“Fine. Send him in.”
Ten seconds later, six foot two of Texan filled her door. Tawny hair, caramel eyes, tanned cheekbones.
Whoa.
Her own sixteen-year-old heart went pitty pat.
He crossed the room, swallowed up her hand in his big palm, and said in a ridiculous drawl, “Cody Brown. I appreciate you seeing me, Miz Marone.”
“Call me Julie,” she managed to reply. Her hand felt naked when he released it, like she’d pulled off a warm glove on a cold winter day.
No wonder Jan had gone to pieces. He was tall, the way an oak tree’s tall. Lean, the way a cougar’s lean.
She gestured and he took a seat, his beat-up leather jacket falling open over an indigo shirt with pearl snaps and a belt buckle the size of Texas. When he crossed one cowboy-booted ankle over the other snug-jeaned knee, spurs jangled in her head.
Her mouth went dry.
She picked up her pen, clicked it off and on, off and on. “So, you’re new to Boston?”
Cody Brown unfurled a slow, eye-crinkling smile. “What gave me away?”
She huffed out a laugh. “Okay, that was dumb.”
God, she was as bad as Jan.
He waved a hand. “Not at all,” he drawled, “you were just being polite.” The December wind had stirred up his hair. The fingers he raked through it did nothing to tame it. “You’re right, I’m brand new to Boston. Just got here last week, and been working every day since I touched down.”
“I see,” she said, staring at his stubble, the way it shadowed his jaw. She made herself look down at the yellow pad on her desk. “Are you looking for a house? A condo?”
“I’m thinking condo.”
She made a note. “Your wife agrees?”
“I’m not married.”
She glanced up. “Engaged?”
He shook his head. “No girlfriend either. Or boyfriend, for that matter.” He broke into that smile again.
She set her pen on the desk. “Who referred you to me?”
“Marianne Wells. Said you found her dream house.”
Julie remembered her, a nurse at Mass General. “Yes, I found a house for her. For her and her husband.” She put an apology in her smile. “That’s what I do. I match couples with houses.”
Cody tilted his head. “Just couples? How come?”
“It’s my specialty.”
He nodded agreeably. “Okay. But how come?”
She shifted impatiently. “Because it is.” And that’s all the explanation you’re getting. “Now, Mr. Brown—”
“It’s Cody to my friends.” He smiled. “Most of my enemies too.”
She wished he’d holster that smile. It lit up the room, exposing how drab her office was. Tasteful, of course—ecru walls, framed prints, gold upholstery. But bland. She hadn’t noticed just how bland until he’d walked in and started smiling all over it.
She clicked her pen.
His smile widened and a dimple appeared, for God’s sake.
Then he spread his hands. His big, warm hands. “Julie,” he said in that slow, Texas drawl. “Can’t you make an exception for me?”
She tried to say no, to resist his pull. But he held her gaze, tugging her irresistibly toward blue skies and sunshine.
Her breath gave a hitch, her stomach a dip.
And her heart, her frozen heart, thumped at last.
CODY’D THOUGHT HE was too damn tired for sex, but from his first glimpse of Julie Marone—moss-green eyes, chestnut hair, slim runner’s body—he’d been picturing her out of that business suit and spread across his bed, wearing a lacy pushup bra and not another damn thing.
Then her breath caught, a sexy little hiccup, and he was halfway hard before he knew what hit him.
Damn it. He didn’t need to get laid half as much as he needed a place to live. After seven straight overnights in the Mass General ER—and an eighth that would begin in just a few hours—he was finally due to get some time off. Four days, to be exact, which gave him exactly that long to find a condo, sign the papers, and write the damn check.
But Julie wasn’t cooperating. Not only did she have his cock in an uproar, she wasn’t inclined to hunt up a condo for him. She kept feeding him a line about couples, like she was some kind of karmic matchmaker or something.
Seriously, what kind of Realtor gave a shit who she sold to? A house was a house; a condo was a condo. Money was money. Right?
Whatever. She was hot for him too, and even if he wasn’t in a position to do anything about it right at the moment, he wasn’t above using it to get what he wanted.
Deliberately, in a move that had yet to fail him, he put his palm to his chest, rubbed it back and forth slowly.
Her eyes dropped to follow the movement.
He let her think about it.
She swallowed.
Then, shamelessly, he worked his drawl. “I’d sure be grateful if you’d help me out. I been staying next door at the Plaza—and don’t get me wrong, it’s swanky, for sure—but I need my own place so I can bring Betsy on east with me.”
Her eyes snapped up. “I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“Betsy’s my dog. Part coonhound, part Chihuahua.” He did the smile again. “She’ll like you. You both got that feisty thing going on.”
Her brow knitted, and he bit his cheek to hold back a laugh. She probably wasn’t sure how to feel about being compared to his dog. He could tell her it was a compliment—Betsy was the only woman who’d never disappointed him—but he didn’t want her to get cocky.
What he wanted was for her to forget her cockamamie rule about couples and find him a condo in the next four days. That meant keeping her interested in him. So he played his strongest card, the one that worked with all the ladies. Worked too well in fact. But he wasn’t going to argue with that now.
“The problem’s my schedule,” he went on, spreading his palms. “Me being a doctor and all.”
He waited for her to rip her clothes off.
She didn’t.
For five long seconds, she stared straight into his eyes. Then she opened a drawer and took out a business card, set it on the desk in front of him.
He dropped his eyes. Brian Murphy—Century 21.
What the fuck?
“Murph’s a friend of mine,” she said, her voice cool and flat. “I’m sure he can help you.” She snapped her briefcase shut.
Cody couldn’t believe it. The doctor thing always made women go crazy. So crazy that they stopped seeing Cody Brown the man and saw only Cody Brown, MD, their ticket to a McMansion in the burbs and vacations in Cabo.
But this chick was the opposite of attracted. She’d gone downright frosty.
He was in uncharted territory.
Desperate, he went into full seduction mode, hit her with the eye-lock, sexy-smile combo, playing it out in super slow-mo.
First he caught her eyes. Held them. Let a long, silent moment slide by like a river of molasses.
Then slowly, leisurely, as if he had all night to get it done, he curved his lips. First one side. Then the other.
She paused.
He deepened his drawl. “I want you, Julie.”
She clicked her pen.
“Give me one day,” he crooned. “Just tomorrow, that’s all.”
Click click. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather rent first? Check out the neighborhoods?”
He shook his head. “I’m not picky. Someplace close to Mass General will do me fine, where I can take Betsy for a run.”
She hesitated, obviously wrestling with some inner demon.
He put his money on the horny Realtor.
“Beacon Hill could work,” she said at last.
Not a smidgen of smugness seeped into his voice. “That where the Old North Church is? One if by land, two if by sea?”
She smiled, finally, a pretty sight. “No, that’s in the North End. You could look there too, especially if you’re a fan of Italian food. The restaurants are amazin
g.”
He stood up. So did she. She was taller than he expected, which meant she had long legs.
He liked long legs.
“Let’s go try one out,” he said like it was only natural. “I’m sick of room service.”
She looked startled. “Oh. Um. Thanks, but I have a date.” She gave a nervous laugh. “A blind date, actually. And a closing in the morning.”
“Seriously?” he blurted.
Her eyebrows shot up.
He did damage control. “A closing in the morning? I shouldn’t be surprised. You must have lots of those.” He nodded, sagely. Wondered why in the hell a looker like her had a blind date.
One of her brows came down, but she arched the other like she was assessing his intellect, wondering if he was actually smart enough to be a doctor. Then she lifted her briefcase and came around the desk, herding him through the door. “I can give you tomorrow afternoon. I’ll line up a few places, and we’ll get started around one.”
“Sure. Let me give you my number.” Maybe she’d get lonely, give him a booty call.
“Give it to Jan,” she said, sticking a fork in his fantasy.
In the outer office, Jan looked like a Munchkin behind her oversized desk. “Take Dr. Brown’s number,” said Julie, on a march to the door. “Then go home. I’ll check in after the closing.” And she was gone.
“Well hell,” Cody muttered. She’d blown him off. What about the eye-lock, sexy-smile combo? He was sure that’d put her in heat.
Huh.
He turned to Jan. A new sparkle lit her eyes.
“You’re a doctor?” she said.
He let out a sigh.
The Wedding Favor
“THAT WOMAN”—TYRELL AIMED his finger like a gun at the blonde across the hall—“is a bitch on wheels.”
Angela set a calming hand on his arm. “That’s why she’s here, Ty. That’s why they sent her.”
He paced away from Angela, then back again, eyes locked on the object of his fury. She was talking on a cell phone, angled away from him so all he could see was her smooth French twist and the simple gold hoop in her right earlobe.
“She’s got ice water in her veins,” he muttered. “Or arsenic. Or whatever the hell they embalm people with.”
“She’s just doing her job. And in this case, it’s a thankless one. They can’t win.”
Ty turned his roiling eyes on Angela. He would have started in—again—about hired-gun lawyers from New York City coming down to Texas thinking all they had to do was bullshit a bunch of good ole boys who’d never made it past eighth grade, but just then the clerk stepped out of the judge’s chambers.
“Ms. Sanchez,” she said to Angela. “Ms. Westin,” to the blonde. “We have a verdict.”
Across the hall, the blonde snapped her phone shut and dropped it into her purse, snatched her briefcase off the tile floor, and without looking at Angela or Ty, or anyone else for that matter, walked briskly through the massive oak doors and into the courtroom. Ty followed several paces behind, staring bullets in the back of her tailored navy suit.
Twenty minutes later they walked out again. A reporter from Houston Tonight stuck a microphone in Ty’s face.
“The jury obviously believed you, Mr. Brown. Do you feel vindicated?”
I feel homicidal, he wanted to snarl. But the camera was rolling. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he said. “Jason Taylor dragged this out for seven years, trying to wear me down. He didn’t.”
He continued striding down the broad hallway, the reporter jogging alongside.
“Mr. Brown, the jury came back with every penny of the damages you asked for. What do you think that means?”
“It means they understood that all the money in the world won’t raise the dead. But it can cause the living some serious pain.”
“Taylor’s due to be released next week. How do you feel knowing he’ll be walking around a free man?”
Ty stopped abruptly. “While my wife’s cold in the ground? How do you think I feel?” The man shrank back from Ty’s hard stare, decided not to follow as Ty strode out through the courthouse doors.
Outside, Houston’s rush hour was a glimpse inside the doors of hell. Scorching pavement, blaring horns. Eternal gridlock.
Ty didn’t notice any of it. Angela caught up to him on the sidewalk, tugged his arm to slow him down. “Ty, I can’t keep up in these heels.”
“Sorry.” He slowed to half speed. Even as pissed off as he was, Texas courtesy was ingrained.
Taking her bulging briefcase from her hand, he smiled down at her in a good imitation of his usual laid-back style. “Angie, honey,” he drawled, “you could separate your shoulder lugging this thing around. And believe me, a separated shoulder’s no joke.”
“I’m sure you’d know about that.” She slanted a look up from under thick black lashes, swept it over his own solid shoulders. Angling her slender body toward his, she tossed her wavy black hair and tightened her grip on his arm.
Ty got the message. The old breast-crushed-against-the-arm was just about the easiest signal to read.
And it came as no surprise. During their long days together preparing for trial, the cozy take-out dinners in her office as they went over his testimony, Angela had dropped plenty of hints. Given their circumstances, he hadn’t encouraged her. But she was a beauty, and to be honest, he hadn’t discouraged her either.
Now, high on adrenaline from a whopping verdict that would likely boost her to partner, she had “available” written all over her. At that very moment they were passing by the Alden Hotel. One nudge in that direction and she’d race him to the door. Five minutes later he’d be balls deep, blotting out the memories he’d relived on the witness stand that morning. Memories of Lissa torn and broken, pleading with him to let her go, let her die. Let her leave him behind to somehow keep living without her.
Angela’s steps slowed. He was tempted, sorely tempted.
But he couldn’t do it. For six months Angela had been his rock. It would be shameful and ugly to use her this afternoon, then drop her tonight.
Because drop her, he would. She’d seen too deep inside, and like the legions preceding her, she’d found the hurt there and was all geared up to fix it. He couldn’t be fixed. He didn’t want to be fixed. He just wanted to fuck and forget. And she wasn’t the girl for that.
Fortunately, he had the perfect excuse to ditch her.
“Angie, honey.” His drawl was deep and rich even when he wasn’t using it to soften a blow. Now it flowed like molasses. “I can’t ever thank you enough for all you did for me. You’re the best lawyer in Houston and I’m gonna take out a full-page ad in the paper to say so.”
She leaned into him. “We make a good team, Ty.” Sultry-eyed, she tipped her head toward the Marriott. “Let’s go inside. You can . . . buy me a drink.”
His voice dripped with regret, not all of it feigned. “I wish I could, sugar. But I’ve got a plane to catch.”
She stopped on a dime. “A plane? Where’re you going?”
“Paris. I’ve got a wedding.”
“But Paris is just a puddle-jump from here! Can’t you go tomorrow?”
“France, honey. Paris, France.” He flicked a glance at the revolving clock on the corner, then looked down into her eyes. “My flight’s at eight, so I gotta get. Let me find you a cab.”
Dropping his arm, she tossed her hair again, defiant this time. “Don’t bother. My car’s back at the courthouse.” Snatching her briefcase from him, she checked her watch. “Gotta run, I have a date.” She turned to go.
And then her bravado failed her. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled uncertainly. “Maybe we can celebrate when you get back?”
Ty smiled too, because it was easier. “I’ll call you.”
Guilt pricked him for leaving the wrong impression, but Jesus, he was itching to get away from her, from everyone, and lick his wounds. And he really did have a plane to catch.
Figuring it would be faster than
finding a rush-hour cab, he walked the six blocks to his building, working up the kind of sweat a man only gets wearing a suit. He ignored the elevator, loped up the five flights of stairs—why not, he was soaked anyway—unlocked his apartment, and thanked God out loud when he hit the air-conditioning.
The apartment wasn’t home—that would be his ranch—just a sublet, a place to crash during the run-up to the trial. Sparsely furnished and painted a dreary off-white, it had suited his bleak and brooding mood.
And it had one appliance he was looking forward to using right away. Striding straight to the kitchen, he peeled off the suit parts he was still wearing—shirt, pants, socks—and balled them up with the jacket and tie. Then he stuffed the whole wad in the trash compactor and switched it on, the first satisfaction he’d had all day.
The clock on the stove said he was running late, but he couldn’t face fourteen hours on a plane without a shower, so he took one anyway. And of course he hadn’t packed yet.
He hated to rush, it went against his nature, but he moved faster than he usually did. Even so, what with the traffic, by the time he parked his truck and went through all the rigmarole to get to his terminal, the plane had already boarded and they were preparing to detach the Jetway.
Though he was in no frame of mind for it, he forced himself to dazzle and cajole the pretty girl at the gate into letting him pass, then settled back into his black mood as he walked down the Jetway. Well, at least he wouldn’t be squished into coach with his knees up his nose all the way to Paris. He’d sprung for first class and he intended to make the most of it. Starting with a double shot of Jack Daniel’s.
“Tyrell Brown, can’t you move any faster than that? I got a planeful of people waiting on you.”
Despite his misery, he broke out in a grin at the silver-haired woman glaring at him from the airplane door. “Loretta, honey, you working this flight? How’d I get so lucky?”
She rolled her eyes. “Spare me the sweet talk and move your ass.” She waved away the ticket he held out. “I don’t need that. There’s only one seat left on the whole dang airplane. Why it has to be in my section, I’ll be asking the good Lord next Sunday.”
The Wedding Gift Page 10
