Lisa Kleypas - Smooth Talking Stranger

Travis studied me thoughtfully. I was struck by the contradictions about him, the expensive clothes and bold good looks, the sense of unpolished edges. He was unapologetically masculine in a way that suggested you should either scramble to get on his good side or get the hell out of his way.

I couldn't help contrasting him with Dane, whose golden handsomeness and jaw-softening stubble had always been so soothing and approachable. There was nothing soothing about Jack Travis. Except maybe his deep sugar-maple baritone.

"Depends," Travis said easily. "You gonna try to sell me something?" He had a heavy Texas accent, the kind in which dropped G's hit the floor like summer hailstones.

"No. It's a personal matter."

A touch of offhand amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth. "I usually save personal matters for after five."

"I can't wait that long." I took a deep breath before adding boldly, "And I should warn you that if you get rid of me now, you'll have to deal with me later. I'm very persistent."

The trace of a smile lingered on his lips as he turned to the other men. "Would y'all mind waiting for me at the bar on the seventh floor?"

"No hardship," one of them said in a brisk British accent. "We never mind loitering in the bar. Shall I order for you, Travis?"

"Yeah, I don't expect this'll take long. Dos Equis, lime wedge, no glass."

As the men left, Jack Travis turned his full attention to me. Although I was medium height, hardly a short woman, he towered over me. "My office." He motioned for me to precede him. "Last door on the right."

Carrying Luke, I went to the corner office. A large fanned wedge of windows revealed the skyline, where relentless sunlight ricocheted off a stand of glass-skinned buildings. In contrast to the sterile reception area, the office was comfortably cluttered, with deep leather chairs, and piles of books and folders, and family pictures in black frames.

After positioning a chair for me, Travis half-sat on his desk, facing me. His features were emphatically defined, the nose straight and substantial, the jaw nearly lacerating in its precision.

"Let's make this fast, Ella-from-Austin," he said. "I got a deal on the stringer, and I'd rather not keep those guys waiting."

"You're going to manage property for them?"

"Hotel chain." His gaze flickered to Luke. "You might want to tilt that bottle-she's getting air."

I frowned and adjusted the bottle upward. "It's a boy. Why does everyone assume he's a girl?"

"He's wearing Hello Kitty socks." There was a distinct note of disapproval in his voice.

"They were the only ones available in his size," I said.

"You can't put a boy in pink socks."

"He's only a week old. Do I have to worry about gender bias already?"

"You really are from Austin, aren't you?" he asked wryly. "How can I help you, Ella?"

The task of explaining was so considerable, I hardly knew where to start. "Just so you're prepared," I said in a businesslike tone, "the story I'm going to tell you ends with a stinger."

"I'm used to that. Go on."

"My sister is Tara Varner. You went out with her last year." Seeing that the name didn't ring a bell, I added, "You know Liza Purcell?… She's my cousin. She fixed you up with Tara."

Travis thought for a moment. "I remember Tara," he finally said. "Tall, blond, leggy."

"That's right." Seeing that Luke had finished the bottle, I put the empty container in the diaper bag and draped the baby over my shoulder to burp him. "This is Tara 's son. Luke. She gave birth to him, left him with my mother, and took off somewhere. We're trying to locate her. Meanwhile I'm trying to secure some kind of situation for the baby."

Travis was very still. The atmosphere in the office took on a hostile chill. I saw that I had been identified as a threat, or perhaps just a nuisance. Either way, his mouth was now edged with contempt.

"I think I get the stinger you're working around to," he said. "He's not mine, Ella."

I forced myself to hold that unnerving black gaze. "According to Tara, he is."

"The Travis name inspires a lot of women to notice a likeness between me and their fatherless children. But it's not possible for two reasons. First, I never have sex without holstering the gun."

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I wanted to smile at the phrase. "You're referring to a condom? That method of protection has an average failure rate of fifteen percent."

"Thank you, professor. But I'm still not the father."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I never had sex with Tara. The night I took her out, she drank too much. And I don't sleep with women in that condition."

"Really," I said skeptically.

"Really," came the soft reply.

Luke burped, and settled into the curve of my neck like a sack of pinto beans.

I thought of what Liza had told me about Jack Travis's hyperactive love life, his near-legendary womanizing, and I couldn't prevent a cynical smile. "Because you're a man of high principles?" I asked acidly.

"No, ma'am. It's just that I prefer the woman to participate."

For just a moment I couldn't stop myself from imagining him with a woman, what kind of participation he required, and I was disgruntled to feel scalding color rushing over my face. It only got worse when he gave me a coolly interested glance, as if I were an inept criminal he had just collared.

That made me increasingly determined to stand my ground. "Did you have anything to drink the night you were out with Tara?"

"Probably."

"Then your judgment was impaired. And possibly your memory. There's no way you can be absolutely certain that nothing happened. And there's no good reason for me to believe you."

Travis was silent, still staring at me. I realized that no detail escaped his notice-the dark circles under my eyes, the scurf of dried baby spit-up on my shoulder, the unthinking way I had curved my hand over Luke's head.

"Ella," he said quietly, "I can't be the only guy you're approaching with this."

"No," I admitted. "If it turns out that you're not the father, then I'm going to have the other lucky candidates served and made to take paternity tests. But I'm giving you the chance to get it done right now, with no fuss and no publicity. Take the test, and if it goes your way, you're out of the picture."

Travis looked at me like I was one of those tiny green lizards that loved to skitter across the thresholds of Texas homes. "I got lawyers who could make you run around in circles for months, honey."

I gave him a mocking smile. "Come on, Jack. Don't deprive me of the pleasure of watching you donate a DNA sample. I'll even pay for it."

"That offer might interest me," he said, "if it involved anything more exciting than a buccal swab."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could take your word about not having slept with Tara. But if you did, you don't have much incentive to admit it, do you?"

He stared at me with eyes the color of burnt coffee. A hot, unfamiliar riff of sensation chased down my spine.

Jack Travis was a big, sexy tomcat, and there was no doubt in my mind that my sister would have given him anything and everything he wanted. And I didn't care if Travis had holstered his gun, doublebagged it, or tied it in a knot. He could probably get a woman pregnant just by winking at her.

"Ella, if you'll allow me…" He stunned me by reaching out and gently pulling the glasses from my face. I looked at him through the bewildered blur, and perceived that he was cleaning the smudged lenses with a tissue. "There," he murmured, and replaced them on my face with care.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper, now seeing him in new, breathtaking detail.

"What hotel are you staying at?" I heard him ask, and I struggled to collect my thoughts.