by Chanta Rand
Mason saw a glimmer of determination flicker in her chestnut colored irises. He believed her. There was something driving this woman. Maybe it was raw ambition. Maybe it was the lure of a challenge. Maybe it was the fact that she wanted to prove something to herself – or to someone else. Who knew what fueled the minds of women? They were fickle creatures.
He stood. “Well, you’re a lot prettier than the last three fools. I wouldn’t mind indulging you, but I’m too busy. I have a company to run.”
“What’s the point of making all this money if you don’t make time to enjoy it?”
“Oh, I enjoy it plenty,” he assured her. “It might not be your idea of a good time. I work hard so I can play hard. When I’m not working, I’m hunting or fishing or reading a good book.”
“Oh?” One of her dainty eyebrows shot up. “What authors do you read?”
“It damn sure ain’t Shakespeare.”
She smiled. “I don’t read Shakespeare either. I prefer Tennessee Williams.”
“My point is I don’t need to have tea and crumpets to be educated.”
“I never for one moment thought you were uneducated. Any man who owns a conglomerate of companies, manages a thirty-five hundred acre ranch, and raises ten thousand head of cattle can’t be a dummy.”
He sneered. “So, I’m smart, but ill-mannered?”
“You said it, not me.”
“But you believe it.”
“Based on what I’ve seen in the last twenty minutes, I do.”
“No one enjoys being told how crude other folks think they are.” He walked toward a small humidor that sat on a heavy desk in the corner of the room and he pulled out a cigar.
She gasped. “You’re not going to smoke that are you?”
He snorted. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Ever heard of second-hand smoke?” She stood and approached him and plucked the cigar from his fingers. The scent of her flowery perfume teased his nostrils. “In case you weren’t aware, puffing plumes of smoke from your mouth is socially undesirable – not to mention unhealthy. Oh, and it’s definitely not smart. Don’t make me revoke my previous assumption of your intelligence.”
“You may not realize it, but God already gave me a mama. I don’t need another.” He pulled a second cigar from the box. He had plenty more where this one came from.
“What made you start this disgusting habit?”
“I had to do something after I gave up chewing tobacco.”
“Oh God!” Her pretty brown eyes pulsed with astonishment. “Wait a minute. You’re just saying that on purpose to appall me.”
Secretly, Mason enjoyed the look of disbelief on her face. Portia was shocked by a lot of the things he did, but she usually crawled back into her fur-lined shell and hid until the crisis was over. Jewell called his bluff. “Somehow, I get the feelin’ that no matter what I do, you’ll be shocked. But I admit I was pullin’ your leg.”
She visibly breathed a sigh of relief and wagged her slender, manicured forefinger at him. “All leg-pulling aside, I need thirty minutes of your time for today’s lesson. Going forward, I’ll work around your busy schedule. But I’ll warn you, each session needs to be at least one hour in duration if we hope to see any real results.”
“We? Isn’t this your project?”
She pursed her lips. “If you want to please your fiancée, this has to be a joint effort.”
He quietly regarded her for a moment. The spaghetti strapped yellow dress she wore warmed up the room like a ray of sunshine. The modest hemline brushed the tops of her knees; it was the perfect length for showcasing her shapely legs. It fit her curvy figure in all the right places and it showed off her nice rack. Racks were his second favorite attribute on a woman. The gold choker resting seductively in the hollow of her neck was the only thing that pulled his eyes from her generous cleavage.
“Let’s start with business etiquette,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “Pretend I’m a business associate you’ve just met. How would you greet me?”
Fine, I’ll indulge her just this once. He reached forward and vigorously pumped her tiny hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ouch!” She winced in pain as she pulled her right hand away and cradled it in her left palm. “I’m a human being, not a gas pump! You can’t just go manhandling me.”
He tried again, this time with a softer touch.
“Now your hand feels like a limp noodle,” Jewell complained. “When you shake a woman’s hand, respect her like a man, only apply less pressure.”
“I never had any complaints before,” he growled.
“Of course not. No one’s going to complain. They’ll just talk about you behind your back and then quietly go the emergency room to get their broken bones tended to.” She used both of her hands to shake one of his. “Our palms should firmly touch,” she directed. “Your fingers should wrap around mine and squeeze lightly for a brief second. If the contact is too quick, a woman will think you don’t like her. Conversely, if your fingers linger too long, the woman will think you’re trying to hit on her. Let’s try it again.”
This time Mason shook her hand as instructed. Her skin felt soft and warm in his big callused hand. “Better?”
“Much. Your handshake speaks volumes about you. It tells people what kind of man you are even before you open your mouth. Which brings us to the next lesson. Don’t say, ‘Please to meet you, ma’am.’ The word ma’am makes women feel old. Not to mention it makes you sound like a hick.”
He scowled. “I’ve been talkin’ like this for years and I’ve gotten along just fine.”
“Fine isn’t good enough when you’re marrying into the Rothchild family. You need to be exemplary. Please practice these tips I’ve just shown you on any brave females you may know.”
Mason glared at her. “Is that all?”
“For now.” She retrieved her handbag from a nearby chair. “We don’t have much time before the wedding. I’ll need to see you at least three times a week. Let’s meet again tomorrow. What time works best for you?”
“No time. I’m busy at the auction tomorrow. Bidding on heifers all day.”
Jewell was unmoved. “Which auction house?”
As if she actually knew where it was.
“C&E Land and Cattle.”
“Near Baytown?”
He couldn’t hide his surprise. “You heard of it?”
She smiled. “Of course. My office is only twenty minutes from there. Just take 10 West toward downtown and exit Main Street.” She held her business card out. “The address is printed at the bottom.”
Damn. Just like that she’d roped him in. “I’ll be there around four,” he begrudged her.
“Make it five,” she ordered. “And bring a coat and tie.”
“Now, look here lady –”
“I know, I know,” she said walking toward the door. “You’re just as excited as me. See you soon.”
Mason watched Jewell Davenport sashay from the room. He assumed she would let herself out and climb back into that fancy black BMW she had parked out front. All his life he’d prided himself on being a good judge of character. He could size somebody up in less than ten minutes. She was different. He couldn’t quite get a read on her. But he did know a few things: She was sexy, she was mean, and she was downright bossy. He figured in about ten seconds, her ears would be burning. But right now she was too far away to hear the curse words he muttered under his breath.
THREE
Brilliant streaks of lavender mingled with rosy hues of blush to illuminate the morning sky. Jewell sat on the balcony of her condo watching the sunrise. Today was going to be a good day. Maybe if she said it enough times, she could speak it into being. Her schedule was packed fuller than a can of sardines. And that was just the way she liked it. She believed in the saying, ‘Idle hands are the Devil’s workers.’ When she had too much time on her hands, all she did was find trouble – or more like trouble found her. Take last
night, for instance. She rearranged her closet, paid bills, checked her emails, went to one of Andy’s school concerts, and planned her agenda for the week before wearily falling into bed at midnight. Yet, not even the hum of the ceiling fan or snuggling beneath her new Egyptian cotton sheets could lull her to sleep. She kept thinking of him. Visions of ten-gallon hats and dirty cowboy boots filled her dreams.
Mason Kincaid was an enigma. How could someone so fine be so crude? And yes, she would admit that up close, the man was devastatingly handsome. And he would probably have a disarming smile – if he ever chose to use it. But she imagined his lips would squeak like rusty hinges if he even tried to crack a grin. He was a scowling Adonis in need of refinement. Sort of like Eliza Doolittle in Pygmalion. Jewell clucked out loud. Hell, even Professor Higgins would have found Mason a tough challenge.
“What’s so funny?”
Jewell turned to find her nephew at her elbow. He yawned widely, exposing the neon orange rubber bands of his new braces.
“Andy, what have I told you about yawning without covering your mouth? Those girls at school may want to see your tonsils, but I don’t.”
Andy grinned sheepishly. “Sorry Auntie.”
He must have taken his father’s looks, because with his frizzy, auburn hair and playful green eyes, he didn’t look anything like Jewell’s sister, Cameron. Wasn’t that always how it turned out? When the father wasn’t around, you were left with the constant reminder of his DNA in the form of the child. When Cameron got pregnant with Andy over a decade ago, she refused to identify the father of the baby. In her words, Andy was ‘better off not knowing that piece of shit anyway.’ It always amazed Jewell how these potential baby-daddies started out so desirable, but after conception, ended up relegated to the “dung” pile.
To further complicate matters, Cameron had been incarcerated for most of Andy’s life, so Jewell had become a PBD – parent by default. No one would guess that one of the city’s most respected image consultants had a half-sister behind bars. And that’s just the way she wanted to keep it. Good thing they had different last names. The best thing her sister ever did was give birth to Andy. That boy was the center of Jewell’s universe.
Jewell stepped back into the kitchen, which connected to the balcony, and closed the sliding doors behind her. “I won’t be able to pick you up from school today. I have a new client and I have to meet him at five.”
“Him?” Andy’s thin eyebrows danced curiously. “Your clients are usually ladies.”
“Technically, my client is a woman. I’m trying to help her fiancé get ready for their wedding.”
“Why can’t she help him? He’s her fiancé.”
Andy took a seat on a stool next to the large island in the kitchen. Jewell watched him dump a ridiculous amount of Cheerios into a mammoth-sized cereal bowl. Damn, that boy could eat. “Uh, it’s complicated.”
Andy shrugged. “If I live to be a million years old, I’ll never understand women.”
Jewell laughed. “Good! That’s our secret plan. If men understood us, it could upset the natural balance of the world.”
Andy poured nearly the entire gallon of milk into his cereal. He was tall for his age, but long and lean. Already, he wore a size ten shoe. It seemed every summer he grew two more inches. Last year, he’d finally surpassed her height of five foot seven, easily towering over her by a few inches. “So, who’s the client?” he asked in between bites.
“Portia Rothchild.”
His eyes grew wide. “That rich chick with the frilly purses?”
Jewell turned on her single-cup coffeemaker and added a packet of hazelnut vanilla grinded beans. “Those are her sisters.”
“Does her fiancé know she hired you?”
“Yes, he knows and he is not happy about it.”
“But he agreed to go on a date with you tomorrow?”
Jewell wrinkled her nose. “This is not a date, Andy.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if it were a date. You never go out with anyone but your girlfriends and Miss Bree.”
She leaned against the counter, inhaling the sweet scent of the coffee’s aroma. “Number one, Mason Kincaid already has a fiancée. I can’t very well go on a date with someone else’s man. And number two, even if he was single, I wouldn’t go out with him. That man’s idea of a good time is probably going to Outdoor World and buying matching rifles and orange hunting vests.”
Andy laughed, nearly spraying Cheerios from his mouth. “That was funny, Auntie.”
“Funny, but true. The man is a barbarian.”
“Is that why you’re helping him? So he can be less barbaric?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, he must not be that bad if Portia Rothchild wants to marry him.”
Jewell paused to look at her nephew. For a fourteen-year-old, sometimes the boy made astounding observations. “Yeah, kiddo. I guess you have a point there.”
“Maybe he has some friends he can introduce you to.”
“Why on earth would I want to meet any of his friends?”
He finished munching a shovelful of cereal before responding. “So you can find a nice guy and get married like Portia. You do want to get married one day, don’t you?”
“What?” she feigned shock. “And mess up this good thing we have? We don’t need no stinkin’ third wheel. We have each other!” She moved to give him a hug and a kiss, which he swiftly deflected by turning his face away.
“Auntie, I’m too cool for hugs and kisses.”
“I know, I know,” she sighed. “You tell me that every day. I remember when you were five and you used to always want to hold my hand. You needed me back then,” she teased.
“I still need you, but not like that.”
“Okay, my heart is now officially crushed. But you can repay me by playing me a song.”
Andy’s eyes lit up. “I’ll be right back!” He jumped off the stool and jogged to his room to retrieve his guitar.
Jewell sighed as she watched his lanky form disappear. He was right. She never went out with anyone except her best friend, Bree or a group of girlfriends. Bree insisted she was too picky when it came to men. She wasn’t picky. She had an expectation of quality. The few men she met just didn’t measure up. She wished she had time to give her love life an extreme makeover. But she was too busy working. And when she wasn’t working, she was spending her spare time with Andy. She justified it by saying he needed her. The poor child had been through enough, denied a normal life with his mother and father. Now, the boy was transforming into a young man. His voice had dropped a few octaves, and he even had some peach fuzz on his upper lip. Soon, thanks to Portia, he would be gone to Julliard – and Jewell would be all alone. But Andy would have fulfilled his dream and that was the only thing that mattered. All she had to do in return was put up with Mason Kincaid for one month. How hard could that be?
*******
Jewell listened as two of her employees, Shayla and Clark bickered about how to handle an important client’s new pregnancy.
“Lucinda Davis is a VP at AT&T,” Shayla argued. “She should wear conservative outfits that tastefully display her new baby bump. She needs classic maternity suits in soft grey pinstripes with pastel blouses.”
Shayla, whose staunch conservative tastes often butted heads with Clark’s more colorful personality, sat with her arms daintily crossed across her chest. Jewell valued her upper crust tastes, but she was glad she had Clark to balance the scale of ideas.
“You’ve got Lucinda pegged all wrong,” Clark argued. “She’s more flamboyant. She should proclaim her condition to the world by wearing black or white suits and primary colors to accessorize.” He stroked the length of his crimson tie for emphasis. “Pregnancy is a celebration, dammit.”
“Everything is a celebration to you, Clark.”
Jewell watched the back and forth. With her caramel complexion and perfect up-do, today Shayla looked like she could be related to Portia. Clark looke
d more like a surfer, with his sun-kissed skin and bleached blonde hair. Some days, his eyebrows were more carefully groomed than the hedges outside her office. Years ago, Clark eagerly embraced the term, Metrosexual. Today, she wasn’t sure what he embraced other than bold colored cuff-links and monthly pedicures. She’d originally hired him to assist with her accounting and invoices, but over the years, she’d found his fashion expertise invaluable.
The third member of the quartet, and Jewell’s best friend, Bree waltzed into the room. “What’s all the fuss about?” she demanded. Bree’s role as receptionist didn’t keep her from hopscotching in and out of conversations that were none of her business. She wasn’t the type of woman to be chained to the desk waiting for the phone to ring. Her filing skills were substandard. Her typing was atrocious. And she was notorious for wearing pink wigs and tight dresses to work. If any fool dared to ask, Bree quickly put them in their place by declaring that she was forty-five years old, and she’d earned the right to dress however she damn well pleased. Jewell loved her dearly – even if the woman was going through a mid-life crisis!
“I think Lucinda should hide her pregnancy until the last minute,” Bree suggested. “She should wear dark colors during the early stages. Then, once she gets to be six, seven, eight months, she can she can say, ‘Fuck it. I’m letting it all hang out!’ And she can spring it on the male executives all at once. Let me tell you, men can discriminate when you’re preggers.”
Shayla frowned. “I don’t think Lucinda would use the words, fuck it.”
Clark grinned. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when that happens.”
“You’d like to be a fly on anybody’s wall,” Bree quipped. “I’m surprised your ears don’t form a union – you work them so hard.”
Clark’s blue eyes bulged. “Well, at least I don’t have tread marks on my nose from butting into everybody’s business.”
Jewell laid her head in her hands. “You’re all getting off track,” she admonished. “Focus, people. Focus!”
