Courted by the Texas Millionaire

by Crystal Green

  “What, this is trouble?” he asked, pulling the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket. He’d tamed his dark blond hair, combing it back, and it made him look sharp—especially with the suit he was wearing.

  “Don’t act like this is no big deal, Davis,” she said. “You flew in a private chef.”

  “She had the night off from the Houston hotel I invested in.”

  “She’s been in charge of five-star restaurants.”

  “She makes food I like.”

  Davis popped the cork on the champagne. Some of it bubbled out and they laughed together. It felt so good to be laughing with him again, especially after she’d come to believe that there would be only bitterness while she was here.

  He filled her flute, then his, and they raised their glasses for a toast.

  “Here’s to a sparkling future,” he said. “For St. Valentine and for you.”

  “And you,” she added.

  For us?

  As they drank, those unspoken words hovered between them.

  There just couldn’t be an us. Not unless Davis could understand that they would only be a temporary thing, and Violet doubted the possibility, what with their tempestuous history of getting in too deep and too fast, then self-destructing.

  She took another sip. Then, not sure what to do next, she resorted to a neutral topic. “Since I had the day off from the saloon, I went to Rita’s hotel to see if Jared Colton was there.”

  Davis put his glass on the table. If he was disappointed that they weren’t taking up where they’d left off in her kitchen yesterday, he didn’t show it. “Let me guess—our look-alike was out and about, riding around in his truck to Lord-knows-where.”

  “His truck was gone from the hotel’s lot. When I asked Rita if he was still checked in, she wouldn’t tell me. She’s big on privacy, and even I can’t play the friend card with her to squeeze out any information. But I wheedled the truth out of a new clerk who didn’t know any better.”

  “So Jared’s still in town.”

  “Sure is.” Violet ran a finger down her flute. “The good news is that I talked to Jerry Lister today during my break.” He was an old mining friend who still hung out with her dad. “He told me something that makes me think we’ve only hit the tip of the iceberg with Tony Amati.”

  Davis leaned forward, his voice even lower, sexier. “Yeah?”

  Oh, yeah.

  And…no. She shouldn’t be oh-yeahing about him. But why had she come here tonight if some part of her hadn’t been willing to fall into his arms again?

  She stilled her flailing heart. “Jerry remembers overhearing a conversation his father was having with a friend on the front porch when he was a kid. They were talking about Tony Amati and how there was some rumor about his ‘mysterious origins.’”

  “Even more mysterious than Tony is to us nowadays?”

  “Definitely.” Violet leaned forward, too, lowering her voice. Her skin felt as if waves of flickering awareness were traveling over it…and under it. “Everyone says that Tony used to be a Texas Ranger before he founded St. Valentine, but Jerry swears that he heard the man had some ‘empty years.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but Jerry’s dad said something about Tony having to come back out West because of some trouble, as if Tony was running from something. Hiding in plain sight.”

  Davis put his hand over hers, squeezing it. “You did good, Vi.”

  He didn’t remove his hand, and its warmth enveloped Violet.

  Impetuously, she turned her hand over, wanting to feel his palm against hers. His flesh, manly and rough from the work he probably did on the ranch here, gave her a comfort she’d never felt before. And it brought back memories that made her quiver with sensation.

  His hand on her hip, under her shirt, dragging up, up…

  A young waiter dressed all in black came out of the cottage, bearing appetizer plates, and Violet let go of Davis.

  He didn’t look frustrated, though—he had a cocky glint in his blue eyes that reminded her of how he’d looked right after he’d kissed her for the first time in high school.

  This is just the start, that look seemed to say.

  After the waiter asked if they would like freshly ground pepper on their lobster Caesar salad, he left to bring them the wine that Davis had paired with their food—a light Chardonnay. After pouring it, he left them to their meal.

  Water lapped at the dock. Violet used her fork to spear a bite of salad, her pulse pumping a mile a second.

  Saved by the food. This time.

  But how was she going to handle the rest of the night? Part of her still wanted to run from what she saw in Davis’s gaze, but part of her needed him against her, inside her, just as it used to be.

  Which part was right?

  The silence was too much for her. “So you’ve got a pretty great life here.”

  “I like it just fine.”

  “Do you ever sail in this lake?”

  “Not yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  His voice was that low scratch over her skin that she fantasized about when she didn’t have her defenses up and running.

  Jeez, she was playing with fire, wasn’t she? But she couldn’t have stayed away from him, even if it was the best thing for her.

  “If I were you,” she said, “I’d own one of those little sailboats. A Sunfish.”

  “A one-man rig?”

  “That’s right.” The “one-man” part had sounded louder than the rest of the words to her, and she wondered if she would always want a one-man—or one-woman—vessel.

  All of a sudden, it sounded so lonely.

  She continued. “Believe it or not, I didn’t get to the ocean much in L.A., but when I did, I always dreamed of renting a Sunfish.”

  “I do some swimming here in the mornings. But mostly I ride or work in the stables.”

  “It must be nice to be rich enough to enjoy menial work.”

  “I’m not complaining.” He grinned, almost devilishly. “You wouldn’t, either.”

  A loaded comment, but she sidestepped it, even while the lure of this kind of life—of luxury, of nights having dinner with a private chef on the banks of your own lake—intrigued her.

  If she had money, she would first get her parents out of their financial lurch. And, like Davis, she’d also do the same for her friends and community…

  She stopped. Her community?

  When had she started feeling as if St. Valentine were hers?

  Davis finished off a hearty bite of salad. “If you didn’t go to the beach in L.A., what did you do with your extra time? Do you still read like you used to?”

  “I wish, but there’s no—”

  “Time.” Davis nodded. “You’re busy.”

  When he said it, the words rang hollow. Busyness had somehow taken her over. Even back in St. Valentine, when she’d been running here and there because of the paper and school, she’d had time for kissing Davis, for looking into his eyes and getting lost in them.

  From her purse on the dock, her phone sounded off—two dings signaling that she had a text message.

  She ignored it, but Davis said, “Check it.”

  “Not during dinner with you.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  But she wouldn’t do it. Davis had taken a lot of care with dinner tonight, and this was his time. Even if it wasn’t wise to give him her heart, she could sure give him…

  Well, her attention, right?

  Soon, the main course arrived—grilled lamb loin with black olives, artichokes, potatoes and a tomato confit—and they continued with their small talk: more about the sort of stories she’d written on the ci
ty beat, more about Davis’s extensive list of properties, including a golf course near Dallas and a resort near El Paso.

  The meal ended with a warm cherry and chocolate cobbler, and soon afterward Violet was holding her stomach as she thanked and complimented Chef Hartford.

  And then she and Davis strolled away from the dock and toward his home.

  Her mind raced along with her blood. What would happen next?

  What did she want to happen?

  They came to stand in front of the sliding glass doors of his home—windows into the scary, enticing world inside. Low light burned from the rustic yet elegant chandeliers, echoing the glow inside of her.

  Davis rested his hands on her shoulders—his fingers on the bare skin left exposed by her dress. She went shivery all over.

  “All night,” he said, “I’ve been across that table from you. I kept looking at you, Vi, thinking how beautiful you look—how beautiful you always look, whether it’s in this dress or just every day. And I asked myself how I wanted to handle this.”

  This—the moment in which they’d have to decide where to go from here.

  Her voice was breathy. “What conclusion did you come to?”

  He reached up, running his knuckles over her cheek. Just a simple touch like that was enough to turn her into water, simmering and near to boiling.

  “Slow,” he said, and that was all.

  But it was definitive, making her think of slow kisses, a slow hand caressing her face, then skimming down and over her collarbone, coming to her breast.

  Her body reacted, her nipples going hard, even at the mere thought.

  “How slow?” she asked.

  “As slow as you need for it to be.”

  A breath escaped her, and she realized she’d been holding it. “Davis, I don’t know what I could possibly bring to your life that you don’t already have.”

  He frowned.

  How could she avoid angering him if she admitted that she was afraid he was just going to get tired of her once he’d had his fun? How could she tell him that getting back together with him was terrifying to her because she couldn’t take it if their relationship soured again?

  He whispered, “You really don’t know what you do for me?”

  “I know what I did do. You used to say that I made you feel smarter than anyone had ever given you credit for. I used to make you see yourself in a whole different way—a good way.”

  “And you still do.”

  “No, you did all that yourself after I left. You became your own person.”

  “Because of you.”

  This was too much. She’d never expected that his feelings for her would’ve stayed alive…and that hers would still be the same ones, too, if she would only allow them free reign.

  He stroked her cheek. “I’ll wait, Vi, just as long as I have to. Know that.”

  Her practical side shouted that they didn’t have all the time in the world—she’d be gone just as soon as she could be, and where would that leave them? Hurt and angry again?

  He must have seen her confusion, because he bent to her, gathering her in his arms and bringing her against him as his mouth sought hers.

  Slow, sipping, he tasted her lips as if she was a fine champagne he had been saving for the right occasion.

  When he finished, it felt as if she was steeped in thick liquid, making it difficult—and yet so easy—to think that everything could work out.

  She rested her mouth against his chest, and he whispered into her hair.

  “Will you see me tomorrow?”

  The old Violet would’ve told him that she had more interviews planned before her late shift at the bar and grill.

  “Yes,” she said. God, yes.

  He gave her one more kiss—gentle and filled with promise—before he clasped her hand in his and walked her to a town car that would take her back home.

  A final kiss, and he eased her into the backseat, standing there in the moonlight for one more moment, his gaze devouring her.

  He shut the door, and the driver took off down the lane that led to the country road that would bring her home to a bed that would feel all too empty tonight.

  Blowing out a breath, she remembered the text that had come through during dinner, then took her phone out of her purse.

  The message was from her L.A. friend Nancy, and when Violet focused on the content, she sat forward in her seat.

  Might be an opening in San Fran for you!

  Call you soon if I hear anything else.

  Violet shoved the phone back into her purse and looked out the window, back toward Davis’s place, when it probably would’ve been a better idea to be looking ahead.

  * * *

  Davis called Violet the next morning.

  “Be ready for me to pick you up in an hour,” he said on the phone, as he put a cooler in the backseat of another one of his restored cars—a 1947 black Mercury convertible.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He climbed in. “I can’t tell you, but dress comfortably, like you’re going to be outside.”

  “Shorts? Skirts? What?”

  “I like you in anything.” Or out of anything, he silently added with a grin, signing off by telling her he’d see her soon.

  When he drove up to her cabin on the Osbornes’ ranch, she came outside as if she’d been watching for him through the window.

  As he got out to hold open her door, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wore a floral sleeveless top that knotted at her waist and khaki shorts that cupped her rear end, making his fantasies go wild. She’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail, leaving her neck bare.

  Her neck—delicate, pale, gorgeous. Just made for the kisses he was going to give her.

  For some reason, her smile wasn’t as bright as it’d been last night, when she’d gone home from their dinner. But then, as if he’d merely imagined it, she smiled brightly, nearly knocking him out.

  “So what’s it going to be?” she asked, peering into the backseat at the blanket and cooler. “A picnic? Did I wear the right shoes for where we’re going?” She showed him her cute, strappy sandals.

  “Perfect,” he assured her, meaning it in more than one way. She was perfect, after all.

  He put pedal to the metal. Then, after driving for about twenty minutes out of the St. Valentine town limits, he pulled into a dirt lane that brought them to an old ranch with a red-paint-patched barn and a corral. A withered cabin that had seen better days eyed them with broken windows.

  As Violet got out of the car, she shot him a curious glance. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s some property I invested in recently.”

  “Looks like this one’s going to need some work.” She smiled and wandered over to the cabin, where some purple flowers were growing.

  “It’s an investment, all right,” he said quietly, watching her.

  Then, as she picked the flowers, he grabbed the cooler, a bag of food he’d purchased from the market and a blanket from the back of the car, and made his way toward the corral. The summer sun beat down, but there was a lean-to.

  He spread the blanket on the ground, sat, then brought out a couple of wineglasses for the champagne and orange juice in the cooler. She came over, skimming the flowers over his temple.

  He grabbed her wrist and she laughed, sitting next to him and presenting him with a loose bouquet.

  “Thanks,” he said. He’d never gotten flowers from a woman in his life.

  “Just a small token of my appreciation. Next time, I’m going to get the food, okay? You’re doing too much for me.”

  As she moved away from him to fetch some plates, he once again thought of how hard to get, hard
to hold, she was.

  She’s a part of your past, he heard his mom say.

  “So why’d you buy this property?” Violet asked as she set out the paper plates.

  He wasn’t going to think of warnings today. “Always full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “Hey, I am who I am.” When she smiled, the gesture seemed to die a little on her lips, as if she was remembering something, too. But then she recovered.

  It almost made him think that he was being a stubborn fool, courting her like this. But he wanted to savor the buildup with Violet, show her how he felt before hopping into the sack with her, as he would’ve done with any other woman.

  She was different.

  She was the one for him, whether she knew it or not yet.

  “I bought this place,” he finally said, “because it has potential.”

  “For…?”

  “You know me. I’ve got a lot of toys. The possibility for entertainment is endless with this.”

  She cocked an eyebrow as she stood, going to a section of corral fencing that was covered by the lean-to’s shade. Glancing around, she seemed puzzled.

  “I’m not seeing anything spectacular here, Davis.”

  “You always manage to in the end.”

  “Meaning…?”

  They were at the point he’d been trying to reach—he’d brought her out here for a picnic, sure, but he also knew what Violet needed.

  Restored confidence. The kind of pride that she’d brought out in him since she’d come back.

  “You’re the smartest woman I know,” he said, “and I wanted your opinion on something.”

  She leaned against the fencing, hooked by this little mystery he was throwing out to her.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “that for St. Valentine to recover properly, it should start depending on itself for jobs. Not just on corporations or any outside influences.”

  “You want to provide some opportunities here?”

  “Yeah.” He’d known it wouldn’t take long for her to figure it out. “We’ve already talked about how to draw people to St. Valentine, and this could be another way. I was thinking of having some sort of operating ranch here—one that benefits all kinds of people through the Helping Hand Foundation. Something that could employ locals.”