The Tycoon and the Texan (4 page)

A whir of surprise filled the air as the crowd buzzed amongst themselves.

“Piqued your interest? This year, a woman can overbid that special man of hers by one dollar.” She waited for the applause to stop. “I'm sure the bachelorettes are amenable to doing windows or mowing the lawn.” The auctioneer took a drink of water, preparing to continue. “For our first lady . . .”

“Well, if it isn't Miss Put-Your-Hands-Down-My-Pants.” Nick groaned under his breath, and laid his salad fork across the plate. He scanned the room trying to locate McCall, but she had disappeared.
Probably being wowed by Mr. Testosterone!

Josie's slow Southern drawl drew out the bid into what seemed like an eternity. “We'll start the bid on Miss Bunny Armstrong at two hundred dollars. Two hundred, two hundred.” She waved toward the center. “Harold Rasche bid two hundred. Is there three? Three hundred—”

“Three hundred? That's ridiculous. I might as well get another Scotch.” Nick raised his hand and motioned Tony in his direction.

“Three hundred to Nick Dartmouth. Do we have—” The auctioneer cried.

“Five hundred!” Madeline shouted matter-of-factly, before lowering her velvety voice. “Nick, darling,
put
your hand down. You nearly bought Buffy or whatever her name is.”

“Son of a . . .” Nick glanced in the direction of his mother, then mentally finished his expletive.

“Six hundred.” A man's voice called from across the room.

“Six hundred and one,” barked the woman to his side.

“Going, once. Going, twice. Sold to Mrs. Harold Rasche for six hundred and one dollars.” The gavel came down.

With each bachelorette, the bidding got more intense. Josie landed the gavel and called a halt to the bidding on yet another woman. Beatrice Kemp overbid her husband by one dollar and quickly added an additional two thousand dollars before donating the sum to the charity.

Where in the hell was McCall? Time had come for Nick to find out.

Placing his napkin on the table, he leaned into his mother. “I've had all of this happy horseshit I can take. See ya.”

Madeline Dartmouth grabbed his arm and lowered her voice. “No! You
will
sit here until we are finished,
by damn.
” She tossed her head back, squared her shoulders, obviously pleased for being so gritty.

Nick slumped forward. “Blessed. I've got better things to do.”

Mrs. Dartmouth shot him a frown.

Josie's words drew his attention back to the stage. “For our last lady this evening”—she glided her arm in the direction of the side entrance—“Miss McCall Johnson.”

The house lights lowered and two spotlights roamed across McCall. Gasps hummed in the air as Anson escorted her to the stage, bowed, and returned to his table. He glared directly at Nick, picked up his fan, and saluted before beginning the bidding. “Two hundred dollars.”

“Three,” came a bid across the room.

The senator bellowed, “Make it five.”

The blond Adonis, “Six.”

“Six, we have six. Seven?” Josie called.

Nick twisted in his seat and slammed his shin on a table leg, sending a sharp pain through his body. “Son of a . . .” He grabbed for his knee with one hand, while raising his numbered fan with the other.

“We have seven. Eight? Eight . . .”

“Eleven hundred,” Mr. Hormonal declared.

“Eleven hundred and one,” Madeline said.

“Two thousand,” Anson responded.

“Two thousand, one,” Madeline bid.

“Five thousand,” bellowed Harold Rasche.

“Hush up, you fool. You don't have a dog in this fight,” Mrs. Rasche shrieked.

Josie took up the slack. “Bid withdrawn. Two thousand and one dollars to Madeline Dartmouth.” She raised her gavel. “Going once, going—”

“Three thousand,” Anson called out.

Someone had to stop this foolishness.

“Hell's bells. Three thousand dollars a day,” Nick ground out as though he had made a two-dollar bid at the racetrack. “for one week minimum.”

Josie's mouth dropped open and the gavel hit the podium. “Sold! I guess.” Obviously rattled, she sputtered, “Sold to Nick Dartmouth for, uh, twe-twenty-one thousand dollars?”

Nick nodded before moving his gaze to McCall. Her piercing eyes were a storm of fury.

His knee hurt like crazy, but he'd been hurt worse sliding into home. Pushing back from the table, he limped toward the stage—toward an icy stare masking the most captivatingly beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. And she seemed completely unaware of her desirability.

A volunteer handed Nick a bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses cushioned against white baby's breath.

He made a princely bow and extended the flowers to McCall.

 

McCall returned a shallow curtsey, squared her shoulders, and tossed back her head as Madeline had instructed earlier in the day when she gave McCall her tips.

Speaking softly to the devilishly handsome rogue whose eyes she would prefer to scratch out because he had been so patronizing with his bid, McCall said, “Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Dartmouth.”

A rakish smile crossed his lips. “No. Thank you, ma'am.”

Hurrying off the stage, McCall's trembling legs carried her to the exit. Somewhere in the distance she heard the roar of the crowd as Josie called the auction closed, announcing that the benefit had exceeded their expectations.

All McCall could think was
don't let Nick see me cry
. Regardless of how her heart raced or how difficult it became to breathe or how close to buckling her legs felt, she would not cry. Torment gnawed at her insides.

“McCall, wait.” Nick called from behind.

She increased her pace. Her face burned with embarrassment. Rich people acting like spoiled brats and using her as their pawn hurt and hurt badly. No doubt, she served as the laughingstock of the gala.

Nearing the exit, McCall dropped the roses in a trash can and hit the double doors. They flew wide open, and she rushed down the hall toward the stairwell.

Faster and faster.

Farther and farther.

Nick overtook her, and she found herself whirled around and pulled against his rock-hard chest. Molding his full length to her, he pinned her against the wall.

“Let me go,” she spat. Her heart pounded and her face grew hot with humiliation. She bit back tears.

“McCall, what's wrong?”

“You're a cad, Nicodemus! A heartless, cold, nasty cad.” As he pressed closer, she felt his erratic heartbeat, upsetting her balance.

“I didn't mean to be.” His brown eyes blazed with his love of combat.

“But, you were . . . you are.” Through a veil of near tears, she fought for control. “I hate you.” Fists pounded against a wall of pure muscle. Pushing, she struggled to get free.

“You aren't capable of hating anybody.” Nick cuffed her wrists with one strong hand and held them to his chest.

“Maybe
hate
is too strong of a word, but you embarrassed me. I can see the headlines now: ‘Millionaires duke it out at auction until playboy pays a ridiculously vulgar amount for poor displaced Texan.'”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I know how much you dreaded the whole ordeal tonight and thought I'd help you by making sure you weren't forced into a date with someone who doesn't know or appreciate you.”

“Don't think that you know how I feel because you don't!”

Tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, he whispered, “I'm just a lost ship adrift at sea in a raging storm.” He brought his hard mouth down on her parted lips and staked his claim.

She did not return his kiss, only went rigid at the intimacy of his action.

He pulled back and stared deep in her eyes, but held her close.

Struggling free, she faced him furiously, only to find herself back in his arms. “Nick, you always know where you're headed.”

“My head does, but my heart does funny things without asking me.” His breath burned on her cheek.

McCall swallowed the emotion caught in her throat, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't pull her gaze from Nick's suntanned face.

Deep inside, he made a primitive groan and reclaimed her lips, pulling her tightly against him.

McCall tried to twist out of his grip, only to have him increase the pressure on her mouth, his probing tongue making his desires crystal clear. His tempo increased.

Her emotions swam through a maze of feelings and spiraled out of control. Yet, his lips were more persuasive than she cared to admit, and she found herself swallowed up in his slow, drugging kisses.

Like a life preserver, rationality towed McCall out of the moment and back to reality. She was in the arms of the man she had just professed to hate. She eased out of his grip. He let her go.

Eyes as dark and powerful as he was pierced her own. His forehead furrowed and a panicked expression crossed his face. “I'm so sorry, Mac.” Nick ran his finger along her trembling lips, then stepped back. “I got caught up in the moment. I've always known you were a beauty, but I've never seen you look as stunning as you do right now.”

Her heart refused to accept his explanation. More furious at herself for responding than at him, in one stalwart motion, she struck him across the face. In disbelief, her fingers shot up to her throbbing lips.

“I deserved that.” His fingers rustled through his hair.

“Nicodemus Dartmouth, you need to learn you don't get everything you want. Some things have to be earned, not bought.”

McCall sat in the dinky living room of her terra-cotta bungalow on Hollywood Way in Burbank, barefoot, wearing a white, ribbed T-shirt, boxer shorts, and the stunning, several-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond necklace.

The Dartmouths' chauffeur had escorted her back to her house not far from MGM Studios. She'd hung the borrowed ball gown on the back of the bedroom door and taken a moment to touch the delicate beading. Even Cinderella had to return to the real world, a world without champagne, beef Wellington, or a constant flood of beautiful people dripping in costly jewels and furs.

Tomorrow, her fantasy would vanish. Mrs. Dartmouth's valet would pick up the ball gown and necklace, leaving behind only McCall's memories of the night she went to heaven and back.

Absentmindedly, she brought her fingertips to her lips, remembering Nick's ravishing kiss. She wasn't angry that he'd kissed her, only at the way he'd gone about it . . . and the physical power he had over her. There had been a demand, a forceful urgency in his kiss, but no violence. She had felt his need. If only he had kissed her because he wanted to, not to make a point that he could take what he wanted without asking.

Dropping her hand to the jewels around her neck, she let her mind wander back to earlier in the day.

After McCall's miracle transformation, Madeline had stepped back and admired her creation before handing McCall a wine-colored velvet box containing a Dartmouth family heirloom—Madeline's mother's diamond necklace. After placing the jewel around McCall's neck, Madeline had simply said, “This has never been worn by anyone outside my family. May you find your knight in shining armor.”

Banging on the front door brought McCall back to reality. Not just knocking, but banging with purpose like a policeman demanding immediate access.

“By damn, McCall, let me in.” Nick's strong voice rang in the crisp night air.

“Go to hell!”

“We've got to talk.”

“We don't have anything to talk about.” McCall rested her chin in her hands. Dern, if they didn't have plenty to discuss, but no doubt letting him in was a very bad idea.

“I'll stay out here all night and sleep on your porch if you don't let me in.”

“I'll call the police and report an intruder.” She took a deep breath. “Or better yet, I'll shoot you and drag your body inside.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Don't bet the ranch on it.”

An eerie silence hid in the night.

McCall threw her quilt aside and stomped to the door. She looked through the small beveled window. She couldn't see him, yet his Jaguar was parked at the curb. She marched back to her chair, flipped off the television, and cocooned herself in the quilt. “Hell's bells, that man can make me use language I didn't even know I had in me. He's such a jerk. Jerkass.” She snickered, using one of his favorite phrases.

Only an occasional vehicle driving down Hollywood Way disturbed the night.

“He's too quiet. Not good.” She walked to the window and pulled back the curtain for a peep.

The Jaguar remained by the curb.

Returning to her chair, she pulled the blanket under her arms. “What is that no-good scoundrel up to?” She folded her arms across her chest and chastised herself out loud. “Why do I care? After all, he owes his own foundation the money, so it'll be easy for him to go back on his word.”

As much as she hated to admit it, she was relieved Anson hadn't won the bid because he had gotten way out of line. Not only had he gone berserk and bid over the agreed amount, but during the evening he'd seemed to feel that he deserved privileges she had no intentions of dishing out.

Rap!
Six taps in cadence, then a pause followed with two evenly spaced taps resonated from somewhere near the bottom of the door.

Dragging the blanket behind, McCall opened the door to find Nick's beautifully proportioned body spread out on the concrete porch. In the dim light, propped up by one elbow, the rich outline of his shoulders strained against the fabric of his black tuxedo.

“What are you doing?” Every fiber in her body warned her not to ask, but she did.

“Got a blanket? I'm cold.” An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth.

She threw the quilt at him. “You're nuts.” Slamming the door, she yanked a pillow off the couch, opened the door a second time, and tossed the throw cushion on top of the quilt. “I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

McCall turned off the porch light, latched the chain, and plopped down on the sofa. Pulling her knees to her chin, she hugged them.

Although she chided herself that she was supposed to be angry with the big man, for some reason, her heart didn't feel the same. She couldn't deny the spark of excitement his presence sent through her. How in the heck could she stay angry with a man who possessed so much charisma? She would.

Tiny pebbles of gravel bounced off the window.

“Enough is enough.” She stormed to the door and yanked it open as far as the security chain would allow. “Nick, go home. I don't want to argue with you.”

“Please, Mac. I'm freezing and need to go to the uh, you know, use your little boy's room.”

“No! Go away. Plus, I don't even have a little boy's room.” Inwardly, she smiled.

“Then I'll water your geraniums. Might fertilize your petunias while I'm at it—”

“Get in here,” she yelled in resignation as she yanked the chain loose and ripped the door wide open.

“Thanks.” He handed her the quilt and pillow and shot her his finest schoolboy grin. “I think I'm warm enough now.”

“You ought to be. It's seventy degrees and my powder room is back that way.” McCall threw the bedding on the sofa and pointed to the second door on the left.

“Could I bother you for a drink?” His smile was intimate as a kiss. Leaving behind the musky-citrus scent of expensive cologne, he sauntered in the direction of the powder room. “I'd like it neat, please.”

“Don't dawdle.” She turned toward the kitchen.

Surely she could trust him to take care of his business and get on his way. Even a dying man gets a final request. She couldn't deny a thirsty guy a drink, could she?

With legs spread apart and hands on her hips, McCall stared into her cupboard. A bottle of inexpensive, no, just a plain cheap wine she'd bought, cooking sherry, and one shot of tequila. Maybe she ought to down a shooter before he got finished, uh, powdering his nose.

Send him home thirsty.
Her heart and brain fought with one another.
Don't let him out of the doghouse until he's proven he knows the error of his ways. Hello therapy of some sort.

Nick cleared his throat and she whirled around to find him filling the doorframe, black tie hung loosely down either side of a gaping white ruffled shirt. Not just gaping, but at least three buttons unfastened exposing a mass of manly dark hair. Her gaze trailed down the front of his shirt, imagining where the triangle of masculine curls ended.

She swallowed hard. “Not much of a selection. Don't guess I could interest you in some Kool-Aid? It's fruit punch.”

“Toss the wine and a corkscrew my way.”

“Do I look like a corkscrew type gal? Trust me, you won't need one.” She picked up the bottle by its neck. “Just take it with you.”

“You don't want me to drink and drive, do you? So pitch it to me.”

Before she realized what was happening, she literally tossed the bottle to him.

With lightning speed, he caught the wine with the ease of a honed first baseman. “I'm glad I didn't say throw.”

“Just wanted to see how good you are, Slugger.”

“And?” He checked the label and wagged a questioning brow, but made no move to leave.

“You're a good catcher.” She turned to the cabinet and opened a cupboard door. No doubt he planned to stay for a drink. “Guess you're expecting wineglasses, too?”

“If I've got to catch 'em and juggle this bottle at the same time, I'll pass.” With one strong twist he loosened and removed the metal cap. “I can drink straight from the bottle. What are you going to have?”

Damn! Here he goes again
. Smooth, easy, confident.
What am I going to have?
What she wanted and what she was going to get were entirely two different things.

With glasses in hand, McCall slipped past him, avoiding the faint glint of humor in his eyes, and set the glasses on the coffee table before moving the bedding to the chair. “Cheese glasses,” she announced, as though they were Waterford crystal.

Nick followed her to the front room and poured two fingers of the rosy smelling wine in each glass.

“Ah, Two Buck Chuck?”

“Yeah, it was on sale.”

“Don't believe I've ever drank wine that costs less than a large Coke with a woman in men's underwear and a zillion dollars' worth of diamonds around her neck. Were you planning to sleep in them?” Nick handed her a glass.

“Underwear or the necklace?” She grabbed the drink and ducked her head. Did she really ask that?

“Either, or.”

Conscious of his scrutiny, she felt an unwelcome blush creep into her cheeks. She had forgotten she still wore the gems. “Well, I-I guess so. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't very well leave them on the nightstand.”

“They are beautiful on you. You looked great tonight.” He paused then added, “You didn't just look great, you looked beautiful and very sexy.”

Although enjoying his flattery, she had no intention of letting the sweet-talking tycoon back into her graces so easily. “Thank you. Tonight was glitzy and exciting, like a Christmas present all wrapped up in beautiful beads and ribbons. But Nick, beneath all the dazzle, I'm still the same old, plain-Jane McCall.” She took a sip of wine.

“You're anything but plain, and you proved it tonight.” Not waiting for a reply, he quickly continued. “I'm sorry that I hurt you.” He gently touched her lip with his fingertip. “I'm not sorry that I kissed you, just sorry the way I went about it. McCall, I didn't have any right to take what I wanted. I should have asked first. I was just trying to console you, but guess I went about it the wrong way.”

A newly awakened sense of life made it easy for her to say, “You're lucky I didn't make your cojones scream for a paramedic.” She ran her middle finger around the lip of her glass. Once. Twice . . . three times. “So, you think I would have given you a kiss just for the asking?”

“I don't know. I do know I acted like an idiot, but I couldn't stand to watch”—he hesitated, apparently gathering his thoughts—“that, that booty-grabbing so-called model schmooze around on you.” Nick's dark eyes pierced the distance between them. “There just wasn't something right about your, uh, date. He was up to no good.”

McCall chewed on her lip. She needed to clear the air, let him know that Anson was not her date, only part of a scheme to get out of having to go out with a stranger, but she enjoyed the devilishly handsome man's groveling way too much to confess.

Get serious!
Nick didn't deserve an explanation. After all she had seen him walk away from his mother and had watched as Miss Floozy Armstrong followed him to the restroom. Even when she asked Anson about what happened in the men's room, he simply responded that she didn't want to know what was going on when he walked in on Nick and the woman.

She wasn't sure she believed the whole story, but when Nick bid on the brazen gal, the tale seemed plausible.

McCall's thoughts flashed back to Nick's apology. She'd known him too long not to realize that the big man didn't offer up a helping of I'm sorries very often, so she should partake. “What?”

“That Anson was up to no good.”

“I'm a big girl. I've been through the hoops and know how men can be.”

“Then you forgive me?”

McCall refused to give in. “Where are the roses?” Her hands automatically touched the diamonds around her neck.

“In the car. I'll go get them.”

“No. They've lost their appeal. One question—”

“Shoot.”

“Nick, you didn't plan to pay for a date with me, did you?”

“Hell if I didn't.” He reached in his lapel pocket, pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to her.

She stared at the zeros on the copy of a cashier's check. “It's for thirty-thousand dollars.”

“Yeah. It's my donation. I got the draft the day before the gala. I had no intention of buying any bachelorette unless someone special came along. I gave the original to Josie yesterday.”

“You were serious about paying this much money for a date?”

“Twice that if it'd keep Mr. Testosterone away from you.”

She gulped.

Now, she really couldn't tell him the truth about the plan for Anson to bid on her, especially since Josie was involved, not to mention that his mother had become privy to the ploy.

“It's my turn. Let me ask you something personal.” He lifted her chin with his thumb, running his finger across her lip.

“If it's not too personal.” The caress of his finger felt oddly comforting.

“It is. You've been hurt really bad, haven't you?”

“Way too personal.” Oh glory, if he only knew how the coarseness in his kiss brought back painful memories. Memories no woman should endure. The difference, Nick didn't intentionally plan to hurt her and hated that he had. But the rough and ready man in her past had only done what men do, as her Mother had explained.