The Tycoon and the Texan (5 page)

But if Granny had known, all hell would have broken loose.

She studied Nick's face and choked back tears. No one had seen her cry since she'd been a child. Even at her mother's funeral she'd stood strong and saved the tears for the privacy of her bedroom.

By the look on Nick's face, he'd seen the hurt in her eyes. The question obviously threw up as many roadblocks as a dragnet.

“Fair enough. But Mac, if you ever want to talk about it, I'll be here.”

“I won't.” She bit into her lip and felt the blood seep to the surface, much like the question had reopened the wound in her heart.

No, she'd never turn to a man for comfort, because she had long since quit asking for help. Early in her life, McCall had learned that the only person she could depend on was herself. Except, of course, for her dear, sweet, crusty old Granny, who gave her unconditional love. Someday, maybe—just maybe—she would find a man she could confide in, but then she'd probably run him off like she had everyone and everything else in her life.

Nick's words broke into her musing.

“The offer remains. If you ever need to talk, I'll be here. You know, McCall, it'd take an idiot not to recognize that we come from different worlds, but we can enjoy the best of both and have a good time truly getting to know one another—”

“We already know each other.” She puckered her lips thoughtfully. “It'd be like two bulls raking the ground, sizing one another up. We'd be miserable, even for a few hours.”

“Mother is making me take a vacation, remember?” His thumb moved to her cheek and slowly made tiny circles, easing away her uncertainty. “We don't have to fight. Plus, I made a commitment and I don't welsh on deals.”

Great! So, now I'm a deal?
But, she did like the word
commitment
, not that she believed such a thing existed for someone like Nick. In business, yes, but never in his personal life. Commitment and Nicodemus Dartmouth constituted profanity.

“Don't you see, Nick? I'm the wide-open prairie of Texas and you're the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. It's just a bad idea. Even for only one date.”

He dropped his hand and picked up the wine, taking a swallow and making a face. Maybe Kool-Aid would have been better. Shuddering, he said, “We aren't that different. I'll show you.” He set down the glass. “I'll say a word and you give me your immediate response.”

“Sounds fair enough.” She tucked her legs under her bottom and faced the gorgeous sun-drenched man sitting on her couch. Even in the dim lamplight, his tan looked natural, not a fake spray-tan color, but one that resulted from hours in the sun. His lips were full, kissable, his chest rock solid, stomach flat, thighs firm and hard, and his . . . Oh my, was he ever . . . !

“No fair hitting below the belt.” His gaze dropped from her eyes, to her shoulders, and stopped at her breasts. “Here goes. Ready?”

McCall shot him a meek smile, having a good idea where his thoughts had wandered.

She nodded.
Twenty questions? This is going to be easy.
She'd show him how few things they held in common, and at the same time keep her eyes above the belt.

“Ambassador Twenty-Five,” he said.

“Mad Dog 20/20,” she answered.

An endless list followed. Metropolitan Opera. Grand Ol' Opry.

Eggs Benedict. Huevos Rancheros.

Calamari. Catfish.

Chambord Martini. Boones Farm Strawberry Hill.

Tea and scones. Orange Crush and Fritos.

“Caviar—”

“Got you on this one.” McCall pushed back on the couch, letting her gaze fall back to his lap, but quickly redirected her focus to his exposed chest. “Texas caviar.” Unintentionally, she licked her lips. And resisted the impulse to fan her face to cool off the flush she felt deepen.

“I think you're cheating, but I'll give you that one. Oysters Rockefeller.” He expanded his chest, probably not expecting her to have a rapid-fire response.

“Rocky Mountain oysters.” She folded over in laughter and eased back up to see him watching her. “See what I mean? You prefer to deep-sea fish in the Pacific while I'm happy to fish in the pond at Granny's house in Texas, drink Lone Star beer and dance the Cotton-Eyed Joe at the Texas Moon Palace, eat homemade ice cream on the stoop, and enjoy a West Texas sunset. We are almost from two different planets.”

“Ever heard of Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach, Florida?”

“I've heard of Palm Beach.”

“It's an exclusive members-only club that Mother belongs to. Want to go there for dinner?” he said, as though asking her to join him for a Value Meal at McDonald's.

“All the way to Florida? Don't think I'd be back in time to deliver my Meals on Wheels.”

“You're a hard nut to crack.” Nick rested his arm on the back of the couch. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

“Anywhere? Let's see.” She pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow mischievously. “Okay, someplace where it'll be raining and the sun is shining with nary a cloud in the sky.”

“Huh, making it a challenge? Let's see.” With his free hand, he rubbed his thumb along his roughened jawline. “I guess you want it to be in a foreign country, maybe the rainforest?”

She would put a stop to his tomfoolery. He couldn't buy her by offering a luxurious incredible once-in-a-lifetime date. “No. It has to be in the United States”—she watched the glimmer in his eye increase, as though saying he had just the place in mind—“and I have to be able to walk to a foreign country.”

His eyes sparkled and a Cheshire grin encompassed his face, making the shallow cleft in his chin deepen.

Before he could respond, she quickly added, “And not Old Mexico either!” Yeah, she had him now.

His grin deflated. She had outwitted him and felt good about it. Now, the charade could end.

“Since that might be hard, ever done any boating?” Nick asked.

“No, but I've been told it's wonderfully relaxing—”

“See, that's something we agree upon.”

“Where is all of this going, Nick?”

“I wish I knew. Maybe nowhere, maybe somewhere. We'll just have to see.” Nick rose to his full height and pulled her to her feet. Slipping his hand behind her back, he whispered. “But, I do know that I want us to go on our date and enjoy ourselves. Let nature take its course.” He touched her lips. “I wish I could take back that kiss and do it right. But if you'll forgive me, I promise never to touch you again unless you give me permission.”

“But, you're touching me now.” She looked into chocolate eyes, flecked and ringed with copper.

“And, I think you're letting me,” he said in a hoarse voice, slowly removing one hairpin after another until her dark tresses tumbled to her shoulders. He tucked the thin pieces of metal in his pocket.

Hell's bells was she ever letting him touch her! Afraid to pull her any closer, determined to keep his word, Nick shifted slightly only to have the tips of her breasts rub against his chest. The thin ribbed T-shirt did little to hide her nearness and drove him crazy. He should get the hell out of Dodge before she got a good feel of his growing masculinity, but he enjoyed how the rise and fall of her chest against him ignited his senses.

“You have beautiful hair.” He weaved his fingers through her curls, fluffed them lightly, and slid his hand back to her waist. “Very beautiful.”

Dern if he wasn't enjoying a woman in his arms that fit him like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

Eye to eye.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Heart to heart, and . . . holy cow!

Holy cow was right!

“I don't know if this is a good idea.” She made no effort to pull away, but lightly ran her fingers through the turf of curly hair beneath his gaping stark-white shirt.

“I'm not particularly known for my best ideas when it comes to my personal life, so I guess I'll have to come up with a way to convince you that I'm sincere.” Nick eased away, afraid to stand close much longer. “Since we finally agreed upon something, I'll have my driver here at ten in the morning. Bring an overnight bag in case you want to freshen up. Dress comfortably, and I'll provide bathing suits. We'll go out on my boat, okay?”

Apparently afraid to speak, she nodded.

Kissing her nonchalantly on the temple, he said, “No matter where we're headed, I promise from this moment forth, I'll never kiss you again without asking permission.”

He gazed into violet-blue eyes that danced with azure fire and sealed the promise with a light tap on the nose. “See ya, Angel Eyes.”

And he left.

Nick stood on the deck of the
Belle Poule Princess
and watched the road leading to the harbor. How much damage had he done to the trust he'd built with McCall over their eight-year friendship? Most likely he'd destroyed it with one foolish, reckless, and completely irresponsible kiss.

Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. Over an hour ago, the limousine driver had confirmed he had picked up McCall and was driving toward the wharf.

Since glitz did not impress her, Nick hoped the massive boat wouldn't deter her from enjoying their day. That is, if she didn't make his driver take her back home.

Maybe he should have scheduled a whale-watching cruise. Even sailing might be better. Well, this was a sailboat of sorts. Commissioned as a replica of an 1834 French frigate, it was as stately as the royalty the original ship carried more than a century and a half ago.

What in the hell kind of a jam had he gotten into? All he wanted was to do right by McCall and keep her out of the clutches of Mr. Wrong.

But if he backed out on their date or didn't keep his promise not to kiss her, he'd only prove her accusation. He would not allow that to happen. Not after realizing the hurt she'd obviously been harboring for years. He'd fulfill his obligation—show her an enjoyable day on his boat, maybe even a night on his private island watching the stars—and return to friend status.

One major stumbling block surfaced. After holding her, feeling her softness, and wanting her with every ounce of his soul, he was not sure he could go back to only friendship. Keeping his promise not to kiss her might be more of a challenge than he first thought.

“Master Dart, the galley is prepared,” Nick's valet called from behind.

“Thanks. I'll be down in a minute.” Nick leaned against the railing and watched the waves wash against the pier. “Stanley, I'm up to my ass in alligators and don't even remember why I wanted to drain the swamp in the first place. And it's a mess of my own making.”

The portly gentleman who had nearly raised Nick stood as a sentry, wearing a petrous face. A diminutive smile crept from the corners of his mouth.

“It appears you have, sir.” He turned to leave, then suddenly turned back to Nick. “Mrs. Dartmouth telephoned again.”

“Did she leave another message?”

“Yes, sir, same as before. Anything else, Master Dart?”

Nick leaned farther out over the rail. If he had a plank, he would walk it. Anything to get out of his misery.

Three calls from his mother before breakfast had sent him into a much deserved lather. While he worked though his new and rather complex feelings for McCall, he didn't need his mother's interference. Plus, he still waited for his answer to what ulterior motive his mother had in loaning McCall his grandmother's diamond necklace.

“Did Mother ask for the tenth time whether McCall was joining me today?” He stuck his thumb in the waistband of his Dockers.

“Yes, sir. If I am not needed, I will wait in the galley.”

“I'll be down shortly.” Nick turned back to the rail.

Striking his unsolicited kiss from last night's list of atrocities, the first thing that went wrong was his intention. Not planning to buy a date, he'd meant to give the thirty thousand dollars only as a donation. That went awry, so why did he tell McCall he brought the cashier's check in case he found someone interesting at the auction? Who was he trying to fool? McCall or himself?

Feelings that had been hidden for more years than Nick wished to recognize had taken on an existence of their own and bitten him in the butt. Even deep-seated memories of Lauren, who he tried to keep out of his mind, had resurfaced.

The last thing he wanted was to add McCall to his list of failed relationships.

But his mother was right. Nick had to admit that his track record wasn't the best. Hell, it wasn't even acceptable, but like any red-blooded man he enjoyed female attention. Knowing a gal's last name and her favorite drink normally qualified as a meaningful relationship. Heaven only knew why he considered the word
commitment
a vulgarity. Maybe he felt comfortable with McCall because she wasn't looking for permanency—an arrangement he could live with.

Then, without warning, Cupid had come along, tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed out what he'd been too blind to see . . . he cared for McCall. Hell, he might as well ink a tattoo on his forehead saying as much.

After arriving back at his Beverly Park home the night before, Nick hadn't slept and instead floundered around in his bed, thinking about firm breasts drilling into his chest. The scent of her hair. Those kissable lips. Her mahogany tresses slipping through his finger. Visions of how beautiful she'd looked sashaying around in men's underwear with diamonds blanketing the valley between her breasts kept him aroused in a way a man shouldn't be when in bed alone.

After hours of staring at the bedroom ceiling trying to analyze the situation, he'd thrown back the covers, taken a cold shower, and had begun making plans for the day.

A sure cure for his predicament—let nature take her course. Mother was right.
Sometimes I'm a pigheaded nincompoop.

Nick trudged below deck. Funny in a sordid sense, but the closest person to a father Nick had ever known still called him Master.

Stanley withdrew a toothpick from a savory dish in the oven, and read it like a thermometer. “Perfect, Master Dart.”

“Stanley, I'm thirty-six, so let's drop the
Master
. Is everything ready?”

“As you wish, sir. The cook left explicit instructions. But, if I may inquire, why that ghastly Mogen David 20/20 with such a fine lunch?”

“I've decided to try something new.” Nick picked up a butcher knife and tested the blade for sharpness.

Stanley raised an eyebrow. “Try something new? That in itself is something new, sir.”

“Yeah.” Nick chuckled, thinking back to the night before and the game he had played with McCall. “What did I prepare for lunch?” He hiked a hip on the corner of the table.

“Tofu and shiitake mushrooms in oyster sauce, artichokes with Gruyère, a watercress, and chickweed salad with raspberry vinaigrette, and an exquisite soup of tru-ear mushrooms and lily buds.”

“Damn, that's foo-foo-ish.” He slid the knife toward the cutting board. “Too late to change?”

“Yes, sir. But they are healthy dishes you enjoy.”

“I guess it'll have to do, but McCall's too smart for me to pull this off. Go ahead and show me again exactly what magical tricks I need to impress her.”

Stanley retrieved the knife. “Watch carefully.” With the ease of a samurai warrior he sliced what Nick presumed to be watercress or chickweed. With a flourish, the older man raked the greenery up with the knife blade and dropped them into a bowl on top of something that looked like the cuttings from a freshly mowed lawn. Weeds and all. “See how easy it is, sir?”

“I've got it. So all I have to do is finish chopping these weeds, put them on top of the grass, and accept accolades for slaving all morning cooking for my lady? That's it?” Nick folded his arms across his chest. It looked easy enough.

“Sir, I do believe I would also pray that she makes no inquiry into your culinary skills.”

“Got it. And, Stanley”—Nick slapped the older man on the shoulder—“Thanks. You are sure this will make her believe I'm a regular old-fashioned guy that cooks?”

“Maybe I should add a prayer, too, sir. I will be in my quarters preparing to return to town.”

“Just make sure that the captain is clear on what I want. No slipups. We want to be left alone until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. You want total privacy once you and your friend reach your private island. If we see the campfire has gone out, then we'll know to send a rowboat; otherwise, come sundown the captain will move the boat back to the dock and return for you and your friend in the morning. Good day, sir.” Stanley retreated toward the stairs.

Nick ran his fingers through his hair. What did his mother always say? “What a wicked web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

The chance of being able to spend the night on the island with McCall was about as good as him receiving the Nobel Prize for Peace, but he wanted to be prepared just in case.

Maybe he should just confess his inadequacies and quit acting like he was sixteen and trying to impress the prom queen.

 

Three dozen long-stemmed yellow roses had arrived at McCall's bungalow shortly after breakfast, with a note.
Angel Eyes, please let me show you how sorry I am for being so insensitive to your feelings.
She knew the flowers and card were meant to disarm, but not until the chauffeur knocked did she realize it had done the job.

She had made her decision. Go boating. It was an outing, not a date, and certainly not a vow.

McCall had spent much of the night reliving the events of the prior evening. Although intrigued with Nick, not to mention her body's refusal to stop reminding her of his powerful physique and that chest of dark curly hair to die for, being alone with him was dangerous . . . very dangerous, indeed.

For hours, she had rolled and tumbled in bed formulating plan after plan, only to come to one conclusion. She had to get Nick to break his promise and kiss her. Then she would have a reason to challenge him about keeping his word. His obligation for the date would be over and they would both save face. A very simple plan had formed. If only it worked.

Madeline's chauffeur lowered the glass between him and McCall, jarring her back to the moment. “Miss Johnson, there's a call for you.”

“Thank you.” She searched the multitude of icons on the screen until she found the one indicating it was for the phone. Touching the screen, she answered.

“McCall, this is Josie!”

“Josie, your name came up on the screen, so I know who you are, but what's wrong?” McCall said with a tad of urgency.

“O-oh, I just wanted to, uh, to check on you.”

“You know I'm in the Dartmouths' limo, so what's going on?”

“Nothing. Uh, Mrs. Dartmouth is giving you a . . . vacation.”

McCall fought for a plausible explanation, but the nagging in the back of her mind jumped to conclusions. “She's firing me, isn't she?”

“She just wants you to take a few days off.”

“And without pay, I presume.” McCall laid her head back on the kid-glove leather and let the mellow music calm her jumbled thoughts.

After last night, she wouldn't have been surprised to lose her job. Although her finances would be tight, she'd live. It was Josie's flimflamming that irritated McCall much like a cocklebur rubbing against a bull's butt.

“No. She distinctly said vacation. You know she isn't going to fire you, but just do as she says, okay?”

Letting Josie babble on, McCall's mind wandered.

She shuddered at the thought of what she had done. Madeline had every reason to fire her. After all, McCall had became insubordinate to both founders, not to mention her direct superior, Josie. As if McCall hadn't done enough damage, she'd ended up pulling on a concrete overcoat by slapping the living daylights out of Nick.

It sounded like Josie and Madeline had forgiven her and she would have a job when she returned.

McCall stared out the window as Josie droned on. “Now that this is all settled, have fun. Don't worry. Be happy and don't call me. I'll call you.”

The telephone went dead.

Oh sure, Josie was only relaying information about the sudden decision for time off, but what was she not telling her?

McCall's thoughts returned to her original position with the Dartmouths. To another time when decisions were made on her behalf without her input.

After working as Nick's secretary at the construction firm for years and at the first sign of a budding friendship, without warning he had transferred her to the foundation as an administrative assistant. In desperate need of money for her dwindling bank account due to her mother's lengthy illness, and certainly too proud to let anyone know she needed financial help, McCall had been thankful for any job and didn't ask questions. She enjoyed her work at the foundation and presumed Nick had his reasons for the transfer. To her surprise, her relationship with him improved once he was no longer her direct superior.

But even today, she still had no idea what she had done wrong to be so abruptly transferred without any explanations. It had taken Nick weeks to replace her.

A glimpse of the distant harbor drew McCall's attention back to the sun-laden morning. Wondering which boat belonged to Nick, she spied an ornate silhouette with three lofty masts that looked like a pirate's ship direct from a movie. Exactly like the one she had imagined a man with Nick's means would own.

“Okay, so this is the deal, McCall,” she said under her breath, thankful for the glass divider between her and the driver. “It's a simple day of boating with no emotional involvement. Except you have to get him to kiss you. The sooner the better, understand?” She half expected to hear herself answer,
You can make all the deals you want with the devil, but I still don't trust you, McCall Elise Johnson.

The driver pulled alongside the pier, whisked open the door, and escorted her toward the boat that looked as bold as its owner.

McCall pushed a strand of wayward hair behind her ear, tucked it under the red grosgrain headband, and smoothed the front of her cherry-red tank top with her hands. She tugged at the hem of her khaki shorts, and glanced down at a black scuff mark on one of her white Keds before spying Nick.