Open Invitation?

“This Texas guy is going to pay us twenty-four thousand dollars to turn him into Pierce Brosnan in two weeks.”

Jane stuck her dark, curly head out of her own office. “You’re kidding!”

Lil smiled at Jane. She could finally pay her back for bringing her into the business; identifying that she had a unique set of skills that were in demand in the marketplace. Jane had rescued her from a dead-end job as a receptionist in a law firm, and Lil still couldn’t believe she was now a professional and a partner in Finesse.

“How raw is the material, Professor Higgins?” Shannon asked, wryly.

Lil’s lips twitched and she met their gazes with a steady, even one. “Well…”

“Uh, oh,” said Jane.

“I wish you luck,” Shannon said.

“Thank you. I think I’ll need it, judging by how he handles himself on the phone.”

Lilia preferred to work with women. They were easier to mold and they did their homework. Most of the male clients she had were sent by their employers and didn’t take etiquette too seriously as a means to move forward in their careers. A mistake, to Lil’s thinking.

“So why is this guy paying you so much money?” Jane asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Because I’m having to clear my schedule and cancel my vacation in order to complete his transformation in two weeks. His sister is marrying into British aristocracy, and he doesn’t want to embarrass her with his crass, crude ways. Incidentally, Shan, we were recommended to him through your mother. She knows his mother from either charity events or fashion week.”

“Small world. Hey, I guess that means I get a kick-back, though, Lil. You can give me a shopping spree at Neiman Marcus.” Shannon winked.

“I think not,” Lil told her. “Good try, though. You’ll have to settle for a PR firm instead.”

“Done!” announced Jane.

Shannon frowned. “You’re so cruel.” She wandered into the small kitchenette they all shared. “Hey! Who ate all the crème doughnuts?”

Jane’s face was a study in innocence.

“Jane!”

“Who, me?” Then she gave up the pretence. “You ate them all last time!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you should descend to my level…”

Jane laughed. Then she turned back to Lilia. “I can’t believe you’re giving up your vacation in San Francisco for this guy. But thank you.”

“It’s not a sum I think we should turn down, with the business being so new and all. And besides, he offered to pay for my rescheduled vacation—as a bonus, if he’s pleased with my work.”

Jane’s jaw dropped. “This guy must be either too loaded to care, or truly desperate. He’s probably a mess. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

Lilia thought about the farks. About the dancin’ and crap. And about the penguin suit. She was probably in for a rough time of it.

Was she up to the challenge? “Yes.”

Well, it wasn’t as if she had a social life lately, since breaking up with her boyfriend of two years after he’d proposed.

She had considered marrying Li Wong, a terribly sweet Chinese man. But the awful truth was more than Shannon’s summary of things: that Li’s wong was not so long.

He’d wanted Lil to give him a full-body massage every night—without ever returning the favor—learn Cantonese and move to Beijing as his obedient wife.

Lil had very respectfully declined, whereupon Li Wong had informed her that she was ignorant of the great honor he had conferred upon her by even considering a mixed-breed wife. Half American and half Vietnamese? Why, he exclaimed, she wasn’t fit to scrub his floors.

That was the moment at which Lilia agreed with his highness: he should leave her disgraceful hovel immediately and never return. So much for Li’s beautiful manners and courteous demeanor. Jerk!

She felt a late-afternoon yawn coming on, and delicately covered her mouth with her hand. She’d been through tougher things than this; most recently the loss of her grandmother, who’d raised her. “I’m not afraid of cowboys, Jane. I can handle Dan Granger.”

2

A RED-BLOODED AMERICAN guy does not belong in some friggin’ charm school.

Dan wiped the sweat from his eyes, neck and naked chest. He stood in faded Wranglers and beat-up ropers at his kitchen sink in Amarillo, Texas, feeling pissed off and reflecting that time ran faster than the water from his faucet.

Lilia London’s voice had been like cool water, pouring down the telephone lines. Too bad he hadn’t been able to feel it on the back of his neck. Dan grabbed an old hand towel and soaked it under the tap. He wrung it out and pressed it to his face, wiping away some of the day’s grime.

Claire can’t possibly be getting married. Wasn’t his little half sister still a ten-year-old tomboy?

Through the window over the sink, Dan watched two bay quarter horses nip at each other playfully and then swat flies from their flanks with their long black tails.

Beyond their coral, his father stood in paint-spattered overalls with one of the field hands, covering the barn in a fresh coat of deep red. They’d have to scrape and paint the house, next. Dan didn’t look forward to the work, but he wouldn’t avoid it, either. It was all for a good cause: his dream of starting a boys’ retreat out here. Next summer, they’d bring twenty at-risk urban teens out to take classes and work on the ranch. He’d show them a different way of life…and a good time, too.

The interior of the house was sorely in need of a woman’s touch, and had been since his mother’s departure twenty-two years ago. While Dan wasn’t inclined to shop for floral curtains or wallpaper borders, he did see to it that the house was well-maintained on the outside.

Inside they still had the same beat-up plaid sofa they’d had since 1977 and the same worn avocado-green recliner with the ugly crocheted afghan that his aunt Mary Beth had made. Dan had added an area rug he’d had in college, which lent the room a certain something: the smell of old beer.

The walls held nothing but a functional calendar, courtesy of John Deere, and some photos of Dan as a child and his parents. The bridal photograph of his mother in her long white dress was conspicuously absent.

The focal point of the living room was a massive forty-eight-inch wide-screen television, which he’d rather be watching than remembering the conversation he’d had with Mama three weeks ago. It still rankled.

Dan had been scrubbing the dirt out from under his fingernails when the phone rang. The sound was shrill and unrelenting, like a nagging wife. He’d been sorely tempted to ignore it. But with a sigh he’d knocked the faucet to the off position with an elbow and grabbed for the worn dish towel on the countertop. Then he’d picked up the phone and, by doing so, sealed his miserable fate.

“Yo, Granger here.”

The connection sounded fuzzy, thousands of miles away, and he didn’t need caller ID to know who it was.

Mama…calling from England. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck, his gaze resting again on the stoop-shouldered figure of his father.

“Daniel, really. What kind of greeting is that?” Her voice was peppered with disapproval.

It never ceased to amuse him that the former Louella Granger had trained her West Texas drawl, like some hardy vine, to climb a worldly trellis until it flowered into a British accent.

“It’s a functional greetin’,” he told her. “Brief, to the point, states who I am. No bullshit about it, Mama.”

“Mummy. Please, call me Mummy, dear boy. And don’t curse.”

Dan grimaced. Dear boy? Christ. Oh, I say, old chaps. Are y’all fixin’ to watch the telly? “Apologies, Mama. How are you?”