Branded (15 page)

“The ride to Mr. Cavanaugh's home isn't long,” she said. “We'll be there in less than ten minutes.”

We?
Oh
. “You don't have to take me to Deacon's place,” Mac told her as they rushed down toward the lobby. “I'm sure I can handle it on my own. And you probably have a ton of work to do.”

“It's no problem, and it's Mr. Cavanaugh's wish that I accompany you.”

Oh my
. “And everyone does what Deacon wants, right?” Mac had meant it as a joke, but the woman looked slightly confused.

“Of course,” she said.

Good Lord, this was a far cry from the small-town life of River Black.

The elevator dinged softly when they reached the lobby, opening to reveal a bustling atrium. As they walked side by side toward the glass doors leading outside, Mac took in all that was Deacon's. Cavanaugh Towers was like a hotel with its banks of elevators, newspaper and coffee kiosks, and hundreds of people heading in and out. It was damn impressive.

“Besides, I'm done for the day,” Sheridan said as she opened one of the glass doors and motioned for Mac to go through. “After I get you settled, I'm actually heading to your River Black.”

“Really?” Mac replied, her surprise unmasked.

The hot, damp Dallas air assaulted her for the second time that day, and she wished she had taken that cold bottle of water the assistant guy had offered her on the roof.

“Gary's over here,” Sheridan said, leading them toward a black stretch limousine.

Mac's mouth dropped open. The driver was dressed in a black suit and gray tie and was waiting by an open back door. He nodded to both Sheridan and Mac.

“Ms. O'Neil, Ms. Byrd,” he said as Mac slipped inside, followed by Sheridan.

Mac had never been in a limousine before. It was roomy, that was sure, with a lot of black leather and tinted windows. She sat on one side
near a small bar setup, while Sheridan sat on the other, facing her.

“So, why are you going to River Black?” Mac asked as the driver pulled away from the building and onto the street.

“Mr. Cavanaugh wants me to open the office he has there. It's above an RB Feed and Tack, I believe.”

An office? He had an office in town above the Feed and Tack? Since when? “To do what?”

She gave Mac an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. That's confidential.”

Of course it was. Mac tried not to show her frustration at not knowing something about the man she was here with, the man she was staying with, and hopefully sleeping with. She shook her head. “No problem.”

“Have you ever been to Dallas, Ms. Byrd?” Sheridan asked, expertly shifting subjects.

“A handful of times when I was younger.”

“Do you have any family or friends here?”

“Just Deacon.”

She nodded, her stunning gray eyes unreadable. “If you need anything, Mr. Cavanaugh has three members on staff at his residence. And, of course, Gary is at your disposal.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine,” Mac insisted.

“I'm sure you will, too,” she said with a
genuine smile. “You seem very capable, strong. You're the foreman at the Triple C, I believe?”

Mac nodded. This woman spoke of the ranch like she knew a good amount about it. And being Deacon's assistant she probably did. Mac wondered what she would say if she asked Sheridan about Deacon's plans for the ranch's destruction. Would the woman show any sign of knowing, or would she simply say again,
Sorry—that's confidential
?

She guessed the latter.

Crossing her legs at the ankles, Sheridan sat up very straight and focused her attention on Mac. “That must be a big job. And exciting.”

“Both and very,” Mac confirmed. “Bossing cows and cowboys around all day long.” When Sheridan smiled, she did too. “Truly, I love it. I hope to never ever be without it.”

A shadow crossed Sheridan's eyes, but she just nodded. She did know, Mac realized with a squeeze to her gut as the car moved up an incline and then came to an easy stop.

“Here we are,” Sheridan announced.

Gary was quick with the door, and when Mac stepped outside and saw the building they were parked in front of, she nearly gasped. Her head tipped back as she took in all the stories of glass and metal. This was blatant and breathtaking opulence, and the furthest thing from home cooking
and open prairie there was. Boy, Deacon had not only run fast, but he'd run far.

A male voice called out, “Ms. O'Neil.”

Sheridan smiled at the short, stocky doorman as they passed through another set of glass doors and into another shockingly beautiful lobby. Clearly, Sheridan knew the auburn-headed doorman pretty well, which sent threads of irritation—aka jealousy—through her. Seriously, was there something more between her and Deacon?

“Red, this is Ms. Byrd,” Sheridan said, heading for the elevator.

“Afternoon, Ms. Byrd,” the man said, his brown eyes flashing with good nature. “Pleasure having you here.”

Mac smiled in return. “Nice to meet you, Red.”

The elevator was once again private, and when Sheridan used a key to start it, Mac knew they were probably headed for the penthouse. She was starting to notice a pattern here. The billionaire bachelor pattern. And though she was curious and in awe of the whole thing, she wasn't at all sure if she fit into it.

When they reached the top, the doors opened and they were inside the most incredible apartment Mac had ever seen in her life. Thick-planked dark hardwood covered the floors of the wide foyer and continued into a massive great room. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up nearly ninety
percent of the walls, and anyone who enjoyed a view would understand why. Downtown Dallas spread out before her at an almost perfect height. Mac imagined that at night, it was probably the most breathtaking thing ever, not to mention sexy.

Deacon's furnishings looked comfortable, yet modern, with lots of leather. And to Mac's surprise and delight, much of it, from the couches to the rugs and tables, had a very decided Western feel. Inside that expensive suit, a cowboy still dwelled.

“Afternoon, y'all.”

A woman dressed in a fitted black T-shirt and black pants walked down the hall toward them. She had short, spiky black hair with gray steaks running through it and pale blue eyes that seemed to smile before she did.

“This is Carol Highcourt,” Sheridan said. “Carol, this is Mr. Cavanaugh's guest, Mackenzie Byrd.”

Bright white teeth flashed. “Hello, Ms. Byrd. Welcome. Can I take your bags?”

“That's okay,” Mac told her. “It's just the one. Thank you, though.”

She nodded. “How about something to drink, then? It's darn hot out there today.”

“It is,” Mac agreed, feeling strange about being catered to. She didn't want to insult anyone or have them go out of their way, but she knew this was the job the woman before her had been hired
to do. “Maybe after I put my things away?” she suggested.

“Perfect.” She looked at Sheridan. “Something for you, Ms. O'Neil?”

“I'm good, Carol. Thank you.”

Carol turned back to Mac. “I'll show you to your room, then.”

Sheridan turned to Mac and touched her arm lightly. She had long, elegant fingers to go with her long, elegant self, and once again Mac wondered moronically if she and Deacon had ever gone out, or maybe had a hot office romance. It would really chap her ass if they had. Especially with how Deacon had sent the woman to escort her home.

“I'm going,” Sheridan said. “Again, anything you need, Carol's your woman. Enjoy your time in Dallas, Ms. . . .” She paused and smiled shyly. “Have fun, Mac.”

Damn, she really kind of liked this woman. Sheridan O'Neil was not only gorgeous and obviously brilliant and accomplished, but she seemed damned nice, too.

She gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks, Sheridan. I appreciate it. And maybe I'll see you when I get back to River Black.”
With Deacon.
The sexy boss you may or may not have dated and/or slept with.

Mac mentally rolled her eyes. Okay, this needed to stop now.

“Hope so,” Sheridan called as she headed toward the elevator.

“Oh and hey,” Mac called after. “Don't forget to pack some country clothes. You'll need 'em.”

Sheridan turned around once she was inside the elevator. “Country clothes?” she said, pushing the button. “What would those be?”

But before Mac could answer, the steel doors closed on Sheridan's suddenly confused expression. Odds were, the woman would bring along a pair of jeans. She'd figure it out from there.

“Ready, Ms. Byrd?” Carol asked, snagging Mac's attention.

She led Mac down a long hallway. On one side of her were windows leading to an outside deck with gardens, a pool, lounge area, fire pit, and a brick-and-stainless-steel grill. It all looked brand-new and impeccably maintained. On the other side of her were rooms. Most of the doors were either closed or nearly so, so Mac didn't get a chance to see inside. But she was going to guess they were probably bedrooms.

“Here we are.” Carol stopped in front of double wood doors, opened one, then moved aside so Mac could enter first.

Mumbling a quick thank-you, Mac stepped inside the loveliest—no, the sexiest—room she'd ever seen in her life. She would've never chosen it but found herself drawn to it. It was shockingly
beautiful. Everything was white—bedding, couches, chairs, lamps—except for the floors, which were the same dark wood, and the short, fat vases of red roses on nearly every surface.

Mac's first thought was Deacon. Had he decided on this room? Had he asked for those flowers? Or was it all Carol's doing? She desperately wanted to ask, but she refused to look like a sixteen-year-old girl who wanted to know how much her boyfriend talked about her. No matter how much she felt like one inside.

“Your private bath is through here,” Carol said, gesturing to a door on the far side of the room. “And your closet is here. Can I hang your things for you?”

The closet looked as long and as large as the bathroom. Mac glanced down at her bag. “Thanks, but I can do it. I just have one thing that hangs anyway. My dress for tonight.” She'd brought a nice black cocktail dress she'd bought a few years ago and had worn only once. There weren't tons of fancy parties or dances to go to in River Black, nor were there shops that sold that kind of finery.

“I'm sure it's lovely,” Carol said with a gentle smile. “But if you're so inclined . . .” She gestured to Mac, then slipped inside the closet.

Mac followed her, then gasped when she stepped inside. Lord, she'd been right. The closet was nearly the size of her bedroom in the foreman's house.
Which in and of itself was pretty nuts. But there was more to make her eyes bulge, her breath catch, and her curious, conspiracy-theorist brain ping. On the right side of the closet, hanging in a neat row, were a rainbow assortment of couture dresses.

Mac turned to Carol and just raised an eyebrow. It was like something off one of those runway- modeling reality shows she sometimes watched late at night if there was a decent amount of ice cream in the freezer.

“Feel free to wear anything you like,” Carol said, her easy grin broadening.

“I'm confused,” Mac began, trying to keep the strain of jealous chick out of her voice. “Deacon has dresses here for his guests?”

Poor Carol's eyes bugged out of her head. “No, Ms. Byrd,” she said, aghast. “Of course not. This is for you.”

Okay. Jealous Girl kicked to the curb.
“Come on.”

The woman nodded. “The store delivered them just a few hours ago.”

“But why?”

Her eyes returned to their normal size. Maybe even softened a little. “Mr. Cavanaugh wanted to make sure you had access to the newest styles, if you needed them. Or wanted them.” She went over to the other side of the closet and removed a
strip of cloth that was draped over a long, heavy cabinet. “There are shoes as well.”

“Holy shitballs!” Mac exclaimed as she took in twenty or so of the most spectacularly beautiful pairs of heels she'd ever seen.

Carol laughed.

Mac turned around and faced the woman, her face flushing with every second that ticked by. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize, Ms. Byrd,” she insisted. “I appreciate a ballsy woman. As well as a woman who knows a nice set of footwear.”

Mac turned back. While the whole thing was a bit intimidating, crazy, and truly unnecessary, she really did have a few girly bones in her body. And right now, they were urging her forward to see the pretty.

With a soft sigh, she reached down and picked up a little piece of open-toed silver heaven. She wore heels pretty much never, but she sure liked the idea of it.

Her head came around again and she asked Carol, “How the hell did he know my size?”

“Mr. Cavanaugh is nothing if not thorough, my dear.”

Her heart pinged again. She kind of didn't want to know what that meant. Didn't want to know if this was standard practice or not. Instead,
she went back to the right side of the closet and fingered the sleeve of a green halter dress. “This is lovely.”

“It is,” Carol said behind her. “But I think you'd stop traffic in that strapless blue next to it.”

Mac's eyes cut to the blue. “Oh, my. This is . . . Wow . . . It's beautiful.”

“Try it on,” Carol encouraged. “And while you're doing that, I'm going to whip up some refreshments. Maybe a cocktail. It's gotta be five o'clock somewhere in the world. Come on out if you're inclined.”

“Carol?” Mac said, turning.

“Yes, Ms. Byrd?”

“I really appreciate this,” she said with sincerity. “All of this. But I just want you to know that you don't have to do anything special for me.”

“Sure I do.” Her eyes glittered. “Mr. Cavanaugh's orders, honey.”