Читать книгу: «Texas Millionaire»

One

Boot heels propped on the polished walnut windowsill, Hank Langley watched a small jet plane cross his field of vision with deceptive slowness. Absently he tugged up his pants leg and massaged the expanse of scarred, muscular flesh between the top of his custom-made boot and the bottom of his custom-tailored jeans.

He ached. Damn front coming through. If it would bring rain, it would be worth the ache, but it hadn’t rained enough to lay the dust all year. August was August. West Texas was West Texas.

And hot was hot.

Miss Manie rapped once on his door and entered. She was scrupulous about affording him a five-second warning, in case he was up to God knows what behind closed doors.

“You’re hurting again, aren’t you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Don’t you tell me one of your teewydies, young man, you were out until all hours, giving that limb of yours a fit, weren’t you?”

Teewydie was Romania Riley’s euphemism for a polite lie. Evidently it was a Carolina thing. Hank had never heard anyone from Texas use the term. “You know where I was. You know who I was with. If you want a blow-by-blow account, grab yourself a tall, cold beer and take a seat.”

He’d been out with Pansy Ann Estrich, as Manie damned well knew. Wining and dining her, trying to work himself up to committing to something he was nowhere ready to commit to, for no better reason than it was time—it was past time—and the choice had narrowed down to two women. Pansy and Bianca Mullins. Both women were in their middle thirties. Both knew the score. Neither was looking for more in a relationship than he was capable of offering. Personally he thought it was a pretty good deal. Sex, of course. Security, insured by a prenuptial agreement that was fair to both parties. Companionship, and at least one, preferably two, offspring. Preferably male.

“Well?” Miss Manie’s wattles quivered as she waited for enlightenment.

“Well?” Hank tossed back at her.

“Don’t get smart with me, Henry Langley. I knew you back when you couldn’t step out the front door without running head-on into trouble.” She glared at him through the upper half of her bifocals, then glanced down at her notes. “Speaking of trouble, Miss Pansy was on the phone first thing this morning about the Cattleman’s Ball. You didn’t ask her last night, did you?”

“Ask her which, to the ball or to marry me?”

She gave him a look she’d perfected before he’d ever been born. Manie was going to be a problem, no matter which woman he married. “The answer to both questions,” he said dryly, “is not yet.”

He had to be the only six-foot-two, ex-special services millionaire in Texas who allowed himself to be pushed around by ninety-odd pounds of outspoken spinster.

“I wouldn’t jump into anything too fast, if I were you. There’s plenty of time. Oh, and while I’ve got you, Preacher Weldon wants to know about the belfry, and they were short of red roses at the florist, so I sent Bianca pink ones, instead. If you ask me, she was hoping for something a lot more substantial than a bunch of flowers.”

Hank refrained from sighing. He’d gone out with Bianca Mullins three times last week, exploring the possibility of spending the rest of his life with a woman who had the body of a centerfold and the brain of a high school dropout.

At least she had a sense of humor. Pansy didn’t.

He flexed his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension, stroked his pants leg down to cover his scarred flesh and swung his feet down off the windowsill. Miss Manie had lectured him more than a few times about his habit of plopping his feet on the furniture, but dammit, it was his furniture, his office—damned near his town.

And he ached. His left leg still carried a few pieces of scrap metal from the crash that ended his military career. It caused some problems with airport security, but otherwise, it was no big deal unless there was a sudden drop in barometric pressure. According to the team of surgeons who had worked him over, retrieving every last fragment would have caused more damage than it was worth.

That was a matter of opinion, but he willingly accepted responsibility for the occasional ache. He’d been the one to run off and join the Air Force against his parents’ wishes. Back in those days he’d been into rebellion, big time.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “I’ll deal with Pansy and Bianca, you can tell the reverend to call in his carpenters, and pink ones are fine, unless you know something about the language of flowers that’s going to land me in trouble.”

“Hmmph. Nobody these days pays any attention to that kind of thing. Leastwise, none of those women of yours.”

“You make it sound like I’m supporting a harem.”

Saved by the bell. Hank had two cell phones and a private line, but most calls were routed through Miss Manie’s desk. On the second ring, Manie said, “I’d better get that, it’s probably the kitchen about those temporaries we’re fixing to hire for the ball, but remind me to tell you about my great-niece when you have a minute.”

Her great-niece? What, had the kid graduated from high school or something? He’d send her the usual. There was always somebody on his staff with a kid graduating from somewhere. Manie could handle it. She always handled the personal side of his life. Not that her relatives were his personal business. He hadn’t even known, except in the vaguest terms, that she had any relatives left back in North Carolina. Considering how long she’d been a part of his life, he knew surprisingly little about the woman who served as conscience, security guard, surrogate mother and outspoken personal assistant, other than the fact that her only brother had died a year or so ago.

One more testimony to what a self-centered bastard he was.

The streak of dirty tan sky that showed between the linen drapes grew paler as the wind picked up, blowing clouds of sand and salt from the dry bed of Salt Lake. “Rain, dammit,” Hank grumbled. “Go ahead, cut loose. I dare you.”

He was limping. He almost never limped. Hated any sign of weakness, in fact. But then, when a man was facing middle age, it was only natural that he began to show a few signs of wear and tear.

Pity he had so damned little else to show for his years, but he was working on it. He’d given himself until his rapidly approaching fortieth birthday to settle the course of his future.

He took Pansy Estrich to dinner again that night, because she’d waited until Miss Manie had left for the day and poked her head into his private office, offering him one of her winsome smiles. “Hank, can we talk?”

He’d been looking forward to a long, hot soak in the king-size bathtub he’d had installed a few years ago, followed by a double order of his chefs garlic-grilled gulf shrimp, a fine cigar, a stiff drink and good night’s sleep.

Fat chance. Until he came to a decision, talking to either woman was risky business. He was still hovering on the brink of making a decision, and dammit, he refused to be shoved. But he said, “Give me time to wind up some business, and we’ll have dinner. Pick you up in an hour?”

“Why don’t I just browse the shops and then come back?”

“Fine. Meet you downstairs in one hour.”

Hank lived above the sprawling, exclusive gentlemen’s club his grandfather, Henry “Tex” Langley, had established nearly ninety years ago. He maintained an office there, with an anteroom office for Manie, the only woman with free access into his private domain. For a single businessman it was an ideal setup, but if he chose to marry, he was going to have to make some changes. Wives were territorial. Neither of the two finalists liked Manie, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

Besides, the club was no place to raise a family. Despite the ladies’ parlor his father had set aside, it was still primarily a male domain, and Hank intended to enjoy it until the bitter end.

“Or I could wait for you up here,” Pansy said hopefully.

He nearly blurted, Good God, are you still here? “Thanks, but old Tex would roll over in his grave.” Hank knew better than to set any precedents. Give a woman an inch and the rest was history.

For the next forty-five minutes he played phone tag with club member Greg Hunt, who’d left a cryptic message earlier, talked to his broker, to the head of his accounting firm and to the chief designer at the avionics firm that built his new Avenger with a suggestion for making the flight deck more pilot-friendly.

Through it all, the feeling of being in the crosshairs persisted. Being a matrimonial target was nothing new to a bachelor pushing forty who happened to be the sole owner of the exclusive Texas Cattleman’s Club as well as the state’s biggest oil baron, according to a prominent financial journalist.

All the same, there were days when he felt like nothing so much as a side of fresh beef thrown into a pool filled with hungry sharks.

Oil baron. He hated the sound of it, but it had been applied to the men of his family for three generations. It had started out way back in the early part of the century when Langley One had blown in, followed within the week by three more, all flowing at better than ninety barrels per day. His father, Henry, Jr., had expanded the family business by leasing drilling rights all across the south, including the Gulf of Mexico. Some were still operative, but only about ten percent of the Langley wealth was tied up in oil at the moment. Most of Hank’s investments were in technology, Texas having already moved ahead of Silicon Valley in the computer field.

But wealth was wealth and women were women, and regardless of his decision that it was time to marry if he ever intended to, Hank had no intention of going meekly to the highest bidder.

At Claire’s, the town’s finest French restaurant, Hank ordered his usual rare sirloin with a side of lobster, hold the fancy sauces. Pansy, wearing a casual outfit the color of dry sand that matched her hair perfectly, spent fifteen minutes poring over the menu, then ordered her usual Bloody Mary, snails in plain butter, salad with extra dressing, fresh croissants and diet soda.

The long-suffering waiter nodded, and Hank gave him a look of silent commiseration.

Pansy wanted to talk about the club’s annual ball. “You didn’t invite Bianca, did you? She said you hadn’t.”

“I’ve been too busy worrying with the business end to think about the personal end.” It was no less than the truth. He’d had a steady stream of charities in and out of his office for the past couple of weeks, eager to hop aboard before the train left the station. Fund-raising was the biggest growth industry in town, and the club’s annual ball was the charity event of the year, the proceeds being divided among a varying, carefully selected list of local charities.

On the personal side, at last year’s event one of Bianca’s friends had announced her engagement. The year before, Pansy’s younger sister had chosen that particular arena for the same announcement. It was becoming the place to announce plans of a matrimonial nature. Hank couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the sharks were moving in for the kill.

Pansy waited for the waiter to open her napkin with a fine French flourish and spread it over her lap before launching onto a fresh topic. “Hanky, don’t you think it’s time to have that old place redecorated? I mean, all that heavy paneling and those ugly old animal heads. It’s depressing. Nobody has animal heads these days.”

Hanky? “Mounted trophies are traditional.”

“Oh, poo on tradition, what you need is something light and cheerful. I could give you a few suggestions,” she added coyly.

“I’m sure you could. Look, Pansy, I appreciate it, but the members—”

“They’d love it. You can’t tell me anyone wants a herd of gloomy old moose heads glaring down at them all the time. Didn’t you ever hear of animal rights? Give the poor things a decent burial.”

“What did you have in mind, mounted teddy bears? Or maybe some dried-flower wreaths?”

“Oh, God, you’re in one of your moods again, I can tell.”

One of his moods? Was he really that bad? He’d thought he was being pretty damn reasonable for a man who was starting to think seriously about marriage for the first time in his life.

The second time, actually, but his first marriage didn’t count. If he’d had a functioning brain back then, it had been below the belt.

All the same, Pansy was getting a little too territorial. When anyone, man or woman, moved in on him too fast, old military habits took over and he threw up a barricade.

Or in this case, a red herring. “Speaking of decorating, I’ve been considering doing something to the Pine Valley house, maybe putting it on the market.” It had been his father’s house, bought for his fourth wife only two years before they’d both been killed in an avalanche on a skiing trip. Hank had inherited it, along with everything else. He’d hung onto it, not for sentimental reasons, because his father had lived there, but because good real estate was a sound investment.

Pansy pounced like a hound on a ham bone. “Why don’t we run out there after we leave here and look it over? I know this perfectly marvelous decorator in Odessa—Mama had him last spring.”

Pansy’s mama had had half the men in Texas. That was no recommendation.

“Uh…I’ve got to fly up to Midland tonight—” He invented a business trip on the spur of the moment. “Maybe when I get back…” He checked his watch, and then checked it a few more times when she was slow in taking the hint. There was something about that avid look on her face that made him distinctly uneasy as he led her outside the restaurant and signaled for his car to be brought around.

Go ahead, pop the question. What are you waiting for, violins?

Hank told himself he was waiting for his gut to settle down. Even without all the fancy sauces, French food was too rich for his blood, but Pansy loved the place.

He drove her home, as she’d sent her own car home earlier, and walked her to the door. Declining her invitation for a nightcap and whatever else she had in mind, he left her on her doorstep, but not before she kissed him goodnight. Latched on to him like moss on a wet rock and let him have both barrels.

Hell, he was only human. He kissed her back, tasting buttery lipstick, inhaling her overpowering perfume, wishing he felt a spark of interest. Objectively speaking, she was a gorgeous piece of work, and it had been a long dry spell, seeing as how he was inclined to be particular where his sex life was concerned.

And besides, if he was going to marry the woman.

It wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Didn’t know exactly what it was he was holding out for, but he suspected that Pansy Ann Estrich didn’t even come close. So he managed to escape unmolested, then asked himself on the way home if he was being a damned fool to turn down what she was offering, with or without a commitment.

Nah…he wasn’t. He was finally facing up to the depressing fact that unless he married and had children of his own, Henry Harrison Langley, III, was a dead end, the last of three generations of spectacularly successful men. The trouble was, he was increasingly certain that Pansy wasn’t the answer. For one thing, she didn’t like children. For another, she lacked even a vestigial sense of humor.

And then there was the inescapable fact that odds were against any man of his age, and with his family history, making a successful marriage. His grandfather had been widowed twice and divorced once, back in the days when divorce was tantamount to disgrace. His father had run through three more wives after Hank’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter.

Aside from all that—or maybe because of it—he was pretty much of a loner. At the age of seventeen he’d eloped with a fifteen-year-old cheerleader who’d lied about her age. Hank’s idea of marriage had been nonstop sex. Tammy’s had been nonstop shopping. Major incompatibility. His father had paid her off and had the marriage annulled, which had broken Hank’s heart, but opened his eyes.

Inherited wealth had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, despite the fact that he had managed to triple his inheritance by careful management and shrewd investments. He had a low tolerance for sycophants which, over the years had led to a growing sense of isolation. From youthful recklessness that had carried him through a few high-risk military actions, he’d gradually slipped into a dull sense of reserve that occasionally bordered on the paranoid. He put it down to being who he was: the richest kid in town, who’d done little to prove his own manhood.

Not that he hadn’t tried. But ever since his youthful fit of rebellion, his lawyers, both corporate and personal, tended to get antsy if he went out with the same woman more than three times in a row. Pansy and Bianca checked out because they were in his income bracket, give or take a few sets of zeros.

As for Miss Manie, she turned into a fire-breathing dragon whenever she thought he was about to be trapped by one of the women she called scheming hussies and shameless gold diggers. And while he depended on her judgment on most things, the truth was, he was getting pretty damned tired of playing dodge-the-wedding-ring, and the only way he could figure to end the game was to pick out the best of the lot and do the deed.

The red light on his message machine was blinking rapidly when he let himself back into his rooms over the club. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he cleared the decks, he switched on the playback. Greg’s voice erupted into the quiet room.

“Greg here. Listen, Hank, I think I’ve got a situation brewing and I’m going to need your help. Probably Forrest and Sterling, too, before it’s over. I won’t lay it out over the phone, but I need to see you as soon as you can spare some time. It’s urgent.”

A situation? What the hell was that all about? Methodically, Hank unbuttoned his shirt, eased it off his shoulders, stretched his arms over his head and yawned. God knows, he could do with a distraction. This business of getting himself engaged was the pits.

Romania Riley eased her bunions into a basin of hot Epsom salts, breathed out a sigh and took a swig of her homemade blackberry wine. She’d learned to make it at the age of fourteen, when a jar of improperly sealed, homecanned blackberries had fermented and blown the lid off, spattering everything in the kitchen, Manie included.

For months she’d been fretting over what to do about all the women who were making nuisances of themselves over her boy. Not a single one of them wanted him for the kind, sensitive man he was. All they were interested in was the wealth and position he represented. As if money was the answer to life’s problems.

Money hadn’t made Hank’s father a happy man. As for that old goat, Tex Langley, he’d been the worst scalawag that ever walked on two legs, not that you’d ever hear a word of criticism from the folks of Royal, Texas. He might’ve fooled most of ‘em into thinking he was some kind of saint, but Manie had known the man behind the legend.

She’d been eight and a half years old when her mama had run off and her father, Alaska Riley, had picked up and moved to Louisiana, following the oil company that had been drilling off the coast of North Carolina. They’d lived there for a few months, camping out like gypsies, just the two of them and Pa’s old dog, Dog. Dog ran off one night in a thunderstorm. He never did come back, and it broke her father’s heart because Dog was family. He’d been even older than Manie at the time.

Manie didn’t know how old she’d been before she understood about her father’s drinking. She’d always been aware that his moods swung from high good humor to the mean miseries. Following the miseries he’d lay out for a few days, sick as a dog, and then he’d swear off drinking. Manie always got her hopes up, but it never lasted long.

From Louisiana they migrated to Texas. Pa swore off the bottle for nearly six months, and they moved into a tworoom house and Manie got to go to school. For a little while, everything was nice as pie. But then, her father fell into bad company. Before long he’d gone back to his old ways. Manie fussed at him because she was scared, but fussing only shoved him into the mean miseries.

There came a time when he took real drunk two days before payday, and Manie without so much as a bean or a biscuit in the house. She couldn’t even scrape up ten cents for a loaf of bread, so she hitched a ride into town in a feed truck—back in those days, Royal had been nothing at all like it was now.

Everybody knew where old Tex lived. The man owned practically all of West Texas. She’d hopped off the back of the truck, marched right up the front walk, banged on the door of the Langley mansion, and when the housekeeper had opened the door, she’d demanded the money owed her father for three days’ work.

The housekeeper had tried to shoo her away, but Manie refused to budge. Pa would skin her alive if he ever found out what she’d done, but she was desperate and hungry, and she couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn.

“You go ‘round to the back door, I’ll see if Mist’ Tex’s home.”

Manie went. Back door, front door—what difference did it make as long as she got what she came for?

Only she hadn’t. The housekeeper had come back and told her that Mr. Tex said to go by the field office Monday morning, and then the woman had slammed the door in her face.

She’d felt like throwing a flower pot through the window, but they’d only sic the dog or call the law, and Pa would find out and get really, really mad.

But she couldn’t wait, she was too hungry. She didn’t want a check from the field office, either, she wanted real cash money that she could take to the grocery store and buy food before her father got his hands on it and spent it all on whiskey.

So she banged on the door again, reminding herself that she was a Riley, and Rileys were Good People. She could still remember hearing her father say so, back before her mama had picked up and left. In Pa’s case, the stock might have run to seed, but Manie knew better than to act like trash. She might be hungry, but she had her pride.

Her knocks went unanswered, and she was too short to reach the big brass knocker. Finally, blinded by tears of sheer frustration, ten-year-old Manie had slammed out the front gate and run head-on into young Henry, who had heard her out, tears, sobs, runny nose and all. Then he’d kindly explained that her father couldn’t work out at the field any more because he was too unreliable, and on a drilling rig, that could be dangerous, but that he’d see that she got any back pay coming to him.

Then he’d taken her home to his wife—his first wife—who had given her a glass of buttermilk and offered her a job after school and on weekends helping out in the kitchen.

Mercy, had it really been almost sixty years since then? It had been a wild ride, keeping up with the Langleys, but she wouldn’t trade a speck of it for any amount of money. Child to woman, she’d been there through good times and bad, first when old Tex died, then when her father had passed away with the liver trouble, and a year later when Hank was born and a few years after that when Mr. Henry lost his wife and his newborn daughter.

She had watched young Hank grow up, loved him as if he were her own, and done her best to look after him when his father had taken up with one woman after another and gone chasing off to all those fancy places in Europe.

She’d done a fair job of raising the boy, too, if she did say so herself. She knew his shortcomings and his longcomings and would be the first to admit he had his share of both.

But right now, he was going through another dangerous stage, and it was up to her to see him through it. Temptation was a hard thing to resist when it came all dolled up in tight dresses and blue eye shadow, reeking of fancy perfume and using language no lady ever used in front of a gentleman. That kind of temptation spelled trouble, sure as the world.

But Manie had a plan.