The Tycoon and the Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

  “Oh yeah. He owes me big-time. And thanks. You’ll be saving another gal a lot of grief.” Josie pursed her lips, obviously giving the whole issue some thought. “I’ve got to call Anson, plus fill Russell in on the deal. Madeline and her troupe will be here any minute, so get yourself in the executive bathroom and start, uh, doing something.” Josie flung her arms through the air. “Whatever you think you should do to prepare for your unsuspecting knight in shining armor.”

  McCall whirled to face her. “What’d you say?”

  Josie stopped as though hobbled. “Oh, uh, we have to get you ready for . . . for your special night with a smiling admirer.”

  Chapter Three

  Three hours later, Nick slammed down his Scotch glass. Resting his elbows on the bar behind him, he surveyed the room.

  “Another Ambassador, Mr. Dartmouth?” the bartender asked over Nick’s shoulder.

  “Make it neat, Tony.” Nick pulled back his dinner jacket and hooked his thumb beneath the cummerbund. “I wonder what in the hell she’s trying to prove.”

  “Miss Johnson?” Tony set down the Scotch. “She’s sure a show-stopper.”

  “You might say that.” Nick downed the drink and slid the empty glass on the bar behind him. “Make this one a double.”

  Nick couldn’t take his eyes off McCall, who stood at the entrance to the ballroom escorted by a blond Adonis. Incandescent light seemed to radiate around her. Tall and regal with shimmery brunette hair swept into a stylish coiffure, she wore a beaded ivory evening gown that showed off her curves in places where a woman should have curves. She was setting the room abuzz.

  He halted his probing gaze on her necklace. Eloquent, extravagant, and clinging perfectly to her bosom. He shook off a feeling of possessiveness. Intimacy.

  “She looks like a million dollars.” Tony whistled softly.

  “Yeah.” Why in the world would her being there and looking so angelic affect Nick so? The room was packed with beautiful women, some tucked, others chiseled, and most implanted, and so blue-blooded that a pedigree registration was required for an invitation. But only the lady on the arm of the sun-baked, sock-in-his-pants dumb ass bothered Nick.

  “Better slow down on the rotgut or you’ll end up in the dog pound for sure.” Josie eased onto the stool next to him.

  “It couldn’t be any worse than sitting around with one of your overly Botoxed bimbos.” He ran his finger around the inside of his collar.

  “I hear tell orange is the fashion trend in the hoosegow, and it isn’t your color. Gonna offer a lady a drink?”

  “The bar’s free. Tell Tony over there.” He motioned toward the end of the bar.

  She gave Nick a benign smile as if dealing with a temperamental adolescent, reached over, and picked up his drink. “Do you have to work at being nasty or does it come naturally?” She took a swallow. “Private stock, huh?”

  He nodded.

  Josie motioned to Tony. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  The bartender raised a questioning eyebrow to Nick.

  He shrugged his shoulders in a give-the-lady-what-she-wants way, but kept his stare fixed on McCall and the yo-yo attached to her arm.

  Josie turned to Nick. “She cleaned up nicely, didn’t she?”

  “Who in the hell is she?”

  “You know who in the hell she is . . .”

  “Where is Mother?”

  “Right here, darling.” Madeline Dartmouth strolled up. “A Chambord splash, please,” she said to Tony.

  Josie picked up her cocktail glass. “Time to go to work. Auction’s about to begin.” She slipped off the stool and flipped an outrageous teal blue and silver boa around her neck. “Thanks for the drink, darling.”

  Under his breath, Nick muttered a profanity, hopefully not loud enough for his mother to hear exactly what he said.

  “I heard that.” His mother accepted a flute of champagne with a splash of Chambord. “Where were you all afternoon? You didn’t answer your cell phone.”

  “Nope. Went back, finished ball practice, then to the gym. After your ass-chewing I figured I needed to work off some steam.”

  “I see you’ve noticed McCall. Such a lovely, regal assistant we have, don’t you think?” She kept her gaze fixed on her son.

  “Yeah Mom, she looks great.” He wanted to say that she looked better than great . . . breathtaking, sexy, and sassy, but for his mother’s benefit “great” worked just fine.

  “I believe she will fetch an astronomically outrageous donation. Or at least, if Anson has anything to do with it.”

  “So, Mac finally caved?” Not waiting for a response, he continued. “And who in the hell is Anson? That degenerate that’s hanging onto her like he’s afraid she’ll bolt if he lets go of her hand?”

  “Darling, he’s Anson Cargill,” Madeline said, as if knowing his last name would make a difference. “Is he not absolutely the most luscious man you have ever seen? You know, he’s a model.”

  “No, and I don’t see anything luscious about him.” Nick snickered. “It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to see that he’s a pec-implanted buffoon.” He turned back to the bar. “An idiot—” He broke off. “And he doesn’t have any business manhandling McCall that way, either.”

  “I believe the green monster is rearing its ugly head.”

  Nick clenched his jaw. Jealous, huh! What would she know about green monsters? He tried to act nonchalant. On the inside, his gut was tied in knots. He didn’t know why the thought of McCall being auctioned off bothered him. He had been a party to pushing her into it.

  They had always had an easygoing relationship, but maybe he was too much a buffoon himself to step it up a notch and see where it might take them.

  There was one thing for sure. McCall had succeeded in getting something awfully uncomfortable stuck in Nick’s craw. He didn’t like it one iota. “She agreed to be a bachelorette?”

  “Yes, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Darling, there’s Bambi or Buffy. I can never remember her name, but you know, Judge Armstrong’s daughter. And she seems headed your way.” Madeline whisked up the hem of her ball gown. “I selected guests to join us at our table who know you and recognize you’re under a lot of pressure—those who can tolerate your sometimes indelicate mood. I am hopeful you’ll be on your best behavior.” The diamonds around Madeline’s neck flashed like a mirrored ball in sunlight.

  Nick groaned. “Why aren’t you wearing Grandmother’s necklace like you always do to a soiree like this?”

  “I decided to showcase it on a beautiful, much younger lady. No doubt you approve?” She glanced in the direction of McCall before strolling away.

  Nick didn’t have a chance to take another look at McCall because a ball of fire-engine-red taffeta with a head protruding out of the top rushed his way. Grabbing a fresh drink, he headed in the opposite direction. Judge’s daughter or not, he wasn’t about to wait around in hopes of remembering whether her name was Bambi, Fifi, or Pipi.

  Feeling like a piece of USDA Grade A beef, Nick hit the door to the men’s room, downing the last of the Scotch as he went. He handed the glass off to the surprised attendant. “LeRoy, get the fire extinguisher, there’s a rolling ball of fire coming our way.”

  “You weren’t trying to avoid me—” a female voice chided.

  “Miss Armstrong, unless you have a healthy set of cojones beneath that lovely red gown, I think you made a wrong turn.” Nick opened the door and tapped the brass plate. GENTLEMEN.

  “I-I, uh, oh dear.” The startled woman backed away, turned, and fled.

  Nick leaned on the counter. What next? All he wanted was space so he could think. Decide what he should do about Mr. Raging Testosterone. McCall was way too naïve for the likes of such a man. Huh, hell, more like a gigolo. There were a lot of them around. Male whores.

  And he’s with the woman who Nick . . . what? Thought a lot of? Was grateful to have as a friend? Fantasized about?

  Damn it! Just because on occasion he woke
with a rather rigid indication of an optimistic fantasy didn’t necessarily mean it included McCall.

  “Son of a bitch!” He needed another drink.

  Just as the door burst open, the attendant shot him a questioning look.

  Mr. Hormones and a man Nick recognized as Josie’s boyfriend Russell entered, stopping in front of him.

  “Hi, Nick. You know Anson Cargill?”

  Nick stretched to his full height. Towering over the two men, he extended his chest much in the same manner as a rooster about to let the newbie in the chicken coop know who was the cock-of-the-walk. “Don’t believe I do . . .” He punctuated it with a silent, and I don’t give a rusty rat’s ass that he’s a model. Tentatively, he accepted the blond man’s extended hand. His handshake reminded Nick of a glob of gooey gelatin.

  Russell slapped Anson on the back. “I’m sure you know McCall is Anson’s date. And Nick, ol’ sport, not in your wildest fantasy could you imagine what plans he has for her once he wins her in the auction.”

  Anson licked his lips. “She is hot.” He adjusted his crotch. “I can hardly wait to—”

  “Shut your trap, golden boy! You don’t have a right to talk about her like that.” Anger singed Nick’s words as he clenched his fist, knowing he could wax the floor with one man under each arm if he wanted.

  Nick flexed his fingers. This might get his attention! Deciding the effort it’d take to knock the smug smile off the jerkass’s face wasn’t worth it, Nick relaxed his hand.

  On second thought, this could be interesting!

  “Well, Russell, ol’ sport, you better hurry into the john because I think Anson here might need you to hold the sock stuffed in his pants while he takes a leak.”

  Before he could see their reactions, Nick left.

  Safely back in the ballroom, fury consumed him. “That bastard better not touch her, or he’ll have me to deal with.” He stormed to the VIP table and took his seat.

  “Nick, darling, I ordered you an Ambassador because I figured you could use one by now.” His mother nodded to Josie. “Let the games begin,” she cooed.

  Although preferring a hardhat to a monkey suit, Nick knew how to dress appropriately when the occasion called for it. I didn’t think McCall had an appropriate dress. Wasn’t that her excuse? She certainly found one quick enough for Mr. Full of Himself !

  “What is this?” Nick picked up a glittery decorated fan.

  “That’s your number, so Josie will know who you are when you place your bid,” Madeline said.

  “She knows who I am.”

  Ignoring her son, Madeline turned and drew the man next to her into conversation.

  “I’ll buy a woman when a frog doesn’t bump his ass every time he jumps,” Nick grumbled. “You know I’ve already made my donation.”

  Madeline turned in her son’s direction. “A generous one, I might add. Thank you, my dear.”

  Absentmindedly, he tapped the fan on his open palm. He had no need for a number because he had no intention of bidding on any woman. He’d never had to pay for a date in his life and he certainly wasn’t about to begin now. He thought the whole idea of getting a woman at an auction a bit unsavory for anyone except a desperate and probably homely person. Besides, the only one he was interested in obviously was making her preference known. Not that he would bid on her anyway, except to protect her—to keep her out of the clutches of some gigolo like the Mr. Way Too Much Testosterone.

  Nick slammed down the numbered fan. Damn it sideways. And he forced her to do it, too. He stiffened at the pressure of a feminine hand on his shoulder.

  “You are so uptight, Nicky.”

  Lavish, sickly sweet perfume filled the space around him as the woman he knew only as Judge Armstrong’s daughter leaned forward.

  “Finally, I have a chance to speak with you,” she purred more than spoke the words. “If you bid on me, Nicky, I’ll see that you have an evening you’ll never forget.”

  Twisting in his chair slightly, he came within inches of overly collagened ruby-red lips and enormous muddied eyes that made him think of two cow patties in the snow. He leaned back and whispered, “You look lovely tonight, Miss Armstrong.” He resisted adding that he wasn’t likely to forget that face anytime soon.

  Her hand slid from his shoulder, down his spine, stopping short of seizing a handful of butt. “Thank you.” And she droned away.

  Oh, crap! Nick grabbed his glass of water and drank until it was empty. Over the rim, he caught his mother’s frown.

  “I see you’ve already made your selection,” his mother chided.

  “This isn’t like scouting for a first baseman.” He reached for her water goblet and leaned in toward his mother. “Besides, I’m not going to give you a chance to run off another woman like you did Lauren.”

  “Pish-posh! She was not right for you, Nicodemus!”

  “Maddi—” he growled.

  “Don’t call me by my nickname!” Madeline growled in hushed tones.

  “Then call me Nick.”

  “Lower your voice, Nick! And Lauren wasn’t right for you.”

  “That was my choice. Just because she wasn’t a New York debutante doesn’t mean that she wasn’t right for me.”

  “Trust me, Nico . . . Nick, she was all wrong for you.”

  Nick didn’t try to disguise his anger meant only for his mother as he exhaled and rolled his eyes.

  “Very unbecoming. You must trust me. If you are not too pigheaded to realize it, you will know when the right woman comes along.”

  The sound of a spoon on crystal pinged through the air. Josie called the partygoers to attention and gave a welcome that ended when Nick and Madeline stood, accepting accolades for their unselfish dedication to the geriatric community.

  “Now, on to what this benefit is all about,” Josie said.

  “To get deeper into our pockets,” roared a robust man in his seventies.

  Heads turned and laughter filled the air.

  “Of course, Mr. Senator. We used our fine state’s tax department as our example,” Josie said in her honey-edged drawl, and waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. “The rules are as in the past. All bids must be in increments of one hundred dollars for the men. However, we’ve decided to sweeten the pot.”

  A whir of surprise filled the air as the crowd buzzed amongst themselves.

  “Piqued your interest? This year, a woman can overbid that special man of hers by one dollar.” She waited for the applause to stop. “I’m sure the bachelorettes are amenable to doing windows or mowing the lawn.” The auctioneer took a drink of water, preparing to continue. “For our first lady . . .”

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Put-Your-Hands-Down-My-Pants.” Nick groaned under his breath, and laid his salad fork across the plate. He scanned the room trying to locate McCall, but she had disappeared. Probably being wowed by Mr. Testosterone!

  Josie’s slow Southern drawl drew out the bid into what seemed like an eternity. “We’ll start the bid on Miss Bunny Armstrong at two hundred dollars. Two hundred, two hundred.” She waved toward the center. “Harold Rasche bid two hundred. Is there three? Three hundred—”

  “Three hundred? That’s ridiculous. I might as well get another Scotch.” Nick raised his hand and motioned Tony in his direction.

  “Three hundred to Nick Dartmouth. Do we have—” The auctioneer cried.

  “Five hundred!” Madeline shouted matter-of-factly, before lowering her velvety voice. “Nick, darling, put your hand down. You nearly bought Buffy or whatever her name is.”

  “Son of a . . .” Nick glanced in the direction of his mother, then mentally finished his expletive.

  “Six hundred.” A man’s voice called from across the room.

  “Six hundred and one,” barked the woman to his side.

  “Going, once. Going, twice. Sold to Mrs. Harold Rasche for six hundred and one dollars.” The gavel came down.

  With each bachelorette, the bidding got more intense. Josie l
anded the gavel and called a halt to the bidding on yet another woman. Beatrice Kemp overbid her husband by one dollar and quickly added an additional two thousand dollars before donating the sum to the charity.

  Where in the hell was McCall? Time had come for Nick to find out.

  Placing his napkin on the table, he leaned into his mother. “I’ve had all of this happy horseshit I can take. See ya.”

  Madeline Dartmouth grabbed his arm and lowered her voice. “No! You will sit here until we are finished, by damn.” She tossed her head back, squared her shoulders, obviously pleased for being so gritty.

  Nick slumped forward. “Blessed. I’ve got better things to do.”

  Mrs. Dartmouth shot him a frown.

  Josie’s words drew his attention back to the stage. “For our last lady this evening”—she glided her arm in the direction of the side entrance—“Miss McCall Johnson.”

  The house lights lowered and two spotlights roamed across McCall. Gasps hummed in the air as Anson escorted her to the stage, bowed, and returned to his table. He glared directly at Nick, picked up his fan, and saluted before beginning the bidding. “Two hundred dollars.”

  “Three,” came a bid across the room.

  The senator bellowed, “Make it five.”

  The blond Adonis, “Six.”

  “Six, we have six. Seven?” Josie called.

  Nick twisted in his seat and slammed his shin on a table leg, sending a sharp pain through his body. “Son of a . . .” He grabbed for his knee with one hand, while raising his numbered fan with the other.

  “We have seven. Eight? Eight . . .”

  “Eleven hundred,” Mr. Hormonal declared.

  “Eleven hundred and one,” Madeline said.

  “Two thousand,” Anson responded.

  “Two thousand, one,” Madeline bid.

  “Five thousand,” bellowed Harold Rasche.

  “Hush up, you fool. You don’t have a dog in this fight,” Mrs. Rasche shrieked.

  Josie took up the slack. “Bid withdrawn. Two thousand and one dollars to Madeline Dartmouth.” She raised her gavel. “Going once, going—”

  “Three thousand,” Anson called out.