It was like the fly chasing the spider

Kitt recognized the name on the business card, and she recognized the firm he represented. Mel Belyle, Corporate Attorney, Castle Enterprises, New York.

Castle Enterprises was the corporation created expressly to handle the housing project in Crystal Creek. And this was the man her boss had predicted would never speak to her.

Yet here, in all his glory, was Mr. Belyle himself, trying to pick her up. She began to sound him out. “So,” she said with a demure smile, “what takes you to Austin?”

“Business,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m going to visit my aunt.” After all, it wasn’t a lie. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s a shame to be out of touch with family, don’t you think?”

For a split second his smile wavered. He didn’t answer her question. “So what do you do?”

She shrugged as if her job was of small interest. “I work for the Gilroy Group.” This was misleading, she knew. The Gilroy Group owned six magazines, but was far more famous for its other holdings, especially its television network.

His eyes kindled with mischief. “Gilroy? Are you connected with that Uptown Girls show?”

You lecher, Kitt thought. “That would be telling. I’m not going to discuss it until I know you much, much better.”

He leaned closer. “That can be arranged. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she said. “Tell me simply everything.”

Dear Reader,

Things are changing in Crystal Creek, Texas. The question is, who will decide the future of this fabled land? Will it be the McKinneys, its fiery leading family, determined to defend the heritage of the Hill Country?

Or will it be the mysterious outsider, Brian Fabian? He commands a greater fortune than anyone else in Crystal Creek—and he has a secret weapon. That weapon is negotiator Mel Belyle, brilliant, charming, handsome—and ruthless.

Mel comes to Crystal Creek with a score to settle and a fight he intends to win. But he hasn’t counted on a certain redheaded reporter. Kitt Mitchell is a spitfire with an attitude as big as Texas itself.

This is the twenty-ninth book in the series about Crystal Creek. I’m proud to be taking part in its ongoing story and hope you enjoy visiting A Little Town in Texas.

With warmest regards,

Bethany Campbell

A Little Town in Texas
Bethany Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Linda Bitcon, a friend for all seasons.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“SEND IN THE SPITFIRE,” Heywood Cronin said to his secretary. “The whirlwind. You know which one—from staff writing. The little redhead.”

“Kitt Mitchell? Yes, sir,” said Miss Lundeen.

“Writes like an angel,” muttered Cronin. “Dresses like a bag lady.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Miss Lundeen said mildly. “She just likes to be casual.”

“Casual,” Cronin said with a snort. “She’d be a pretty girl if she’d dress up. O tempora O mores. That’s Latin, Miss Lundeen. Do you know what it means?”

“Yes, sir. O, the times, O, the manners.”

“Anyway,” Cronin said, “send her in.”

Miss Lundeen exited with such speed and silence it was as if she evaporated. Cronin looked at the picture of his wife, framed in platinum, on his desk. She was in her wedding gown, and a damn fine gown it was. He missed the 1950s when women had waists and wore pearls and full skirts and exciting shoes with pointed toes and high heels.

He chased the thought from his mind. That was looking backward. It was thinking like an old geezer. He was a man who looked forward, and that’s why journalism awards half-covered his office. He intended to collect a few dozen more before he cashed in his chips. It was one of the reasons he cultivated young writers like the spitfire.

In a few moments, Miss Lundeen announced her. “Kitt Mitchell, sir.”

And in she walked. Cronin fought against wincing. The woman wore cargo pants and a pale blue camp shirt. Her shoes made her look like she was going to climb the Alps.

She was a petite woman, barely over five feet tall, and she was slight rather than shapely. Still, Cronin thought, she was a fetching little thing. Maybe she dressed like Indiana Jones to fend off unwanted male attention. She could attract men like a magnet—if she wanted.

Her most startling feature was her long, flame-red hair. Her skin was fair, her eyes were blue, and her eyebrows and lashes auburn. She was pretty enough, but Cronin always found himself noticing the vivacity in her face before her actual features. In motion she was swift as a hummingbird.

She had a reputation for being sassy, of not being afraid of the devil himself. This did not mean that Cronin did not make her nervous. He made everyone on his staff exceedingly nervous; he considered it part of his job.

“Sit down, Mitchell.” He ordered, he did not invite.

Kitt Mitchell gave him a measuring look and sat down in the leather chair before his desk. His desk was mounted on a dais so he could stare down, lordlike, upon whomever sat in that chair.

She returned his gaze with wary coolness. “Miss Lundeen said you wanted to see me.”

He laced his fingers together and peered harder at her. She didn’t squirm, not one whit. Was he losing his touch? He’d wipe that calm off her face.

“Yes,” he said, hitting her with it immediately. “I’m going to give you the assignment of your life.”

Her fair skin went paler. Her blue eyes got wider.

“This story won’t just change your career. It will make your career.”

She seemed speechless. Good. Inwardly he smirked.

“This is big stuff, Mitchell,” Heywood Cronin told her. “It’s got everything—money, mystery, power struggles. Sex. Revenge. But most of all, human interest. Your specialty.”

He sat back with satisfaction and watched his words sink in.

DELIGHT FLOODED KITT. Suddenly Heywood Cronin, elderly, grizzled, balding and bent, looked as radiant as a spirit guide to her.

Then he squinted through his thick glasses and smiled his thin smile. “Go home and pack. Monday you leave. For Crystal Creek, Texas.”

Crystal Creek? Kitt felt as if the office ceiling had crashed down on her. Dismay swept away her delight. Crystal Creek was the last place in the universe she wanted to go. Heywood Cronin no longer seemed luminously benevolent. He seemed like a capricious troll playing games with her life.

“Well?” he demanded, leaning toward her over his vast desk.

Say something! Kitt commanded herself. She cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. Cronin, you see…I—I’m from Crystal Creek. It could cause a conflict. It would be hard for me to write objectively about it.”

Cronin hunched lower, as if crouching for attack. “I want objectivity—up to a point. I also want feeling. Passion. A town ripped in twain, blah, blah, and so on.”

“But—but, you see—there could be a problem—”

“No,” Cronin said, shaking a bony forefinger. “You see. What you call a problem, I call opportunity. You can write about this place because you’re of this place. You tap into its deepest psyche. It’s your old hometown. The site of your fondest childhood memories. And so forth.”

Kitt blinked hard. “You mean you knew I grew up there?”

He laughed the laugh that was famous at Exclusive magazine. It was described as the gurgle of ice water pouring over a grave. “Of course. That’s why I picked you.”

“Oh,” Kitt said tonelessly. She’d hoped he’d chosen her for her ability.

“That,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and the fact you can write. I assume you’ve lots of connections in this one-horse town? Relatives? Old friends and neighbors? People who’ll pour out their hearts to you?”

Kitt drew a deep breath, mind whirling. She didn’t think of Crystal Creek as her hometown; she tried not to think of it at all. When she’d left, she’d meant to leave forever. People opening their hearts to her? Hardly.

But—there was Nora.

Ah, yes, thank God there was Nora. A lifeline back then. And possibly a lifeline now. “I know people, yes,” Kitt said vaguely.

“Then you know what this story’s about? Eh? Do you?”

Kitt’s mind spun more swiftly. “It has to be about Brian Fabian,” she guessed. “About his buying land there. To build some megahousing development.”

Cronin sank back into his chair and folded his hands over his vest. “Ha. You do have sources. Yes, Brian Fabian. He’s always news. He sells magazines, by God.”

So that was Cronin’s angle, Kitt thought. If Brian Fabian was interested in Crystal Creek, so was Exclusive magazine. Cronin knew what fascinated the public, and he played that fascination like a magic flute.

Cronin’s eyes stayed fixed on her, gauging her. “Tell me what you know about Fabian.”

Kitt told him what she knew, what everybody knew—next to nothing. Fabian was a billionaire and almost total recluse. No known photo existed of him. Information about his private life usually proved to be false or misleading or both.

Facts about his business ventures were just as elusive. They were hidden in a maze of mergers, partnerships, shell corporations and deals of dizzying complexity.

“I’d guess he’s the mystery in the story,” Kitt mused. “And the money and power.” Then she added, “And probably the sex.”

One thing certain about Brian Fabian was his appetite for beautiful women. But none of these women ever talked about him. Never a one said so much as a word. His affairs remained as secret as everything else.

Cronin gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “The sex? Not Fabian—this time. Sex came into the story with the lawyer he sent there to buy land. Nick Belyle. He fell for some local Venus and did the unthinkable. He violated Fabian’s confidence. He told about the plans for the development.”

Kitt said, “I heard.”

Nora had sent a long, excited letter about it. At the time, Kitt had given it little thought. So Fabian wanted a few thousand acres in Texas for some harebrained housing development—so what? For him such a project would be no more important than a mere whim, an expensive toy.

“That lawyer,” Cronin said, tapping his mahogany desktop, “let the cat out of the bag. And it was a rabid wild cat. Fabian wants to start a ‘planned’ community. The folks in your old neighborhood want to stop it.”

It’s not my old neighborhood, she wanted to retort. But she said, “I heard that, too.”

“A clan named McKinney’s leading the battle. Know ’em?”

Kitt’s body stiffened. J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to remember, more than she dared to remember.

But she let her face betray nothing. “Yes. I know—most of them.”

“They’re stubborn, and they’re full of fight,” Cronin said, watching her expression closely. “They’ve got money and power. One of them’s out of the country—Cal—but the rumor is he’s coming back for this. Of course, next to Fabian, they’re small potatoes. Nothing, really.”

Cal’s name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn’t flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.

She shook her head. “If you want a story on the McKinneys—”

Cronin waved his hand negatively. “No, no. They’re only one part. It’s the whole town—the whole county. It’s split. Some want the development. Some don’t. A house divided against itself. That’s the drama.”

Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. “But to fight Brian Fabian—”

“Yes,” Cronin said with pleasure. “A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered.”

Kitt kept her face carefully blank.

“Hopeless cause,” Cronin mused. “Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life ending forever. Heartrending.”

Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren’t the sole players, they were involved. She couldn’t help it—the fact made her profoundly uneasy. “I see,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Do you?” he challenged. “There’s something you haven’t asked. I expected more from you, Mitchell. Why haven’t you asked about the revenge part?”

Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. “I was about to. My sources—” she meant Nora, of course “—never mentioned such a thing.”

He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. “That’s because your sources don’t know yet. And you’re not to tell them. You’re going there to gather information—not leak it.”

Her chin jerked up defiantly. She’d never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she never would.

Cronin smiled at her reaction. “Here’s the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he’s so incensed at his turncoat lawyer—”

“Nick Belyle,” furnished Kitt.

“—that he’s sending down the man’s own brother to finish the job.”

Kitt’s interest shot up several notches. “His own flesh and blood?”

“Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I’m told. I’ve had research prepare a folder of information for you on each of them.”

Kitt narrowed her eyes. “Brian Fabian’s setting brother against brother? Like…the Civil War?”

“Yes. It’s quite nasty. I like it,” said Mr. Cronin.

Kitt didn’t. “What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”

“You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”

“I could try—” Kitt began.

“Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”

Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.

But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”

Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hell.

EVERY DAY AFTER WORK when the weather was decent, Kitt went for a run in Central Park. Then she showered, nuked a frozen dinner and settled down to read.

She unplugged the phone because men sometimes called, and recently she wasn’t in a mood to bother with them. She was currently between boyfriends, a state she didn’t mind a bit. It was restful.

Now, wearing her ratty bathrobe, she flopped onto her sofa and opened the folder on the Belyle brothers. True to Fabian form, the information about them was scant.

There were actually three brothers, and their widowed mother had moved with them from Texas to New York. She’d worked for Brian Fabian as a cleaning lady or maid. Accounts differed, but he’d befriended her.

All three sons had gone to law school, and all three had taken jobs with Fabian’s firm. Rumor said that Fabian had been a patron to them.

Nick Belyle, the brother who’d defected, had gone to Harvard. Mel, the one being sent to fight him, had gone to Yale. Research had provided copies of their transcripts. Both had A averages. Kitt gave a grudging whistle of approval—these two should be able to wage a hell of a battle.

Mel made the gossip columns from time to time, dating models. Fabianesque, that appetite for beautiful women. Otherwise, the brothers kept their private lives private. That, too, was in Fabian’s mode.

Until Nick settled in Texas, he’d kept on the move for the corporation, living in a dozen different places. Mel stayed based in New York. His address was fancy. Very fancy.

And that was it. There were a few boyhood and teenage snapshots of Nick. None of Mel. Also missing was any mention of either brother’s hobbies, clubs, political affiliations—nothing. Kitt closed the folder, wishing the research department had dug more deeply.

She was going to have to do her own detective work and find the details herself—starting now. She would call Nora in Crystal Creek.

Nora was her aunt, but the word aunt always sounded august and elderly to Kitt. Nora was neither. Nora was thirty-three, just five years older than Kitt. She was bright, funny, down-to-earth, and generous.

Nora had made only one mistake in her life, and it had been disastrous. As a sixteen-year-old girl, she’d got pregnant and married a man who’d thrown all her dreams offtrack.

Nora had grown up wanting one thing: to be a teacher. After her divorce, she’d sweated blood to finish college. She’d married again, a good man. She’d even taught for a while, but circumstances had seemed to conspire against her.

Now, instead of teaching, Nora had a dead-end job. She worked fifty weeks a year, six days a week in a cow town café and managed a tatty little motel, too. Kitt shook her head at the waste.

She dialed Nora’s home number. She listened to the phone ring and thought of Crystal Creek. It still seemed ironic to be going back, but perhaps, at last, it was time. A feeble ghost or two might still haunt her, but this would be her chance to lay them to rest.

When Nora answered, she hooted with surprise to hear Kitt. “Kitt-Kat!” she cried. “Can you read minds? I was just thinking of you. I loved that piece you wrote about the little girl who plays chess.”

Kitt thanked her, feeling the pinch of guilt. Nora followed Kitt’s career proudly and read every issue of Exclusive. She sent notes of praise and funny cards and newsy letters, but Kitt was usually too busy to answer at length. Now and then she dashed off a postcard or an e-mail. It was not that she didn’t love Nora, but…

She paused, picturing Nora’s pretty face and blue-gray eyes. How often in the past had she turned to her, a girl barely older than herself, for comfort? Now she was turning to her again—but for reasons of ambition.

Kitt took a deep breath. “Listen, Nora, I’m coming down there next week. On Monday. I hope it’s not too short a notice.”

“Here?” Nora sounded delighted. “That’s great! I can’t wait to see you. Good grief, how long has it been?”

“Twelve years,” Kitt said. Another guilty twinge stung her, and she tried not to think of her long absence.

“Twelve years,” Nora said in wonder. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

“The prodigal returns,” Kitt said, trying to make a joke of it.

“It’s about time,” laughed Nora. “I was starting to think you got too citified. You wouldn’t claim us any more.”

“I’ve got an assignment,” said Kitt, trying to sound casual. “To write about Crystal Creek. The current troubles. You know, that whole land grab thing with Brian Fabian.”

For a moment, Nora went strangely silent. At last she said, “Write about it? I don’t know. Folks around here might not like it….”

Kitt made her voice conciliatory. “We’ll talk about it when I get there, okay? The main thing is I get a chance to see you. It’s been so long…I mean, I can still come, can’t I? Even if I’m on assignment?”

This time Nora didn’t hesitate. “You’re always welcome,” she said with warmth. “And I want you to stay with us. At Chez Slattery. I insist.”

It was Kitt’s turn to pause. For the first time since that afternoon she had a strong rush of apprehension about the McKinneys.

Nora was married to the McKinneys’ foreman. She lived within sight of the main house. For Kitt, it was uncomfortably close, too close.

“That’s good of you, but I shouldn’t. I mean, if the people in town don’t like what I write, they could hold it against you.”

“I know you’re always fair,” Nora said loyally. “That’s one of the best things about your articles. You put emotion into them, but they’re fair. Really, stay with us—please.”

“No,” Kitt insisted. “It wouldn’t be in my best interest, either. If I stay with you, it’ll look as if I’ve taken sides before I’ve even started.”

Kitt drew in her breath and held it. What she was saying was sound in journalistic principle. But she also could not bear spending a week or more living on the McKinneys’ land. Suddenly the ghosts of her past did not seem so few or so feeble.

Nora sighed. “I can understand that. I’d certainly never want to compromise the integrity of your story. But you can spend time with us—can’t you? You can’t work all the time.”

“You’ll be the first person I’ll come see,” promised Kitt. “I’ll drive straight to your house. Won’t even check into the hotel first. The old hotel—you said they remodeled it?”

“You won’t recognize it. You know that you could stay for free at the motel, instead,” Nora said ruefully. “But it’d hardly be doing you a favor. We’re putting in a new heating and air-conditioning system. It’s a mess.”

“No, it’s better I stay on neutral ground,” Kitt replied.

Nora laughed. “Oh, Kitt—these days there is no neutral ground in Crystal Creek. But it’ll be a kick to have you home.”

Home. The word almost froze Kitt. She tried to shake off the cold, empty feeling. New York was where she lived now, and she wanted and needed no other place to call home.

She pushed the emotion away and got back to her job. “The McKinneys,” she said with seeming casualness, “they’re leading the fight against Fabian?”

“J.T.’s the president of a citizens’ group. It’s running him ragged. I wish Cal could get home, but he’s tied up in business in Australia.”

He’s not there yet. Good, Kitt thought with a wave of relief. But he would soon be back—Cronin had said he would.

Kitt made herself press on. “Is there any word of Fabian making another move down there?” She knew, of course, that he was about to.

“We hope not,” Nora said. “J.T.’s got about all he can handle. He’s got Fabian tied up in lawsuits for the moment. And all the major ranchers have refused to sell any more land. But anything might happen. J.T. doesn’t need any nasty surprises.”

“I see,” Kitt said noncommittally. She couldn’t warn Nora that just such a nasty surprise was on the way, and it would come in the form of a man named Mel Belyle.

IN CRYSTAL CREEK the next day, Nora realized that Kitt’s phone call had sent a strange restlessness tingling through her.

The Longhorn Coffee Shop was languid, enjoying a rare Saturday morning lull. Nora savored the quiet and looked out the front window at the blue sky and sunshine and the strolling people.

This was the first time in two long weeks that the sky had been bright and clear. Every day had brought clouds that sprinkled, rained, or poured down storms. Suddenly, she yearned with all her heart to join those people out in the beautiful sunlight and be free, like them.

What would she do if she had a Saturday all to herself? A whole day to do anything she wanted? She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, giving herself up to this sinful fantasy. For starters, there were books to be read, tempting stacks of them, seductive heaps of them…

The crash of shattering glass hurtled her back to reality. Nora straightened, squaring her shoulders. She was training a new waitress, LaVonda Pollack. “Vonnie?” she called apprehensively.

The girl’s voice, nervous, came from the kitchen. “It was only an empty bottle. I’m cleaning it up. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Don’t worry.” Nora sighed and pushed a hand through her ash-brown hair. Then she busied herself readying for the lunch hour rush. She had tables to wipe, fresh place mats to put down, condiments to restock.

Nora’s regular assistant, Kasey, was on vacation. Her other waitress, Shelby, had just gotten married, and Nora had been lucky to get a replacement—even if it was Vonnie.

Finding good, steady help for the café was hard. The hours were long, the pay only adequate, and the waitresses had to count on tips to make a decent living. Nora missed Shelby, and she envied her. Shelby had gone back to college for her master’s degree.

Sometimes in her heart of hearts, Nora still wished for life without the Longhorn. But the place was hers, and she was lucky to have it. Once the café had almost sold, but the deal had gone sour at the last moment, and Nora took that as a sign. It belonged to her and she belonged to it. There was no escaping and no use complaining.

The door opened, its bell jingling, and her vague discontent fled. When she saw who entered, her heart flew up in happiness.

Three tall men stood in the entryway. All wore Stetsons, western-cut shirts, jeans and expensive boots. Each was handsome, but in a different way. It was J. T. McKinney with both his sons, not only Tyler—but Cal.

The sight of Cal dizzied her with happiness. He and his family had been gone for months. She threw herself into Cal’s arms, half-laughing, half-crying, hugging and being hugged. Cal laughed out loud, Tyler gave a tight smile, and J.T. sighed as if in resignation.

“Cal,” she said in disbelief. “When did you get back?”

“This mornin’,” he said and whirled her around. Then he stopped and beamed the smile that showed his killer dimples. “Lord, is it possible? You’re prettier than ever. Got a kiss for me, sweet thing?”

Then he was bending, his lips firm and affectionate against her cheek. “Mmmwha!” he said, drawing back slightly.

She drank him in. Next to her husband and son, she loved Cal McKinney more than anyone else in the world.

He was as irresistible as ever, his hazel eyes just as full of high spirits. He had his hat brim tipped at a cocky angle, and though he was in his thirties now, he still had his boyish, sexy, carefree air.

He grinned again. “That worthless husband of yours has gone off and left you alone today, the fool?”

Nora hooked her arms around his neck. Her husband, Ken, was J.T.’s foreman and Cal’s best friend. “Ken’s in Medina. He should be back by tonight. Oh, Cal—it’s so good to have you home.”

“Good to be home. Mighty good.”

“And the rest of the family?” she asked. “They’re here?”

“Serena and the twins? Couldn’t go nowhere without ’em, could I? They’re sleeping at Daddy’s. It was a long trip. I hope those twins sleep a week. Ever been on a plane thirty-six hours with twins? Close to hell as I ever want to get.”

She laughed and led him to the nearest booth. “Let me get you some coffee. Or are you too wired?”

“Never too wired for your coffee, darlin’. Or your cheesecake. I’ve been thinkin’ of your cheesecake for the last three thousand miles. It was all that kept my spirits up. You got pumpkin?”

“I do. The first of the season. You want it with whipped cream?”

Cal closed his eyes in mock ecstasy. “Yes. Say it again. It’s like you’re talkin’ dirty.”

She gave him a playful swat. She turned to Cal’s father. “And what can I get you, J.T.?”

“I wondered if you were ever going to notice me,” J.T. drawled.

Nora laughed. “I always notice you. You’re not an easy man to ignore.”

“Except when he’s around,” J.T. said with a rueful nod at Cal.

Cal looked amused, but his brother, Tyler, didn’t smile.

J.T. said, “Give me black coffee with no caffeine and a piece of gingerbread. But no whipped cream.”

Cal patted his father’s chest over the heart. “Gotta take good care of that ticker, Daddy.”

“I learned that the hard way,” J.T. said, pushing the sugar bowl farther away. Almost ten years ago he’d had a major heart attack.

“And you,” Nora said to Tyler, “you’ll have black coffee, skim milk on the side and a plain donut.”

Tyler nodded.

“You still have that same thing?” Cal asked in disbelief.

“Yep,” said Tyler.

“You don’t ever change it?”

“Nope,” said Tyler.

“God,” Cal said, shaking his head. “You’re so predictable.”

Tyler gave him a level look. “So in your way,” he said, “are you.”

“Ah,” said J.T. “The sound of quibbling. How I’ve missed it. Family’s a wonderful thing. Isn’t it, Nora?”

“The best,” she said. She looked at the three of them fondly.

J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch in the county. He was in his early sixties now, but still straight and tall. His thick hair was silver, and although time had carved lines in his face, women said he was as handsome as ever—and some said he was even more so.

Tyler, the black-haired elder son, resembled his father, with the same dark eyes and stubborn jaw. Nora knew that he was a good man, but his feelings often ran too deep and silently for his own good.

And Cal—unlikely as it was, Cal was now a golden boy. Tyler had graduated from college with honors. Cal had been kicked out with multiple dishonors. Like a dutiful son, Tyler went back to the Double C to work with his father. Cal hit the rodeo circuit and spent the next ten years raising merry hell without wasting a thought on responsibility.

Then Tyler had a brainchild. He studied hard and toiled even harder to turn almost a thousand acres of Double C land into a vineyard and establish a winery. He did everything by the book, with science and forethought.

Cal fell into business only because he fell in love. He was surprised to find he had a knack for making deals. He’d turned Serena’s small boot-making business into a big one, then diversified. He invested, and his investments multiplied.

Now Tyler was still struggling to make his winery one of the best in the state. His wife had left him once, and he’d almost let her get away. The last ten years had often been rocky for him. In contrast, Cal was rich, with a marriage smooth as silk. Who could have predicted such a thing?

There were tensions among the three men. Nora could see it even now, when they should be happy in their reunion. Still, for all the undercurrents that ran among the men, they were bound together by ties of blood. If anyone was foolish enough to take on one McKinney man, he took on all three.

They had their differences. They always would. But to Nora, these three men weren’t simply from Crystal Creek. They were Crystal Creek, its generous and complex heart and soul.

CHAPTER TWO

MEL BELYLE RACED like hell through the Dallas airport. He dodged, he wove, he sprinted. The crowd in the concourse formed a slow-moving human maze, but he negotiated it with a keen eye and his fanciest footwork.

It didn’t matter. He still missed his flight to Austin.

He turned around in disgust and bumped—hard—into the little redhead. She’d been on the same flight as he had from New York. How in blazes had she got there so fast? Did she have wings on her heels?

He blinked in surprise. She didn’t. “Excuse you,” she said, her voice full of irony.

Hmm, he thought. Attitude. Lots of it. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you clear down there.”

Blue sparks flashed in her eyes. She tossed a disdainful glance at his expensive shoes. “I hope you didn’t scuff your Guccis on my shin.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I said I was sorry.”

“Right,” she said, “Forget it.” She hustled past him and made her way to the ticket counter. “I missed my connection to Austin,” she said to the attendant. “When’s the next flight?”

Austin? he thought. It’s a small world after all.

Mel looked her up and down. Her long hair was red as flame and pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her face would have looked almost elfin, except the eyes were a-crackle with worldly intelligence.

She wore jeans, running shoes and a travel vest, and she had the air of knowing exactly what she was doing. She was breathing hard, but he was breathing harder.

He stepped up behind her. He was almost a foot taller than she was.

He said, “You were on the flight from New York.”

She didn’t bother to look at him. “Yes.”

“You’re going to Austin, too?”

“Yes,” she said in a tone that meant Stop talking to me.

He wasn’t about to stop. She rather intrigued him. She was the sort of little thing who thought she was a big deal, and he was just the man to bring her down a notch or two.

But he made his voice friendly, casual. “You must have got here right behind me. I thought everybody was eating my dust.”

She cast him the briefest glance over her shoulder. “I got here before you. You ate my dust.”

He laughed at her audacity. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I was on my college track team.”

This time her glance was longer and more dismissive. “So was I. I was the captain.”

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.

She began to sound him out. “Okay,” she said with a demure smile. “We’ve made peace. So tell me about yourself. What takes you to Austin?”

“Business,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m going to visit my aunt,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. She paused for effect. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s a shame to be out of touch with family, don’t you think?”

For a split second, almost imperceptibly, his smile wavered. He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said, “So you’re from Texas?”

“A long time ago,” said Kitt. “I’m permanently transplanted to Manhattan now. What about you? Native New Yorker?”

“Transplant,” he said. “I’m from Beaumont, originally.”

She knew that already. “Castle Enterprises,” she said. “That sounds familiar. What exactly is it?”

“Real estate development,” he said, then turned the questioning. “And what do you do?”

She shrugged as if her job was of small interest. “I work for the Gilroy Group.” This was misleading, she knew. The Gilroy Group owned six magazines, but it was far more famous for its other holdings, especially its television network.

His blue eyes kindled with mischief. “Gilroy? Are you connected with that Uptown Girls show? The sexy one?”

“I’m just a little-bitty cog in the Gilroy machine,” she said flirtatiously.

He gave her a one-cornered grin. “That means yes, doesn’t it?”

She gave a laugh meant to sound self-conscious. “Well…”

“It does mean yes,” he said with satisfaction and leaned closer. “So exactly what do you do?”

She chose her words carefully. “Well, I guess you say I sort of—work around the editorial office.”

His grin grew more wicked. “You mean like—a story editor?”

“Um. Kind of.” She did, after all, work on stories. He just didn’t suspect she was working on one right now and he was its central figure.

“So tell me,” he said, leaning his chin on his hand. “Those plots? Are they based on real experience?”

He looked as happy as a man who has just fallen into a hutch of Playboy bunnies. Uptown Girls was the sexiest show on network television.

You lech, Kitt thought. I bet you think I’m an encyclopedia of erotica. She batted her lashes again. “That would be telling. I’m not going to discuss it until I know you much, much better.”

He leaned closer still. “That can be instantly arranged. What do you want to know?” His dark blue eyes were fixed with happy predation on hers. For a moment her breath stuck in her chest.

“Everything,” she said. “Tell me simply everything.”

“NO!” CAL CRIED as if in mortal pain. “She can’t do that!”

J.T. sat at his desk. In his face, harshness mingled with resignation. “She can and she is.”

“No,” Cal repeated, then swore. “She’s lived here since I was born. Since before I was born. Hell, she’s family—she can’t up and leave.”

“I’m no happier than you are,” J.T. said. In truth, he felt as if somebody had chipped a piece out of his heart.

“Hell,” Cal said in frustration. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared moodily out the window of J.T.’s study.

J.T. gave a gruff sigh. Lettie Mae Reese, the cook, had given her notice this morning. In two weeks she would celebrate her sixty-second birthday. When she’d told him that she meant to retire, tears had brimmed in her eyes.

J.T. picked up a pencil and threw it down again. Hell, when she’d told him, tears had brimmed in his eyes. Lettie Mae had come to work at the Double C when J.T. had married his first wife, Pauline, years ago.

He could not recall a major holiday or birthday without Lettie. He could picture her when she first came to the Double C, a young black woman so thin that her smile seemed wider than she did.

When Pauline had died, the only person who’d seen him cry was Lettie Mae. He’d stood in the kitchen and suddenly burst into sobs, making a noise like an animal in hopeless pain. She’d embraced him and held him fast, until he could stop. His outburst had been brief but violent, and afterward neither of them ever spoke of it.

Lettie had stood by him through everything, including his second marriage to Cynthia. When he became a father again, at fifty-five, Lettie Mae had looked at his new daughter as if the child was as precious as her own. “J.T.,” she’d said, “you sure haven’t lost your touch. After all these years, you still make a mighty good-looking baby.”

Cynthia used to snuggle in his arms after lovemaking and repeat the words as their private joke. “J.T., you sure haven’t lost your touch.”

Cynthia hadn’t been able to use that joke much in the past few months. Lord knew that J.T. liked sex, but by bedtime, he was so tired the need to sleep overwhelmed him. Then he had nightmares about bulldozers eating Claro County, chewing up the very graveyards and the bones of his ancestors.

Cynthia said she thought the stress was getting to him. This morning she’d said, “J.T., I know how much you love this country. But you’re letting it eat you alive. Maybe the time has come for you to ease up.”

Ease up? At first he’d been shocked. But was she right? J.T.’s lawyer, Martin Avery, wanted to quit lawyering and retire. His doctor, Nate Purdy, wanted to quit doctoring and retire. Even that old warhorse, Bubba Gibson, J.T.’s friend from boyhood, was starting to make threats about turning his ranch over to somebody younger.

Everybody else was retiring. Why not him? The ranch hadn’t done so well lately. J.T. was even slightly in debt—to Cal, his own son. Borrowing money from his own child had made J.T. feel somehow diminished.

Cal still stood staring glumly out the window. “Is Lettie Mae gonna stay in Crystal Creek?”

With a jolt J.T.’s mind came back to the crisis at hand. He set his jaw. “I don’t know. She’s going to visit her cousin in Santa Fe. See if the climate helps her arthritis.”

Cal turned, his face troubled. “Daddy, I can’t imagine life without Lettie Mae here. What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll find a replacement,” J.T. almost snapped. In truth, he didn’t know what he would do. When Lettie Mae went, it would be as if the best years of his life had taken formal leave of him.

“Well,” Cal said with conviction, “what we gotta do is give her a party. Biggest damn party in the history of Crystal Creek.”

While I go up into the attic and hang myself, J.T. thought morosely.

Maybe Cynthia was right. The ranch, the changes in Crystal Creek, the battle with Fabian that could drag on for years—maybe he should retire and try to get his life back.

But if he retired, what would become of the Double C? Tyler was consumed by the business of the winery. Lynn, J.T.’s grown daughter, only cared about raising racehorses, not cattle, and her husband wasn’t a rancher. He was a dentist, for God’s sake.

As for Cal, he had bigger enterprises than a ranch, and he still had his same old footloose streak. He’d been checking out investments all over Australia, and soon he’d head for South America. No. Cal was not one to be tied down to a piece of land.

Cal said, “Let’s put the gals in charge of the party. That’ll give ’em something to worry about besides this damn Bluebonnet Meadows. Lord, what a name. Why didn’t they just call it Cutesie-ville?”

“I don’t care what they call it,” J.T. said grumpily. “I just wish it’d disappear. Hole in the Wall was good ranch land once. I was just getting used to it being a dude ranch.”

Cal shook his head and smiled. “It was a dude ranch for ten years. You don’t adjust to change real fast, do you, Daddy?”

J.T. scowled at him. “No, I don’t. And now I hear this Fabian’s sending Belyle’s own brother down here. Shelby Belyle told Lynn. Plus Nora says we’ll have a reporter on our hands. Not local. Big-time.”

Cal leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “A reporter could be an advantage to us. Exclusive is a national magazine. It could stir up national sympathy.”

“Sympathy? That and a dollar’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” J.T. said. “But don’t try it without the dollar.”

“The pen is mightier than sword,” Cal observed.

“Fabian isn’t using a sword,” J.T. retorted. “He’s using Uzis and flame-throwers and stealth bombers.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “How good is this lawyer that’s coming?”

“Mel Belyle? I hear he’s good. Very good. And motivated. He’s got a score to settle.”

Cal uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs in his belt and strolled to the fireplace. “How about the other one? The lawyer that deserted Fabian? And married the local girl?”

J.T.’s forehead furrowed. “Nick? He’s good, too. And he’s on our side. But he can’t do much. Fabian’s got him hog-tied.”

“Exclusivity clause?” Cal asked. “Confidentiality clause? Corporate secrets, that kind of bull dooky?”

J.T. gave his son a long, scrutinizing look. It always surprised him when Cal said something knowledgeable about business or law. J.T. sometimes felt that Cal’s wealth was a strange illusion, and that his younger son was still a rambling kid, without a serious thought in his head.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That kind of bull dooky.”

Nick Belyle had revealed company secrets, and it had cost him. He lost his pension, his company stock, and he would probably never work at the corporate level again.

Nick was hardly poor—he could easily live on his savings and his own investments for years. He could also open a private practice, which he intended to do, right here in Crystal Creek.

What Nick could not do for one full year was get involved in any sort of business that ran counter to Fabian’s. That included the Claro County Citizens’ Organization. Nick wanted to help—but he couldn’t even give free advice. If he did, Fabian could have him fined and disbarred.

“So Martin Avery’s handling most of the legal eagle stuff right now?” Cal asked.

“Some of it,” J.T. said. “With the help of some Dallas lawyers. But Martin’s tired. He says this case is out of his league. He said—he said that he wanted your advice. That maybe you knew some high-powered people—but not too high-powered. I’m not made of money.”

Cal nodded, his expression serious. J.T. had another surge of an emotion he couldn’t identify—or didn’t want to. It didn’t seem fitting that a man as learned and careful as Martin should turn for advice to Cal.

Tyler had always joked that Cal had spent his formative years getting bucked off horses and landing on his head. There’d been times in Cal’s wild years that J.T. could only agree.

“I want to meet Nick Belyle,” Cal said. “Soon. Could you arrange it?”

“He wants to meet you, too,” J.T. said, with the same unpleasant feeling. “He’d come over tonight if you’re willing.”

“I’m willing,” said Cal. “In the meantime I’m going to talk to your better half and mine about Lettie’s shindig.” He paused, then gave his father a level look. “You told Tyler about Lettie Mae—that she’s leaving?”

J.T. muttered yes. He had told Tyler first because it seemed only fitting. After all, Tyler was the elder and he still lived on the Double C. He saw Lettie Mae nearly every day.

Cal said, “How’d he take it?”

“Hard,” J.T. said, suddenly feeling bone-weary. Tyler took everything hard; it was his nature.

“Maybe I should talk to him,” Cal said.

“He doesn’t want to talk,” J.T. said. “He’s out in the vineyard, and he’s not answering his cell phone.”

Cal’s normally playful eyes looked troubled. “Are he and Ruth getting along all—”

J.T. cut him off. “What goes on between them is their business. I don’t interfere.” Neither should you, was the unspoken message.

Cal’s expression didn’t change. “It’s okay to ask Ruth about a party?”

“I suppose,” J.T. said without enthusiasm. “And ask your sister. Don’t leave her out.”

“I wouldn’t leave Lynn out,” Cal said. “You know that.”

“And another thing,” J.T. said. “I want Lettie Mae to have a nice send-off. But don’t go wild. We’ll split the expense four ways—you, me, Tyler, Lynn. This is not some big show for you to put on, understand?”

Cal stood a bit straighter and looked him in the eye. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he said, “I understand.”

And his unspoken message was, I understand better than you think, Daddy. He turned and left the study.

CRONIN HAD TOLD KITT she didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting Fabian’s Crystal Creek man to talk to her. Yet here that man was, ready and eager to tell her about himself. Delightful.

For once, Kitt didn’t allow herself to dwell on journalistic ethics. After all, Mel Belyle had pursued her, not the other way around.

And, Kitt rationalized, she hadn’t exactly lied to him. He’d jumped to a conclusion, and she’d helped keep him jumping. He thought he was making a conquest. He didn’t know he was becoming one.

She decided to pry slowly, not to stir his suspicions. “What kind of a name is Melburn?” she asked, just a hint of teasing in her voice.

“My uncle was named Melburn,” he said, “My grandfather spent time in Australia when he was in the navy. He named him for the city.”

Kitt looked again at his card and frowned. “Melbourne? It’s spelled differently.”

“My family wasn’t known for its spelling skills.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile.

She smiled back. “What were they known for?”

“Ah,” he said, as the waiter set down a pitcher of cola and two glasses. “Refreshment. May I?” He offered to pour her drink.

“Please,” she said. “You were saying about your family?”

He filled her glass as he spoke. “What were we known for? Nothing special, I guess.” As he filled his own glass, his Rolex glinted in the restaurant’s dim light.

She said, “You seem to have done all right for yourself.”

“I was lucky,” he said. He lifted his drink in a toast. “Here’s to getting to know each other better.”

She clicked her glass against his. “Much better.”

He grinned. It was a charming grin, and he used it like a weapon of seduction. Don full mind and body armor, she warned herself.

He said, “I can’t believe it. A story editor for Uptown Girls. You know who my favorite character is? Fleur. The one with red hair like yours. I bet she’s based on you.”

She wagged a finger at him. “Nope. I won’t discuss it. Not until I hear about you. You were saying about your family?”

His face took on a look of mock resignation. “We were just—a family. I don’t remember much about my father. He died when I was four.”

“What did he do?” she asked.

“He was a roofer. He took a wrong step. He died three days later.”

Kitt winced. “And your poor mother?”

“She had three kids. She did what she could. Finally she moved us from Beaumont to New York. She had relatives there. They could help her find work that paid better.”

True, so far, thought Kitt. His story matched her sketchy notes about his past. “Go on,” she encouraged.

“So she worked for this guy who was well-to-do,” Mel said. “He liked her, took an interest in her, wanted to help her out. He was—generous. She was grateful. More than grateful.”

A shadow of moodiness passed over his face. He said, “I know you work with sexy plots and all, but this wasn’t like that. This guy wasn’t interested in my mom that way. She’s a little Italian lady, round as a rubber ball. But she’s got a heart as wide as the sky and personality to burn. She’s got strong opinions and speaks her mind. But everybody loves her.”

He spoke of his mother with such affection that Kitt was impressed in spite of herself. “So how did he help her, this man?”

Mel rubbed his upper lip pensively. “He helped her mostly by helping us. Her sons. With education. Summer jobs. Training in his law offices.”

She studied him with increased interest. He gave few details, but he wasn’t hiding his past. “So,” she said, stroking the water beaded on the side of her glass, “this man put you through college?”

He frowned. “We all got scholarships. But he helped with other stuff. Books. Transportation. Medical. Clothes.”

He glanced down at the cuff of his expensive sweater. She was surprised he mentioned clothes. Maybe his tailored wardrobe and pricey haircut weren’t all pure vanity, but symbolized something deeper to him.

She said, “This guy did this for you out of the goodness of his heart?”

“I think he did it out of the goodness of my mother’s heart,” Mel said. “His own mother died before he made any money. He never got to help her. My mother reminded him of her.”

Kitt looked sympathetic. “And you—and your brothers—reminded him of himself?”

The dark blue eyes took on an unexpected wariness. “Some. And he saw we had potential. That he could help us, and we could help him.”

She cocked her head. “Help him? In what way?”

“He had jobs for us when we got out of school. Good jobs. And we owe him the best we can give him. Without him, I don’t know where we would have ended up.”

She sensed complex emotions behind those words. His face, which she had first thought too handsome, was more interesting when he wasn’t cocky. But why had he suddenly showed a hint of vulnerability? Was it because he was thinking about Crystal Creek and challenging his own brother?

“You said you had scholarships,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t sound as if you’d have ended up as bums in the gutter.”

His sculpted mouth took on a wry crook. “We didn’t exactly fit in, my brothers and I. Well, the youngest one, maybe. He was always more of a regular guy.”

“You didn’t fit in? Why?” She didn’t have to pretend to be fascinated. She was.

“My older brother was a lone wolf.” A trace of bitterness was in Mel’s voice.

“You say that like it’s bad. What’s wrong with independence?”

His jaw tightened. “A man should have loyalties,” he said.

“Your brother didn’t?”

“That’s talking about my brother. I don’t want to do that.”

She inched her chair a bit closer to the table, to him. “Fine. I’d rather hear about you. Why didn’t you fit in?”

Mel gave her an odd look. “You know, you’re really a good listener.”

She shrugged modestly. “I’m just interested. You seem like the sort of guy who’d be captain of the football team, president of the student council, homecoming king, all that.”

His smile went almost shy. He rubbed his upper lip again. “No. Track team. That’s all.”

She traced a question mark on the tabletop. “So. What were you running from?”

“I could ask you the same thing. You were in track. Were you running to something? Or from something?”

She shook her head. “No fair. The deal is that I learn about you first. So tell me. What made you feel different from other people? That your family didn’t have money?”

“Lots of people don’t have money,” he said, a frown line deepening between his dark brows. “Most people don’t.”

“Then what was it?” she asked softly.

His frown changed from thoughtful to unhappy. “It’s really no big deal. It just seemed so then. It doesn’t—”

The waiter interrupted them. He set a plate with a sandwich and pickle before Kitt and an empty plate before Mel. “I’ll let you two divide the goodies.” To Mel he said, “Do you want the check now or later?”

“I’ll take it now,” Mel said.

“No, no,” Kitt protested. “It should be checks, not check. We’re not together. We’re just sharing this table—”

The smile died on the waiter’s round face. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “You looked like a couple. You acted like you belonged together—excuse me. My mistake. Sorry.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” Mel said, “and it’ll be my treat.” He handed the man two twenties. “Keep the change.”

The waiter grinned and eased off into the crowd.

“No,” Kitt said to Mel. “Let me pay my share. I insist—”

“I said it’s my pleasure. Maybe I can see you while you’re in Austin. Does your aunt live in the city?”

“Um, no,” Kitt said carefully. “Kind of—outside it. But you were saying?”

“Nothing, really,” he said. “Put part of that sandwich on this plate, will you?”

Damn, she thought. He’d been about to reveal something. How could she steer this conversation back on track?

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.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t,” Nick said. The men touched glasses and drank.

Through the open door, Cal could see Shelby Belyle sitting with his stepmother, Cynthia, and his own wife, his own gorgeous wife, Serena.

Nick’s wife was indeed a looker, thought Cal. She was curvaceous with richly dark hair and eyes. Beside Shelby sat Cal’s stepmother. The two women were a study in contrasts. Shelby was a young brunette earth goddess, Cynthia a coolly blond aristocrat, still stunning at forty-four.

But in Cal’s eyes neither of them could hold a candle to his beloved Serena. Her beauty was quieter, but deeper. Her green eyes still seemed to him the most mysterious in the world. She could give him a look from clear across the room that would shake him to the core with desire.

Just gazing at her now, his thoughts became carnal. He studied the way a strand of her long brown hair trailed over the delightful curve of one breast. Those lovely breasts were covered by a green silk blouse, and he wanted to unbutton it, part it, touch her and lower his mouth to taste her.

Tonight when they were finally alone in the guest bedroom, the first thing he was going to do to her was…

He heard the ghostly echo of his father’s old question. Do you always think with your dick? J.T. had said it half a hundred times back in Cal’s youth. The memory stung, and he hauled himself back to reality.

Nick Belyle smiled, as if he knew where Cal’s thoughts had been and exactly how lascivious they were. Cal cleared his throat and poured them each another shot. Down to business, he told himself. He said, “This brother of yours that’s coming—Mel. Tell me about him.”

Nick’s smile died. “What can I say? He’s the last person I’d want in Crystal Creek.”

“Is that from a legal aspect or a personal one?”

“Both,” said Nick and downed his drink with one swallow.

Cal studied the other man. Nick Belyle was not conventionally handsome, but his face was interesting, or so women seemed to think. Serena had said he looked a cross between an angel and a street punk.

It was a complex face, and it suited him. He seemed like a complex guy. Going counter to Brian Fabian’s orders had been hard on him. J.T. said so, and so did Cal’s sister Lynn, and Nora said it, too.

Cal chose his words carefully. “Are you startin’ to wish you hadn’t got messed up in this?”

Nick pushed away his empty glass. “I don’t regret what I did. It was the right thing.”

Cal nodded. “We think so.”

If Nick hadn’t spoken out, nobody would have known what Fabian was up to. As it was, the McKinneys had been able to throw legal roadblocks in his way, and for the time, they had slowed him. The question was, could they stop him?

Cal met Nick’s cool blue stare. “You think your brother’s comin’ to try to buy more land?”

Nick’s gaze didn’t waver. “What do you think?”

Cal tossed back the drink then leaned both elbows on the bar. “Hell, yes. I think we done made Fabian mad.”

“You’ve made him mad?” Nick said with an ironic smile. “He doesn’t like being crossed. I crossed him.” Nick’s eyes moved to the living room to rest on his young wife.

Cal followed his gaze. “You worried about her?”

Nick shook his head, but not with certainty. “This is hard on her. She loves this land. The worst thing Fabian can do to her is buy up as much as possible and ’doze it into housing lots. That’d break her heart.”

That’d break a lot of hearts, thought Cal. He said, “What’s the worst Fabian can do to you?”

The other man shrugged. “Professionally? He could move to fine and disbar me. But he can’t if I don’t work against him for a certain time. I know the law.”

“That’s about your work,” Cal said. “What about personal?”

Nick paused before answering. “The worst? I guess what he’s doing.”

“Sending your brother down here?”

“Yeah.” Nick’s voice was toneless.

Cal slowly turned the whiskey decanter round on the bar, watching the light refract from the cut glass. He asked, “So how good a lawyer is your brother?”

“Damn good.”

Cal kept twisting the decanter to make the light dance. “Is he a feller pretty much like yourself?”

“No,” Nick said. “He’s more of a company man. To me, working for Fabian was like a game. Sometimes the game was dirty. I ignored it as long as I could. My brother thinks differently. For him, it’s a way of life. He’s absolutely loyal.”

It was a loaded question, but Cal asked it. “Why?”

Nick’s expression went cynical. “Somehow he needed that way of life more than I did. He and I never…” The words trailed off.

Cal’s curiosity prickled. “He and you never what?”

“It’s—private. But basically, he’s coming here on a righteous mission. He wants to kick my ass.”

Cal lifted an eyebrow. “Meaning he also wants to kick our ass?”

“Precisely,” said Nick.

“How do we stop him?”

Nick made a tight, exasperated gesture. “I can’t do much. Fabian’s got me in legal handcuffs for at least a year.”

“I understand,” said Cal. “Daddy explained. He’s hired lawyers in Dallas. What do you think of them?”

Nick’s face became unreadable. “They’re doing their best.”

Cal knew what the problem was. The central conflict was a complex question over water rights. J.T.’s Dallas lawyers had forced Fabian to halt construction until it was resolved.

But Fabian had cleverly used the law to stop the work at a tricky stage. Now that stage threatened danger. The dam holding Fabian’s artificial lake in place was temporary, a mere makeshift levee. With each rain that fell, it became an increasing hazard.

Fabian complained his hands were tied. The injunction against him forbade work on anything at Bluebonnet Meadows—including the dam. The Dallas attorneys dawdled and dithered and seemed incapable of solving the mess.

“The lawyers aren’t doin’ so great?” Cal persisted.

“I didn’t say that,” Nick murmured.

“I know you didn’t,” Cal returned. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a piece of notebook paper. “I got two names here. Other lawyers. Now Daddy probably can’t afford ’em, but me and my partners can. I’d have to try to ease into doin’ it. Not to put his nose out of joint. Would you just look at this for me?”

He unfolded the paper and laid it on the bar, smoothing it out. He could see Nick’s reluctance. But Nick, grim-faced, looked down and read the names. Cal watched his expression. Slowly, disbelievingly, Nick grinned.

Cal said, “Now, I know you can’t tell me if these folk’d be good. But you might make some little…remark. Chosen careful, I realize.”

Nick looked at Cal with something like new-won respect. “Where’d you get these names?”

“I got connections here and there,” Cal said nonchalantly.

“I see that you do.”

“So—can you say what you think?”

Nick’s smile grin became conspiratorial. “I think you’re one smart cowboy.”

“Naw,” Cal said. “It was more my partners’ idea. There’s three of us. We call ourselves the Three Amigos. They’re the brains. I’m just a simple country boy.”

“Right,” Nick snorted. He put his hand on Cal’s shoulder and laughed. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Man, oh, man. This is something.”

Cal laughed, too. Maybe Fabian and Nick’s brother didn’t hold the winning cards, after all.

KITT HAD NOT SEEN the Hill Country for twelve years—almost half a lifetime ago. She had convinced herself it would seem strange and was startled that it didn’t. Why does it still feel so familiar, she thought with apprehension. It shouldn’t.

Yet she knew the sweep of these hills with a primal, bone-deep knowledge. It was in her blood to know it—whether she wanted to or not.

The land had dramatic beauty. There were hills, cliffs and low mountains. Great expanses of sparse ground stretched between them. In the open spaces, only the sturdiest vegetation grew. The twisted mesquite trees crouched low to the ground, and the scrub pines were dwarfish.

Along the creeks and river banks, though, were lush green groves. Over this mixture of starkness and fertility arched the great Texas sky. It was gray today, threatening rain. In the distance, lightning glimmered like a ghost.

In her heart, she reluctantly admitted the land’s grandeur. But her head asked: What’s it good for? Cattle and little else. Raising cattle was a back-breaking struggle, and ranching often fell on ruinous times.

The memory of those hard times killed any nostalgia that might stir her. This land was beautiful, yes. But it was also cruel. She was here only because a story was here, and she happened to know the territory.

Yet when she reached the stone pillars that marked the entrance to the Double C, she paused a moment, letting the car idle.

As a child, this ranch had filled her with awe. In spite of herself, she felt a shiver of the old wonder. To her, J. T. McKinney had been rich. Now she realized he’d never amassed the wealth people called “Texas Big Rich.”

By Lone Star standards, his ranch, thirty-five thousand acres, was respectable. It was hardly dazzling. Kitt thought, It’s not a magic kingdom, it’s only land.

The Double C would have little importance if it wasn’t so close to Austin—and Brian Fabian wasn’t so greedy for it. She stepped on the gas and headed down the lane toward Nora’s house.

Nora lived at the ranch in the foreman’s house with her second husband. Ken was a fine and reliable man—unlike Nora’s first husband, Gordon Jones. Kitt had despised Gordon.

She bit her lip in remembrance. Kitt had been considered a tough child, one who could hold her own in an argument, a wrestling match, or an all-out fight. She cried no more than did the most roughneck boys; she would not allow herself.

Yet when Nora had been forced to marry Gordon, Kitt had bawled like a baby. In secret, of course. In her bed and under her covers. She’d thought Nora’s life was ruined. It almost had been.

Kitt passed the ranch house, which she’d known well. Her father had been a wrangler on the Double C, and the McKinneys used to give Christmas parties for the ranch hands and their families.

The house seemed just as impressive as ever. Lights blazed from every window, and the drive was full of cars, many of them expensive. But it was not the sprawling house that made Kitt’s heartbeat speed.

Beyond the McKinneys’ house, she saw another, more old-fashioned home standing on a rise. It was a tall, angular and white, a Victorian clapboard that more than a century ago had been the original ranch house.

A swing hung in the porch’s shade, moving gently in the October breeze. Pots of mums marched up one side of the stairs and down the other, overflowing with fat-faced blossoms of bronze and jaunty yellow. On one side was a trellis with an ancient rose bush, still in pink bloom.

It was a lovely, old-fashioned house. It was Nora’s house.

For the first time, feeling seized Kitt so hard she couldn’t fight it off. She took a deep breath and pulled onto the house’s graveled drive. She took an even deeper breath, then got out of the car. As she did, the front door of the house burst open.

Nora came half-running, half-skipping down the steps, her shiny brown hair bouncing against her shoulders. In her jeans and yellow-checked shirt, she still looked as young as a girl.

She raced toward Kitt and caught her in such an embrace that it nearly knocked Kitt’s breath away. Nora was laughing and crying and talking all at once. “Kitt-Katt—welcome back! How was your trip? I was afraid you’d be stuck all night in Dallas. You haven’t gained an ounce, not a single ounce—I’m going to have to fatten you up. Did you remember the way to the Double C? Does Crystal Creek look different?”

To Kitt’s astonishment, hot tears pricked her eyes. And when she tried to speak, she couldn’t. Her throat was too choked.

What’s wrong with me? she thought, bewildered by the force of her emotions. All she could do was hug Nora back and hold her tight.

Vaguely, Kitt realized someone else had come out onto the porch. Nora drew back, laughing at herself for crying. Kitt fought down her own tears and found her voice.

“Oh, Nora,” she said gruffly, “Stop the water works. This is like walking into a lawn sprinkler.”

Nora shook her head wryly and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. “If you’d come back more often, maybe the flood wouldn’t build up. I swear, I’m weak-kneed.”

“So, Nora, your wandering girl’s come home,” said the man on the porch. Slowly he came down the steps.

Kitt had collected herself enough by now to look at him with her usual cool detachment. Ken Slattery was long and lean—well over six feet tall and all sinewy muscle. He was older than Nora by almost seventeen years, but an attractive man. His pale blue eyes looked sharp enough to count the tail feathers on high-flying hawk.

Kitt recalled him from childhood, although she hadn’t known him well. The years had not much changed him. Oh, weather had lined his face more deeply, and his brownish hair was going gray at the sideburns, but the strongly boned face was the same. The biggest change was that he walked with a noticeable limp.

“Little Kitt,” he said, “we’d started thinkin’ we needed to drive to Dallas and fetch you home ourselves.”

He took her hand in welcome. His own was hard and callused, truly a cowboy’s hand. She realized that he wouldn’t embrace her or kiss her cheek. He had an air of reserve that bordered on shyness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I missed my first flight, then they kept delaying the next one.”

Nora took Kitt’s arm and led her toward the house. “Come on in, stranger. I didn’t make anything fancy for supper because I wasn’t sure when you’d get here. You didn’t even stop at the hotel?”

“Nope,” Kitt said. “I made reservations ahead of time.” She glanced down the slope at the McKinneys’ house. “What’s happening? A party?”

Nora shook her head. “Not really. Cal and his family are home. So it’s a gathering of the clan. You remember Tyler and Lynn and Cal?”

Kitt stiffened. She remembered all of them, but most especially Cal. She hoped to God that he’d forgotten her.

“They’re all married now,” Nora said as they climbed the stairs. “And they’re entertaining somebody you’ll want to meet.”

Kitt looked at her questioningly. Nora gave her a knowing look. “Nick Belyle. The first lawyer that Brian Fabian sent down here. The one you want to meet. Now Fabian’s sending another lawyer—Nick’s brother.”

“He’s already here,” Ken said from behind them.

The two women stopped and looked at him in surprise. “What?” Nora asked. “Since when?” Kitt’s pulses inexplicably quickened.

Ken nodded. “He’s at the hotel. Just got in about half an hour ago.”

“How do you know?” Nora asked, looking puzzled.

“Phone rang just when Kitt drove up,” Ken said laconically. “It was Cal. He said that Nick’s brother just checked into the hotel.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” Nora demanded.

“By that time, you were out the door. A-weepin’ on your niece,” Ken said.

Nora gave him a mock-angry look and pretended to jab him in the ribs with her elbow. He gave her a one-sided smile. Nora squeezed Kitt’s arm as Ken opened the door for them. “That’s coincidence, eh? You and he getting here the same day? Looks like the action’s about to begin.”

Kitt only nodded. She thought it best not to mention her little adventure in the Dallas airport.

They entered Ken and Nora’s living room, and Kitt was struck by how homey and right it seemed. The overstuffed chairs and sofa seemed to beckon one to sit down and sink into soft comfort. Family snapshots crowded the mantel, and the walls were lined with overflowing bookshelves. On the coffee table were a vase of golden carnations and the latest copy of Exclusive magazine.

“Kind of spooky, isn’t it?” Nora mused. “How fast news travels? That people already know he’s here?—Nick’s brother—what’s his name?”

Mel, thought Kitt, but said nothing.

“Mel,” Ken supplied.

“Come into the kitchen,” Nora invited Kitt. “Yes. Mel, that’s it. His ears should be burning, us all talking about him this way.”

Kitt smiled weakly.

BUT IF ANY EARS SHOULD have been burning, they were Kitt’s.

Mel lay on the big four-poster bed in the West Gold Room of the Crystal Creek hotel. He was savoring, with sharp appetite, a smorgasbord of delicious details about Kitt Mitchell.

“Now wait,” Mel said, “she was a homecoming attendant both years she was at this posh school in Dallas?”

“Both years,” said DeJames, a grin in his voice. “Queen her senior year. And the Sweetheart of Phi Omega Phi.”

“What in hell’s Phi Omega Phi?” Mel demanded.

“The boys’ academic honor society. She was also editor of the high school paper.”

“And star of the girls’ track team,” muttered Mel. The redhead was clearly an overachiever. Not normal, a driven person.

DeJames said, “This is what they put under her picture in the yearbook. ‘Some girls break records. Some break hearts. Kitt Mitchell breaks both.’”

“Cute,” Mel said sarcastically. “What else does it say?”

“Most ambitious,” said DeJames. “And most likely to succeed.”

Mel envisioned her, a fiery-tressed Scarlett O’Hara, conquering by sly charm. Consumed by ambition, a schemer to beware of—even back then. He intended to have the full goods on her. He said, “But how did she get from Podunk High in Crystal Creek to the Snob-brat School in Dallas? I thought her father was just a ranch hand.”

“The Stobbart School,” DeJames corrected. “He was. And Stobbart was expensive. Very.”

“Maybe a scholarship,” Mel muttered. For track. Or academics. Or for just being disgustingly over-talented.

“Stobbart didn’t give scholarships,” DeJames said. “I haven’t figured out yet how she got there. I will. The school itself’s been closed eight years. But I was lucky—got a copy of one of its yearbooks with her in it.”

Mel’s brow furrowed. “Yeah. How did you do that?”

“Because,” drawled DeJames, “I am excellent at my work. And I also have mystical powers. You want me to fax that other stuff to you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mel said. “Send it on.”

DeJames had given him all the basic info on the redhead, where she’d gone to college, her job history, where she lived in New York, even who her last boyfriend had been, a writer who worked for Celebrity Magazine.

Mel glanced at his watch. “You’re working late, aren’t you, DeJames?”

“It’s how I’ll get to the top. My excellence. My mystical power. And my legendary tirelessness.”

“Don’t forget your becoming modesty,” Mel gibed.

“That, too. You want me to send this yearbook? I can get it there tomorrow by courier.”

“Do that,” said Mel. “And keep digging. I want to get beneath this woman’s surface.”

“I think you want to get beneath her skirt,” laughed DeJames.

“It’s time for you to go home now, DeJames,” Mel said from between his teeth. “To that pitiful, empty thing you call your life.”

“I happen to have a girlfriend who looks like Jada Pinkett Smith’s prettier sister. A steady girlfriend, Don Juan. You should try it sometime.”

“Goodbye, DeJames,” Mel said and hung up.

He sighed and rose from the bed. He’d kicked off his shoes and socks and was shirtless. He smacked his bare chest and padded to the window. It had luxuriantly full white curtains that matched the bedspread and the canopy over the bed. He was in a set of matched rooms called the Gold Rooms, with a sitting room in between.

The Plaza, it wasn’t. Still, it was a decent enough place, with a window seat and hooked rugs and a surprisingly well-stocked minibar. There was a combination restaurant and pub downstairs. Its Scottish décor would have struck Mel as absurd in the heart of Texas if he hadn’t known the hotel owner was from Glasgow.

Mel knew much about this town. He’d come to it as his brother had, armed with knowledge. Unlike his brother, he wouldn’t let some woman make him into a turncoat.

He stared out the window. He could identify the buildings as easily as if he’d lived here for months. There was the bank, Wall’s drug store, the Longhorn Coffee Shop, which was closed because it was Monday. Next to the café was the Longhorn Motel, where Nick had stayed.

It was nothing but an L-shaped row of units, not shabby, but clearly low-priced. It wasn’t the kind of place Nick would have normally stayed on a bet. But he had done so because of the woman, Shelby.

Mel looked at the whitewashed motel units and shook his head in disgust. He rubbed his upper lip and thought of all Brian Fabian had done for the Belyle family.

Their mother still got teary when she tried to talk about how Nick had turned his back on such a good man. How Nick had given up everything. For a woman.

“I trust you won’t make the same damn mistake,” Fabian had hissed at him before he’d left.

“No problem,” Mel had assured him. And he meant it. He was made of tougher stuff.

Behind him, the fax machine began to whir and click, receiving the first batch of data on Kitt Mitchell. She didn’t interest him as a person, he told himself. Not a bit. All he wanted was to know his enemy.

CHAPTER FOUR

KITT HAD BEEN WORRIED. After all these years, would she and Nora have anything in common, anything to say to each other?

But they couldn’t stop talking. One memory sparked another; each story unleashed a flow of more. The two found they could still complete each other’s sentences—and make each other dissolve in hopeless giggles.

They sat at the kitchen table with Ken, who listened to them with wry amusement.

“And remember when we hiked up to Hermit’s Cave—” Nora began.

“—we’d lugged tons of books up there—” Kitt put in.

“And a blanket to sit on. And potato chips and a canteen of limeade—”

“We were going to hide out all summer from my brothers—”

Nora grinned. “—and a bat pooped in my hair—”

“—and you screamed and ran halfway down the mountain—” Kitt snickered.

“—yelling, ‘Bat poop! Bat poop!’ and pouring limeade on my head. Oh, Lord! And you behind me yelling, ‘It’s okay! People use it for fertilizer!’”

Nora almost doubled up. Ken looked at his wife in wonder, as if he’d never seen her so giddy.

Kitt laid her head in her folded arms on the table and laughed until she cried. Nora told how she’d washed her hair four times and would never go back to the cave. Kitt had to carry all the books back down by herself.

This led to the story of how Reverend Blake’s dog had wandered into the church one Sunday morning when the reverend was preaching a sermon on the virtue of obedience.

“Shoo, Spot,” the reverend had thundered. But Spot wouldn’t shoo. He sat in the middle of the aisle, ignoring his master and scratching a flea.

Nora went to the counter, took a paper towel and dabbed at her face. “And we didn’t dare laugh. It nearly killed us.”

“Whatever happened to that dog?” Kitt asked. Her ribs ached.

“He died of old age. They buried him in the backyard under a rose bush. Eva Blake still gets misty when she talks about that dog.”

Nora sighed and added, “The Blakes are eager to see you, you know—Howard and Eva. They always ask about you.”

Kitt’s mirth vanished. An uneasy guilt filled her. She owed the Blakes a great deal, and she must visit them. But she didn’t want to, not at all. They brought back memories that still gave her bad dreams.

But with false cheer she said, “Of course, I’ll go see them.”

Ken got to his feet. “You two look like you’re just getting started. I need to catch some shut-eye. I’ve got a windmill to check out soon as the light comes up. Hope it doesn’t rain again.”

He kissed Nora. It was not a perfunctory good-night kiss. It was full on the lips and lingering—not long enough to be showy, but long enough to convince Kitt how deeply he cared for his wife.

“Good night, honey,” he said in a low voice. Nora rubbed her nose against his.

Suddenly Kitt felt like an intruder. Ken wanted to make love, and Nora wanted it, too. “I should be going—” she began.

“No,” Ken said. “You girls have catchin’ up to do. You don’t need me.”

Nora was insistent. “I’m not letting you go yet. After all, it took twelve years to get you back here.”

Ken kissed Nora’s cheek and limped from the room. Nora looked fondly after him. “He’s right,” she said, turning to Kitt. “We have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll make some cocoa?”

“He seems like a good man,” Kitt said, gazing after Ken.

“He is good,” Nora said. “The best. He’s made a world of difference in my life. And Rory’s. Lord, Rory. You should see him—he’s six foot one now.”

Kitt smiled the mention of Rory. He was the one good thing to come from Nora’s marriage to Gordon Jones. But Nora’s unplanned pregnancy with Rory was why she had to marry when she was only sixteen.

Kitt, eleven then, had been horrified. But she’d grown fond of Rory, and she knew how Nora loved him and how fiercely she had always protected him. And Rory had needed protecting. Gordon was abusive.

When Kitt was in college, she got word that Gordon had died—violently. In a haze of jealousy and drugs, he’d come after Nora and Ken. Cal McKinney had tried to intervene. There was shooting, and Gordon, fleeing, had been hit by a car from the sheriff’s department.

Kitt said carefully, “Does Rory ever mention Gordon?”

“Not much. But he knows the truth. I didn’t want him to find out by the gossip—which is still going around, dammit.” Nora’s frank eyes showed a spark of anger, but it quickly faded. “He’s dealt with it fine, just fine.”

“A freshman in college—I can’t believe it.” Kitt shook her head. “And he wants to be a professor, yet. He’s your boy, all right.”

Nora’s smile was both happy and sad. “He was editor of the high school newspaper. Just like you. I wish Dottie could see him. She’d be so proud.”

“She would.” Kitt put her hand over Nora’s and squeezed it. Dottie Jones had been a widow and Gordon’s mother. She’d always loved Nora and stood by her, even when Nora divorced Gordon. Dottie had been the original owner of the Longhorn, and she’d left it in her will to Nora.

“How long have you been running the Longhorn now?” Kitt asked.

“Almost ten years, off and on. I’ve poured enough coffee to float an aircraft carrier.”

“I thought,” Kitt said carefully, “that when you got married again and went back to school, you were out of that place.”

Nora tried to shrug as if it didn’t matter, but she didn’t fool Kitt. Nora said, “Ken saw that I finished my degree. He really wanted it for me….” Her voice trailed off.

“You had a job at the high school,” Kitt said, still perplexed at what had happened to Nora. “The kids voted you Best Teacher.”

“Ken got hurt,” Nora said, going to the counter. “And that was it.”

Ken had been trying to help unload an unruly Brahma bull bought at a stock auction. The brute had kicked and pinned him against the side of the truck, half-killing him. His leg was broken, his pelvis fractured.

“He couldn’t work for a year,” Nora said, stirring the cocoa. “J.T. did everything in his power to help. But at the same time, the school system was having money problems—no raises—and I could make better money going back to the Longhorn and managing it myself.”

“What I’ve never understood,” Kitt said with a frown, “is why the school system had money problems?”

Nora shrugged and filled two cups with cocoa. “The town’s lost people. The tax burden on those left—it was getting out of hand.”

Kitt crooked an eyebrow. “But Crystal Creek should have been growing. With this location? This close to Austin? Wasn’t the town even trying to attract any kind of industry or business?”

Nora gave her on odd look. “We have an industry—cattle. We have the winery. We don’t want things like that yucky cement factory at Kelso. Or the dairy operations at Bunyard—they both pollute something fierce.”

Kitt eyed Nora with surprise. Did she believe Crystal Creek could survive without changing?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Nora said, a bit defensively. She carried the cups to the table and sat down. “That Bluebonnet Meadows could actually help the town. We don’t see it like that. Our way of life is being threatened. Our heritage. Our identity.”

Your identity has got you back cleaning tables and flipping burgers, Kitt thought. But instead she said, “You plan to keep working at the Longhorn.”

Nora shrugged. “Rory’s in college. And business is steady.”

But the conversation seemed to make Nora uneasy, and she changed the subject. “What about you? I know about your work—I read every sparkling word you write. But how about life? Any love interest?”

It was Kitt’s turn to be defensive. As a reporter, she was used to talking about other people’s lives, not her own. She said, “I’m taking a break from that sort of thing.”

Nora raised an eyebrow in concern. “What about that guy who wrote for U.S. News and World Report? Weren’t you living together?”

Kitt rolled her eyes. “Reese? For a while he was kind of interesting. Then he became predictable. Then, finally, he bored me to tears.”

Nora laughed. “They always end up boring you to tears.”

Kitt had the decency to blush. This was true. She had never seriously dated a man for long. Any man who seemed vaguely like a prince quickly became a yawn-inducing frog.

“Was he handsome?” Nora asked, leaning her chin on her hand.

“Too handsome,” Kitt said. “It made him conceited.”

An image of Mel Belyle flashed through her mind. He was far better-looking than Reese. Yet Mel’s looks were somehow different from Reese’s. Something deep in his sapphire eyes was complicated—and mysterious.

She reminded herself that Mel was also more conceited than Reese—far more. Yet something about his cockiness seemed forced, more assumed than genuine. She couldn’t put her finger on it, which was maddening….

“You said he was quite bright,” Nora said.

“Reese? Very bright,” Kitt admitted. “But too serious.”

“What’s the matter with serious?” Nora asked.

“Nothing,” Kitt said. “At first it was attractive. But he had no sense of play. He didn’t have conversations, he gave lectures. Long, dull ones.”

“Ugh.” Nora wrinkled her nose.

“One day I realized that he was gorgeous, he was smart, the sex was great, but every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to scream.”

Nora laughed. “You need a man with a little devil in him.”

Kitt thought again of Mel Belyle, the wicked innuendoes, the playful sexuality of his words. She realized that he was staying at the same hotel she was, literally sleeping under the same roof….

“So there’s nobody interesting?” Nora asked sympathetically.

Kitt pulled herself back to the moment. “Nobody interesting in the least,” she said, almost believing it.

MEL BELYLE WAS NOT without potential friends in Crystal Creek.

There were people who looked at the rolling ranch country that Brian Fabian had bought and didn’t see land about to be despoiled. They saw a crop of dollar signs pushing out of the earth, begging to be harvested.

Two who saw dollar signs were Ralph Wall, the town pharmacist, and his wife, Gloria. Mel had phoned them once he got settled, and Gloria immediately invited him over for a “little get-acquainted drinkee.”

Mel went to see how much the couple would tell him and to gauge how grasping they were. They struck him as transparently greedy, and after two little drinkees, they were very talkative indeed.

“A smart man stands to make a lot of money out of all this,” Ralph Wall said, doing his best to look like a smart man.

“You’re exactly right,” Mel answered. He smiled at Gloria Wall. “These are excellent hors d’oeuvres, Mrs. Wall.”

Gloria beamed. She was a large woman whose hair was a crown of tight ringlets rinsed to an improbable shade of gold. She had filled a silver plate with things stuffed with ham, olives, anchovies and enough creamed cheese to supply Philadelphia for a week.

“We have five prime acres we inherited from Gloria’s mother,” Ralph said, leaning back in his flowered easy chair. “It’s the ideal location for a strip mall. I thought I could lease it to Mr. Fabian for a hundred years—”

“Mr. Fabian doesn’t usually lease,” said Mel as pleasantly as he could. “This is an idea I’d have to run by him.”

“He’ll like it,” said Ralph. “He’s a man who thinks outside the box. I can tell that. Yessir. I’m a man who thinks outside the box myself.”

“Mama’s land is a select piece of property,” Gloria said. “We were thinking of leasing it at oh, maybe, a million dollars. That’s not very much, spread over a hundred years.”

It’s highway robbery, thought Mel. “Interesting. We’ll have to do a feasibility study. That takes time. But I’ll be sure to suggest it.”

“Let me freshen that drink,” she said reaching for the pitcher of margaritas.

“No more, thanks,” Mel said. “But don’t let me stop you. This is truly a festive spread.”

Gloria refilled Ralph’s glass and her own. “I lo-o-ove to cook. I want you to come for supper sometime this week. I’ll invite my niece, Ladonna Faye. She’s a lovely girl, a natural blonde like me, and so interested in investments. We’ll have such a nice cozy time.”

When hell freezes over, Mel thought, suppressing a shudder. But he smiled, told them he’d checked his schedule and let them know. Now, when they were so friendly and their tongues growing loose, was the time to ask about Kitt Mitchell.

He had a thin stack of information on her in his hotel room, faxed by the tireless DeJames. He’d learned a few things about Kitt—but not enough.

He said, “I need to confide something to you. I got word today that Exclusive magazine’s sending a reporter after me. A woman who grew up here. Her name’s Katherine Mitchell.”

Ralph and Gloria exchanged a significant look. Ralph said, “Little Kitt Mitchell? She’s coming?”

“She may already be here,” Mel said. He knew she was; she had to be. It was eerie, but he could feel her presence in his marrow.

Gloria peered at him over the edge of her drink. Ah, thought Mel. Gloria wants to gossip. It’s shining out of her face like a light.

She said, “I’m surprised she’d lower herself. She couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this place off her feet.”

Mel tilted his head in interest. “Really? What makes you say that?”

Gloria twirled her glass coyly, making the ice cubes clink. “Well…” she said. “Far be it from me to gossip…”

Mel stared into her slightly unfocused eyes. “This isn’t gossip. It’s intelligence. Business background.”

“Give him the goods, Mama,” Ralph said and reached for another canapé.

Gloria seemed to puff up with importance. “I wish I didn’t have to say it, but Kitt came from riffraff. They both did.”

Mel’s interest coiled up like an overwound spring. “Both of them? What do you mean?”

Gloria heaved a sigh of false sympathy. “She and that Nora Slattery. She’s Kitt’s aunt. She owns the café and motel.”

Mel nodded solemnly, hiding his jubilance. So the little vixen had told the truth about having an aunt. And he recognized Nora’s name; she ran the Longhorn, which was one of the town’s main nerve centers.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Why’d you call them riffraff?”

Gloria’s small eyes narrowed to knowing slits. “Well, Nora’s father was shiftless. Just a wrangler. He drifted all over the county. He worked for all of ’em at one time or another.”

“All of them?” Mel reached for the pitcher and topped off her drink.

“All the money people,” Gloria said with ill-disguised bitterness. “The big ranch folks. He dragged around a skinny wife and a passel of skinny kids. And the youngest was Nora. She was the ‘caboose.’ Her oldest brother—that was Herv—was sixteen—seventeen years older than her.”

Ralph reached for another canapé. “Herv was already married when Nora was born. He worked for the McKinneys. Kind of a tenant-hand. There never was a Mitchell man who showed a lick of ambition.”

“No,” Gloria said sipping her drink. “And they all married young. Had to. Couldn’t keep their pants on.”

Mel frowned, wondering if this was supposed to include Kitt.

“Well,” Gloria said with an expansive gesture. “When Nora’s mother died, Nora was the only kid left at home. She was about nine. So her daddy dumped her on her brother. On Herv, at the McKinneys’, and lit out for the panhandle. So Nora lived with Herv for—let’s see—seven years.”

Ralph heaved himself up out of the easy chair. “Those margaritas are so tasty, I’m going to make up another batch.”

“Oh, goody,” said Gloria. She gave Mel an almost flirtatious look. “What was I saying?”

Mel inched back from her slightly. “I asked about Kitt Mitchell.”

Gloria finished her drink and set the glass on the coffee table with a loud clink. “Herv’s oldest child was Kitt—the reason he had to get married. Then, like stair steps, there were three more little ones—boys—boom-boom-boom. Those Mitchells bred like rabbits.”

Mel did some swift figuring. “So Nora and Kitt were actually kids growing up together.”

“Right. And Nora was like a little mother to that child. Good thing, too. Kitt’s own mother couldn’t keep up with all those children. Ha! She didn’t even try.”

Mel felt an irrational desire to defend Kitt Mitchell. “Kitt did all right for herself. Exclusive’s a fine magazine.”

“I never said the girls weren’t smart,” Gloria said with a sniff. “They were. But…blood will tell. Nora no sooner turned sixteen than she got pregnant by that no-good Gordon Jones.”

Mel’s face hardened. “What about Kitt?”

But Gloria’s mind was on its own track and would not be derailed. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “There was something funny about how Gordon Jones died. It happened at the McKinneys’ lake house. Cal McKinney himself was there. And so was Nora. And Ken Slattery—the man she married—the McKinneys’ foreman.”

Gloria looked at him with malicious satisfaction. He didn’t like it. It was his job to find the weaknesses of Fabian’s enemies, and the McKinneys were among those enemies. But where in hell was this leading?

With cool politeness he said, “I asked about the reporter.”

The woman tilted her head knowingly. “And I’m telling you about her background.” She jabbed her manicured finger toward his chest. “There was something strange about Gordon Jones’s death. Cal McKinney and Nora and Ken were in it up to their necks. The McKinneys have enough money to buy their way out of anything.”

Mel looked at her in disbelief. “You’re saying they bought their way out of a killing?”

Her little pink mouth smiled, but her eyes were hard as ice. “I’m pointing out things, is all. Suspicious things. You get my drift.”

Mel clamped his mouth shut so that he wouldn’t swear. Ralph came in, bearing a pitcher of fresh margaritas. “Woo, boy!” he said. “This is some party, eh? Well, how’s my girl doing, Belyle? She giving you an earful?”

“I think I’ve shocked him plumb silent,” Gloria said smugly. “And I haven’t but scratched the surface of what I know. Now Bubba Gibson—do you know he served prison time?”

Hell and damnation, thought Mel, who did this woman think she was? The Recording Angel of All Sins? “Kitt Mitchell,” he said. “Was she even in town when this—Gordon Jones died?”

“No,” Gloria said, holding out her glass to be refilled. “She was at her fancy college. But I want to tell you about Bubba Gibson—he was cheating with this woman young enough to be his daughter—it was a scandal.”

Mel interrupted. “How did a poor kid like Kitt Mitchell get to a rich school like Stobbart’s?”

“I’m telling you about Bubba going to prison,” she said. “When you want to know something about somebody in this town, Mr. Belyle, you come to me. I know where all the bodies are buried.”

Time for my vanishing act, Mel thought grimly. He was sick unto death of this fat gossipy woman. “I really have to go,” he said rising. “Long day. Had to get up early. Jet lag.” He made his way toward the door and as he did so, he lied about having a nice evening and being grateful for their hospitality.

Gloria tried to follow him, but she wasn’t quite steady on her feet. He’d just made it to the porch. She peered out through the screen door and added, “We didn’t talk about your brother.”

His spine stiffened, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. She didn’t notice. “And that woman he married. If you want to know the full truth about Shelby Sprague and your brother, ask me. I have the goods on her and him. Because I know—”

—where all the bodies are buried, you bitch, he finished mentally.

This last jibe, at his brother’s wife, somehow offended Mel most deeply. He could not forgive his brother, and he did not want to. He had no desire to meet Nick’s wife. So why did he resent Gloria Wall mentioning them?

He drove back to the Crystal Creek Hotel, smoldering with anger. He hadn’t merely disliked the Walls, he detested them with vehemence.

And these people, God help him, were his allies.

KITT DROVE BACK to the hotel about ten-thirty.

The night was cloudy, drizzle fell, and the darkness seemed supernatural. Twice she had to swerve to avoid hitting white-tailed deer that suddenly bounded into the glow of her headlights.

Kitt had grown used to New York, where there were always nearby buildings and lights burned all night long. This black, vast space on either side of the highway almost frightened her.

She was restless and fidgety, too. This restiveness came from unpleasant truths that she didn’t like to face. But Kitt was not cowardly about such things. She made herself face them.

In truth, she was surprised by Nora’s marriage, maybe even a bit…jealous? When Kitt had heard, years ago, that Nora had married Ken Slattery, Kitt had thought: Another cowboy. Won’t she ever learn?

As a girl, Kitt had paid little attention to Ken. He’d been attractive in an old-fashioned Randolph Scott sort of way—but aloof. The sort of man who’d worked hard, kept to himself, and talked little.

She’d told herself that since he was foreman, Nora might have some security at last. She had never imagined that Nora could really be in love with him or that he would treat her as anything more than a hardy pioneer wife, born to do woman’s work.

“Okay, so I was wrong,” Kitt admitted to the darkness.

The man obviously adored Nora, and she adored him in return. Kitt had sensed the strength of their feeling every moment she was with the two of them. From the way they’d looked at each other when they’d said good-night, they were probably making love at this very moment.

The thought of Nora, naked and happily abandoned in Ken’s strong arms, made Kitt feel like a voyeur. She quickly shooed the image away.

But still she felt unsettled. Kitt had always considered herself the lucky one, the one who escaped. She’d thought of Nora as trapped—and that sex was what had trapped her.

So why did Kitt feel suddenly lonely? She never felt lonesome; she never allowed it. And why did her series of safe, comfortable affairs suddenly seem empty, almost soulless?

Kitt wasn’t promiscuous. She took her time between romances—in fact the time between romances usually lasted far longer than any of the romances themselves. Nora was right. Kitt seldom stayed involved with a man. She’d always thought it the fault of the men. But maybe it was something that was missing within her….

Thinking of the men in her life reminded her again of Mel Belyle. There was no sense in this linkage of thoughts; it just happened. All evening he’d haunted her.

She was above all a professional, but she had acted frivolously with him. That was a mistake. This assignment made them adversaries. That could not be helped. But at least he should see her as a worthy one.

Did she think of him as a serious opponent? She would be a fool if she didn’t. Nora had told her that Nick Belyle was smart as hell—and that he himself had said his younger brother just might be smarter.

KITT PARKED in the hotel’s back lot, picked up her laptop and backpack and went in the service entrance leading to the lower floors. She remembered it from years ago, when she and Nora used to deliver fresh eggs to the hotel kitchen. Kitt’s mother had raised hens on her patch of tenant land. The yard around the house had always been pecked bare and smelled of chickens. Kitt still hated eggs.

She went down the long hall that led to the registration desk. The hotel had been spiffed up nicely, she thought with approval. She eyed the oak paneling and the spruce green carpet with its pattern of thistles.

At the desk she smiled at a blond woman with a Scottish accent. She’s a newcomer, I don’t know her, thought Kitt. The realization made her feel odd. This was her hometown, but she was a stranger in it.

She took the brass keys to the back entrance and her room—no plastic card keys for this old-fashioned place—thanked the blond woman, and picked up her bags. She turned from the desk and looked directly into a man’s broad chest.

He smelled divinely of expensive aftershave, and the sweater looked like cashmere. Sapphire blue cashmere. She looked up and met the beautiful, enigmatic eyes of Mel Belyle.

Although she knew he was staying here, he’d caught her by surprise. Her heartbeat sped, and her breath felt just as stuck in her throat.

His perfect mouth twitched, as if he might say something. But he was silent, and almost self-consciously he touched his forefinger to his upper lip. There was something shy in that gesture, and it surprised her.

She swallowed and found herself saying, “I’m sorry for what happened this afternoon. You bought me a drink. I’d like to buy you one in return. After all, why not?”

The words sprang from her mouth before she had time to think of them. Instantly, she regretted them. He would of course say no. He would be scathing; she would be resentful, and they would dislike each other more than before.

He kept his finger resting on his upper lip thoughtfully. He looked at her such a long time that she thought he was not going to speak, only snub her. She was ready to spin on her heel and go.

But he said, “I could give you fifty reasons why not. Instead, I’ll say it’s a good question. Shall we start over, Mitchell?”

She looked up at him. For some reason she felt a smile stealing across her lips. “Let’s,” she said.

CHAPTER FIVE

NOW WHY THE DEVIL HAD HE said that? He wasn’t supposed to talk to her.

But he already had in the airport, by accident, and the accident had turned out to be disastrous. Damage control was in order. Or so Mel told himself, looking into those blue eyes that were so lively—and so lovely.

He must change her image of him—not for his own ego. Of course not. For Fabian’s sake and the sake of the assignment.

But part of him wondered if he didn’t sympathize with her after listening to Gloria Wall dredge up the Mitchell family scandals. She had implied Kitt’s own past was stained. Had the woman spoken truth? Or slander?

But finally, Mel admitted that he was with Kitt because he wanted to be. As a lawyer he could think of a hundred reasons to justify this urge. As a man, the desire was reason enough.

Besides, for years Mel had followed Fabian’s whims and weird rules. He was smart enough to know when they could and should be broken. He certainly wasn’t going to surrender corporate secrets to this woman. He was merely going to repair some wrong impressions.

He looked down at her—Lord, but she was a little thing. She came just to his collarbone. She had her laptop computer slung over one shoulder, her bulging backpack over the other. Its weight made her lean to one side.

“You’re listing to starboard,” he said. “Can I carry something for you?”

“No thanks. I can handle it myself.” She shook her head for emphasis, and the ponytail flashed like silken fire in the lobby’s subdued light.

I can handle it myself. He bet that was the motto of her life. She probably had it tattooed on her forehead under her bangs.

They paused at the entrance of the pub. The place was indeed a piece of Scotland transplanted to the Texas Hill Country. Tartans and crossed broadswords ornamented the paneled walls. The sound system played Scottish music. Mel recognized Andy Stewart’s voice singing of pining for the love of an elfin queen.

A friendly waitress saw them and called, “Sit anywhere, y’all.” Mel nodded. A booth in the far corner promised privacy. He bent to speak in Kitt’s ear. “Back there?” Her minty perfume tickled his nostrils. He was both surprised and pleased at the old-fashioned scent.

She nodded. “Fine.”

He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her. Although all he touched was her travel vest, it was as if sparks jabbed the palm of his hand, shot up his arm and struck him through the heart.

She stiffened and jerked away slightly, as if she felt the same instantaneous shock. He snatched his hand back, thinking, What the hell? He told himself they must have worked up a charge of static electricity crossing the carpet, but he knew it was a lie.

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