by Jo Barrett
Dylan put his fork down. “Leave it to Bo Harlan to install a museum alarm system on his office door.”
“So what should we do? Some smash and grab job?” Steve asked, his mouth full of steak.
C. Todd crushed a French fry with his fork. “Building security is too tight over at Titan. They’d have the police on us before we got off the elevator.”
Dylan nodded. “It’s better if Bo Harlan doesn’t know anyone was poking around his office. Let him think that everything’s fine.”
“Shhh! Speak of the devil!” C. Todd hissed. Just then, Wild Bo himself strode past the table with a gorgeous woman trailing him. She was a redhead and she was wearing what looked like an outfit for a high-priced prostitute. Upon passing the table, she shot C. Todd a sly, sexy little look.
Hi baby, she mouthed. C. Todd winked and mouthed the words, See you later?
She nodded and swooshed past them.
“That’s one fine piece of booty,” Steve said, in appreciation.
“Hey, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” C. Todd grinned.
Dylan watched Bo Harlan wade over to the largest banquet table in the bar, also known as the “power table.” The oilman had ignored them, of course. Snubbed them as he’d walked by. Bo Harlan was short, squat, sweaty at all times, and had a shock of white hair running through his dark locks—a powerful-looking little fucker, Dylan thought.
The oilman surveyed the room and pretended not to see Dylan. He accepted one of the tall menus from the waiter who had appeared and was swirling around him.
Dylan was livid. Bo Harlan had seen him. And the oilman knew very well who Butch Grant’s son was. It was just too much.
I think it’s time I said hello, Dylan thought.
He leaped up from his barstool. C. Todd held out his arm and tried to stop him. “Hey now! Let’s not do anything stupid.”
Dylan wrestled himself from C. Todd’s grip and marched toward Bo Harlan’s table. He was going to tell the oilman just where he could stick it. For stealing the last oil well in the Grant family, a well that had been named Clarissa after his mother—an oil well that Butch Grant, no matter how drunk or far down in a poker game—would never gamble away.
Even though he and Wyatt had been stripped of every last stitch of their inheritance, it wasn’t about the money. That oil well was hallowed ground as far as Dylan was concerned. He’d rather plug the whole thing up before letting Bo Harlan touch one penny of his family’s entitlement.
Before Dylan could reach the table, the room quieted. What had once been the click, clatter, and eruption of a boisterous lunch crowd suddenly became hushed. That’s when Dylan spotted her. Walking through the throngs of people in the bar—it was as if the Red Sea had parted.
Kathleen Connor King had just graced Smith & Wollensky with her presence. And that presence was felt by everyone in the room. Dylan watched as the love of his life walked straight toward Bo Harlan’s table. He was so stunned, he couldn’t move. It was as if his entire body had gone paralyzed.
Kathleen hadn’t spotted him among the bar crowd, so Dylan waited and watched.
Bo Harlan set his menu down and jumped to his feet. “Kathleen!” he boomed in a loud voice so everyone in the restaurant would know that it was he—Bo Harlan—whom the queen was here to see.
Kathleen flashed Harlan a dazzling smile that made Dylan nearly faint. She took a seat next to the oilman, and her movements were so fluid, so beautiful that now all eyes were on her. Bo Harlan’s little redheaded secretary might as well have been a potted plant for as much attention as she was receiving. No, it was Kathleen who ruled the roost.
She was dressed exquisitely in what Dylan knew to be a ninety-nine-dollar dress. He knew because he’d bought it for her at a thrift store outside Luckenbach. It was hanging on a rack behind a bunch of T-shirts that read “I Got Lucky in Luckenbach,” but leave it to Kathleen to find a gem among garbage. The dress looked like Roberto Cavalli and was made entirely of black Icelandic pony fur.
It was one hot little number, and Kathleen wore it like no one else could. Most women would look trashy in a dress like that, but not the granddaughter of Cullen Davis King. Kathleen made the dress look regal. As if she’d just stepped off the runway in Milan or Paris or New York.
What are you doing, Kathleen?
Dylan trudged back to his table. He felt Wyatt, C. Todd Hartwell, and Steve staring at him.
“What is Kat doing with Bo Freakin’ Harlan?” Wyatt asked, posing the most obvious of questions.
“I’m sure it has something to do with the foundation dinner,” Dylan said. He was thinking on his feet. Trying to save face.
Bo Harlan was eyeing Kathleen like a bird dog eyes a dove, which made Dylan angrier than hell, but he couldn’t say much. After all, Kat was a sight to behold.
Maybe Wyatt had been right. Maybe Kathleen was heading for greener pastures. A woman like her needed to be kept in the way she’d been accustomed to. And Dylan was now flat broke.
The fact that he’d waited so long to ask her to marry him suddenly seemed foolish. What the hell have I been thinking!
“Let’s keep our eye on the prize, fellas,” C. Todd Hartwell said. He was trying to sway the conversation back to business. For him, business and whiskey came first. The women would follow.
Wyatt pushed his plate away. “I need a space heater and a Mylar suit,” he announced. “Plus we need a getaway driver—someone who’s good and fast—just in case we run into the police.”
“Like that dude in The Transporter. I loved that movie,” Steve said, licking steak sauce off his thumb.
“Exactly,” Wyatt said.
Dylan was trying not to stare across the room at Kathleen. The love of his life had just leaned toward Bo Harlan and placed her delicate hand on his broad shoulder. The oilman was laughing at something she’d said, which made Dylan’s hair stand on end.
“I know our getaway driver,” Dylan said, absently. “His name is Achmed. And he’s one of our valets.”
Twenty-five
Kathleen was smiling through her teeth. She’d spotted Dylan, Wyatt, and C. Todd as soon as she’d walked in. They were sitting with the guy from Louisiana who lived in the building and who was always dressed a bit funky. Kathleen knew from Eddie, the building concierge, that Mr. Louisiana had left New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina and was rumored to be connected with a “rough element.” Eddie had also informed her about Dylan’s meeting this morning in the conference room with Jonathan Whipley.
Kathleen’s mother had taught her to treat service staff like her own family, which was why Crazy Aunt Lucinda was now living in the King family home, and why Kathleen had taken Eddie to see Dr. Levin a few weeks ago. The fact that Eddie complained about a range of physical ailments concerned Kathleen, and so she’d had the foundation pay for Eddie to have every sort of test performed. The results were not surprising to Kathleen, but they were to Eddie. He was one hundred percent healthy. At most, he suffered from a mild case of bloating and high cholesterol from all the junk food.
Kathleen had given Eddie a good talking-to and sent him to a nutritionist to work up a diet that he could stick with. She knew he was still sneaking doughnuts in the mornings, but he’d gotten a heckuva lot better. He was eating salads for lunch, and walking a mile each evening when he got home from work.
In exchange, Eddie had taken it upon himself to “report” to Kathleen all activities occurring in and around the Royal Arms.
She’d known in advance that Dylan and Wyatt would be at Smith & Wollensky, because Eddie had overheard them talking about steaks and seen them all pile into C. Todd Hartwell’s yellow Hummer.
Kathleen could feel Dylan’s eyes boring a hole into the back of her head, but she was listening intently to Bo Harlan.
Certain women in Texas were known for having the warmest smiles and the coldest hearts. But Kathleen’s smile was genuine. She listened for an hour as the oilman went on about his divorce, how much he loved his ki
ds, etc., etc…how hard it was to find a woman who wanted to date him for him—and not for his checkbook.
Kathleen found herself liking Wild Bo. Sure, he’s a bit rough on the edges, she thought. But despite what he’d done to Dylan and Wyatt, there was something sweet about Wild Bo.
Earlier that morning, when Bo Harlan’s secretary had called requesting the lunch meeting, Kathleen had politely declined.
This was protocol. To make powerful men like Bo Harlan work for it—just as her mama had taught her.
Kathleen hadn’t been surprised when a few seconds later, the phone rang again, and it was Wild Bo himself. He’d said, “Kathleen, I’m taking you out to Smith & Woll today and I won’t take no for an answer.” She’d just sighed into the phone and said she’d be there at noon.
Bo Harlan had just written a half-million-dollar check, and that kind of cash didn’t come without strings. She was used to “doing the follow-up lunch.” To find out what her big donors wanted from her.
Kathleen suspected why Bo Harlan had called her to lunch. The oilman was secretly interested in dating Shelby Lynn Pierce, even though Shelby Lynn was still technically married.
Everyone in Houston knew the marriage was on the rocks, especially after word had gotten out that Shelby Lynn’s husband had been spotted in the elevator at the Lancaster Hotel with an Asian stripper. It was all people could talk about, even though no one was actually saying a word.
Bo Harlan was digging into his steak like a zoo animal at feeding time. He was in the middle of giving Kathleen his résumé. He’d grown up in a working-class family. He’d worked his way up in the oil industry, first working out in the fields, and then for a large energy company until finally breaking out on to his own. He’d made a lot of money and a lot of enemies, but—“Heck, Kathleen, this is the oil business, who hasn’t?” Bo Harlan seemed to view himself as a maverick among men. A guy who’d gotten a bad rap because other men envied him, not because he was a thief nor a liar, nor any of these things. He was a damned good poker player. “And other men—well, Kathleen, they just can’t handle losing.”
Kathleen poked gingerly at her steak. She would’ve preferred the salmon, but Bo Harlan had insisted on ordering for both of them, and she didn’t want to rob him of his chance to feel like the man in charge. The food isn’t important, she thought. She could stop by the Smoothie Shack after lunch to tide herself over.
When Bo was finished delivering his biography of himself, Kathleen touched him on the shoulder and said, “Men like you are always in the crosshairs.”
This seemed to please him to no end. The oilman’s face reddened with delight, and his cheeks flushed pink. He cracked a smile and said, “Kathleen, you’re wise beyond your years.”
As they ate, Bo Harlan’s secretary sat across from them in the booth and sipped quietly on a Diet Coke. She was well trained, that was for sure. And she didn’t make a peep. It was just like Bo Harlan to show up at lunch with his “assistant” being present, so he could look super busy at all times.
“Would you like some dessert, my dear?” Bo asked Kathleen. She’d barely touched her steak, but had cut it in a few pieces to make it look as though she’d eaten.
Kathleen fluttered her eyelashes.
We could be here for another hour, she thought. The oilman obviously intended to drag things out.
“I’d love some,” she cooed.
Bo Harlan made a big show of getting the waiter’s attention, and then ordered one of everything off the dessert menu. Kathleen leaned over and told him she would love a cappuccino.
“And a cappuccino!” Bo roared, startling the waiter, who nearly capsized his tray of drinks for another table.
Kathleen giggled and covered her mouth. “You’re too much fun.”
Bo Harlan wiped his napkin against his lips and plopped it on the table. Then, remembering the company he was with, he grabbed the napkin and set it back on his lap.
“I met your grandfather once,” he said.
Oh dear, Kathleen thought. Here it comes.
“A long time ago. Heck. I was just a kid. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three years old.”
Kathleen raised her eyebrow. Not this again.
She’d heard different versions of the same story hundreds of times. The story about how her grandfather had given a speech that inspired hundreds of impressionable young men to seek a better life for themselves, and to find their own destiny, out in the mineral fields of Texas.
Martin Luther King had a dream.
John F. Kennedy had “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
Ronald Reagan wanted to “tear down that wall.”
Cullen Davis King spoke of “churning and burning.” Ah, the joys of tapping thousands of feet under the earth to discover new mineral fields.
“It was a speech he gave at the Petroleum Club,” Bo Harlan began. Kathleen glanced at the ruddy-faced oilman and saw that his eyes were tearing up.
“And I’ll never forget what he said that day.”
“Tell me,” Kathleen prompted. She knew the speech by heart because her mother had written it. She’d read it to Kat over and over while Aunt Lucinda brushed her hair, bathed her, and got her ready for school.
“He said the most important thing in a young man’s life was to establish a credit, a reputation, and a character.”
Kathleen nodded. “I know this speech well,” she said.
“I bet you do.”
Kathleen took a small sip from her cappuccino. She touched her fork to the cheesecake on the table and took a small nibble.
“Those words were actually first spoken by John D. Rockefeller,” Kat said, adding, “My grandfather was a fan.”
Bo Harlan rocked in his chair. “From one oligarch to another.” As if on cue, he stuck his fork into the chocolate cake and gobbled about half of the slice in one huge bite.
Kathleen wondered when Bo Harlan was planning to make his move. So she decided to hurry things along.
“Thank you for lunch, Bo. I’ve had a lovely time.”
“I’m glad you could find the time,” Bo Harlan said. “I know that the Houston charity circuit must keep you awfully busy. I mean, I see your photos in every magazine around. Can’t be easy being a philanthropist on the move. So, tell me again. Who’s going to be sitting at my table? I forget.”
“I haven’t quite worked out the final table arrangements, but I did want to introduce you to my dear friend, Shelby Lynn.”
“I’d love to meet her,” Bo said, adding quickly, “and her husband, of course.”
Bingo, Kat thought.
“Oh goodness. Tate never comes to these things. Shelby comes by herself, poor thing. Which is such a shame because we have a nice band there and Shelby loves to dance, but she never does—unless it’s with the girls.”
“That’s too bad…that she doesn’t have anyone to dance with,” Bo Harlan stuttered.
“I’ll tell you, she is such a treasure. She helps me plan the entire event from soup to nuts. Did you know that she’s a fantastic decorator? I mean, that woman has an eye, I tell you.”
“Really?” Bo drawled out the word so it sounded like Reeiiilee?
Kathleen knew that she needed to tread carefully. Since Shelby Lynn was still officially married, Kathleen couldn’t set her up on a date. All she could do was dangle a fish in front of Bo Harlan, but it was up to him to take the bait. She couldn’t spell it out for him any clearer. Luckily, the oilman was clever.
“You know, that reminds me,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to hire a decorator for my office. Last month, they did a spread in Houston Modern Luxury magazine but I don’t like how it turned out. I asked them to come back for a reshoot next week.”
Kathleen pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh my gosh, Shelby would be perfect for the job! But it doesn’t sound like we have much time.”
“Could you ask her if she’s interested?”
“Consider it done.” Kathleen stood, kissed Bo Harlan on the for
ehead, and cascaded out the door. She was glad that Dylan had left the restaurant. She could deal with him when she got home. Until then, she was on a mission.
Twenty-six
“Did you see that movie, The Thomas Crown Affair?” Wyatt asked.
“Love Steve McQueen,” Steve grunted.
“Not the original, I’m talking about the remake. With Pierce Brosnan and that hot chick. They used a heater to steal the painting,” Wyatt said. “Just like we’re about to do.”
Dylan glanced around. He and the three stooges were in Home Depot. Their mission: acquire a large space heater.
“How does it work, dawg?” Steve asked. He was wearing white sunglasses inside Home Depot. Mr. Super Fly.
“We need to raise the temperature around the alarm so it doesn’t detect the change in my body temperature when I go to disarm it.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Steve asked.
Wyatt shot Steve his movie star smile. “My former roommate was a bank robber. He was famous for pulling off some of the hardest bank jobs that the cops have ever seen—well, he needed a place to stay for a while, so I put him up. We sort of became buddies, and went to casinos a few times, and he showed me the tricks of the trade. Just for fun. Then he up and disappeared.” Wyatt began counting out on his fingers. “I figure he’s either dead, in jail, or sittin’ on his millions in Mexico.”
Dylan pointed to a huge box on the bottom shelf.
“Is this the one?” he asked.
“It’s gotta be at least three hundred and fifty thousand BTUs,” Wyatt said.
Dylan checked the box. “Yep. Here we go. On the count of three…” Dylan, C. Todd, and Steve lifted the heater box and struggled to make it to the cash register.
“You wanna give us a hand with this, dawg?” Steve asked Wyatt.
Wyatt trailed behind the three of them, and Dylan grimaced. Most people didn’t know about Wyatt’s fake leg, but since the four men had bonded over steaks and potatoes, Wyatt decided to pull up the leg of his jeans and show them the prosthetic. Right inside Home Depot.
