by Julia London
Which left Rebecca with some time to hone her Internet skills. Heretofore, her forays onto the World Wide Web hadn’t been many. Not that she was completely isolated from it—she used it for e-mail like the rest of the world, and she shopped online from Neiman Marcus (God, did she miss that store). She was determined to find some coherent information about strip mining and politics before tomorrow. Because tomorrow, Tom was having a meeting in his new campaign offices, and she’d be damned if she was going to show up without giving Matt Parrish a little something to think about.
Rebecca would bet her entire net worth that she’d met all the exasperatingly arrogant men she could possibly meet in a lifetime, but that guy had to take the cake. She was determined to find a way to rub that smirk right off his face, and visualized, per Track Four, doing just that. With her bare hands. Rambo-style.
Seated in her big square kitchen, she glanced up over her laptop and saw Jo Lynn marching across the lawn, Grayson and the dogs trailing earnestly behind. They clomped up the back porch steps and into the kitchen; Grayson immediately headed for the refrigerator and a box of juice. Jo Lynn helped him climb onto a stool at the kitchen island before wandering over to where Rebecca was working. She peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. “Whatcha doing?”
“Looking for some information about strip mining and environmental concerns.”
“Sounds like something my mama would do. She always had a curiosity about things, you know? She was so curious, you know, she ran off with the circus.”
“Your mom is in the circus?” Grayson gasped.
“No, honey,” Rebecca laughed. “Jo Lynn’s mom didn’t run away with a circus,” she said with all authority, then looked uncertainly at Jo Lynn. “Did she?”
“Of course not!” Jo Lynn grinned, her dentures stark white against her leathery skin. “That’s just what my grandma used to tell us kids to make us feel better,” she explained as she walked toward the back door, where she paused, looking absently out the screen door. “I suspect she was trying to put a little lipstick on that pig, ‘cause I know for a fact it was just a carnival—you think Barnum and Bailey ever came to Ruby Falls?” She laughed, shook her head as she pushed the screen door open and marched through it. “Grayson, you take good care of them dogs, now!” she called as she bounded down the steps, leaving Grayson and Rebecca to gape at her as she cranked up the golf cart she used to travel the thatch of blackjack oak between their houses.
A half hour later, with Grayson napping in his race car bed, Rebecca was on page sixteen of the seemingly endless list of Web sites devoted to either the benefits or detriments of strip mining. Yet in pages and pages of Web sites and reference links, there was one thing that was so conspicuous that it might as well have been an elephant standing in her kitchen. Strip mining was not, apparently, a major problem in Texas. It was a problem in one spot near Austin about which Texas Monthly had reported.
How big of a moron could one person be? She’d have to say about five feet ten inches and one hundred and thirty divorce-skinny pounds, because that horrible devil of a man was right. So much for her inarguable stance on protecting natural habitats. Rebecca buried her face in her hands: she had no business being in this group of campaign people, absolutely none. But no way was she turning back now—she’d turned back all her life, and this time, she was pushing forward, because this gig had too much riding on it for her.
Rebecca went to the fridge, opened it wide, and stood, staring blindly at the contents. She could not erase the image of one supreme, holier-than-thou, smiling Matt Popinjay when she reported back that maybe strip mining wasn’t such a big deal after all. Frankly, she’d rather be tossed into a murky hole of water and eaten by piranhas, or whatever it was they did on those reality TV shows, but she was not going to let that pompous ass intimidate her.
Rebecca slammed the fridge door shut without taking anything out and marched back to her computer, sat hard, glaring at Google as if it was that thing’s fault, and punched in TEXAS POLITICS.
Unqualified Applicant Rule 8: Never let them see you cry.
Chapter Eight
IGNORAMUS, n. A person unacquainted with certain kinds of knowledge familiar to yourself, and haying certain other kinds that you know nothing about . . .
THE DEVIL’S DICTIONARY
Positive Affirmations of My Life:
1.Google.com
2.Jo Lynn
3.I am not, nor have I ever been, as pompous as Mr. Big Pants (must find alternative source for insult vocab other than Cartoon Network)
As it turned out, the next day dawned gloriously brilliant, and Rebecca happily sucked the early spring air into her lungs during her predawn moment of becoming one with nature. This day was exactly the type the book, A Brand-New Day: Starting Up and Starting Over, said was perfect for fostering attacks on new challenges.
Later that afternoon, with the newly named Frank lying at the foot of her bed and Bean lying half under it, she dressed in black slacks, a sleeveless sky blue sweater, and matching black and blue checkered sandals (having determined that in Austin, Chanel suits were perhaps a bit overstated, unless one was someone really important, like Sandra Bullock). After ushering the dogs outside, Rebecca popped into her Range Rover and hummed cheerfully along to her Modern Mozart as she sped down the two-lane road. Beside her was a brand-new ultra-chic briefcase, which was, for once, holding something besides a lipstick, a pen, and a blank notebook. In the back was a cardboard box stuffed with some surprises for the campaign staff and the new campaign offices.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Little Maverick Preschool just as Grayson appeared with his enormous backpack. Head down, he walked in that determined way of his to the Range Rover and climbed inside to his car seat.
“Hey, kiddo,” Rebecca said, reaching back to help him with his seat belt. “How was your day?”
“Okay.” He looked out the window.
“So what did you do today?”
“I pushed Taylor down,” he said, as if that was as commonplace as nap time; which, alarmingly, it was fast becoming.
“Grayson!” she exclaimed. “I told you not to push him down!”
“I know,” Grayson said, shrugging. “But he said my dad isn’t really my dad.”
“What do you mean, your dad isn’t really your dad?”
“Taylor said that isn’t my dad on the radio,” Grayson repeated, looking up at her with Bud’s hazel eyes.
Unfortunately, having handed the first three or four years of his life to a nanny, her maternal skills were far less honed than her maternal instincts, but her instincts said this squabble with Taylor was growing into something much bigger than a playground thing. “I don’t care what Taylor says about anything, Grayson Andrew. If you push him down again, I will bend you over my knee and spank you like I’ve never spanked you before, do you understand?”
“But you’ve never spanked me, Mom.”
“That is beside the point, young man! Do you understand what I am telling you?”
He nodded, rubbed his hand across his nose. “He is my dad,” he muttered.
“Of course he is your dad. You know it, I know it. It doesn’t matter what Taylor thinks, okay?”
Grayson lolled his head against the car seat.
She glared at him a second longer (fat lot of good glaring did in the bigger scheme of things, really), and handed him a pack of Batman Gummy Bears. Grayson eagerly worked the package open as she pulled out of the parking lot bound for Austin, reminding Grayson, in her most authoritative voice that they were going to a grown-up meeting and he would have to remain very quiet while Mom worked.
“Mom! You don’t work!” he laughed.
Rebecca judiciously ignored that remark.
She arrived far too early. “We’re just going to have to turn down the enthusiasm a notch or two,” she announced to Grayson. Fortunately, the leasing agent was early, too, and was more than happy to hand the key to Rebecca, seeing as how it was almost fi
ve o’clock and he had other places to be like everyone else in the free world, which left them with a half hour before the meeting. That was perfect. Rebecca was going to do some pre-meeting decorating. With Grayson in hand, they walked into the entry of what was the new campaign headquarters. It was the size of a postage stamp.
“Is this the doctor’s?” Grayson asked.
“No, it’s a campaign office.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where people like the president work to get elected.”
“Like Batman?”
“Yep. Just like.”
They wandered down the narrow corridor, looking into various rooms (well, she wandered—Gray took each room as a new opportunity to be shot and killed by a new assailant). Rebecca was, truthfully, a little disappointed that the new campaign offices were the exact opposite of Tom’s posh capitol suite. This rental property was definitely government-issue, with drab gray walls and linoleum floors, and big metal desks and chairs. There was one big room that she presumed would host the phone bank, another large meeting room near the entry, and squeezed between were a handful of small, bleak and windowless offices. At the end of the hallway, flanked by his and her bathrooms, was a larger office with a window overlooking the parking lot for Tom to meet constituents and campaign contributors.
Having completed their tour, Rebecca and Grayson got the big box out of the back of the Rover. As Rebecca hung a few items to give the place a more lived-in, viable-campaign-office feel, Grayson amused himself on the floor with a Hot Wheel, which he repeatedly slammed into the wall, accompanying the car’s collision with crash sounds of his own.
Mother and son both jumped when they heard the front door bang open and someone come striding in. That someone rounded the corner into the large room with conviction, and damn it if his eyes didn’t seem to narrow and the corner of his mouth just barely quirk up when he saw Rebecca. But he had not seen Grayson on the floor until it was almost too late, and had to skid awkwardly to his left to avoid tripping right over him. He stopped dead in his tracks, stared down at Grayson, then looked at Rebecca.
“Hello Matt,” she said, her hands finding her hips.
“Hello, Rebecca,” he answered, mimicking her with a smile.
“This is my son, Grayson.”
Grayson stood, big dusty patches on his knees, and blinked up at the man towering over him
For a moment, Matt didn’t seem quite so arrogant—he smiled warmly. “Hey, buddy, how’s it hanging?” he asked, and held out his hand, palm up. Grayson looked at his big hand for a moment, then suddenly reared back and slapped Matt’s hand as hard as he could.
“Good job,” Matt said with a chuckle, then stepped around him and walked into the middle of the room.
“Cute kid,” he said to Rebecca.
“Thanks. Do you have kids?”
“Me? Nah,” he said, like it was unthinkable, and put his hands on his waist as he looked around.
Probably one of those guys afraid to commit to anything more than his morning jog, which, by the way, judging by his physique, he obviously managed to do on a fairly regular basis.
“But I hope to have a whole houseful someday,” he added casually.
Ooh . . . Rebecca had not expected that response. Particularly and most especially because she had once dreamed of the same thing. She peered closely at Matt, prepared for the possibility that he was messing with her.
“You’re early,” he said.
“So are you.”
He paused, nodding thoughtfully at her. He was, Rebecca hated to acknowledge, awfully good-looking.
“Anyone else here?”
“Ah . . . no, just us.” Rebecca folded her arms, looked out the window, feeling suddenly very self-conscious under his casual perusal as her previous, self-visualized kick-ass campaign strategist evaporated into thin air. What was the matter with her, anyway? Men looked at her all the time—well, not precisely like that, really. Actually, they never looked at her like that. Men ogled her. But Matt wasn’t ogling, he was just . . . looking. And that, for some odd reason, put butterflies in Rebecca’s stomach. He had a certain way about him, an air or something. It was what her book Friends and Lovers, and How to Tell the Difference called brooding. Yeah, brooding, that mysterious thing going on, like he knew something she didn’t.
At the moment, he was smiling. An amused little smile. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he said, looking around at the small American and Texas flags and the motivational poster promoting teamwork.
“Really?”
Matt looked around again. “Honestly? I think this is about the ugliest place Tom could have found.”
“I thought the same thing,” she admitted, mildly disappointed he hadn’t commented on the personal touches. “But I guess looks don’t matter when you’re on a campaign budget, right?”
Matt glanced at her as if she were completely out of her mind (which she probably was—evidence: She was here). “Image is everything in a campaign. You have to look and act the part if people are going to believe you can do the part. Candidates spend thousands and thousands on getting just the right image across. I’d think you of all people would know how important image is.”
Her of all people? And what was that supposed to mean? “Yes,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “I think I see what you mean . . . sort of like, if you really want to be a smart-ass, it helps if you look like one, too.”
“Or,” he said, not missing a beat, “if you want to be gorgeous, you pretty much have to look gorgeous.” And then he smiled that dimply, heart-sinking smile, and no amount of racking her brain was going to come up with a pithy comeback for that one. Not that Matt cared—he was too busy looking at one of her motivational posters. “I sure hope you didn’t spend a lot of money on this shi . . . stuff.”
“Mom always spends lots of money,” Grayson said.
“Gray!” Rebecca said quickly, but Matt’s dark brows had arched above his gray eyes, and dammit if she didn’t feel a little warmth in her cheeks. Warmth? Oh nooooo, she wasn’t having any of that! Self-consciously, she lifted her hand to her nape and rubbed.
“So, what did you do before this?” Matt asked, having lost interest in the motivational poster as he walked closer to where she stood, still wearing that lopsided smile.
“I was at home doing some research,” she said, wondering frantically now if her cheeks were actually showing any sign of this absurd warmth she was not going to have.
His smile broadened. “I meant before this campaign.”
Now her cheeks were flaming. “I, ah . . . I was living in Dallas until a few months ago, and since I’ve been in Austin, and . . . hmm . . . well, I’ve been settling in.” Grayson chose that moment to poke his head under her arm. She pulled him around to stand in front of her and tried to smooth his hair as Matt stood there, hands on waist, being very cool and curious in his silk blue suit.
“So what did you in Dallas?”
Why did everyone ask her that? What, was she the only person in all of America who had not worked before the age of thirty? “I suppose you want to know if I have any campaign experience,” she said, trying to sound pleasantly unconcerned. “Well, no, I don’t.”
“Ouch, Mom!” Grayson cried, swatting at her hand on the top of his head; Rebecca realized she was unconsciously twisting his unruly hair and immediately let go. “Sorry,” she murmured, and quickly added, “In Dallas, I was a stay-at-home mom to Grayson.”
“Uh-uh,” Grayson piped up. “Lucy was my mom in Dallas.”
Well, didn’t that just shoot a little dagger through her heart, thank you, child of her womb. Even Matt looked a little nonplussed; now he probably thought she boozed it up all day. Which she might have done on rare occasion, thanks to Ruth, her former best friend and consummate socialite booze hound. Rebecca forced a laugh. “Nanny,” she said above Grayson’s head, patting it a little too hard as she forced a smile.
“Ah,” said Matt. “So you didn’t r
un a natural habitat for birds and dogs and salamanders?”
Of all the—
“Joke,” he said, lifting a hand in response to her expression. “Just a joke.”
Well, well, perhaps Mr. Big Pants had what might almost pass for a sense of humor. “Very funny,” she said, unable to keep a small smile from her lips. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure you’ll be ecstatic to know that I have reconsidered my position on strip mining.”
“Have you?” he asked, nodding approvingly.
“It doesn’t appear to be the best campaign topic.”
“No? The team will be so disappointed.”
“Not to worry. I have another idea.” What was with her sweaty palms all of a sudden?
“Fantastic! So I am waiting with bated breath—what’s the idea?” he asked as she surreptitiously wiped her palms on Grayson’s shoulders.
“I’m not going to tell you. It’s a surprise.” Since when, she wondered?
“I don’t think I can take another of your surprises,” he said amicably, taking one last step so that he was standing just before her and Grayson, his gray eyes gleaming.
“Really? How interesting—I would think you could take quite a lot. I mean, any lawyer worth his tort claims should be able to handle a surprise now and then.”
“True. But even lawyers have a limit of how many surprises per person they can take.” Now that he was standing so close, too close—that gleam in his eye looked almost devilish, and it made her wonder, insanely, how many women must have looked into those eyes and felt as warm as she did. Matt’s gaze dipped to her lips. “So I guess it depends on what you have up your . . . sleeve,” he said as his eyes dropped lower.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she said with a stiff shrug, and toyed with the idea of hurling herself through the window just to get some air.
“Promises, promises,” he said with a sly wink.
Rebecca suddenly wanted someone, anyone—janitor, delivery guy, policeman—to join them, and looked away, pushed her hair behind her ears, cleared her throat, and asked, “So where is the meeting?”