The Texan's Contested Claim: The Texan's Contested Claim / The Greek Tycoon's Secret Heir

“What’s Callahan’s?”

“A store. I need to pick up a bag of birdseed for my feeders.”

Though disappointed that the stop would interrupt what he hoped would be an enlightening view into her life, he shrugged, thinking he’d pick up on the conversation again later. “Fine with me.”

“Thanks. It’ll save me making a trip later.” She checked the rearview mirror for traffic, then changed lanes and turned into the parking lot. After shutting off the engine, she reached over the back seat for her tote. “Do you want to come in?”

He looked at the storefront, considering, then figured what the hell. There didn’t appear to be many customers. “I believe I do.”

As they entered the store, Ali nudged his arm. “Aren’t you going to take off your sunglasses?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Someone might recognize me.”

With a roll of her eyes, she went in search of her birdseed. He watched her walk away and his gaze slid unerringly to the sway of her hips. Yeah, she was stacked, all right, he confirmed. He watched until she disappeared from sight, enjoying the view, then turned down an aisle to explore the store’s merchandise on his own.

The place reminded him of the general stores he’d seen in Western movies, carrying everything from horse tack to Western-style clothing. He paused beside a display of cowboy hats and, curious, plucked a black one from the rack. He snugged it over his head and leaned to check out his reflection in the mirror behind the counter.

“Looks good.”

He glanced over and saw Ali had joined him. Feeling foolish, he dragged off the hat. “I don’t wear hats.”

“Really? You should. Especially a cowboy hat. You look sexy in one.”

He gave her a doubtful look.

“Well, you do,” she insisted. “Sort of like a bad-ass gunslinger. You know. The kind who can empty a saloon by simply walking in the door.”

Hiding a smile, he ran a finger along the brim. “Maybe I should buy it and wear it to my next board meeting.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” She took the hat from him and placed it on his head again. She studied him a moment, and he’d swear he heard wheels begin to churn in her head.

“Come on,” she said and grabbed his hand. “If you’re going for the gunslinger look, you’re gonna need jeans and boots.”

He hung back. “I was kidding.”

She gave him an impatient tug. “I wasn’t. Besides, you know what they say. When in Rome…”

Garrett discovered the woman was a whirlwind when on a mission. Within minutes, she had him in a dressing room, trying on jeans, shirts, boots and what she referred to as a “duster,” which was nothing more than a long trench coat with a Western-style yoke and a slit up the back so that a man could sit in a saddle while wearing it.

“Aren’t you dressed yet?” she called impatiently from the other side of the door.

He hooked the silver belt buckle at his waist, then glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. He did a double take, startled by the change the style of clothing made to his appearance. “Yeah,” he said staring. “I’m dressed.”

“Well, come on out. I want to see.”

He plucked the black felt hat from the hook on the wall and snugged it over his head as he stepped out of the dressing room.

A flash went off, and he caught himself just short of diving for cover.

Ali slowly lowered her digital camera to stare. “Wow,” she murmured. “You don’t even look like the same guy.”

He scowled, embarrassed that, for a split second, he’d mistaken the flash of the camera for a gunshot.

“If I didn’t know better,” she went on, “I’d never guess you were Garrett Miller, zillionaire entrepreneur.”

“Zillionaire?” Shaking his head, he turned to study himself in the full-length mirror. “You know,” he said, growing thoughtful. “This getup might be just what I need to keep from being recognized.”

“Like I said,” Ali said, with a shrug, “when in Rome…” She reached to tear the price tag off his shirt.

He yanked his arm back. “What are you doing?”

She spun him around to rip the tag off the rear pocket of the jeans. “Taking off the price tags. Don’t worry,” she assured him as she gathered from the dressing room the clothes he’d worn into the store, as well as the stack of clothing he hadn’t tried on yet, “I’ll give them to the salesclerk, along with these other clothes. That way you can wear your new duds out of the store and not have to change again.”

Ali held the camera before her face with one hand, and directed Garrett with the other. “A little to the left. A little more. Stop! Perfect.” She clicked off a half-dozen or more shots, then dropped the camera to swing from her neck. “Now let’s try a few with you standing with one boot propped on the boulder.”

He dropped his hands to his hips in frustration. “I’m not a damn model, you know.”

“No,” she said patiently. “And I’m not a chauffeur, yet I’ve been driving you around all day like I was.”

“A duty you’re being well paid for,” he reminded her.

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yeah. Right. Tell you what,” she said. “Pose for a few more shots, and I’ll give you a full set of prints, no charge.”

“‘A few shots’ is all I agreed to when you talked me into this nonsense more than an hour ago.”

“Can I help it if you’re such a handsome model?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he said dryly.

“Okay. How about this? You let me take a few more pictures, and I’ll chauffeur you around the whole month you’re in town.”

He frowned a moment, as if considering, then nodded. “All right. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Grinning, she drew the camera before her face again. “Boot on the boulder,” she instructed. “Forearm braced on the knee. Now look off into the distance and make that face you make when you’re thinking really hard. Great!” she exclaimed, and clicked away. “Man, you should see this. The sun is setting just behind your left shoulder and creating perfect shadows on your face.

“Give me a forlorn look,” she said, continuing to click off shots. “You know. Like you’ve been running from the law for months, and you’re missing that pretty little saloon girl you met up in Dodge City.”

“A saloon girl in Dodge City?” He dropped his head back and laughed. “Damn, Ali, where do you get this stuff?”

The transformation laughter made to his face almost made her drop her camera, but she managed to hold on to it and keep clicking. “Part of the job,” she told him. “Just part of the job.”

Shaking his head, he dragged his foot from the boulder. “You should be a writer, not a photographer.” When he realized she was still taking pictures, he held up a hand to block her view. “Would you stop,” he complained. “You must’ve taken a hundred pictures or more.”

She reluctantly lowered the camera. “I’ll be lucky if a third are worth anything.”

He went stock-still. “You didn’t say anything about selling these pictures.”

“Would you lighten up?” she said, laughing. “I took the pictures for fun, not to sell. Kind of a souvenir for you of your trip to Texas.”