Читать книгу Desert Wolf - Linda Thomas-Sundstrom, Linda Thomas-Sundstrom - Страница 9

Chapter 2

Paxton Hall wrinkled her nose as she stepped off the plane.

She pressed her blond fringe of bangs off her forehead and squinted at the scene in front of her. The jet had parked its little tin-covered ass in the middle of nowhere, it seemed to her. Unlike private airports in the East, this Arizona stopover would require a long-distance sprint across an acre of molten tarmac in the blazing sun to get to the terminal. And she was wearing heels.

“We’ll unload the luggage,” someone said from behind her. “You can pick up your bags at the gate.”

Swell. Her bags were going to get a ride. Maybe she could hitch a trip to the terminal along with them.

“Thanks,” she said, watching heat rise from the asphalt like a wavering mirage. She hadn’t forgotten the extremes of Arizona weather and the scorching wind that made everything look barren, but being born here wasn’t an automatic passport to feeling familiar with it now.

Paxton didn’t reach for the metal stair rail, which would have been a sure way to scald her fingers. She was seriously reconsidering the viability of this trip, not quite sure why she was in Arizona. She had her own gig in the East and a nice rented town house. Her income was steady, if not fabulous, and good enough to support her current lifestyle.

So, why did she really need this Arizona property her father had left her, other than for a trip down Nostalgia Lane and the small chunk of change a couple of hundred acres in the middle of nowhere might bring when it sold?

Except that she couldn’t actually sell it, as things were, since her father, God rest his soul, had left the old tourist attraction that sat smack in the center of all that land she had inherited to someone else. Someone unrelated to the family. An unfamiliar name in the will.

Who the hell was Grant Wade, anyway?

How was she supposed to sell a parcel of land that circled, but didn’t include, the central piece?

“Safe journey,” the attendant said politely, interrupting her thoughts. “Will you need anything else, Ms. Hall?”

“No. Thanks,” Paxton returned absently as she headed down the steps with a tight grip on her briefcase.

That man...Grant Wade...would either have to buy her out or turn the Desperado ghost town over to her so she could sell the place and be out of here—back to civilization, green grass and cool breezes. When she was in Maryland, coming here had seemed like the thing to do. Now that she was here, Paxton hoped she hadn’t been wrong about that.

She’d worn a skirt, which allowed hot air to flow up and over her thighs as she stepped onto asphalt so overheated her heels seemed to sink in. With that hot caress on her naked legs came flashbacks...memories of sweltering desert heat on her face when she was a kid and how much she had liked the soaring temperatures back then. A very long time ago.

She remembered the distinct smells of heat-scorched land and the way her young skin had first burned before becoming a sun-kissed gold as summers wore on. Here in Arizona is where her wildness had first blossomed and where she had learned to ride and run. It’s where her mother had died, right before little Paxton had been sent away to a distant relative on the East Coast, away from this place and far from her dad.

Those old memories were more reminiscent of bad dreams now. But the tingle at the base of her neck signified something more complex than just reminisces and the firing up of a few random nerve endings. It brought home the fact that she had never seen her dad again after leaving this place. Not even once. She hadn’t heard from him—no birthday cards, Christmas packages or calls—in all that time.

Twenty frigging years.

And now Andrew Hall was dead, and she was back where she started. The land of sand and sun. Because of that, Paxton was determined to be trouble incarnate if Mr. Grant Wade didn’t listen to reason. She was going to bury her fear of confrontations and make Grant Wade assume trouble was her middle name.

Got that, Wade?

Besides, the man had to be at least sixty-five years old if he had been her father’s friend. That land might be a burden for an old guy. She’d done some research, of course, but the only person the internet had turned up with that name in this part of the United States was a Texas Ranger nowhere near an advanced age. So her Grant Wade had to be an old guy who had inconveniently stayed off everyone’s front page.

Paxton squinted as she scanned the tarmac, where the damn heat waves were manifesting into the form of a man—one lone man in all that wide-open space, seemingly walking toward her.

Shielding her eyes with a hand, Paxton wondered whether to keep walking and meet this guy or stay in place and fry in black silk on the hot asphalt.

She kept walking.

Behind her, she heard the luggage cart pull away from the plane. From somewhere far off came the static sound of a speaker. Those things were inconsequential. Her eyes were trained on the man who walked with the casual, apparently single-minded intention of meeting up with her. Had to be her, because at the moment she was the only one out here and he wasn’t headed to a parked plane.

Who was this guy?

The stranger was tall, lean, and wore a wide-brimmed hat. Broad shoulders balanced a narrow waist. Long legs were clad in jeans, and his boots made soft thudding sounds on the pavement. A silver buckle on his belt flashed in the sun the way diamonds flared beneath jewelry store lighting.

Those things screamed the word cowboy.

A white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows showed off sun-bronzed skin. As he approached, Paxton saw that enough top buttons on the shirt were open to lay bare a triangle of skin that attracted her attention for a little too long. When she looked up, he was close enough for her to see his wide, engaging smile.

And his face...

Christ almighty. It was chiseled, angular, with taut skin that fell somewhere on the golden spectrum. This guy, whoever he was, seemed to have inherited a lucky combination of genes that made him both elegant and rugged. The whole package suggested a new classification of the term handsome. Even if he was a cowboy.

“Paxton Hall?” He stopped a few feet from her and removed his hat, showing off a mass of shaggy auburn hair.

He was fine to look at, sure, Paxton noted. But what could he possibly want?

“Ms. Hall?” he repeated, with a slight variation.

“Yes.” She continued to shield her eyes. “That’s me.”

The hunk’s smile was as brilliant as the rest of him, and that was saying something. Fine lines shot out from the corners of his eyes in honor of some years in the sun without detracting from the overall hunky look.

Paxton wished she could see the color of those eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, and wondered if they’d be blue. Light blue eyes set in sun-darkened skin would have topped the whole thing off nicely.

“I’ve come to escort you to your hotel,” he said in a deep voice that ran ridiculous circles around Paxton’s impoverished libido. It was obvious to her that she hadn’t taken enough time lately to explore the ramifications of having been without a boyfriend for several months now.

Plus...didn’t every woman have cowboy fantasies?

“Your hotel,” he repeated, probably wondering if she had hearing problems.

There was just something about his voice and how suggestive it was of star-filled desert nights and the almost unearthly scent of night-blooming flowers. Two sentences from him and Paxton was thrown back in time to when she had first noticed things like those strong, sweet Arizona scents.

Or maybe it was all just a side effect of the stifling heat.

“I didn’t call for a taxi service,” she said.

He nodded. “I thought you might like a ride.”

“Because?”

“It’s hot.” He was still grinning, and that grin was contagious.

Paxton smiled back.

“I totally agree about the heat. But I’m pretty sure you didn’t answer my question about not calling a service,” she said.

“Your attorney mentioned that you might be headed this way today.”

Okay. That made sense. She felt better.

“In that case, yes. Thanks. I’d like a ride to...” Paxton paused, mid-speech. “I didn’t book a hotel, sure there are plenty of them.”

He nodded again. “No problem. I’ll take you to one. I think you’ll find most of the accommodations around here acceptable.”

He was staring at her, not exactly rudely, but with the kind of lingering appraisal that brought on a blush. He’d be taking in the black silk shirt, the high heels and the private plane her attorney had let her use because several well-off clients needed to hitch a ride back to Maryland. This guy would probably be thinking he’d have to book her a suite in a fancy boutique hotel.

Hell, she couldn’t afford a suite. Not that she wouldn’t like one. Cash wasn’t exactly tight, but it was on close watch. She didn’t get paid for extra time off from her gig as a nurse in the ER, and her return trip to Maryland was on a commercial flight, in coach.

“That would be great,” Paxton said. “Any hotel will do. I’m not fussy and I won’t be here long.”

She just needed to get out of this heat and into different clothes. Big thanks would be due to her lawyer for thinking about her enough to send a gorgeous chauffeur.

That smile he was still offering? Dazzling. Yet Paxton’s instincts warned her that the guy’s smile hid something. A trace of concern, maybe? Concern for what? That she’d be a prissy Easterner for whom the extremes of comfort were paramount, when that was miles from the truth?

If they spent any time together, he’d find out how unprepared she was for this trip into her past. Her black silk shirt hadn’t been the greatest idea for day wear in a sun-drenched state. Cowboy would note that, too. She had worn it in honor of her father’s recent passing, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t really known her dad.

Briefly, Paxton closed her eyes, thinking that anyone would have assumed she’d have gotten over that kind of loss, along with old abandonment issues. But being here in Arizona again was causing a sudden emotional upheaval. Just a few steps off the plane had been all it took to bring the old days back.

“This way,” the cowboy said, stepping aside, waving his hat at the terminal. “I hope you don’t mind riding in a truck.”

So, no real chauffeur then. Just a favor from someone her lawyer knew.

“That would be fine,” she returned. “Would you mind confirming my attorney’s name?”

“Daniel Dunn, Esquire.”

“Do you know Dan personally?”

“As well as anyone can know a lawyer by phone.”

“Great.” Paxton moved forward, eager to get to the terminal. If this guy knew her lawyer, he had to be legit.

“Do you think we could get something cold to drink on the way to the hotel?” she asked.

“It would be my pleasure to make that happen,” her escort congenially replied.

Though she didn’t glance sideways, Paxton was aware of every move the guy made. He purposefully shortened his strides to accommodate hers. Having him beside her was both a boon and another unsettling feature of this trip. Speed hampered by the height of her heels, Paxton felt doubly foolish and out of place. She no longer belonged here. She was trespassing on the past—both its ideals and its pain.

What the hell was I thinking?

As they entered the small terminal, her companion placed a hand on her elbow to guide her toward the bags. His touch was electric, empathetic. Paxton wanted to lean into him for the kind of support she needed to get through this ordeal, when giving in to the urge to fold up like an accordion would have been the end of her.

Gently, he steered her toward her luggage, the two small bags she had seen fit to bring for a weekend in the desert. Her companion lifted the bags easily and reached to take her briefcase. She gave him a firm head shake, preferring to hold on to the paperwork she’d need for a quick sale when the reclusive Grant Wade agreed to her terms.

“There’s a watering hole down the road,” this guy said. “The truck is right out front.”

When she glanced at him, he added, “It’s a café. We can get something to drink there or take it to go.”

Paxton nodded. She followed her guide through the revolving doors and onto the street where a large blue truck sat parked at the curb. Like the cowboy beside her, its lines were tall, long and sturdy. Chrome wheels and other fancy stuff were missing. The hood was covered in dust and there was a baseball-sized dent in the passenger door. This truck was a working man’s transportation, not merely a vehicle meant to prove male bravado.

After tossing her bags in the back, her makeshift chauffeur came around to open her door. Getting in while wearing a short skirt took some feminine know-how when the truck’s cab was so high off the ground.

Once she was inside, Paxton stuck out an arm to stop the door from closing and faced the guy helping her. “I really am grateful for the ride. And I’m sorry I seem to have lost my manners. I didn’t ask your name.”

“Wade,” he said, the dazzling smile no longer in evidence. “Name’s Grant Wade.”