The Texan's Contested Claim: The Texan's Contested Claim / The Greek Tycoon's Secret Heir. Katherine Garbera
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around in skin-hugging spandex and spike heels. Can you imagine? You, a madam? Or worse, a call girl? What a hoot!”
“I could be a call girl,” Ali said defensively. “Not that I ever would, but I could.”
“Are you kidding me?” Traci said in dismay. “If you had to depend on turning tricks for your support, you’d starve to death within a week.”
Grimacing, Ali yanked open the oven door. “Well, thanks for that vote of confidence,” she groused, as she shoved a basket of sopaipillas inside to keep warm.
Traci managed to snag a pastry before Ali could close the oven door. “I’m not saying you couldn’t attract a man,” she said, as she spooned honey into the pastry’s puffed center. “But there’s more to being a call girl than wearing skimpy clothes and flashing cleavage.”
Ali gave her a bland look. “Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on the subject.”
“I watch enough cop shows to teach a course. And let me tell you,” she went on, warming to the subject, “the hookers they haul off the streets aren’t particular about who they have sex with. They can’t afford to be. You, on the other hand, would turn up your nose at the slightest physical flaw.”
Ali’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying I’m a sexual snob?”
Traci caught a dribble of honey on the tip of her finger and brought it to her mouth. “Need I remind you of Richard?”
Ali shuddered at the mention of the C.P.A. she’d briefly dated. “Please. Just thinking about his clammy hands and slobbery kisses makes me want to hurl.”
“And you think the men call girls entertain are Brad Pitt lookalikes?”
“Okay, okay,” Ali grumbled. “You made your point.”
Traci smiled smugly. “I so love it when I’m right.”
“Shh,” Ali hissed, and listened, sure that she’d heard footsteps in the hallway above.
“He’s coming,” she whispered, and grabbed Traci by the elbow and hustled her toward the back door.
“Hey,” Traci cried, juggling her sopaipilla to keep from dropping it. “Who said I was leaving? I want to meet your mystery zillionaire guest.”
Ali opened the back door. “He’s not my zillionaire, and you can’t meet him.”
“Why not?”
She gave Traci a nudge over the threshold. “I already told you. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.” Before Traci could demand to stay, she shut the door in her face and turned the lock, just in case she tried sneaking back in.
With Traci dealt with, she headed for the breakfast room where she found Garrett standing at the buffet, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed much as he had been the day before—jeans and a black pullover sweater, a casual look she found extremely sexy.
Too bad his personality kills his appeal, she thought with regret.
Forcing a smile, she crossed to greet him. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
He spared her a glance, before returning the carafe to the hot plate. “Not particularly.”
She kept her smile in place, refusing to let his sour disposition infect her. “Well, hopefully you’ll rest better tonight.”
He raised the cup to his lips and met her gaze over its rim. “That remains to be seen.”
Those eyes again, she thought. What was it about them that was so mesmerizing? It certainly wasn’t their color. Brown eyes were as common as house flies in Texas. So why were his so compelling?
Feeling herself being drawn deeper and deeper into their dark depths, she tore her gaze away and made a beeline for the kitchen.
“Have a seat at the table,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”
Once out of his sight, she grabbed a plate and gave herself a stern lecture, as she filled it with food. He’s nothing special, she told herself. Good-looking men were a dime a dozen in Austin. And so what if he was rich as sin? She’d never considered money a positive attribute, especially in a man. All the rich guys she’d ever known were pompous jackasses, who used their money to feed their egos and need for power. Cars, boats, homes. The more attention a “thing” drew to him, the greater its appeal.
Nope, she mentally confirmed, as she pulled the basket of sopaipillas from the oven. Garrett Miller was nothing special and definitely not a man she’d want to become involved with.
Adding the basket to the tray, she returned to the breakfast room, feeling much more in control.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, as she transferred dishes from the tray. “Huevos Rancheros,” she said, identifying each food item as she arranged it in front of him. “Roasted new potatoes, fresh fruit with a light poppyseed dressing and sopaipillas with butter and honey.”
Tucking the tray beneath her arm, she reached for the carafe. “If you need anything,” she said after topping off his coffee, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
She waited until the swinging door closed behind her, then set aside the tray and headed straight for the sink, anxious to put the kitchen back in order. Elbow deep in suds, washing the pans she’d dirtied while cooking, she heard the door open behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes shot wide when she saw Garrett entering, carrying his plate and cup of coffee.
“Is something wrong with the food?” she asked in alarm.
“No. I thought I’d eat in here with you.”
She blinked in surprise. “But—but guests don’t eat in the kitchen. They take their meals in the breakfast room.”
He set his cup and plate on the island and slid onto a stool. “This one doesn’t,” he said, and opened his napkin over his lap.
She considered insisting he return to the breakfast room, then turned back to the sink with a sigh, deciding the guy had paid for the right to eat wherever he wanted.
Thinking she should try to make conversation with him, she asked, “Do you have plans for the day?”
“Nothing specific. I thought I’d take a drive later and familiarize myself with the city.”
“Have you ever been to Austin before?”
“A couple of times on business, but I was in meetings and saw very little of the city.”
She rinsed the soap from the pan she’d washed and set it on the drainboard. “That’s a shame. There’s a lot to do and see in Austin.”
“Such as…?”
She wrung out the dishcloth and moved to the island to wipe down the surface. “Well, there’s Sixth Street,” she said, “which is a little bit like Bourbon Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter. You’ll find everything there from tattoo parlors to jazz clubs. It gets pretty crazy on weekends. Lots of people on the street, drinking and partying.
“The State Capitol is a must-see,” she went on. “Fabulous architecture and a tremendous view of the city from the top. And if you’re into history, Austin is the home of the Lyndon Baines Johnson Library, as well as the Bob Bullock Museum.”
“Have you lived here all your life?” he asked.
She chuckled, amused that he would mistake her for a native. “No. I’d think my northern accent would give me away.”
“Northern?” he repeated, then shook his head and speared a plump strawberry with his fork. “Trust me. Whatever accent you had was lost to a Texas twang long ago.”
“Really?” she said, considering that the ultimate compliment.
“Really.