THE BEST MAN IN TEXAS

by Kristine Rolofson

  "Georgia, are you still there?"

  "Sorry. I was thinking about Delia."

  "Did you talk to her about—?"

  "No. It wasn't the right time."

  "Oh." The way she said it made Georgia stop watching the coffee drip into the carafe as if she could will it to brew faster.

  "Annie? What's going on?"

  "Well, Bill's aunt told Bill that she called the house this morning to see how Betty was—I guess everyone was real upset about her being taken to the hospital, her being so nice and all, despite that daughter of hers and everyone thinks the kids are cute, but they don't know how Betty does it at her age, taking care of two little ones the way she does and—"

  "Annie," Georgia interjected. "What are you trying to say?"

  "Delia answered."

  "Answered what?"

  "The phone. Delia answered the phone when Bill's aunt called to ask about Betty. She must have been over there helping out with the kids."

  Now she knew her daughter had lost her mind. It wasn't bad enough drinking in a bar with the brother and moving into a trailer park across the street from the mother, but now Delia was baby-sitting Julie Brown's kids?

  It couldn't get any crazier. And the worst thing of all was that Georgia couldn't think of any way to stop the madness.

  * * *

  "Just a minute, please." Delia took the portable phone down the hall and stood outside the closed bathroom door. Joe was in the shower, but one of the doctors at the hospital wanted to talk to him. She knocked, but there was no response. "Joe?"

  The water stopped. "Delia? Are you calling me?"

  "A doctor's on the phone. He said to tell you that it's not an emergency." She heard the shower curtain being pushed aside and within seconds Joe opened the door and reached for the phone, which she handed to him.

  "Thanks," he said, water dripping down his chest. A white bath towel was wrapped around his waist, but the rest of the man was naked. Gloriously naked. No wonder he'd had such a reputation in high school if he looked half as good back then. Lean, muscular, tanned and completely unself-conscious about wearing a towel, the man was pure male and totally dangerous.

  She decided she liked dangerous men, not that she'd ever known any before now.

  "That's good news," he said into the phone. He looked up at Della and smiled. "When?" She took a step backward, but Joe reached for her hand to keep her there. "Sure. Tell her everything is fine and I'll be in to see her later on. And thanks again, Doc. I appreciate it." He set the phone on the edge of the sink and grinned. "She's going to be okay."

  "Oh, I'm so glad." She gave his hand a little tug, but he didn't release it.

  "Yeah. She's on medication and needs to take it easy, but she's okay."

  "It's a good thing you were here."

  "I was going to say the same thing about you." He tugged her closer and wrapped her in a hug. "Thanks. For everything."

  "Uh, Joe—" She was going to point out that he was dripping wet and almost naked, but her hands touched terry cloth. She wasn't sure what to do with her arms—wrapping them around his waist was out of the question—and afraid that the towel would come unfastened and give her the kind of temptation she wasn't prepared to deal with.

  He kissed her cheek. "Go home and get some rest, sweetheart."

  She should have resisted him. She shouldn't have enjoyed the tickle of his breath against her ear or the way his lips grazed her skin. "Okay."

  "Okay," he agreed, but he looked at her mouth when he said it. Instead of releasing her, he kissed her, a soft meeting of lips that lasted only seconds, a thank-you-for-your-help kind of kiss that really didn't mean anything.

  "I—" she began, aware that she probably smelled like baby formula and looked like she'd slept in her clothes, which she had spent the last hour doing. The living room couch had been surprisingly comfortable and neither child had awakened and needed her since six o'clock.

  But Joe kissed her again, and this time he kissed like he meant business. His large hands spread across her spine, holding her to him. His lips were firm and warm. She didn't stop to think about where to put her hands; they went naturally to his waist, to the cool damp skin above the towel, while she kissed him back.

  How brave of me, she thought. How daring to return the kiss of a good-looking man wearing only a towel while two little chaperones slept in another room. He urged her lips apart; she felt an answering jolt between her legs, a swell of passion so unexpected it caught her breath. His tongue teased hers, his fingers lowered to the curve of her spine and splayed along her buttocks. She leaned into him, felt the arousal against her abdomen and marveled at his reaction. He was all heat and wanting and she was tingling and needy. It was the perfect kiss, except that they were standing up and one of them was fully clothed.

  He backed her against the door frame before her knees gave out. "It's gotta be that blouse."

  "What?" She looked at his freshly shaven chin and higher, to those lips that caused such amazing reactions to her body

  "That blouse." His gaze dropped to her cleavage. "It's—"

  "A mess?"

  "Indecent was the word I was thinking." He smiled, his gaze meeting hers. "We have a big problem."

  She knew. She'd felt it against her, but "problem" was an interesting euphemism for a physical reaction. To be polite, she pretended innocence and asked, "What?"

  "My towel is slipping." He shifted slightly, but his hands were between the door frame and Delia's rear.

  "Wait. I'll—" She made an attempt to grab the towel but her efforts didn't work. The darn thing dropped straight to the floor.

  "You want me," he said, but he was laughing. "I think it's the other way around," Delia replied, feeling the heat in her face.

  "Damn right," he growled.

  "I'm not going to look down," she told him. "I'm going to turn around and walk back into the living room."

  "And then what?"

  "The next time I see you," she said, moving sideways as Joe released her. "You'll be dressed."

  "And you? What will you be?"

  "I'll be home," she said. If she stayed there was no telling what could happen, especially since there was this physical attraction thing happening. His face fell.

  "Do you have to go?"

  "Yes." She backed up into the living room and quickly turned around.

  "Will you come back?"

  "If you need me, sure," Delia answered, but she headed toward the kitchen door as fast as her legs could take her. She was tired, dirty and aroused, a strange combination. This had been gloriously fun, but Joe was responsible for two small children and a sick mother. She was trying to get her life together and start over again. It was no time for playing kissy-face with a Texas charmer.

  * * *

  The phone didn't stop ringing. Joe answered it each time, hoping that Julie would be on the other end, but the callers were his mother's neighbors inquiring after her health and offering their help. They knocked on the door, too. One woman brought a pie, another a macaroni and cheese casserole. A plump white-haired man delivered a bouquet of daisies in a canning jar while Hank cried for chocolate milk on his Cheerios. Joe thanked everyone and tried to remember their names; his mother would want to know.

  "Deeyah's got my mulk," he said, looking at his uncle as if Joe was responsible for Delia's non-appearance at the kitchen table.

  "How do you know that?"

  "She said."

  "Okay." He glanced across the street and wondered if she was sleeping. He had no idea if she had a phone over there, but as soon as Libby woke up they could go over and see if she was awake. Chocolate milk was as good an excuse as any, he supposed. Even if he had no business lusting after a freshly divorced innocent like Delia. She would be easy prey for some guy with an understanding smile and a sympathetic ear. Especially if she continued to run around town by herself, looking for fun and guzzling frozen rum drinks.

  He hated to see anything happen to her. She wasn't the
type who could wake up next to a stranger in the morning and not feel ashamed of herself. She might very well fall for the first guy who smiled at her, the first s.o.b. who told her she was beautiful.

  Well, she was beautiful. That was no lie. Those hazel eyes and golden brown hair and lips that could make a man weak in the knees and hard between his legs. She had breasts—real breasts—that would fill his hand and then some. She was all female, curvy and soft the way a woman should be. He'd never been much for bony women, though he usually liked his women tall.

  But Delia was sized just right.

  But his sister's behavior had reduced her to near poverty. She had to sell her home and move into a trailer that smelled like chili and fried vegetables.

  "Uncle Joe." Hank tugged on his shirtsleeve. "Where's Gramma?"

  "I told you, Hank, remember? She's in the hospital having a little rest."

  The boy nodded. "Her heart hurts."

  "Yeah, her heart hurts, that's right." He ruffled the boy's hair. Hank didn't look anything like a Brown and only faintly like his light-haired mother, but Julia had informed the family that she didn't know who Hank's father was, so they could all quit asking her about it. When she was pregnant with Libby, the baby's father was some truck driver who drove off into the sunset the minute he heard that he'd given Julie, waitressing at the truck stop on Route 79, more than a big tip and a couple of months of sweet talk.

  God, he hoped Martin Drummond was smarter, because Julie sure as hell wasn't. She'd been a decent little kid, a little wild but that streak ran in the family. Maybe it was time he had a talk with Martin Drummond, Ass Extraordinaire, about just what the hell was going on.

  Joe looked toward Delia's trailer again. He'd like nothing better than to walk over there and make love to her. It was all he could do this morning not to unbutton that blouse and scoop those soft breasts into his palms. She wouldn't have stopped him, either, not the way she was kissing him. He'd had a crush on Delia when he was sixteen and repeating algebra class. Now here she was again, only now he wasn't "Bad Ass Brown" and she was no longer "Saint Delia."

  He was thirty-five years old. He had a decent job, a nice little ranch he was fixing up north of Austin, and a nagging sense that there was something missing in his life. A wife? Maybe. But he'd never met a woman he could picture living with for the rest of their lives.

  Until now.

  When the woman of his teenage dreams was living in the same trailer park.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  Delia couldn't sleep. Not after kissing a near-naked Joe. Even though she crawled into her bed, closed her eyes, drew the curtains against the morning sun and willed herself to get some rest, she couldn't stop remembering how he felt against her. A man had no right to taste that good or kiss so well that the idea of having sex on the bathroom floor had actually held a great deal of appeal.

  So she took a shower, put on fresh clothes, brewed iced tea and watched the Sunday morning news shows on Horatio's small television. She also paced around the small kitchen trying not to look across the street at the Browns' windows. No doubt Joe was busy with the children, something that was still difficult for her to relate to the wild young man she'd known in high school.

  He was still wild, though. Wild enough to kiss her like he wanted to haul her off to bed, crazy enough to laugh when the towel came unwrapped and left him naked.

  He'd smelled wonderful. Droplets of water from his hair had tickled her ear and his skin had been warm and damp. He'd wanted her, which was something. She wondered if he regretted turning down last week's tipsy suggestion that they make love in her swimming pool. She'd thought she'd been very daring, but maybe she'd only been desperate instead. Desperate to be wild, desperate to be loved.

  What an embarrassing afternoon that had turned out to be.

  She really needed to have sex. That was obvious. But with Joe? No, he wasn't for beginners. And despite thirteen years of marriage, she felt less than experienced. No doubt he'd had lots of women. He probably knew more positions than the average male. She'd experienced what he could do with his tongue—just his tongue—for heaven's sake. Imagining what he could do with the rest of that lean, hard body almost sent her back into the shower.

  No, she thought, plopping ice cubes into a tall glass. Sex with J.C. Brown was something that scared the heck out of her, a not-so-thin suburban stepmother, a divorcée who hadn't been made love to for longer than she could remember. Last fall she'd thought Martin's lack of interest in the bedroom was because she wasn't sexy enough or that he was having a midlife crisis. It had never occurred to her that he was having an affair, not even when her own friends questioned Martin's golf weekends and long nights at the office.

  How stupid she'd been. Or maybe she hadn't wanted to see what was going on. She'd cooked and shopped and cleaned, but she'd been happiest alone in her sewing room stitching beads onto crazy quilts and attempting to replicate Victorian beadwork. She hadn't exactly put a lot of time into wondering what was wrong with Martin.

  Delia sat down on the couch, her back to the street and temptation to think about Joe, and made a list of what she would buy for the trailer—new curtains, throw pillows, a bright rug—and studied the living room to see how she would set up her beadwork. She had lots to do. There was an unfilled order for beaded flowers, Uncle Gin's songs to put in notebooks and, if she was really desperate for distraction, she could call her mother and meet her in town for Sunday dinner.

  Or not.

  She pulled the carton of songs close to the couch and added "page protectors" to her list. If she was going to organize Uncle Gin's music she might as well do it properly: It was the least she could do for the man who had given her a place to live. And besides, his songs deserved to be saved. Maybe someday she'd learn to play his guitar and go out on the road singing "I'll Be Dead And Gone Before I Miss You" and "Old Men Need Lovin', Too."

  She was in the middle of learning the chords to "Lay, Granny, Lay" when a familiar knock interrupted a song she suspected was a satire of an old Dylan tune.

  "Come in!" Delia set the guitar aside as Hank opened the door, his uncle close behind him. Joe wore jeans and a University of Texas T-shirt, cowboy boots and an air of domesticity that was oddly touching. Libby, in a blue sunsuit and matching lace-trimmed hat, was in his arms. Her chubby feet were bare and her little hands kept trying to grab her uncle's chin. Delia steeled her heart.

  Joe gave her one of his charming smiles and shut the door behind him. "As you can see, I brought the chaperones," he said. His gaze ran over her body and he sighed.

  Hank tugged on her hand. "Dee-yah?"

  "Hey, Hank. Did you come for your milk?" She couldn't help smiling at the child. He looked so serious, despite the ever-present cowlick and the wide blue eyes.

  Hank nodded. "Yes, please."

  "I didn't know you played," Joe said, looking at the guitar before meeting her gaze.

  "I don't." She refused to blush when he looked at her as if he would like to take her into the bedroom. She wondered if he really meant it or was that simply a look he wore all the time.

  "And the guitar?"

  "It belonged to my uncle. I'm learning some chords so I can play his songs." She untangled her legs and stood, ruffling Hank's hair as she passed him on the way to the refrigerator.

  "Hank was pretty insistent that we come over here."

  "I'm glad he remembered. I should have brought it over to him." She took out the carton of milk. "Do you want to drink some here or take it to your house?"

  "My house?" The child looked at his uncle.

  "Grandma's house," Joe explained and Hank grinned.

  "Okay."

  She handed him the unopened carton. "There you go, pal. It's all yours."

  "What do you say, Hank?"

  "Thank you." His eyes were huge as he cradled the quart of milk.

  "You're very welcome. You might not want to drink it all at once, though."

&nb
sp; "Why?"

  "Because you might get a sick tummy." Libby smiled at Delia and tipped toward her, her pudgy arms reaching down to be held. Delia laughed and took her.

  "Thanks," Joe said.

  "I promised him," she said.

  "That's not what I meant." He glanced toward Hank, whose attention had been claimed by the guitar lying on the couch. The child patted the strings with gentle fingers and broke out into a huge smile. "I keep forgetting how awkward this is for you, being with Julie's kids and all."

  "My mother has already left three messages on my phone telling me to stop being a fool."

  He smiled, that slow sexy smile that made her heart race. "I don't think that's what I'd call you."

  "No?" She smiled at him, flirting shamelessly, heaven help her.

  "Absolutely not." He ran one roughened finger along her jaw and stopped at her chin. He looked as if he wanted to kiss her again, but she didn't think that would be a good idea in front of Hank. He might tell his grandmother or worse, his mother, and then it would be all over town. Delia Drummond was seen kissing with J.C. Brown and you all know what that leads to.

  "You're very … kind."

  "Kind?" She expected something more flattering, like sexy or gorgeous, things she aspired to. Of course, after eating cookies and brownies for two days, she should be relieved that Joe didn't say "maternal" to describe her since she could have put on another five pounds.

  "And lonely," he added, looking at her mouth.

  "Which makes me sound very pathetic," Delia said, stepping away from his touch. "Like an old auntie or some old lady who takes in stray cats."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "It's okay." She returned the baby to him. "I'll have you know I'm not lonely. I even have a date tonight," she lied.

  "You do?" Libby started to fuss. He tucked her against his shoulder and patted her back, but the baby only screamed louder. "With whom?" Delia ignored the question, mostly because she couldn't think of anyone she'd care to spend an evening with. "I'm not trying to pry," he said, but he didn't look happy. "But you have to be careful. Men think recently divorced women are fair game."