When Things Got Hot in Texas

by Lori Wilde

  “Which is mostly my point,” Clay said. “My clientele are men. They don’t care--”

  “Caring isn’t the issue. Just walking into a well-designed office will make them feel your product is more valuable.”

  Clay looked at the other two men for help. All they did was cough again. “Look, I don’t think . . .”

  “You need a color theme, a focal point. Add a little feng shui to the office, and it would look like a million bucks. I can already envision it in my head.”

  So could Clay, and it scared the hell out of him. A junkyard with pink ruffled throw pillows and candles.

  “It’s not that bad of an idea,” Jake said, which earned him a stern scowl from Clay.

  “It’s a junkyard,” Clay insisted.

  “No, I mean about her staying with you,” Jake explained. “You were right, there isn’t a B&B anywhere near your place, so the guy just set her up to go there probably because it’s isolated and has bad cell reception. He wouldn’t look for her there. And it’s not too far of a stretch from what you’ll be doing for the PI agency.”

  The hell it wasn’t. No way would Clay sign up to play bodyguard. Especially if the body was as tempting as Jennifer’s and reminded him of what he’d sworn he could live without for a while.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t even have an extra bedroom--”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Jennifer added. “And I could give your house a makeover, too. Please.”

  “The house isn’t . . . It’s an ol’ farm house.”

  “I like farms,” she countered. She sucked on her bottom lip then released it, and it came out all wet, red, tempting. “Please.”

  Caught in her pleading gaze, he felt the heels of his boots sinking into a pile of shit he’d unknowingly stepped in. He couldn’t do this. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Clay stormed into his house. Devil, Pete’s dog, crawled off the lumpy sofa and met him in the entryway.

  Clay stared at the dog and the lackluster house and called himself an idiot. Dropping his keys on the antique sewing machine, he stormed into his bedroom to snatch up any dirty underwear or socks lying around. No way in hell was he putting her on the sofa.

  But then he stared at the mismatched furnishings that probably wouldn’t cut garage sale quality. His gaze shifted to the bed, and he recalled he hadn’t really had a restful night of sleep in the thing. It wasn’t so much lumpy as it was just sunken in. He’d bet the thing was older than he was.

  He heard the front door open and close, and he shot out of the bedroom. Pete stood in the living room, shuffling through a handful of mail.

  “Electric bill came in,” Pete said opening the envelope. “Hopefully, we can get old man Perry to finishing paying for the two calves we sold him. That should take care of it. Or do you have an extra hundred bucks laying around?”

  That was the only good thing about this. Mark Donaldson assured him that he would be paid for his services. Only, he couldn’t tell Jennifer. And that somehow felt wrong.

  “Well, crappers. It’s a hundred and ten dollars. I told you not to run the air conditioner. You got that money?”

  Clay ignored Pete’s question and asked one of his own. “Is your mattress better than the one in my room?”

  Pete frowned. “Perhaps, but my bones are older.”

  Clay walked over to the room and opened the door. His inherited cowpoke, looking unhappy, followed him and stood by the door.

  Clay stared into the room and made up his mind. It wasn’t just the mattress. The furniture didn’t look as scratched and dented, even the paint job wasn’t as faded. But the two Playboy calendars nailed to the wall would have to go.

  “Well, your bones are going to have to get used to my mattress for a while.”

  “You’d take an ol’ man’s mattress right out from under him?”

  “I’m not taking it. Our guest is. You’ll move to my room.”

  “Our guest?” Pete asked.

  “It’s a long story.” Why the hell hadn’t I stuck to my guns and just said, “No”? Oh, yeah, because she looked at me with those innocent big blue eyes and said, “Please.”

  Clay ran a hand over his face. “Get anything you need from this room.” He looked back at the unmade bed. “Do we have a nice set of sheets?”

  “We got a clean set,” Pete said. “Not that those there are that bad. I changed them last week.”

  “Oh, hell,” Clay muttered. “I warned her.”

  “Warned who?’ Pete asked. “Wait. Her? Our guest is a her?”

  Clay’s mind raced with things he needed to do. Like make sure the bathroom was stocked with toilet paper. Oh, hell, did they own a towel that didn’t have holes in it? He needed to make a run to Walmart. His ten-thousand-dollar cushion just got smaller.

  “What in hells bells is going on?” Pete asked.

  Clay exhaled. He had to tell him. Yet he had to somehow convince the man that he couldn’t go blabbing this around town. Dolly, Texas wasn’t that far away from Pipersville, and it simply wouldn’t do for word to get out that she was staying here.

  In fact, Jake and Mark had suggested he tell anyone who asked that she was an old girlfriend from Houston. But he didn’t plan on lying to Pete.

  “Go grab the sheets,” Clay said. “I’ll get the broom and mop. While we clean, I’ll explain things.”

  Pete scratched his chin and eyeballed him. “Don’t know if I’m gonna like this.” He started out. “She’d better be pretty.”

  She was. Too pretty. Too soft. Too . . . everything.

  Looking at his watch, he recalled Jake saying it could be as late as six tonight before the doctor showed up to release her. Clay still started stripping the bed. Then he sniffed the bare pillow that looked as if it had outlived its time. It smelled like Devil, Pete’s dog.

  In a few minutes, the old man showed back up with a set of sheets. One look at the folded and faded cotton material in Pete’s hands told Clay that they’d seen better days. Add the fact that the pillowcases didn’t match the sheets, and he could only imagine what an interior designer would think of these accommodations.

  Pete met his gaze. “It’s got a little hole in it, but it’s at the foot of the bed.”

  Okay, towel, sheets and pillows. “This is not going to go well,” he muttered, then looked back up at Pete. “Do we have any Lysol spray?”

  “Don’t think so. I’ll check.” Pete started to leave then turned around. “Can she cook?”

  “I don’t know,” Clay said. “She’s an interior designer.”

  “A what?” Pete scratched his head.

  “She fixes up people’s houses.”

  “Well there’s a few fence posts loose out front. Not sure it’s woman’s work, though. Oh, hey, I finished off those leftovers. If we’re gonna have company, we should have some food in the fridge.”

  Clay closed his eyes. This really was going to be a disaster.

  Chapter 5

  Bundy pulled up in front of the house, congratulating himself for maintaining his calm. As a kid, he’d spent a lot of time praising himself, hoping to counter the degrading damage his father had done.

  Last night, he’d been so angry he hadn’t thought right. He’d gone to Jennifer Peterson’s condo. When she hadn’t been there he’d let himself in and tossed the place. It hadn’t been a smart move.

  But one he could recover from because he was thorough. He had spent the last three weeks dogging Jennifer Peterson’s steps. He knew her favorite restaurants. The park where she liked to jog. He knew where her fiancé worked. Hell, he even knew the woman that the idiot of a fiancé was screwing.

  Was the bastard blind? Jennifer Peterson was loads prettier than his little toy. Too bad he was going to lose her now.

  But of all the information he’d acquired, the best was that he knew where her friends lived. And when the shit hit the fan, women always turned to their friends. Even if they didn’t go stay with them, they knew where she was. All he had t
o do was convince them to tell him.

  When he saw someone pass in front of the window, he leaned forward and his bruised balls pinched in pain. Reaching down he gently tried to adjust them into a more comfortable position. As soon as he took care of Jennifer, he was going to take care of the guy who’d done this to him.

  Nobody bruised his boys. Not anymore.

  Focused on the window, Bundy saw someone walk past again. He’d been hoping to see Jennifer, but the big belly told him it was her friend.

  He exhaled. None of his jobs had included hurting a pregnant woman. It was too close to hurting a kid. He really preferred not to do it.

  But if she got in his way, or if she didn’t tell him what he needed to know, he’d do it. His name was Ted Bundy, wasn’t it?

  He’d prefer to wait until night, but damn it, he was tired of waiting. Chances were his prints were already loaded up on the database. They could know who he was. Or would soon.

  Which meant he would have to leave Texas. Start over somewhere else.

  Not really a hardship. It wasn’t as if he had anyone who cared. No friends. Not one person who’d miss him. Well, maybe his parole officer. Bundy could tell the man actually liked him. Or liked who Bundy pretended to be for his benefit.

  He looked back at the window, his impatience fading fast. He didn’t need to wait.

  He reached down for his door handle.

  Jennifer was only slightly aware that the car had come to a stop. Not that she was asleep, just exhausted. She hadn’t slept last night and hadn’t even napped today. Every time she came close, she’d been jarred awake remembering being chased into the junkyard. The way she’d gotten her pulse down was to remember being saved by Clay Connors.

  Was that the reason she’d concocted this whole plan? He made her feel safe.

  Sitting up, she looked at the house. It was almost six in the evening, and the sun had already taken on a golden hue. Unfortunately, the good lighting didn’t help.

  Clay was right. It was an old farmhouse. A small, paint-chipped house with a wraparound porch. A wooden kitchen chair was positioned beside the door. At one time, she’d bet the place had been cute. Quaint. Like one of those rustic B&Bs people stayed at to remove themselves from real life.

  She just hoped this alternate life included running water. And electricity.

  Two trucks, one old enough that it matched the house and a newer black one, were parked on the grass of the side lawn. A few hundred feet away was a fence and a barn that looked in worse shape than the house. A couple of horses grazed in the fenced-in pasture.

  Something moving on the front porch brought her gaze back to the house. A dog, a very large, muddy-brown colored dog of indeterminate breed sat up. He had long ears, short hair in places and long hair in others. Some of it looked wiry, some soft. He stood, stretched, and stared at the car as if debating if they were barking worthy.

  Jake gazed out the windshield then looked back at her, his forehead baring concerned wrinkles. “You know, if you prefer to stay--”

  “No,” she answered before he said it. The farther away she was from her friends and their families, the better. She didn’t want any of this to bleed over onto the people she loved.

  “Clay’s a nice guy,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think--”

  “I know.” Not sure how she knew, but she did. Bad people didn’t make you feel safe. Did they? Oh, hell, it was too late to have doubts.

  “But I hadn’t seen the house,” Jake finished.

  “It’s fine. I’m not a prima donna.” The first sixteen years of her life, she’d lived in a trailer.

  Right then the front door opened and a wiry little old man sporting a head of thick gray hair walked out. His jeans were worn, his red-checkered shirt looked faded. His belt buckle was the biggest thing on him. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but still looked like the epitome of an old cowboy.

  Clay followed him out onto the front porch. The second she saw him, or maybe the second she felt his eyes on her, her breath caught in her chest. He wore the same clothes as earlier, but for some reason, standing on the old farmhouse porch, he seemed taller, stronger, more . . . masculine.

  She pushed back the feminine assessment and reminded herself that he wasn’t what she was looking for. And she was done playing the odds. She needed protection until Jake and Mark caught this guy, or until after the trial. And Clay had done a pretty good job of that the night before. As logical as those thoughts were, she realized how illogical she’d been.

  Instead of studying the back of her eyelids on the drive here, she should have taken the time to ask Jake some questions about her bodyguard. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because it was awkward staying with a stranger.

  “Is that his dad?” she asked.

  “No. His dad died when he was in the academy. He mentioned his grandfather’s friend worked for him. I’m guessing that’s him.”

  “Is he new in town?” she asked, hoping that might explain the condition of the house.

  “Yeah, he’s only been here a couple of weeks. He inherited the place from his grandfather.”

  Clay and the old man waited on the porch. She and Jake stayed in the car. The silence hung heavy. Jake looked at her. “Seriously, I could--”

  “No.” She reached for the door handle.

  Slipping her purse over her shoulder, she got out of the car. Her feet landed on the graveled drive. Just standing up had her muscles screaming. She still couldn’t remember being thrown as Clay had said, but her aches were witness.

  The old man, moving quicker than she could, barreled down the stairs. He smiled, and his tanned face became a map of wrinkles. He stopped a few feet in front of her.

  “Howdy, Ma’am. Name’s Pete Grimes. And don’t you worry none. Clay and I, we’ll keep you safe.”

  “Thank you,” Jennifer said.

  The dog ambled up, moving one slow paw in front of the other. The thing was bigger than she’d first thought. The top of the animal’s head almost came to her shoulders. Jennifer froze. She wasn’t afraid of dogs, but she respected big ones. “Is he friendly?”

  “As a teddy bear,” Pete said.

  She extended her hand. The animal the size of a small horse lowered his head and sniffed her palm, then before she knew it’s intent, he came up on his hind legs and put a paw on each of her shoulders. Amazingly, she’d never had a dog jump up on her so gently.

  “Get him down,” Clay said.

  “It’s okay,” Jennifer said, feeling almost hugged when the dog buried his snout in her neck and took another long sniff. She gave the animal a stroke down his side.

  “Sorry, he’s a flirt.” Pete pulled the dog down. “Loves females. Especially the pretty ones.”

  Frowning, Clay stayed on the porch, but his gaze stayed on her. Thankfully, the nurses had given her a pair of scrubs, so she wouldn’t have to wear her bloodstained clothes.

  Jake walked up beside her carrying the small suitcase Macy and Savanna had packed with some things they thought would fit Jennifer. The men exchanged hellos.

  As she moved up the steps, Clay studied her as if afraid she might bolt. He opened the front door. “It’s not the Ritz. But it’s clean. I can guarantee that.”

  The smell of Lysol and lemon Pledge and other cleaning products that clung to the man told her he wasn’t lying. She stepped inside where the cleaning scents were even stronger. Her gaze shifted around. The place was filled with some well-used antiques, old furniture, bare walls, but she’d bet there wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. Even the scarred wood floors shined.

  “We gave you the nicest room in the house,” Pete said.

  Jennifer looked at the old man and the horse of a dog standing beside him. “Oh, no. I said I’d sleep on the sofa.” Her gaze landed on the piece of furniture pushed against the far wall that was covered in a sheet. A faded lazy boy took up space beside the sofa. “I’ll be fine right--”

  “House rules,” Clay said.
“Guests never sleep on the sofa.”

  “Yes, but I insist.” She took her bag from Jake, dropped it on the sofa to claim it, lifted her chin and shoulders and met his gaze with every ounce of feminine wiles she owned.

  Clay stared at her, then back at Jake as if he expected him to help out. She shot Jake a look, and the smart man remained silent. Confident that was settled, Jennifer sent Clay a little victory smile. One he didn’t return.

  “No,” Clay said matter-of-factly.

  “But I can’t kick anyone--”

  “My house! My rules!” He picked up the bag and shot down the small hall, leaving a wake of tension that had her questioning her feminine wiles.

  She looked at Jake for support, but he was smiling, which he quickly tried to hide by wiping a hand over his face.

  Pete moved in. “Ignore Clay. He skipped lunch, and we’re even late eating dinner. He’s just like his grandpa. Hunger makes him grumpy. But he’s right. You need to be in the bedroom. The sofa was . . . well the only piece of furniture we couldn’t get Devil’s smell off of. Though the disinfectant said it could take two or three treatments.”

  The dog heard his name and the word “sofa” and crawled up on the lopsided piece of furniture, taking up almost the whole dang thing.

  The old man chuckled then gazed around the room with a sense of pride. “Don’t think this place has looked this good in ten years. And wait until you slip in between those new sheets Clay bought. Smooth as a baby’s butt. He paid a fortune for them, too.”

  Jennifer stood there, remembering Clay trying to back out of taking her in. She hadn’t realized what an inconvenience her staying here would put on him. She forced herself to smile and gave the room another glance, searching for design inspiration, determined to make sure Clay Connor got his money’s worth.

  Clay dropped the bag on the bed, frowning when he re-heard his angry words in his head, but no way was he letting her sleep on that sofa. And frankly, he didn’t know her well enough to guess the right approach, so he’d gone in on the defensive. Too strong, probably.