A Little Town In Texas

She heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. It wasn’t hers. It was his.

He looked irritated at being interrupted, but his voice was pleasant. “DeJames. How are you, my man?” His face hardened and he gazed at Kitt. “Which magazine?” he asked. “Her name is Katherine what?”

The change in his expression was both remarkable and frightening. Kitt felt a swell of foreboding.

“Repeat that description,” he said into the phone, never taking his eyes from hers. As he listened, the set of his mouth grew harsher. “Got it,” he said. “Thanks.” He snapped the phone off.

His stare didn’t waver. Kitt’s face grew hot and her heartbeat speeded in dread.

“That was my office,” he said from between clenched teeth. “With a warning. About a reporter.”

“Well,” she said, “I’ll be going now.” She put her hand on the table to push her chair back and escape.

With cobra-like swiftness his arm shot out, his hand pinning hers in place. “Stay put,” he ordered. “It’s you. From Exclusive magazine.”

“Yes,” she said. “I never said otherwi—”

“You were pumping me.”

“Well, I—”

She squirmed, trying to slip away from his grasp, but he held her fast. “Visiting your aunt. Pathetic.”

“I do have an aunt,” she interjected.

“Uptown Girls. What a cheap ruse. Using sex to lead me on.”

“You’re the one who brought sex into—”

“You little liar,” he said. He released her hand as if letting go of something hopelessly soiled.

“Look,” she began, “you followed me in here. You assumed—”

It was too late. He had already risen and was disappearing into the crowd. Her face burned with shame and anger. She rose, stood on tiptoes, and cried out after him, “You haven’t seen the last of me, you know!”

People glanced at her oddly. She sat back in her seat, feeling small and devious. She shouldn’t have led him on. She wished she hadn’t. But he had started it, and not from the purest of motives. To hell with him.

Her shame died. Her anger sank into a hot, hard ember that she could nurse for a long time and use against him.

She thought about what she had done, and she forgave herself. She ate her half of the sandwich. Then, with a philosophic shrug, she picked up his and ate it, too.

CHAPTER THREE

HER TAUNT RANG in Mel’s ears: “You haven’t seen the last of me….”

He vowed that she’d heard the last of him. He’d sooner cut his tongue out than talk with her again, the lying little minx.

Angrily he strode to the nearest Avis desk to rent a car. He’d be damned if he’d get on the same plane as Kitt Mitchell—she’d probably smirk all the way to Austin.

It was going to be rotten enough to be trapped in the same county with her. She’d be covering the Bluebonnet Meadows battle, and that meant she’d lurk, stalk, spy and breathe down his neck. Tough.

He could not only stonewall her, he could ruin her. Soothing himself with this pleasant prospect, he tossed his carry-ons into the back of the rented luxury car.

He should sic the most rapacious sharks in Fabian’s legal department on that deceiving redhead. Have one of the media experts phone her magazine, threaten action and get her cute little butt fired—that’d teach her.

If Fabian wanted, he could get her blackballed forever from respectable journalism. She’d be lucky to get a job writing space alien stories for the cheesiest tabloid.

Obsessively he listed and relisted the sins of Kitt Mitchell. She’d solicited information under false pretences. She’d used her pixyish face and wide blue eyes to lead him on. She’d shamelessly offered sex as bait—oh, yes, he’d have the office throw the book at her.

No, I won’t, he thought in self-disgust as he drove. Be honest. He was thinking like a bully and an oaf. What had happened was his fault, far more than hers. That’s what made him sick with anger.

She hadn’t set a trap for him; he’d set it for himself. Then, like a fool, he’d barged straight into it. He’d thought she was cute and feisty, and he’d heeded his hormones instead of his brain.

His disgust didn’t disappear; it merely changed its target. Sure, he could punish her because he had the power—or Fabian did. But the author of Mel’s shame was not Kitt Mitchell, but himself.

Still, she was a threat to the job he had to do in Crystal Creek. He needed to be on guard against her. He had reached a nearly empty stretch of highway. He pulled out his cell phone and called New York. He asked for DeJames Jackson, one of Fabian’s top assistants.

“DeJames,” he said, “That reporter you told me about—the Mitchell woman? She’s already crossed my path. Get me all the information on her that you can. I want to know her better than she knows herself.”

DeJames gave a deep, rich laugh. “You think she’s that dangerous? Or are you interested in scoring? Those women over at Exclusive have a reputation for being smart—and lookers.”

Mel felt a fresh sting of resentment. “She’s not that great-looking,” he said. “And yes, she’s dangerous. Very sly.” He thought about her deception and added, “Glib. Manipulative. Not above dirty tricks.”

DeJames laughed again. “Why, Mel,” he said, “it sounds like you finally met your perfect woman.”

AT GATE AA1, the P.A. system crackled into life. An impersonal voice droned an unwanted message: the flight to Austin would be delayed for at least another hour.

Groans and mutters ran through the disappointed crowd, and Kitt, too, felt annoyed. But she was also puzzled. Where was Mel Belyle? He was supposed to be on this flight, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Forty-five minutes later, yet another delay was announced. Still no sign of the man. A mischievous smile teased Kitt’s lips. Had she miffed him so much that he’d canceled his ticket? Maybe she’d dented his pride more than she’d thought.

Well, she told herself, a man as handsome and overconfident as Mel Belyle could use a swift kick to the ego now and then. Did he try to seduce every woman he met? What had he expected? For her to swoon at his expensively shod feet?

But he had looked great in that blue sweater, she must admit. It set off his wide shoulders and unexpectedly sensitive eyes. Enough of that, she scolded. She probably hadn’t taken even a crumb off his self-esteem. He was avoiding her because he was avoiding the press, that was all.

He’d probably chartered his own plane or rented a Porsche upholstered in ermine. With Brian Fabian footing the bill, why not?

Kitt sighed. It didn’t do to dwell on rich, good-looking men who moved among the power elite. She had been foolish enough to do that once, long ago. She would not make the same mistake again.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON, two men stood by the carved oak bar in the den of the McKinney ranch house. Cal poured two shots of whiskey. “Thought it’d be good for us to get acquainted-like. Have a couple words in private.”

Nick Belyle nodded.

“Daddy’ll join us pretty soon,” said Cal. “He’s givin’ the kids a ride in the pony cart.” He pushed the filled glass toward the other man.

“Thanks,” said Nick.

“To those three pretty women out there,” Cal said with a nod toward the living room. “You married yourself a beauty.”