Abby Walsh took a deep breath, then punched the Up arrow
on the elevator. His office was located in the heart of
downtown, taking up an entire floor in one of the city's
most prestigious buildings, right across the street from
Philanthropy Plaza. With streets named Benevolent
Boulevard and Welfare Way, Charity City, Texas, was a
place where folks took care of their own.
The money she'd spent at the auction would help fund
scholarships, businesses, women's shelters and other
worthy causes. That was all well and good, but Abby
actually needed what Riley Dixon had auctioned. Now it was
time to collect.
When the elevator doors whispered open, she stepped inside
and sucked in another deep breath. The car went up while
her stomach stayed on the main floor. She hated elevators.
She hated macho guys. And she hated venturing out of her
comfort zone. Hopefully her daughter would appreciate this
and the trade-off would be zero rebellion during her
teenage years. If Abby had done less envelope-pushing and
more rule-following, she wouldn't be here now. But she
also wouldn't have Kimmie, and she couldn't imagine her
life without her child.
When the elevator stopped, Abby stepped out on the top
floor into what was the reception area of Dixon Security.
An impressive semi-circular cherrywood desk dominated the
center of the room, with a sofa and chairs in a grouping
off to the side. The thick carpet in a warm, rich shade of
beige made her feel as if she were walking on a cloud.
Behind the desk sat a pretty redhead with a name-plate
that read Nora Dixon. Hmm, Abby thought. He had good taste
in women.
"I'm here to see Mr. Dixon."
The woman glanced up, then did a double take. "And you
are?" Her tone was on the cool side.
"Abby Walsh. I have an appointment." When the woman
checked her computer, she asked, "Do you have me down?"
"Sometimes he writes things on his calendar without
bringing it to my attention. Of course, I found out the
hard way that I have to cross-reference his calendar with
my computer schedule."
"Okay." Abby hadn't talked to him yet. That's why she was
here. But far be it from her to butt in when she didn't
understand the office's work flow.
The receptionist looked up. "I'm sorry but I don't have
you down. And he's running late today. You're welcome to
wait if that's not a problem?"
Abby looked at her watch. She had to pick up Kimmie from
Kid's Klub before six and it was five o'clock now. "I
won't take up much of his time."
"I'll let him know you're here." After picking up the
phone and announcing Abby, the redhead listened, then
waved her to a chair. "He can give you ten minutes."
"That works for me." Abby sat and smoothed her hands over
her skirt.
When she was standing, the hem hit her about mid-calf and
her sensible, low-heeled shoes only added about an inch
and a half to her five feet two inches. Since high-heeled
pumps wouldn't add nearly enough height, she settled for
practical and comfy instead of willowy and statuesque.
After ten minutes of staring out the window, she glanced
at the array of reading material on the end tables.
Military Monthly. Self-Defense. She wondered where he'd
hidden Guns & Ammo even as she lamented the absence of
People, Us or a sleazy gossip magazine with a juicy alien
abduction story. She glanced at her watch again and huffed
out a breath. He'd given her ten minutes. Unfortunately,
he'd been conspicuously absent during that time. She stood
and paced the waiting area, glancing at the time every few
minutes.
Just when she'd decided she couldn't wait any longer, the
door to his office opened and he walked out. "Ms. Walsh?"
She turned away from the window and looked up — way up —
into the bluest pair of eyes she'd ever seen. Her stomach,
which had finally joined the rest of her on the top floor,
plummeted back to square one. In spite of that sensation,
she noticed that he looked momentarily startled. Then it
was as if invisible shutters closed off his expression.
"The security business must be booming," she said wryly.
"I kept you waiting." His tone was cool; he must have
caught it from his receptionist.
"You did."
He folded his arms over a very impressive chest.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't look sorry. He looked tall. She estimated about
six feet, give or take an inch. His hair was dark, almost
black and cut military short, somehow highlighting those
amazing eyes. He wore a biceps-hugging navy T-shirt tucked
into worn jeans. The ensemble was completed by a pair of
scuffed cowboy boots and was by far the most masculine
attire she'd ever seen on a businessman. It simply
provided evidence that her auction purchase had been the
right one.
His nose was slightly off-kilter, and he had a small, thin
scar on his square, rugged chin. The battered look suited
him. But it also reassured her that he was a man of
action. He was also the walking, talking, warm-tothe-touch
ad for ruggedly handsome. If one liked the type. She
didn't.
He looked at the clock on the wall. "We can talk in my
office."
She nodded, then preceded him into the inner sanctum,
which turned out to be a stark contrast to the elegant
reception area. The only thing that carried over was the
thick carpet. Sitting on it was his battered L-shaped
desk, which would have looked more at home in a thrift
store. But it held what looked like a top-of-the-line
computer. Instead of the expensive artwork she'd expected
on the walls, they displayed framed photos. She couldn't
make out any specific details.
"Have a seat." He indicated one of the utilitarian chrome
and gray-blue upholstered chairs in front of the desk. "I
have eight minutes."
After he sat behind the desk, she met his gaze. "Your wife
said you could give me ten minutes."
"Wife?"
"The receptionist."
"My sister."
Her gaze dropped to his hands. There was no ring on the
fourth finger of his left hand. That didn't mean anything.
Some married men didn't wear rings. And… And it didn't
matter a fig whether he was married.
"Your sister," she said. "So this is a family-owned
business?"
"No. I own it. Nora works for me. She's good at her job."
"Meaning if she wasn't, family or not, she'd be canned?"
One broad shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. "Yeah."
"Do you have a wife?" Doggone it. She hadn't meant to ask
that. She didn't care. But the rogue part of her
subconscious that had temporarily taken over her brain
neglected to send that message to her mouth.
"I'm not married." His gaze was penetrating as he frowned
at her. "Now you've got six minutes. And if my marital
status has something to do with why you're here, you're
wasting my time. I can put those six minutes to better
use."
"Look, I'm a people person. That makes me curious.
It was certainly not my intention to offend you with the
question."
His impassive look gave no clue to what he was
thinking. "So you have a security concern?"
Wow. He gave the expression single-minded determination a
run for its money. Not to mention that his tone was just
this side of abrasive. "Apparently in your line of work,
one can be successful even without courtesy and charm."
"If you're here about personal safety, home or business
protection, I can be as charming and courteous as the next
guy. If not…"
"I'm here because I bought the survival weekend you
donated to the Charity City auction. I mentioned that to
whoever I spoke with on the phone."
It seemed impossible, but his frown deepened. "I didn't
get the message."
"And I didn't actually get an appointment. Is your
sister's job in jeopardy?"
"No. She was sick recently. A temp replaced her." His
shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly as his mouth
straightened into a thin line, telling her he was
disapproving. She'd known him about two and a half
minutes — although he was the only one keeping exact time —
so how she knew he was surprised or annoyed, she couldn't
say. But she'd stake her reputation as Charity City High
School's favorite librarian that he was both surprised and
annoyed.
"So you're the one who bought the survival weekend?" He
sounded skeptical.
She nodded. "And I'm here to make arrangements to collect
it."
He let his gaze drop to her cap-sleeved silk shell with
the loose-fitting floral jumper over it. "Why?"
"Because I paid for it."
He shook his head. "Why did you buy it in the first place?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe part of the
deal is explaining my motivation."
"You don't look like the outdoorsy type."
The fact that he was right made her resent his attitude
even more. "If we're judging books by covers, Mr. Dixon,
you don't look like the type, either."
"What type would that be?"
"One who would donate to charity. The type to give back to
his community."
"It was a debt."
"Oh?"
"The foundation gave me interest free start-up capital for
my business."
"And when one benefits from the auction proceeds, one is
obligated to give back."
"I always pay my debts," he confirmed.
"Very reassuring. That's why I'm here. My daughter,
Kimmie, belongs to The Bluebonnets —"
"What?"
"It's an organization that sponsors outdoor activities for
girls in her age group —"
"How old?"
"Excuse me?"
What did that have to do with sleeping outside and
starting a fire with two sticks when she was on a very
tight schedule? She'd be wasting less of her remaining
time if he would impart information in sentences of more
than three two-syllable words. And she had no illusions.
When the allotted time was up, he would throw her out. She
stole a glance at his biceps, the intriguing place where
the sleeve of his T-shirt clung to the bulging muscle.
There was no doubt in her mind that if he wanted her out,
he would and could pick her up bodily and make it so.
"How old is your daughter?"
"Six. When I saw the weekend listed for auction, I knew it
was exactly what I needed. And I figured I could kill two
birds with one stone."
"Oh?"
"Yes." Maybe he was finally listening and they could wrap
this up quickly. "I could do my civic duty in support of
the town charity. Buying your services to get my daughter
her hiking and nature badges —"
"You can't take her camping?"