The Texan

Just then Angela heard her name announced on the office PA system. “I’ve got a call. Maybe things are turning around already,” she said, rushing to her desk.

She lifted the phone. “Angela Morton.”

“This is Matt Leads. I’m a CPA and I got your name through an associate of mine. I was hoping you could help me out.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Leads.”

Matt went on to explain that through a series of misfortunes one of his clients had been forced into bankruptcy. Since Matt would be handling the sale of the property, Matt requested that Angela fax their company’s contract to him immediately. Then he asked if she could ride out to Waller County and take a look at the horse ranch and give him her professional assessment of what she felt it was worth. Matt wanted the property listed as quickly as possible.

“You realize that December is just about the worst time of year to sell, Mr. Leads.”

“I understand. However, I personally plan to advertise the ranch in several upscale magazines along the East Coast. Texas always looks appealing to someone caught in the middle of a blizzard,” he chuckled.

“I absolutely agree, Mr. Leads.” Thrilled as she was, Angela kept her tone professional as she noted down the particulars of the property.

“Could you take a drive out there this afternoon? I’ll let the owner know you’re coming,” Matt asked.

“Certainly. I’ll prepare this paperwork and I can be there shortly in the early afternoon. Say, one o’clock?”

“That’ll be fine,” Matt replied and hung up.

Angela didn’t waste a minute faxing the contracts to Matt Leads. She would need the owner’s approval, of course, but she was confident she was turning her life around.

Obliterating the memory of an angel-faced birthday girl required superhuman strength and massive outputs of energy, but Rafe had infinite stores of both. In the week since his brief but unsettling interlude with Angela Morton, Rafe had put two coats of white paint on the ranch house, mended the corral fence, swept every last autumn leaf from the three acres surrounding the house and horse barn on his riding mower and restocked the enormous pond with bass. He’d pitched hay, bathed and brushed all eight of his horses, soaped his saddles and bridles and done just about everything he could to exhaust himself.

He forced himself to remember the incredibly painful wounds his ex-fiancée, Cheryl, had inflicted. He rehashed how easily he’d trusted her and given his love to her, and how she’d made a fool of him. Never again would he allow himself to be put in that position. He’d been a lot of things in his life, but never a fool, he thought as he rammed his pitchfork into a mound of fresh hay. He spread out the hay on the floor of Rising Star’s stall.

Angela had seemed sweet, but then so had Cheryl in the beginning. Angela’s kisses had been like nothing he’d ever experienced. He’d known passion, tenderness, lust and fun sex, but Angela was different. When he’d kissed her it was as if he’d kissed her before, he didn’t know where or when. It was as if they’d had some kind of inner connection. Every move she’d made, even the most infinitesimal press of her lips against his had seemed familiar.

But that was impossible, he thought, stripping off his sweat-soaked plaid cotton shirt. He ground his jaw in frustration at himself. He should have been able to forget Angela. No one knew better than he that women were poison. Maybe if he repeated that to himself a thousand times he’d wise up.

Matt heard the blasting jangle of the horse-barn phone. Dropping the pitchfork and yanking a blue bandanna from his back jeans pocket to wipe the sweat from his face, Rafe picked up the phone. “Hey, Matt, how’s it goin’?”

Rafe listened resignedly as Matt explained that he’d contracted with a Realtor to list the ranch. Though he’d been preparing the house for sale, it was still a blow to know he was going to lose his great-grandfather’s land. “The company’s sending an agent around one? It’s almost that now.” Rafe glanced out the barn door and saw a baby blue BMW convertible pull up to the ranch house. The car door opened.

“I think the Realtor is here.” Rafe nearly dropped the phone when he saw Angela get out of the car. “Matt, you SOB!”

Matt chuckled with satisfaction. “I’ve never known you to react like that to a woman, Rafe. Maybe she’s what the doctor ordered.”

Rafe slammed down the receiver and stomped out of the horse barn. Rising Star whinnied approvingly as he sauntered into his freshly made-up stall.

Shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun, Angela surveyed the property. Thick clusters of oak trees still bearing half their leaves cast long wintry shadows over the newly painted ranch house. She couldn’t help thinking this was just the sort of house she would have built had she been born a hundred years earlier. It had a wide wraparound front porch with delicate gingerbread trim along the roof line. Huge Boston ferns hung between the hand-carved posts and pots of winter chrysanthemums decorated the front steps. Though only two wicker rocking chairs sat on the back porch nearest the door to the kitchen, she imagined wicker tables and chairs, covered in summer calico, ready for huge family reunions.

The dark green shingled roof and green shutters made the house look as if it were part of its natural surroundings. Angela couldn’t help smiling as she thought of the caption she could use to sell this ranch: “What home should be.”

From a distance, Rafe’s voice boomed across the corral and stretch of land like rolling tumbleweed. “There’s been a big mistake. You might as well leave.”

Mistake? Leave? Blasphemous words such as those she was hearing were not part of Angela’s professional vocabulary. She didn’t know who this Rafe Whitten was, but she wasn’t moving a single inch until she’d appraised this property.

Who was this truculent oaf, who dared to stand between her and a sizable commission, judging by the extent of land and the excellent condition of the house and horse barn. Whirling around to face him, Angela stopped cold. “You?”

Rafe covered the remaining distance between them in three strides. His chest was heaving as much from rage at Matt as from physical exertion. Though it was the first of December, it was over seventy degrees and he’d been hard at work since dawn. Sweat poured from the top of his head down the sides of his face and dropped onto his tan shoulders and chest. He didn’t realize every muscle in his body was corded making him look as if he could tear the house down singlehandedly. “I’m Rafe Whitten. It seems my friend, Matt Leads, has mingled in my affairs once too often. I’ m sorry to have put you to this trouble, Angela.”

A bit dizzy from the nearness of Rafe’s half-naked body and becoming just as aggravated as he at being the butt of Matt’s joke, Angela wanted to explode. Instead, for the first time in months she kept her wits about her. Though she would have given the world right then to throw herself into his unsuspecting arms and kiss the living daylights out of him, she only smiled calmly. “Matt Leads was the one waiting for you at the bar after you danced with me?”

“Yes,” Rafe replied, with a curious look in his eyes.

“Your ranch house and all this property are to be sold. Correct?”

“Yes, but...”

“And Matt is acting in your behalf to dispose of this land due to your bankruptcy?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m not leaving.”

“I don’t want you to be my real estate agent,” Rafe said flatly.

Angela’s eyes narrowed. Hardball was one of her favorite games. “Are you discriminating against me because I’m a woman? Have I in any way conducted myself unprofessionally in our dealings thus far?”

Taken aback, Rafe replied, “Well, no.”

“Then let’s get something straight, Mr Whitten. You and I shared a birthday kiss in a public place on a dance floor viewed by over a hundred people. I have attached no importance to it and neither should you.”

Surprised, Rafe sucked in his breath as she continued.

“My firm has contracted with your representative to list this property. I can guarantee I will do a better job for you than any other Realtor in this city for one reason, and one reason alone. I have a reputation for keeping my mouth shut.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if news of your bankruptcy were to leak out anywhere in this city, it would spread like wildfire not only in real estate, but other circles as well. People would think you must be desperate to dump this lovely home at fire-sale prices. We don’t want that. We want to get you every dollar you deserve for preserving its inherent beauty and tradition. I believe we can get you the right price, and we can also sell the property in a relatively short period of time—no more than three months—and at this time of year that’s considered rather fast. Not only that, when we do find a buyer, they will be the kind of people you’d like to invite for Sunday dinner.” She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked a bit cockily back on her heels.

His blue-gray eyes flashed merrily. “You’re damned good at what you do, aren’t you, Miss Morton?”

Angela didn’t miss the fact he’d dropped the familiarity of her first name. He was making a point. Well, so was she. “Yes, sir. I am.”

He stuck out his hand to her. “Then you have a deal.”

Angela shook his hand. Just as before, she felt a charge of electricity jolt through her body She wished to heaven she didn’t have to look in his eyes ever again. She wished she’d had the good sense to drive away when he told her to leave, but she hadn’t. She needed this listing. She needed to make the sale and redeem herself in her boss’s eyes. More important, she wanted to prove to herself she could be just as detached from him as he appeared to be from her.

He bowed slighdy, his washboard stomach rippling as he did, and gave her a mocking smile. “Then may I suggest I show you the interior, Miss Morton?”

“Fine. We’ll start with the kitchen,” she replied following him. He thinks he’s irresistible, with that cute apple-shaped butt, twisted steel arms and back, and that come-hither smile. The only thing is, none of it will do him any good, unless a lady is willing. Fortunately, this lady’s done that, been there, bought that T-shirt.

Angela was in the game now, deeper than ever But this time she was prepared.

Four