The Tycoon (8 page)

Shannon might be a small town girl, but she hadn’t just fallen off a turnip truck. He expected something in return for the ticket. Most likely sex. She had no intention of sleeping with him, which was why she had told him she would meet him here rather than accompany him.

He had said to look for him near the stage. Inch by inch she made it to the center of the swarm. The din increased to a roar, the sound of the saxophone grew louder, so she must be nearing the stage. A few more steps and she saw a small tuxedoed orchestra on a platform. A parquet dance floor lay in front of it and a few couples moved around to the strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

A giant Christmas tree, soaring toward the high ceiling and twinkling with hundreds of white lights and draped with thick ropes of gold garland stood at the corner of the dance floor. Red balls the size of volleyballs hung from its branches. While she stared up at it in amazement, Jordan emerged from behind it and came toward her. He looked sleek and handsome in his tux and cummerbund in a
GQ
casual way. Jordan might not be her kind of man, but she had to admit, with his black hair slicked back and wearing a tux and cummerbund, he was easy on a woman’s eyes.

“Hey, you made it,” he said. “After the weather moved in, I thought you might not risk the drive.”

Shannon tucked her clutch under her arm as she and Jordan touched cheeks and kissed air. “After you gave me a ticket and I bought a dress, no way would I miss it.” She gave a foolish laugh.
God, she was almost giddy.

“And that is some dress, gal.” He stood back, holding her fingertips with his, and gave a low whistle. His eyes moved up to her face. “And your hair. I’ve never seen your hair like that. You make these women here look like frogs.”

And hearing a compliment like that made Shannon feel like a red carpet celebrity. She struck a playful hand-on-hip pose. “Why, thank you, Jordan.”

He led them away from the dance floor to a quieter part of the room. “Have any trouble on the road?”

“Not a bit. It’s a little misty, but not quite cold enough for ice.”

“It’s not supposed to freeze. Just be cold and nasty.”

As a server strolled past carrying a tray of flutes of champagne, Jordan lifted two off the tray and handed one to Shannon. “So how’s your Benbrook deal coming? Wrapped it up yet?”

He referred to her first commercial sale—a deal on a forty-year-old apartment complex she had been coddling and petting for eight months, saying a silent prayer every day for it to close. That very sale was one of the accomplishments that made her believe she was qualified to move among this crowd. At least she had something to talk about. She accepted the glass of champagne. “Not yet, but soon.”

“You’ve resolved all the problems, then?”

Somehow, through the professional grapevine, Jordan had heard about the sale’s many snarls and snags and called her, offering to walk her through it. She had suspected a trap. She knew of no time Jordan had ever done anything underhanded to her personally, but she had heard plenty about him from others in the business. She didn’t believe for a minute he had offered to help her out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted part of the commission. She angled a playful look at him. “Hah. If getting me into this fancy wingding and showering me with compliments is a new tactic for horning in on my deal, you’d better try another approach.”

Jordan slapped a palm against his chest, gasped and frowned. “You wound me, darlin’. Do you think I’m that clever?”

She chuckled, looking out over the crowd. “You’re a total shark, Jordan. And I’m still saying I’m claiming that Benbrook payday all for myself. I need that whole commission and I don’t need anyone’s help.”

And at that moment, glancing over the rim of her glass and across the room, as if the mob had parted just for her, a tall man some forty feet away caught Shannon’s eye. Her first thought was how different he looked from the others in the room, like a nineteenth century throwback who might walk outside, mount his horse and ride away.

An odd quiver shimmied through her stomach and as if a magnet held her eyes, she couldn’t keep from staring.

He was wearing a Texas tux, as were many of the men in the room—starched and ironed jeans, Wanglers, perhaps, or possibly Cinch—with a black tuxedo coat. The well-tailored jacket stretched across wide shoulders and emphasized a narrow waist. She didn’t see a tie. Instead, he wore one of those old-fashioned-looking collarless shirts. And cowboy boots. If he wasn’t in Texas—and
Fort Worth
, Texas, at that—he would look glaringly out of place.

He was too far away for her to see his face clearly, but his hair was a rich shade of brown, slightly sun-streaked. He had one of those sexy haircuts. Neither short nor long and skillfully layered to appear unruly and orderly at the same time.

He looked familiar, but Shannon came in contact with so many people, she often saw those who looked familiar but weren’t. Celebrity sightings were well known in North Texas and the NCHA World Finals were happening right now, a horse culture that was rife with big time celebrity horse owners. Was he someone famous? For a moment she speculated—cutting horse breeder, rodeo or country music star, professional athlete. Too young to be an oilman.

This is silly
, she thought. She had no idea who he was and would never know.

Engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with a shorter, animated man, one of his hands clasped the bowl of a champagne glass. The other was stuffed into his jeans pocket, pushing back his coattail. He looked to be as relaxed as if he were having a drink in his den at the ranch as opposed to a fancy hotel ballroom.

Among the many things Shannon had learned in real estate sales was that she had an uncanny knack for reading people. Whoever and whatever this guy was, just watching his body language, she could tell he was a total alpha male. He had it—that maxed-out testosterone level, that arcane male confidence that had always caused her brain to short circuit.

Instinct told her that underneath his clothing was a well-structured mass of powerful masculine energy. He would be a hunter, a fisherman, a poker-player—one of the boys. His credo would be lead, follow or get out of my way. That same instinct told her he was a man who went after what he wanted and got it—including women. Oh, he was bad all right. Bad to the bone.

As if all of those attributes weren’t enough, that same instinct told her something else. He would be hot in bed. At that thought, a warm tingle buzzed in her most secret regions and she felt a flush crawl up her neck. Lust. Raw and pure. Recognizing it, she fought it. She had to. She was a different woman now.

Though her good sense took control and determined the wisest thing was to give him a wide berth, the part of her she had never quite been able to control when it came to bad boys, the part that had driven her into regrettable associations in the past, wouldn’t allow her to stop watching him. Looking in a candy store window did no harm, did it?

“You look flushed,” Jordan said. “You okay?”

Trying to will her erratic pulse to calm, she gave a silly titter. “This crowd must be making me nervous.” She nodded toward the man who had seized her attention. “Who is that?” she asked.

“Who, the tall guy in jeans or the other guy?”

“The tall one.”

“You don’t recognize one of
Texas Monthly’s
most eligible bachelors?”

Shannon detected a sneer in Jordan’s comment. She didn’t subscribe to
Texas Monthly.
The only place she ever read it was in her dentist’s office. “No, I guess I don’t.”

“It was two or three years ago. That’s his highness, Drake Lockhart.”

She suppressed a gasp. If one was a part of the real estate world, one would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know of the cosmic Drake Lockhart. Articles about him appeared often in newspapers and trade journals. If he was still a bachelor, she had no doubt he had been deemed
most
eligible by any woman who ever met him.

She cocked her head to the side, still not taking her eyes off him. “I’ve read about him.”

Jordan swallowed a sip of champagne. “Well, that’s him. One and the same. But don’t get too excited. He’s a real asshole. A big feeler.”

“You know him? Why do you call him that?”

“He’s so damned full of himself. I’m surprised his ego fits in this room. He’s one slick dude, I’ll tell you. He’s aced me out of a couple of sweet deals.”

Shannon’s opinion of one of the most successful young businessmen in the city was not negatively impacted by Jordan’s remarks. If anything, she was more intrigued. And since Jordan’s words sounded small-minded and catty, she chose not to respond to them. Instead, she said, “I know of the Lockhart family. They’re big ranchers in Drinkwell.”

“Drinkwell? Is that a town?” Jordan gave a condescending laugh Shannon often heard from city people when discussing small rural towns.

“You’re such an urbanite, Jordan. It’s thirty-five miles southwest of Camden. When I was in high school, we played their sports teams. The Lockhart family owns the old Double-Barrel Ranch. And has forever. It takes up most of Treadway County.”

Just then, a model-thin blonde joined the subject of the conversation and possessively slid her arm around his. Tanned, tall and svelte like him, they were a magazine layout couple. The flutter in Shannon’s stomach died as she compared her own milky-white skin that never tanned, her disorderly hair and her more voluptuous shape. Not that she was overweight, but she wasn’t pencil-thin like the woman who was now hanging onto his arm. “Oh. He has a girlfriend.”

“That’s Donna Schoonover,” Jordan said. “Donna
Stafford
Schoonover to be precise. You

know Don Stafford, the oilman? The Cadillac dealer? He’s her daddy. Schoonover’s the name she got from the Dutch soccer pro she was married to for a while. People are saying that Drake’s going to be her fourth husband.” Jordan followed up with one of those knowing “men” laughs.

Shannon did know of the Staffords and their millions. Who in North Texas didn’t? “Why do you laugh?”

“Because she hasn’t landed him yet and my money says she won’t. Too many have tried before her. He’s a lone wolf. Her family’s bucks aren’t a temptation to a high-roller like Drake. And if she hasn’t figured that out, she’s dumber than I think.”

Lone wolf. High-roller.
The words stuck in Shannon’s brain as if they had been thumb-tacked. If they were true, the guy was even more dangerous than she had first thought and that idea sent another potent surge through her. “How is it you know him so well?”

“I just do.”

As Shannon puzzled over that non-answer, the beautiful couple and the short man were joined by a middle-aged woman with silver shoulder-length hair. She, too, was tall and slender, and draped in silver lame that fell to the tops of silver cowboy boots. She wore chunky Southwest style jewelry. Boots and turquoise were not choices Shannon would have worn with that particular dress, but the look had an old-world panache and screamed
I’m-from-Texas-and-proud-of-it
.

“And there’s his mommy,” Jordan said snidely. “Drake Lockhart’s a mama’s boy and everybody knows it.”

Shannon gave Jordan a look. “You
really
don’t like him, do you?”

“Like I said, he’s an asshole.”

The silver-haired woman and the blonde walked away together, but Drake continued in conversation with the shorter man, seemingly unaware that half the women in the room must surely be drooling over him. Then, he raised his head and for absolutely no reason, turned Shannon’s way. Their gazes locked for the briefest moment and her heartbeat stuttered. It happened in a matter of seconds, but she felt as if she had been undressed and thoroughly examined and her whole body grew warm. She turned quickly toward a server and exchanged her empty champagne glass for a full one.

****

Drake was taken aback. He had to make himself stop staring at the red-haired woman. She was wearing one of those glittery dresses and in the room’s special lighting, she looked like an exquisite emerald. The eyes of every hard-leg in the room had to be glued to that centerfold body. For sure, she had the attention of that bastard, Jordan Palmer, who practically had his tongue in her ear. Drake felt an uncharacteristic pang of possessiveness, which made him wonder about his own sanity.