The Book Babes Boxed Set (Texas Ties/Texas Troubles/Texas Together)

by Jean Brashear

Laken smirked. “Yeah, sure. You’re a star client of the firm—you know the senior partners. I’ll have heat on my tail until the day I die.”

  His eyes warmed. “You’ve done well for yourself, Laken. They see your accomplishments. I hear wonderful things about you.”

  “Yeah?” She couldn’t help the trill of pleasure. “So why don’t they ever tell me?”

  Gabe laughed. “You’ve got them all terrified. You could decide to rend their flesh next.”

  She’d worked damn hard for her reputation as a tough-as-nails entertainment lawyer no one would screw with. She’d made partner in a firm with a national reputation. She could, and probably should, move to a bigger firm.

  But would she? New fields to plow, Laken. Scores of new men, new conquests.

  It made her tired to think of it. And that shook her to the bone. At thirty-four, she’d established a reputation, but in her world, it took little for the rumors to start that you’d lost your edge. Especially as a woman. She wasn’t at the top, and she still had time to make it.

  If she kept her edge.

  “They’d better watch out,” she agreed, trying to convince herself as much as him. She could never let her game face slip. Gabe wasn’t a spy, but the attitude she sported would convey itself in his next conversation with the top dogs. “I’m just getting started.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do if you put your mind to it, Laken. You’re a very talented woman.”

  Except find a good man, she wanted to say. Instead, she probed. “You and Sylvie going to the opening tonight?” Gabe and Sylvie had season tickets to the Austin Lyric Opera.

  His gaze flickered. Gabe glanced at his watch. “I must go. I’ll be late for my meeting.” He turned toward the door.

  She placed one hand on his arm. “What’s going on, Gabe?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Gabe, this is me, remember? I’m Sylvie’s friend, but I’m your friend, too.”

  For just one moment, she thought she saw his shoulders sag, just a little.

  “You’ll have to talk to Sylvie. I’m sorry, Laken. I really have to go.”

  “Gabe, wait—” she called out to his retreating back.

  He slowed his steps and turned slightly. She’d seen Gabe strong, seen him commanding. She knew he was a confident man, secure in his identity, secure enough to show the tenderness he felt toward Sylvie.

  She’d never seen him look vulnerable and weary.

  Too shocked to order her thoughts, she blurted out, “Gabe, if I can help…”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. But thank you.” Straightening into his normal posture of command, Gabe smiled faintly. “Have a good workout, Laken.”

  She watched him all the way out of the gym.

  What the hell is going on, Sylvie?

  * * *

  “Good morning, Dr. Martinez.”

  Luisa cast a quick glance at the departmental secretary, pink message slips in hand. Sighing inwardly for the further delay, she took the batch. “Thank you, Donna. How are you this morning?”

  The young woman grimaced. “I’ll be better when adds and drops are over.”

  Luisa smiled in sympathy, glancing at the line of students in the hall. “I hear you. Hang in there for one more day, right?”

  Donna sighed. “One more day. See you, Dr. Martinez.”

  Luisa was already out the door, checking her watch. She’d hoped for a few minutes to gather her thoughts before the meeting. If only Carlito hadn’t picked today—

  It will be all your fault, Luisa. Her mother’s scold rang in her ears.

  She drew herself up straight before turning the corner. She’d survived reading thick tomes all night while rocking sick children. She’d survived skipping meals so her children could eat, wondering month after month how she’d keep a roof over their heads while she finished her dissertation. She’d made it through two adolescents.

  Please God, she could surely survive the last.

  A voice came from behind her. “Slow down and smell the roses, Luisa.”

  Tom Sinclair.

  She turned, a sincere smile emerging. “I will if you will.”

  He drew up beside her, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Where’s the fire, doc?” He studied her closely. “Bad night?”

  “Teenagers.”

  “Stop. You’ll give me nightmares.” Tom shuddered dramatically. “I only had to survive two, and I still wake up in a cold sweat.”

  She laughed. “Your kids are great.”

  “So are yours. And besides, you’re a pro, after three.”

  “My track record’s going out the window, I think.”

  “Carlito flexing his muscles?” He grinned. “Teenage boys are supposed to go easy on their mothers. It was Siobhan and Ava who tussled at our house.”

  “Chico never gave me any trouble.” She never called Ramon Jr. by his father’s name. “But Carlito—Carlos, as he reminded me this morning—” She sighed, then lifted her gaze to his. “I’m afraid, Tom.”

  His brown eyes warmed. “There are many dangers out there, that’s for sure. But he’s a good kid.”

  “I thought he was.”

  “Want me to have a talk with him?”

  “Ava offered to sic your cop friends on him.”

  He chuckled. “Putting the fear of God in him could work. But that’s fairly extreme. Let me see what I can do. Maybe take him to a game or something.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t. But Grayson doesn’t get home much anymore—and besides, Carlito and I used to be buddies. I can’t fix everything, Luisa, but let me give this a shot.”

  “I’m very grateful. Ramon doesn’t—he isn’t much of a father.” Like you are.

  Tom reached around her and opened the door to the conference room. Luisa looked up at her friend’s husband—her friend, too. “Thank you, Tom.”

  He flashed that devilish white grin that Ava still sighed over. “No problem.” Then he fell silent, looking past her.

  Good Lord. Sofia had pulled out all the stops. Her normally flamboyant style rose to new heights with this outfit. Her dark beauty inherited from a gypsy mother showed to maximum advantage in the form-fitting red sheath, red, purple and gold scarf draped carelessly around her neck. Red dangling earrings flashed traces of gold beneath the mink-brown hair spilling over her shoulders.

  Quite a contrast to Luisa’s own severely-tailored gray suit.

  If only Sofia knew that Tom had a real show-stopper at home. Ava had a flair all her own, as likely to wear velvet one day, leather and lace another. Luisa tried to tamp down a growing dislike for this newcomer. “Tom Sinclair, this is Sofia Sanchez. Sofia is new on our faculty and is very interested in our project.”

  Tom shook hands, his trademark grin flashing. “Dr. Sanchez.”

  “Oh, Sofia, please.” Her voice was different, somehow breathy. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He retrieved his hand from her lingering grip. “Please call me Tom. After all, we’ll be colleagues.”

  Her gaze remained a beat too long. Luisa cleared her throat, and Tom moved aside.

  “I think we’d better get started.” She tucked the pink slips into her organizer, then set down her files, taking the seat at the end of the table.

  “Where do you want me, Luisa?” Tom asked.

  Sofia pulled out the chair next to her. “The light is good here.”

  To his credit, Tom slid into the chair next to Luisa. “Thank you, but I’m an old gunfighter. Hate to have my back to the door, you know.”

  Sofia’s eyes flashed, then she smiled, her voice turning silky. “Surely all your enemies are vanquished, Tom.”

  Luisa caught the lift of his eyebrows, the quick glance he cast her direction. She raised her own brows. Tom was a grown man. He’d handled major corporations, bloated bureaucracies, even faced down the Klan. One predatory female should
be manageable.

  He leaned back in his chair, his customary energy vibrating around him. “A good gunfighter never relaxes his guard. You wind up buried in Tombstone.” The white grin flashed as he exchanged looks with Luisa. “So, doc, tell me about this grandiose scheme of yours. I’m always up for a good fight.”

  Luisa grinned back. It would be all right. Tom could take care of himself.

  * * *

  Ellie got out of the car before she could let herself turn the key again and race away. Standing here outside the converted warehouse, railroad tracks across the street, she listened to the traffic rushing down Lamar Boulevard, looked at Lady Bird Lake down the slope.

  Third door from the right, Sylvie had told her. No sign, no number.

  Saxon didn’t like visitors. She knew that.

  Saxon wouldn’t like her. She knew that, too.

  So what was she doing here?

  The tiny voice that had started this whole mess chimed in her ear. Because you want to know who Ellie is. Not Ellie the mother, not Ellie the wife, not Ellie the nurturer. Is there more to Ellie—and if so, can you find her?

  She’d come this far. She wasn’t a coward. She’d never blanched at blood or childbirth or doctoring sick livestock. How bad could one temperamental artist be?

  Before she could think too hard about the answer, Ellie drew out her tackle box filled with paints and brushes, leaving the easel in the SUV. Some instinct told her not to mess with his space until she’d tested the waters with her toe. He was a man whose every move announced his territorial nature. She wouldn’t encroach until she had his measure.

  Drawing a deep breath before the third door, she lifted a hand and knocked quickly. She heard heavy footsteps and muttered words. Still, the door didn’t open. Torn between running and pounding the wood, she took another steadying breath and lifted her hand.

  The door flew open so suddenly she almost fell inside.

  About a cubic yard of muscled chest, clad in a ragged, paint-smeared t-shirt, greeted her. She lacked several inches reaching his shoulders.

  “Um, Mr. Gaillard, I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at your opening? Sylvie said you’re expecting me?”

  Only an abbreviated rumble greeted her, but he stepped back enough so that she could squeeze through.

  Ellie couldn’t decide what to gape at first, the explosion of color hanging in the light—or the fierce man standing beside it, his frame almost as overwhelming seen from a distance.

  He does look like a Viking berserker. A wild tangle of blond hair fell past his shoulders, impatiently pushed behind his ears. Jeans white with age, torn in places that showed her muscles that would have Laken drooling, his shirt torn and so paint-encrusted that it hung open at torn gaps to show the form beneath it.

  Ellie, whose great love was painting the human form, knew that Saxon Gaillard would make an arresting subject. Who could accomplish ordering him to sit still—no, he must be painted standing first—well, that was a subject she’d have to ponder. Certainly not Ellie Preston.

  “It’s magnificent.”

  “It’s not finished,” he snapped, turning away from her.

  Ellie flinched, forcibly reminding herself that she was the paying customer. And that she’d have to face Ava if she left. Ava could be almost as scary as Saxon. She’d whip you to death with all the words Saxon would hoard.

  She stiffened her spine. “It’s still stunning.”

  He turned, surprise on his face, settling back into that graven mask. “Why?”

  “Why?” she echoed.

  He nodded curtly. “Explain why.”

  She groaned inwardly. She had no formal training. Her first test, and she’d already flunked. “I-I don’t know the technical terms.”

  “Technical terms are for idiots who will never understand art. Tell me from inside you.”

  Ellie tried to block out his impact, to ignore how he himself filled the huge room. She called upon the skills that had made her able to read books in a room full of children watching television, to concentrate on removing a speck from a child’s eye while two more were fighting only feet away.

  She drew in one more slow breath and let the piece fill her, let the colors and shapes take over her mind. “I feel anguish, but hope is dancing around the edges.”

  He sucked in a breath, and she glanced over quickly, searching for his reaction.

  He merely jerked his head toward the painting again. “Go on. Is that it?”

  Swallowing hard, Ellie turned back to look, but she didn’t really need to see it again. She’d never forget this painting.

  “The breeze is soft upon her, touching her so gently she can’t be sure she isn’t imagining it. The light is so faint that she’s afraid she won’t wake to see a new dawn. But one tiny beam, the last beam of daylight, falls on her hand, and it warms her just enough that she thinks she can survive the night. And maybe tomorrow will be better.”

  Ellie was surprised, yet not really, to feel the tickle of tears in her own throat. It had been over a year since she’d last seen Saxon Gaillard’s work, but if anything, it had gained in power. She’d been as riveted by the art as she was terrified of the man.

  Afraid of what she’d see, she nonetheless lifted her gaze to his.

  Blue eyes so vivid they could do arc welding studied her as though he’d never seen her before.

  Then he jerked his head across the room, grunting. “Use that easel. I don’t care what you paint, but in an hour, you stop, wherever you are.” He turned his back on her and walked away.

  Ellie watched him leave and considered leaving, too. He was supposed to be teaching her. She could do this at home by herself.

  But would she? She knew the answer to that. No, at home, she’d see all that needed doing, the cleaning, the mending, the weeding.

  She looked around her at this refuge and realized that, aside from one bad-tempered man, it could be hers, too. Maybe it was good that he seldom spoke. Maybe it was enough, just to have this place, this retreat. She only needed a little bit of it. She could block out a houseful of kids, she could block him out, too, by golly.

  Then she turned back and studied that breathtaking piece again.

  She’d never be that good, but maybe simply inhabiting the same space with talent such as his was enough. How did she know who she’d become, what she might set free here?

  But it would never happen if she left right now.

  Resolutely, she turned back to the easel, to the canvas he’d placed there, already stretched and primed. A nice thing, that. He didn’t have to. He could make her provide her own. It was a starting place, if she’d look at it that way. Saxon could grunt and gesture and be as rude as he wanted.

  Ellie Preston wasn’t running.

  She was scared, but she wasn’t a quitter. The memory of Wyatt’s green eyes smiling as he left this morning—smiling, not frowning, giving her this chance, even taking the dry cleaning with him to save her some time—that was it, that was what she’d try to paint.

  Wyatt. Not all of him, there wasn’t time. Just one piece of him to give her courage. She’d like to do his eyes, but any artist knew eyes were the hardest. And she’d give a lot to have him here to model.

  Yeah, take that, Saxon Gaillard. Wyatt Preston wouldn’t let you growl at me.

  The image made her smile. Saxon outstrapped Wyatt by a good six inches, but her Wyatt had the heart of a lion. He’d take one of those strong hands—

  His hands. His beautiful, scarred, carpenter’s hands. That’s what she’d do.

  Setting down her tackle box and quickly flipping the latches, Ellie pulled out a pencil and started sketching.

  * * *

  Shoving her hair back from her face for the thousandth time, Ellie bit her lower lip, brush poised over the palette, studying and trying to figure out what was wrong.

  Slowly, she felt Saxon staring at her from behind. Glancing down at her watch, she realized an hour had flown past. She couldn’t believe how
far she’d gotten.

  “You’re drawing the contours instead of letting the shadows speak for themselves. Work from dark to light. Quit drawing with your brush. Let his hands tell their own story.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You knew how to tell her story.”

  “You painted that.”

  “You saw what was there.”

  She turned, but he was too close. She had to tilt her head back to see his face. If the easel hadn’t been so close behind her, she’d have stepped back. Instead, she held her ground.

  “There’s got to be a method.”

  “There are many methods. First, you have to see.”

  “See what?”

  “See beneath the skin, inside the heart. See the blood flowing in the veins, see the cells doing their work. Open your eyes, Ellie Preston. The time for blind obedience is past.”

  Ellie frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “There are no rules except the ones you make. You can be free…if you dare. But you can’t be a good little housewife and a serious painter, too, Mrs. Preston.” The name was bitten off, its edge gleaming and sharp.

  He stood there, so judgmental, so sure of himself.

  “Don’t you make fun of my life.”

  “Is it fun?”

  He confused her. Turning away, she set down the palette and began cleaning her brushes. “I like my life.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  She whipped around. “What did Sylvie tell you?”

  “Sylvie told me nothing. Unlike you, I have eyes to see. I’m not afraid of my talent.”

  Just as she readied her retort, his last words sucked the breath from her body. “What do you mean?” she whispered. “You—you think I have talent?”

  He turned away, stalking across the room. “Talent is nothing without courage.” He paused at the door. “Next week,” he growled, heading through the opening.

  “Wait—”

  He paused.

  “Where do I leave the money?”

  “You can’t buy courage, Mrs. Preston.” The door closed, and Ellie was alone, staring after him.

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  Ava stepped around the begging wino, past the overflowing trash can, and nodded to the street musician. Why in the devil Laken insisted on living above a club on a seedy side street smack in the middle of the SoCo madness, she’d never understand.