A Little Town In Texas

Again she turned her back on him. He looked dubiously at her. She was breathing almost normally now, but his heartbeat still labored, his lungs still burned.

She was built like a runner, he conceded, even if she was small. Her legs were long for her height, and she didn’t carry an ounce of fat. While he’d searched for openings in the crowd big enough to get through, she’d probably dashed through like a rabbit through the forest.

How annoying. And she was apparently in better shape than he was. More annoying still. She probably ran ten miles a day, ate bean sprouts and drank only bottled water.

The attendant said to the redhead, “I’m sorry. There won’t be another flight for at least two hours.”

Mel heard the redhead mumble something under her breath. Then she said, “Is there a place around here to sit down and eat?”

“Up the escalator,” said the attendant. “Then just keep going straight.”

The redhead sighed and made her way toward the rest room, shouldering her carry-ons again. During her run, her hair had come partly undone. It hung down in tendrils along the nape of her neck and over her ears.

That neck was pale and slightly moist with perspiration. Mel wondered if her whole body was as flawless and damp as that ivory neck. He watched her disappear into the ladies’ room, moving smoothly.

Two hours is a long time, he thought. An enterprising man could make things happen.

He made his arrangements for the next flight, then waited until he saw the redhead emerge from the rest room. Her hair was brushed neatly into place, and she’d added a touch of coral lipstick to that smart mouth of hers.

He watched her get on the escalator, waited until she was halfway up, then followed. A few people had got on between them. Once at the top he was surprised how quickly he had to move to keep up with her. Damn! She was fast, dodging in and out of the crowd as lithely as a cat.

It was a quarter past noon now, and the restaurants lining the concourse were packed. He saw her scan first one, then another, looking for an opening. She never broke stride until she saw one.

A harried-looking couple was leaving a tiny table at a bar and grill. The redhead spotted them before Mel did and veered into the restaurant without even a pause. As soon as the man stood up, she gave him a friendly smile and sat down in his place.

Perfect, Mel thought with satisfaction. I’ve lived right. He quickened his pace, strode into the restaurant and sat down across from her, beating out a beefy guy with a briefcase by a split second. “Mind if I join you?” Mel asked her cheerfully. “There doesn’t seem to be another place.”

She looked at him with suspicion. The place was crowded to overflowing; she could hardly object. She shrugged the way one might shrug off a pesky fly.

Then she dug into her carry-on and pulled out a thick paperback book. The cover said Guidebook to the Texas Hill Country and bore a photograph of a myopic-looking armadillo. She opened it and began reading, ignoring him.

Mel Belyle did not easily suffer being ignored, but he never begged for attention, either. He didn’t have to. He reached into his own carry-on and took out a book identical to hers, with the same beady-eyed armadillo. He opened it and pretended to read.

He saw her double take and pretended he didn’t. He was aware the restaurant was overcrowded and understaffed. They could be at this table a nice, long time.

He’d noticed her back in New York, of course—he took note of all pretty girls. But he’d dismissed her: not his type. He liked his women tall and languid, not small and brisk.

Still, he’d noticed her again when he was sitting in first class, sipping a Bloody Mary. She boarded afterward, with the coach passengers, expertly shouldering her well-worn bags.

He hadn’t been able not to watch her, but she hadn’t cast so much as a glance his way. She seemed to have her mind strictly on business even though she wasn’t dressed for it. She must not give a hoot for fashion. He liked his women fashionable.

“You’re as bad as Fabian with his supermodels,” his brother Nick had once taunted. “That last girl you took out looked like a giraffe in rhinestones.”

The memory fell over Mel coldly, like a drop in the temperature. That was one of the last conversations he’d had with Nicky. They hadn’t spoken since May.

The break wasn’t over Nick’s crack about the girl. Nick always teased, and about the model, he’d been right. She had looked like a giraffe, albeit an elegant one.

No, the rupture was over what Nick had done to Fabian. It was beyond ungrateful. It was treacherous, a betrayal too deep for Mel to forgive. He intended to settle the score, and if people wanted to call it revenge, let them. To Mel, it was justice. Nobody had more right to exact it than he did.

Yet in truth, he didn’t like dwelling on it. He supposed that he’d loved Nick once, but now his brother was his enemy. It gave him a cold and hollow feeling in his gut, and he wanted distraction. He would distract himself with the redhead.

A roly-poly waiter in a striped vest appeared. “Afternoon, folks,” he said. “Can I take a drink order?”

“Just a cola,” said the redhead, barely looking up from her book. “And could I get half a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich?”

“Well…” said the waiter, sounding perplexed.

“The same for me,” Mel said quickly.

“Oh,” the waiter said, his round face relaxing. “I see. Split it? Cola’s cheaper by the pitcher.”

“That’ll be fine,” Mel nodded. “Bring a pitcher.”

The redhead glanced up sharply. “Those are separate orders,” she said, but the waiter had already disappeared into the crowd.

Mel gave her an innocent smile. “Don’t worry about it.” He nodded at their twin books. “Coincidence, eh?”

Her blue eyes seemed to say What’s with you? Her mouth, which was a very nice mouth indeed, said nothing.

He reached into his pocket and laid his card before her, in front of the napkin dispenser. “My name’s Mel Belyle,” he said. “Since we’re sharing a table and a flight, we might as well be friendly. I’m sorry about bumping into you like that. Sincerely.”

Her gaze fell to his card, and he saw her skeptical expression change. For a split second she was very still, and he studied her. She had a piquant little face, hardly beautiful, but arresting. She raised her eyes to meet his again. Her lashes were long, thick, and auburn.

For the first time she smiled. “Hello, Mel Belyle,” she said. “My name’s Kitt Mitchell.”

She stretched out her hand in greeting. He shook it, enjoying the silky feel of her skin. He didn’t marvel at the transformation of her mood, he simply congratulated himself. He guessed his charm was working, after all.

OH, THIS IS RICH, thought Kitt.

It was like the fly catching the spider. She recognized the name on the card and she recognized the firm he represented.

Melburn K. Belyle, Corporate Attorney

Castle Enterprises, Inc.

New York

Castle Enterprises was the corporation Fabian had created expressly to handle the Bluebonnet Meadows project in Crystal Creek. And Mel Belyle was the man Heywood Cronin had sworn would never speak to Kitt.

Yet here, in all his egotistical glory, was Mr. Belyle himself, trying to pick her up. She put her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and gave him her most admiring stare. She batted her eyelashes ever so slightly.

She pretended to be mildly flirting, but her practiced eye was taking his measure. He was actually an exceptionally good-looking man. Too tall for her taste, of course, but well built.

His hair was medium brown, thick and waving. Beneath straight, dark brows, his eyes were sapphire blue. He had a straight nose, a well-shaped mouth, and a square jaw.

He carried himself with confidence—too much for Kitt’s taste. And, clearly, he had money. His blue sweater looked like cashmere, and its color matched his eyes. The dark slacks fit perfectly. His nails were manicured better than hers, and his haircut was more expensive.

She imagined him living at his elegant address, riding in limousines, dating those women whose pictures appeared in glossy magazine ads. His roots might have been humble, but nobody would ever guess. Maybe that was the point.