World's Most Eligible Texan

“Have you brought someone all the way from Spain to follow you around Royal, Texas?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief. “Surely not!”

He turned back toward Main Street and slid to a stop at the curb, knowing he was squarely in front of a fire hydrant, but he would be there only briefly. She didn’t guess she might be the one being followed.

“No, darlin’, I don’t think so,” he drawled, waiting. The car swung around the corner and had to pass him. He watched and pulled into the street behind the car.

The sedan had darkened windows, but when he drove behind it, he could see the silhouettes of two men. He noted the license tag, memorizing the number. At the corner they turned away from the restaurant and he turned toward it, driving up in front to let a valet park his car, but the incident worried him. He took her arm to walk to the front door of the restaurant.

“If they weren’t following you—no one would be following a second-grade school teacher, Aaron. That’s absurd.”

“Maybe.” He remembered talking to Justin about the site of the forced landing of the Asterland jet and all the questions the plane’s malfunction had raised. Was Pamela in any danger? He reached out to open the door for her.

“You’ve spent too much time involved in European intrigue. You’re in Royal, Texas, with a teacher from Royal Elementary. Nothing exciting here.”

He stopped to face her, suddenly blocking her way. Startled, she looked up at him. “Au contraire,” he said solemnly, brushing her hair away from her cheek. “Being with you is the most excitement I’ve known in a long, long time.”

“There you go again, pouring on charm thicker than molasses,” she teased, making light of his statement, but her words sounded breathless and pink filled her cheeks.

“I mean it, lady,” he said and moved out of her way, following her inside. He passed her to talk to the maitre d’ and then they were ushered to a table with candlelight, a red rose in a crystal vase and a white linen tablecloth. When he ordered a bottle of French white wine, she interrupted.

“Aaron, I’ll just drink water. I’m not much into wine or drinks.”

She had been that night. She’d had wine at the gala and another glass at his house. Maybe that had been a once-in-a-year thing. He knew so little about her, but he wanted to know everything. He ordered the wine for himself and water for her, wondering why everything she liked or said or did was so important to him.

“Do you like French food?” he asked. “If not, Chef Etienne does broil steaks—a concession to the steak-eating Texans. I know because I’m one of them.”

She studied the fancy menu. “I see salmon that I’d like.”

When their waiter returned for their order, Aaron said, “The lady will have the saumon fumé avec pommes de terre primeurs au beurre de persil,” he ordered in what sounded to her like flawless French. “I’ll have a steak, medium rare, and a baked potato.”

“You really do speak French fluently, don’t you?” she asked as soon as they were alone.

“You make it sound like I rob gas stations often,” he answered with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sorry. It’s just another difference between us.”

“Well, I won’t converse with you in French, darlin’,” he said, lapsing into a West Texas drawl.

She smiled slightly, but she didn’t look happy.

“Believe me, we wouldn’t be out together if there weren’t differences between us,” he said and she shrugged her shoulders slightly.

All through salads, his sizzling steak and her smoked salmon and new potatoes, he sensed a reserve in her that she hadn’t had before. Something wasn’t quite right, and he didn’t know what it was. But when he looked into her guileless blue eyes, his heart raced. In their depths was desire.

He could feel that same volatile chemistry between them, that urgency that made sparks dance between them and kept him touching her lightly as often as possible. He wanted her in his arms, as close as possible. He wanted another night with her like the one they’d had. And he knew she was responding to his touches and looks. No matter how coolly she seemed to act, he could see her fiery response in her eyes. Buddies who knew he had taken her home the night of the gala had teased him unmercifully, talking about the ice maiden, the woman no man could touch. He’d learned about her mother. Justin had clued him in on that one, and he dimly remembered hearing things about Dolly Miles and the men who slept with her. Did that have something to do with Pamela’s reserve? But Dolly Miles was of his parents’ generation. Growing up, Aaron had paid little attention to rumors about Dolly Miles. He hadn’t even known she’d a daughter, but Pamela was much younger than he was.

Over candlelight, he gazed at her, and for once couldn’t eat much of a delicious steak. All he wanted was to devour the woman, looking regal and poised, sitting across from him. He even loved the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. And she was country in all the best ways, down-to-earth, practical. Except there was something she was holding back. He could sense it and there was no mistaking the cool reserve that held her in check most of the evening. Occasionally, he could bring forth a laugh and then the reserve was gone, and once she seemed to forget herself and reached over to grasp his wrist while she told him about a little boy in her second-grade class.