Teresa Southwick - That Touch of Pink

“I’m not married.” His gaze was penetrating as he frowned at her. “Now you’ve got six minutes. And if my marital status has something to do with why you’re here, you’re wasting my time. I can put those six minutes to better use.”

“Look, I’m a people person. That makes me curious. It was certainly not my intention to offend you with the question.”

His impassive look gave no clue to what he was thinking. “So you have a security concern?”

Wow. He gave the expression single-minded determination a run for its money. Not to mention that his tone was just this side of abrasive. “Apparently in your line of work, one can be successful even without courtesy and charm.”

“If you’re here about personal safety, home or business protection, I can be as charming and courteous as the next guy. If not…”

“I’m here because I bought the survival weekend you donated to the Charity City auction. I mentioned that to whoever I spoke with on the phone.”

It seemed impossible, but his frown deepened. “I didn’t get the message.”

“And I didn’t actually get an appointment. Is your sister’s job in jeopardy?”

“No. She was sick recently. A temp replaced her.”

His shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly as his mouth straightened into a thin line, telling her he was disapproving. She’d known him about two and a half minutes—although he was the only one keeping exact time—so how she knew he was surprised or annoyed, she couldn’t say. But she’d stake her reputation as Charity City High School’s favorite librarian that he was both surprised and annoyed.

“So you’re the one who bought the survival weekend?” He sounded skeptical.

She nodded. “And I’m here to make arrangements to collect it.”

He let his gaze drop to her cap-sleeved silk shell with the loose-fitting floral jumper over it. “Why?”

“Because I paid for it.”

He shook his head. “Why did you buy it in the first place?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe part of the deal is explaining my motivation.”

“You don’t look like the outdoorsy type.”

The fact that he was right made her resent his attitude even more. “If we’re judging books by covers, Mr. Dixon, you don’t look like the type, either.”

“What type would that be?”

“One who would donate to charity. The type to give back to his community.”

“It was a debt.”

“Oh?”

“The foundation gave me interest free start-up capital for my business.”

“And when one benefits from the auction proceeds, one is obligated to give back.”

“I always pay my debts,” he confirmed.

“Very reassuring. That’s why I’m here. My daughter, Kimmie, belongs to The Bluebonnets—”

“What?”

“It’s an organization that sponsors outdoor activities for girls in her age group—”

“How old?”

“Excuse me?”

What did that have to do with sleeping outside and starting a fire with two sticks when she was on a very tight schedule? She’d be wasting less of her remaining time if he would impart information in sentences of more than three two-syllable words. And she had no illusions. When the allotted time was up, he would throw her out. She stole a glance at his biceps, the intriguing place where the sleeve of his T-shirt clung to the bulging muscle. There was no doubt in her mind that if he wanted her out, he would and could pick her up bodily and make it so.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Six. When I saw the weekend listed for auction, I knew it was exactly what I needed. And I figured I could kill two birds with one stone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Maybe he was finally listening and they could wrap this up quickly. “I could do my civic duty in support of the town charity. Buying your services to get my daughter her hiking and nature badges—”

“You can’t take her camping?”

“I could,” she said. “But her survival might be in question. I’m afraid you were right about me. My idea of the outdoors involves a lounge chair, a pool and a sissy drink with an umbrella in it.”

“What about your husband?”

Now who was digging for personal info? Although she had to admit Riley had a better reason. It was a logical question. “I don’t have a husband.”

Not any more. And she couldn’t be happier. She was glad she no longer had to rely on flaky Fred Walsh. As an unwed pregnant teenager whose baby needed a father, she’d seriously relied on him. If only she could blame it on pressure from her parents. But they’d made it clear they would support her decisions. As it turned out, the decision she’d made hadn’t been worthy of support.

“So you’re going to dump the kid on me for the weekend?”

“Of course not. Do I look like the kind of mother who would turn her child over to a complete stranger? The two of us will be going on the outing—”

He stood suddenly, interrupting her. “No way.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said no. It’s a survival weekend.”

“I’m aware of that.” She got to her feet. He was dangerously close to looming and she would not be loomed over.

“I won’t be nursemaid to a kid.”

“Her name is Kimmie. And she needs her two badges. If the necessity for nursemaiding arises, I’ll be the one doing it.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need me for this. It’s overkill.”

“Maybe. But I’ve already paid for you.”

“I’ll reimburse you.”

“I don’t want your money. I want my weekend.”

“No.”

“I want you to sue him, the foundation, Mayor Wentworth, the rest of his family, every person he’s ever known and anyone else I can think of.” Abby paced the length of her small living room.

She loved the fifteen hundred square feet of space she’d purchased six months ago. Unfortunately when she was this angry, the state of Texas wasn’t big enough for the amount of pacing she needed to do. Fortunately, her daughter was upstairs in her room playing with her dolls and wasn’t watching her mother’s display of temper.

“Suing the whole town is a little extreme, don’t you think?” Jamie Gibson asked.

Abby had called Jamie right after leaving Dixon Security and they’d met here at the house. She was the attorney who’d handled Abby’s divorce two years ago. They’d become friends in spite of the fact that Abby envied her brunette curls, which were the polar opposite of her own stick-straight brown hair. And Jamie was beautiful, a fact the attorney didn’t seem to care about. She poured her energy into building a legal career based on integrity, intelligence, and unflagging client support. But Abby felt there was some serious flagging in her attorney’s support on the Riley Dixon issue. And how the heck could Jamie sit so calmly on that overstuffed pink floral sofa when there was some heavy-duty suing to be done?

“The man is a welsher,” Abby cried, hands on hips as she stared at the bemused, indulgent expression on her friend’s face.

“We haven’t established all the facts yet. The way I understand it, he escorted you out of his office after he said no. If he is, in fact a welsher, at least he’s a gentleman welsher.”

“I paid for the weekend he donated to the auction. The check cleared already. And he’s refusing to make good on the deal. Maybe you’d prefer Indian giver?”

“Native American would be a little more politically correct,” Jamie pointed out.

“Politically correct would be for him to give me what I paid for—a weekend campout so Kimmie can earn her nature badges. I should have seen this coming. After all, he’s a man. By definition, that makes him a slacker.”

“Are we talking about Riley Dixon or your ex-husband?”