The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  Oh frabjous day, her father and a former lover all in one Monday. “Ah . . . I don’t think so.”

  Lucy looked suspiciously at Robin. “Why are you making that face?”

  “What face?”

  “That face.”

  “There is no face.”

  It was obvious Lucy believed there was a face. There were a lot of things the old girl knew about Robin, but her affair with Evan was not one of them. In his position as chief operating officer, Evan was her father’s most trusted man—his loyalty to the company was unquestionable and he was very good at what he did. His was a classic rags-to-riches story—he graduated from The University of Texas in Austin and started by selling freight carriers to businesses. That’s how he met Dad and came to LTI. From there, he worked his way up, making LTI extremely profitable and himself rich in the process—Robin had heard the golden boy’s story enough times from Dad to know.

  It happened that Evan was also a very handsome man in addition to being smart, and Robin could not help the attraction she had developed during her four-year stint with her father in New York.

  But it wasn’t until she had talked Dad into opening the Houston offices and had moved back to Texas that the affair had begun. At a corporate meeting in Dallas, she had flirted, Evan had taken the bait, and the rest was the ancient history of inconspicuous dating, which had gone on until Robin began to realize that good looks did not necessarily mean interesting.

  When he began to hint around about their relationship taking a more serious and permanent bent, Robin had balked outright and had bowed out under the pretense of work. There probably could have been a little more finesse on her part, but still, it did not end too terribly badly, she supposed, given that Evan promised her— “for the sake of the company” —that he would not make it uncomfortable for her.

  Unfortunately, she clearly made it uncomfortable for him without even trying. She didn’t mean to do it, but every time she saw him, he looked at her with cow eyes and would ask, in that quiet, we-have-a-secret voice, “How are you?”

  That was exactly the reason why, in the midst of another failed relationship in London, Robin had promised herself to never, ever, dip her pen in the company ink again.

  “HUL-LO-OH!” Lucy all but shouted.

  “What?” Robin exclaimed, startled.

  “You drifted into Robin-land,” Lucy said with a snort and popped up out of her chair. “I’ve got some stuff for you to sign. I’ll be back.” As Lucy went out, Robin picked up her phone and phoned Guillermo, the sales rep at the Rio Grande Valley freight yard.

  “Hey, Miss Lear, how are you?” he asked cheerfully when she got him on the phone.

  “Good. Listen, I had a call from Mr. Herrera yesterday from Valley Produce? He’s a little agitated. He says we are delivering spoiled product.”

  “Yes ma’am, we are,” Guillermo said matter-of-factly. “It’s those refrigeration units we got on the trucks. They don’t work for crap, pardon my French, and it seems like every time one goes out, it’s his freight we got on there.”

  “What refrigeration units?”

  “The refrigeration units! With all due respect, Miss Lear, I told you about this before Christmas. See, the coils, they’re not working like they should. It’s a short in the—”

  “Guillermo, I don’t remember anything about coils,” Robin said sternly.

  “Sure, don’t you remember? When we had that holiday party in Padre, I was telling you about the coils.”

  Robin was suddenly struck with the memory of Guillermo holding a longneck in one hand, a half-eaten monster turkey leg in the other, which he used to emphasize his monologue about coils and refrigeration units . . . and something in there about the average lifespan of a head of lettuce. Robin groaned. “Yes, I remember that, but I didn’t realize at the time you were telling me there was a problem—it was a holiday party, for Chrissakes!”

  “Well, sure, Miss Lear. That’s why I called you the next week.”

  Oh.

  Right.

  She had been on her way to London and had stacked Guillermo’s message to call along with all the others she’d decided could wait. Of course, she’d expected to return in two weeks time, but then again, she hadn’t counted on meeting Nigel. That idiot savant had cost her two extra weeks—

  “. . . so I told him, it’s all at corporate, but sure, go ahead and call. And he did.”

  “What? Did what?” she demanded.

  “Called. Mr. Iverson. He ordered all new units. We should get them in today, have ‘em installed by the end of next week.”

  Fabulous. All she needed was to have Evan cleaning up this little mess for her. She punched a key on her computer—the e-mail screen popped right up. “Okay, thanks, Guillermo,” she said, and winced at the e-mail from Evan, Valley Produce refrigeration units. Her head was beginning to hurt.

  Robin glanced again at the stack of pink phone messages. Jacob Manning’s number was a cell phone; he picked it up on the third ring. “Manning here.”

  Having exchanged no less than fifteen phone tags with him, the sound of his voice actually startled Robin. “Oh! Uh . . . Mr. Manning, this is Robin Lear.”

  “Hey, good to hear from you.”

  Speaking of hearing, he certainly had a nice silky voice, Robin thought absently. “Listen, thanks for sending your estimate so quickly for the work on my house. I like all that you suggested.”

  “Great. You’ve got a nice place.”

  “Thanks. I just have a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  Yes, a very nice voice. “I calculate this work to be about forty dollars a square foot, is that right?”

  “Sounds about right—”

  “I had other bids for the same work that came in much lower than that.” That was really a teeny-tiny lie—she’d actually had only one other bid.

  Mr. Manning said nothing at first, then chuckled softly, a sound that sent a quick and curious shiver down Robin’s spine. “I’ll just bet you did, Ms. Lear. But if you want a quality job, you’re going to have to pay for it.”

  Well, wasn’t that just a typical male response? “Really?” Robin asked in her shy, I’m-just-a-woman voice. “And do you think I should have to pay as much as ten dollars more per square foot than any other expert in renovations? Perhaps you didn’t notice, but it’s just a house, Mr. Manning, not the Galleria.”

  “Well, now, Robin, even I can see that it’s not the Galleria,” he said, the amusement irritatingly evident in his deep voice. “In fact, I’d bet I’ve seen more of that house than you have in the last few days, and I can assure you, it is just a house. Now, if you don’t want to pay for the work I propose to do, I understand. Not everyone does. Won’t hurt my feelings one bit if you decide to go with someone ten dollars a square foot cheaper—it’s your call.”

  His remark took her aback, but not nearly as much as the casual slip of her first name, which sounded, much to her surprise, incredibly sexy from his lips. With a shake of her head to clear it, Robin demanded, “What about materials? How can I be assured the materials are the quality I’m paying a premium for?”

  “You can inspect everything I bring into your house.”

  “Receipts?”

  “I’ll copy you on everything I do.”

  “And consult me if there is any change to your proposal?”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed. “Are you going to want to pick the colors, too?”

  The question was so ludicrous that Robin was left momentarily speechless.

  “It’s a joke,” he said in that voice.

  “I knew that!” she lied. “I need this work to be done right away and finished quickly. I suppose I could see my way to your cost if I could have your guarantee that you can start this week. How long will it take you to complete?”

  Mr. Manning laughed. “Do you always bounce from one extreme to the other like that? There for a minute I thought you were going to fire me before you
even hired me.”

  Robin rolled her eyes heavenward. “Did you say how long?”

  “You need to understand that this sort of work takes time. And once I get under that old paint, if there is any sort of abatement that needs to be done, you can count on two extra weeks at a minimum. That’s an old house you’re in there, Robin. It’s not going to be a six-week job, I can tell you that, not with what you want done to the bathrooms and kitchen. Not to mention the other work I’ve got going on, too. Let’s see . . .” Robin could hear a tapping sound. “We’re looking at two months, easy. Maybe three.”

  “Three months!” she exclaimed. “But I can’t live like that for three months. Is there anything you can do to readjust your schedule?”

  His laughter was full and very rich—Robin could just picture him, probably an older gentleman, gray at the temples, wearing a crisp white shirt and sitting in his luxury sedan—

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m being honest with you—this is not going to go quick. You want a start of this week?” The tapping again. “I can rearrange a couple of things, I guess, but Thursday is the soonest I can get started. I sent a contract with the bid to your attorney. Let me know if there’s anything you want to change. Once that’s signed, we’ve got us a deal. Appreciate the business and we’ll talk soon.”

  The connection was suddenly dead.

  Surprised, Robin held the receiver out from her head and looked at it. Well, at least his reputation was excellent—she had called four references and they had all raved about the quality of his work. She supposed she ought to be happy that she had managed to get him at all, much less get him to agree to start this week—

  “Robin.”

  She started at the sound of Evan’s voice; she hadn’t even heard the door open. But there he was, half in, half out. Robin put the receiver down, suddenly embarrassed that she had avoided him so completely since her return from London.

  “Hello, Evan,” she said, motioning him forward, and watched him walk in without actually looking at him. He was still as handsome as ever, his blond hair perfectly trimmed, his jaw clean shaven. And as usual, his style impeccable—from the crisp knot of his silk tie to the perfect pleats of his gray suit pants.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you before I leave for Dallas.”

  “Not a problem,” she lied and stood, gesturing for him to sit. “Want some coffee?”

  He shook his head, sat uneasily in the chair she had indicated. Robin made herself come around to sit next to him. “Sorry I didn’t stop in earlier. Lots of calls,” she said, motioning vaguely at her desk.

  “You look great,” he said.

  Her self-conscious smile burned. “Uh, thanks . . . so what’s up?”

  “I was hoping we could do lunch—”

  “Well, I—”

  “But you look buried,” Evan quickly interjected with a shrug. His perfectly manicured hands fidgeted unconsciously with the bottom of his tie. Robin folded her hands in her lap.

  “I just needed to talk with you before I talk to Aaron.”

  “Aaron?”

  Evan looked at her fully then, a slight frown on his face. “We lost the Valley Produce account. Herrera has gone to American Motorfreight. He told me this morning.”

  The news stunned her. How could they lose the account? She hadn’t even spoken to Herrera yet! “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding, Robin. Herrera was our biggest Texas account. And one of our oldest. He’s been with your dad since he started up.”

  Yes, yes, she was aware of that, and nodded in complete agreement, but Evan’s frown just deepened. “Robin, you lost that account.”

  “Me?” she exclaimed in surprise, but the twinge of guilt had already started to pierce her conscience.

  “You’ve spent too much time looking for a big fish—”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I thought the object was to strive for the new and very big accounts, Evan, the ones that ship tons of freight—”

  “The object is to take care of your customers.”

  Ouch. “I hope you are not lecturing me,” she said defensively. “And you don’t need to talk to Dad for me. I am perfectly capable of telling him that we lost the account.”

  “I know you are capable, but let’s not forget that I run this pop stand. I let you handle the valley accounts, just like you asked before you took off for London—”

  “I did not take off—”

  “Whatever. I’m just saying that Aaron is going to want an answer from me, too.”

  Robin fought the urge to squirm in her chair. “All right, it’s my fault,” she admitted reluctantly. “I didn’t realize what it was Guillermo was telling me, and then I was gone for a month—”

  “Five weeks, but who’s counting? Anyway, what’s done is done,” Evan said, then stood abruptly, shoved his hands into his pocket as he walked to the windows. “I’m going to fly to Harlingen tomorrow and talk to Herrera, but I don’t think it will do any good. Now listen, Aaron will know immediately that this was something that should have been easily handled. Don’t bullshit him.”

  As if she needed to be reminded. “I’ll call Dad right now.” She stood, swiped her coffee cup off her desk, and marched to the wet bar to pour another.

  “Still drinking too much coffee?” he asked, his voice noticeably lighter.

  “I guess,” she said and dumped three sugars into her cup. She stirred her coffee slowly, aware of the silence filling the space between them. After what seemed an eternity, she heard Evan move behind her.

  “I’m going back to Dallas this afternoon,” he said, standing directly behind her. There was that thing in his voice, that uncomfortable sound of longing. Robin did not turn around, but simply nodded, waiting. Evan sighed. “I’ll talk to you soon, all right?”

  When Robin turned around, he had gone.

  She stood at the wet bar for several long moments, staring at the door before finally, slowly, returning to her desk.

  The phone message, on which the receptionist had written CALL YOUR FATHER AT THE RANCH IMMEDIATELY, was staring up at her. Damn.

  Dad picked up the phone on the first ring. “Hello?” he said anxiously.

  “Hey, Dad, it’s me.”

  “Robbie! Good God, does the word immediately mean anything to you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days now!”

  “I was out yesterday with Mia. You remember her—”

  “I asked that you call me when you came in. Did you just come in?”

  Robin suppressed a groan. “Dad, I had some other calls to return. Listen, I know why you’re calling, and—”

  “No, Robin Elaine, you don’t. I need you to come to the ranch.”

  “Uh . . . to the ranch?” That was most definitely not in her plans. “Gee, Dad, I don’t think I can make it right now.”

  “Rebecca and Rachel are coming, too,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Bec is going to pick up Rachel in Dallas this morning and then they are driving down. You can get here tonight if you leave before rush hour—”

  “Dad!” Robin exclaimed, laughing nervously at his sudden determination to see his daughters. “I can’t just up and come to the ranch—”

  “Why the hell not?” he barked, then made a strange sound. “Robbie, listen,” he said, his voice hoarse and soft, “there is something I need to tell you, but I can’t do it over the phone. I need you to come here.”

  That sobered her—her father was demanding, but not the sort to make anxious demands, unless . . . unless something was awfully wrong. “Has something happened?” she asked quickly.

  “Yes. No. Well, is happening.”

  “What?” she asked, unconsciously curling her hand into a fist, steeling herself. “Is it Mom? Did something happen to Mom?”

  “Oh baby, no, your mom is fine,” he said softly and sighed wearily. “God, Robbie, I don’t believe it myself, but . . . it’s me.”

  Chapter Two

/>   The entrance to the Lear family ranch—massive limestone pillars framing iron gates, an overarching frieze of cattle and crosses with the name Blue Cross Ranch scripted in the middle—had stood open since Aaron and Bonnie arrived two weeks ago.

  The event was remarked by the locals in and around the town of Comfort, Texas, and every so often, one of them would be curious enough to drive through the gates for a friendly look around. The caliche road, marked by cattle guards, wended through mesquite trees and old live oaks with branches so long and low that they formed a canopy for long stretches. To the right and left of the road, 1,500 head of cattle and about 500 sheep grazed on the green, hilly landscape. In the spring, bluebonnets, buttercups, and Indian paintbrush grew so thick that it looked as if the cattle slept on a bed of flowers.

  Eventually, the road widened and a dozen gaslights lined the last 100 yards or so to the ranch house, which was nestled in the shadows of the long, twisting limbs of the live oaks along the banks of the Guadalupe River. Slung long and wide, the house was a two-story limestone, marked with an abundance of windows so that no vista was left unframed. A wide veranda stretched endlessly around the structure, dotted with wicker furniture, green ferns, and whitewashed porch swings. In the small front yard stood an old iron kettle, filled with antique roses that matched those planted along the railing of the porch. A century-old boot scrape and horse tether stood next to the path leading to the flagstone skirt spread around the entrance to the porch.

  Robin had seen this house a million times, but today, as she coasted into the circular drive at dusk, she thought it looked strangely hollow—the setting sun reflected on the second floor windows, giving the house orange eyes and a gaping black mouth where the front door stood open.

  As she climbed out of her car and gathered her things, she could see the familiar shapes of her sisters rise from two wicker chairs and move across the porch, Rachel distinguished from Rebecca by the wild curl of her long hair and the glowing tip of her cigarette. Rebecca, sleek and slender, had her hair pulled back—she was the first one to come off the porch, walking gracefully but purposefully.