Texas Millionaire

by Dixie Browning

  He tried to see the place through the eyes of a stranger, partially succeeded and gave it up as irrelevant.

  “You can take your things upstairs if you want to,” he said tersely, scanning the early arrivals. “Leave ‘em in Manie’s closet.”

  Her things consisted of a small tan leather purse that was all wrong with her dress, and a lightweight tan cardigan that was hardly ballroom wear. But then, neither was her gown, at least not for anyone over sixteen years old.

  He watched her walk toward the stairs, bell-shaped skirts swaying around her slender hips, and felt the tug of something almost like tenderness. Protectiveness. He hoped to hell she knew how to deal with cats, because they were going to be out in full force tonight. He hadn’t lived this long as a bachelor without learning a thing or two about women and the way they reacted when an innocent bystander got between them and something they wanted. And Callie was definitely an innocent bystander.

  Still thinking about her youth and obvious inexperience, he was watching her ascend the staircase when she turned and glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes met and held just a moment too long before Hank, swearing under his breath, turned away, hoping no one had noticed.

  “That was real sweet of you,” Pansy murmured, coming up from behind to hook both her arms in his.

  “What was real sweet of me?” he asked absently, managing to keep the irritation from breaking through.

  “Inviting your little secretary to the ball. She must be thrilled to pieces, poor thing.”

  “I thought you were off on a cruise.” He freed his arm on the pretext of signaling a waiter.

  “I decided I’d rather be here. Danny brought me.” Danny was her first cousin, a third-generation member who seldom availed himself of the club’s facilities.

  “Better check his shoes for cleats before you take to the dance floor.” Danny was a professional football player, good-looking, popular, but without a whole lot between the ears.

  He left her there, murmuring something about making a phone call, and then, because he dreaded wading into the well-dressed mob, and because he really was worried about Manie in spite of all her reassurances, he figured he might as well go upstairs and give her a call before things started heating up.

  Callie was seated in one of Manie’s two wing chairs, her head back, eyes closed, fingers knotted in her lap. He’d heard of heart-shaped faces. She had one. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before. “Hey, are you all right?” he asked softly.

  Her eyes flew open. They were so large, so expressive, he couldn’t imagine why she hid such an asset behind those ugly, plastic-rimmed glasses. Tonight she hadn’t. “Are you wearing contacts?”

  “No. I can see well enough without my glasses, I’m just more comfortable wearing them.”

  In other words, she hid behind them. Idly he wondered why.

  “I guess I have to go downstairs, don’t I?”

  Considering this was the social event of the year, and she was here with a guy who was considered something of a catch, she didn’t sound any too eager. “Yeah, I guess you do. Don’t worry, they’re a pretty decent bunch, for the most part. Even the few who bite have had their rabies shots. Believe me, I’m careful about that sort of thing.”

  She’d closed her eyes again, but her lips twitched. He found himself increasingly fascinated by the subtle way she expressed her feelings. He’d seen her smile a couple of times, but he’d never heard her laugh.

  “Am I supposed to be taking notes or something? You said Aunt Manie took notes for you.”

  “Manie’s good at forming impressions so that she can act as my sounding board when some of the newer local charities hit us up for major funding. I don’t expect you to do that, you don’t know these people well enough yet.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “What did you do for your last employer?”

  “Kept his books, did his billing, ordered supplies, handled his appointments, filled out forms, reminded him about birthdays and anniversaries—nothing really complicated. Mostly it was paperwork, but sometimes if his nurse was late coming back from lunch, I stood in for her, especially when the patient was female. Doc kept forgetting what a dangerous place the world’s become.”

  “Manie does the same sort of thing for me.”

  “I know. At least she said I was supposed to help protect you from overpainted, underdressed hussies who want to marry you because you’re rich and well connected.”

  “That’s plain speaking with a vengeance.” He leaned back against Manie’s desk, studying the woman seated before him. Could anyone be as guileless as she appeared to be? “What do you think, Callie? You up to the job?”

  “Of protecting you? I think we’re talking about a different kind of protection from what I’m used to. I’ve never seen so many gorgeous women in one place before, but I don’t think they’re here to bring you cookies or offer to sew on your buttons.”

  Hank had to laugh. Either she was even more naive than she looked, or she had a droll sense of humor. Possibly both. “Look, I’m going to give Manie a call if you want to pick up on your extension.” When he brushed past to step into his office, an elusive fragrance reached out to him.

  Soap? Shampoo?

  Lemons. At least she wasn’t trying to sweeten him up.

  A few minutes later when he put down the phone, he was frowning. “She was discharged late this afternoon. Did you know anything about it?”

  Callie spoke from the open doorway. “Only that she planned to go stay with a friend after she was discharged so she’d be handy for the follow-up visit.”

  “It’s too soon. What the devil are they thinking about, letting her go this early?”

  “It’s a simple procedure. Still, I’m pretty sure her insurance would’ve paid for another night if they thought she needed it.”

  “Insurance bedamned, I want her back in that clinic where she’ll have the kind of care she needs,” he said grimly.

  “Hank, her friend will look after her. Aunt Manie assured me of that when I offered to drive her to Midland.”

  “Just who is this friend? Have you met her?”

  “Not personally, but I have her address and phone number at home. I’m planning to drive up to Midland tomorrow, so I’ll meet her then.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “You don’t have to do that, I know the way. If I have any trouble locating the address, I can call and get directions.”

  “You don’t need to be on the road in that old clunker of yours.”

  She bristled at that. They were both standing, Callie looking almost incandescent in pale yellow against the dark paneling. Once again Hank felt that odd wrenching sensation that could be indigestion, but probably wasn’t Lemon juice. What the devil did she do, rub a slice behind her ears?

  “My car’s not all that old. It’s…well, it’s mature, but it got me here safely without a speck of trouble.”

  “We’ll discuss it in the morning,” he growled, taking her arm, “Right now we’d better go back downstairs. Things are getting noisy.”

  Three hours later, things were simmering along nicely. Callie, seated at a table for two on the edge of the dance floor, could scarcely hear herself think. The rowdy, well-dressed crowd drowned out the orchestra, which played louder to be heard over the noise, which caused the ballgoers to raise their voices even more to be heard over the music.

  She fanned with her handkerchief, wondering where Hank was and which of his women he was entertaining at the moment. Pansy was one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. She looked like a Hollywood star, or maybe a model. Bianca was shorter and laughed more, but she was just as intimidating. Her hair was the kind seen only in shampoo commercials, so thick and straight and lustrous it couldn’t possibly be real.

  Callie had watched him run the gauntlet of what she thought of as Dowager’s Row, stopping to talk with every elderly woman present. Each one hung on to him as long as possible, knotty fin
gers, sparkling with diamonds, clinging to his hands, to his arm. As he moved on down the line, they put their heads together, tongues wagging fit to kick up a breeze, avid eyes following as he made his way slowly around the room.

  A distinctive giggle broke the sound barrier, causing several heads to turn. Evidently Bianca was having a grand time tonight. Callie was beginning to sort out the few people she’d met. Hank was mingling, like a good host was supposed to do. Evidently he knew everyone present and intended to exchange a few words with each of them. He looked devastatingly handsome for a man who truly wasn’t. At least, not by traditional standards. It had to be sex appeal. She’d never experienced it before, not at close range. On a movie screen, or even on TV, it was nowhere near as potent.

  No wonder every woman in the room, regardless of age, was looking at him like a kid through a candy-store window. When he finally got through making the rounds and came back to ask her to dance, she was going to have to work hard to hang onto her composure, or else she’d never be able to look him in the eye again on Monday morning.

  But mercy, her palms were sweating just thinking about her right hand in his left, his right hand on her waist.

  Pansy and Bianca, along with half a dozen other younger women, waited for him to finish his rounds before engulfing him like a swarm of butterflies. One of them, a pretty redhead, dragged him onto the floor. From her vantage point across the ballroom Callie caught glimpses of him now and then, each time with a different woman.

  Hey, I’m over here, remember me? Didn’t you ever hear that cliché about dancing with the one that brung you?

  She was beginning to see why her aunt thought he needed someone to run interference for him. A few of those women looked as if they were salivating.

  Callie glanced at her watch. She slipped her feet out of her shoes, savoring the feel of the cool parquet floor on the soles of her feet. How long was she supposed to wait? She was hungry, but hadn’t dared grab something to eat off one of the trays for fear Hank would come back and catch her with her mouth full of crackers piled high with cream cheese and that black glop, whatever it was. It looked like blueberry jam that had sat out too long.

  She had to go to the bathroom, too, but she wasn’t sure where the one downstairs was located, or if they even had a ladies’ room.

  Well, of course they did. Manie had showed her the ladies’ parlor, where females were allowed to socialize as long as they didn’t intrude on the regular members. Manie said Old Tex would roll over in his grave. Callie wondered if the feminist movement had made it as far as West Texas. So far she hadn’t seen any signs of it in Royal.

  As soon as they’d come downstairs Hank had steered her to a table for two, removed two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. He’d just turned to place them on the table when the waiter, obviously young and inexperienced, had backed into a stout gentleman with a walrus mustache and dropped his tray with a tremendous crash, scattering glasses and wine all over the floor.

  Everyone had jumped. A woman in pink at the next table had actually screamed. The poor petrified waiter plainly expected to be fired, if not shot. Callie had risen, intending to go find someone to clean up the wreckage, but things had evolved too quickly. A word here, a nod there, and before she quite realized what he’d done, much less how he’d done it, Hank had the man with the overgrown hedge laughing. The poor petrified waiter no longer looked as if he was about to be sick, and the mess on the floor disappeared as if by magic. For the life of her, she didn’t see how he’d accomplished it.

  She’d opened her mouth to tell him so, but instead of rejoining her, Hank had gone on talking to the boy. Callie had gawked, hardly believing her eyes, as he lifted a heavy silver tray full of glasses from the hands of another passing waiter and held it over his head, tilting it first one way and then the other without spilling a drop. Then he handed the loaded tray back to the older waiter, patted the younger one on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Callie alone at the table.

  That had been ages ago. What in the world was she supposed to be doing? Mingling? Taking notes? Watching to see that no one stole the antique firearms from the glassfront cases on the wall outside the ballroom?

  It wasn’t a real date. He’d made sure she understood that, right from the first. Still, she’d expected a courtesy dance, even though she’d warned him right up front that she wasn’t a good dancer. This was plain old, flat-out desertion.

  Maybe she could sue him for desertion and get enough money to rewire the house and buy a minivan and a trailer to move her aunt back to North Carolina.

  The band was playing “Yellow Rose of Texas.” She recognized it from her mother’s old record collection. She hummed along, fingering the skirt of her yellow dress while she thought about what she could take with her tomorrow when she went to visit her aunt.

  She yawned, then glanced around, hoping no one saw her. An older brunette in pink seated alone at the next table gave her a commiserating look.

  The table on the other side was also occupied by a lone young woman who looked almost as out of place as Callie was feeling. Their gazes caught, and the other woman tendered a shy smile.

  “Are you from out of town, too?” Callie leaned closer in order to make herself heard over the noise.

  “Goodness, no. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “I’m new in town. Is this—do these people always whoop and holler and carry on like this when they’re having fun?”

  “I’m no expert. I don’t usually go to these affairs, but this year I got roped in because I’m the librarian at the local library. Assistant librarian, actually, but my boss has the flu. We’re hoping to get a grant from the money raised tonight.”

  It was too noisy to converse, but Callie instinctively liked the woman who said her name was Susan Wilkins. “I’m Callie Riley,” she yelled over a clashing of cymbals. “Miss Manie—”

  And then a young couple jumped up on the bandstand, grabbed the microphone and made what sounded like an announcement. An engagement announcement? With all the hooting, hollering, stomping and whistling, she couldn’t be sure. It might’ve been a yard sale. Somehow, this wasn’t the way she’d pictured a fancy ball.

  Callie gave up trying to converse. The brunette at the table on her right, whose gown was almost as unsuitable as her own, caught her eye and shrugged. Callie told herself at least she wasn’t the only wallflower present. Misery liked company, but there was scant comfort in being stuck on the sidelines, ignored, painfully aware that she didn’t belong there and even more painfully aware that everyone else knew it, too.

  If only she hadn’t lost her common sense somewhere between here and Yakdin County she could have been back at Aunt Manie’s house in her pajamas, eating ice cream and watching a rerun of Diagnosis Murder.

  And darn it, it still wasn’t too late. She was on her feet, ready to go collect her things and slip away, when she saw Hank headed her way. Still standing, she looked around uncertainly, wondering if she should get him another glass of champagne to replace the one he’d left on the table, which had to be warm and flat by now.

  A smile already forming, she jammed her feet into her shoes in case he asked her to dance. And then she saw him pause at the next table. He said something to the woman in pink, held out his hand, and the two of them merged onto the dance floor without even glancing in Callie’s direction.

  Well…shoot. Half standing, half crouching, she watched her Prince Not-So-Charming waltz off with the Cinderella in hot pink, then dropped back into her chair, torn between relief and disappointment. Impulsively she downed the glass of champagne she had yet to touch, because she never drank alcohol. And then, in a fit of rebellion, she downed the other glass as well, and waited for Armageddon.

  Nothing happened except that she belched. Covering her mouth, she glanced around to see if the assistant librarian named Susan had noticed.

  She hadn’t, all her attention being focused on a handsome, gray-eyed gentle
man who was making his way toward what Callie had come to think of as the wallflower garden.

  She belched again and moisture filmed her entire body. Imported champagne evidently packed a potent punch. Her eyes felt as if they were crossed.

  “Excuse me, would you care to dance?”

  She glanced up too quickly, which made her head reel. “Who, me?” Which was gauche, even for her.

  “You’re Hank’s date, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head, then took a deep breath to steady herself and said with all the dignity of a drunken undertaker, “You’re mistaken. Mr. Langley is my employer. I’m here in the casapity—that is, the capacity—of an, er—um…”

  “Guest,” the man put in smoothly. He led her out onto the dance floor. Too bemused to resist, Callie followed him. Her feet felt numb. It couldn’t be the two glasses of champagne, even though she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Alcohol didn’t work that quickly, did it?

  “We haven’t been introduced, but I’m Sterling Churchill, a friend of Hank’s.”

  “Oh. I’m—”

  “Callie. Miss Manie’s also a good friend of mine.”

  There were roughly a hundred questions Callie wanted to ask, but with her tongue feeling almost as numb as her feet, she didn’t dare. Instead she contented herself to drift around the crowded dance floor in the arms of a handsome stranger.

  He was a wonderful dancer. So smooth, in fact, that she floated along without once thinking about her feet, which she couldn’t feel, anyway. And she’d thought she couldn’t dance?

  Mercy, she was good, she was really good. If Hank ever got around to asking her out onto the floor, she’d just show him a thing or two. She hoped he was watching her.

  Leaning back, she studied the face of the attractive stranger who was gazing over her head as if he were a million miles away. He looked so sad. Bitter? No, sad, she decided, and then with a recklessness that was totally unlike her, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.