Judy Duarte - A Baby Under the Tree

Unprepared for the visual connection or for her reaction to it, she finally broke eye contact by reaching into the silver bowl of nuts.

Three almonds and several sips of champagne later, she found herself turning her head once again—and catching him looking at her as though he’d never stopped.

A surge of sexual awareness shot through her, which didn’t make a bit of sense.

How in the world could her first post-divorce interest in another man be directed at a cowboy? Goodness, Jillian had to be the only woman in Houston who didn’t even like country music.

She tried to chalk it up to curiosity. Or to the fact that he couldn’t be any less like her ex than if she’d joined an online dating service and specifically ordered someone brand-new.

When she turned her head and saw him still studying her intently, she realized that the interest was mutual. She might have been married for the past eight years, but she still remembered the kind of eye contact that went on between a man and woman who were attracted to each other.

Not that the cowboy was flirting with her. Or that she’d even flirt back.

If she were a free spirit, she might have asked him to join her. But that was even crazier than sitting here drinking expensive champagne by herself and ogling a handsome, dark-haired stranger—and a cowboy to boot.

Okay, this was so not like her. She was going to have to motion for the waiter, ask for her bill and then head back to the hotel.

Yet she couldn’t seem to move. Instead she continued to wonder who the cowboy was and what brought him to El Jardin.

Maybe he was waiting for someone—a woman, most likely.

He lifted his longneck bottle and took a swig, then glanced toward the doorway as though he really was expecting someone to join him.

Jillian certainly hoped so. Because if he wasn’t, if he was unattached, if he came over to her table…

She wasn’t sure what she’d do.

Shane Hollister couldn’t take his eyes off the classy blonde who sat all alone, practically begging for a guy to mosey on up and ask if she’d like some company.

She’d caught him looking at her on several occasions, too. And each time, he’d been tempted to toss her a smile. But he’d kept a straight face, since the last thing he needed today was for her to get the wrong idea and send a drink his way.

Or worse yet, invite him to join her.

Not that he wouldn’t be sorely tempted. After all, she was attractive—the kind of woman some men—especially the insecure and weak type—might put on a pedestal.

Shane usually avoided women like her. Those classy beauties were high maintenance and a lot more trouble than a common man wanted to deal with, especially today.

He glanced again at the entrance, a habit he’d acquired during his years as a detective with the Houston Police Department.

His waitress, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties, offered him a smile and nodded toward his nearly empty bottle. “Can I get you another beer?”

“Sure.”

Again, his gaze was drawn to the blonde drinking champagne.

Maybe she was waiting for someone. Cristal, even a split, was a pricey order for someone to consume alone.

Of course, by the looks of that fancy handbag she carried and the clothes she was wearing, he had a feeling that price was the last thing she considered when making a purchase. Even her hair and makeup appeared to have been styled and applied by professionals.

In fact, everything about her implied grace and class, from a sizable pair of diamond earrings, to the trendy, rainbow-colored jacket she wore over a black top and slacks, all of which had to be designer wear.

But even with the bling or the extra effort she’d put into her wardrobe, hair and makeup, he had a feeling she’d look just as stunning in worn cotton and faded denim.

The cocktail waitress was more his type, though—more down-to-earth and approachable. That is, if he wanted to hook up with a woman instead of heading over to his brother’s house for his nephew’s birthday party late this afternoon.

If truth be told, though, he wasn’t all that eager to face the squealing kids, with sticky hands and chocolate on their faces. Not that he didn’t love them, but ever since he’d lost his son, it had torn him up to be around children.

And that was why he’d decided to have a beer before facing the Hollister clan today.

Of course, he didn’t usually frequent fancy places like El Jardin, but he’d had some papers to sign at the escrow office down the street and decided to stop here, since it wasn’t likely he’d be offered anything stronger than a soda when he arrived at Jack’s house.

Ever since Joey’s death, Shane’s big, extended family—none of whom had been teetotalers—had cut way back on alcohol consumption, at least whenever Shane was around.

Okay, so he’d gone over the deep end for a while and they’d thought his drinking had become problematic. He doubted any of his siblings would have handled the grief any differently than he had back then. Besides, he’d taken control of his life again.

He glanced at his wristwatch. He probably ought to call back the cocktail waitress and cancel his order. Yet for some reason, he turned back to the sophisticated blonde who was spending a lot more time studying the elegant flute in her hand than drinking from it—when she wasn’t looking his way.

There was something going on between the two of them, and whatever it was held a bit of a promise, at least for the here and now.

If Shane hadn’t already agreed, albeit reluctantly, that he’d make a showing at little Billy’s birthday party, he might flash her a smile and come up with some clever way to strike up a conversation—something that didn’t sound like a worn-out pickup line.

As it was, he’d better leave well enough alone. He was more cowboy than cop these days, and she didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who would find either very appealing.

Still, he continued to glance across the room for what he swore would be the very last time.

She wore a lonely expression on that pretty, heart-shaped face. Her frown and the crease in her brow suggested she carried a few burdens herself.

Was she running from her own demons, too?

Or was she just thinking about another lonely Friday night?

Before he could even attempt his best guess, a guy seated near her table got to his feet, swaying a bit before starting toward her.

Shane’s protective nature sparked, and he sat upright in his seat, listening as the guy spoke loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Hey, come on, honey. Don’t you want some company?”

The blonde stiffened and said something to the guy. Shane couldn’t hear her words, but he suspected they’d been something short and to the point.

On the other hand, her body language spoke volumes, and only an idiot—or a drunk—would ignore it.

Sure enough, the snockered fool pulled out the chair next to hers and took a seat, clearly ignoring her verbal response, as well as all the outward signs of her disinterest.

Shane expected her to put the jerk in his place, but she looked to the right and left, as if searching for the waiter. What she needed was a bouncer, although Shane doubted a place like El Jardin had to use the services of one very often.

Did he dare try to come to her rescue?

Oh, what the hell.

He got to his feet, grabbed his hat—leaving his beer behind—and sauntered to the pretty blonde’s table, determined not to make a scene.

“Hi, honey,” he said. “I’m sorry I was late. Did you have to wait long?”

“I…uh…” She searched his eyes as if trying to figure out what he was doing, where he was going.

He reached out his hand to her, and she studied it for a moment, not understanding what he was trying to do—and that was to avoid causing a scene that was sure to draw unnecessary attention to her. But she seemed to catch on, because she took his hand and allowed him to draw her to her feet.