A Little Night Matchmaking
Debrah Morris
H.A.R.P. Field Report'From: Celestian, Earthbound OperativeRe: Operation True LoveMission: Unite hopelessly star-crossed soul mates.Complications: Subject Trick Templeton is one ornery West Texan who lets no woman get too close. For subject Brandy Mitchum, protecting her baby girl and paying the bills trumps romance.Plan of Action: By night, Brandy will dream of Trick until her heart realizes he is her beloved Midnight Man. By day, boss Trick and employee Brandy will be helpless to avoid each other–divine handiwork, I dare say.'Results: Daily contact has created a crisis situation. Intent had been a little night matchmaking, but the powerful result is beyond anything even heaven can control….
“Thank you, Trick. For taking a chance on me.”
He was definitely taking a chance. A big one. He’d been called fearless, but he wasn’t reckless. Or careless. He always calculated the odds carefully before acting. He didn’t step into harm’s way without being absolutely certain of the outcome. Failure was never an option.
Until now. Letting Brandy Mitchum, with her precocious child and her prickly problems and her spunky independence, into his life was the biggest gamble he’d ever taken. He wasn’t ready. He was used to risking his neck, not his emotions. Someone could get hurt here. And that someone could be him.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into.” He spoke to Brandy, but was he really addressing himself?
Dear Reader,
Saying goodbye is never easy, and when “goodbye” means leaving a line I’ve come to love, farewell is even harder. I hope you have enjoyed Silhouette Romance under my leadership and continue to cherish this terrific line under the direction of Ann Leslie Tuttle, Silhouette Romance’s new associate senior editor.
And if you’re looking for a handsome hero, look no further than Silhouette Romance! From bosses to princes to cowboys to oilmen, you’ll find a man for every woman’s taste this month.
He’s a prince disguised as a sexy American executive; she’s a princess disguised as his hotel manager. Don’t miss Princess Meredith’s last matchmaking attempt—for herself!—in Twice a Princess (SR #1758) by Susan Meier, the conclusion to the miniseries IN A FAIRY TALE WORLD….
Trading Places with the Boss (SR #1759) was supposed to be a learning experience. But what this secretary finds is an alarming attraction to her employer—and he seems to feel it, too! Raye Morgan brings us an office romance to remember in the latest book in her BOARDROOM BRIDES miniseries.
When this city girl escaped to the country to mend her broken heart, she finds herself face-to-face with temptation: an ex-rodeo rider working on the neighboring ranch. Will she give in? Find out in Madeline Baker’s Every Inch a Cowboy (SR #1760).
Two star-crossed soul mates get some heavenly help with their love lives in Debrah Morris’s A Little Night Matchmaking (SR #1761). This West Texas oilman is always all-business, until he meets his match in a feisty single mom.
May this month’s heroes lead you into a world of true love and happily-ever-after.
Sincerely,
Mavis C. Allen
Associate Senior Editor
A Little Night Matchmaking
Soulmates
Debrah Morris
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Books by Debrah Morris
Silhouette Romance
A Girl, a Guy and a Lullaby #1549
That Maddening Man #1597
Tutoring Tucker #1670
When Lightning Strikes Twice #1687
A Little Night Matchmaking #1761
DEBRAH MORRIS
When she isn’t writing her own novels and reading novels written by others, Debrah teaches novel writing in workshops and a university program. She is also active in a romance writers group.
She used to have hobbies and other interests, but these days her mind is pretty much one-tracked, and fiction is it.
She loves hearing from readers and can be contacted via her Web site: www.debrahmorris.com (http://www.debrahmorris.com) or at P.O. Box 522, Norman, OK 73070.
Chloe’s Favorite Snickerdoodles
½ cup butter, softened
½ cup shortening
1 ½ cups white sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp cream of tartar
1 tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
2 tbsp white sugar
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1. Tell a grown-up to turn on the oven and set it at 400°F.
2. Smoosh together butter, shortening, 1 ½ cups sugar, eggs and vanilla extract and mix it all up good. Stir flour, cream of tartar, baking soda and salt together in another bowl and then add the powdery stuff to the creamy stuff. Roll the dough into balls about an inch big. (Mommy says if the dough is too sticky to handle, you can put it in the fridge for a few minutes first.)
3. Mix 2 tablespoons sugar and 2 teaspoons cinnamon. roll balls of dough around in mixture until you can’t see any dough. Place the balls 2 inches apart on big ungreased baking sheets. Whatever you do, don’t put the balls too close together. Very important!
4. Put them in the oven and help clean up the mess while you’re waiting. They only have to bake 8 to 10 minutes, or until lightly browned. These are ’sposed to be soft cookies, so watch ’em so they don’t get too brown or too hard. Remove immediately from baking sheets to wire racks. Makes about 4 dozen cookies, unless you eat too much dough while you’re rolling.
Contents
Prologue (#u280c1691-44f8-5c8d-9962-0319e08bcd39)
Chapter One (#uebade128-ff73-56c0-a44d-28e21a7ad568)
Chapter Two (#ue6c487ef-20c5-5b7b-9174-771bbfbdda19)
Chapter Three (#u57b94759-1c01-5ba7-8026-d2f7eaf0b319)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
The After Place
“Please, don’t send me back to earth!” Celestian was really in trouble this time. He had finally gone too far. Tampered with The Plan once too often. He’d already been busted down from time-out monitor to prayer courier, and yet here he was again, facing a Level Three Penalty Hearing. Would he ever learn to straighten up and fly right?
“A decision has been made.” He couldn’t see the hallowed faces of the Panel’s senior saints, but their voices resonated from three different directions.
He couldn’t go back. Earth was a dangerous place. “It’s been over three hundred years, Your Excellencies. I am unfit to live again.”
A calm, sonorous voice filled the interview chamber’s white space. “You shan’t be given an earthly life, Celestian. You must retain spirit form.”
“If I may speak freely—”
“You may not speak at all.” Another voice. Deeper. Not so calm. “Listen and obey. We do not wish to see you in Judicial Chambers.”
“Yes, sirs.” Nor did he wish to be seen in Judicial Chambers.
“More than once you have failed to follow After Place policy.” Another voice seemed determined to point out the obvious.
“Perhaps I’ve behaved imprudently, but—”
“Your imprudence borders on insubordination,” St. Cranky snapped. “You have placed us in an untenable position.”
“You have lost sight of your purpose,” St. Obvious intoned.
“We trust a lesson in humility will teach you to respect The Plan.” Even St. Calm didn’t sound so calm now.
“An example must be set.” St. Cranky, of course.
“Yes, sirs. But banning me to earth seems harsh in light of—”
“Do not consider yourself banned.” St. Calm recovered his equanimity. “Consider your return to earth a mission.”
“A mission? Me?” Celestian squeaked. What in heaven’s name were they thinking? He did not possess the skills required for Earthwork.
“Celestial beings are never given assignments they cannot fulfill,” St. Calm reminded.
“Very well.” Celestian sighed. There was no arguing with a Review Panel. “I can’t wait to hear what I must do.”
“That’s the spirit!” St. Obvious didn’t understand sarcasm. “Since you are guilty of manipulating circumstances for your own purpose, you shall be given ample opportunity to do so by returning to earth as a guide.”
“A spirit guide?” Celestian dared to hope. That wasn’t so bad. “Whose earthly life must I guide?”
“Your human’s name is Chloe Mitchum.”
Celestian’s optimism faded as memories of Slapdown, Texas flooded back. “But Chloe Mitchum is a child.”
“Yes, an old soul who recently entered the fifth year of her current life. Helping an innocent little girl won’t strain your limited resources, will it?”
“No, sir.” Celestian listened as the Panel explained he was to befriend a child experiencing earthly problems. What problems did a five-year-old have?
“All you have to do is provide comfort, succor and guidance. The usual.”
He could do that. “As in, look both ways before you cross the street. Brush your teeth up and down and back and forth. Drink your milk. That kind of guidance?”
“Your primary objective will be helping Chloe’s mother meet her soul mate,” said St. Cranky.
“What?” Matchmaking was definitely not in his toolbox.
“Nothing complicated. Assist them in falling in love. Facilitate their courtship. Insure their lifelong happiness, a fate already slated for them. That is all.” St. Calm’s impossibly reasonable tone frustrated Celestian.
“You lost me at courtship.” He knew nothing about making people fall in love. He’d died without ever experiencing the emotion.
“Despite the combined efforts of several departments,” St. Obvious continued, “we have been unable to bring these two soul mates together. Their paths have paralleled, but have not crossed.”
“Time is running out,” added St. Calm. “She married the wrong man once and is overcautious. He has stubbornly vowed to remain a bachelor.”
Celestian began to sense how truly difficult his task would be.
“Extreme measures are needed. That’s where you come in,” said St. Obvious. “We require regular progress reports, so stop by Central Supply before you leave and pick up a H.A.R.P.”
“A harp, sir?”
“Handheld Analog Reporting Pad,” St. Obvious explained. “The new technology far surpasses the old. Very user-friendly.”
“If you succeed in helping the soul mates find true love, you may return to your former position in the time-out room.” St. Cranky dangled the bait.
“And if I fail?” Celestian asked.
“If you fail, you are stuck.” Leave it to St. Obvious. “Stuck on earth. Stuck in Texas. Stuck with Chloe.”
Doomed. As were the humans if he was their best shot at happiness. “I don’t understand. Why do soul mates destined for eternal love need my help?”
Silence filled the interview chamber as the panel conferred with one another. St. Cranky finally spoke. “Due to a system error, these two soul mates currently occupy Antipodean Mortal Coils.”
“Anti what?” Celestian wasn’t up on the jargon. He’d never expected to wind up on happily-ever-after detail.
A babble of no longer serene voices boomed through the chamber.
“Opposites. Contrary in personality, temperament and values,” explained St. Calm.
“Totally and hopelessly mismatched,” added St. Obvious.
“You call that a glitch?” Celestian began to sense how hopeless his mission really was. “Try problem of mammoth proportions.”
“Dear boy, do not be discouraged. If you wish to return to The After Place, you mustn’t let the fact that the subjects have absolutely nothing in common deter you from your worthy goal.” St. Cranky had suddenly become St. Smug.
He knew Celestian didn’t have a prayer.
Chapter One
Love is the only fire hot enough
To melt the iron obstinacy of a creature’s will
—Anonymous
Unknown and uninvited, he had slipped into her bedroom again last night. Not quite real enough to be frightening, his arrival wasn’t entirely unexpected. Three times now, he’d appeared in the darkest hour of the night. At first, he had stood quietly at the foot of her bed and said nothing. He seemed to await an invitation, but she could hardly offer one. She couldn’t speak or move or beckon. She could only bide.
The tall stranger was oddly familiar, though there was shadow where his face should be. When he finally spoke, his whispered words were faint, as though drifting across a great, windy chasm. When she didn’t answer, he disappeared, but she ached for his return.
The next night, he became bolder. He sat on the bed beside her, so close his comforting presence invaded her senses and paralyzed her with pleasure. His voice was stronger than before, like distant thunder gaining power as a storm approached. He murmured, Brandy, Brandy, Brandy, turning her name into a song.
Last night when the stranger appeared in her room, he knelt beside her bed and touched her cheek. His dark head bent close, and his warm breath bathed her skin with need. Desperate to feel his lips on hers, she tried to turn her head, but couldn’t. She could only sense and feel and hear. He whispered a yearning expression of love in her ear. Brandy. Don’t sleepwalk through life. Wake up.
And so she had, to an empty bedroom filled with gray morning light, echoes of regret and the faint scent of cinnamon.
Brandy Mitchum squinted as her eyes readjusted to the bright afternoon sunlight and tamped down memories of the troubling dreams. She steered her old car down the washboard country road. She was running late. If Harry Peet hadn’t insisted on reading the thick sheaf of legal documents before signing, her mind wouldn’t have had so much time to wander. To dwell. She had to focus. The Midnight Man might be ruining her sleep on a recurring basis, but she couldn’t let him interfere with work. Futterman wouldn’t accept less than her best.
She glanced at her watch. The unscheduled trip to the Milk of Human Kindness Dairy had chomped a two-hour chunk out of her afternoon. Time was tight, but if no additional glitches arose, she could still hustle back to Odessa in time to pick up Chloe from the after-school program.
Her stomach rumbled. No lunch. She just couldn’t seem to break that darned three-meal-a-day habit. Hoping to find candy stashed in her oversize mommy purse, she kept her eyes on the road and fished among the jumble of Happy Meal toys, moist towelettes and clean size five Powerpuff Girls underwear. The catch of the day was a Hershey bar that had succumbed to heatstroke, but what the heck? A sugar hit was a sugar hit. Steering with one hand, she opened the wrapper and licked warm goo off the paper.
Melting as fast as the chocolate, Brandy switched on the air conditioner, but the fan grumbled and blew hot humid air in her face. Mid-September, and the outside temperature hovered near ninety. Not a good day for the A/C to conk. But then, no day in West Texas was a good day to lose climate control. She cranked down the window and leaned across the seat to lower the glass in the passenger door. Might as well roast evenly on both sides.
“Hey, lady! Wake up!”
She glanced up at the shouted warning and expelled a curse that would never have escaped her lips had her five-year-old daughter been present. She pumped the brakes, and the car slid in loose gravel before skidding to a teeth-rattling stop. The shoulder restraint locked in, preventing a close encounter between her head and the steering wheel.
Disaster averted. Barely. If the car had skidded another yard, it would have struck the truck angled across the road. Brandy sucked in a deep breath to calm her pounding heart.
A tall man in a black Stetson and mirrored sunglasses yelled as he approached. “What’s the matter with you, lady? You asleep?”
Not exactly. She’d been daydreaming about a nighttime dream, and the distraction had almost gotten her killed.
When she didn’t answer, the man stooped down and scowled at close range. “You nearly hit my trailer.”
“I noticed.” A large truck pulling a flatbed loaded with heavy equipment had failed to negotiate the turn onto the narrow country road. The dual wheels on the trailer’s left side had slid into the rocky ditch beside the road, blocking entry onto the highway. Four men stood in the sun as though awaiting orders from the scowler.
“You all right?” Stetson’s words couldn’t have contained less concern. “Not hurt, are you?”
“No. Scared spitless, but the condition isn’t fatal.” Brandy noticed the logo spelled out in big flaming letters on the side of the truck. Hotspur Well Control. Now there was a fine piece of small-world rotten luck. She had almost plowed into a truck owned by the very company her boss was suing on Harry Peet’s behalf. At least she didn’t feel too bad about the litigation. The company was a nuisance, and its employees weren’t exactly courteous, either.
“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of the way so my men can hook a mini-crane to that trailer.”
“Sure. No problem.” Her heart rate returned to normal, but every time the man spoke, it kicked up again. There was something familiar about that voice. When Brandy shifted the car into reverse, it coughed like an asthmatic senior citizen, then rattled and died. She groaned. Not now. She couldn’t afford a tune-up until payday. Please, please, please start.
Muttering a prayer to the patron saint of old engines, she performed her standard good luck ritual. Three taps on the dash. Rearview mirror realign. Kiss blown in the direction of Chloe’s picture swinging from her key chain.
“Today would be good,” Stetson grumbled.
“Fine!” When she tried again the engine wheezed to life. Thank you, St. Combustion. She backed the car several yards, churning up enough dirt to make the tall man cough. Served him right for snapping her head off. He hadn’t bothered removing the aviator-style sunglasses, and the wide hat brim cast his face in shadows. She couldn’t get a good look at his face, but the rest of him wasn’t too bad. Of course, the state was full of hunky cowboys.
This one had a major case of the four Ts.
Tall. Tan. Tough. Texan.
He stomped off without another word, his scuffed boots kicking up angry little clouds of dust. Add a fifth T. Testy. Brandy watched him walk away. There was something familiar about the set of his wide shoulders. Had they met before? No. She’d remember him. Confidence without swagger. Firm step. Slim hips. Faded jeans hugging all the right places. She would definitely remember.
Close but no cigar. She didn’t need another difficult man in her life and wasn’t willing to go there. Following her divorce four years ago, her mother had warned her about dating again. “Be careful you don’t come down with frog-kiss fever.” She’d explained the condition whereby a woman feels compelled to give even unsuitable men a chance in the hopes of finding the right one. Well, not her. She was holding out for Prince Charming. Only nice guys need apply.
Brandy parked at the side of the road, got out and leaned against her car in the slanting afternoon sun. She used her cell phone to call the law office and let the receptionist know where she was and why. Then she punched in the number for the after-school program. They had a strict tardy policy and every minute past six o’clock would cost her. Still, she should warn them she might be late. Chloe was such a worrier.
After making the calls, she waited impatiently as the men unhitched the disabled trailer from the truck. The flat, dry pastureland wasn’t much to look at, but Stetson had plenty of eye appeal. Too bad he didn’t have a personality to match. If he weren’t so bossy, his deep voice might have been sexy. If he weren’t so fiercely masculine, his long-legged, loose-hipped stride might have been graceful. There was economy in his movements. This was a man who didn’t waste time or energy. Such intensity would make him equally at home in a brawl or on a dance floor. In the boardroom or the bedroom.
Disgusted with her errant thoughts, Brandy removed her suit jacket and tossed it in the back seat. The inside of the car was roughly the temperature of a pottery kiln. Sunstroke would explain why she was having feverish thoughts about a stranger who couldn’t work up enough interest to glance her way. Which was worse? Daytime delusions or nocturnal fantasies? No doubt, both were side effects of self-inflicted celibacy. Four years was a long time to be alone.
She glanced at her watch and groaned. The afternoon was slipping away. She’d never get to town by six if she didn’t hit the road soon.
“Hey, mister!”
The man in the black Stetson looked up. “Yeah?”
She held out her arm and jabbed her wristwatch. “How much longer is this going to take?”
“As long as it takes.” He shook his head as though she’d just asked a stupid question and turned his back on her.
Twenty minutes later, the crane hoisted the trailer back onto the road. It took the crew another ten minutes to clear the equipment. Brandy jumped behind the wheel and started the engine, and this time it didn’t even grumble. The boss waved her around with an exaggerated bow, but stepped in front of the car at the last minute.
“Now what?” The engine idled like a threshing machine, and she clutched the vibrating steering wheel.
He walked around the car to the driver’s side window. “Timing needs adjusting.”
“No kidding. Life is all about timing. And yours isn’t all that hot.” Even if the rest of him was.
“I meant your car’s running a little rough.”
He had stopped her to point out the obvious? “Thanks, I’ll get right on it.” She let up on the brake.
He slapped the roof of her car. “Wait. Something else needs fixing before you head back to town.”
She gave the righted trailer a pointed look. “Haven’t you already done what you came for?”
“Not quite.” He pulled a red bandana from the back pocket of his jeans, reached into the car and scrubbed at her cheek.
“What are you doing?” Brandy wasn’t the screeching type, but his unexpected action startled her. Even more startling, was her reaction. Without warning, the stranger’s touch slammed past the barricade she’d erected around her emotions since her divorce. He touched more than her cheek. Tapping into an undercurrent of longing, the connection flattened her defenses like an eighteen-wheeler rolling over a traffic cone.
The rush of odd feelings shook Brandy to the core, but not as much as the effort required to conceal them. Just as she began to recover from the impact, another startling thought blindsided her.
She knew this man.
The notion pierced Brandy’s mind, strong and certain. She’d seen him before. Somewhere. Sometime. Hadn’t she? No. He was definitely a stranger. And an annoying one at that. Still, she couldn’t deny the uneasy sense of having been touched by him before. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, forgetting for a moment how to drive. Instinct told her to step on the gas, yet she couldn’t resist the dangerous urge to stay. Distracted, she gunned the engine. She was light-headed and dizzy, but that was due to the sun’s heat, not the man’s.
“Next time you eat chocolate on a warm day,” he said with the twitch of a smile, “check the mirror for leftovers.” He waited five pounding heartbeats before wheeling around and striding back to his men.
Brandy stared after him, but he was intent on his work and didn’t give her another look. What an unsettling encounter. She sped away feeling ridiculous but couldn’t stop thinking about him on the drive back to town. Understandable. It had been a long time since a man had rattled her so badly.
Long time? Try never. The freaky been-there-done-that sensation inspired by Stetson’s touch was the strongest example of déjà vu she’d ever experienced. Sleeping emotions rumbled, stirring to life like a volcano that had been dormant too long.
Was this what love at first sight felt like? Or, in this case, love at first swipe? Ridiculous. She didn’t believe in anything so unrealistic, nor did she trust the swoon factor. She’d picked one husband based on runaway chemistry, and hadn’t that turned out great? She was older now. Wise enough to know better. She and Joe had spent two unhappy years together, and only one sweet thing had come from their doomed marriage. Chloe.
Her precocious, imaginative daughter’s head was often in the clouds, which meant Mommy had to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground. As strangely thrilling as that split second encounter on the road had been, she would probably never lay eyes on the guy again.
There was nothing mysterious about what had happened. Too much sun, not enough lunch and a dehydrated libido explained her crazy reaction.
Brandy pulled into the school’s turnaround driveway at three minutes past six, left the car running and hurried into the cafeteria to the after-school program. “Sorry I’m late, Amy. I was stuck in a jam.”
“No problem.” The college student in charge put away the broom.
Chloe placed the picture book she’d been reading in a big plastic tub. “Stuck in jam? That’s funny, Mommy. You mean like grape jam?”
“No, silly. Traffic jam. A truck was blocking the road.” Brandy reached into her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
Amy helped Chloe with her backpack. “Nothing. I couldn’t have left any sooner. Let’s call it even this time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Chloe, you’re a good helper. Would you straighten the books so the lid will fit on the tub?” Once the child’s attention was engaged, Amy took Brandy aside. “I need to ask you about Chloe’s new friend.”
“Which new friend?”
“The invisible one. She’s been talking to him a lot lately. I was wondering how you want me to handle the situation?”
Brandy was unaware of any situation in need of handling. “This is the first I’ve heard of an invisible friend.”
“Chloe spends a lot of time playing alone instead of interacting with the other kids. She carries on whole conversations with an imaginary playmate.” Amy lowered her voice. “Today I heard her saying she didn’t need his help. Said she had kindergarten under control. She has a great vocabulary, by the way.”
“Yes, I know.” Pride replaced worry. “She tested out at the ninth-grade level in receptive and seventh-grade in expressive. Her IQ is above average, too. Did you know she taught herself to read last year using two packs of sight cards and a stack of Dr. Seuss books?”
“She’s an incredible little girl.”
“She’s very creative. I’m sure the pretend playmate is just another figment of her imagination,” Brandy suggested.
“I learned in my child psychology class that the creation of an imaginary world isolates a child from the real one. It can be the sign of a deeper problem.”
“Really?” Brandy’s empty stomach clenched with worry. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“She got a little upset today. I overheard her telling her ‘friend’ to go away, which might mean something. She said school was a kid’s job, and if he kept hanging around he would get her fired.”
Brandy winced. Chloe knew all about that. Brandy had lost two jobs because of childcare conflicts. “Thank you for sharing your concerns, Amy. I appreciate the time and attention you give Chloe.”
“She’s a joy. I hope I’m not out of line, but I talked to Megan, the other caregiver, and she didn’t know what to do, either.”
Brandy patted the girl’s arm. “You’re not out of line. Chloe is obviously having more trouble adjusting to the move than I thought. Thanks for letting me know.”
Amy nodded. “New town. New house. New school. Lots of changes.”
“The pace was much slower back home. Now she has to get up early for before-school care, spend all day in the gifted-and-talented kindergarten and stay for after-school care, too.”
“I can so identify. I have three part-time jobs and a full course load at Odessa College. Okay for me, but stressful for a five-year-old.”
Doubt flooded Brandy’s stomach with a tsunami acid wave. Had she traumatized Chloe by abandoning their familiar world to start over in a strange city? She’d made hard choices recently. What if they had been the wrong ones?
Her boss, Mr. Futterman, didn’t think a woman with a child could devote a hundred percent of her energy to work. Naively she had hoped a career with real earning potential would be her ticket out of the nickel-and-dime job world, but she’d had another reason for putting herself through paralegal school.
She wanted to accomplish something worthwhile. After years as a deadbeat dad, her ex-husband had finally gotten his act together. He’d been elected county sheriff back home and now paid child support regularly. He’d fallen hard for the local doctor and was happily married. She didn’t begrudge Joe his newfound contentment. She was happy for him. Everyone should be lucky enough to find true love once in a lifetime.
Joe’s success had inspired her to do more. To be more. His marriage to Mallory Peterson had given her hope. Maybe there was a special person in the world for her, too.
“Mommy?” Chloe tugged on her sleeve. “Can we go?”
Brandy took her daughter’s small hand. “I won’t be late again, Amy. Thank you for bringing the ‘situation’ to my attention.”
Brandy stopped by the ATM to get money for the dry cleaning and gas. As she placed the bills in her purse, a familiar white pickup truck turned the corner and caught her attention. She couldn’t see the driver’s face, but the wide shoulders were unmistakable. So was the flaming logo on the door.
Hotspur Well Control.
Chloe piped up from the back seat. “I’m hot.”
“I know, baby. The air conditioner stopped working.”
“How come?”
“Just old, I guess.”
“As old as me?”
Brandy laughed. “Much older than you.” Weird. Their paths had crossed again. Glimpsing him revved up all the emotions she’d suppressed, but she tried not to think about him while picking up her clothes at the cleaners. Like the dreams that haunted her, their encounter was hard to forget. She’d felt a sense of portent at his touch. What if she hadn’t seen the last of him? She laughed. Chloe wasn’t the only one with an overactive imagination. Seeing the sexy stranger again was a coincidence. Nothing more.
A few minutes later at the gas station, she had to wonder. She parked alongside an available pump just as the same white pickup pulled away from the one next to her. The driver stopped at the street, his large, competent hands resting on the wheel, and watched for a break in traffic.
Hotspur Well Control again. Who was stalking whom here? She started pumping gas but stared in the tinted driver’s side window over the top of her car. The man in the black Stetson startled her by turning around and staring back. He lowered his sunglasses for a better look, but the traffic cleared, another motorist honked and he drove away.
It wasn’t so strange to run into the same guy three times in one afternoon. Awareness was like that. When she’d first become pregnant, she’d noticed other pregnant women everywhere she went. Driving a purple car made her notice other purple cars. Nothing weird about that. Just human nature.
The sun was sinking fast by the time Brandy finished her errands and headed home. The day had lasted too long, and Supermom was super tired. Poor little Chloe had to be worn-out too.
“You’re awfully quiet, punkin.” Brandy glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled at her daughter strapped into a booster seat, her blond bangs plastered to her forehead by baby sweat. “Everything all right?”
“Yep. Just thinking.”
Like mother, like daughter. “When you get the problems of the universe sorted out, will you let me know?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
She shouldn’t worry. Chloe was deeper than most children her age, more sensitive. All kids had active imaginations. An invisible playmate was her daughter’s way of coping with the new stressors in her life. They’d have a nice talk over dinner, and she’d make sure Chloe understood the difference between real and imaginary.
Tonight she would prepare a real sit-down, we’re-a-family meal served on plates instead of from takeout bags. Country fried chicken fingers, mashed potatoes minus the yucky gravy, steamed baby carrots cut in tiny rounds and chocolate pudding. All of Chloe’s favorite foods. A surefire way to earn mommy points.
Four blocks from home the cell phone rang. Brandy groaned when she read Futterman’s name on caller ID. She didn’t have to answer. It was after seven o’clock. She was a paralegal, not an indentured servant. She’d given the firm nearly eleven hours today. She was tired. Her child was hungry. She had a life outside Futterman-Ulbright.
And the salary Fenton Futterman paid her financed that life. Well, put it that way. She took the call and listened as her frantic employer explained his latest problem. He had an early pretrial conference in the morning and had somehow lost the documents she’d meticulously prepared from sketchy notes and marginalia. Her hopes for a quiet evening flew out the window. Her boss considered motherhood a disability. He wouldn’t consider chocolate pudding a good excuse.
Nor was he willing to find the file on her computer and print another copy. She’d have to return to the office. The task wouldn’t take long, but it would cut into time she wanted to spend with Chloe.
Would forfeiting mommy points earn her a few employee points? She glanced into the back seat. She was working hard to give Chloe the kind of life she deserved, but it wasn’t really fair to drag her along for the ride. On the other hand, she couldn’t afford to tell her demanding boss no.
Life was a series of trade-offs. Balance was the key.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Futterman. I’m on it.” She disconnected the call and released an exhausted sigh. The scales were tipping and Mommy was losing.
H.A.R.P. Field Report
From: Celestian, Earthbound Operative
To: Mission Control
Re: Operation True Love
Current Objective: Contact human ally and introduce matchmaking protocol. Initiate communication between male and female subjects and assess their respective relationship skills.
Progress Notes: Contact with child established. Screening tests reveal depth of subjects’ differences. Limited success with current objective. Male subject exhibits resistance to operative’s environmental manipulation techniques. Measurements indicate commitment levels below acceptable standards.
Female subject emotionally accessible and responsive to dream therapy. Exhibits interest in long-term commitment but is currently distracted by vocational duress. Internal stress and external pressure reduce suggestibility and make her less susceptible to covert tactics.
Plan: Initiate emotional retraining of subjects and increase contact between them.
Personal Assessment: Operative desperately lacks experience to complete this mission and respectfully requests to be relieved of duty.
Chapter Two
Brandy pulled into the fast-food drive-thru and ordered the usual. With the food cooling on the seat beside her, she drove downtown against rush hour traffic, an exhausted salmon swimming upstream without even the prospect of mating to motivate her.
By the time she arrived at the office, the firm was closed for the day. All the smart people had gone home. Juggling her briefcase and purse in one hand and the bag of food in the other, she unlocked the dead bolt and ushered Chloe inside. The lever jammed when she tried to relock the door. The universe was conspiring against her today. She pulled the knob and jiggled the catch to secure the door and led Chloe to her small office at the back of the building.
“Is this your work?” Chloe looked around curiously. She hadn’t visited the hallowed halls of Futterman-Ulbright before.
“Yep. Sorry you had to come down here, honey. Mommy needs to get some papers ready for her boss.”
“I know. They got losted.” Chloe peered at the computer monitor’s space-themed screen saver, then swiveled the desk chair in dizzying circles.
“Right.” She hadn’t mentioned the missing papers. “How did you—”
“Your boss should be more careful.”
“I agree.” She cleared a spot on a corner of the desk and set out a colorful cardboard box. Cinnamon. Again. Where was that coming from? Brandy found nothing unusual among the meal’s contents. She sniffed the air near Chloe where the scent was strongest. Ah, cinnamon crackers. “Here you go. You can eat while I work.”
Chloe wasn’t happy with her meal and went straight for the toy. “Oh, ratties. I already have this one.” Unwrapping the burger, she carefully removed both pickles and picked off every microscopic bit of onion before dumping French fries on the wrapper.
“Sorry, baby.” Trying not to feel too guilty about all the fast-food meals they’d eaten recently, Brandy poked a straw in the milk carton. She squirted a packet of ketchup in a neat red pile, careful not to let the condiment touch the fries. Chloe had a thing about mixing food. She preferred to dip.
“That’s all right, Mommy.” She tore the wrapping off the disappointing toy and laid it aside. “I can start a collection.”
Sipping her super-size diet cola, Brandy sat at the computer and pulled up the file containing the case documents her boss needed for the conference. She couldn’t believe someone as anal as Futterman could misplace something so important. Moving anything on his desk an eighth of an inch left or right resulted in a major freak-out. Today’s weirdness just kept piling up. And it wasn’t Friday or the thirteenth.
Deciding to make a spare this time, she set the printer control for two copies and started the process.
“So, baby, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Mommy.”
She blotted a dot of ketchup from her daughter’s mouth with a paper napkin. “Do you think school is a kid’s job?”
“Uh-huh. Like being a pair of legals is your job.”
“Right.” She smiled. “Amy says you have a new friend. Tell me about her.”
Chloe’s dark brown eyes seemed much older in her baby face. “It’s a him. His name is Celestian.” She blended the four syllables together into two. Sles-chun.
Ah, Celestian. She’d heard the unusual name before. “Your dad’s dog?”
“No. It’s a different Celestian. He’s supposed to help me, but most of the time I don’t need any help and he gets his feelings hurted. I told him to go home today.” Chloe rolled her eyes. “It’s kindergarten, not college. He’s too sensitive.”
Brandy nodded. “Can you see Celestian?”
Chloe gave her a look she would have considered insulting had it come from anyone but a five-year-old. “’Course I can.”
“Can I?”
Chloe laughed and dipped another fry. “Nope. He’s inbisible. He says I’m the only one who can see him.”
“So you named your pretend friend after the little white dog that sleeps on your bed when you visit Daddy?”
Chloe’s blond bob swung in vehement denial. “I didn’t name him. That’s his real name. And he’s not pretend. He’s real too. He’s just inbisible to people who don’t need to see him.”
“He talks to you?” Brandy didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved. On one hand, it was unsettling to think her daughter could ‘see’ invisible people, but on the other, the child’s fantasy was probably just a way to personalize the little dog she missed.
What was her fantasy all about? Was the man who visited her dreams the personification of her own secret longings?
“Yep. Sometimes he talks too much. He’s funny.” She sobered. “He said other people wouldn’t understand about him. Let’s don’t talk about it.”
Was Chloe afraid to share feelings? Did she think her mother wouldn’t understand or care? She’d never kept secrets before. Doubt settled on Brandy, weighing her down. Motherhood had never been easy, but she had managed, even without Joe’s help. This problem was more complicated than making sure Chloe ate enough protein and got her vaccinations on time. Brandy had no more idea how to handle an invisible playmate than the girl at the after-school program. At least Amy had taken a child psychology class.
The printer continued to spit pages, the noise loud in the quiet office. Distracted by her thoughts, Brandy helped herself to a French fry. “We’re buddies, punkin. Powerpuff Girls. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“I know. This isn’t a real secret.” Chloe fingered the plastic toy. Made Barbie do a dance. “More like…private.”
“I understand. What do you and Celestian talk about?”
Chloe took a bite of her baby burger, chewed and dutifully swallowed before speaking. “Stuff.” She picked up another French fry, dunked it in ketchup and extended the dripping offering.
Chloe laughed when Brandy snapped up the fry with a wolfish growl. Maybe Chloe wasn’t any more upset about the move than she had a right to be. Children were resilient. Brandy had not studied child psychology, but she knew that much. It wasn’t unusual for a bright child to have an imaginary playmate. And parents often worried about things long after children had forgotten them.
If Chloe had invented Celestian because her mother was preoccupied with work, well, she’d fix that. She’d spend more time with her. Quality time. Do everything she could to make her daughter feel safe and loved. It was probably no coincidence that the playmate was male and named after Joe’s dog. Maybe Chloe missed her father more than Brandy realized.
After nearly three years of benign neglect and indifference, Joe Mitchum had finally taken his parental responsibilities seriously. A near-death experience with a bolt of lightning had jump-started his daddy engine, and he and Chloe had finally forged a good relationship. Unfortunately Chloe saw her father less since the move to Odessa. Creating an imaginary Celestian was probably her way of bringing a little bit of her old home to her new one.
She understood the feeling. Something was missing from her own life as well. A quiet gentle man who shared her values. A true partner to love her and Chloe and put their interests first.
Now where had that thought come from? She could make a life for her and her daughter on her own, thank you. She didn’t need a man. If the right one came along, so be it. If not, well, maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
“What stuff do you and Celestian talk about?” Brandy turned her wandering attention back to Chloe.
“Getting along stuff. Being happy stuff. But mostly trick stuff.”
“Tricks? What kind of tricks?” Chloe wasn’t the type of child to test boundaries with misbehavior and blame it on the imaginary friend.
“You’ll see.” Chloe sipped her milk. She cocked her head to one side again as though tuned in to a voice Brandy couldn’t hear. After a moment, she said, “Can we not talk about Celestian anymore?”
“Okay. But you’ll let me know if you have a problem, won’t you?”
Chloe’s sunny face lit up with a wide grin. “I don’t have problems, Mommy. I’m only five, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.” The powerful scent of cinnamon permeated the room, and an unsettling sense of expectancy set Brandy’s nerves on edge. Maybe it was the strange encounter with Stetson on the road today that had her twitching. She’d never been into new age ideas or dream analysis or anything that wasn’t totally down to earth. So why couldn’t she shake the feeling that something life-altering was about to happen? “Honey, is Celestian here now?”
After a long pause, Chloe nodded.
“Where?” Brandy’s gaze darted around the room. The suite of offices was empty. The rest of the staff had gone home, and the cleaning people had not yet arrived. Outside on the street, traffic had thinned out. Night had settled over Texas like a dark, smothering blanket.
Chloe slowly lifted her hand and pointed. “Right over there.”
Of course, no one was perched atop the file cabinet, but Brandy looked anyway. The invisible playmate was a figment of her daughter’s overactive imagination. Still, gooseflesh rose on her arms at the thought of another presence in the room. She squinted, playing along with Chloe’s game. “Hmm. I can’t see him. What does he look like?”
“Just regular.”
“Is he a little boy? As big as you?”
“Nope. Grown-up size.”
“Old? Or young?”
“He says he’s three hundred and twenty-two,” Chloe whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “But he doesn’t look even as old as Grandpa.”
Brandy marveled at Chloe’s creativity. What had she ever done to deserve such a special child? “Does he have hair?”
“’Course!” Chloe laughed again. “It’s yellow and longer than yours. And his eyes are blue. He wears white clothes and no shoes.”
Apparently, Celestian was very real to Chloe. She’d gone to great lengths to invent details about his appearance. Brandy stroked her daughter’s soft round cheek. “Punkin, is everything all right at school?”
Chloe’s narrow shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. “Well, the teacher does her best with what she has to work with.”
Brandy smiled. Where did she pick up that stuff? Chloe preferred her own company to that of other children and never minded playing alone. Still, niggling worry refused to die. “What about your classmates? Do you get along with them?”
“I guess so. We don’t have much in common. They’re pretty young. Most of them can’t even read.”
“They’re the same age as you,” Brandy pointed out.
Chloe nodded. “I know, but they act like little kids.”
“They are little kids.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Just ’cause they’re five, doesn’t mean they have to act five.”
“True.”
Had her daughter ever been a baby? Mothering Chloe had been one surprise after another. Dissatisfied with the inefficiency of crawling, she had walked at nine months. In an effort to communicate, she developed her own system of sign language at ten months. By eighteen months, she was speaking in intelligible sentences. Impatient to wait for school, she taught herself to read at four and a half.
Every morning before the mad dash out the door, logical, organized Chloe made sure Brandy had everything she needed for the day. Exhibiting an intriguing combination of wisdom and innocence, her daughter had always been advanced for her age. Not only did she march to a different drummer, she followed a beat most people couldn’t even hear.
They finished their fast-food dinner in silence. Chloe didn’t mention Celestian again, but a creepy, uneasy feeling set Brandy’s nerves on edge. She needed to get out of the deserted office. Things would seem more normal once she got home. She tossed the food wrappers into the trash and gathered up her things as the printer finished the document.
Turning, she spotted a tall man standing in the open doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space. She yelped in startled alarm. “Who the heck are you?”
“He came! He really came!” Chloe clapped her hands and jumped up and down, as though she’d been awaiting the intruder’s unexpected arrival. Damn that stuck lock.
Instincts surging into protective mode, she tugged Chloe close, positioning herself between her child and the man. He didn’t look particularly threatening, but there was definitely something dangerous about him.
A quick catalog of his features convinced Brandy she’d seen him before. High forehead, big brain. Smart. Strong jaw, not too square. Stubborn. Black eyes, prominent cheekbones and sleek, dark hair. Sexy. Lips that were full and firm. Sensual. Too bad they were set in such a humorless line.
“I want to see Fenton Futterman.”
His voice washed over her like a warm tide. He sounded just like the Midnight Man. No. She had heard his voice before, but not in her dreams. He was Stetson, the man she’d run into this afternoon. That explained the haven’t-we-met-before vibe. He’d ditched the hat and the sunglasses, changed clothes. He looked different, but the pay-attention voice was unmistakable. Four run-ins in one day. Her universal conspiracy theory took on new meaning, but he was no fantasy man come to life.
“Well? How about it?” he prompted impatiently. His voice was deep, his words packed with authority. He was obviously accustomed to getting what he wanted. Did he expect the attorney in question to appear in a blinding cloud of pixie dust because he so commanded?
“I’m sorry. Mr. Futterman’s gone home for the day. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. I suggest you make an appointment first. He’s a very busy man.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet he is. Busy filing nuisance suits. Wait a minute.” His dark eyes narrowed, and his penetrating gaze seemed to really see her for the first time. “I know you.”
She felt the same way but wouldn’t admit the déjà vu he provoked. “Hardly.”
He stalked into the office, and his uninvited and overly masculine presence dominated the room. All Brandy knew about him was that he worked for Hotspur. He probably wasn’t a threat, but as he loomed between her and the door, something about him set off a shrieking alarm in her brain.
“Cripes, lady.” He reached out and ran a brown finger along her cheek. “What’s on your face this time?”
Just as it had this afternoon, his touch incited a breathless, dizzy, queasy feeling. She hadn’t experienced that combination of sensations since being struck in the stomach by a stray softball in junior high.
“What?” She stepped back, her hand clamping to her cheek where she encountered sticky residue. Branded by the ketchup-soaked French fry she’d snapped out of Chloe’s fingers. She wouldn’t act as embarrassed as she felt. “I appreciate the gesture, but really, you don’t have to follow me around to wipe my face.”
“Yeah, well apparently somebody needs to.” This time he removed a clean white handkerchief from the back pocket of his dark jeans and scrubbed the smear from her cheek. The handkerchief was warm from being pressed next to his hip, but that didn’t explain why her skin flamed in response.
Another unnerving reaction smacked her in the gut, and Brandy backed up again. Chloe slipped around her. The little girl stood in front of the man and looked up, hands planted firmly on her tiny hips.
“Celestian left the door open for you. He said you’d come, but I didn’t believe him. You’re tall.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re not.” Stetson looked down at Chloe, and his expression softened. Slightly. He had an intriguing face, full of planes and angles. Rugged. Handsome. Brandy shook the thought from her head. What was wrong with her? She never drooled over men.
“I’m five.” Chloe believed in sharing important information.
“Congratulations.” He turned back to Brandy. “Are you Ulbright?”
“No. My name is Brandy Mitchum. I’m a paralegal here.”
“You have my sincere condolences. So Futterman’s really not here?” He glanced around, his heavy dark brows drawn down in suspicion. Did he think her employer might be hiding under the desk?
Chloe answered. “Nope. Just us three.”
“Three?” The man scowled in Brandy’s direction. Scowling seemed to be a habit with him.
“Two. There’re only two of us here.” Brandy regretted the words as soon as they popped out of her mouth. She was a lousy bluffer. She brandished her cell phone. “But I have 9-1-1 on speed dial. So don’t get any ideas.”
The incredulous expression on his face told her that getting “ideas” about her was the last thing on his mind. “Why were you out on the road today?”
She bristled at his tone. “Considering how it’s a free country and a public roadway, I don’t have to answer that question. But since you asked so nicely, I was doing my job.”
“Your job? Right. Harry Peet.” He practically spat out the name. “And what the hell were you thinking leaving the front door unlocked? Any nut job off the street could have wandered in here.”
“Yeah, I think one did. What I do is none of your business, but I thought the door was locked. And I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child.”
“What? Oh. Sorry, kid.” Though it seemed genuine, he had trouble coughing up an apology. Either he never made mistakes, or he didn’t admit them. He turned his attention back to Brandy. “Are you always that careless?”
“I beg your pardon?” A total stranger was criticizing her? She was no longer afraid of the man, but she was acutely aware of him. He watched her with the same brooding intensity she’d noted earlier today. Which alone would be enough to sap any woman’s strength. Teamed with a magnetic physical presence only fully appreciated in close quarters, resistance didn’t stand a chance. The gut-level reaction he aroused in her was appalling. She had to hang on to what little annoyance she could.
“All I’m saying, lady, is you need to be more careful. It’s dangerous out there. Is this your kid?”
“Yep. I’m Chloe.”
“Uh-huh.” His lips pulled into what might have been a faint smile. Or a grimace. On him, it was hard to tell.
“Since you’re obviously not here to rob the place, what do you want?” Brandy relaxed a little, but not much. The verdict was still out on this good-looking, gimme-a-nail-and-I’ll-chew-it guy.
Dressed in snug black jeans, white shirt and scuffed cowboy boots, he was a rugged poster boy for testosterone therapy. Maybe he wasn’t a thief or mugger, but he’d stolen her breath away. She’d led a nunlike existence since her divorce and was easy prey. Clearly her sheltered hormones revolted against all logic. Nothing else would explain her attraction to this bad-tempered stranger.
On second thought, maybe attraction wasn’t what unnerved her. It had to be that nagging sense of recognition, which had nothing to do with their brief encounter on the road today. This stranger tripped switches she had forgotten she possessed. Why did she feel like she’d seen herself reflected in his night-dark eyes many times? Had their paths crossed long before today?
Ridiculous. If she’d ever met this imposing specimen of male authority, she would remember. Maybe he seemed familiar because once upon a lonely night, she’d glimpsed him in a dream. Was he the Midnight Man?
No, he might look like a dream, but this guy could be a nightmare for all she knew. Since her divorce, she’d formed a clear notion of her ideal man and this dangerous, too-handsome-for-his-own-good hunk was not it. Next time around, she was voting for quiet, stable and unexciting. Safe.
He extended his hand, which was as large and tan as the rest of him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am. I’m Patrick Templeton.”
“Trick!” Chloe chirped.
He frowned again, but managed not to scowl in her innocent, upturned face. “Yeah, that’s right. People call me Trick. How did you know?”
Chloe smiled in the direction of the file cabinet. “I’m a good guesser.”
The name finally registered with Brandy. “You’re Patrick Templeton? The owner of Hotspur Well Control?”
“Yeah. I’m also the defendant in Futterman’s latest bogus lawsuit.” He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk beside her hip. His face was too close. She edged back and drew a deep breath, but still couldn’t breathe properly. Was he sucking all the oxygen out of the room?
“I don’t have time for this, lady,” he said in a measured tone. “I have fires to put out.”
Brandy couldn’t respond for a moment. She was busy fighting an internal wildfire ignited by the disconcerting knowledge that she already knew how kissing him would feel. Impossible. She did not possess that much imagination. Awareness and longing coursed through her like a river of molten gold. What was happening here? Was this what hypnosis was all about?
Finally Chloe tugged on her hand. “Mommy? Trick is talking to you.”
“Sorry.” She marshaled enough energy to step away from him. She was losing her grip. Fantasy men did not come to life and storm into one’s office. She was the one who needed lessons on what was real and what was make-believe. “You have fires to control, and I have bedtime stories to read. Maybe we should call it a night.”
“Harry Peet’s got everything all wrong,” he insisted. “I need—”
“I’m sure you understand why I can’t discuss a pending case with a defendant. If you’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Futterman, call his secretary tomorrow during regular office hours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”
“Right.” He seemed confused by her dismissal. Had he never had a request denied before? “Can I help you carry anything?”
Too late to go gallant on her. “No, thank you. I’m quite used to carrying my own load.” At the last moment, she remembered the conference documents stacked in the printer tray. She quickly divided the two copies, placed one on her desk and took Chloe with her to drop the other on Futterman’s desk where he would find it first thing in the morning.
She expected Templeton to be gone when she returned, but no such luck. “Allow me to show you out.”
Apparently no one could show him anything. He led the way to the front door and stood on the sidewalk while Brandy locked the door. The lock didn’t stick or fight back this time. Strange. The shiny white pickup with the flaming Hotspur logo on the door was angled into the space next to her battered Ford Escort. The truck’s impressive automotive good looks were as intimidating to the little car as its owner’s were to her. She tossed her briefcase and purse on the front seat and leaned in the back to buckle Chloe into her booster seat.
“Wait!” Chloe yelled when she started to close the door.
“What, honey?”
“Let Celestian get in first. You don’t want to squash him.”
“No, I don’t.” Brandy paused to give Chloe’s invisible playmate time to make himself comfortable on the seat. She caught Trick Templeton’s amused look. A slow smile transformed his features, making him seem even more familiar.
“Don’t ask.” She cranked the window down halfway and shut the door.
He backed up, his hands in front of him. “I wasn’t about to.”
“Mommy, I didn’t say goodbye to Trick.”
Brandy sighed. Why did her daughter insist on treating this soon-to-be-sued defendant like a long-lost uncle?
“Tell her goodbye,” she said, “or we’ll be here all night.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He braced one hand on the car’s roof and leaned down to look inside. “Goodbye, Little Bit.”
“Don’t leave yet, Trick,” Chloe whispered.
“Why not?” he whispered back.
“We might need your help.”
“Chloe, say goodbye to Mr. Templeton.”
“Bye, Trick.” She extended her little fingers like a miniature queen deigning to accept a subject’s kiss. He reached in, his large hand swallowing hers, and pumped a couple of times.
“Nice meeting you, kid.”
“Don’t leave yet,” Chloe warned again.
“I won’t.” He walked around the car as Brandy slid behind the steering wheel. “How old is she again?”
“Five.”
“Funny. I would’ve guessed thirty.”
“I know.” Brandy grinned. “Be sure to call for an appointment tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, I will. And I’m sorry if I…” His sentence dribbled off.
“Stormed into my office like a renegade SWAT team door kicker and scared the bejeezus out of me and my innocent child?”
“Little Bit didn’t seem scared,” he pointed out.
“I know. She’s more trusting than me.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”
“Demanding?” she supplied cheerfully.
“No, I’m usually demanding. I was going to say rude.” He stood beside the little car, backlit by a street lamp’s light, which cast soft, familiar shadows across his face. His white shirt practically glowed in the dark. Barely controlled energy hummed around him like a powerful unseen electromagnetic field.
“Apology accepted.” She turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened. She tried again with the same frustrating result. She bit back a few colorful curses she couldn’t say in front of Chloe. Thanks a bunch, St. Combustion. For nothing.
“Is the car dead, Mommy?”
“As the proverbial doornail.” Brandy leaned forward and rested her head on the steering wheel. Would this horrible day never end?
“What’s a purveeal doornail?” Chloe loved learning new words.
Trick Templeton interrupted before Brandy could answer. “I think I told you to have the engine checked.”
“That’s right, you did.” Brandy sat up and smacked her forehead in mock wonder. “I don’t know why I didn’t heed your unsolicited, but clearly valuable advice. I could have squeezed in a complete engine diagnostic on one of my many leisurely breaks this afternoon! My mistake!”
“Hey, you don’t have to get huffy.”
“Huffy does not begin to describe how I am about to get.” If she wasn’t careful, she might even cry. It was past Chloe’s bedtime. She was tired. She’d had a trying day. Tomorrow, she’d have to get up and jump through the hoops again. Figure out how to get the stupid car fixed. Pay the bills. Be a good mom. Do a good job. She might be used to carrying her own load, but life would be a lot easier if she could share the burden.
“How will we get home, Mommy?”
“I don’t know yet.” If they camped out in her office, she wouldn’t be late for work in the morning. That should make Mr. Futterman happy.
Trick Templeton squatted down beside the open window. “Want me to take a look? I’m pretty good with my hands.”
“I’ll bet you are,” she muttered. She didn’t dare linger on that thought.
“Look lady, do you want me to look under your hood or not?”
“Sure. Why not? Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She reached down and popped the release lever. Trick walked around to the front of the car, raised the hood and ducked under it.
“Trick will fix the battery, Mommy.” Where did Chloe get her optimism? Better yet, where did she get her mechanical knowledge?
“I hope so.” Brandy let her head drop back against the headrest and closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, she hoped the man poking around under her hood not only had good hands, but fast ones.
Chapter Three
Trick retrieved his toolbox from the truck. Aiming a flashlight into the car’s greasy innards, he immediately discovered the problem. After making a few quick adjustments, he leaned around the car’s raised hood. “Try it again!”
She turned the key in the ignition, and the ancient engine hiccuped to life. Some engines purred like contented kittens; this one chugged like a rusty lawnmower. That had been left out in the rain. Trick lowered the hood and walked around to the driver’s side window, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands. Seeing the ketchup stain sent a riveting surge of emotion spiraling through him. He’d experienced a similar reaction when he’d touched Brandy’s cheek. Twice.
He had no idea where the unnerving sensations came from or what they meant in the grand scheme of things. Sorting out emotions was complicated. Owning up to them was messier than the gunk on his handkerchief. Time-consuming. Denying emotions was easy for a man who preferred to keep life neat and simple.
“That should do it.” He stood by the car. An elusive scent made him draw in a deep breath. Cinnamon. Reminded him of something, but before he could figure out what, he noted Brandy’s relieved sigh. Complacency was dangerous, so he added, “For the moment.”
“Mind if I ask what kind of voodoo magic brought my zombie car back to life?” She gazed up at him, her face pale in the street lamp’s hazy glow. He’d seen her in broad daylight and knew the pallor was artificial. Her smooth skin was warm and golden. Now that she was off the defensive, she was neither coy nor seductive. Her delicate features were arresting in their openness.
A man would always know where he stood with her.
He shrugged off the uncomfortable thought. Didn’t even feel like one of his. “No magic required. The battery cables were loose on the terminals. Easily fixed. All I had to do was tighten them.”
She smiled, and he noticed the indentation of a tiny dimple at the left corner of her mouth. Long strands of hair had slipped from an elaborate braid and fluttered in the evening breeze like shiny coffee-colored ribbons. Unlike other pretty women, she seemed unaware of her wholesome appeal. Her name suited her. Like the liqueur, her intrinsic sweetness carried a surprising kick. A man with a weakness for her type would find Brandy Mitchum’s cheeky charm downright intoxicating.
“The cables were loose?” Her dark brows fretted together. “How could that happen?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All kinds of things go wrong with old cars.”
In the back seat, the little girl clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.
“Maybe bouncing over those washboard roads today disconnected them,” suggested Brandy.
“Maybe.” Her theory was as good as any. “An old car is a disaster waiting to happen. You should have gotten—”
“I know. The engine tuned.” She held up a hand tipped with bare nails that had probably never had a professional manicure and ticked off the obvious. “The timing adjusted. The brake pads replaced. The leak in the air conditioner line repaired. A new muffler. And oh, how about some new tires while we’re dreaming?”
“That would get you started,” he conceded, “if you don’t mind pouring money down a rat hole.”
“I’m well aware of my vehicular shortcomings. Unfortunately I’ve been a little checkbook-challenged since the move.”
“You’re new to Odessa?”
“We’ve been here a little over a month.”
“We?” Without thinking, he checked the hand resting on the steering wheel. No wedding ring.
If she noticed, she didn’t let on. “Chloe and I. I’m divorced.”
“Ah.” Why was he glad to hear that? Her marital status was irrelevant. Despite the physical reaction that had gut-punched him when he touched her, Brandy Mitchum was not the kind of woman he got involved with. He knew females, and experience told him this one would expect a lot from a man. Like commitment. She should have a big ornate C tattooed on her forehead to warn guys who didn’t possess reliable radar.
Her lack of flirtation is intriguing. Maybe, but only a fool would rise to that challenge. She’ll demand fidelity and promises. Exactly. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. His word was his bond. That’s how he’d gotten where he was. At thirty-seven, he’d maintained his bachelor status by not getting involved with women who wanted more than he was willing to offer.
Which is damned little these days.
Yeah, but who’s keeping score?
Brandy was a mother. Heavily invested in family values. Divorced and unwilling to accept less than her due. No doubt on the prowl for a replacement man. If she hadn’t already staked her claim on a neat little house on a quiet little street with lots of pretty little flowers in the yard and a fluffy puppy for the kid, then she was prospecting for one. He’d met—and run from—women like her before. They needed too much. Loose battery cables today, drippy faucets tomorrow. They were highly skilled at sucking a man into the black hole of domesticity.
The take-over started innocently enough. A little project here. Another there. Hang a curtain rod. Rewire a lamp. Then boom. Before God could get the news, a guy was mucking out gutters and cooking burgers on a backyard grill. His time was no longer his own, and all furloughs from the picket fence prison were carefully monitored by the cookie-baking warden. He shuddered at the thought of being locked in for life with no chance of parole.
No way and no thank you. His risk-taking, nomadic lifestyle didn’t mix with family duty. All his time and all his energy was devoted to his demanding job. Job? Who was he kidding? Controlling oil well fires was more of a calling. There were easier ways to make a living. Safer ways, too.
He’d ducked the big C by avoiding complicated relationships and choosing women with no apron strings or expectations. Women whose desires were easily satisfied in the bedroom. His plan had worked so far, so why change a winning play?
And who the hell was he arguing with?
“So you have family here?” He wasn’t sure why he was stalling. He should climb into the truck right now and get the heck out of Dodge.
“No. Just the two of us.”
Did she have to make her situation sound so pitiful? Little mama and forty-pound kid against the world. Good thing he wasn’t in the damsel-saving business. Trick took a step back, equating physical distance with the emotional variety.
“My daddy’s a sheriff.” The little girl piped up from the back seat. “He has a badge and everything.”
“He does, huh?” Chloe the Uncanny was another complication. Like their mothers, kids needed things too. Time, attention, nurturing. He wasn’t bent that way.
Freedom topped the list of his prized possessions. He could pack a bag and leave at a moment’s notice without having to clear his departure with ground control. Exactly the way he liked things. The key to life was traveling light. No strings, no ties and no entanglements. A family would only slow the rocket of his life.
What? You want to die alone? Never knowing real love.
He was happy with the way things were. He didn’t need the ballast of stability and love.
“Yep, her daddy’s a sheriff, all right.” Brandy gave off vibes of calm determination and seemed unaware of Trick’s internal power struggle. She smiled again, flashing the dimple. “Duly elected by the citizens of Slapdown, Texas.”
Sexy in a nonsexual way, Ms. Earnest Working Mom was definitely not his type. Her beat-all kid compounded the problem. Trick couldn’t relate to humans that small or that smart. He didn’t understand children any better now than he had when he’d been one himself, an only child because his parents had feared unleashing another fearless dynamo on the world.
His father had chased oil wells around the world, and his mother had followed, leaving Trick with his widowed grandmother on a farm in the Missouri Ozarks. Granny Bett’s place had been a growing boy’s paradise. Caves to explore, trees to climb, rivers to swim. He’d been as happy as a left-behind child could be, but had joined the family business the second he was old enough to impose his formidable will.
“What?” Brandy frowned. “You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face again?”
“No.” He’d been lost in a maze of memories. This woman was the worst kind of dangerous. Just being near her conjured up thoughts of hearth and home. Longing for family. “I’m sorry. I know we haven’t met before today, but there’s something about you that’s…”
“Familiar?”
“Very.”
“How strange,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing about you. I’m sure we’ve seen each other around town.”
“That’s probably it.”
“Mommy? Can Trick come to our house?”
“No, honey. It’s getting late, and I’m sure he has other things to do.”
“How about tomorrow?”
The kid was persistent; he’d give her that.
“Can Trick eat with us?” Chloe asked.
“No.”
“Well, can he visit?”
“I don’t think so.” As tired as she had to be, Brandy was patient with her daughter’s wheedling questions.
“I want to show him my princess books.”
He leaned down and peered into the back seat. “Sorry, Little Bit. I have to work.”
“Putting out fires.” Little Chloe was as sharp as a brier. He’d only mentioned firefighting in passing.
“That’s right. Oil well fires.” He gazed into Chloe’s wide, dark, knowing eyes, and the door of his heart creaked open against his will, welcoming her to step inside. Scaring the heck out of him.
“Still slaying dragons, Trick?”
He took an involuntary step back. “What?” The child’s innocent question prickled the skin on the back of his neck. Despite the evening heat, chilly fingers crept up his spine. Who were these people? Being with them felt both normal and extraordinary at the same time.
Still slaying dragons, Trick? He’d heard those words before, asked in the same gentle manner. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember when. Further proof of how confused and addled the Mitchums made him. “I know you’re a good guesser, Chloe, but where did you come up with that?”
“From my princess storybook.” Tiny, pearled teeth filled her grin. “The handsome prince always slays the dragon.”
“Right.” His taut muscles relaxed, and he let out a relieved breath. Man, Little Bit wasn’t the only one with too much imagination. He was attaching meaning where there was none.
“What does slay mean?” Chloe asked.
Before he could answer, Brandy looked over her shoulder. “Slay means to amuse, honey, as in ha, ha, that joke really slays me.”
“Oh.” The little girl frowned. “So princes make dragons laugh?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Chloe slumped in her booster seat to ponder the comedian prince puzzle.
“Thank you, Mr. Templeton.” Brandy’s brisk tone let him know the conversation was over. A good mother, she obviously didn’t want to give her kid nightmares about mythical creatures being run through by princely swords.
The ruse might have worked with an ordinary kid, but Little Bit wouldn’t buy it.
“I appreciate you getting the car running,” Brandy continued. “But I really need to take Chloe home to bed.”
The innocent statement should not have conjured up images of getting her into his bed. But it did.
Get your mind out of the gutter. The value of a good woman goes far beyond physical pleasure.
Never mind where it came from, the suggestion had merit. Nice little mamas weren’t into casual what’s-in-it-for-me sex, and that’s all he had time for these days. And on the fly, at that. He’d better cut and run. Brandy was as tempting as her name, but she was a hair-trigger trap waiting to spring.
He drove the conversation down a safer road. “You’ll keep having mechanical problems. Take my advice and trade this heap in on something more reliable.”
“Right. I’ll add ‘new car’ to my wish list. Item number 4,783.” Her weary tone softened the sarcasm, but he couldn’t help wondering what the other four thousand plus wished-for items included.
A woman alone, working long hours to support a child, didn’t have an easy life. She wasn’t kidding when she said she was used to carrying her own load. Yeah, too bad she had to bear so much on her delicate shoulders. Another unbidden thought seized him. Might be satisfying to ease her burden in some way.
“Good night, Mr. Templeton.” Brandy shifted the transmission into Reverse.
“Call me Trick.” He should let her go before he got into any more trouble.
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be on a first-name basis with one of my employer’s defendants. Not ethical.”
“I see.” He’d been so distracted by the woman’s disarming dimple and darling daughter that he’d almost forgotten she worked for the law firm suing him on behalf of that idiot Harry Peet. Yet another reason not to get involved.
There was a lot at stake in this lawsuit, and she was the enemy. They couldn’t fraternize. Hell, they shouldn’t even be talking.
“Good night, Ms. Mitchum.” Then as she drove away, he murmured, “I’ll see you in court.”
“Isn’t Trick nice, Mommy? You do think Trick is nice, don’t you?” Due to the late hour, Chloe had skipped her nightly bath. With face washed and teeth brushed, she’d slipped into Powerpuff Girl pajamas before climbing into bed.
“I suppose so.” “Nice” was hardly the word Brandy would choose to describe Trick Templeton. Her daughter had great language skills, but her vocabulary did not include words like mesmerizing and intimidating.
“Can I have a story?”
“Not tonight, baby. Give Mommy a kiss and get to sleep.”
After they exchanged a noisy smooch, Brandy pressed a gentle kiss in the center of Chloe’s palm and folded her fingers over it. The spare kiss was a long-standing tradition they shared, because one wasn’t enough to last through the night. Brandy shivered at the thought of the Midnight Man’s next visit. Would this be the night he got close enough to kiss?
Chloe climbed over the covers to the end of the bed, smacked the air and bounced back to snuggle under the flower-sprigged comforter.
“What was that all about?”
“I had to give Celestian a kiss, too.”
“Oh. Right.” Him, again. Still unsure how to handle the situation, Brandy smoothed the covers over Chloe and stroked damp blond hair from her face. “I guess it’s fun to have an invisible friend.”
“Most of the time,” Chloe corrected.
“Just so you realize he’s not real.”
“But he is real, Mommy.” Chloe grinned as her gaze tracked movement from the bed to the other side of the room.
“In here, sure.” Brandy gently tapped her temple. “He only lives in your imagination.”
“Nope. He’s right over there.” Chloe pulled her arm from under the pink sheet and pointed. “He’s sitting on the toy box now. He’s happy ’cause Trick came tonight. He said he would, but I wasn’t so sure.”
Brandy frowned. This had been a long day, full of strange encounters. Not only was she too tired to deal effectively with this troubling problem, she wasn’t sure what course of action would speed the pretend friend along its natural course. It didn’t seem right to impose her will and insist Chloe admit Celestian wasn’t real. What was the harm in indulging her child’s innocent fantasies a little longer? It was her own fantasies she should be worried about.
Far more disturbing than the new playmate, was her daughter’s unlikely fascination with Trick Templeton. She’d never taken to a strange man the way she’d taken to him. The fact that she’d incorporated Templeton into the fantasy by having Celestian “talk” about him was especially troublesome.
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