“Can I help you,
chavala?
” The low-accented question came from over her shoulder.
She dropped back onto her three-inch heels. “Nope.”
She turned around and met eyes as dark as sin.
The man stood with one arm against the tiled wall. His posture affected ease, but she could tell there was nothing easy about him. Energy radiated from him like a wave of heat off the Vegas desert. “You sure?”
Kate bristled. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
His gaze slid down her body, but she was used to men looking her over. She waited while he took in her high-heeled boots, textured black tights, ruffled blue taffeta skirt, skin-tight lycra turtleneck, hoop earrings and short raven hair. “Get your fill?”
A quick smile crossed his lips. “Not quite.”
A strange heat gathered inside her at his words. They were spoken quietly, with a hint of a Spanish accent. “Well, too bad.”
She spun and stalked toward the glass doors at the front of the post office. She could feel him following her. Alarm curled around her gut.
She faced him. “Listen, buddy. That wasn’t an invitation. Back off.”
The man stopped, crossed his arms and grinned. “Oh, man. You’re a live one.”
Kate swallowed. He acted as though he knew her. “Whatever.”
She turned around. He followed her. Alarm shrieked in her head. This dude, though seriously sexy, was off his rocker. What kind of lowlife stalked women in a post office? She tried to ignore him, but it was hard. He seemed right on her heels. In fact, she could smell his spicy warmth. It was dark and delicious. Forbidden.
She pushed through the doors and emerged into the blinding Nevada sunlight. Her car was parked under a withered palm tree, right beside an economy rental car. The man still trailed her. She didn’t know what to do. It was broad daylight—surely he wouldn’t try to abduct her. There were people crawling over the whole complex. It would be lunacy. Stupid. And the man didn’t look stupid.
She slowed and watched as he passed her. He pressed a button on his key ring and the rental honked a greeting. Relief washed over her.
She unlocked her own car and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat.
“Kate.”
She froze, one leg in the car, one still on the pavement. The guy knew her name. Her heart pounded and the first thing that popped into her mind was that the IRS had found her.
Which was ridiculous. Wendell had said she and Jeremy would have a month before any action should take place. And the IRS didn’t have field agents, did they?
So how did this guy know her?
She looked at him. He rested a forearm on the top of the silver rental and pierced her with his dark eyes. She eased into the depths of the VW, not sure what to do next.
“How do you know my name?”
He smiled. White teeth flashed in the brightness of the afternoon. “There’s much I know about you, Miss Newman. But the most important thing I know is that if you want to carry through with your threat against Justus Mitchell, you’ll have to get through me first.”
Not much shook Kate, but his words made her shiver in the temperate Vegas air. “Wh-what?”
“I read the letter. I know what you want.”
“Who are you?” Her legs quaked as adrenaline surged through her. Time to decide—fight or flight?
“Let’s just say I’m a good friend of Mr. Mitchell.”
Jeez, Louise. Who did her father employ? Henchmen? She looked around. A security officer sat in his little clown car about thirty yards away. She climbed from the car, slamming the door behind her. She knew how to stand up to men like this.
“Well, good friend of Mr. Mitchell, I guess you already know my father is a low-down, no-good bastard who spreads his seed all over Texas and leaves it to sprout with no help. He never acknowledged me or helped my family. I figure he owes me.”
She advanced on the man. She could tell he hadn’t expected much of a fight from her. What did he think she’d do? Squeak like a mouse, hop in her car and speed away? She’d sent the letter. She wanted the money. The bastard owed her that much. Likely more, but she wouldn’t be greedy.
He watched her as she stalked around his car.
She stopped in front of him and planted her fists on her hips. “So, does that get the attention of his majesty? Or do I have to write Mrs. Vera a little note signed ‘Kate Mitchell, your husband’s illegitimate daughter’? Or maybe I can take out an ad in the
Houston Chronicle?
Bet that’d get the governor’s attention.”
The man blinked. Then he smiled. “You
are
his daughter.”
She narrowed her eyes and waited.
“Justus wants you to come to Texas.”
“No. I don’t take orders from him. I’ll go to a lab and have blood drawn. I know he’s my biological father. I’ve known it for years. My mother and grandmother were not liars.”
The man crossed his arms and released a sigh. Though he was slightly under six feet, he towered over her. His shoulders were sinewy and tight, his body trim and coiled. He reminded her of a soldier. Perhaps he was one. “Mr. Mitchell’s instructions were firm. You want the money. You come to him.”
There was no way she could go to Texas. She needed to be at the salon raking in all she could, and if she canceled her appointments, she’d likely lose her clients. That was something she couldn’t do. She needed steady customers—her future depended on it. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t gone to Texas in the first place. That and the killer airfare.
“I can’t. I have responsibilities.”
“The salon?”
A thread of unease snaked up her spine. Did her father know about her financial troubles? Surely not. “Yes, if you must know. I can’t pack up a suitcase and head to Texas to satisfy some old man’s whim. I—”
“But you expect him to satisfy yours? Meet your demands with no proof? It’s more than reasonable to expect to meet you face-to-face. That was his offer. Take it or leave him be.”
Kate chewed on his words. “If he wanted to meet me face-to-face, why send you? Why not come himself?”
The man swallowed what she assumed to be aggravation. “You evidently didn’t do your research well. Mr. Mitchell is ill and confined to a wheelchair.”
Now, that was something she’d never expected. The powerful Justus Mitchell confined to a chair, crippled and sick? Something stabbed her insides. She was certain it was guilt. After all, she stood there ready to blackmail an ailing man and his reputed angel of a wife with dirty laundry from years past.
But Justus Mitchell wasn’t a victim.
Kate didn’t consider herself a victim, either. But she’d also grown up without the necessities of life while her father and his wife ate Chateaubriand and drank Perrier. She’d lived in castoffs from the Oak Stand Pentecostal Church while their precious Ryan had galloped upon a pristine lawn in a smocked John-John suit. She’d crawled into a used single-wide trailer each night praying it wouldn’t storm while the Mitchells tucked into plush beds in one of the seven bedrooms at the family estate, Cottonwood. And worse still was that everyone knew she was his daughter…and felt sorry for her.
Kate deserved the money.
But she’d rather face a firing squad than go to Texas.
“Here’s a plane ticket for tomorrow morning. Either you get on the plane or Mr. Mitchell will fix it so you never see a dime from him. Your choice.” He shoved an envelope into her hand.
“You’re threatening me?” Kate felt her toes sweat in her boots. They always did when she felt scared. Damn it.
“Turnabout is fair play, Kate.”
With those words, the man opened his car door and climbed inside. Kate barely had time to step back before he pulled out of the narrow parking space. She couldn’t tell if he watched her in his rearview mirror, standing bereft in the parking lot holding the envelope. He’d put on dark sunglasses that made him look even more menacing.
“I didn’t even get your name,” Kate muttered to the taillights of the car. “Rude ass.”
There was nothing left to do but climb into the comfort of the VW. She blinked back desperate tears. Justus played hardball.
But what had she expected? The man hadn’t risen to the top of Texas by letting people run roughshod over him. Of course he’d be as tough as the West Texas landscape that held his oil wells.
So now she had no choice. She’d have to go to him if she wanted to get the money for Fantabulous. She only hoped she could pull it off. Everything depended on her playing the game well.
The phone vibrated again. And again. He glanced down at the persistent humming. Justus’s number flashed on the BlackBerry’s screen.
He didn’t want to talk to the old man right now. He needed to process Kate Newman.
She was a smart-mouthed, sexy piece of work. He liked her style—the edgy look she wore like an attitude. She’d responded to him. He hadn’t missed that. And she didn’t seem afraid of him like other women were. There was little doubt she was Justus’s biological daughter—not because her manner was as brash as his, but because she had his eyes. Ryan’s eyes.
Justus had stamped his mark on his two children.
Kate’s eyes were like an exotic sea glittering at sunset. They dominated her delicate face, even overshadowed her tempting lips. He imagined men tripped over each other for a shot at her. She had a daring vibe, an appeal that would make people draw near to see what she’d do or say next.
Something stirred inside him. He wanted to tell Kate to stay in Vegas and not worry about Justus. There was a pall hanging over Cottonwood. It would suck her in and suffocate her.
Mind your own business,
he told himself.
But logic couldn’t stop the feelings rising inside him. The one that said “protect her” and the other he didn’t even want to acknowledge. The one that whispered “bed her.” Those responses were asinine. Kate didn’t need protecting—he hadn’t seen so much as a hint of fear or regret in those Mitchell-blue eyes. And as to the other, well, he wasn’t that man anymore.
The phone sounded again.
He stopped arguing with himself and pulled into an empty lot, pressing the answer button. “Rick.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Yes, I’m having a nice day. And you, Justus?”
“Skip the bullshit. You’re in Vegas. You’ve seen her.”
Rick grimaced. “Yes, I’ve seen her.”
“And?”
“And I think she’ll come to Texas, but I can’t be certain. She’s not what I expected.” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything about Kate. He should let the man draw his own conclusions about his biological daughter.
Don’t involve yourself. Keep your distance. The less said, the better.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s…salty. She won’t be pushed around easily.”
“So she
is
my daughter.”
Rick’s gaze roamed the lot surrounding his car. It was empty. Yellowed weeds poked through zigzag cracks. Boards covered the windows of a vacuum cleaner repair shop and a series of blue graffiti marked the boards. Staking territory. The number thirteen was displayed prominently, as was the letter M. He’d parked on Sureño turf, the street gang that had once been his sworn enemy. “You keep saying she’s your daughter, so why go through all this? Just give her some money. You owe her at least that.”
But Rick knew why Justus wanted Kate to come to Texas. He’d lost Ryan three years ago, then he’d had the stroke that nearly killed him. His wife, Vera, clung to the past, drowning herself in grief. Things were bad at Cottonwood. Justus needed deliverance. He thought he could get that in Kate.
“I need to see her. For proof.”
Just look at her eyes.
The words sprang to his lips but he didn’t give voice to them. “I’ll be back tomorrow, with or without her.”
The old man sighed. For a brief moment the silence sat heavy on the line. “Okay. Tomorrow.”
The line went dead. No platitudes about having a safe trip back. No polite farewell. Justus had never used niceties on Rick.
He shifted the car into gear and eased toward the road. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of two young guys crossing the back of the empty lot. Young Hispanic men. Flat-billed caps, thigh-length jerseys, baggy jeans, blue bandanas in pocket. Tattoos covered their forearms. Gang members.
The guys laughed, punching each other on the arm, but their laughter died when they saw him. He could feel them stiffen, grow aware.
He drove from the lot, leaving only sympathy behind. Sadness for a childhood lost. He wasn’t sure if it was for the two bangers or for himself.
His mind cut to the center. The true test was about to begin. Next week, he’d find out if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Reality was he didn’t know squat about rehabilitating gang members. He only knew how to be one.
Maybe knowing the life would be enough.