The Book Babes Boxed Set (Texas Ties/Texas Troubles/Texas Together)

by Jean Brashear

  “You.”

  Her startled glance whipped to his. “Me?” She frowned. “What do I have to do with it?”

  “I’ll need your help sometimes.”

  “Mine? How?”

  “I get called out, and I won’t always be able to take him with me. I’ll need you to keep him sometimes. And I may have to go out of town, as well.”

  “But…I live in an apartment off a busy street. I have no yard.”

  “He’s crate training, and maybe you could come out here sometimes. Stay with him when I’m gone and keep his training going.”

  “Why would you have to leave?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Nosy much?”

  Flustered, she glanced away. “Of course not.”

  He hoped to be able to contact his brother soon.

  But he wasn’t ready to tell anyone about it yet. “If you refuse to help me, I’m sure Candy will. Or I can just adopt him out.”

  “No—that is, I—I’ve got a busy schedule, but surely we can work something out. I’m willing to try.” She frowned. “Would you ever consider keeping him?”

  Of course he would. Already had. But he wasn’t the one who needed this dog. “I have a dog.”

  “But…” She shook her head. “Well, anyway, do we need to set up a schedule or something?”

  What you need to do is relax.

  What he needed to do was have her under him for hours, until he lost this insane craving.

  But they were talking about the puppy. “How about we play it by ear? You come out this evening and see his environment, then we’ll go from there.”

  Even white teeth nibbled at that lower lip he wanted to slick his tongue over.

  And so much more.

  “I, um…how much longer will you be here tonight?”

  He smiled inwardly. “Maybe another hour. I have files to dictate.”

  “I, um, could pick up pizza or something. Change my clothes.”

  “Or you could cook with me. Much healthier.”

  “I don’t cook.”

  “Fortunately, I do. Bring a bottle of red, and I’ll give you two lessons for one.”

  The pup ambled over and sniffed at her shoes, then whimpered to be picked up.

  She bent down. Her skirt rode up, revealing a length of thigh that had him beseeching the heavens for mercy. With supreme effort, he kept his eye on the prize. “See you in an hour?” He took the puppy from her.

  She released him reluctantly.

  Leverage. He was a bad man to use an innocent animal to tempt a woman he had no business getting involved with.

  “Okay. An hour.” She turned to go.

  Lost in admiration of that sweet backside swinging as her natural catwalk stride moved away, Michael grinned.

  But being bad could be so rewarding.

  * * *

  The cold rain dampened Ellie’s spirits almost as much as her uncertainty about facing Saxon again. How did she explain that one disturbing moment of awareness of him at the very moment Wyatt had kissed her?

  She’d come within inches of canceling her lesson; she still might. But she had to do it face to face. Even if Saxon had a phone, she still couldn’t take the coward’s way out. And as she stood on the sidewalk, the chill seeping into her bones, she thought longingly of the stolen hours of pleasure within—the smell of turpentine, the explosion of color, the blissful loss of time awareness as she concentrated on making a painting come alive under her hands.

  She was acting like a ninny. Saxon had done nothing, said nothing untoward. He’d been patient with Sam’s stories and Christy’s adoration. He’d watched football with the rest of them and been as congenial as she’d ever seen him.

  You’re imagining things, Ellie. This is all in your head. You love your husband. He loves you. You’re only here to paint.

  Besides, Saxon would never look twice at a mouse like Ellie Preston.

  Even if she wanted him to.

  Which she didn’t.

  Shivering at the wet jeans plastered against her legs, Ellie quieted her mind and knocked on the studio door.

  To her surprise, it opened immediately. Saxon’s forehead wrinkled as he took in her appearance. He pulled her inside with one big hand. “You’re soaked. Where’s your umbrella? How far away did you have to park?” Still holding onto her arm, he drew her over in front of the space heater valiantly struggling to heat the huge, open area.

  Ellie couldn’t speak yet, but he didn’t seem to notice. Over his shoulder he snapped out orders. “Take off those wet things. I’ll find you something to warm you.” Taking the steps to his loft two at a time, he soon reappeared with a quilt.

  Ellie watched him, frozen. A plain white t-shirt peeked from the V-neck of his pale blue pullover sweater, the sleeves pushed up over his muscled forearms with their light dusting of golden hair. The blue only made his eyes more striking.

  He stopped right in front of her, holding out the quilt. “Why haven’t you taken off those wet jeans?”

  Heart pounding, Ellie met his gaze. “I don’t think—” She shook her head. “They’re not that wet.”

  Saxon held her gaze for a long, silent moment, his look indecipherable. “I won’t hurt you, Ellie.”

  Not on purpose, maybe. But he was too…present. Too…powerful. Too real—so real she took a step backward, turning toward the heater and holding out her hands.

  Her jeans felt miserable, and they’d take hours to dry. But there was no way she could remove them. “I’m fine.” Just then a shiver wracked her frame.

  “Ellie.” He spoke from behind her, his arms encircling her as he wrapped her in the quilt. “Don’t be foolish.”

  The sensation shook her. She pulled out of his arms, holding onto the quilt. Another shiver raced through her, this time one she couldn’t pin on the cold.

  What would Ava do? Or Sylvie?

  Sylvie. That was it. She’d put on Sylvie’s most glacial demeanor. Ellie drew herself up, picturing Sylvie’s best Ice Queen pose, and turned to face him.

  A quick flash of vulnerability crossed his features, replaced in an instant by a scowl.

  Sylvie would be unaffected. Ellie lifted her chin. “I don’t have much time today. I’d better get started.” She was moving past him when his hand shot out to grasp her arm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  All hope of pulling off Sylvie fled. Her best shot might be changing the subject. “It’s—I guess it’s just the holidays.” As she spoke, she realized that was at least partly true. “I don’t know if we’ll make it through one more with Sam still believing in Santa Claus, and I hate thinking of Christy off in the dorm instead of baking cookies and decorating the tree with us.” A leaden weight settled back on her heart. She could paint until doomsday, and it still wouldn’t change the fact that she wasn’t ready for her world to be so altered.

  His grip loosened slightly. The gentle tone continued, “You have a good family.”

  Ellie blinked back tears. “I know.”

  His hand fell away. “Listen, I, uh…it was nice of you to include me on Thanksgiving. I don’t usually celebrate holidays.”

  “Are you serious? Why not?”

  Saxon shrugged. “Just not worth it.” The frown line was back. “A waste of time. I need to be panting.”

  “But, Saxon—” She broke off, realizing she didn’t know enough about him. “What about your family?”

  “There’s not any.”

  “None?” She saw his expression harden. “I’m sorry—it’s not my place to ask.”

  Saxon turned and walked away. “No big deal. If you won’t take dry clothes, want some hot tea?”

  She ignored him, focused on what she knew how to do. What she’d do for any friend in need. “You can’t be alone at Christmas, Saxon. Come be with us.”

  “It’s just a day, no different from any other.” He busied himself putting a very old tea kettle on the hot plate sitting on an equally beat-up table. “I’ll be fine.”

 
“My family wouldn’t mind.”

  He looked amused. “Your oldest son would.”

  She felt her face grow warm and damned her fair skin. “Davy’s…protective.”

  “Your kids are great. Sam’s a funny little guy. I didn’t get much time with the others, but Christy’s bright. Pretty, too.”

  That same discomfort from Thanksgiving shot through her. She remembered their heads close together, the horrifying moment of envy that Christy was free to—

  “My daughter’s special, but she’s impressionable,” she warned.

  “Christy’s a nice girl.” He raised his head from his perusal of the kettle, the blue of his eyes piercing her skin. His voice went whisper-quiet and intense.

  “But it’s her mother who’s special.”

  Suddenly, the air around Ellie went thin. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and a queer tremble shook her bones. Her awareness humming with a sense that she was standing on a precipice, Ellie couldn’t make herself break the gaze.

  As though she looked down from a height she’d never imagined scaling, the icy breath of exhilaration whispered across nerves strung taut. For one sweet, singing moment, Ellie let an utterly implausible, dangerous fantasy right past her always-level head.

  And into her dreamer’s heart.

  When the tea kettle shrilled, Ellie started as though she’d been shot. Saxon turned toward the burner, and Ellie dropped the quilt on a nearby chair, prepared to run.

  Then the old Saxon suddenly reappeared as though she’d imagined the other. “You don’t have much time left.” He shoved the mug into her hand, his voice gruff. “I’m going out. If I’m not back before you have to go, here’s a key.” He dug in his jeans pocket and dropped the key in her palm.

  Her mind still trying to catch up, Ellie closed a fist around it. “What—where do I leave it?”

  He was already halfway to the door. “Just keep it. You might need to let yourself in the next time.”

  “But—” It was too late. He was out the door, barely pausing to grab his old scarred leather jacket.

  Legs gone weak, Ellie sank into the chair beside her, cradling the mug in hands turned cold as ice.

  * * *

  “So there, Coltrane,” Ava exulted at her computer screen, leaning way back in her chair, hands thrust toward the ceiling, stretching in satisfaction. “I knew you couldn’t hold out forever.”

  She swiveled her chair toward the window of her second-floor office. Rain dripped from leaves of the live oaks covering her yard. Lifting the mug of coffee to her lips, she smiled, relaxed after a good morning’s output.

  She could hear the phone ringing from downstairs. If she were still writing, she’d ignore it, but right now she felt magnanimous. She picked up the portable beside her desk and flipped it on. “Hello?”

  “Not writing?” Her agent Dorian.

  Ava chuckled. “Celebrating.”

  “Finished already?”

  “No, but I’m close. Coltrane just met his Waterloo.”

  “Poor sap. Never trust a woman.”

  “If he hadn’t been so much trouble, I wouldn’t have had to put the hammer down on him so hard.”

  “Tami Hoag once said Lucky Doucet gave her more trouble than all her other heroes combined.”

  “Ah, Lucky’s Lady. One of my favorites. A man well worth a spot of trouble. But you wouldn’t call this early to chat.”

  “I might. We’ve got snow coming again this weekend. You could be all that keeps me from going out my window.”

  Dorian Halliday hated the cold. Always had. But she swore her effectiveness depended upon living in Manhattan. About every two weeks during the winter, however, she threatened to head south and retire.

  Ava knew she wasn’t the only one of Dorian’s clients who couldn’t bear to think of that happening. Dorian was that rare agent who had savvy and heart in equal measure. In a business that only the toughest survived, Dorian had somehow managed to retain a hold on her basic decency yet still make the toughest deals.

  “Throw away those Florida brochures, Dorian. Right now. Into the trashcan.”

  Dorian laughed. “When you hear the latest, you’re going to buy the condo for me.”

  Ava frowned. “That bad?”

  “That good. Nicole Kidman is interested in film rights for The Vigil. The word is getting out. We’re going to auction, Ava.”

  She blinked. Forgot how to breathe. “Oh, God.” Auction. On her book. Plain old Ava Sinclair from Austin, Texas. Most recent occupation: wife and mother.

  On her second mainstream book. After three years of trying to get published, another five taking crap as she tried to satisfy her first publisher, her dream was at hand. She set the mug down and wrapped her free arm around her midsection. “What does that mean, Dorian?”

  “It means your whole life is about to change. Just as you wanted.”

  “And a whole lot of pressure.” She’d heard the stories from writer friends.

  “You can handle pressure. You’re a tough cookie.”

  She hoped so. “What happens first?”

  “First, Acropolis wants to bump your promo budget for Dark Night. And they want you in New York for a video tour and meetings with sales reps plus some reader events in several cities. They want to get the jump on the buzz for The Vigil.”

  “But they didn’t exercise their option.”

  “They’re regretting that. They want back in the game.”

  “You were right.”

  “I know.” Dorian’s voice held a tinge of the I told you so she probably wanted to say. Ava had been terrified to go elsewhere and not wait for her current publisher, even though the option period had expired. Dorian had believed in her from the first and said Acropolis would regret it.

  Then Dorian’s earlier words sank in. “New York? Plus five cities?”

  “Three weeks. Beginning in early February.”

  Her anniversary was in February. “Where?”

  “The schedule’s not firmed up yet, but it looks like they’re running the gamut.”

  Three weeks. She and Tom hadn’t been separated three weeks at one stretch, ever. “What if I don’t want to go?”

  Dorian’s voice went tight. “I’m delivering what I promised, Ava. You said you wanted to go all the way. I told you the talent was there and I’d make it happen.”

  It was too much to take in all at once. “Dorian, if I hang up now and call you back in a few minutes, will you repeat all of this to me?”

  Her agent laughed. “Sort of like the first sale, isn’t it? As if someone just knocked the breath out of you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s happening, Ava. I told you it would, if you’d just be patient. Most writers live and die without getting this shot, but for you, it’s only beginning.” She chuckled. “Go back to writing. Or call Tom. Or throw open the windows and scream. Just call me later when you’re ready to talk details.”

  “I think I just forgot how to write.”

  “Like riding a bicycle. You’ll remember.”

  “Oh, goodness, Dorian—this new book has to be perfect. And I want to go back over The Vigil. Don’t let anyone see it yet, okay? Call Nicole Kidman’s company and—”

  “Ava, put your head down between your knees and breathe deeply. It’s going to be all right. You can handle this. You raised kids, for chrissake. Blood and throwing up and stuff.”

  A crevasse had just opened up under her feet. She had to call Tom. He’d help her put this in perspective.

  “Ava?”

  “I’m here. It’s just—”

  Dorian laughed. “I know. Heady stuff. Go celebrate. Tomorrow is soon enough to talk business. Bye, Ava.”

  “Wait—Dorian, wait—”

  “What?”

  Ava drew in a deep breath. “Just—thank you. For everything. For believing and never giving up. For seeing me better than I could see myself. I—” Her throat tightened, and she felt the prick of tears. “You’re the best, Dori
an. The very best. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Dorian’s voice held a suspicious tremble itself. “I’ll hold off on looking at condos for awhile. This is just the beginning, Ava Sinclair. You’re going all the way.” Then her tough-as-nails agent cleared her throat. “Now get off this phone and call Tom.”

  Tom. Ohmigod. Three weeks. An auction. Too much. Too freakin’ much.

  “Yes, ma’am. Dorian, I mean it. Thank you is too puny.”

  “It will do for now. I’ll hit you up for the condo down payment later. Congratulations, Ava. This is my favorite part of the job. Bye now.” She hung up.

  Ava barely remembered to click the Off button. She stared out the window, her thoughts whirling, her stomach doing somersaults.

  Then she laid down the portable and stood up.

  And threw open the window and shrieked.

  After an endless, trembling moment, she picked up the phone and dialed. “Tom? Oh, thank God. You can’t imagine what just happened.”

  * * *

  Tom glanced around the conference room, wondering why he’d agreed to come to this party. He would do the requisite networking as quickly as possible, then get the hell out of Dodge and back home to celebrate with Ava.

  An auction of her book. Nicole Kidman wanting to buy the film rights. It was incredible, and no one deserved it more.

  Her life would change now, all of it. His, too, he guessed. She was afraid of that, he could tell. He’d tried to tell her that an anniversary was only a date on the calendar, but she was still worried.

  If he were honest, so was he. Was he ready to become Mr. Ava Sinclair? He’d never thought of himself as the slightest bit sexist, but the concern was still there. It was her turn, though. He’d had the limelight for a long time. So maybe his love was going to be a late bloomer; he could support her career as much as she had his.

  “Tom, I’m surprised you’re here instead of celebrating with Ava,” Luisa said, coming up beside him. “Is that fantastic or what? Our Ava, famous!” Her eyes glowed, her smile wide.

  “I’m only here out of good manners. As quickly as possible, I’m headed home to take her out to toast a well-deserved break.”

  “Isn’t it, though? She’s worked so hard and been so determined. I’ve never seen anyone with such stamina.”