She turned away from the window and looked up—way up—into the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. Her stomach, which had finally joined the rest of her on the top floor, plummeted back to square one. In spite of that sensation, she noticed that he looked momentarily startled. Then it was as if invisible shutters closed off his expression.
“The security business must be booming,” she said wryly.
“I kept you waiting.” His tone was cool; he must have caught it from his receptionist.
“You did.”
He folded his arms over a very impressive chest. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look sorry. He looked tall. She estimated about six feet, give or take an inch. His hair was dark, almost black and cut military short, somehow highlighting those amazing eyes. He wore a biceps-hugging navy T-shirt tucked into worn jeans. The ensemble was completed by a pair of scuffed cowboy boots and was by far the most masculine attire she’d ever seen on a businessman. It simply provided evidence that her auction purchase had been the right one.
His nose was slightly off-kilter, and he had a small, thin scar on his square, rugged chin. The battered look suited him. But it also reassured her that he was a man of action. He was also the walking, talking, warm-to-the-touch ad for ruggedly handsome. If one liked the type. She didn’t.
He looked at the clock on the wall. “We can talk in my office.”
She nodded, then preceded him into the inner sanctum, which turned out to be a stark contrast to the elegant reception area. The only thing that carried over was the thick carpet. Sitting on it was his battered L-shaped desk, which would have looked more at home in a thrift store. But it held what looked like a top-of-the-line computer. Instead of the expensive artwork she’d expected on the walls, they displayed framed photos. She couldn’t make out any specific details.
“Have a seat.” He indicated one of the utilitarian chrome and gray-blue upholstered chairs in front of the desk. “I have eight minutes.”
After he sat behind the desk, she met his gaze. “Your wife said you could give me ten minutes.”
“Wife?”
“The receptionist.”
“My sister.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands. There was no ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. That didn’t mean anything. Some married men didn’t wear