The Bartender's Secret (Masterson, Texas Book 1)

by Caro Carson

  “Sure. Thanks, Connor.” The deputy turned to the rest of the crowd and started canvassing for witnesses and sending bystanders away.

  Connor stopped worrying about everyone else in town and focused on Delphinia. “Come in and sit down for a minute. You could use a glass of ice water, or anything else you want.”

  “My hands are shaky.”

  “Yeah.” Mine don’t feel so steady, either.

  “Just leftover adrenaline from having a scare, right?”

  “Right.” The scariest five seconds of my life.

  Good God, what if she’d been on the other side of that lamppost? What if?

  “My knees hurt. I might have landed on my knees first, do you think? Because otherwise my hands would hurt worse.” She started to bend down to get her book bag, but Connor picked it up for her. She froze with her head down, looking at nothing.

  “Delphinia?”

  “My skirt.” She picked up a bit of the gray chiffon delicately between her thumb and finger, lifting it away from her on one side. On the skirt was a fat, black smudge. “It’s from the car tire. That’s—that’s how close it—that was a close one, wasn’t it?” She looked up to him, too pale. Her expression started to crumple. “Connor?”

  He swept her up into his arms and started walking toward his door. Damn the sidewalk crowd and to hell with whatever he did or did not have the right to touch. He needed the weight of her in his arms. He needed to hold her close to his chest.

  One of his waiters had come outside, so he ran ahead and held the door open as Connor carried Delphinia over the threshold. It was all he could do not to take her straight to the staircase, up three flights of stairs and into his apartment, so he could slam the door on the rest of the world. It was visceral, this need to hide her away from danger, to drag her into his own dark cave and keep her there, safe and his, all his, like he was some kind of caveman.

  Or some kind of wolf.

  He wasn’t a damned animal. He was a man with self-control, a man who took no risks, because he already had everything he needed in life. Delphinia was a nice, normal woman, and he didn’t need to clutch her to his chest just because she was alive. All of this was too much, too emotional, and it did no one any good for him to keep losing his mind.

  He set her on her feet by the snug.

  She blew on her scraped-up hands. “I feel like such a wimp. I’m not going to freak out, I promise.”

  He set her bag on the table and took her hands in his, to evaluate them for first aid, nothing more. “You can wash them in the restroom. We’ll get some ice for them while you’re waiting for the deputy. What would you like to drink?”

  “Ice water? Or is that too wimpy? A bourbon and Coke might be better.”

  “You don’t have to choose. I’ll have my crew bring you both.”

  “We’re a matched set. Look at us.” She turned their hands over. “You’re scraped up on the knuckles, I’m scraped on the palms. Between the two of us, we still have one good set of hands.”

  He smiled politely at her observation, squeezed her fingers very gently, then let go. “Go wash up. I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse.”

  He let himself watch as she crossed the pub, passing through the sunlight from the window into the darker back of the building, one more time.

  Then he returned to his job. A guest had been hurt. He gestured for the nearest waitress to come over. “Go check on her, just in case she needs any help.”

  “Sure thing. Nobody was killed out there or anything, right?”

  “Maybe a broken arm. Not as bad as last year.”

  She left and Connor gave more orders. “Gina, go in the back and fill a plastic bag with ice for her, please. Kristopher, bring her an ice water and a bourbon and Coke.” He barely hesitated. “Sit with her, if she wants company while she’s waiting on the deputy. DeAndre can handle the bar by himself. If she doesn’t want to talk, then leave her alone.”

  Kristopher made a gesture of surrender. “I got that message loud and clear the first time.”

  Connor turned on his heel to head outside. He needed to see what he could do to expedite things. It was Friday, payday, and as Mr. Murphy had told him—twice—folks would be looking for a place to buy a pint. Having a police cruiser and a wrecked vehicle in front of his pub was bad for business, and that’s what Connor was, a businessman.

  That was all he was. He wasn’t a caveman or a wolf or a godforsaken Romeo. He wasn’t looking for the kind of love that made people so miserable they had to scale mountains to be together, not the kind of love that led to something so much more than sex, whatever that might be. No wanting, no needing, no soul mates. He wasn’t looking for any of it.

  He was checking on the cyclist because he was a businessman. He was watching out for Dr. Delphinia Ray because she should be safe when she was in the Tipsy Musketeer. All of his customers should feel safe in the Tipsy Musketeer.

  It wasn’t magical. It was business.

  But an hour later, when the deputy had come and gone, and Delphinia had iced her knees while drinking two bourbon and Cokes, he left his place of business during its busiest hour to walk her to her home.

  He didn’t want to, but he needed to, because if she walked out that door and he heard tires screech again, then carrying her up to his apartment and locking the door on the rest of the world would feel like a sane thing to do.

  Chapter Twelve

  “This is where you live?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Delphinia felt a little helpless as she gestured at the imposing white columns.

  Beside her, Connor was quiet for a long moment. He took a breath to say something—nope. He stayed silent.

  “It’s called Dumas House,” she offered, as they stood on the sidewalk by the historical marker which declared that same fact.

  “It’s...nice.”

  She kind of snorted at that. “You don’t have to try so hard. It’s not mine. The university owns this.”

  He looked from the white pillars to her. “That’s one heck of an employment perk.”

  She’d never felt more like a teenager. “I live with my parents. My father is Dean of the College of Liberal Arts. I just...” She pointed at the portico side of the house. “I have a bedroom over there. And a salon. To watch TV in.”

  Brilliant. Because having a salon in one’s parents’ house made one sound so mature, compared to having only a bedroom.

  Connor was slowly shaking his head. “This is where you grew up.”

  She wasn’t sure that had been a question, but she answered him. “No, I grew up in a small house near Princeton when my parents were more junior professors. We moved to Masterson when I started high school. Father was only the department chair of archeology then. This is the dean’s house. He didn’t become dean until I was working on my bachelor’s.”

  Connor squinted just slightly at that, never taking his eyes off the white columns.

  She didn’t want him to think she was incapable of independence. “I lived on my own while I got my bachelor’s degree. I went all the way to Taunton University in New England. I’d only just turned seventeen, but my parents had no choice except to let me go. My great-grandfather founded Taunton. I thought it was very clever of me to back them into a corner that way. They couldn’t insist that Taunton wasn’t as good as an Ivy League, could they? Especially not when the president of Taunton came to see us to recruit the founder’s descendent.”

  Connor finally looked away from the white columns as she spoke, but his expression was as perfectly neutral as a statue. He could have been hurling a thunderbolt or composing on a harp. It was impossible to tell.

  But she knew what he was thinking, because she’d made this same mistake with kids in high school. “Never mind. I know how that sounds. Being the fourth generation of college professors and presidents and deans and whatnot is...not c
ool. It makes me sound like a stuck-up brain, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all. Why shouldn’t you have grown up in a respected family? Why shouldn’t you enjoy a settled life? I’m glad you live with your parents.”

  “You are?”

  “You had a close call this afternoon. If it starts to bother you later, I’m glad to know you’ll have someone around.”

  “They’re somewhere on the other side of the building from me, but I know what you mean. Thank you.” Weren’t her manners just so sweet? All her pleases and thank-yous had made adults in collegiate settings approve of the elementary-aged girl in their adult world.

  She didn’t want her time with Connor McClaine to end here, to end now, to end like this. He was going to go back to his world. Like this house, his building was big and historic, yet it had felt safe and snug when he’d carried her there—when he’d literally swept her off her feet and carried her there.

  What was it like to be cradled against the chest of an alpha male when you were feeling shaky and scared?

  It was the best feeling in the world, that’s what it was.

  She was ruined. She wanted Connor, wanted to talk with him about books and bourbon, to watch him carry kegs and recite Shakespeare. She wanted him to carry her instead of a keg, using his strength—not even needing all of it, just some of it—to make everything so easy for her when even crawling felt too difficult. She wanted him to murmur words that were more intimate than wash your hands, although when he’d murmured that, she’d gone weak in her scraped-up knees.

  But he was leaving, because she was only the brainy girl with a hopeless crush on the handsome all-star. He’d walked her home, because he was a nice person. He’d carried her books for her, too. If she were fifteen years younger, this would be the pinnacle of romance.

  She was nearly thirty, and she wanted more.

  “Won’t you come inside?” She heard herself issuing a gracious invitation like a grown woman who’d been raised in the most civilized settings. “You’ve done so much for me. I must owe you at least one drink.”

  He was shaking his head before she could finish her sophisticated sentence. “I have to get back to work. It’s Friday night. I just wanted to be sure you were steady on your feet.”

  He sounded like her father, restricting the ladies of the family to petite glasses of sherry. “An adult can drink a bourbon and Coke without being in a drunken stupor and unable to find her house, even if she’s a lady.”

  “I meant because you hurt your knees.” He said it so kindly, she was embarrassed at her petulant remark. He handed her book bag to her. She felt the square edge of the paperback through the thin cloth.

  He’d given it back. He didn’t want to read her book. He didn’t want to know more about her. What more was there to know, after all? She was only a professor, as she’d been born to be. She wasn’t a heroine, inspiring and intrepid—or sexy.

  She tapped the lump of the paperback. “You weren’t tempted to read A Mate with Destiny.”

  “You said you like to finish books you’ve started, and you said this one was guaranteed to end happily. I thought you might need that this evening.”

  He humbled her. His thoughtfulness touched her. But he was leaving her, because he had an entire life that didn’t include her.

  “You’re a very kind man, Connor McClaine.”

  She rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t a peck, nor was it passionate. Just a soft kiss on his cheek. Her heels were already back on the ground before she realized that he’d shaved recently, before beginning his Friday night workday.

  “Take care of yourself, Rembrandt.”

  He walked away.

  O that I might touch that cheek.

  She had. She’d kissed it.

  She watched him go and told herself it was a poignant, sweet moment, but the truth was, her lips burned from the heat of his skin. Everything burned for everything about him that was virile and masculine and dangerous and protective and kind. And adult.

  Then she turned to go inside and tell her mommy and daddy how her day had gone.

  * * *

  Mother and Father were not all that interested in her grand entrance to their salon.

  Mother was reading a book with a pen and notepad balanced on the arm of her chair. The notepad was always at the ready, should she find some discrepancy that required her further investigation. Next to her, in his own armchair, Father was reading his newspaper, the real kind, nothing digital on a tablet or phone.

  When she’d been a child, Delphinia had loved playing on the floor by his chair, loved the green and blue and yellow diamonds on his argyle socks, loved the polished leather of his loafers, and most of all, she’d loved the anticipation of that moment when he’d lower just one corner of the paper and address her mother. “This is interesting, Rhea,” he’d say, and then they’d discuss something wonderfully adult about traffic or politics or scientific discoveries.

  Delphinia stood before them and took in the familiar scene. This was their life, their marriage. As Connor McClaine had said, why shouldn’t they enjoy a settled life?

  But should she? She was ready to move on, to move out, to move into her own life, to throw away other people’s routines and find her own.

  She was second from the top of the waiting list for the apartment now. Someday soon, these evenings would be a thing of the past. She should try to appreciate them while she was still here. She took a seat on the settee across from them.

  “One would think,” her father said, as he turned the page and his newspaper made that distinctive rustle, “that we would have taught our child to knock when entering our salon.”

  “I wanted to tell you about my day,” Delphinia said.

  “If only etiquette allowed for a polite greeting before launching into one’s own concerns,” Mother said.

  They didn’t look at her. They didn’t see her, didn’t notice her ruined skirt.

  Delphinia had spent hours with drama majors this week. They were exciting students. They demanded attention. She decided to channel Bridget Murphy.

  “Apparently,” she announced, “today was not my day to die.”

  Her mother looked up from her book. Her father lowered one corner of his newspaper to observe her. He looked at his wife. “Well, that sounds rather dramatic, Rhea.”

  “It was dramatic. There was an accident.” Delphinia held out her hands. “A car drove onto the sidewalk, because it was trying to dodge a bicycle. It didn’t hit me, because I jumped out of the way, but I fell hard on the concrete. The cyclist was hit, and he was taken away in an ambulance. I was so lucky that only my hands and knees got scraped up. So lucky. The wheel missed my legs by a millimeter. Look at my skirt.”

  Without quite knowing how, she found herself with her mother sitting next to her, her hand patting her back as she looked at her raw knees, saying, “Oh, Delphinia.” Her father was beside her, handing her a glass of sherry. His newspaper was on the floor.

  All Delphinia could think was that Connor McClaine had been so right. It was a good thing to have family around after a bad scare.

  She took the delicate sherry glass with her undamaged fingertips—and then Vincent was there. He hadn’t been there a minute before, but he was dropping to his knee in front of her, which blocked her father from coming closer.

  “I can’t believe this.” Vincent took her free hand and kissed her knuckles, which reminded her too much of the way he’d done that by the stairs. He squeezed her hand. “How terrifying.”

  She hissed and pulled her hand away. He looked so crestfallen, she apologized. “I’m sorry, but my palms are scraped up.”

  Her mother stayed next to her, but she’d taken her hand off her back. Delphinia wished with all her heart that she could be fussed over a little longer by her parents, but Vincent was here now.

 
“Where did it happen?” Vincent asked.

  “Athos Avenue.”

  “Be a little more exact, sweetheart.”

  Such a commanding man, her mother always said. She meant it as a compliment.

  “At the Stadium Drive intersection, by the Irish pub.”

  “That pub!” Vincent exploded to his feet. “It’s that damned pub owner’s fault. You know the pub, the Irish something-or-other.” He was speaking to her father now, not to her.

  “Are you referring to the Tipsy Musketeer?” Father asked.

  “Yes, that’s it. I knew you’d know it. You know everything about Masterson. There’s a real problem with the owner.”

  Delphinia forgot about her hands. The owner?

  “Oh, that building is lovely.” Mother turned to Father. “What is the owner’s name? Murphy? We went to that wedding reception there. He was so affable, we returned a few times.”

  Delphinia couldn’t remember her parents partying anywhere except the library or the music room or the president’s house, not since Father had been made dean. This wedding must have been while she’d lived in New England.

  “Yes, it’s Murphy,” her father said. “Fine old Irishman.”

  Vincent set her parents straight. “It’s been sold. The new guy is some upstart, younger than I am.”

  I’m younger than you are. Do you think I couldn’t run a business? But Delphinia didn’t interrupt. The conversation was clearly between Vincent and her parents now. No one was looking at her or her knees.

  “What a shame,” her mother said. “A young owner probably installed a bunch of televisions for the sports fans. I’m afraid to see what the students have done to the place. They damaged the student union after that football game in November.”

  “No, it’s still beautiful inside,” Delphinia said. She was suddenly the focus of all three of them. It shouldn’t have been more unnerving than being the focus of Connor and Bridget and Allison, yet it was. “The chandelier, the stained glass—it’s very authentically Victorian.”