Читать книгу Lone Star Courtship - Mae Nunn - Страница 9

Casey Hardy was bored, a dangerous state for a self-proclaimed workaholic. Growing up the last of six children, there had always been a sibling to challenge her. Being the youngest executive in the family business, there had always been a battle for recognition. Being a female in the male-oriented home improvement industry had always forced her to be one up on all the men in her professional life in order to win their respect. And now that the challenges, battles and one-upping had paid off in the form of the job she’d had in her sights for as long as she could remember, she was bored stiff.

Her brother had handed her a project positioned for success, and following his proven plan for the construction and opening of a home improvement supercenter was a no-brainer. It was also no fun. So, Casey had an additional goal in mind when she’d headed to Galveston, Texas. She’d take advantage of their U.K. potential investor’s upcoming review of the new store’s progress to prove her ability to manage an international partnership. Finally, the perfect vehicle to prove to her father once and for all that she had the stuff to be the CEO of Hearth and Home when he retired.

She stood in the bed of an old truck, her palm raised to block the midday rays of Monday’s sun. Even with her thick curls caught up in a clip and a soft red bandana twisted around her forehead, sweat still prickled in her scalp and drizzled down her neck. She pulled off worn leather work gloves, stuffed them into the hip pocket of her dirty jeans and focused her attention on the arrival of a newcomer.

“Who’s the suit talking with Cooper?” she asked her best friend who doubled as an assistant.

Savannah glanced up from her clipboard and looked in the direction of the foreman.

“Don’t know.” She squinted. “He seems familiar but I don’t think it’s from seeing him around here. Even as nearsighted as I am I can tell he’s hot stuff and I’d remember a looker like him.”

The looker was expensively dressed in a dark jacket and slacks, overdone for the Gulf Coast humidity. He’d be overdone, literally, if he didn’t loosen the tie and shed that blazer. Either that or fold his tall frame back into the enormous Cadillac parked beside Cooper’s Wrangler.

Casey leaned from the waist, placed a hand on the truck fender and hopped to the ground. Her steel-toed work boot slipped on the powdery shale, sending her sprawling to the seat of her pants.

“And the boss lady executes another graceful dismount.” Savannah snickered, extended a hand and hauled Casey upright. “When are you gonna get a pair of sneakers with some tread on the bottoms?”

“I’m not.” She brushed the dust from her jeans, grateful at least for the thick pair of gloves that had cushioned her landing. “I just need to get used to these heavy boots. Cooper says I should wear them for safety but I think it builds credibility with our crew.”

“Oh, yeah, those clunkers leave no doubt that you’re a construction babe. Add an orange vest and you could infiltrate a highway chain gang.”

“I’m going for safe and serious, not fashionable,” she defended her grubby but functional work attire.

“Thanks for the news flash.” Savannah’s gaze swept Casey from top to toe. “I do have to admit it’s an interesting contrast to your usual uniform.” She referred to Casey’s closet full of dark suits.

“Hey, I didn’t import you all the way from Iowa so you could insult me. That’s what my family is for.”

“Just keeping you grounded in the facts like your sweet daddy suggested.”

“I can arrange for you to be back in the corporate office conspiring with him in person, if you’d like.”

“No thanks.” Savannah ignored the threat. “I’m not going home till I catch myself a Texas cowboy.” She rubbed her hands together, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

“I hate to disappoint you but my guess is you’re more likely to rope a surfer than a bull rider in Galveston.”

“If he’s as hot as that guy over there with Cooper, he can ride a bike on a paper route and I won’t mind a bit.” She raised her eyebrows and pretended to hold a cigar, Groucho-style. “Especially if he wears one of those cute little Tour de France outfits.”

“Savannah Jean, you are incorrigible.”

“And you have way too much starch in your drawers, which is why we’ve always been good for each other.”

She’s right, Casey admitted to herself. If she hadn’t kept me from taking myself too seriously the past fifteen years, I’d probably be in a padded cell by now.

Some action between the men caught Casey’s eye. Cooper was pointing in her direction. He waved her over, smiling in that way he did when people first found out she was managing the project instead of her brother, Guy.

“Showtime,” she muttered, then headed toward her foreman. As she closed the thirty yards that separated them she began to pick up bits of conversation. The visitor had a prominent English accent.

Her pulse quickened and she slowed her pace, needing a moment to think. He had to be the U.K. investor.

Please, God, not today. Not the way I look right now, she pleaded.

It was way too early in the project. This could only mean trouble. As in the days when she and Savannah had been summoned to the principal’s office in high school, she felt the hot surge of nervous sweat. She shook off the moment of trepidation and stepped up to the men’s conversation.

“Mr. Cooper, see here. There must be some mistake.” The Brit pointed to the papers in his hand as if that would clarify everything. “I am specifically directed to seek out Guy Hardy, not his spokesperson. There was no correction to these instructions, no mention of an alternative contact.”

“Well, son, this pretty filly right here’s a bona fide alternative, not a spokesperson. And I guarantee you that’s no mistake. Mark my words, everything this lady does is intentional.” Cooper winked at Casey and discreetly spit a dark stream into his paper cup.

“Casey Hardy, Hearth and Home.” She ran her palm down the front thigh of her jeans before she extended it. “How can I help you?”

“Mrs. Hardy, please forgive me if I decline your handshake.” He held both palms aloft for inspection.

“I had a minor mishap over the weekend.” The pads of his fingers and creases of his knuckles bore some angry gashes and purple bruises.

“Yeow, that must have stung.” She winced at the sight.

“Believe me, it could have been much worse. Now, allow me to introduce myself—Barrett Westbrook of Westbrook Partners, Esquire. I apologize for the intrusion. However, I’m here to meet with your husband. This gentleman says Mr. Hardy is in…” The man’s brow furrowed.

“Guy’s up in the hill country, near Austin,” Cooper reminded the visitor.

“Yes, thank you. Tell me, madam, will your husband be down from the hills in the next day or two so we can conduct business?”

Casey risked a glance at Cooper, who was hiding his grin about as successfully as a naughty boy hid a croaking bullfrog. It was obvious he was enjoying this fellow’s confusion. It was also evident Cooper had done little to clear it up and possibly even added to it. While the seasoned construction manager had been a godsend, he had way too much fun messing with her at every turn. She was enjoying the smart old codger, but this situation needed damage control. She’d start by getting the visitor out of the heat before he had a stroke.

“Would you like to walk over to the lunch trailer with me? We can get a cold drink and sit in the shade while I explain.” She pointed toward the mobile unit affectionately known as the roach coach.

“Thank you for the kind offer, however I must begin conducting my investigation right away, Mrs. Hardy.” He studied the papers he held as if they were critical to his very survival.

“I’m a miss.”

“Excuse me, madam?” He glanced up. His brows lifted, the crease between them deepened. She’d never seen confusion look so good on a man.

“I’m a miss. A miss!”

The brows relaxed. Gray eyes the color of thick evening smoke glinted with amusement and grazed her from head to heel. “Well, I’m sure you’ll clean up quite nicely after a good scrubbing.”

“Yeah, she is a mess all right, but what she’s trying to tell you is she’s a single gal.”

“Oh, quite sorry,” Barrett apologized, his face a mask of poorly feigned innocence.

If this beguiling Brit was to be her potential partner, closing this deal would not only be a cinch, it would be a pleasure.

“Please do accept my apology.”

She fished into her pants pockets for change.

“As long as you let me buy you a Coke.” Without waiting for his response she turned toward the lunch trailer.

“Better make tracks, son. That one’s not likely to slow down and give you a chance to catch up.”

Cooper’s advice reached her ears and she picked up the pace to drive home his point.

Barrett watched the slender young woman who, despite their joke, truly was a mess as she strode across the dusty construction lot, confidence displayed in every step. Her destination appeared to be a motor coach with its awning propped open to reveal two men selling something rolled in tinfoil. As he reached her side, an aroma unlike anything he’d ever experienced tantalized his senses. His stomach made an inappropriate rumbling sound.

“Have you eaten lunch?”

“No, I haven’t had anything since breakfast on the flight this morning.”

“So, you just arrived?” She deposited several bills on the counter, scooped up a sackful of the lovely smelling rolls and motioned for him to carry the cold drinks.

The chilled cans were comforting against the painful gashes on his palms and the pads of his fingers. Barrett realized he was lucky it was not his throat that was left slashed and bleeding after his insane balancing act on the edge of Traitor’s Gate. His out-of-character behavior only one night earlier was proof that family pressure and fickle women could send any man to the brink of disaster.

“Get away from that ledge, Westbrook, you fool!” Sigmond cried out. “You’ll slip and break your aristocratic neck!”

Captivated by the Atlantic crashing on ancient rocks three hundred meters below, Barrett ignored the needless warning of his old chum. To voluntarily leap from this site known for brutal executions, a man would have to be a fool. And on a rational day, he would never qualify. But just as the ruined remains of King Arthur’s Tintagel lay in heaps of rubble around him, the life Barrett had carefully crafted was also reduced to a wasteland.

Nine generations of Westbrook men had succeeded in every facet of the legal profession and, according to his mum, Barrett’s inability to find his fit was becoming “something of an embarrassment” to the family.

“And what would it matter if I broke my neck? I am on the brink of forty with absolutely nothing to show for myself,” Barrett called above the stinging wind, repeating the words his brother had passed on courtesy of their father.

“Nothing, indeed!” Sig made no effort to hide his sarcasm. “Let’s examine the facts together, shall we, my friend? First, the Westbrooks’ share of wealth and respect is second only to the royal family in this country. Next, you bear the dreadful misfortune of being a ringer for that rascal Hugh Grant. How you manage to bear up under the female notice is a source of amazement.” He laughed, amusing only himself.

“Then there is the lovely Caroline at your side on the rare occasion when you venture forth from your Chelsea apartment for a social affair.”

Barrett clenched his eyes against the stinging wind and the biting remark.

Unbeknownst to Sig, the woman had ended their relationship two days prior. Dumped Barrett via text message for a Frenchman a half-dozen years her junior. And simply because the young scoundrel had declared himself to be in love with her. A step Barrett was not even the least bit inclined to take.

“Westbrook! Are you listening to me? Step away from that cliff or I shall drag you back by the collar and put you on the plane to America myself. In fact, some time out of your comfy chair is just what you need.”

Barrett spun about-face and took several unsteady strides toward Sig to see if he was joking. The squint of the man’s eyes was kind, calm, but quite serious.

“A change of scenery might do you good.”

“A change of scenery is a drive up to the Lake District, not hard time in the Colonies,” Barrett complained.

Sig tipped his head back, his loud laughter angled at the dark clouds. “Oh, do get over your prejudice of the Yanks. It’s actually called the United States now—there are fifty of them at last count and most have paved roads and indoor plumbing. You may even enjoy yourself.”

“I might agree if this assignment were in New York or California. But at the lowest point in my life my family is packing me off to Texas, of all uncivilized places!”

Again Sigmund’s laughter rang out. He was enjoying this far too much. “Mate, Texas is hardly the Wild West anymore. The Indians are no longer hostile and the best-known cowboys are a football team in Dallas. And you’re going to investigate an investment opportunity, not negotiate a peace settlement.”

His old friend was correct, as always. Barrett had failed to identify his calling within the multifaceted practice, and now he was down to his last chance with their financial division. His test would be to review an international opportunity for one of the firm’s most valued clients. His report would determine the future of the partnership. To protect his own future he had no option but to make a trek to the States.

Scratch States. Make that Texas.

“Come along before the rain starts chucking it down. We’ll get curry takeaway and have a talk while you pack.”

Barrett’s shoulders sagged as he accepted the finality of the situation.

“Give me a minute, Sig?”

“Of course.”

Barrett lifted his face to the dark, heavy clouds that hung low, blocking Tintagel from the midday sun and the splendor of the heavens. He stood in the increasing drizzle, waiting on a sign. He began to pray aloud, without a care for Sigmund, who’d discreetly turned aside.

“Lord, You’ve blessed me with every advantage, yet I’m a failure at all I’ve attempted. I’m prepared to do anything necessary to make my parents proud while I find Your will for me, but must I leave the land I love to discover those things?”

The declaration was sucked from his mouth and flung into the ocean before him. A gale-force wind roared across the black currents, scooped up icy sea-water by the bucketful and swept up the steep cliff. A torrent of stinging ocean spray splashed Barrett hard, soaking him to the marrow and dissolving the last of his doubt.

The drizzle turned to a drenching rain. A fresh blast of wind hit him full in the chest, knocking him off balance. He struggled to keep to his feet, the leather soles of his shoes slipping on the wet ground. He pitched backward, his arms thrown out in a useless effort as he tumbled hard to the seat of his trousers.

An uncontrollable slide toward the sheer cliffs caused Barrett to cast about with his hands, grasping for jutting chunks of stone that slashed his palms as he inched toward Traitor’s Gate. He dug his heels into the earth, pushing with all his might. A gush of water coursed beneath him in its rush to blend with the sea. It picked up speed, swept down the slope, whooshed over Barrett and pulled at his sodden clothes, sucking him toward the ledge. Having spent countless days sailing the always-freezing water, there was no terror in Barrett at the thought of falling, of drowning. There was no fear of death, only wry irony that life could end on the cliffs of this magical place, never having found his own Camelot.

Barrett shuddered at yesterday’s memory. The Heavenly Father had never taken His eyes away and neither had his friend, Sig. If ever a man had wanted a sign, that was most surely it.

The humid air of Galveston, Texas, was a warm and welcome change.

“Let’s sit over here in the shade while you answer my question.” Casey lifted first one heavy boot and then the other across a wooden bench, sat and motioned for him to do the same.

Having lost the thread of the conversation, he simply followed her example. “I’m sorry, what question was that?”

“I asked if you just arrived this morning.” She busied herself with the contents of the sack, laying out napkins and plastic ware.

“Oh, yes. My flight from Gatwick landed in Houston just after daybreak. I rented a car and drove straight down, Miss Hardy.” They exchanged smiles. He fancied hers. It was a lovely distraction from the memory he planned to bury forever once the telltale signs were gone from his hands. “It was my intention to introduce myself to your…” He paused, expecting her to fill in the blank.

“Brother. Guy is my big brother. He recently married and settled in Austin, and I’ve taken over his position as the executive of corporate expansion.”

“That presents quite a different situation than I’d been led to expect.” He couldn’t help wondering if his father had known about this all along. “It was my intention to make your brother’s acquaintance and agree together on a brief timeline to review all necessary materials.”

She stopped her work of laying out their meal and narrowed unforgettable eyes that reminded him of the bluebells in his mother’s garden.

“Who did you say you were with again, Barrett?”

“Forgive me for not presenting my identification when we made introductions.” He drew a slim leather case from his breast pocket and positioned a business card on the table before her.

“Westbrook Partners, Esquire. My family has provided legal representation for nine generations.”

“And your family is diversifying by investing in the U.S. home improvement market?”

“Good heaven’s, no,” he insisted, possibly louder than necessary.

The rag the woman had twisted around her head must be too tight. He would never suggest such a thing to his family and wasn’t at all sure he’d recommend the client do so, either. This mission was critical and he had no intention of failing. Again.

“Well, you don’t have to make it sound like a bad thing.” The tilt of her brows indicated he’d offended her.

“Please, allow me to explain. I represent the U.K. group interested in Hearth and Home. I’m here to review and report on the legal implications of moving forward.”

“So, you’re a financial adviser?”

“More accurately, I provide legal guidance on financial matters.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

She used the word as if it were synonymous with ax murderer.

“I’m a barrister, that’s correct.”

She dipped her chin, looked at the items she’d put on the table and muttered something under her breath that clearly included the phrase, “An ambulance chaser with an accent.” She began to unroll one of the tinfoil objects.

He mirrored her actions with the mystery food, having no idea what to expect inside. Hopefully a hearty serving of pork pie or Cornish pasty.

“I see you have high regard for my profession,” he observed, not at all offended. It seemed to be a common opinion the world over.

She raised her face, met his gaze.

“My family lost a small fortune and spent months in court thanks to money-hungry lawyers. Even so, that doesn’t give me the right to be rude.” A charming pout puckered her lips. “The simple truth is I’m disappointed. I was expecting your client in person.”

“I’m sorry to let you down. I’ll do my best to make amends.” He offered up a smile, removed his suit coat and loosened the Windsor knot in his tie.

Her grin was sheepish. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’ve reacted like a petulant child and that is not the first impression I usually give.”

“Nonsense, you cast a lovely image, and perfectly suitable for the surroundings.” He angled his head, indicating the catering coach. Her eyes widened with exaggerated offense.

He raised a sore palm to shield him from the expression. “You must admit, we’ve both had a bit of a shock in the past half hour. What do you say we start over?” He lifted his soft drink and offered a salute. “To new beginnings?”

The blue eyes narrowed while she considered the proposal, as though it were possible she’d refuse his toast. Then a sly smile curved what might be the most perfect mouth he’d ever seen. She raised her soda.

“To new beginnings,” she agreed.

The two cans made contact with a clunk.

As they flipped the tabs of their drinks and took first sips he considered his interesting change of circumstances. The hard-driving American businessman he’d expected to find had turned out to be an attractive young woman. If her footwear was any indicator she was more concerned with work conditions than appearance. Quite a nice change from most females in his life and nothing at all like Caroline. Maybe his luck was turning about. Maybe this woman would be so involved with the nuts and bolts of construction that she’d leave him to his work.

He felt a burden lift from his heart. Yes, things were looking up. In no time at all, his task would be complete. This trial by Texas would be a thing of the past and he’d be heading home.

He remembered the quote for the day on the calendar in his office. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

He didn’t yet know which she was, but either way during his stay in Galveston he’d stick close to Miss Casey Hardy.