by Anna Jeffrey
She cocked her head to the side, still not taking her eyes off him. “I’ve read about him.”
Jordan swallowed a sip of champagne. “Well, that’s him. One and the same. But don’t get too excited. He’s a real asshole. A big feeler.”
“You know him? Why do you call him that?”
“He’s so damned full of himself. I’m surprised his ego fits in this room. He’s one slick dude, I’ll tell you. He’s aced me out of a couple of sweet deals.”
Shannon’s opinion of one of the most successful young businessmen in the city was not negatively impacted by Jordan’s remarks. If anything, she was more intrigued. And since Jordan’s words sounded small-minded and catty, she chose not to respond to them. Instead, she said, “I know of the Lockhart family. They’re big ranchers in Drinkwell.”
“Drinkwell? Is that a town?” Jordan gave a condescending laugh Shannon often heard from city people when discussing small rural towns.
“You’re such an urbanite, Jordan. It’s thirty-five miles southwest of Camden. When I was in high school, we played their sports teams. The Lockhart family owns the old Double-Barrel Ranch. And has forever. It takes up most of Treadway County.”
Just then, a model-thin blonde joined the subject of the conversation and possessively slid her arm around his. Tanned, tall and svelte like him, they were a magazine layout couple. The flutter in Shannon’s stomach died as she compared her own milky-white skin that never tanned, her disorderly hair and her more voluptuous shape. Not that she was overweight, but she wasn’t pencil-thin like the woman who was now hanging onto his arm. “Oh. He has a girlfriend.”
“That’s Donna Schoonover,” Jordan said. “Donna Stafford Schoonover to be precise. You
know Don Stafford, the oilman? The Cadillac dealer? He’s her daddy. Schoonover’s the name she got from the Dutch soccer pro she was married to for a while. People are saying that Drake’s going to be her fourth husband.” Jordan followed up with one of those knowing “men” laughs.
Shannon did know of the Staffords and their millions. Who in North Texas didn’t? “Why do you laugh?”
“Because she hasn’t landed him yet and my money says she won’t. Too many have tried before her. He’s a lone wolf. Her family’s bucks aren’t a temptation to a high-roller like Drake. And if she hasn’t figured that out, she’s dumber than I think.”
Lone wolf. High-roller. The words stuck in Shannon’s brain as if they had been thumb-tacked. If they were true, the guy was even more dangerous than she had first thought and that idea sent another potent surge through her. “How is it you know him so well?”
“I just do.”
As Shannon puzzled over that non-answer, the beautiful couple and the short man were joined by a middle-aged woman with silver shoulder-length hair. She, too, was tall and slender, and draped in silver lame that fell to the tops of silver cowboy boots. She wore chunky Southwest style jewelry. Boots and turquoise were not choices Shannon would have worn with that particular dress, but the look had an old-world panache and screamed I’m-from-Texas-and-proud-of-it.
“And there’s his mommy,” Jordan said snidely. “Drake Lockhart’s a mama’s boy and everybody knows it.”
Shannon gave Jordan a look. “You really don’t like him, do you?”
“Like I said, he’s an asshole.”
The silver-haired woman and the blonde walked away together, but Drake continued in conversation with the shorter man, seemingly unaware that half the women in the room must surely be drooling over him. Then, he raised his head and for absolutely no reason, turned Shannon’s way. Their gazes locked for the briefest moment and her heartbeat stuttered. It happened in a matter of seconds, but she felt as if she had been undressed and thoroughly examined and her whole body grew warm. She turned quickly toward a server and exchanged her empty champagne glass for a full one.
****
Drake was taken aback. He had to make himself stop staring at the red-haired woman. She was wearing one of those glittery dresses and in the room’s special lighting, she looked like an exquisite emerald. The eyes of every hard-leg in the room had to be glued to that centerfold body. For sure, she had the attention of that bastard, Jordan Palmer, who practically had his tongue in her ear. Drake felt an uncharacteristic pang of possessiveness, which made him wonder about his own sanity.
But it was more than her looks or the envy of a man Drake disliked immensely that captured him. Like chain lightning, something he couldn’t define or explain sizzled straight from her to him, clear across the room. His thoughts instantly turned to how fine it would be to slowly remove that dress from such a delectable body.
He had come here with no interest or intention of anything other than doing his duty by making a purchase, getting through the evening and returning to his condo. Alone. But suddenly the idea of this beautiful stranger’s company was downright enticing. At the very least, he had to know who she was.
“Anson,” he said to his friend, “see the redhead over there in the green dress?”
“Sure do,” Anson said, looking toward her with an unabashed leer on his face.
“Who is she? Do you know?”
Anson gave a lascivious chuckle. “No, but I’d like to.”
Drake glared with resentment at the man’s profile, then checked himself, lest he reveal his own wicked thoughts. He sipped from his champagne glass, plotting the best approach to meet her, given that he was with a date and Jordan Palmer didn’t appear to be going away. But before he could devise a plan, Donna returned and dragged him off to the silent auction.
Chapter 7
Drake lagged behind as Donna weaved past multiple white-clothed tables of donated wares and services at auction. He saw nothing that interested him. But aware that he was expected to choose something, he wrote bids on a lunch with the mayor and tickets to premium seats at the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo coming up in January. He was ambivalent about the lunch, but he bid enough on the rodeo tickets that he would probably win them.
Just ahead, Donna swayed and gripped the display tables’ edges for balance. Her agreement to lay off the martinis had gone bye-bye fifteen minutes after they arrived. He couldn’t guess how many she’d had, but he could see the situation had nowhere to go but downhill.
He caught up with her. “You’re staggering, babe. You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow. Let’s call it a night.” He grasped her elbow and attempted to guide her toward the doorway.
She stopped, yanking her elbow away from him and stepping backward to gain her balance. “Kiss my ass. I’m having a good time. I don’t know why I put up with your old-maid attitude.”
“I don’t know why either. Look, I’m trying to do you a favor. Let me take you home.”
He took her arm again and tried to urge her forward, but she refused to budge. One corner of her mouth tipped up into a silly grin. “Got another hot piece lined up, Drakey?”
“Donna, c’mon. Let’s just go home.”
“Don’t think I don’t notice what goes on behind my back,” she slurred. “Every bitch in this room would like to fuck one of—
“Don’t say it, Donna.”
“Fuck you. I’ll say what I goddamn well please.” Her lips curled into a drunken sneer. “State’s most eligible bachelor. Hah. I used to be just like them. I used to think I couldn’t live without—”
“Donna. Let’s. Go.”
“I wanna dance.” Swaying her hips and trying to step to the rhythm of the music, she started for the doorway. All at once her foot caught on a table leg and she lurched forward. Drake grabbed for her, but couldn’t keep her from landing on her knees in the doorway.
He dropped to a squat and began to check her for injury. “Jesus, Donna. Are you all right?”
“Some sonofabitch tripped me.” Breaking into tears, she pushed herself to a sitting position. “Who tripped me?”
“You caught your toe on something.” He slid an arm around her waist. “Let me help you get up.”
Her body was limp as cooked spaghetti and he struggled to lift her to her feet. Just as he succeeded, a mutual acquaintance strolled past, accompanied by a woman Drake didn’t know. “Jimmy, you cocksucker!” Donna yelled at his back.
Drake’s jaw clenched. Adrenaline zoomed through his system. The din surrounding them ceased and people stared. Jimmy stopped, turned and opened both arms in a “who-me?” gesture.
Drake tightened his grip on Donna’s waist. She lunged toward Jimmy, but was unable to escape Drake’s hold. “You tripped me, you little fucker,” she yelled.
“Jesus Christ, Donna,” Drake said sotto voce, using his strength to restrain her. “Shut your mouth. Just shut up.”
“God, Donna, I wasn’t anywhere near you,” the accused said, a stupefied look on his face. The woman with him stood slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“Sorry, Jimmy,” Drake said. “She didn’t mean it. Please excuse us. We’re going home.”
Donna’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Fuck both of you.” She jerked away from Drake.
“The only place I’m going is to the bathroom. I gotta piss.” She stumbled away from them.
Before Drake could grab her or follow her, Jimmy looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Drake. But I don’t think I tripped her.”
“No, no, you didn’t,” Drake said. “She caught her foot on something. It’s all good, okay?” He gave Jimmy a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Have a good night, okay? I’m going to go check on her.” He headed toward the ladies’ room, grabbling for his own composure.
Just then his mother appeared. Like a heat-seeking missile, she came straight at him.
Great. Just what I need.
She halted in front of him, placing her hand on his arm and looking up at him. “Son, are you and Donna quarreling?”
Drake’s brow crunched into frown so tight, his temples ached. “I’m not quarreling,” he answered, looking across the room rather than at her, trying to keep Donna in sight. “Yet,” he added.
“What does that mean?” his mother asked.
He redirected his attention to her. “Don’t worry about it, Mom. It’s no big deal.”
“There’s so much noise. Maybe no one important heard what she said.”
Barron Wilkes, his mother’s boyfriend—even after seven years, that phrase still sent a fingernails-on-a-chalkboard shudder over Drake—came from somewhere and placed his hand on her back.
Barron proffered his right hand. “Good evening, Drake. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Drake accepted Barron’s handshake. “I’ve been around.”
Wilkes angled a sly look at him and smiled. “Talk is you’ve got something going on with windmills and some West Texas boys. Find that more profitable than building shopping centers? Or drilling for shale gas?” He followed up with a low, knowing chuckle as if he and Drake were confidantes.
“Look, you’re going to have to excuse me,” Drake said, clapping Wilkes’ shoulder with one hand. “I need to help Donna. She needs to go home.”
“Oh, of course,” his mother replied. “I’ll talk to you later. Maybe we can do lunch next—”
Drake left her still talking and started across the room.
****
With the party in full swing, Shannon drifted from one group to another listening to snippets of conversation but offering little comment of her own. Sans the small-scale brinkmanship with the Lockhart star, she was reminded that many of the rich were boring. God knew she had escorted enough of them through houses and over vacant building lots to develop that opinion.
She hadn’t seen Jordan in a while. Once he realized he couldn’t lure her into a sleepover, he had flitted like a butterfly from one elegantly dressed female to the next. He must have landed one and left. That was fine with Shannon. A relief, even.
She hadn’t seen Drake Lockhart and Donna Schoonover either. Evidently, they had left, too. His fiancé was obviously drunk, but still, Shannon couldn’t keep from imagining what might be going on between the most appealing man she had seen in years and one of the richest young women in Texas.
Also one of the rudest, if tonight’s behavior tonight was typical, Shannon thought sourly. Half the room had heard her shout obscenities.
Shannon’s good mood had plummeted. For all its pomp and showiness, this party didn’t
really amount to much. She certainly hadn’t gained enough from it to warrant risking her neck driving in bad weather or depleting her bank account on clothing.
She hadn’t made the contacts she had hoped to. She hadn’t run into Emmett Hunt, the Dallas broker who had listed her five-acre corner. And as for gleaning a tidbit that might be helpful to her cause, she now realized that such a small tract of land in a small town held no significance for the people at this party. The ones who were interested in the real estate business chattered about multi-million dollar projects like huge shopping malls and multi-story office buildings and renovating old skyscrapers in downtown Fort Worth or Dallas.
She began to think of the forty-five mile drive back to Camden. Realizing she had drunk enough champagne to take her from buzz to being slightly drunk, she declined a server’s offer of another glass of bubbly and made her way out of the ballroom to the foyer bar.
****
Drake left Donna Schoonover’s plush townhouse at a clip, grateful to have escaped with his hide. Her scene tonight had been enough. He wasn’t easily embarrassed, but Donna had succeeded.
The minute he picked her up off the bathroom floor and poured her into the Virage, he had known their affair wouldn’t see Christmas after all. Her bad habits had destroyed any affection, even attraction, he had ever held for her.
Though he knew breaking up with her while she was drunk was risky, he had told her flatly that it was over between them. She threatened to sic her father on him and threw a vase at him, but he ducked in time. He had left her in the care of her personal maid.
Now, driving back toward downtown Fort Worth and the Worthington Hotel, he considered that it wasn’t over with Donna yet. He would hear from her tomorrow after she sobered up. Around noon, he estimated.
Hell, he might even hear from her father and that bothered him. He liked and respected Don Stafford and believed the feeling to be mutual. He bit down on the inside of his lower lip. Well, if Stafford chose to end their friendship over the breaking up with his daughter, so be it.
Soon he saw the city’s white-lighted silhouette showing like a wide tiara through a veil of heavy mist. He narrowed his focus to the redheaded woman. He only hoped she hadn’t left the party.
****
Sitting on a tall vinyl stool, Shannon sipped ice water, mulling over how long she should wait before starting the trip home. She had just decided she was okay to drive when a deep but soft male voice came from behind her, “What are you drinking?”
Her heart leaped. She knew. Just knew. She jerked her head toward the voice and less than an arm’s length away, he was there.
And Donna Schoonover wasn’t.
His tanned cheeks showed high color, as if he had rushed in from outside. In a black overcoat, his shoulders seemed even wider than they had looked in the ballroom. He was near enough for her to see whisker shadow on his lean square jaw and his eyes. An unusual brown, not like chocolate, more like whiskey.
“Um, it’s ice water. I’m driving.”
“Smart thinking.” He moved to the bar, standing beside her stool.
His scent surrounded her. Heavenly, like chilled night air and expensive cologne. She had
always loved a woodsy masculine scent on a man and was pleased that one more thing about Drake Lockhart—as if she needed any more—met her expectations.
He summoned the bartender. “Bring me what she’s having.”
She looked up at him, questioning with her eyes.
He leaned on his right elbow on the bar’s black padded edge. His gaze moved down to her mouth. “The last thing I want to be at this particular moment, ma’am, is under the i
nfluence.”
Her heartbeat raced off on a wild tangent. She turned away and set her glass on the bar.
He braced his left boot on the rung of her stool, his thigh touching hers and sending heat rushing up her neck. “Where, um, are you driving to?” he asked.
“Ca—” She stopped herself. Did she really want to tell him where she lived? “Home,” she said.
The bartender reappeared and set another glass of ice water on the bar. Drake straightened, picked it up, sipped and set it down. “You were with someone earlier. Did he leave?”
Oh, hell. He had to be talking about Jordan. “He…yes. We weren’t really together. We’re just friends.”
The next thing she knew, Drake had stepped to her side and placed his hand under her elbow and was urging her off the stool. “Walk with me,” he said.
As if he were Pied Piper, she offered no resistance as he steered her away from the bar.
****
Hearing her say she wasn’t Palmer’s girlfriend sent satisfaction through Drake, but could he believe her? “Just friends” was a too-casual phrase that had no real meaning in his lexicon. “Do you have a coat?” he asked.
“It’s in that coatroom in the corner.”
He guided her without obstacle or interruption through the thinning crowd toward the coat storage area. She was tall, he noticed, but still inches shorter than he, even wearing high heels. Her scent wafted to him, something womanly and sexy.
“Most of this crowd is associated with the real estate business,” he said. “You’re what? Broker? Investor?...Wait, lemme guess. A politician.”
“Um, no. None of those things. I, uh, just came here with Jordan.”
But she had already said she wasn’t with Palmer. Something wasn’t right, but Drake couldn’t quickly figure out what, wasn’t sure he wanted to know about it if it conflicted with his greater purpose.
They reached the makeshift coat closet. She opened her purse, pulled out her ticket and handed it to the steward who manned the coat check. He hurried away and soon returned carrying a short black jacket. With a wide smile, he offered Drake her jacket. He took it and held it while she slipped her arms into it. It was fancy, but lightweight. “This doesn’t look very warm.”