It was Kitt’s turn to stiffen uneasily. Her face went wary. “My aunt’s not part of this story.”
He raised his chin skeptically. “Isn’t she? The McKinneys sure as hell are. She lives on McKinney property. She’s married to their top hand. That café of hers is practically the hub of this town. Everybody on the McKinney side meets there for informal powwows.”
“The Longhorn,” Kitt countered, “is where your brother met his new wife. I hear she’s a lovely woman. You’d probably like her if you met her. But you don’t plan on it, do you?”
He sighed in exasperation and said, “Let me explain something.”
She narrowed her pretty eyes. “What?”
“I’m supposed to avoid talking to the press. I’m trying to explain that nicely.”
She raised her chin. “Do you always do what you’re supposed to? You strike me as more independent than that.”
“You used the word ‘professional,’” he returned. “Your profession is to ferret out information. Mine, at present, is to withhold it. Don’t knock me for doing my job.”
She gave a sassy shrug. “Why is Brian Fabian so set on secrecy?”
“It’s his nature,” Mel said. “And his right.”
“So you’re a mouthpiece with nothing to say,” she said.
“To you. I’ve got nothing to say to you. And I’m sorry for that.”
“Sorry?” she said with a little laugh. “Why?”
“Because under different circumstances—” He didn’t finish the sentence, not even in his own mind. Instead he took a long pull on his drink.
“Under different circumstances, what?” she challenged.
He set down his glass. “Nothing. You want the latest information on Bluebonnet Meadows?”
She sat up straighter. “Of course.”
“I’ll give you a brochure. We’ve got new ones.”
“Really?” Her voice was sarcastic. “What do they say?”
“I’ll slide one under your door tonight. You can read it in bed.” His tone was suggestive; he couldn’t help it. “Do you read in bed?”
“Oh, look,” she said. “Your airport self is back.”
“Maybe you just bring out the worst in me,” he said.
“The grapevine says—” she began.
“—the grapevine from the local vineyard?”
She nodded. “It says that you’ve come to buy more land.”
“I don’t see any for sale signs up,” he said.
“That didn’t stop Fabian before,” she countered. “He managed to buy up four thousand acres.”
“No comment,” he said.
“The grapevine also says that when your brother defected, Fabian took it personally. That he’s got a vendetta against him. And the people opposing Bluebonnet Meadows.”
“No comment,” said Mel.
“Why would he bother?” Kitt persisted. “A man that rich? Why does he care if a bunch of ranchers and townspeople throw a few legal roadblocks in his way? Why did he offer all those inflated prices in the first place?”
“No comment. I’m glad we mended fences. Our lines of communication are much more open now.” He stood. “Thanks for the drink.”
She shot him a baleful glance. “Thanks for all the information.”
He turned to go, then paused. Over his shoulder he said, “By the way, do you read in bed?”
“You’ll never know,” she said.
“Pity,” he said and walked away.
But he could feel her there behind him in the candlelight, her anger almost crackling in the air. It struck him that if he never learned what she did in bed, it would, indeed, be a pity.
SHE WAS GETTING READY for bed, putting on her nightshirt with the cartoon picture of the Tasmanian Devil. She heard a gentle rustling in the hall. She whirled, looked down and saw a color brochure inching under her door. Damn. She stamped to the door and snatched up the brochure.
Its cover photograph showed a kaleidoscope of Texas wildflowers. A red banner ran across the top of the photo, and white letters spelled out an invitation. CLAIM YOUR PART OF THE TEXAS DREAM…
Smaller black print announced Bluebonnet Meadows, The Lone Star State’s Premiere Planned Community.
The paper was thick and glossy, the photo perfect, the design excellent. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the pamphlet. With a start, she realized she did not want to read this in bed, on the bed, or near the bed.
She rose and sat instead at the room’s small oak desk. She reopened the brochure and read the sales pitch: prime location in the Austin vicinity, beautiful Hill Country scenery, man-made lakes for boating and fishing, golf courses, swimming pools, a clubhouse, even a community stable.
Kitt was surprised to find herself bristling protectively. A map showed how Fabian planned to carve up the land. Three handy sizes of lots, for the well-to-do, the extremely well-to-do, and the obscenely rich.
The hills that had seemed so eerily familiar this afternoon would be studded with houses and mini-ranches. There would be the gated “Golden Community” with lots of an acre apiece. It would cover more than half of the former Hole in the Wall Dude Ranch.
The “Platinum Community” would consist of mini-ranches, 20 to 50 acres. And lastly, the “Diamond Community” would be an exclusive group of small ranches between 75 and 200 acres.
The Best of Texas—At the Right Prices, boasted the text.
Sure, thought Kitt, the right prices—if you happened to have a lot of gold, platinum or diamonds lying around.
Nora had said several model homes had been built on the one-acre lots, the first golf course laid out and graded, the first lake gouged out.
She knew the lake, with its makeshift dam, was a particular source of contention. “With all the rain, people are afraid of flooding,” Nora had said. “And Fabian’s torn up the land until it looks as if it’s been bombed.”
But, Kitt thought, Fabian must be confident of winning this turf war. The new brochure had cost him big money—and it was new. She had a copy of the older one in her research folder.
She looked at the last page and tensed. It contained an unpleasant surprise. There was another photo of wildflowers and the announcement: The Miracle Begins! Bluebonnet Meadows—The First Offerings. Phase One.
Kitt sat up straighter. First Offerings? Phase One? This was a clear indication: Fabian did scheme to buy more land.
Why had Mel refused to admit the fact, then put this brochure into her hands? She knew he must have a motive and couldn’t stand not knowing. She snatched up the receiver and dialed his room number.
Through the wall, she could hear his phone ringing. It rang six times. She heard the click of it being picked up. His voice was lazy when he said, “Mel Belyle here.”
“And Mitchell here,” she shot back. “Listen, barrister, I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Sorry to take so long answering,” he drawled. “I was getting out of the shower. Oops. Dammit. Dropped the towel. Excuse me a minute.”
You over-sexed fiend, she thought in resentment. But she could not quell an image of him, naked and glistening with water. She pictured the wide chest, the broad shoulders, the narrow waist—then her inner censor kicked her and made her stop picturing.
“Ahh,” he said. “There. I’m decent again.”
I sincerely doubt that, she thought. She said, “Has anybody else in town seen this brochure?”
“Actually yes,” he said. “Now that you mention it. I have.”
“You know what I mean,” she retorted.
“Everyone in town will have seen it by tomorrow,” he said. “There’s a mass mailing to Realtors all over Texas. And the whole shebang goes on our Internet site at midnight. In about—oh—six minutes. If you’re going to make a scoop out of this, you’ll have to act fast.”
“You dodged every question I put to you,” Kitt accused. “Then you get cute and slide this under my door. Why?”
“A picture is worth ten thousand words,” he answ
ered. “Oops. Towel’s slipping again. Dammit.”
She cursed him under her breath. “Stop telling me about your towel.”
“Do you happen to have a safety pin over there?”
“This thing—” she waggled the brochure in impotent anger “—clearly says ‘First Offerings,’ and ‘Phase One.’ That implies Second Offerings and a Phase Two.”
“Does it?” he asked with feigned innocence.
“That must mean Fabian’s planning to get more land,” she said from between her teeth. “A lot more land.”
“Pure guesswork on your part.”
“Whose land does he think he’s going to get?”
“No comment,” Mel said.
“And how does he plan to get it when there’s none for sale and the ranchers are united against him?”
“I wish this was the kind of hotel that gave you bathrobes. I’m getting chilly. Brr.”
“Stop harping on your bare bod,” she snapped. Stop thinking about his bare bod, she scolded herself. But she couldn’t. She imagined him tanned, fit and muscular. He would smell of soap and his skin would be cool and damp to the touch.
“It’s not my fault I’m nearly buck naked,” he said. “You’re the one who got me out of the shower.”
“I want to know about Phase Two,” she said grimly.
“So far it’s a figment of your imagination. But while we’re on the phone, let me ask you a question.”
“What?” she demanded.
“What quality do you most prefer in a man?”
She sighed in exasperation. What was he getting at? He was maddening. “Straightforwardness. I wish you had an iota of it.”
“Ah. My answer would be loyalty. And I hope I have more than an iota. Good night. Sweet dreams.”
Click. She grimaced with displeasure. He’d hung up on her. Gritting her teeth, she snatched up her laptop and plugged it into the phone line. She switched on the machine, pulled up her favorite Internet search engine and typed in “Bluebonnet Meadows.”
The computer labored in silence for a moment, then her screen filled with a fiesta of color: the yellow, red, and blue of wildflowers. “CLAIM YOUR PART OF THE TEXAS DREAM…”
It was exactly the same as the cover of the brochure. She glanced at her watch. It was two minutes after midnight.
Mel Belyle was toying with her, the fiend. She resisted the desire to throw the brochure at the wall that divided her from him. She could almost hear him laughing.
CAL SLIPPED HIS ARM around Serena’s warm, bare shoulder and drew her close. She laid her cheek against his chest, over his still-hammering heart.
They’d just made love so lustily that the headboard of the bed had slammed repeatedly against the wall. Serena had muffled her laughter and warned him to be quieter, but he’d been beyond considering quiet.
“You’re awful,” she whispered and kissed him between the pecs.
He sighed with pleasure. “Is that an estimate of my performance? Or my character?”
“Your character,” she said, her voice almost a purr. “Your performance was fairly spectacular.”
“Only fairly?” he asked with mock horror.
“On a scale of one to ten, tonight you were only a twelve,” she teased.
“It’ll have to do,” he said, nuzzling her silky hair. “I’m done spent. Lord, I’d been wanting to do that all night.”
“Me, too,” she admitted. “I love your brother and sister and their families but…”
“…but it seemed like they’d never go to their own houses,” Cal supplied and cuddled her closer to him. “Well, they get to talkin’ about this Bluebonnet Meadows mess, and they don’t stop. And me with lechery drivin’ me up the wall.”
“You nearly drove the headboard through the wall,” she admonished, but stroked his naked chest. “I bet your parents heard. They had to.”
The main guest room was next to J.T. and Cynthia’s bedroom. Cal had forgotten this fact when his libido eclipsed everything except Serena.
“Well, hell,” he answered, “it’s not like they don’t know we do it. Those twins didn’t get brought here by a stork. Mmm, you smell good. What kinda flower is it you smell like?”
“Lily of the valley.” She kept stroking his chest. “Cal?” She said it with hesitancy.
“What, sugar?”
“Your father seems edgy with you. Why?”
“Daddy always gets edgy with me,” he said. “He’s always glad to see me the first day, the second day he gets critical, the third day he still thinks I’m eighteen and a dropout. It’s habit, is all.”
She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. He could just make out her face in the dim glow of the night-light. Her long hair hung like a thick veil, tickling his bare arm.
She said, “It’s more than that. You came here to help. He sounded as if he wanted you to come help. He needs you. But sometimes he acts almost—resentful.”
A pang twisted Cal’s heart, but only briefly. He was not his father’s favorite and never would be. He’d accepted this from boyhood. He tried to reassure Serena, who always took things harder than he did.
He touched her smooth cheek. “This Bluebonnet Meadows gripes him, sugar. He’d like to wade in and fight it out single-handed. He don’t want to admit he could use help. He’s proud.”
“Sometimes I don’t think he likes it that you have more money than he does,” Serena said, bending closer.
“Aw, it’s just he’s always been the alpha wolf. You know.”
“It’s not like you lord it over him. And it’s not as if he hasn’t benefited. They all have—Tyler and Lynn, too.”
He laid his finger on her soft lips. “Shh,” he said quietly. “Don’t say such things.”
He had loaned his father money; he had refinanced Tyler when the winery had trouble; he had helped Lynn to increase her string of beloved horses. He begrudged none of them, and he didn’t give a damn if they ever paid him back. What good was money if you couldn’t use it to help people you loved?
Cal wasn’t introspective, but he wasn’t blind to nuance. Neither his father nor his brother liked to be beholden to anyone. Perhaps especially to him.
“I have to say it,” Serena objected. “Your father should be grateful to you.”
“Honey, he’s grateful in his way. He’s just touchy. When this Fabian fella gets stopped, Daddy’s gonna be fine.”
“You,” she said, caressing his collarbone, “are an incurable optimist.”
“I’m getting optimistic now,” he said. “Why don’t you move that hand a little lower? Maybe I’m not so spent as I thought.”
“Cal, I’m serious. Tyler’s mood seems dark, too. And Ruth’s not herself. Do you think they’re having trouble again?”
This sobered him. “I don’t know. Did she say anything?”
“No. She just seems—subdued. And so does Cynthia.”
He twined his fingers in Serena’s soft hair. “Cynthia’s worried about Daddy. She always has since he was sick.”
“Cal?” she said his name with such sweet earnestness that a fresh surge of love went through him.
“What, sugar?”
“You talked to Nick Belyle. Do you think you can stop Fabian?”
“I sure as hell aim to try. He’s got a whole lot of money, though. Which puts me in a damn strange position. I’m just rich enough to make my family uncomfortable, but not rich enough to be sure I can help them. Fabian’s pretty much out of my class.”
“You’re in a class by yourself,” she said fondly.
He drew her nearer. “Remember what I asked you about movin’ that hand?”
She laughed. “This time don’t make the bed bang the wall.”
But he got carried away, as usual. The headboard thumped and thudded and thumped.
J.T. HAD ALMOST BEEN ASLEEP, then the damn racket next door snapped him wide-awake again. He lay in the darkness gritting his teeth.
How long could those two keep at it? This wa
s the second time tonight—Cal was randy as a stallion.
Cynthia lay beside him, motionless and silent. Her back was to him, the sheet and cover pulled tightly around her body as if insulating herself from him. He didn’t blame her.
She’d come to bed in her expensive ivory colored nightgown with the see-through lace top. It was his favorite. She’d put on the perfume he’d given her, the French stuff that usually drove him crazy.
She smelled wonderful, a complex fragrance of flowers and exotic spice. She felt wonderful, her skin smooth and warm, and the fabric of her nightdress so silky it was slithery.
Snuggling intimately against him, she’d whispered, “It’s nice to have you to myself at last. Umm.”
Her voice was full of invitation, but he was dog-tired. Desire didn’t stir in his blood or his imagination or anywhere else. He loved his wife, but he’d responded to her as if he had ice in his veins instead of hot red blood.
She rubbed her nose against his shoulder, ran her hand over his chest. Her fingers toyed with the top button of his pajama shirt. “Why’d you start wearing pajamas?” she teased. “You never used to.”
“I get chilly,” he said. “And I’m tired. It was a long night.” He faked a yawn, although in truth he was tired, bone weary and wracked by apprehension.
Her hand went still. She no longer toyed with the button. “J.T.,” she said in concern. She put her hand on his arm. “What’s wrong? You’re not yourself lately.”
You’re not yourself lately. He knew what that meant. It was criticism. You’ve got no interest in sex lately. You’re not the man you used to be.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he muttered. “I said I’m tired. I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.”
At that point in the conversation, the bed in the guest room began bumping against the wall—for the first time.
In former times J.T. would have grinned ruefully, and likely as not reached for Cynthia. He would have said something ironic such as, “Only amateurs make that much noise. Behold—the Master.”
Now each thud sounded like mockery of the man he used to be. J.T. would love to take his wife in his arms, to be driven wild by hunger for her. His sexual desire had been fading steadily over the last two months, and tonight it seemed to have vanished completely.
A Little Town in Texas Page 8
