The Cowboy and the Angel

Ignoring her brother’s we’ll-talk-later look, she shuffled on numb feet to her car. Once inside the wagon, she cranked the engine and blasted the heat, which made her nose drip like a faucet. While Rich detained Mr. Dalton—no doubt to impart a warning to behave himself around her—she pressed her hands against the air vents until her knuckles thawed enough that she was able to bend her fingers and grasp the steering wheel.

Although she appreciated her brother’s concern, she trusted her instincts. Reading between the lines and deciphering truth from lies was a necessary skill in her line of work. A gut feeling insisted that beneath the cowboy persona, the man meant her no ill will or harm.

He may be decent, but he’s not a pushover.

Renée feared she’d need a miracle to persuade him to hold off on his plans for the building.

’Tis the season for miracles.

Maybe Duke Dalton would turn out to be Renée’s Christmas miracle.

DUKE WATCHED Renée Sweeney drive off in her 2005 silver Ford Focus station wagon—not the kind of vehicle he’d have expected a woman with a feisty personality to drive. He pictured the spitfire in a red Mustang.

When Santori had phoned about a disturbance at the work site, Duke had expected to find a group of protesters chained to the building door, not a pint-size woman going toe-to-toe with a wrecking ball.

“She’s one of our city’s most popular social workers,” the cop named Pete boasted.

The blonde was a social worker? She’d looked more like an avenging angel in her long white coat and matching scarf. The woman intrigued Duke and he was eager to learn her reasons for delaying the demolition of his building.

“Renée’s special.” The gleam in the other officer’s eyes told Duke to mind his manners. The cop had to be in his fifties and the social worker hadn’t appeared to be a day over thirty. Were they a couple? Duke hadn’t made friends since moving to Detroit a month ago. He would have enjoyed becoming better acquainted with Ms. Sweeney, but he refused to trespass on another man’s territory.

“You mess with Renée, you mess with us. Got it?” the old guy threatened.

“Understood.” Duke hustled across the lot, eager to escape the cold. The below-freezing temps that had blanketed the state the past week had him second-guessing his decision to move his business from Tulsa to Detroit. He’d take an occasional paralyzing ice storm any day over the below-zero temperatures of this Midwest meat locker.

Once inside his truck, he revved the engine and flipped on the heat. Even though the policeman had made it clear that Renée Sweeney was off-limits, anticipation stirred Duke’s gut. Having eaten alone since arriving in the Motor City, he was ready to engage in conversation with someone other than himself. And he expected the social worker had plenty to say. He’d caught the way she’d summed him up with a cold, hard stare and he anticipated changing her uncomplimentary opinion of him.

When Duke pulled into the parking lot of the Railway Diner he recalled his Realtor suggesting the burger joint months ago when he’d been in town signing the closing papers on the warehouse property. He parked three spaces away from the silver wagon. Leaving his hat in the truck, he hurried toward the entrance where Renée stood inside the door.

“How long for a table?” He leaned closer to hear her response in the crowded waiting area and detected a hint of perfume in her hair—a nice change from the smell of fishy river water and wet decay that saturated the air along the Riverfront.

“Five minutes or less.”

He slipped out of his coat, then offered to help Renée with hers, but she scooted aside and shed her own jacket. If she was averse to his touch, why had she shaken his hand in the parking lot? Better yet—why had her fingers clung to his so long?

The hostess rescued them from further awkward conversation, and they ascended the steps to the dining area. Halfway through the car, grilled onions and frying beef assaulted his nose. He’d have to send his clothes off to be laundered tonight if he hoped to prevent his hotel room from smelling like fried hamburger.

Duke waited for Renée to scoot into the booth, then he sat across from her. A waitress named Peggy arrived with menus and water glasses. “Half-price burgers on Fridays,” she announced. “Coffee?”

“Please.” Renée’s smile knocked the wind from Duke. The woman had dimples in both cheeks and beautiful, straight white teeth.

Peggy cleared her throat and his neck warmed at having been caught gawking. “Make that two coffees.” When the waitress disappeared, he said, “Smile.”

Renée raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I want to see your dimples again.”

She rolled her eyes, then complied—not a sweet smile, but a bite-you-in-the-ass smirk. Darned if those tiny pits in the middle of her cheeks weren’t the sexiest, most impudent dents he’d seen in a long time. His gaze traveled from her cheeks to her mouth, then to her electric-blue eyes. Renée Sweeney was a very pretty woman.

And he’d been warned away from her.

The mental prompt didn’t stop him from ogling as she perused the menu. Her bulky coat had disguised her figure, but her pink cable-knit sweater flaunted her femininity, clinging to the gentle swells of her breasts. Dainty fingers sported neatly trimmed nails painted in a frosted-pink color to match the sweater. Every inch of the woman shouted cuddle me. Too bad the cop had already claimed snuggling rights.

“You’re staring.”

“Sorry. I’m in awe—” of your beauty “—that such a small woman took on an entire construction crew.”

“I won, didn’t I?” she boasted.

Laughter boomed from his chest. “Yes, you did.” Beauty and pride—a winning combination in his book. Too bad she didn’t act the least bit interested in him.

Waitress Peggy delivered their coffee, then flipped open her order pad.

“I’ll have seven plain cheeseburgers and seven servings of fries,” Renée said.

The pencil tip broke against the pad. “I’m sorry. How many burgers did you say?”

“Seven burgers. Seven fries. And six of those orders will be to-go.”

“Okaaay. Sir?”

“One burger. One fry.” He handed Peggy his menu. As soon as she left, he teased, “All that fresh air gave you an appetite.”

“Hardly.” Then she not-so-subtly changed the subject. “You aren’t a Michigan native.”

“I was born in St. Louis. My mother and I moved to Oklahoma when I was thirteen years old.” Under protest from Duke. He’d hoped his workaholic mother would make more time for him after his father had died, but he’d been sadly mistaken. Within a year of his father’s death, his mother had accepted Dominick Cartwright’s marriage proposal and suddenly Duke had had to share his mother with two stepsiblings.

“Thought I detected a twang.” Renée smiled.

He grimaced. He prided himself on having dropped his Okie accent when he’d attended college at UCLA.

“What are your plans for the warehouse property?” she asked, ending polite conversation.

“I’m relocating my company, Dalton Industries, from Tulsa to Detroit. I intend to flatten the warehouse and erect a new building, which will house company offices and condos.”

“What does Dalton Industries do?”

Was she genuinely interested in his company or working up to some…point she intended to make? If he wasn’t careful he’d forget Ms. Sweeney’s agenda interfered with his. Still, it had been a long time since he’d had the opportunity to share his dream with anyone other than business partners, Realtors, construction crews and architects. “Dalton Industries is a player in the information and technology arena.” When she stared at him expectantly, he continued, “My company will lead the way in the city’s efforts to revitalize the warehouse district along the Detroit River.”

She snorted.

Startled, he demanded, “What?”

“Nothing.” She shifted her attention from his face to the napkin holder at the end of the table.

“Tell me.”

Her dainty chin lifted and her facial muscles pulled into a pinched glare. “The wealthy businessmen I’ve had run-ins with in the past convinced me that their goals rank higher in importance than doing the right thing.”