A Little Town In Texas. Bethany Campbell
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he’d noticed her again when he was sitting in first class, sipping a Bloody Mary. She boarded afterward, with the coach passengers, expertly shouldering her well-worn bags.
He hadn’t been able not to watch her, but she hadn’t cast so much as a glance his way. She seemed to have her mind strictly on business even though she wasn’t dressed for it. She must not give a hoot for fashion. He liked his women fashionable.
“You’re as bad as Fabian with his supermodels,” his brother Nick had once taunted. “That last girl you took out looked like a giraffe in rhinestones.”
The memory fell over Mel coldly, like a drop in the temperature. That was one of the last conversations he’d had with Nicky. They hadn’t spoken since May.
The break wasn’t over Nick’s crack about the girl. Nick always teased, and about the model, he’d been right. She had looked like a giraffe, albeit an elegant one.
No, the rupture was over what Nick had done to Fabian. It was beyond ungrateful. It was treacherous, a betrayal too deep for Mel to forgive. He intended to settle the score, and if people wanted to call it revenge, let them. To Mel, it was justice. Nobody had more right to exact it than he did.
Yet in truth, he didn’t like dwelling on it. He supposed that he’d loved Nick once, but now his brother was his enemy. It gave him a cold and hollow feeling in his gut, and he wanted distraction. He would distract himself with the redhead.
A roly-poly waiter in a striped vest appeared. “Afternoon, folks,” he said. “Can I take a drink order?”
“Just a cola,” said the redhead, barely looking up from her book. “And could I get half a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich?”
“Well…” said the waiter, sounding perplexed.
“The same for me,” Mel said quickly.
“Oh,” the waiter said, his round face relaxing. “I see. Split it? Cola’s cheaper by the pitcher.”
“That’ll be fine,” Mel nodded. “Bring a pitcher.”
The redhead glanced up sharply. “Those are separate orders,” she said, but the waiter had already disappeared into the crowd.
Mel gave her an innocent smile. “Don’t worry about it.” He nodded at their twin books. “Coincidence, eh?”
Her blue eyes seemed to say What’s with you? Her mouth, which was a very nice mouth indeed, said nothing.
He reached into his pocket and laid his card before her, in front of the napkin dispenser. “My name’s Mel Belyle,” he said. “Since we’re sharing a table and a flight, we might as well be friendly. I’m sorry about bumping into you like that. Sincerely.”
Her gaze fell to his card, and he saw her skeptical expression change. For a split second she was very still, and he studied her. She had a piquant little face, hardly beautiful, but arresting. She raised her eyes to meet his again. Her lashes were long, thick, and auburn.
For the first time she smiled. “Hello, Mel Belyle,” she said. “My name’s Kitt Mitchell.”
She stretched out her hand in greeting. He shook it, enjoying the silky feel of her skin. He didn’t marvel at the transformation of her mood, he simply congratulated himself. He guessed his charm was working, after all.
OH, THIS IS RICH, thought Kitt.
It was like the fly catching the spider. She recognized the name on the card and she recognized the firm he represented.
Melburn K. Belyle, Corporate Attorney
Castle Enterprises, Inc. New York
Castle Enterprises was the corporation Fabian had created expressly to handle the Bluebonnet Meadows project in Crystal Creek. And Mel Belyle was the man Heywood Cronin had sworn would never speak to Kitt.
Yet here, in all his egotistical glory, was Mr. Belyle himself, trying to pick her up. She put her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and gave him her most admiring stare. She batted her eyelashes ever so slightly.
She pretended to be mildly flirting, but her practiced eye was taking his measure. He was actually an exceptionally good-looking man. Too tall for her taste, of course, but well built.
His hair was medium brown, thick and waving. Beneath straight, dark brows, his eyes were sapphire blue. He had a straight nose, a well-shaped mouth, and a square jaw.
He carried himself with confidence—too much for Kitt’s taste. And, clearly, he had money. His blue sweater looked like cashmere, and its color matched his eyes. The dark slacks fit perfectly. His nails were manicured better than hers, and his haircut was more expensive.
She imagined him living at his elegant address, riding in limousines, dating those women whose pictures appeared in glossy magazine ads. His roots might have been humble, but nobody would ever guess. Maybe that was the point.
She began to sound him out. “Okay,” she said with a demure smile. “We’ve made peace. So tell me about yourself. What takes you to Austin?”
“Business,” he said. “What about you?”
“I’m going to visit my aunt,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. She paused for effect. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s a shame to be out of touch with family, don’t you think?”
For a split second, almost imperceptibly, his smile wavered. He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said, “So you’re from Texas?”
“A long time ago,” said Kitt. “I’m permanently transplanted to Manhattan now. What about you? Native New Yorker?”
“Transplant,” he said. “I’m from Beaumont, originally.”
She knew that already. “Castle Enterprises,” she said. “That sounds familiar. What exactly is it?”
“Real estate development,” he said, then turned the questioning. “And what do you do?”
She shrugged as if her job was of small interest. “I work for the Gilroy Group.” This was misleading, she knew. The Gilroy Group owned six magazines, but it was far more famous for its other holdings, especially its television network.
His blue eyes kindled with mischief. “Gilroy? Are you connected with that Uptown Girls show? The sexy one?”
“I’m just a little-bitty cog in the Gilroy machine,” she said flirtatiously.
He gave her a one-cornered grin. “That means yes, doesn’t it?”
She gave a laugh meant to sound self-conscious. “Well…”
“It does mean yes,” he said with satisfaction and leaned closer. “So exactly what do you do?”
She chose her words carefully. “Well, I guess you say I sort of—work around the editorial office.”
His grin grew more wicked. “You mean like—a story editor?”
“Um. Kind of.” She did, after all, work on stories. He just didn’t suspect she was working on one right now and he was its central figure.
“So tell me,” he said, leaning his chin on his hand. “Those plots? Are they based on real experience?”
He looked as happy as a man who has just fallen into a hutch of Playboy bunnies. Uptown Girls was the sexiest show on network television.
You lech, Kitt thought. I bet you think I’m an encyclopedia of erotica. She batted her lashes again. “That would be telling. I’m not going to discuss it until I know you much, much better.”
He leaned closer still. “That can be instantly arranged. What do you want to know?” His dark blue eyes were fixed with happy predation on hers. For a moment her breath stuck in her chest.
“Everything,” she