Trouble in Texas (6 page)

B
RANT WOKE WITH A DULL ACHE
in his head, an ache that eased when talented fingers pressed into the muscles that
ran between his neck and shoulders. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a
massage—or a masseuse as gifted as this one. Pressure points were targeted with accuracy,
and tight muscles kneaded into submission. Once he was limp and malleable, fingers
slipped up into his hair and massaged his scalp with a slight scraping of nails that
had his nerves tingling with delight.

He groaned and turned his face into the mattress, a mattress with the distinct scent
of lilacs. While his sleep-drugged mind tried to place the scent, the masseuse’s hands
kneaded their way from his head down his spine. The intense pleasure had him forgetting
about lilacs and closing his eyes again—until those hands reached his butt cheeks
and didn’t massage as much as caress, coming too close to a man’s ass crack for comfort.

“What the fuck—” He jerked the pillow off his head and rolled to his back. His eyes
squinted from the bright
sunshine that shone in through the windows, then opened wide at the old woman who
straddled him.

“All done with your massage?” she said in her soft, sing-song voice. “Ready to move
on?” She stripped off her blouse.

Two thoughts registered with Brant before he slammed his eyes shut. One, bras should
be worn by all women—if not for modesty, then support. And two, he hoped to God that
science had come up with ways to burn memories from a man’s mind.

“For the love of Pete, Sunshine,” a raspy voice said, “I told you that you need to
give the man time to recover from his injuries before you start ridin’ the range.”

“I listened, Minnie,” Sunshine said. “I just wanted to give him a massage. He was
the one that wanted to—”

“No!” Brant shook his head, but made sure to keep his eyes closed. “I don’t want anything,
except for you to get off me.”

“You heard the man,” Minnie said.

There was a rustle of clothing as Sunshine climbed off, although before she was gone
one hand did some definite cupping. He waited a few minutes before cracking his eyes
open. Thankfully, the only sight to greet him was a shriveled old woman in a wheelchair
with smoke curling around her head. Images started collecting in his brain, but before
the puzzle was complete, the wheelchair hummed and Minnie came closer. At least she
wore a bright purple negligee that covered all the important body parts.

“See,” she said. The lit cigarette bobbed from her lip. “All you had to do is ask.
At Miss Hattie’s we aim to please.”

Miss Hattie’s
.

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Brant
glanced down at the bandage on his arm before testing the chain of the handcuffs on
his other wrist. Anger swelled up inside him. And anger had always been Brant’s best
subject.

“Release me,” he stated in a voice very close to a growl.

Minnie didn’t seem intimidated. The old gal just cackled as if she found him amusing.
“All in good time, Mr. Cates.”

His eyes narrowed. “Branston Cates, who happens to be friends with judges in twenty-five
counties.”

“No kiddin’?” She grinned. “I know a fair share of judges myself.” She shook her head.
“ ’Course, most of them are dead now or so old they probably can’t remember the good
times we had.” She lifted his wallet from a bag that hung on the side of the wheelchair.
“Branston. Now that’s an interestin’ name. Where would your mama get a name like that?”
When Brant ignored the question, she thumbed through the wallet and stopped on the
picture of Brant’s parents. It had been taken when they were in their early twenties,
before his mother had started dyeing her hair every color under the sun.

“Nice-lookin’ couple,” Minnie said. “You look like her. Same hair and eyes.” She glanced
back up and studied him. “Although hers aren’t quite as empty.”

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that question? After all, you were the one who showed up
on my doorstep, not the other way around.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t you read
the sign out front?”

He quirked his own brow. “So you’re planning on prostituting me?”

“From the looks of those panties over there, I’d say that you already have been.”

Brant’s gaze followed the old woman’s to a pair of flowered panties that rested on
the black satin of the sheets. Obviously, the erotic dream he’d had about Miss Hattie
hadn’t been just a dream.

“Sunshine?” The word squeezed out of his dry throat.

Minnie cackled. “Nope. Sunshine don’t wear panties, and Baby and I wouldn’t be caught
dead in that cheap cotton.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I
hadn’t seen the evidence with my own eyes, but it looks as if you had the privilege
of christening the newest hen to the henhouse.”

He lunged at the old woman, who had enough sense to back her wheelchair up. “When
I get free,” he growled, “and I will get free, this house will be nothing but kindling.”

“You sure got a lot of anger inside you, boy,” Minnie said. “It sorta makes me wonder
what would cause such fury.” Her gnarled hands flipped to the next picture. Brant
felt his heart tighten as she studied the photo of the laughing woman and giggling
little boy. “I knew a shrink once who believed that anger was just a by-product of
hurt and pain. After livin’ over eighty years on this planet, I think he might’ve
been on to something.” Closing the wallet, she tossed it to the bed before backing
the wheelchair up. “I’ll have Baby bring you something up to eat.”

“I don’t want breakfast!” he yelled. “I want release.” He jerked on the handcuff until
the headboard shook and his wrist throbbed, but Minnie ignored him and rolled right
out the door.

When she was gone, he fell back on the bed and stared
up at the picture painted on the mirror. He tried to remember the woman who had slipped
into his bed, but the only images he had were of this woman. It was this woman he
had shared heated kisses with. This woman who he could still taste and smell. Except
this woman was dead and had been for years.

He reached out for the panties and held them up. They weren’t the lacy scraps he was
used to. These were more briefs than thongs, with sturdy stitches and ordinary elastic.
Just the sight of them pissed him off. It was one thing to handcuff him to a bed and
another to drug him and take advantage of his basic instincts.

Brant’s intention had never been to destroy Miss Hattie’s.

But now, he wouldn’t mind at all.

Sunlight shifted farther across the bed, and something shiny caught his attention
in the mirror. He turned his head and reached out for the hairpin. For a moment, he
wondered who it belonged to—the infamous Miss Hattie or the new hen who was now the
main target for his anger. It didn’t matter. The hairpin was just right for picking
the lock of a set of handcuffs. In no time, he was free and sitting up on the bed.

Brant still felt a little groggy from whatever had been in the Wild Rooster. But despite
the dull ache in his temples, he was stable enough to stand. His arm didn’t hurt as
much as he thought it would, but that didn’t mean the old bat wasn’t going to pay.

After he used the adjoining bathroom, he searched through the drawers for something
to wear. He was mad, but not mad enough to run around buck naked. All he found was
a bunch of old-looking lingerie, a pile of
intriguing antique sex toys, about a hundred ancient condoms, and bottle after bottle
of lilac perfume. He had started for the closet when Baby entered the room with a
tray.

“Oh my,” she cooed as her gaze drifted down.

Brant had never been the modest type, but he couldn’t help reaching out and jerking
the black satin sheet around his waist. It didn’t seem to help. Once he was covered
from the waist down, her gaze settled on his naked chest, and she breathed deeply
as if she could smell him clear across the room.

“Goodness. I forgot how absolutely divine it is to have a man around the house.”

Brant cleared his throat, hoping it would bring her attention back to his face. It
didn’t. If this was how women felt when men gawked at them, he understood why they
didn’t like it. He felt as cheap as a nickel slug.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked.

“Hanging out back on the line. I got up real early just so I could wash them.” She
lifted her gaze and blinked as if just realizing he had a face. “I also squeezed you
some fresh orange juice and made you a sausage and cheese omelet. Of course, if you
prefer buttermilk pancakes, I could whip you up some of those.” She moved over to
the nightstand and set the tray down. “I’m so glad that Minnie decided to let you
go.” When she turned back around, the dreamy look was replaced by a contrite one.
“We really didn’t mean you any harm.”

Brant snorted as he strode to the closet. “And you think drugging a man isn’t harmful?”
The closet was half the size of the room, with rows of evening gowns, enough shoes
to make any woman swoon, and box after box of hats.

“She was quite a fashion plate, our Miss Hattie.” Baby came up behind him. “All her
clothing was specially made just for her. Her party gowns were sent all the way from
Paris.” She ran a hand over the feathered trim of one gown and didn’t seem to notice
that half the feathers came off in her hand. “I wish I had been alive then. The parties
she threw sounded like so much fun.”

There was a time when Brant would’ve agreed with Baby, but after being shot, drugged,
and violated, most of the intrigue had been replaced with anger. Jerking a silk kimono
off a hanger, he slipped it on and released the sheet.

Baby giggled as he turned around. “You look just like Tony Curtis in
Some Like It Hot
. All you need is a wig and some makeup.” She stared at him for a moment, her platinum
blond head tipped to the side. “Or maybe not; your face is a little too rugged to
pass for a woman’s.” When he scowled, her smile slipped. “Minnie didn’t let you go,
did she?”

“Nope,” he said.

For an old gal in high heels, Baby moved pretty quickly. She scuttled back out of
the closet and was gone from the room by the time Brant finished knotting his sash.
He didn’t hurry after her. Instead he took his time, stopping to check out each room
he passed. There were six, not including Miss Hattie’s. Each had a small adjoining
bathroom and closet, and all were completely empty. No curtains, rugs, or one stick
of furniture.

At the end of the hallway was a small elevator that Minnie no doubt used to get up
to the second level. It looked a little too rickety for Brant so he took the stairs.
Despite the need for a fresh coat of stain and sealant, the staircase was majestic.
A skillfully crafted mahogany
banister spiraled down the fifty-odd steps it took to get to the bottom. Brant might’ve
taken the time to check out the main floor if a slamming door hadn’t drawn his attention
to the rear of the house.

Remembering the derringer, he stayed close to the wall and eased around the first
doorway he came to. It turned out to be the kitchen. The room was empty, but it didn’t
look like it had been that way for long. Three half-full cups sat on the Fifties-style
enamel and chrome table, circling an ashtray with a smoldering cigarette.

Brant wasn’t interested in the contents of the table as much as the bright yellow
phone that hung on the wall. He walked over and lifted the receiver. But before he
could even finish dialing the nine on the rotary dial, he hung it back up. If he had
learned anything by living in a small town, it was that news traveled fast. The newspaper
reporters would have a field day when they learned that the president of C-Corp had
been held hostage by a bunch of old women. And Brant had never much cared for publicity—good
or bad.

No, he could handle things without getting the law involved. It wouldn’t be hard.
Brant was an expert at figuring out how to make people pay. In fact, the thought almost
had him smiling when a creak pulled his attention back to the doorway. He walked out
of the kitchen in time to see a woman making her way up the long staircase. To say
she was an average woman was an understatement. Everything about her was average—from
her height and weight to her dishwater blond hair pulled back in a haphazard bun.
She wore a gray suit that reminded him of the ones his sixty-two-year-old secretary,
Ms. Hathaway, wore.

He might’ve thought she was an unsuspecting visitor
to the house if she hadn’t stopped a fourth of the way up and stared at Miss Hattie’s
room as if a monster lurked behind the double doors. Instead the monster stood at
the bottom of the stairs.

“Looking for someone?” he said.

The woman released a terrified squeak and whirled around so quickly that she lost
her balance. She would’ve taken a mean tumble if Brant hadn’t climbed the stairs in
two giant strides and caught her. Most women—especially one who knew she was in big
trouble—would’ve played the damsel in distress card for all it was worth, clinging
to his chest and acting as if he was the bravest of heroes. Surprisingly, this woman
didn’t waste her time… or his. Once he set her back on her ugly brown shoes, she straightened
her suit jacket and got right to the point.

“So I see you escaped.” Her gaze flickered over his body, and her face flamed a bright
red before her eyes moved back up to his.

Considering that his borrowed robe had come untied, he understood her embarrassment.
He was starting to pull the silk edges together when he noticed her mouth. It was
an unusual mouth. With the top lip slightly bigger than the bottom, it made her look
as if she was pouting upside down. But it wasn’t the shape that held his attention
as much as the memories that flashed through his mind. He remembered these lips, remembered
the feel, taste, and texture. Remembered the hard pull and passion.