Robyn Grady - At The Playboy's Command

“Sorry.” He grabbed the phone off his belt and muted the sound.

“Don’t you want to know who it is?”

“Later. Right now I’m having dinner with one of the Lone Star State’s most interesting and, might I say, beautiful women.”

Pretending to be coy, she tucked in her chin. “You might live in New York but your silver tongue is pure South.”

When the waitress arrived, Daniel ordered wine and the specialty of the house—pepper filet mignon with whiskey sauce. Elizabeth went with what she said was her favorite, chicken-fried steak with greens.

His eyebrows shot up. The contradictions kept coming. “From escargot to chicken-fried steak?”

“I grew up on the stuff.” She reached for her water glass. “What do they eat in South Carolina?”

“I remember a lot of shrimp, grits and fried cabbage.” Other memories surfaced—unpleasant ones—and he cleared his throat. “Course, that was a long time ago.”

She nodded slowly, tried to smile.

“Has your dad ever tried to get in contact?” she finally asked.

“Not for a while now.”

Her glistening gaze held for a long moment then fell away. “Strange how things work out. I’d do anything to be able to see my father again. Mom, too.”

Daniel groaned. Life wasn’t always fair. He might not agree with the clause her parents had included in the will but that didn’t mean she didn’t love them and wished they were still around. Years ago he’d wished for miracles, too.

Approving the wine sample the waiter poured, he set down his glass. “You must have a lot of great memories.”

“All around. Every day.” Elbows on table, she rested her chin in the vee of her palms. “My best memories are around family occasions. Thanksgiving. Christmas. They always did something special for birthdays.”

He nodded, letting the waiter know to fill both glasses while mouthwatering aromas and the sound of clinking silverware filtered through the room. “Special like what?”

“For my thirteenth birthday, my father put on our own rodeo at Milton Ranch. There was entertainment and prizes. People came from miles around.”

Bucking broncos, barrel racing, scrambling rodeo clowns. He gave a crooked smile. “Sounds like fun.”

“I had my first kiss that day. A boy I’d crushed on for months. He was leaving with his folks the next week for California.”

“First kiss, huh?” He tried to think but his own was too far back to remember.

“As our lips—or should I say braces —met, he backed me up against the rough fence rails. Unfortunately a whole pile of livestock had been there before us.” Her nose scrunched. “We were wearing boots but still not good.”

He chuckled. “Amazing you weren’t scarred for life.”

“He said he’d write. He did once. Even sent a silver locket in the envelope. Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to Dwight Jackson.”

He couldn’t tell if the faraway look that had come to her eyes was feigned or sincere.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to make me jealous.”

One teasing eyebrow arched. “Are you?”

“To my core.”

Growling playfully, he leaned forward. Their mouths touched over the center of the table and that same delicious got-to-have-you feeling scorched his every nerve ending. The temptation to slide his hand around her nape and deepen the kiss was almost too great to resist. But, given their current environment, unfortunately, that wasn’t an option.

Soon their meals arrived. The filet mignon was sublime, Elizabeth enjoyed her chicken-fried steak, and the next hour evaporated as they talked over the candlelight, first about Nita being out of town tonight, then the places they’d visited around the world and spots they still wanted to see.

As they finished the last of the wine, the waitress appeared and Daniel looked around. The restaurant crowd was thinning.

“Can I interest you in dessert?” the waitress asked.

Elizabeth leaned closer to Daniel. “Nita wanted me to let you know that caramel apple cheesecake is still fresh.”

Looking up, he handed the waitress back her menu. “There’s your answer.”

And his. He’d wondered if, after giving so generously of her time this morning, she might make him suffer and string him out. But from the inviting smile simmering in her eyes now, hopefully she’d want him to stay for breakfast, too.

As they moved away from the table, Daniel noticed Bradford Price had left and his mind clicked over. Did Abigail know anything about the hushed conversation he’d overheard? Blackmail was an ugly word that accompanied an ugly deed, particularly when you were standing for office, public or private.

“What’s the story behind Mr. Price?”

“Bradford’s an extremely successful businessman. And playboy. His family’s in banking. They founded most of the artistic foundations in Houston and Dallas. He has a solid reputation but when Abigail first threw her hat into the election ring, he made jokes behind her back. Their rivalry since high school is a bit of a legend in these parts.”

He pulled a pained face. “I do like my anonymous life.”

“I hear you’re nothing less than a celebrity in your profession,” she retorted, grinning. “I’m sure you don’t lead a sheltered life, Daniel.”

“No. But I try not to attract unwanted attention.”

“Trouble sometimes follows when you deal with family, friends, community.”

He looked at her twice and knew, despite her angelic expression, she was having a dig at him. But, right or wrong, he was too old to change. He might live a busy life but it wasn’t cluttered with family baggage. Not anymore.

They drove to Milton Ranch, Daniel tossing around some ideas on the new clubhouse design. He spoke with Elizabeth about the history of architecture in the region, from Spanish Colonial and Mexican Republic through to Modern and beyond.

“Do you think there’s a possibility in reinventing any of those for the design?” she asked.

“In my opinion, I think we need something totally new.” He grinned. “Easier said than done.”

“Perhaps that cheesecake will help.”

Her hand found his thigh and, in that instant, nothing mattered but the wash of warmth the contact inspired. He’d come up with something that would grab the hearts of the Cattleman’s Club members. But tonight he was more interested in Elizabeth’s heart.

When he steered the vehicle up before the house, the arcing beam from headlights let them know they still had company—the flamingos. Daniel dropped the gear into Park.

“Maybe you should drum up an army of gnomes to keep them company.”

“And we could stick plastic primroses in their little pots.” Opening his door, he froze and she laughed. “Daniel, I was joking.”

He accompanied her up the path and waited while she unlocked the tall timber front door, all the while trying to rein in the heightened awareness tugging at his senses … the anticipation of gathering her close and claiming her mouth with his. Rocking back on his heels, he inhaled the perfume of fall wildflowers and told himself to be patient. Good things came to those who waited.

“Why don’t I cut you a slice of cake,” she said, setting her keys on the hall stand, “and we can take a tour.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She walked a couple of feet ahead, showing him the way down a long, high-ceilinged hall decorated in timber panels and the occasional painting depicting the area, glorifying the cowboy legend with lassos and dust flying. Daniel imagined the smell of cattle and dogwood blossoms, the magic of a Texas sunset and stories of cattle rustling told over campfires.

In the kitchen, Elizabeth extracted a cream-topped pie from a monster refrigerator and Daniel’s taste buds tingled. He wished he’d left more room.