Beef Stolen-Off (2 page)

As the resident cook of the group, Rosie was the only reason Jordan ate at least one good meal a week, offsetting the effects of the fast food she consumed the other six days. Rosie, the femme fatale of the group, gave credit for her cooking skills to her third husband, who was really husband number four. She liked to forget about the night she and her first husband boozed it up in a little bar in Connor right after her divorce from hubby number two was finalized. She and “the love of her life,” as she liked to call him, ended up catching a red-eye to Vegas and repeating their “I do’s” at the Little Wedding Chapel. Once sober, they soon remembered why it hadn’t worked out the first time; the marriage lasted two months and didn’t count, according to her.

Rosie settled into the chair between Victor and Jordan and patted the table. “So did the old bat die?” Turning slightly out of Michael’s view, she winked at Victor.

“Loretta Moseley ran off with her physical therapist and the big chunk of change she got in her settlement with the personal watercraft manufacturer. She’s in Reno now, probably feeding it all to the one-armed bandits.”

“What?” Victor rolled his eyes. “I never got any money when I flew off that Jet Ski I rented last year.”

“You never broke your hip, either.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows. “And if you ever run off with a hot physical therapist, sweetie, I’ll hunt you down and break both your legs.”

Victor’s scowl quickly turned into a smile. “Point taken.”

“Mmm!” Lola moaned, closing her eyes after the first bite. “I can see why Myrtle guarded this recipe with her life. A person could be tempted to do anything for a bowl of this stuff.”

Ray leaned over and wiped the small droplet of chocolate escaping out of the corner of her mouth. “Anything, dear?”

“Oh, get a room, you two,” Rosie said affectionately before turning her attention back to Jordan. “So your cheapskate editor finally gave you a raise?”

“Yes.” Jordan lowered her eyes.

“Uh-oh. I know that look,” Michael observed. “The penny-pincher did the old ‘I’d give you more but the economy’s in the toilet and fewer people are buying newspapers’ song and dance, didn’t he?”

Jordan looked up, breaking into a grin. “Yeah, how did you know?” She didn’t wait for his response. “I did get a small raise, but I still have to write the personals. Mr. Egan did throw in a bonus, though. I’m going to sit with Jim Westerville in the press box for a couple of Cougars home games next season.”

“If memory serves, sugar, that press box nearly got you killed not too long ago. Surely you wouldn’t even consider going up there again, even if it is with the sports director at the
Globe
,” Lola commented.

At the mention of her close call several months ago at Grayson County College’s football field, Jordan shivered. She’d come so close to getting herself killed playing amateur sleuth, she’d vowed never to go near another press box again.

Until Dwayne Egan threw it in as a perk when he talked her into taking over Loretta Moseley’s job permanently at the
Globe
.

Truth be told, she’d fallen in love with the job and the notoriety that came with it and would’ve taken it even without the hundred-bucks-a-week raise.

Six weeks ago, she’d jumped at the chance to write the culinary column temporarily, along with the personals, seeing it as a step up the ladder to her dream of becoming a sports reporter, but somewhere along the way her attitude changed. She still missed the good old college days when she and her ex-boyfriend had covered all the events at the University of Texas, and she still longed for the excitement of being right in the middle of anything athletic. But she’d have to bide her time if she wanted a shot at sportswriting at this small local newspaper.

The good news was, as of that very morning, the Kitchen Kupboard column was hers as long as she wanted it, even though her culinary skills and knowledge of fancy foods were nonexistent. When Egan first offered her the job after Loretta’s accident, she’d nearly turned it down, thinking there was no way she could pull it off. But with Rosie and the gang coming up with casserole recipes every week, then slapping fancy foreign names on them, she had fooled the good people of Ranchero into thinking she was a fine food connoisseur instead of the clueless cook she really was.

She’d been ready to sign on the dotted line even before Egan dangled the press box carrot. At that point, her near fatal incident at the football field was conveniently forgotten. Growing up with four brothers, she’d loved anything athletic and still believed her sportswriting dream would come true one day. But while she waited for that to happen, having her own byline wasn’t a bad gig, despite her feeling like a fraud every time she posted one of Rosie’s or Ray’s recipes from their weekly card game and potluck dinners.

“So, honey, have you told everyone where you’re going tomorrow night?” Rosie reached for a second helping of the dessert.

Jordan shoved the plate toward her friend and licked her lips. “I will if you give me another spoonful.”

“Ha!” Michael squealed. “Like one spoonful is going to satisfy you. We all know there’s a chocoholic inside that skinny little body of yours.”

Jordan shook her finger at him. “Look who’s talking.” He was at least six feet tall and couldn’t weigh more than 160 pounds fully clothed. “I’m going to the Cattlemen’s Ball,” she announced, grabbing the bowl piled high with the chocolate dessert.

“What? Why would you go there?” Ray asked.

“Apparently Lucas Santana reads my column and called Egan last week to request that I be his guest at the party and then report on it. He thinks it could boost the sagging beef sales in the county if I write a good review.”

“Sugar, you hate beef,” Lola said, wrinkling her forehead. “I may be old but I remember reading about last year’s event, and I’m pretty sure prime rib was mentioned.”

“I know,” Jordan replied. “But Egan says this year they’re making it less fancy, both to save money and to put more focus on cheaper cuts of beef. Some big barbecue joint in Dallas is catering the event. Unfortunately, less fancy only applies to the food. I still have to go out and buy a prom-dress lookalike that I will probably never wear again.” She paused before adding, “And for the record, I don’t hate all beef, just the undercooked stuff that bleeds all over my plate. I love brisket.”

“I’m so jealous,” Victor said, jutting out his lower lip in a pout. “It doesn’t seem fair that you get to be with all those big hunky cowboys… Ouch!” He grimaced as Michael kicked him under the table.

Ray shifted in his chair, his eyebrows hitched in a disapproving
way. “You’re going with Lucas Santana? His reputation as a womanizer goes way back.”

“Oh, I’m not
going
with him. He set me up with his ranch foreman—a guy named Rusty Morales.”

“Hot damn!” Lola cried out, nearly spilling her iced tea on the brand new caftan she’d bought that afternoon at Wal-Mart to go with the twenty others hanging in her closet. “He is one good-looking hombre.”

Ray nailed Lola with one of his icy ex-cop glares, taking the heat off Jordan, at least momentarily. “And you would know this how, darlin’?”

Lola bit her lower lip in an attempt to wipe the smile from her face. “He came in with Santana not too long ago. Wanted to know if I could predict the future. Guess the old guy was upset because of the depressed beef market. Rusty wanted me to lie and tell him things were about to get a whole lot better. He even slipped me a twenty behind Santana’s back.”

“Did you do it?” Michael asked.

“Of course,” the older woman said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off her shoulder. “Twenty bucks is twenty bucks.”

Rosie high-fived her before turning to Jordan. “I can’t wait to get all the details. Maybe the night will end with a little romance.”

Jordan nearly choked as she sipped from the coffee cup Ray had placed in front of her a few minutes earlier. “I’m not that kind of girl,” she said defensively.

“Everyone’s that kind of girl,” Lola interjected. “Tell us that after you eyeball him.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “When that man gets a look at those long legs and curly red hair of yours, I guarantee he’ll make a pass, and
it will be hard to resist. With that olive skin and those smoky black eyes…” She sighed and rolled her eyes, despite the fact Ray was still sending daggers in her direction.

Jordan smiled. Ray was a retired cop and the resident protector of the group, and he and Lola sometimes acted like teenagers in love. She couldn’t help being envious of the relationship. Since her breakup with Brett after she’d followed him to Dallas several months earlier, she’d basically been “Single, party of one.”

Not by choice. In the small town of Ranchero where over sixty percent of the twenty-two thousand or so residents were women, dating was not a happening thing.

“Speaking of getting lucky, what do you hear from Alex these days?” Ray asked, finally looking away from Lola.

Jordan took in a sharp breath at the mention of the undercover FBI agent who had saved her life on at least one occasion. “It’s been a few weeks since he called. He warned me this might happen, so I’m trying not to worry.” Had things gone as planned the night before he’d left for a new assignment in El Paso, things might have heated up. A candlelight lasagna dinner prepared by the amazing hunk would have had an intoxicating effect on her.

Instead, ending up in the hospital with a concussion put a damper on her plans. Now all she had were fantasies of what might have been. That and his twice-a-week phone calls when he could slip away from his undercover persona and sweet-talk her into imagining all kinds of romantic interactions.

She was jerked from her daydreaming when Rosie sprang from her chair and said, “Let’s get this table cleaned up so I can start taking your money.”

“Not in this lifetime, my dear.” Michael scooped up the dessert bowls and made his way to the kitchen.

Jordan pushed away from the table, anxious to get
Screw Your Neighbor underway to take her mind off Alex. She pulled out fifty pennies and laid them on the table, thinking tomorrow night might not be too bad after all if this Rusty Morales guy was as hot as Lola claimed.

“I’ll deal first,” Jordan declared. While she doled out the cards, she mentally added a quick run to the mall to her morning to-do list; she needed to find something special to wear. “Get ready to part with your money, people. I’ve got a dress to buy.”

Jordan’s heart raced as she walked to the door and flung it open. Catching her breath, she stared into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Hi. I’m Rusty Morales.” The beautiful creature extended his hand.

The minute her flesh made contact with his, a spark of electricity shot up her arm. “Jordan McAllister,” she mumbled, aware he was sizing her up, just as she was doing to him.

“Lucas said you were easy on the eyes, but he never prepared me for this.”

Jordan felt the heat crawl up her face. It wasn’t the first time a man had complimented her, so why was she acting like a teenager on a first date?

“I could say the same about you,” she blurted, mentally slapping her forehead for the lame response. Opening the door wider, she stepped aside to let him pass, rewarded immediately by the view from the back.

Dressed in a well-fitting black tuxedo with a starched white shirt that did nothing to hide the way his upper body narrowed at the waist, Rusty Morales could have stepped off the cover of
GQ
magazine, cowboy edition.

When he caught her staring, he grinned, and she felt her heart speed up. “Let me get my purse,” she stammered before twirling around and walking toward the kitchen, hoping he enjoyed her back view as much as she’d enjoyed his. She added a wiggle just in case.

As soon as they walked out the front door of her apartment building, Jordan spied a sleek black Hummer limo at the curb. When the driver rushed out to open her door, she felt Rusty’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her as she stepped in.

Chill, McAlister
, she scolded herself.
This isn’t a real date, so quit acting like it is
.

An inner devil’s advocate chided that she wasn’t fooling anyone. Who spends over a hundred bucks on an outfit for a job assignment? Only this morning, she’d splurged on the slinky black cocktail skirt and the emerald green and charcoal silky top that showed off her eyes. At least that’s what the clerk said, but then she would have said anything to get the sale and her commission.

“Hello, Jordan. I’m so glad you were able to come with us tonight,” an older male voice said. “Remind me to call Dwayne Egan and tell him he needs to have his eyes checked. There’s nothing average about you.”

Turning to face the speaker, she cursed the fact that it took very little to make her blush. “You must be Mr. Santana.” She offered her hand, taking a few seconds to size him up.

Probably in his early sixties, Lucas Santana was exactly what she’d imagined a wealthy Texas rancher would look like—tall and husky with salt-and-pepper hair, dark brown eyes that peered at her from under a Stetson hat that had probably cost as much as her rent.

And those peepers were undressing her right now as
Ray’s earlier warning of his womanizing skills popped into her head.

“Call me Lucas,” he said, patting the seat beside him.

Hesitating only briefly before settling in beside him, Jordan attempted a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
None of it good!

Glancing up, she noticed a woman who looked to be in her midthirties seated across from them and caught a glimpse of her scowl before it quickly disappeared. Even from where Jordan sat, she could see that this woman, with her thick blond hair pulled back in a cascade of curls falling on her shoulders and the ankle-length hot pink and navy evening dress belted with a sequined blue sash that showed off her tiny waist, was what Ray would call a head-turner.

She leaned forward to shake hands. “Maribella Kensington.” Her voice was sexy in that breathy kind of way with just a hint of a southern accent. “But everyone calls me Bella. I’m Lucas’s personal assistant.”

Jordan reached for her hand, aware of the strong grip. Judging by the way the woman was rubbing the fingers of her free hand up Santana’s arm, she decided Bella’s job probably went beyond paperwork and making appointments. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”