Courted by the Texas Millionaire

He didn’t know a whole lot of personal stuff about the town founder, and, from the looks of it, there was a whole lot less than Davis had expected to discover about a man who’d been so key to this town’s development.

But, after about an hour of frustration, he finally did uncover something. A tidbit that would require much more research.

An article with the headline: Amati Dies of Unknown Causes.

The text was extremely vague, just an extended obituary about Amati’s love of privacy and his leadership qualities. It was as if Tony’s death hadn’t rocked St. Valentine much at all. Then again, common knowledge had always maintained that he’d died alone, out of the public eye.

When Davis saw another article, planted deep in the back of the same edition, he looked even closer.

Sheriff Kills Burglars in Home.

Davis went over that story, too, yet it offered about as much as Amati’s obituary had.

He didn’t know what it was exactly, but something was poking at him—the “other” sense all reporters relied on.

That nudge-nudge that kept them up at nights.

There wasn’t much else to go on, but it was a mystery Davis decided to pursue in his spare time, between overseeing the next biweekly edition and reporting on preparations for Founder’s Weekend so the story could go out to bigger outlets, hopefully attracting some visitors to St. Valentine in a week.

It’d be just what this town needed … and what he needed for them.

He locked up the office at midnight, spying Mr. and Mrs. Osborne and Violet coming out of the bar and grill down the street.

Was it his imagination when he saw Violet hesitate as they secured the big doors in front of the saloon’s entrance? Was she looking toward the newspaper office because her reporter radar was up and running, too, after meeting the stranger?

Or was she looking down here for a different reason altogether, one that made Davis’s reluctant heartbeat race? Was she just as eager to see him once again as he was her?

As Davis caught Violet’s gaze under the moonlight, he couldn’t move. He was frozen by the hunger for her that had only grown hour by hour, sending him to the Queen of Hearts after his party, even after he’d made it crystal clear that he’d found closure with her.

But had he?

Violet seemed to be under the same spell, unmoving, as her parents headed toward their truck, which was parked in an alley beside the building.

Davis couldn’t stay away, and he moved toward Violet. Standing near their vehicle, her father watched Davis from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat.

“Gary,” Davis said, nodding to him, then greeted his wife, as well.

Andrea Osborne smiled at Davis but her husband merely grunted out Davis’s name. Despite their having worked together to shut down the mine, there was still an avalanche of disappointment there—a father’s hard feelings for the kid who’d broken his daughter’s heart once upon a time.

Davis came to a stand in front of Violet, who was still near the bar’s doorway. His blood sang through him—all he wanted to do was touch her, just as free and easy as they had been in high school.

“Saw you talking to that stranger,” Davis said, straight to the point. “Did you find out who he is?”

“His name is Jared.”

“And?”

“And what? He wanted something to eat and he’s probably miles out of town by now.”

Davis had the feeling that she meant to end the conversation right there with him, but he wouldn’t let that happen. And, truthfully, it wasn’t just because he wanted this story.

What the hell did he want, though?

“I already did a little research,” he said.

“You did?” she asked.

There was a spark in her—the reporter’s excitement that had turned him on back when they’d worked on the school paper.

“You do know,” he said, “that I do a lot of the reporting around here.” His trust fund investments gave him that luxury in sleepy St. Valentine.

Before she could respond, her dad said, “Violet?”

He apparently wanted to scoot back to their ranch, where Violet was no doubt staying.

“They’re my ride,” she said. “I came home to find my old car dead in the barn. It’s being fixed.”

“If you want a look at the archives to see what you can find out about Amati,” Davis said, “you could stick around. I could drive you home, since your family’s place is on the way to my own.”

Had he really just said that?

Even under the gas lamps that lined the street, he could see how Violet’s gaze had gone wide. Her eyes were like brandy—something he could get drunk on.

But then she looked toward her waiting parents, and Davis could just about guess what was going through her mind.

She hadn’t come back to St. Valentine to mess around with an old flame—she was here to recover and regroup. And the minute she got the chance to skedaddle out of town again, she wouldn’t have time for Podunk stories like this one.

“I’m opening the saloon with Mom in the morning,” she said, an excuse if he’d ever heard one.

But he could still detect the temptation in her tone. The story had intrigued her.

As he heard her parents’ truck doors slam shut, temptation swarmed him. An opportunity—a lure for Violet to come around his office, for him to see her again.

Bad idea, said a little voice inside him. Real bad.

Nonetheless, he heard himself saying, “Did you know that the paper didn’t report on Amati’s cause of death? He’s a presence in those saloon photographs and in town history, so why was he practically a nobody in his obituary?”

“You’ll get to the bottom of it.”

The same anger that had haunted him for years reared up again. He wasn’t going to let her get away that easily this time. “Something’s going on here. And if it’s big enough, it might even serve to bring in some much-needed tourists to St. Valentine. It could pump up the economy, and that includes the saloon, Vi.”

She blew out a breath, as if he’d hit a mark.

It wasn’t fair, but he said it anyway. “This story could really give this town some profile. And working on it might also go a long way in making your stay here easier.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I’ve seen what you’re going through—the looks, the snide remarks.”