That Touch of Pink (2 page)

A
bby 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 nameplate 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 Kim
mie 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-to-the-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 com
puter. 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?”

“I could,” she said. “But her survival might be in question. I'm afraid you were right about me. My idea of the outdoors involves a lounge chair, a pool and a sissy drink with an umbrella in it.”

“What about your husband?”

Now who was digging for personal info? Although she had to admit Riley had a better reason. It was a logical question. “I don't have a husband.”

Not any more. And she couldn't be happier. She was glad she no longer had to rely on flaky Fred Walsh. As an unwed pregnant teenager whose baby needed a father, she'd seriously relied on him. If only she could blame it on pressure from her parents. But they'd made it clear they would support her decisions. As it turned out, the decision she'd made hadn't been worthy of support.

“So you're going to dump the kid on me for the weekend?”

“Of course not. Do I look like the kind of mother who would turn her child over to a complete stranger? The two of us will be going on the outing—”

He stood suddenly, interrupting her. “No way.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said no. It's a survival weekend.”

“I'm aware of that.” She got to her feet. He was dangerously close to looming and she would not be loomed over.

“I won't be nursemaid to a kid.”

“Her name is Kimmie. And she needs her two badges. If the necessity for nursemaiding arises, I'll be the one doing it.”

He shook his head. “You don't need me for this. It's overkill.”

“Maybe. But I've already paid for you.”

“I'll reimburse you.”

“I don't want your money. I want my weekend.”

“No.”

 

“I want you to sue him, the foundation, Mayor Wentworth, the rest of his family, every person he's ever known and anyone else I can think of.” Abby paced the length of her small living room.

She loved the fifteen hundred square feet of space she'd purchased six months ago. Unfortunately when she was this angry, the state of Texas wasn't big enough for the amount of pacing she needed to do. Fortunately, her daughter was upstairs in her room playing with her dolls and wasn't watching her mother's display of temper.

“Suing the whole town is a little extreme, don't you think?” Jamie Gibson asked.

Abby had called Jamie right after leaving Dixon Security and they'd met here at the house. She was the attorney who'd handled Abby's divorce two years ago. They'd become friends in spite of the fact that Abby envied her brunette curls, which were the polar opposite of her own stick-straight brown hair. And Jamie was beautiful, a fact the attorney didn't seem to care about. She poured her energy into building a legal career based on integrity, intelligence, and unflagging client support. But Abby felt there was some serious flagging in her attorney's support on the Riley Dixon issue. And how the heck could Jamie sit so calmly on that overstuffed pink floral sofa when there was some heavy-duty suing to be done?

“The man is a welsher,” Abby cried, hands on hips as she stared at the bemused, indulgent expression on her friend's face.

“We haven't established all the facts yet. The way I understand it, he escorted you out of his office after he said no. If he is, in fact a welsher, at least he's a gentleman welsher.”