The Tycoon

by Anna Jeffrey

  Pic’s pointed look came at him. “Something tells me you didn’t finish that story. What’s she doing instead?”

  “She’s going to Santa Fe with a friend,” Drake said.

  “A friend,” Pic said, his expression flat. “You mean that boyfriend. Shit.” He lifted his free arm and dropped it. “Well there goes Christmas. With Kate’s barn burning and her hurt and Mom not coming down, I just don’t know what the point is.” He set down his mug with a thunk, turned and stamped out of the room.

  Uncomfortable and unnerved by all that had happened as well as his brother’s attitude, Drake no longer had a yen for coffee himself. He retired to his own bedroom. Seeing the father he had always loved and admired in such a degrading state depressed him. He needed some quiet time to regroup.

  He made some phone calls and caught up with what was going on in his office in Fort Worth. Soon Johnnie Sue called him to supper. Only he and Pic were present to eat. Conversation was stilted and strained around the fire and Kate and the latest bomb Mom had dropped into the family circle. Drake went to bed early. He slept miserably, with images of flames and screaming horses filling his mind. And threading through all of it were moments awake and multiple images he couldn’t erase of a flame-haired woman in a glittering dress.

  The next morning, Pic had already eaten breakfast when Drake reached the kitchen. Saying he had chores to do, Pic shrugged into his coat and clapped on a bill cap. Clearly, his attitude hadn’t improved overnight. Drake chose not to push him.

  “I’m going to call Troy today,” Drake said.

  “Wait ’til later today, okay?” Pic said. “He called and left a message that he’s in the final go-round today. Don’t fuck up his chances at winning.”

  “Fine. I’m going to Kate’s. When you finish up, see if you can help Dad get well, will you?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. If Jose’s working over at Kate’s, tell him to send us a bill.”

  Drake spent the day dealing with the fire investigation and avoiding his mother as much as

  possible. He didn’t even go into Kate’s house to eat lunch. Instead, he joined Blake Rafferty and his partner when they drove to town for burgers. He learned nothing new about the investigation.

  By the end of the afternoon, the arson investigator had wrapped up, the horses were buried and everyone official had left. To Mom’s credit, she had managed to keep Kate sequestered inside the house through it all. Drake dropped in to let them know he was returning to the Double-Barrel.

  As he walked out of Kate’s house, his mother followed him outside. “I cannot believe your father has not come over here to look at this and comfort Kathryn.”

  “He just got back from Fort Worth. He isn’t feeling well,” Drake said.

  “You mean he’s drunk,” Mom said. “And you and your brother are covering for him. I should’ve known. If he were sober, he’d be over here consoling his daughter who adores him.”

  “Mom, please, can’t we—”

  “You know something, Son? You’re right. Why should I worry about what he does? I’m going to be here a couple more days helping Kathryn. Then I’m going back to Fort Worth. I have to pack for my trip to Santa Fe.”

  “Good plan, Mom. You do that.”

  She stood there shaking from the cold and blinking at him for a few beats. “I’m freezing,” she said, then turned sharply and stalked back into Kate’s house.

  On the way back to the Double-Barrel, Drake decided he had been here long enough. At the ranch house, he found Pic and their father in the den. Dad looked like hell, but he was dressed and sitting upright in his favorite chair drinking a Coke.

  “I’ve been telling him all about Kate’s barn and what’s happened,” Pic said. “But I talked him into waiting until you got back before going over there.”

  “There’s no point,” Drake said wearily. “The horses are buried, the investigators are finished. I’m sure Blake will have something to tell us in a day or two.”

  “Troy called,” Pic said. “I told him about the fire. He can’t get back ’til tomorrow. He and his horse lost by two points.”

  “Who won?” Drake asked, thinking that he wished he had been able to see his little brother ride in the finals.

  “A Kansas horse. Nobody ever heard of him.”

  “Your mother’s at Katie’s house?” Dad said.

  Drake nodded. “She’s planning on going back to Fort Worth in a couple of days.”

  “Is she coming over here before she goes?”

  Drake gave his dad a look, bewildered anew by the screwed-up union between his parents. “I don’t know, Dad. If you want to see her, you might have to go to Kate’s. But I recommend you wait until you’re completely sober.”

  Their father turned his head and stared out the sliding glass door. Drake didn’t try to construe exactly what that meant. At this point, he just wanted to escape what he couldn’t control.

  Chapter 16

  Shannon studied her calendar. Tuesday. Twelve days until Christmas. Eight days since she had talked to the Dallas broker Emmett Hunt about the five-acre purchase. To pester him with another phone call or not. That was the question. Not, she decided.

  The calendar also reminded her that ten days had passed since the insanity that had followed the TCCRA gala. She had endured a gamut of emotions, swinging between guilt and depression and embarrassment and regret. Straying memories still skulked around the perimeters of her contentment, but through sheer will, she had put that evening behind her. Drake Lockhart was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. She would never see him again.

  Over the weekend, she had turned her attention to the holiday and making it as warm and wonderful as possible for the sake of her aged grandmother. Grammy Evelyn was healthy and in good shape, but when one was eighty-four, anything could happen.

  On Saturday, Shannon had bought new lights, red and gold garland and cranberry-scented candles. On Sunday after church, she had gone up into the attic, found the six-foot artificial Christmas tree they used every year and set it up in the parlor in front of the wide bay window. While munching Grammy’s homemade cookies and sipping hot apple cider, they had decorated the tall green tree with the new lights and garland and ornaments she had collected over the years. With garland to spare, Shannon had hung it around the room and set out the candles.

  The parlor, with its tall mullioned bay window, its ivory crocheted lace curtains and burgundy velvet furniture looked formal and elegant every day, but decorated for Christmas, it could be a picture right off a Christmas card. And it smelled festive and happy.

  The project had taken the entire afternoon. Grammy Evelyn had reveled in every minute of it and told stories of Christmases past. Just knowing how much the time had meant to her gave Shannon deep satisfaction and a happiness of her own.

  Presents had already mysteriously appeared under the tree. Shannon suspected her grandmother was giving away some of her personal treasures that Colleen so coveted.

  Shannon planned to spend the rest of the week delivering Christmas gifts to her friends and business associates, donating food to some of the local charities and continuing work on a business plan for the coming year. Only God could divine what was going to happen to real estate in the coming year, but no matter what the market brought, she had to have a plan.

  She always attended the Camden Multiple Listing Service breakfast on Tuesdays and today was no different. The meeting usually ended by nine, but with holiday business and announcements and discussion of the local Realtors’ Christmas party, the meeting had run late.

  The Camden Realtors Association party, scheduled for the coming Saturday, would be small potatoes compared to the TCCRA extravaganza in Fort Worth, but it would be a dress-up party nevertheless. Did she dare put on that green dress and wear it to the local event? She should, if for no other reasons, because it was so beautiful and to get her money’s worth from it. The idea made her smile. Camdenites would think she had lost her mind.

>   She arrived in her office a little after ten and found her assistant Chelsea alone. The girl was bubbling over. “You’re wound up today,” Shannon said, slipping out of her long wool coat. “What’s happening? Wait, don’t tell me. Jason gave you a ring.”

  Jason was Chelsea’s steady boyfriend and the receptionist made no secret of how much she wanted to receive a ring from him for Christmas.

  “Nothing like that,” Chelsea said, not even appearing to be disappointed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I set up a showing for you. I couldn’t find Kelly or Terry.”

  Shannon hooked her coat on the oak coat tree in the reception room, picked up her hobo bag and walked toward her office at the end of the hall. Chelsea followed, still talking. “This guy called from the ad about Jim King’s house. He said he’s from out of town. I tried to qualify him a little on the phone. He sounded legit, like he was familiar with the market. He said he’s a cash buyer. He didn’t seem put off by the price.”

  A cash buyer for a half-million-dollar house in the month of December of any year was something to celebrate, but in the current market, it was like manna from heaven. Homebuilder Jim King had stuck his neck out, built an upscale home on speculation on an expensive lakefront lot and gotten caught in the market crash like everyone else in real estate. Shannon gave Chelsea her full attention.

  “He said he doesn’t have much time,” she went on. “He wants to look at empty houses ’cause he doesn’t want to hassle with a long closing and waiting for someone to move out. He wants to move in by the end of the month.

  December had been the leanest of a year of lean months for Piper Real Estate. The dropping housing market was the worst setback Shannon had experienced since opening for business. Ending the year with a solid cash sale and a big commission would be sweet. Shannon sank to her chair and began unloading items she would need for the day from her purse. “Chelsea, you are worth your weight in gold. You set it up for when?”

  The receptionist beamed at the compliment. “Late this afternoon. I told him you’d meet him there at four.”

  “Great. What’s his name?”

  “Oh, gosh. If he said it, I didn’t write it down. He got another call and put me on hold for a few minutes. I was so excited about someone looking at Jim’s house, I just—”

  “That’s okay,” Shannon said, unperturbed. She had shown homes and land to any number of nameless customers.

  At 3:30 p.m., she popped into the bathroom, touched up her makeup and straightened her clothing—a brown tweed skirt and tunic over a white turtleneck sweater. Not the most attractive outfit she owned, but the warmest. Since she might have to spend time outdoors at the King house, she was glad she had worn it, along with her knee-high boots. The temperature had hovered in the low forties all day and now, the sinking sun was already losing heat.

  Back in the reception room, she unhooked her coat from the coat tree and pulled it on.

  “Good luck,” Chelsea said.

  “Amen. Baby needs a new pair of shoes.” Shannon hung her bag on her shoulder, plucked a key off the key holder behind the receptionist’s desk and slid it into her coat pocket.

  “And Chelsea needs a Christmas bonus, hint, hint.” A big grin spread over the receptionist’s face.

  Picking up her brief case, Shannon grinned back at her. “You don’t have to worry, girl. Deal or no deal on Jim’s house, Santa will not overlook you.”

  Shannon made a point of treating her assistant well. A good one was priceless and she remembered the days when she had been an assistant herself.

  Her destination was located ten miles out of town. As she drove, she mentally practiced her pitch, visualizing the house Jim King had built, reacquainting herself with its extra features. The sprawling one-story cut limestone sat on two acres. It rambled over the lot, with huge windows in almost every room taking advantage of a breathtaking view of Camden Lake. Jim had built it with well-heeled retirees who didn’t like stairs in mind.

  She arrived a few minutes before four, expecting to be there first. But to her surprise, she

  saw a late-model crew cab pickup truck parked on the concrete driveway. A King Ranch luxury model. Not a cheap vehicle, so the customer must truly have some spare change in his pocket. Always good news when someone was looking at an expensive home.

  She saw no one, so she assumed she would find her customer in the backyard, where every prospect who had looked at this house had headed first. She scooted out of her Sorrento. An icy breeze blew off the lake, so she buttoned and tied her coat, then grabbed her bag and briefcase and started across the muddy yard for the back of the house. She had taken only a few steps when a man emerged from around the corner.

  Her heart went ka-thunk! She halted in her tracks.

  “Good afternoon,” Drake Lockhart called, walking toward her with that macho male confidence that had hooked her the first time she saw him.

  It happened again—that awareness of his masculinity setting off chaos low in her belly. The same odd pull that had rendered her stupid at the TCCRA party. Lust, pure and simple. She had no trouble recognizing it, knew only too well where it could lead. Her face heated as her heart began a tattoo.

  He appeared to be even bigger than he had looked in the hotel ballroom. He looked like a damn cowboy—a red bill cap with some kind of logo on it, a short quilted down coat like many of the cowboy types wore, creased and starched faded jeans, the hems stacked just right over his boot tops. The jeans hugged his trim hips. She knew what a taut bottom hid inside those butt-hugging Wranglers.

  As he came nearer, she steadied herself. Do not stutter, do not stutter, do not stutter.

  “Good—good afternoon,” she replied, straining to show she was not stunned all the way to her boot soles. She was, after all, an experienced salesman, able to think on her feet, wasn’t she?

  She even managed to dredge up her best real-estate-agent smile as she readjusted her bag on her shoulder.

  He stopped a few feet in front of her, the deep crease between his brows still there. His keen whiskey-colored eyes drilled into her. Up close, she saw that they watered from the cold and his cheeks were rosy, just like that night at the foyer bar in the Worthington Hotel. One corner of his mouth tipped up, but she wasn’t sure if that was a smirk or a smile.

  “Shannon Piper, right?”

  His tone sounded neutral, leaving her unable to perceive anything good or bad. Skipping over every intimate detail they knew about each other, she said. “Yes. I don’t believe you told me you were looking to buy property in Camden.”

  “I don’t believe you told me you had property to sell. Or for that matter, your real name… Sharon.”

  A long-winded attempt at an explanation was not happening. She looked past him and expelled a breath, spewing a tiny cloud of vapor from her lips.

  When she didn’t reply, he turned away, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “So what’ve we got here? Looks like a nice place.” He made a hundred-eighty degree scan of the area. “Awesome location.”

  “Well, you know what they say in the real estate business. Location, location, location.”

  He gave her an arch look across his shoulder.

  “Something tells me you don’t really want to see this home,” she said.

  “Why not? Especially if it’s warm inside.”

  She hesitated. Did she really want to go inside a vacant house with him and let herself in for God knew what? From his demeanor, she couldn’t guess his state of mind. She couldn’t even

  define her own.

  Resigned to whatever came next, she finally said, “The builder leaves the thermostat on low. I guess we could go inside.”

  She led the way and unlocked the front door. After the cold outdoors, the house’s interior felt too warm. She untied and unbuttoned her coat and started for the thermostat, but as if he had installed it himself, Drake walked toward it and reached it before she did.

  “It’s set on sixty-five,” he said. “Tropical.” He unzi
pped his coat.

  He switched on the lights and turned around and she saw he had on a yellow button-down shirt with a tiny white pinstripe. A perfect color for his tanned complexion and brown hair color. Damn him for being so good-looking. She spotted a tiny blue embroidered logo on his shirt at about nipple-level. A tingle passed through her as she recalled licking and kissing his nipples and the tiny mold beside one of them.

  Determined to be professional, she began her pitch. “As you can see, the living room has a panoramic view of the lake.” She strode toward the kitchen, wanting to get this over with ASAP. “The builder was careful to make sure the lake can be seen from both the dining room and the kitchen.” Her voice sounded too high and quivery, but she carried on.

  She circled the kitchen, her boot heels clicking against the wooden floor and led him up the hallway toward the master bedroom end of the house. “It has a split bedroom arrangement. The master is—”

  But before she could get more words out, he took the lead, switching on lights as he walked up the hallway. Fingers tucked into his tight jeans pockets, he strolled through the master suite, looking around, taking in the lake view and all of the extra features Jim King had added to the sleeping area and master bath. Hell. He probably knew more about new houses than she did.

  She followed him, saying nothing. She couldn’t keep her eyes off his taut butt in tight-fitting Wranglers, flaunted by his short coat.

  They changed directions, moving back toward the living area. Tension stretched between them. Sooner or later, he was bound to get around to what he really wanted to say.

  He stopped in a wide archway leading from the dining room to the kitchen and looked up. At the construction, she presumed. “Nice” he said. ”Local builder?”

  Pleased for a question she could answer with confidence, she pasted on a smile, slipping into her professional persona again. She still doubted he was interested in this house, but perhaps she was wrong. “Absolutely. Hometown boy. He’s been building homes like this one for years.”