by Silver James
She glanced at her watch as she arrived at the table. Three more hours. If push came to shove, she could always go hide in the ladies’ room. The weeknight news anchor stood and held her chair. Britt sank into it and did her best not to fidget. The lights would dim after their food was served and with luck, she’d remain incognito. Salad plates filled with spring greens, tiny mandarin oranges and walnuts drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette waited at each place setting. Britt ate and listened as the station manager, the chief meteorologist and the anchor bantered back and forth. She didn’t aspire to a career in TV. Nope. She wanted to finish her PhD then go into pure research. Though storm chasing and getting paid for it? Bonus!
Waitstaff in white shirts, their sleeves bunched with black garters, and wearing long black aprons, swirled through the tables deftly delivering artfully arranged plates. Once her table was served, conversation ceased and eating began. She cut into the pecan-crusted filet mignon, put the bite in her mouth and almost melted. The tender beef all but dissolved on her tongue. Herb-buttered new potatoes and steamed asparagus spears complemented the steak. Okay, the evening wasn’t a total loss. She’d been expecting the usual rubber chicken so often served at events like this, even with a ticket price of a thousand dollars. The food she was enjoying with great relish was five-star all the way. Which was good, given her picky appetite these days.
The master of ceremonies took the stage and introduced the program—the history of storm chasing and the starring role Oklahoma, and the University of Oklahoma School Meteorology, played in the formation of tornado science. After inhaling the main course, Britt was unable to resist the chocolate mousse with raspberry dribble and a white chocolate tornado for garnish, spooning some into her mouth while her companions still finished their entrées.
She rolled her eyes at the good-natured ribbing as one of her segments splashed across the big screen behind the podium. A few of her graduate students wolf-whistled and she slouched in her chair as curious gazes focused on their table. Yes, indeed, the ladies’ room was looking better and better. At the end of the video, the MC reminded people to bid and bid generously on the silent auction items. The lights came up and the cash bars reopened. A small musical combo began to play and people actually hit the dance floor.
When the anchor, a tall, broad-shouldered man, and his wife stood, Britt popped up beside them, and used them for cover, peeking around the barrier they formed to locate Cooper. No sign of him. That was bad. She needed to find him so she could avoid him at all costs.
The anchor glanced down at her and quirked a brow. “Problem?”
“Um...no.” She twitched the flowing chiffon skirt of her royal blue formal gown, her gaze tracking across the room. She stiffened as she found the object of her search.
The anchor’s wife laughed. “If I were single, he’d be the kind of problem I’d want.”
Oh, yeah. The man was devastatingly lethal in that black, Western-cut tux. The lapels and vest had a touch of shine under the lights and he wore a bolo tie with silver tips and a concho clasp. The hatband of his black Stetson had conchos too. And yup, there were shiny black Western boots on his feet. Britt stifled the sigh welling in her chest.
Dr. Garcia, the head of the university’s meteorology department, chose that moment to arrive at their table. With everyone distracted, Britt finally beat a hasty retreat to the ladies’ room. Several overstuffed chairs and something that resembled an antique fainting couch were grouped in the anteroom. Poking her head into the inner room, she made sure she was the only occupant before sinking into a chair. She was more than prepared to wait out the rest of the event right there.
You’re being ridiculous, you know, her inner voice pronounced. He probably doesn’t even remember you.
“Shut up,” she muttered. “You don’t know anything.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Britt jerked her head up and stared at the woman who’d just walked through the door. She wore a lace and satin evening suit in rich cranberry. Attractive silver strands threaded through her short dark hair. A pearl-and-diamond necklace graced her neckline.
Blushing, Britt offered a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Talking to myself.”
“I see.” The woman paused a beat before adding, “You’re Britt Owens.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Katherine Tate.”
Her stomach sank all the way to the floor, leaving behind a hollow spot that quickly filled with lead. Cooper’s mother. Britt pasted a smile on her face and swallowed the spit swimming in her mouth. “Nice to meet you.” Good. Steady voice. No panic. Yet.
Mrs. Tate’s lips twitched but her rather stern expression didn’t change. “So you chase tornadoes for a living. Must be thrilling.”
“It can be. Thrilling. Yes. Mostly just boring though.” Britt reeled off the statistical probabilities of a tornado forming in any given thunderstorm. Mrs. Tate nodded and looked moderately interested until Britt stopped babbling. “I mostly do it for research. I’m working on my PhD, you see.”
“Fascinating,” Mrs. Tate said as she looked Britt over from the top of her head to the freshly pedicured and red-painted toes peeking out from beneath her royal blue gown.
Britt swallowed hard, again, unsure just what it was the woman found fascinating—Britt’s work or her as a person. Most people thought storm chasing was glamorous and exciting; surely that’s what Mrs. Tate was referring to. So why did this woman terrify her far more than all the massive tornadoes she’d encountered?
Pushing to her feet, Britt locked her wobbly knees. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Tate. I should be getting back—” She gave a vague wave toward the door.
“Of course, dear. I’ll see you again. Soon.”
What did Mrs. Tate mean? There was something odd in her tone, a weight to the words Britt didn’t understand. She pulled open the door and backed out, trying to decipher the implications of Mrs. Tate’s parting words. She continued walking, all the while leaning to watch through the slowly closing door. Britt turned around just in time to plow into a hard body. Her forehead bounced off the muscled chest as her nose was buried in a starched shirt. Her instinctive inhale filled her lungs with the aromas of cardamom, bergamot and... She sniffed again. Was that lavender? What an intriguing mix of scents.
Strong hands gripped her biceps to keep her upright. She raised her chin, tilting her head back to look up. Straight into the frowning face of the last man on earth she ever wanted to run into.
“Cooper Tate!” someone shouted from behind him.
Coop turned his head to face the man who’d yelled his name. He didn’t have time to duck the fist swinging at his face.
“You got my little sister pregnant.”
Four
The sucker punch caught Cooper on the jaw and he went down like he’d been poleaxed. He was still holding onto Britt, his legs tangled in her skirts. As he fell, she had to follow. Hitting the floor was going to hurt so she braced herself—only to land on something hard but giving. Surprised speechless, she stared at the man standing over them, fists ready for a fight. Then his words sank in. You got my baby sister pregnant.
Their meaning had barely registered before camera flashes blinded her. She glanced at Cooper and winced. His face was already swelling and his eyes were unfocused. Still, he’d been careful to hit the floor in just such a way that she ended up cradled in his lap. She fought the melting sensation in the pit of her stomach as she pressed up against him.
“Get up!” Cooper’s assailant ordered. “Stop hiding behind that—” A broad-shouldered man with a determined look jerked the guy away before he could finish his name-calling. Even though he wore a tuxedo, the newcomer could handle the physical stuff. Suddenly, there were more men surrounding her and Cooper, and Mrs. Tate, blocking them from onlookers and the barrage of cell-phone paparazzi.
Great. Just...great. The scrum of hard bodie
s consisted of Barrons and Tates. The tabloid media had dubbed the cousins Red Dirt Royalty. And Cash Barron’s company owned the television station she worked for. Her career could end up in the dumpster due to this craziness. Defaulting on student loans wasn’t on her bucket list and losing this job meant she might end up doing so. She needed to get away. Pronto. Before she could scramble to her feet, two sets of strong hands lifted her, steadied her, and then Mrs. Tate was hustling her back into the ladies’ room. That worked—except that now she was once again all alone with her.
The door swished shut, muting the din out in the hallway. Britt grabbed her phone, immediately searching for evidence on social media of the catastrophe that just occurred. So far, her name hadn’t been linked to it, but oh, yes, indeed, there were photos of Cooper’s mug hitting the sites and lots of speculation. In the one picture of her sitting on his lap, she could only be identified by her dress and hair color, her face mostly blurred. Didn’t matter how much the gown cost, she was burning it as soon as she got home. Problem was, she needed to ditch the dress before people remembered her wearing it.
“Breathe, Miss Owens,” Katherine Tate ordered.
She’d forgotten the older woman was in the room. And Britt was close to hyperventilating. Cooper had gotten someone else pregnant? No, no, no, no! This wasn’t happening. Part of her wanted to scream. Part of her wanted to cry. Most of her just wanted to run very far and very fast and pretend that this night had never happened.
“My sons and nephews will deal with the situation.”
Britt opened her mouth to say something—anything—then snapped it shut. What exactly was there to say? Mrs. Tate apparently didn’t notice. She bustled about, glancing at her phone when it pinged with incoming messages. The woman finally smiled as the outer door opened and a guy who looked a lot like Cooper, only a few years younger and several inches wider, entered, supporting Cooper with one of those broad shoulders braced under Coop’s arm.
The man eased Cooper onto one of the overstuffed couches in the anteroom and gave his report. “Chance and Cash are dealing with the guy who cold-cocked Coop. Chase is dealing with the media. Cord is standing guard and diverting any of the ladies who might need the facilities. I think Jolie has gone in search of an ice pack. She’ll be in to check on Coop shortly.” He paused, giving Britt the once-over before returning his gaze to Mrs. Tate. “His storm chaser?”
“I do believe so, yes.”
Hello. She was standing right here, and it was time to remind these people of that. She tried to speak for the second time just as the door popped open again. A beautiful woman with chestnut hair and green eyes swept in, efficient and businesslike. She carried something bundled in a cloth napkin in one hand.
“Hey, Miz Katherine,” she greeted the matriarch. “I brought ice. Move over, Bridger, so I can get a look at him.”
The woman sat beside Cooper and Britt had to fight a stab of jealousy. Instead of thinking about that pretty woman’s proximity to Coop, she attempted to figure out all the players without a program. She was familiar with the Barrons—Chase, Cash, Cord and Chance. There were two more Barron brothers, Clay and Kade, but as far as she knew, they weren’t in attendance. Bridger had to be one of the Tates. The woman might be Jolene Barron, who was married to Cord. Wasn’t she a nurse or something? Britt couldn’t remember, but she was far too relieved by the large diamond wedding set on the woman’s left ring finger.
“Wow, he nailed you good, Coop. Can you move your jaw?”
* * *
Katherine slipped out of the ladies’ room, leaving her son to the tender mercies of her nephew’s wife, the pretty storm chaser, and his younger brother. The hallway was clear but for Cord leaning against the wall. He straightened immediately.
“Aunt Katherine?”
“Stay here, Cord. Jolie will be out shortly. I want to look into something.”
She steamed off without a backward glance. Pausing at the nearest entrance to the ballroom, she surveyed the area. The musical combo was playing and the dance floor was full of couples. Others strolled along the perimeter of the room checking on their favorite silent auction items.
A tall, impeccably dressed man stood in front of the display advertising Britt’s item. Katherine watched as he perused the sign-up sheet, which was all he did, making no move to add a bid. She filtered through the crowd, keeping her eye on him. She’d first noticed him during the altercation outside the ladies’ room. He’d been standing back, watching things with an air of aloof satisfaction. He looked vaguely familiar but not in that he’s-a-friend-of-my-boys way. She’d figure it out eventually.
The man moved away, stopping at another item and she gave him time to get much farther down the line before she paused to double-check Britt’s sheet. Excellent. Katherine still held the high bid—but she’d left it in Cooper’s name. Which he hadn’t noticed. So far, so good. She was tired of her son moping around because he was too proud to go after the woman he wanted. He needed a proverbial kick in the pants and spending time stuck in close proximity with that woman was just the ticket, even if it cost four figures.
Her nephew Cash caught her attention from where he stood near the entrance. She nodded toward him then began a roundabout meander in his general direction. She was halfway there when she heard her name.
“Mrs. Tate?”
She turned. The man who’d been so interested in Britt’s auction package stood a few feet away, smiling at her.
“Mrs. Katherine Barron Tate?”
Now wasn’t that interesting, that emphasis he put on her maiden name. Her expression morphed into a very practiced and very polite smile. “Yes?”
“We’ve never met. I’m Alex Carrington.”
Two things struck her. He emphasized his last name like she should recognize it and he watched her with an intensity that let her know he was extremely interested in her reaction to his surname. Her smile didn’t change though she eventually quirked one brow. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Carrington?”
He dipped his chin and hesitated before speaking. “I only wanted to introduce myself so I could thank you for your patronage of the program.”
Her cheeks plumped in a broader smile—one that did not reach her eyes. This man, who was older than he first appeared, was lying through his teeth. Without actually demanding his ID for verification, she’d estimate he was closest in age to Hunter, Boone or Cooper—her oldest three sons. And she had recognized his last name, though it was one she hadn’t thought about in forty years. It was possible Alex was related to Colby. There were hints in the younger man’s looks. Her one-time college beau had been handsome.
“Aunt Katherine?” Cash was at her side, his brother Chance coming up behind her as well. “Is there a problem here?”
She patted his arm, her smile now fond rather than chillingly polite. “None at all. Mr. Carrington was just thanking me for my sponsorship. Isn’t that right, Mr. Carrington?”
The man eyed her nephews with disdain and she knew they didn’t like his attitude from the way they stiffened, yet he answered with a very civilized, “Yes, ma’am. I won’t keep you from the rest of your evening. Thank you again.”
And with that, he was off, dodging through the crowd like he thought one of her nephews planned to follow and ambush him.
Cash took her elbow and steered her toward the nearest exit. “We need to talk.”
“Of course we do, dear.” She slipped one arm through Chance’s and the other through Cash’s. “And we have plans to make.”
* * *
Cooper lay back on the couch, eyes closed, the ice pack firmly in place against his cheek and jaw. His storm chaser. That’s what Bridger called Britt. And his mother knew. Of course she knew. Because Bridger had a big mouth. The conversation, what little there was, flowed over him. Until his brother nudged the armrest where his head lay.
“So, big bro. Ba
by daddy? Who’s the lucky woman?”
He started to shake his head but stopped when stars danced on the backs of his eyelids and pain splintered his brain. Ow. Reminder to self. Don’t do that again. “No clue,” Coop muttered. “No clue who the dude is, or his sister.”
“So who have you been seeing?”
Great. Bridger was in investigative mode. His brother would never shut up and go away now. “No one.”
He caught the sound of someone snorting and cracked one eye open to see who. Britt. Yeah, he probably shouldn’t have admitted that with her still in the room. She didn’t need to know that he’d had no interest in any woman but her since coming home from Texas. And he wasn’t about to tell her that he DVR’d the local news on the off chance she’d make an appearance. Pathetic. That’s what he was. And the last thing he needed was for his brothers to find that out. They’d harass him unmercifully.
“The man who punched you seemed rather convinced.” Britt managed to sound both annoyed and confident of the guy’s right to throw a punch.
Cooper eyed his brother. “Maybe he confused me with one of you.”
Rolling his eyes, Bridger laughed. “Hunter and Boone are in D.C. with Clay. Deacon and Tucker are both married. Dillon’s been in Nashville. That leaves me, big bro, and don’t even go there. I’m the stick-in-the-mud brother, remember?”
A second snort drew his attention to Jolie Barron, Cord’s wife. “Pah-lease, Bridge. I’m wearing expensive heels and not a pair of hip boots in sight. You might be able to fool your mom and brothers but the rest of us?” She waggled an index finger at the younger man before blowing him a kiss.
