Читать книгу That Touch of Pink - Teresa Southwick, Teresa Southwick - Страница 8

Abby Walsh took a deep breath, then punched the Up arrow on the elevator. His office was located in the heart of downtown, taking up an entire floor in one of the city’s most prestigious buildings, right across the street from Philanthropy Plaza. With streets named Benevolent Boulevard and Welfare Way, Charity City, Texas, was a place where folks took care of their own.

The money she’d spent at the auction would help fund scholarships, businesses, women’s shelters and other worthy causes. That was all well and good, but Abby actually needed what Riley Dixon had auctioned. Now it was time to collect.

When the elevator doors whispered open, she stepped inside and sucked in another deep breath. The car went up while her stomach stayed on the main floor. She hated elevators. She hated macho guys. And she hated venturing out of her comfort zone. Hopefully her daughter would appreciate this and the trade-off would be zero rebellion during her teenage years. If Abby had done less envelope-pushing and more rule-following, she wouldn’t be here now. But she also wouldn’t have Kimmie, and she couldn’t imagine her life without her child.

When the elevator stopped, Abby stepped out on the top floor into what was the reception area of Dixon Security. An impressive semi-circular cherrywood desk dominated the center of the room, with a sofa and chairs in a grouping off to the side. The thick carpet in a warm, rich shade of beige made her feel as if she were walking on a cloud.

Behind the desk sat a pretty redhead with a nameplate that read Nora Dixon. Hmm, Abby thought. He had good taste in women.

“I’m here to see Mr. Dixon.”

The woman glanced up, then did a double take. “And you are?” Her tone was on the cool side.

“Abby Walsh. I have an appointment.” When the woman checked her computer, she asked, “Do you have me down?”

“Sometimes he writes things on his calendar without bringing it to my attention. Of course, I found out the hard way that I have to cross-reference his calendar with my computer schedule.”

“Okay.” Abby hadn’t talked to him yet. That’s why she was here. But far be it from her to butt in when she didn’t understand the office’s work flow.

The receptionist looked up. “I’m sorry but I don’t have you down. And he’s running late today. You’re welcome to wait if that’s not a problem?”

Abby looked at her watch. She had to pick up Kimmie from Kid’s Klub before six and it was five o’clock now. “I won’t take up much of his time.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here.” After picking up the phone and announcing Abby, the redhead listened, then waved her to a chair. “He can give you ten minutes.”

“That works for me.” Abby sat and smoothed her hands over her skirt.

When she was standing, the hem hit her about mid-calf and her sensible, low-heeled shoes only added about an inch and a half to her five feet two inches. Since high-heeled pumps wouldn’t add nearly enough height, she settled for practical and comfy instead of willowy and statuesque.

After ten minutes of staring out the window, she glanced at the array of reading material on the end tables. Military Monthly. Self-Defense. She wondered where he’d hidden Guns & Ammo even as she lamented the absence of People, Us or a sleazy gossip magazine with a juicy alien abduction story. She glanced at her watch again and huffed out a breath. He’d given her ten minutes. Unfortunately, he’d been conspicuously absent during that time. She stood and paced the waiting area, glancing at the time every few minutes.

Just when she’d decided she couldn’t wait any longer, the door to his office opened and he walked out. “Ms. Walsh?”

She turned away from the window and looked up—way up—into the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. Her stomach, which had finally joined the rest of her on the top floor, plummeted back to square one. In spite of that sensation, she noticed that he looked momentarily startled. Then it was as if invisible shutters closed off his expression.

“The security business must be booming,” she said wryly.

“I kept you waiting.” His tone was cool; he must have caught it from his receptionist.

“You did.”

He folded his arms over a very impressive chest. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look sorry. He looked tall. She estimated about six feet, give or take an inch. His hair was dark, almost black and cut military short, somehow highlighting those amazing eyes. He wore a biceps-hugging navy T-shirt tucked into worn jeans. The ensemble was completed by a pair of scuffed cowboy boots and was by far the most masculine attire she’d ever seen on a businessman. It simply provided evidence that her auction purchase had been the right one.

His nose was slightly off-kilter, and he had a small, thin scar on his square, rugged chin. The battered look suited him. But it also reassured her that he was a man of action. He was also the walking, talking, warm-to-the-touch ad for ruggedly handsome. If one liked the type. She didn’t.

He looked at the clock on the wall. “We can talk in my office.”

She nodded, then preceded him into the inner sanctum, which turned out to be a stark contrast to the elegant reception area. The only thing that carried over was the thick carpet. Sitting on it was his battered L-shaped desk, which would have looked more at home in a thrift store. But it held what looked like a top-of-the-line computer. Instead of the expensive artwork she’d expected on the walls, they displayed framed photos. She couldn’t make out any specific details.

“Have a seat.” He indicated one of the utilitarian chrome and gray-blue upholstered chairs in front of the desk. “I have eight minutes.”

After he sat behind the desk, she met his gaze. “Your wife said you could give me ten minutes.”

“Wife?”

“The receptionist.”

“My sister.”

Her gaze dropped to his hands. There was no ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. That didn’t mean anything. Some married men didn’t wear rings. And… And it didn’t matter a fig whether he was married.

“Your sister,” she said. “So this is a family-owned business?”

“No. I own it. Nora works for me. She’s good at her job.”

“Meaning if she wasn’t, family or not, she’d be canned?”

One broad shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. “Yeah.”

“Do you have a wife?” Doggone it. She hadn’t meant to ask that. She didn’t care. But the rogue part of her subconscious that had temporarily taken over her brain neglected to send that message to her mouth.

“I’m not married.” His gaze was penetrating as he frowned at her. “Now you’ve got six minutes. And if my marital status has something to do with why you’re here, you’re wasting my time. I can put those six minutes to better use.”

“Look, I’m a people person. That makes me curious. It was certainly not my intention to offend you with the question.”

His impassive look gave no clue to what he was thinking. “So you have a security concern?”

Wow. He gave the expression single-minded determination a run for its money. Not to mention that his tone was just this side of abrasive. “Apparently in your line of work, one can be successful even without courtesy and charm.”

“If you’re here about personal safety, home or business protection, I can be as charming and courteous as the next guy. If not…”

“I’m here because I bought the survival weekend you donated to the Charity City auction. I mentioned that to whoever I spoke with on the phone.”

It seemed impossible, but his frown deepened. “I didn’t get the message.”

“And I didn’t actually get an appointment. Is your sister’s job in jeopardy?”

“No. She was sick recently. A temp replaced her.”

His shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly as his mouth straightened into a thin line, telling her he was disapproving. She’d known him about two and a half minutes—although he was the only one keeping exact time—so how she knew he was surprised or annoyed, she couldn’t say. But she’d stake her reputation as Charity City High School’s favorite librarian that he was both surprised and annoyed.

“So you’re the one who bought the survival weekend?” He sounded skeptical.

She nodded. “And I’m here to make arrangements to collect it.”

He let his gaze drop to her cap-sleeved silk shell with the loose-fitting floral jumper over it. “Why?”

“Because I paid for it.”

He shook his head. “Why did you buy it in the first place?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe part of the deal is explaining my motivation.”

“You don’t look like the outdoorsy type.”

The fact that he was right made her resent his attitude even more. “If we’re judging books by covers, Mr. Dixon, you don’t look like the type, either.”

“What type would that be?”

“One who would donate to charity. The type to give back to his community.”

“It was a debt.”

“Oh?”

“The foundation gave me interest free start-up capital for my business.”

“And when one benefits from the auction proceeds, one is obligated to give back.”

“I always pay my debts,” he confirmed.

“Very reassuring. That’s why I’m here. My daughter, Kimmie, belongs to The Bluebonnets—”

“What?”

“It’s an organization that sponsors outdoor activities for girls in her age group—”

“How old?”

“Excuse me?”

What did that have to do with sleeping outside and starting a fire with two sticks when she was on a very tight schedule? She’d be wasting less of her remaining time if he would impart information in sentences of more than three two-syllable words. And she had no illusions. When the allotted time was up, he would throw her out. She stole a glance at his biceps, the intriguing place where the sleeve of his T-shirt clung to the bulging muscle. There was no doubt in her mind that if he wanted her out, he would and could pick her up bodily and make it so.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Six. When I saw the weekend listed for auction, I knew it was exactly what I needed. And I figured I could kill two birds with one stone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Maybe he was finally listening and they could wrap this up quickly. “I could do my civic duty in support of the town charity. Buying your services to get my daughter her hiking and nature badges—”

“You can’t take her camping?”

“I could,” she said. “But her survival might be in question. I’m afraid you were right about me. My idea of the outdoors involves a lounge chair, a pool and a sissy drink with an umbrella in it.”

“What about your husband?”

Now who was digging for personal info? Although she had to admit Riley had a better reason. It was a logical question. “I don’t have a husband.”

Not any more. And she couldn’t be happier. She was glad she no longer had to rely on flaky Fred Walsh. As an unwed pregnant teenager whose baby needed a father, she’d seriously relied on him. If only she could blame it on pressure from her parents. But they’d made it clear they would support her decisions. As it turned out, the decision she’d made hadn’t been worthy of support.

“So you’re going to dump the kid on me for the weekend?”

“Of course not. Do I look like the kind of mother who would turn her child over to a complete stranger? The two of us will be going on the outing—”

He stood suddenly, interrupting her. “No way.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said no. It’s a survival weekend.”

“I’m aware of that.” She got to her feet. He was dangerously close to looming and she would not be loomed over.

“I won’t be nursemaid to a kid.”

“Her name is Kimmie. And she needs her two badges. If the necessity for nursemaiding arises, I’ll be the one doing it.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need me for this. It’s overkill.”

“Maybe. But I’ve already paid for you.”

“I’ll reimburse you.”

“I don’t want your money. I want my weekend.”

“No.”

“I want you to sue him, the foundation, Mayor Wentworth, the rest of his family, every person he’s ever known and anyone else I can think of.” Abby paced the length of her small living room.

She loved the fifteen hundred square feet of space she’d purchased six months ago. Unfortunately when she was this angry, the state of Texas wasn’t big enough for the amount of pacing she needed to do. Fortunately, her daughter was upstairs in her room playing with her dolls and wasn’t watching her mother’s display of temper.

“Suing the whole town is a little extreme, don’t you think?” Jamie Gibson asked.

Abby had called Jamie right after leaving Dixon Security and they’d met here at the house. She was the attorney who’d handled Abby’s divorce two years ago. They’d become friends in spite of the fact that Abby envied her brunette curls, which were the polar opposite of her own stick-straight brown hair. And Jamie was beautiful, a fact the attorney didn’t seem to care about. She poured her energy into building a legal career based on integrity, intelligence, and unflagging client support. But Abby felt there was some serious flagging in her attorney’s support on the Riley Dixon issue. And how the heck could Jamie sit so calmly on that overstuffed pink floral sofa when there was some heavy-duty suing to be done?

“The man is a welsher,” Abby cried, hands on hips as she stared at the bemused, indulgent expression on her friend’s face.

“We haven’t established all the facts yet. The way I understand it, he escorted you out of his office after he said no. If he is, in fact a welsher, at least he’s a gentleman welsher.”

“I paid for the weekend he donated to the auction. The check cleared already. And he’s refusing to make good on the deal. Maybe you’d prefer Indian giver?”

“Native American would be a little more politically correct,” Jamie pointed out.

“Politically correct would be for him to give me what I paid for—a weekend campout so Kimmie can earn her nature badges. I should have seen this coming. After all, he’s a man. By definition, that makes him a slacker.”

“Are we talking about Riley Dixon or your ex-husband?”

“They’re interchangeable,” Abby said.

“Is he as hot as I’ve heard?”

“Who? Fred?”

“I’ve seen Fred,” Jamie pointed out. “I meant Dixon.”

“He wouldn’t have to wear a bag over his head in public,” she grudgingly admitted.

An image of the man’s dark hair, blue eyes and flawless physique flashed through her mind and Abby braced herself as her stomach lurched from the same elevator sensation she’d experienced just a short while ago. But, he was a reminder about judging a book by its cover—a hunk with the face of a hero and the heart of a welsher.

“So he’s really good-looking?” Jamie pushed, obviously wanting details.

“He’s weathered,” she said carefully. “A little bent and battered, but buff in all the right places.”

“So you like him,” Jamie declared in a grating I-knew-it tone.

“I don’t like him. But I’m not blind and I don’t tell lies in spite of the fact I don’t like him. Here’s the thing. When he told me he wouldn’t take us on the campout, I got that Fred-feeling in my gut.”

“You’re telling me Dixon is a shallow jerk who’d leave you in the lurch to try out for a TV reality show?”

“It’s not the trying-out part. It’s the finding-Ms. Fear-Factor-who-jumped-on-his-bandwagon-and-his-bones-after-which-he-never-came-back part,” Abby said, remembering that particular brand of devastation. “And I don’t know if Dixon would do that. I never intend to find out. Because in my book, breaking one’s word on first acquaintance is a giant red flag.”

“From what I’ve heard, Riley Dixon is a hard worker. A former Army Ranger who’s built a profitable security business in under five years. Soldiers don’t get to be Rangers by slacking off.”

“Then we’re back to welsher.” She met her friend’s gaze and sighed. “Okay. I’ll admit to some lingering hostility toward the man who shirked most of his responsibilities—the most important one being his daughter.”

“I understand why you’d have this over-the-top reaction. Kimmie doesn’t have a dad, and you’ve got to be both mother and father to her.”

“That’s all true. But I’ve come to terms with it.” She ignored her friend’s raised eyebrow. “Part of coming to terms with it is knowing my limitations. I bought Riley Dixon to fulfill the father role for the weekend. How was I to know that he’s a macho jerk who breaks his promises? In my book, that makes him a Fred The Flake clone.” Abby huffed out a breath that lifted her bangs off her forehead. “Like all men, Riley Dixon is ducking his obligations.”

“Not all men are that way.”

“No? Couldn’t prove it by me.”

“Let me rephrase. Not all men are flakes. Just the ones you meet.”

“Why is that? I’m a high school librarian. Every day I deal with kids who don’t return books, don’t turn in assignments and just generally don’t do what they’re supposed to do. It’s my job to mold them into capable, dependable, efficient, honest adults. Admittedly, I’ve only been doing this for a little over three years, but I’ve had students come back and say I’ve made a difference in their lives. So is it just bad karma that I’m surrounded by irresponsible, dishonest men? Am I a flake magnet? Should I roll over and let Mr. Macho walk all over me? What recourse do generally law-abiding people have when someone doesn’t live up to their obligation?”

“Did you or did you not say he offered to reimburse you?”

“He did.”

“So take the money and hire one of those mounted police guys. I hear they’re quite impressive in their tight trousers and red coats. The hats are a little funny-looking, though.”

One corner of Abby’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Texas is a little far from the Canadian border to make that a viable solution.”

“Too bad,” Jamie sighed. “What about a Texas Ranger? The hats are better, and they’re right in our own backyard.”

“That’s law enforcement, not nature guide.”

“They’re hot, too.”

Abby stared at her. “Maybe you need to go home and take a cold shower.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she said, an odd look on her face.

Instantly alert, Abby stopped pacing. “Is something wrong, Jamie?”

“No.” She shrugged.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Abby asked. “Does it have anything to do with the guy your parents bought you at the auction?”

A smile curved up the corners of Jamie’s mouth. “Yeah. A little. I’m dealing with it. No big deal.”

Abby had learned that if her friend didn’t want to talk about something, nothing could drag it out of her. So they might as well go back to the problem at hand. “Okay. Let’s come up with some really creative grounds for suing Riley Dixon.” Abby was glad when her words produced a laugh.

“So you refuse to let him reimburse you and just camp out with Kimmie in your new backyard and take her to the park for a walk?”

“No can do,” Abby said. “Not authentic enough for The Bluebonnets. It’s gotta be real. At least one night living off the land. With dirt and no flushing toilets. Microwave bad, fire good,” she said in her best caveman voice.

Jamie laughed. “That seems pretty extreme.”

“Don’t tell Kimmie that. She’s got her heart set on getting all her badges. You know her. When she gets something in her head, she’s going to do it. And come hell or high water, she’ll get it perfect. I keep telling myself that determination is a good quality in an adult.”

“There’s got to be another way.”

“I don’t want to find another way. I had it all figured out and paid for.” She held her hands out, palms up. A helpless gesture, and she hated feeling helpless—maybe even more than she hated relying on a man. “What am I going to do?”

“Talk to him again.” Jamie shrugged as if it were that easy.

“Are you saying you won’t sue him?”

“No. I’m saying people are too sue-happy these days when a simple conversation could save time, aggravation and money. He’s ex-military. Surely he’s a rational, logical man.”

Abby sighed. “Listen to yourself. Any self-respecting legal eagle would take this case and run with it for all the billable hours they could get. You, my friend, are going to starve.”

“I can afford to take off a few pounds.”

“You are so lying. And you’re too thin. You’re sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

“No. Except I know you don’t really want to sue Riley Dixon. You just needed to let off steam.”

“Busted,” Abby said.

“And I suspect the name-calling did wonders for your anger abatement level.”

“You think slacker, welsher, jerk and flake helped?”

“I do, indeed.”

Abby sighed. “You’d be right. But don’t let on to Kimmie. I always tell her to use people’s given names and I’m fairly certain none of the above are on Fred’s birth certificate. Or Dixon’s, either, for that matter.”

“She’ll never hear it from me. But in that spirit, I’d be happy to role-play with you for your next conversation with Riley Dixon.”

The thought of seeing him again sent quivers through Abby and she remembered the mayor’s comment on auction night about thrills and chills. His words were turning out to be annoyingly prophetic. She wondered if she might be better off if she waved the white flag and retreated.

Riley Dixon watched the elevator doors close, then turned to his sister. “We got the contract.”

Nora smiled. “To put security systems in all the district’s high schools?”

“Yup. Starting with Charity City High.”

“Congratulations.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re excited?” Nora asked, toying with the pen on her desk.

“Of course.”

“Then why do you look like someone let your favorite pistol rust in the rain?”

“I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I guess it’s because we shouldn’t need metal detectors and surveillance systems in high schools.”

“It doesn’t mean that all kids have gone over to the dark side,” she pointed out.

“I know.”

“You can’t take responsibility for what’s wrong with the world today.”

“I know that, too. But it seems wrong to profit from it.”

She lifted her shoulders. “The Board of Education budgeted for the security measures. And frankly, if they’ve decided it’s necessary, I’ll sleep better at night knowing they’ve hired the best company for the job. So will a lot of high school parents. Mostly the kids are good, normal kids. You’ve been hired to make sure they’re safe from the occasional bad apple. The school district feels it’s money well spent. Why don’t you?”

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

“You’re welcome. In exchange, I’d like to know why you practically threw Abby Walsh out of your office.” She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and met his gaze.

Riley knew his sister well, meaning she wasn’t going to back off. “She was here to make arrangements for the survival weekend I donated to the Charity City auction.”

“Wow. That clears up any confusion,” she said sarcastically. “And here I thought she’d done something really bad. Like having the audacity to look a lot like Barb Kelly.”

Riley winced. Abby Walsh was petite and feminine and beautiful. Her skin looked soft and her shiny brown hair even softer. It was like a curtain of silk teasing her shoulders. And Nora was right. Abby looked an awful lot like the pregnant woman he’d married to give her baby a name. The same woman who walked out two years later when the biological father finally showed up to claim his rights. Better late than never had made him feel like hell.

“Her daughter needs some kind of scouting badges,” he explained.

“And you jumped to the conclusion that she was cut from Barb Kelly cloth and dumping the kid on you.”

“Yeah.” Just like old times, he thought. “I’m glad you understand.” It’s what he loved about Nora.

“But I don’t understand. Didn’t you clarify the situation?”

He sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “She claimed she’d never turn the kid over to a complete stranger and said she’d be going on the `outing’ too.” He huffed out a breath. “Outing. As if it’s a society picnic with hoity-toity baskets and buckets of champagne.”

“It couldn’t be possible that you thought she was phat.”

“You’ve got eyes. Did you think she was overweight?”

He thought she had the curviest little body he’d seen in a long time, although it was hard to tell in that full-skirted thing she’d been wearing. But her arms were toned and the silky shirt she wore under it molded to her breasts in a way that tempted a man and made him hot all over.

“I didn’t say F-A-T. I said P-H-A-T—pretty hot and tempting.”

“No,” he lied. “I didn’t think that.”

“Okay. Then I have to conclude you’re scared.”

He stood, to crank up the intimidation factor, and glared down at her. “This is me we’re talking about. When I was in the army, I parachuted into hostile territory with nothing but a knife, a sidearm and a radio. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“And this is me,” Nora said, unfazed by the intimidation ploy. “I was there to pick up the pieces when Barb Kelly walked out with the child you fell in love with—”

“Don’t go there,” he warned.

“Why not? You just did.”

“No, not where you think. I just faced reality a long time ago. I’m a place-holder.”

“Not that again.” She sighed. “Poor you. You were adopted, and Mom and Dad love me best because I have their DNA. Trust me, it’s not that special.”

“You’re wrong. You’re pretty special.”

“So are you. For the record—and this is the last time I’m inflating your fragile male ego—the folks love you. Dad’s shirt buttons are in serious jeopardy of popping every time he boasts to his buddies about his son the Army Ranger.”

“Enough,” he said. “I’m not a kid any more.”

“You’re acting like one.”

“Am not.” He grinned as she sighed. “Do me a favor and just bury it.”

“You can duck into your foxhole if you want,” she said. “But I think you noticed the resemblance to Barb, too, and it scared the stuffing out of you.”

“You’d be wrong.”

“Then why did you refuse to keep your word and do the survival weekend?”

“I’m busy. Just got the new contract.”

“You didn’t have it in the bag when she was here. Definitely scared.”

“Busy.”

“Scared.”

“Busy.” Now it was his turn to sigh.

Squabbling just like when they were kids. And their parents had always seemed to take her side. Because she was their biological child and he’d been adopted when they’d thought conceiving their own baby was impossible. But there was something about Nora. He simply couldn’t hold it against her that she was a product of the folks’ love and DNA. He’d felt protective of her from the moment she had come home from the hospital. He had a bond with her. More than that—he loved her.

“Is there any way I can convince you you’re wrong?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to share, or do I have to use more aggressive interrogation techniques?”

“No tickling,” she warned.

“Then talk.”

“Right back at you, Riley. Face Abby Walsh. And talk.” She sighed at his look. “The thing is, you don’t have a choice. This is you. Although you try to hide all your good qualities behind a surly exterior, I happen to know you’re loyal, honest and you always pay your debts and do your duty. You gave your word to the Charity City Foundation when you volunteered the weekend for auction. And you’re an honorable man. You can’t do anything but talk to her.”

He hated that she was right. “Okay. You win.”

“Good.” She pointed at him. “But remember. That doesn’t mean the talk needs to be personal. In fact, if I were you, I wouldn’t under any circumstances get involved with her.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, sis. I don’t do personal. I’ll smooth things over.” Things like the curve of her cheek and the slender column of her neck. The insubordinate thoughts made him grind his teeth and proved that Abby Walsh was trouble with a capital T. “By the time I’m finished oozing charm, she’ll be glad to let me compensate her for the money she spent.”

And he’d be off one very large, very uncomfortable hook.