Amazed at how far she'd come in a few months, Cassidy Outlaw
jogged along the path beside Austin's Lady Bird Lake without
even breaking a sweat. When she'd first started her exercise
regimen, she couldn't make half a block without being winded
and dying from the burn in her legs. Now she could actually
enjoy these early morning jogs.
Especially with the current view to hold her interest.
She trotted behind a very tight set of male buns attached to
a terrific torso with a lovely expanse of shoulders. The
shorts were black, the T-shirt gray and the hair short, a
damp brown, and probably less curly when it was dry. A white
towel was draped around his neck.
She liked his legs, too. Well-muscled thighs and calves. Was
his front as good as his back? Some good-looking guys ran
this trail—and some real dogs. Which was he?
Suddenly, Tight Buns stopped. Cass, being in midstride,
didn't, and she couldn't get her footing quickly enough to
keep from tripping over him and going down onto the
decomposed granite path.
"Ouch! Dammit! Dammit!" She grabbed her knee.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Tight Buns said.
"Idiot! What were you thinking, to stop like—"
The words died on her lips when she looked up and saw the
klutz was no putz. He was an Adonis.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
Maybe he was a putz, after all. "I figure if there's
blood, I'm hurt for sure."
He grabbed the towel from around his neck and dabbed the
blood from the scrape on her knee.
"Is that sanitary?" she asked, glaring at him and
trying to keep from being mesmerized by a pair of the bluest
eyes she'd ever seen. Real baby blues, so pale they seemed
to cut into her like lasers.
"Oh, hell! I didn't even think of germs. Let's get some
proper first aid." He flagged down a cab, which was a
miracle in itself, since Austin didn't have cabs cruising
the streets like New York.
Before she could sputter more than, "What the hell do
you—" he'd scooped her into his arms and slid her
into the backseat.
"To the nearest E.R.," he said to the driver.
"You're nuts! I don't need to go to an emergency room
for a skinned knee. I just need some peroxide and a
Band-Aid."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Make that the nearest drugstore," he told the driver.
The cab drove a couple of blocks and stopped. "Here we
are."
Tight Buns pulled out a twenty from a small zippered pocket
and handed it to the driver. "Keep the change," he
said, flinging open the door. He reached inside and made to
pick her up again, but Cass slapped his hands.
"Have you got any more money in your pocket?" she asked.
He felt inside. "Nope. That was it."
"Keep a couple of bucks for yourself," she told the
driver, "and give us the change."
The man didn't look too thrilled, but he handed her a ten.
She started to hold out for more, but gave it up and got out.
"Why did you do that?" Tight Buns asked.
"Because the only things in my fanny pack are my car
keys and pepper spray." She waved the bill. "This is
for first aid supplies."
"Good point. Can you walk?"
"Of course I can walk," Cass said. With blood
dribbling down her leg, she marched into the drugstore, Blue
Eyes close behind.
Inside, he walked her to the pharmacy area and had her sit
on the chair near the blood pressure cuff.
"Stay here and I'll gather the supplies."
In a couple of minutes he was back with a basketful of
stuff: gauze pads, peroxide, first aid spray and ointment,
tissues, and a big box of Band-Aids.
"Isn't that overkill?" she asked.
He glanced down at the basket. "I don't think so. I
wasn't sure what we'd need."
"Have you paid for the items yet?"
"Not yet."
"I didn't think so," Cass said. "You've got more
than ten dollars worth there, I'm sure."
"I have a credit card."
"Well, why on earth didn't you say so? I wouldn't have
arm wrestled the cab driver for change."
He merely looked at her as if he were indulging a child, and
squatted in front of her. After he assembled his supplies,
he patted his thigh. "Put your foot up here."
She didn't argue for once.
Very gently, he flushed the area with peroxide, mopping up
spillovers with gauze pads and tissues, squirted a line of
ointment along the scrape and topped it with a large
bandage. "There."
She studied his handiwork. "Good job. Thanks. I'll be
running along now—sorry, I don't even know your name."
He grinned, flashing dimples that made him almost pretty.
"Griff. Griffin Mitchell."
She stuck out her hand. "Cass. Cassidy Outlaw."
"How about I buy you breakfast?"
"Thanks," Cass said, "but that's not necessary.
I need to get home and dress for work."
"What time do you have to be there?"
"Oh, nine-thirty or ten."
He glanced at his watch. "It's only seven-thirty. We'll
make it quick. What do you like?"
"There used to be a great little place on the next block
that served the best breakfast tacos you've ever tasted, but
it's gone now. That monster of a hotel gobbled up most of
the neighborhood." She nodded toward the lakefront and
the several stories of concrete and glass where several
small businesses had once stood.
"I take it you don't approve."
"You take it right," Cass said. "I miss those
tacos."
"How about we try the coffee shop at the hotel?"
Griff asked. "My treat."
"Like this?" She looked down at her shorts and dirty
T-shirt. "Austin is a supercasual town, but I doubt if
they'd let us in the door as grungy as we are."
"Let's storm the gates out of spite." Those blue
eyes twinkled with mischief. "I understand the coffee is
good and the omelets are first class."
Never one to back away from a challenge, Cass said,
"You're on. Let's go."
He paid for the items in his basket, and the cashier, a
middle-aged woman with a severe underbite, didn't even
mention that they'd been opened. In fact, she was so busy
gawking at Griff she could barely wield the scanner.
"Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Paul
Newman?" she asked, drool practically dripping from the
corners of her bulldog mouth.
He smiled. "Once or twice."
Cass hadn't been around for Paul Newman's heyday—she
was more familiar with his salad dressing than his early
movie roles—and she didn't get the connection at
first. Then she remembered a couple of classic films she'd
seen on cable. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,
of course, and another one in which he'd worn some sort
of short toga. She couldn't recall the name of the movie,
but she remembered those eyes. They were the same
mesmerizing color as Griffin Mitchell's. No wonder women
went ape over Newman back then.
"Ready?" Griff asked, touching her back. "Shall
I get a taxi?"
She chuckled. "I think I can make it a block or two."
They crossed the street, and she favored her knee slightly
as they walked.
"Are you in pain?"
"It smarts a little. Nothing serious," she said.
"I'll take a Tylenol later."
"Damn," he said, snapping his fingers. "I should
have thought of that. If you'll wait here, I'll run back to
the drugstore and get some."
"Whoa." Cass grabbed his arm. "Not necessary.
You're making too much of this. I have some in my car."
"If you're sure." He seemed ready to sprint through
traffic at her signal.
"Very sure."
She felt a little strange going into the upscale hotel, but
Griff walked in as if he owned the place. "Want to wash
up first?" he asked.
"That would be great."
They parted at the restrooms, and Cass cleaned up as best
she could. She'd give twenty dollars for a brush right then,
but settled for a finger comb, then rejoined Griff.
The hostess met them at the door of the coffee shop, to turn
them away, Cass figured. Instead, she smiled brightly.
"Good morning, Mr. Mitchell. Your usual table?"
"Yes, thank you, Helen." He steered Cass to a window
table overlooking the lake and the jogging path.
When they were seated, Cass lifted her eyebrows. "Your
usual table, Mr. Mitchell?"
"I often stay here when I'm in town. I've been here a
lot lately." He opened his menu. "Are you a bacon
and eggs person or a fruit and yogurt type?"
"If I can't have breakfast tacos, I'm a French toast and
sausage lover. You?"
"I like the omelets here."
Coffee and a pitcher of orange juice arrived, along with a
waiter to take their order.
Cass sipped her coffee. "Ahh. Caffeine. So you're in
Austin on business?"
"I am."
"What business are you in?" she asked.
"I'm a lawyer."
She chuckled and shook her head. "I might have known."
"You don't like lawyers?"
"Some I do, some I don't. I'm a recovering lawyer
myself."
He grinned. Why did he have such devilishly adorable
dimples? "How does one become a recovering lawyer?"
"One gives it up for a healthier lifestyle." Cass
poured herself some juice.
"I see. And what do you do now?"
"I sell chili."
He laughed. "With beans or without?"
"Bite your tongue, Yankee. No self-respecting Texan puts
beans in chili."
"Sorry. Where do you sell this chili?"
"In a little café called Chili Witches up near the
capitol. It's a family business that my mother and aunt
started years before my sister and I were born. What kind of
lawyering brings you to town?"
"I'm doing some research for a client."
"What kind of research?"
He cocked an eyebrow and looked amused. "I thought you
said you were a lawyer."
"Ahh," she said. "The confidential kind. I
assume you're not a trial lawyer then. Not a defense
attorney from back East who has come to defend a dastardly
criminal?"
"Nope. I'm more into corporate concerns than drug
dealing and murder."
"Is there a difference?"
His eyebrow went up again. "You really are down on the
profession, aren't you?"
"Sorry," Cass said. "I went too far. How do you
like Austin?"
"It's a fantastic little city. I'm thinking of moving
here."
This time her eyebrows went up. "Really?"
After their food was served, they ate and chatted about the
town and its various attractions. Casual talk, but unspoken
inferences seemed much more intimate. She couldn't quite put
her finger on the subtle undercurrents she felt, but they
were there.
He was a charmer to be sure. Slick, handsome and magnetizing
with those fabulous baby blues. Her own lawyer's antennae
went up.
She wouldn't trust the bastard as far as she could throw him.
Cass would have bet a thousand dollars Griff Mitchell would
show up at Chili Witches that day. She would have lost.
Guess she'd read the signals wrong. Usually she wasn't so
far off.
Oh, well, no big loss. He was a nice looking guy and
interesting—even if he was a Yankee lawyer. Her track
record with Yankee lawyers wasn't good. Her former
fiancé was both. They'd worked for the same New York
firm, and he'd sworn his undying love for her when he'd
presented her with a large emerald-cut diamond and asked her
to marry him. First chance he had to make points with the
senior partners, he'd thrown her under the bus for a leg up.
What was worse, he didn't see anything wrong with what he'd
done.
Cass couldn't see being married to someone ruled by jungle
ethics. She quickly soured on New York, the high-powered
firm and the eighteen-hour days. She also missed Austin and
her twin sister, Sunny. They'd never been so far apart for
so long.
At closing time, Cass locked up behind the last of the staff
and stashed the cash in the office safe. As was their
custom, she made a final round of Chili Witches, with its
rough-hewn walls and over forty years of rotating Texas
kitsch. Her New York colleagues would laugh if they could
see her now in jeans and a red tee instead of a power suit,
but she was happy here among people who mattered.
She was startled when she saw the gray-haired man sitting at
a corner table with a cup of coffee. He smiled at her as she
approached.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't realize anyone was still
here. We're closed. You'll have to leave."
He suddenly vanished. Poof. Gone. Her heart jumped
into overdrive. Oh, gawd! Was she going crazy?
Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. She
double-checked the locks, then hurried out of the café
and up the back stairs to her apartment on the second floor.
She locked her door, reset the alarm, slapped her hand on
her chest and struggled to keep herself from
hyperventilating. No way was she admitting to what she'd
seen. Correction: make that what she thought she
saw. No way.
Not only had the incident scared the pants off her, the
whole thing was impossible. Totally, utterly, completely
impossible. Snatching up her phone, she punched the speed
dial for Sunny, but hung up before it rang. Her sister would
never let her hear the end of it if Cass admitted to seeing
some sort of apparition. There was some perfectly reasonable
explanation for what she thought she'd seen. Perhaps a
flicker of a passing car or a glint from streetlights had
somehow created an odd image. It had been a long day, and
she was tired and ripe for her eyes to play tricks.
Forget it.
Certainly there was no reason to be afraid. After all, there
was a cop in the apartment only a few feet away from her
front door, and a baseball bat under her bed.