Dixie Browning - Her Passionate Plan B

But this was different. This was real stuff. The kind that was handed down, not the kind decorators went out and bought when they were commissioned to fill up an empty space. He knew. Once, back in Houston, when he’d gotten tired of staying in an apartment that looked as if he was waiting for the rest of his furniture to show up, he’d hired one. After three months and a whole bunch of money, he’d ended up surrounded by a lot of chrome, black marble, thick glass and white leather. As for the pictures, they had reminded him of the graffiti you saw scribbled on ruined walls in the barrio—not that he’d ever claimed to be an art critic.

“Well, are you coming, or are you going to stand there gawking all day?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, you lead the way and I’ll follow.” If her backside looked anywhere near as good as her frontside, he’d follow her all the way up those stairs to the nearest bedroom. Only he didn’t think that was what she had in mind.

Nor, he reminded himself sternly, was it what he had in mind. At least it hadn’t been until he’d seen her up close and more or less undraped. Funny thing, the way some women could trigger a certain reaction. He’d read somewhere that the average male had seven spontaneous erections over the course of twenty-four hours, five of them when he was asleep.

Oh, man, this could prove embarrassing.

She’d changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a faded blue T-shirt. Hardly mourning clothes, but definitely not Frederick’s of Hollywood, either. As for her eyes…

Kell had never been real partial to gray eyes. Several women he knew wore colored contacts, but gray was actually kind of nice. Sort of restful. Might even call it romantic in a mysterious sort of way.

Get with the game, Magee, you’re missing the signals.

Bypassing the curving stairway, she led him to a big, high-ceilinged kitchen where an older woman in tight white shorts was stacking dishes in an open box. The woman pointed at him, using a flowered teapot as a pointer. “I know you! Who are you?”

“He says his name is Kelland Magee,” the blonde supplied, as if she hadn’t devoured every line on the cards he’d handed her. “He says Mr. Snow was his uncle.”

“I said he might have been,” Kell corrected. “I mean, I’m pretty certain a man named Harvey Snow was my father’s younger half brother, but the courthouse was closing just as I got there, so I won’t know for sure if this is the right one until we do some more checking.” And this was Friday, dammit. “There might’ve been more than one Harvey Snow around here.” He waited, tense as a rookie pitching his first game in the majors.

While his overall education was a little spotty, Kell had learned to trust his instincts. Right now those instincts were telling him that no matter what Blalock said, this house, as different as it was from anything he could have imagined, was where his father had spent his first sixteen years, or near enough.

“I’m pretty sure this is the right place. I mean the right Harvey Snow. The Dismal Swamp—” He nodded in the direction where he thought it might be located, hoping to impress her with his knowledge of the area. If that didn’t work, he’d try out his charm on her. Stuff used to work on groupies, but hell—that had been more than ten years ago. The use-by date on any charm he might once have possessed had long since expired.

Taking a deep breath, Daisy did her best to pretend she was wearing a freshly laundered uniform instead of her grunge clothes. Cleaning and packing was hot work. It wasn’t enough that the first time she’d seen him she’d probably looked like a witch on a bad day—now she looked even worse. She hadn’t had time to do much with her hair, and unless she used a blow-dryer and a big roller brush on it, it always ended up looking like last year’s squirrel’s nest.

And all this matters…why?

She didn’t know why, she really didn’t, except that there was something about his voice—and his face. Not to mention his body. Her gaze fell to his pelvic area and she felt heat rush to her face. He had on the same pair of low-rise jeans he’d been wearing this morning, the kind that were cut full in the groin area to accommodate…whatever.

“Miss?”

“Yes, all right!” If anyone had ever offered her even the smallest chance to learn something about her own heritage, she’d have jumped at it. The least she could do was give him the benefit of the doubt. “All right, come on, then. This is Faylene Beasley.” She nodded toward the housekeeper. “It’s late and we’re both busy, but I guess I can make time to show you around.” Her slight effort to sound gracious fell about five miles short of the mark.

The Beasley woman squinted at him. “Magee? Sounds kinda familiar. Long drink o’ water, ain’t you? I bet you played basketball.”

Kell shook his head. “Basketball? Sorry, must be some other Magee.” The nurse had sailed off down the hall, so he hurried after her. He had an idea the fuse on her patience was burning down fast, but before it fizzled out he intended to squeeze every drop of information from her he could. If nothing else he could enjoy the view.

She stopped beside the polished oak stairs and said, “What did Faylene mean, she knew you?”

“Faylene?”

“The housekeeper you just met. She said she knew you.”

Housekeeper, huh? Funny uniform for a housekeeper. More like the Playboy bunny from hell. “Beats me. I guess I’ve got one of those generic faces. Be surprised how many people think they know me from somewhere.”

She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.

Amused, Kell considered telling her about his fifteen minutes of fame. It was more like five seasons, three of them going into play-offs, but that might sound like bragging. He had a feeling the lady would not be impressed.

Idly, he wondered what it would take to impress her.

Determined to show him around and get rid of him, Daisy popped open one door after another on the second floor, allowing him to peer inside before she hurried him down the hall. With all her heart she wished that the stranger she’d first seen this morning looked less impressive at closer range. He was setting off alarms in parts of her body that had been peacefully dormant for years.

“They’re all furnished more or less alike,” she told him, keeping her tone impersonal. They had vacuumed about half the rooms and replaced the dust covers. Reaching a door at the far end of the hall, she popped it open and then started to close it, having had about all she could take for one day. Before she could pull the door shut again, the man who said his name was Magee brushed past her. Intensely aware of the scent of leather, aftershave and healthy male skin, she wished she’d had time to shower and change into something fresher.

No, she didn’t! Of course she didn’t!

The small room was lit only by light that fell through a west-facing dormer. Not bothering to switch on the overhead fixture, she said briskly, “There’s nothing of interest here, so if you’re ready?”

Instead of backing out, he stepped into the room. “Hey, my mama had one of those things back in Oklahoma,” he exclaimed, sounding as if the fact that the Snows and the Magees had something in common proved his case beyond a doubt.

The article in question was a treadle sewing machine, its shiny black head gleaming with gilt scrollwork. Surrendering to the inevitable, Daisy moved inside the small room. The sooner his curiosity was satisfied, the sooner he’d leave. She said, “I believe Mr. Snow’s mother used this as a sewing room. I don’t think it’s been used for anything else since then, except maybe for storage.” Did sewing machines count as personal property or furniture? She’d have to ask Egbert. “Are you ready?” She would have tapped her foot to illustrate her impatience, only she lacked the energy.