He was sopping wet from head to toe and standing next to his equally waterlogged truck on the most important day of his life.
“What was that thing?” Ralph asked.
“I was hoping you’d gotten a clear view of it.”
“Naw, but I did find your cell phone and bag.”
That was something, at least. Knox fished his soggy pants from the water, removed his wallet and set it on the roof of the truck, then tossed the pants in the truck bed. Next, he grabbed his shoes and tossed them onto the shore. Maybe they wouldn’t squish too loudly when he walked.
With that taken care of, it was time to get the inevitable over with. He loosened his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off.
“Uh, sir? Are you stripping? I mean, uh, why don’t you get out of the water first?”
“Going after my hat.” It wasn’t until he’d spoken that he realized his teeth were chattering. The sooner he was out of the frigid water, the better. He added his shirt and tie to his pants in the truck bed, then drew a fortifying breath and pushed into the water for a freestyle swim across the lake.
Technically, the hat was replaceable, but this particular one had been the first he’d bought with his own money, back when he was fifteen and working his first real job outside of the local junior rodeo circuit. Over the years, it’d become a habit to wear it to new jobs or when he needed a little extra boost for a negotiation. He believed in good luck charms like he believed in ghosts—which meant surreptitiously and despite his better judgment—but there was no denying the slight edge that the black Stetson with the cattleman’s crease and the rodeo brim provided him.
He was a solid fifty yards into the water when he reached the hat. Grabbing on to it tightly, he ignored the fact that his legs were going numb and made short work of returning to shore. He shook the water off the hat and placed it firmly on his head again, then took his phone from Ralph and dialed his office again.
Shayla answered on the first ring this time. “Hey, Knox. If you’re calling about a tow truck, one’s already on its way. I forgot to mention that before.”
Ladies and gentlemen, Shayla Briscoe, World’s Best Office Manager. “Thanks. You’re awesome, sis.”
“Figured you’d need one for that awful truck. It always was unreliable, even when it was brand new.”
Knox glanced again at the Chevy. It might be a pain in the ass, but some of the best memories of his life involved that truck. “It has its moments.”
“Is the Cab’d driver there yet?” Shayla said. “Should be, any minute.”
“He’s here. One more thing. I need you to email me with some information on a property.” He rattled off the address of the lakefront home from memory and thanked her again. When the call ended, Knox turned to Ralph and sized him up. The two of them were roughly the same height and build. “You’re, what, six-one? One-eighty?”
Ralph gave him the side-eye, apparently on to Knox’s plan. “Six even and one-ninety,” he said hesitantly.
Close enough. Knox took out three, soggy one hundred dollar bills from his wallet. “Ralph, I’m going to need to buy your suit.”
* * *
It wasn’t the first time Emily Ford had spied on a VIP guest at Briscoe Ranch Resort. In fact, she considered it a mandatory part of her research as the resort’s Executive Special Event Chef. Wowing elite guests with personalized, gastronomic marvels was her specialty. As long as the guests never checked her internet search history or spotted her peering at them through binoculars, she was golden.
She didn’t usually involve her best friend for life, Carina Decker, in her covert ops, but today was an exception. Because today’s resort VIP was Knox Briscoe—a cousin of Carina’s whom Emily had never met, and Carina had only seen a handful of times, though they’d grown up a couple hundred miles from each other. He was about to sign on with Carina’s dad as the heir apparent of the resort, making him Carina’s future landlord and Emily’s newest boss.
Since Carina was eight months along in a pregnancy that had supersized her whole body from her ankles to her face, stealthiness in this covert ops mission was not easily achieved. So, once Emily had gotten the call from the security guard manning the resort’s cameras that Knox had arrived, Emily and Carina had settled for spying on him from a window in the bridal gown shop Carina operated in the resort’s lobby.
A shiny, black sedan matching the description the security guard had given Emily came into view on the long road through the property leading to the circular driveway in front of the resort’s main building.
Carina nudged Emily in the ribs. “This is exciting. I’m glad he’s here, and I’m proud of my dad for putting the rift behind him. Whatever my dad, Uncle Clint, and Grandpa Tyson fought over that made Uncle Clint leave, it’s been more than thirty years. That’s ancient history.”
Ancient history that was still shrouded in silence and speculation, Emily added silently. To the best of her knowledge, no one but Tyson, Ty, and Clint knew the reason for the fight—and Clint and Tyson had already taken that secret to their graves.
Carina wrapped an arm around her belly. “With a new generation of Briscoes coming along soon, it’s time for the family to forgive and move on. And I think Knox represents a new era of greatness for our family and for our business.”
Carina was right. Probably. Knox’s private equity firm’s investment in Briscoe Ranch might just be the monetary boost the resort needed to propel it to the next level in luxury destinations. Including the building of the dream restaurant that Emily had been working toward at the resort for a decade. Only weeks earlier, Ty had finally, finally, agreed to give Emily the space to build her restaurant at the resort. All they needed now were investors. Knox’s timing couldn’t be more perfect—unless it wasn’t.
“You don’t think this all feels too good to be true?” Emily said. “I mean, I get that Knox is family, but the man’s amassed a net worth of millions by buying and flipping failing businesses. How can we trust him not to sell us all out?”
“I was skeptical when my dad first told me his plan, but I trust my dad. And I trust his lawyers. They’re too business savvy to make it possible for anyone to sell the resort away from the family.”
When the car rounded the driveway and came to a stop, Carina and Emily crowded together, ducking their heads low in case either Knox or his driver looked their way.
Emily already knew what he looked like from photographs accompanying write-ups and interviews in business magazines, as well as the occasional photograph of him attending a charity ball or museum opening, posted online on Texas society blogs. From what she’d seen, Knox was loaded with money, charm, and ambition. An impeccable business reputation. A scandal-free personal life. By every account, he’d made his fortune the most ruthless way possible—fair and square.
None of that research, however, had prepared her for the sight of him.
Knox Briscoe stepped out of the back seat of the sedan one long leg at a time. He buttoned his black suit jacket and surveyed his surroundings, looking far more intimidating in person than the confident, intellectual spirit that his photographs conveyed. He was younger. Larger. His features were darker and more brooding. His leather shoes were as shiny black as the paint job on the limo, as slick as his black cowboy hat and suit.
“Oh, wow,” Carina said on a breath. “I forgot how much he looks like my dad.”
Emily had been too wrapped up in ogling him to notice, but now that Carina mentioned it, he did look a lot like a young Ty Briscoe back before he’d gone bald. “The Briscoe genes are strong, there’s no doubt.”
“What are you feeding him and my dad at their meeting?” Carina asked.
Emily flushed with a sudden, rare case of insecurity as she considered the lunch menu she’d created for the meeting. How could she possibly feed Knox Briscoe pheasant? He looked like he dined on nothing but porterhouse steaks and the tears of his enemies. “Brine-roasted pheasant with an heirloom sweet potato puree and a wil
d mushroom reduction.”
“Sounds tasty.”
“Everything looks tasty to you these days. You’re an eating machine, but look at Knox. I can’t pair him with that menu.”
Carina snickered. “He’s not a wine.”
Definitely not as decadent and sweet as wine. He had the muscular grace of one of those hard-core Crossfit athletes who bench-pressed semi-truck tires in his spare time and had a single-digit BMI rating. He probably didn’t even drink wine. He definitely didn’t eat sweet potato purees or mushroom reductions. Though he should. It would probably do him a world of good to indulge his senses like that.
Just like that, inspiration struck. “That man needs peaches.”
Specifically, the late season peaches she’d gotten that morning from her orchard supplier in Fredericksburg.
“Come again?” Carina said.
“Sugar. Butter. Fat.” Inspiration jolted Emily like a zap of electricity. She slid down the wall to the floor, closing her eyes to visualize her new masterpiece. “Charred peaches with a balsamic vinegar reduc—no, not vinegar—a pinch of cayenne lacing a brown sugar brûlée crust. Oh my God, that’ll piss him off.” She rubbed her hands together like the evil genius she was. “All that butter and sugar. He’ll hate that. Right up until he takes a bite. Then he’ll understand.”
Carina poked her with her shoe. “You’re doing that weird fantasy food rambling thing again.”
Emily barely heard Carina’s teasing; she was too busy perfecting the recipe in her mind. “Huh?”
“I love you. But you’re crazy.”
Carina was right; Emily was crazy. All great chefs were. She stood, hung the binoculars around her neck, and smoothed out her chef’s jacket. “I’ve got to go. I have a lot of work to do.”
“I thought the meal was ready.”
“Not anymore. I’m going to share my peaches with Knox Briscoe.”
Carina poked her tongue against her cheek as her forehead crinkled with delight. “Someday, one of my lessons about double entendres is going to sink in.”
Emily wasn’t daft or naive. She knew a double entendre when she heard one—or, more accurately, inadvertently said one—but it wasn’t her fault that the vast majority of people didn’t understand that sex and food were incomparable. The perfect meal trumped sex every time, and anyone who claimed otherwise had obviously never experienced Emily’s cooking. Knox Briscoe didn’t know it yet, but his tongue was about to have the ride of its life.
With food, of course.
* * *
Two hours later, Emily pushed a loaded food cart behind the resort’s main reception desk, then through the maze of cubicles and offices tucked away from the guests’ view. She nodded to Ty Briscoe’s secretary, then let herself into his corner office.
Knox’s fierce intensity beat like waves of power through the air in the room. Emily froze near the door, stunned to find herself suddenly, uncharacteristically, intimidated.
From where they were deep in discussion at his conference table, Ty afforded Emily a brief glance, but Knox’s focus remained unrelentingly on Ty and the business at hand.
“That idea has merit,” Knox was saying to Ty in a deep, firm voice. “But my equity firm’s vision extends beyond a cosmetic update. This resort has the potential to become a self-contained city, a beacon for travelers from all over the world. But we have to be willing to take risks.”
Even from the door, Emily could see beads of sweat on Ty’s bald head. His thick, bulldog neck had turned red, something that only happened when he was keeping his anger in check. Emily wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the larger-than-life man, her father figure for all intents and purposes for the past decade, cowed by another man before. But he was definitely not the alpha in the room today. “Yes, I know, but not—” Ty said.
Knox plowed ahead. “Yes, but nothing, Ty. You came to my equity firm earlier this year looking for investors and a new vision for your company. You came to me because I’m the best at what I do.”
Emily shook herself out of her eavesdropping trance and busied herself creating place settings on the table in front of each man. She could have brought along an assistant to do such menial labor, but she’d wanted to make a strong first impression.
“I came to you because you’re a Briscoe and I’m not getting any younger. It was time to pass this business to the next generation of my family. Our family.”
Knox’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Emily, as though her presence required him to censor himself. She retreated to the food cart, willing herself invisible so the two men would keep talking without paying her any more mind.
“Let’s not pretend that warm, fuzzy family feelings made you pick up the phone to schedule that initial meeting with me,” Knox said. “You needed equity. But it was my ability to see the untapped potential in this place that allowed me to put together a team of investors so quickly. The trick is, there’s no such thing as free money, Ty.”
“You don’t think I know that, boy?”
Knox’s eyes gleamed, but rather than address Ty’s question, he continued. “You and I are now beholden to Briscoe Equity Group’s investors, as the majority shareholders, and they expect us to make their money back plus at least a twenty percent profit in record time. We all stand to make a lot of money, you included, but we’re not going to do that by giving the resort a simple facelift.”
Ty dabbed at his forehead with the cloth napkin from his place setting. “I hear what you’re saying, but we already have a world-class stable of horses, and hill country’s premier golf course. And we’re a world-renowned destination wedding location. Other than adding another wing of rooms, what more do you plan to do?” Ty said.
Emily set servings of chilled peach soup in front of Knox, then Ty. She’d labored for nearly two hours on the soup, which was in the running for her best culinary creation ever, if she did say so herself.
Knox picked up his spoon and poked at the crisp brown sugar brûlée. “We’ll add a wing of timeshare condos, for starters. From there, we’ll add enough rooms to double the guest occupancy, add a bar or two, expand the number of upscale shops in the lobby, and install a five-star destination restaurant, featuring a top-tier chef.”
On his next breath, Knox frowned down at the soup, then pushed it ever so slightly away.
Emily gave a quiet gasp. The nerve . . .
“Agreed,” Ty said. “And we just so happen to have plans for a new restaurant in the works. It’s one of the reasons I asked our special event catering chef, Emily Ford, to showcase her skills by preparing us lunch today.” He gestured to Emily, who was still gaping at Knox’s untouched soup. It wasn’t until Knox’s eyes roved over her in a dispassionate study that she realized she was wringing the bottom of her chef’s jacket in her hands.
Ty continued, “She’s been working with me to develop a dynamic proposal for a world-class restaurant here at the resort. All we’ve been waiting for is the right investor, and here you are.”
Knox’s mouth gave an almost imperceptible frown. “No offense to Ms. Ford, but my investors have shelled out millions of their own dollars to transform Briscoe Ranch into a world-class luxury resort, so we need to aim higher.”
Aim higher? And here she’d thought Knox’s whole claim to fame in the business world was not being a jackass. Her loyalty to the Briscoes meant nothing to this man. And very little to Ty, either, obviously, who was allowing his family’s business to be yanked away from them. No, not yanked. Knox Briscoe had too much poise to do anything so passionate as yanking. Rather, this was chess. Or, perhaps, Monopoly. A slow, deliberate erosion of his opponent down to nothing.
Standing tableside, she touched the edge of the plate on which Knox’s soup bowl sat. Oh, how satisfying it would be to flip it over onto his perfectly pressed slacks. Her masterpiece deserved a better fate, but the temptation rippled through her with wicked glee.
Knox’s body tensed. He knew what she’d been contemplating, too. His hand twitched as thoug
h in preparation to grab her wrist and stop her before she could soil his clothing.
“Emily,” Ty warned.
Was she so obvious? So predictably reckless that both Ty and Knox could read her thoughts so plainly?
Screw them. Sure, they held her career in their hands, but neither deserved to eat her cooking today. With outrage pounding through her veins, she pulled out the seat at the head of the table between the two men and dropped into it. She slid Knox’s bowl in front of her, grabbed his spoon, and—as both men gaped at her—cracked through the brûlée and dipped into the sunset-orange soup.
The soup exploded in her mouth in a burst of complicated, unexpected flavor. Perfection. Better than sex. Better than just about anything else this heartless, cynical planet could offer.
She flattened her palm over the bound stack of papers in front of Knox. His grand plans for her home, her career, and the livelihoods of so many of her friends and colleagues. He was going to ruin everything, and there was nothing she could do to stop it; not if Ty was just going to roll over and let Knox walk all over him.
She pulled the dossier in front of her. Ty and Knox sat, stunned, watching her flip open the contract. Neither had yet to say a word about her brazen intrusion. How the hell was she getting away with this?
Her anger was too blinding for her to focus on the words or make heads-or-tails of the legal jargon. But she’d heard all she needed to know. Knox and his investors were going to turn the resort into yet another cookie cutter chain hotel. “Ty, this is a bad deal. He’s going to sell out. He’s a business flipper. That’s what he does. He doesn’t care about the Briscoes at all.”
“I am a Briscoe,” Knox said in a dull, even tone.
Emily was too pissed off to look him in the eye. She took another bite of soup to keep herself from telling him that he wasn’t a Briscoe in any way but his name. Instead, to Ty, she said, “If you do this, you’re going to lose everything your parents built, everything you’ve worked your whole life for.”
If Santa Were a Cowboy Page 10