The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “Oh God,” Big Pants groaned.

  “What?”

  “For starters, our opponent, Phil Harbaugh, has a PhD,” he said. Gunter nodded.

  “I meant, he’s a bachelor,” Rebecca said. All three of them looked at her blankly. Seriously, what did it take to get a glass of wine around here? “Okay, what have you got?” she asked Matt.

  He pondered that for a moment. “How about this . . . ‘Elect a Masters for the job.’”

  Frick and Frack gasped at each other. “That’s great!” Heather cried.

  Rebecca all but choked. That was great?

  “You think?” Matt asked Heather, obviously pleased with himself.

  Rebecca closed her eyes, suppressed a groan. Fortunately, the waitress reappeared in what was record time for her. Matt accepted the bourbon, chuckled quietly when the waitress put another glass of wine in front of Rebecca, and then winked as he tossed a ten onto the girl’s tray. The waitress fell over herself and Heather’s hair trying to get his attention long enough to smile back at him.

  “So, Matt, we’ve been tossing around some ideas about where to get some shots of Tom for some TV spots. Any ideas?” Heather asked, not wanting to relinquish his attention to the waitress, who turned and flounced off when she did not receive it.

  “Hmm . . . Rebecca, do you have any Save Bambi meetings lined up? Maybe we could get some shots of Tom nursing a Bambi, then releasing him to the wilds. What do you think?”

  “Shut up,” she murmured (and what a witty comeback that was), then visualized twisting his arm around his back and flipping him out the window. Okay, that was funny—visualizing, she was learning, was fun. And one other thing, she thought as she picked up her fresh glass of wine, was that she had sorely underestimated a good Chablis. Or Chardonnay. Whatever.

  “Just kidding,” Matt said for the benefit of Frick and Frack, who, between the two of them, had about as much sense of humor as the ashtray on the table. “What about the Silver Panthers?”

  “Yeah, we covered that,” Gunter said. Matt nodded, thought a minute longer. “There are some important bills coming up for a vote; we could give you a call a couple of days ahead of time and you could get sonic shots of him in a legislative setting. There is a candidate debate next month in front of the state conference of the League of Women Voters . . . that usually draws a huge crowd. How’s that for getting started?”

  Either Gunter’s martini was better than he was letting on, or he had finally found his reason for living. “This is great!” he said, nodding furiously and slapping the table, which drew the attention of the five men and two women who were now sitting around three tables Tom had daisy-chained together. “That is exactly the sort of thing we need!” He paused long enough to look at his watch. “Listen, we need to split if we’re going to catch our plane.” He stood up. “We’ll call early next week to set these things up. Don’t worry about the tab. We’ve got it,” Gunter said, and started slinking off toward Tom’s end of the tables.

  “Thanks!” Matt said, and smiled as Heather rose much more reluctantly to her feet.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said, smiling at Matt. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around.”

  “Right,” Matt said.

  “Well . . . okay. Later.” Heather tore her gaze away from Matt the Stud and looked at Rebecca. “Later.”

  Yeah, later. Way later. Maybe so later that it’s never, how about that? “Bye-bye now!” Rebecca called after Heather. Next to her, Big Pants chuckled. She took another drink as Heather disappeared into the crowd, tried to ignore him, and when she couldn’t do that, forced herself to focus on him “What?”

  “You. You’re surprisingly interesting, you know that? Not all uptight like I originally thought.”

  “Uptight?”

  “That’s what I said,” he agreed with a chuckle. “I had you pegged as a little too uptight for your own good. But now I see you’re much more than that. I mean, either you’re accusing people of stealing your quesadilla, or lining up your pencils, or having secret meetings. I’d call that pretty feisty, wouldn’t you?”

  What’s that, your best line? “I am not feisty.”

  “Feisty is not a line,” Matt said pleasantly. “It’s an observation.”

  Crap, had she actually said that out loud? Wow . . . she was going to have to be more careful with her thoughts. And visualizations, because she really couldn’t look at him without visualizing . . . yikes. Definitely didn’t want to go there, she thought fuzzily, stealing a glimpse of his hand. Rebecca looked at her wineglass(es). And was duly alarmed by how many empty ones there were carefully arranged in front of her, lined up like little soldiers. Where had all those come from?

  “And furthermore, for the record, if it was a line, I wouldn’t waste it on you, Miss Priss.”

  “Why not?” she demanded, strangely incensed. But before he could answer, she blurted, “If you tried a line on me, I’d just laugh. Ha. Haaaa.” She slapped her wineglass down, and felt, all of a sudden, warm and very mushy inside. Not good mushy. Sick mushy.

  Matt was looking at the pile of empty glasses in front of her. “So tell me . . . are those all your wineglasses? Or did you just walk around the room and take them?”

  That did it. Indignant, she glared at him. “I. Don’t. Know.”

  Matt laughed; the sound of it gained the attention of the men on the other end of the table, including Tom, who waved at Rebecca. At least she thought he did; she looked over her shoulder and didn’t see anyone else she knew, other than the waitress. At last! She held up one finger—and could have sworn the waitress rolled her eyes.

  When she looked around again, Tom’s big flaccid face was looming in front of her. “Hey, let me ask you something, Rebecca,” he said, bracing himself against the table. “I got a friend over there. Fred Davis is his name. Owns KTXT television.”

  Big fat deal. “How nice for him,” she said plastering a woozy smile on her face.

  “He’d really like to come over and say hi. You know . . . maybe see what you are doing later?”

  “Later?”

  “Yeah, later. You know.” He winked, ignored Matt’s groan. “Like maybe y’all could get a drink or something.”

  Rebecca blinked. Tom smiled. Dear God, was he . . . “Are you . . . are you setting me up?”

  Tom shrugged, looked over his shoulder. She peeked around him, saw Fred and a very oily smile that sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine. “Come on, Rebecca. You’re divorced, and there’s no evidence of any guy hanging around. Hey, I’m just doing a pal a favor, that’s all.”

  “Sorry, Tom, you’re too late,” Matt said cheerfully.

  Both Tom and Rebecca looked at him and said, at the same moment, “Huh?”

  Matt stretched his arm across the back of Rebecca’s chair, which she was half tempted to kick, but that didn’t seem feasible with Tom looming over her. Matt leaned slightly forward, so he was just inches from Tom, and whispered, “Rebecca is having dinner with me.”

  The bark of hiccupped laughter, Rebecca realized, was hers.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and have her respected . . .

  CHARLES LAMB

  He had in mind to take her to Stetson’s, where else? Nothing like a half pound of good, quality beef to sober up a skinny, wacko woman.

  Naturally, they weren’t going anywhere without some wrangling, because, not surprisingly, Miss High and Mighty wasn’t in the mood to dine with him. Actually, she wasn’t in the mood to dine at all, and seemed rather intent on drinking her way through the evening, while at the very same time proclaiming, emphatically, that she didn’t drink. There was, Matt supposed, a gentleman buried somewhere in him, because he could not sit there and look at such a beautiful lush and leave her for the likes of Fred Davis. Nor could he possibly allow her to drive anywhere, so he figured that he was honor-bound to see her safely somewhere.

  “Where do you live?” he
asked her, once he had managed to send Tom tottering away with the bad news for Fred.

  “Ruby Falls,” she said, leaning over so far that she almost tipped out of her seat.

  “Great. That’s way the hell out there.”

  “Forty-five minutes driving eighty miles an hour,” she stoically informed him.

  He didn’t even want to think about her driving on those curving hill country roads. “Where is your son?” he asked.

  “In South Padre with his dad!” she exclaimed, hitting him playfully on the arm as if he somehow should have known that.

  “Any family or friends in town?”

  “Nope.”

  “An apartment?”

  “Uh-uh,” she said, giggling as if they were playing a game.

  “Is there anywhere I could take you?”

  She thought about that a moment, tapping a manicured nail against a full bottom lip. “Nope,” she said at last.

  “Then you’ll just have to go with me,” he sighed.

  Rebecca snorted like a dock worker at that suggestion. “I don’t think so. I’m not interested,” she said haughtily.

  “Trust me, I’m not interested, either,” he quickly and decisively informed her, and started looking around for her purse.

  Fortunately, Rebecca’s tipsy state of mind made her easy to maneuver, and in spite of the heated discussion that ensued, Matt managed to convince Miss Texas that she was too inebriated to drive (Am not! Well, I can’t drive right this very second, but give me a little bit!), and furthermore, she’d only make herself sick drinking that much Chablis on an empty stomach (I hate Chablis!). Finally, he got her by pointing to Fred Davis, who, having tossed a few back himself, was doing the sloppy duck lip thing at her.

  “You can’t drive, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she said, nodding resolutely.

  “So if you don’t go with me, you’re looking at that guy. Choose your poison.”

  She squinted at Fred. “Okay,” she said instantly, then slid out of her chair, sighing resolutely as if she were teetering off to hell. And away she went, sloshing her way into the parking garage and managing to pour herself into his Jag. That was the point at which Matt eighty-sixed the Stetson’s idea. So where? Sitting in the car in the parking garage while he was trying to figure out what to do with her, Rebecca chattered on about campaign slogans and some nonsense about kicking Gunter’s ass, the reason for which, Matt did not quite catch. The woman needed food, and quickly.

  He hit on a brilliant idea. “You like steak?” he asked, reaching for his cell phone.

  She snorted. “Don’t you know? You have all the answers, don’t you?”

  “Oh, come on, Rebecca,” he scoffed. “I just have most of the answers. And for your information, smart-ass is not going to work on me. First of all, I’ve had a bossy sister all my life, and on her best day, she can’t get under my skin. Second, I am frequently in family court, which means I have seen the best smart-asses the world has to offer, and you are no competition. I am going to call in some filets, okay?”

  “O-kay!” she shot back, swaying a little with the force of it.

  “And a gallon of strong coffee,” he added, more to himself.

  “Don’t start,” Rebecca warned him, folding her arms across her middle to steady herself. “You always start.”

  Whatever that meant. Matt couldn’t help noticing that the bucket of wine she had imbibed had given her a bit of a flush that made her look . . . well, gorgeous. Man. He was a sick bastard.

  “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

  “Oh, for the love of—Rebecca, listen very carefully and let’s see if we can’t get at least some of what I’m about to say into that thick skull of yours. I am not looking at you. I do not want in your pants,” he said, even as the thought that it wouldn’t be all bad zoomed across his mind. “I’m not doing anything but trying to sober you up because you are three sheets to the wind. That’s all.”

  Her frown crumbled, and she unexpectedly admitted, “I know. It’s so weird. It just sort of happened without me knowing it.” She groaned; her head dropped back against the seat. Matt dialed Stetson’s. “How did this happen?” she sniffed, suddenly maudlin. Matt shrugged. “I mean, I was just sitting there—”

  “Just sitting there with your own little vineyard, you mean . . . Hello! Yes, an order to go . . .”

  “I was trying to do a good job! That’s all I ever wanted to do, a good job. And then you came along,” she pouted as he ordered the steaks.

  “And saved you,” he added, clicking the phone off. “Don’t forget that. Now quit looking at me like I’m some sort of molester. Just relax. I won’t even mention strip mining or deer.”

  “Or stupid campaign slogans, either,” she added, wagging a finger at him.

  “I won’t mention the campaign at all if you won’t.”

  “Then . . .” She cocked her head to one side as she tried to focus on him. “What in God’s name will we talk about?”

  “Excellent question,” he agreed. “But we’ll think of something.” In fact, he was already racking his brain. “First, let’s get you sober.” He started the car, pulled out of the parking garage, and drove a couple of blocks to a convenience store, where he bought her some water. Rebecca gratefully took the bottle and drank the entire contents in one gulp, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, chuckling.

  “Right as rain,” she said cheerfully, beaming that knockout grin at him again.

  They continued on, Rebecca now rambling about how she never drank and Heather’s need of a comb until he pulled up in front of Stetson’s. The valet went in to check on the food, returned and said it would be a bit. So Matt pulled into a metered spot.

  They sat there in silence for all of four seconds before Rebecca blurted, “See? There is nothing to talk about.”

  “Sure there is.”

  “Name one thing,” she challenged him.

  “Okay,” he said, and not able-to think of even one thing he could possibly have in common with her, he blurted, “How come you’re always mad at me?” Where, exactly, that had come from, he had no earthly idea, and it surprised him, because honestly, he didn’t care what she thought or didn’t think about him.

  Much to his indignation, however, Rebecca responded with another very unladylike snort of laughter. “Are you kidding?”

  “Well, no. No, I’m not kidding.”

  Rebecca’s head lolled back against the seat, and when she lifted it again, her blue eyes (damn those eyes) were shining with amusement. “You’ve got it aaaall wrong, Mattie,” she said, tapping the console with her finger to emphasize each word. “I’m not mad at you. I just don’t like you.” And she flashed a charmingly crooked little smile.

  But it flabbergasted Matt—what was not to like? Everyone liked him! Even the judges who hated him liked him! “How could you not like me?” he asked, aghast.

  “Oh, it’s easy!” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “But I do think you’re very cute.”

  But Matt’s head flew right past the cute thing and went straight to the not like thing.

  “No, no, it’s not easy. I’m a pretty likable guy,” he insisted. “Ask anyone.”

  She laughed loudly. “You’re not likable at all! You’re just really cute. And that is as far as I can go,” she said, swinging one arm out wide to demonstrate just how far she could go and barely missing his chin.

  “Well,” he said, more than a little miffed that she would not like him, like she was such a piece of cake to like or something, “you’re not exactly the easiest person in the world to get along with, either, Miss Priss.”

  “Why not? I am very polite,” she said, with an emphatic nod.

  “No, sweetheart, you’re actually a little on the stuck-up side.” Had to be, or else she’d like him.

  “I am not stuck-up. I am very nice,” she said, now punching the dash with her finger. “In fact, everyone says
I am too nice!”

  “No one on this planet,” he muttered, looking around for the valet. What had possessed him to appoint himself her protector and bring her here? Miss Priss probably thought if a guy didn’t fall on his knees the moment he saw her, there was something wrong with him. “You know, that Miss Texas thing you have going on is a little too much,” he added irritably, if only to make himself feel better.

  Rebecca groaned. “You don’t know what you are talking about, Mattie! I didn’t even want to be Miss Texas!”

  “Please! All girls want to be a beauty queen when they grow up.”

  “Not all girls want to be a beauty queen when they grow up, you . . . you moron,” she said, and inexplicably, the moment the words were out of her mouth, she made a soft little gasp and smiled, a beautiful, radiant smile, as if she were proud of herself.

  “So now I’m a moron?” Matt echoed, incredulous. “I didn’t know we were adopting the fourth-grade rules of name-calling. Look, I’m just saying that it is pretty hard to believe you didn’t want to be Miss Texas. I mean, you give off the impression that you need a lot of attention . . . a lot of attention.”

  “See why I don’t like you?” she asked, poking her finger into his shoulder. “And I didn’t mean that it wasn’t anything. Wait . . . no, that’s not right. I mean, it was something,” she said, leaning forward, so far forward that he glimpsed a tantalizing flash of the lacy black bra (of which, truthfully, he had noticed beneath her filmy blouse more than once this evening). “It was great!” she declared. “It’s just . . . I mean, I never really saw myself as . . . that.”

  “As what?”

  “As a beauty queen! Duh!”

  Well, good God, who could understand her? And how could she not see herself as a beauty queen? As far as he knew, the one requirement for a beauty queen was to be beautiful, and Rebecca Lear was definitely one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Even when she was shit-faced.

  The beauty queen was now sliding down in her seat and planting an elbow on the console to steady herself. “Lemme ask you something, Mattie. Have you ever thought that?”