Texas Millionaire. Dixie Browning
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heels propped on the polished walnut windowsill, Hank Langley watched a small jet plane cross his field of vision with deceptive slowness. Absently he tugged up his pants leg and massaged the expanse of scarred, muscular flesh between the top of his custom-made boot and the bottom of his custom-tailored jeans.
He ached. Damn front coming through. If it would bring rain, it would be worth the ache, but it hadn’t rained enough to lay the dust all year. August was August. West Texas was West Texas.
And hot was hot.
Miss Manie rapped once on his door and entered. She was scrupulous about affording him a five-second warning, in case he was up to God knows what behind closed doors.
“You’re hurting again, aren’t you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t you tell me one of your teewydies, young man, you were out until all hours, giving that limb of yours a fit, weren’t you?”
Teewydie was Romania Riley’s euphemism for a polite lie. Evidently it was a Carolina thing. Hank had never heard anyone from Texas use the term. “You know where I was. You know who I was with. If you want a blow-by-blow account, grab yourself a tall, cold beer and take a seat.”
He’d been out with Pansy Ann Estrich, as Manie damned well knew. Wining and dining her, trying to work himself up to committing to something he was nowhere ready to commit to, for no better reason than it was time—it was past time—and the choice had narrowed down to two women. Pansy and Bianca Mullins. Both women were in their middle thirties. Both knew the score. Neither was looking for more in a relationship than he was capable of offering. Personally he thought it was a pretty good deal. Sex, of course. Security, insured by a prenuptial agreement that was fair to both parties. Companionship, and at least one, preferably two, offspring. Preferably male.
“Well?” Miss Manie’s wattles quivered as she waited for enlightenment.
“Well?” Hank tossed back at her.
“Don’t get smart with me, Henry Langley. I knew you back when you couldn’t step out the front door without running head-on into trouble.” She glared at him through the upper half of her bifocals, then glanced down at her notes. “Speaking of trouble, Miss Pansy was on the phone first thing this morning about the Cattleman’s Ball. You didn’t ask her last night, did you?”
“Ask her which, to the ball or to marry me?”
She gave him a look she’d perfected before he’d ever been born. Manie was going to be a problem, no matter which woman he married. “The answer to both questions,” he said dryly, “is not yet.”
He had to be the only six-foot-two, ex-special services millionaire in Texas who allowed himself to be pushed around by ninety-odd pounds of outspoken spinster.
“I wouldn’t jump into anything too fast, if I were you. There’s plenty of time. Oh, and while I’ve got you, Preacher Weldon wants to know about the belfry, and they were short of red roses at the florist, so I sent Bianca pink ones, instead. If you ask me, she was hoping for something a lot more substantial than a bunch of flowers.”
Hank refrained from sighing. He’d gone out with Bianca Mullins three times last week, exploring the possibility of spending the rest of his life with a woman who had the body of a centerfold and the brain of a high school dropout.
At least she had a sense of humor. Pansy didn’t.
He flexed his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension, stroked his pants leg down to cover his scarred flesh and swung his feet down off the windowsill. Miss Manie had lectured him more than a few times about his habit of plopping his feet on the furniture, but dammit, it was his furniture, his office—damned near his town.
And he ached. His left leg still carried a few pieces of scrap metal from the crash that ended his military career. It caused some problems with airport security, but otherwise, it was no big deal unless there was a sudden drop in barometric pressure. According to the team of surgeons who had worked him over, retrieving every last fragment would have caused more damage than it was worth.
That was a matter of opinion, but he willingly accepted responsibility for the occasional ache. He’d been the one to run off and join the Air Force against his parents’ wishes. Back in those days he’d been into rebellion, big time.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “I’ll deal with Pansy and Bianca, you can tell the reverend to call in his carpenters, and pink ones are fine, unless you know something about the language of flowers that’s going to land me in trouble.”
“Hmmph. Nobody these days pays any attention to that kind of thing. Leastwise, none of those women of yours.”
“You make it sound like I’m supporting a harem.”
Saved by the bell. Hank had two cell phones and a private line, but most calls were routed through Miss Manie’s desk. On the second ring, Manie said, “I’d better get that, it’s probably the kitchen about those temporaries we’re fixing to hire for the ball, but remind me to tell you about my great-niece when you have a minute.”
Her great-niece? What, had the kid graduated from high school or something? He’d send her the usual. There was always somebody on his staff with a kid graduating from somewhere. Manie could handle it. She always handled the personal side of his life. Not that her relatives were his personal business. He hadn’t even known, except in the vaguest terms, that she had any relatives left back in North Carolina. Considering how long she’d been a part of his life, he knew surprisingly little about the woman who served as conscience, security guard, surrogate mother and outspoken personal assistant, other than the fact that her only brother had died a year or so ago.
One more testimony to what a self-centered bastard he was.
The streak of dirty tan sky that showed between the linen drapes grew paler as the wind picked up, blowing clouds of sand and salt from the dry bed of Salt Lake. “Rain, dammit,” Hank grumbled. “Go ahead, cut loose. I dare you.”
He was limping. He almost never limped. Hated any sign of weakness, in fact. But then, when a man was facing middle age, it was only natural that he began to show a few signs of wear and tear.
Pity he had so damned little else to show for his years, but he was working on it. He’d given himself until his rapidly approaching fortieth birthday to settle the course of his future.
He took Pansy Estrich to dinner again that night, because she’d waited until Miss Manie had left for the day and poked her head into his private office, offering him one of her winsome smiles. “Hank, can we talk?”
He’d been looking forward to a long, hot soak in the king-size bathtub he’d had installed a few years ago, followed by a double order of his chefs garlic-grilled gulf shrimp, a fine cigar, a stiff drink and good night’s sleep.
Fat chance. Until he came to a decision, talking to either woman was risky business. He was still hovering on the brink of making a decision, and dammit, he refused to be shoved. But he said, “Give me time to wind up some business, and we’ll have dinner. Pick you up in an hour?”
“Why don’t I just browse the shops and then come back?”
“Fine. Meet you downstairs in one hour.”
Hank lived above the sprawling, exclusive gentlemen’s club his grandfather, Henry “Tex” Langley, had established nearly ninety years ago. He maintained an office there, with an anteroom office for Manie, the only woman with free access into his private domain. For a single businessman it was an ideal setup, but if he chose to marry, he was going to have to make some changes. Wives were territorial. Neither of the two finalists liked Manie, and the feeling was entirely mutual.
Besides, the club was no place to raise a family. Despite the ladies’ parlor his father had set aside, it was still primarily a male domain, and Hank intended to enjoy it until the bitter end.
“Or I could wait for you up here,”