To Love A Texan. Georgina Gentry

the major grinned. “They say he could talk a cow out of her calf or a dog off a meat wagon.”

      “I beg your pardon?” Lillian said.

      “Oh, honey,” Mrs Bottom said with a dismissing wave at her husband, “that’s Texan for beware of the rascal’s gift of gab. You wouldn’t be the first girl Brad’s talked into—never mind. Another cup of coffee, my dear?”

      Lillian shook her head. So Mr. Brad O’Neal was a ladies’ man? Humph, she certainly didn’t see him as charming. The genteel and highborn Buford Fortenbury was more to her taste. “May I borrow your buggy, Major?”

      “You’re really going over there this morning?”

      “Yes, that is my plan.”

      “But it’s Sunday and as late as they were all up, the girls working so late—”

      “Gilbert!” His wife glared at him.

      His beefy face turned bright red. “I meant, they are probably all still asleep and will be ’til noon.”

      “Good.” Lillian said curtly, “then I shall wake them up.” She imagined that Texas rascal sleeping soundly and being disturbed by her ringing his bell over and over. It would serve him right.

      However, she was a bit less certain as she left the driver with the buggy and marched up the steps to the elegant stained glass front doors. She rang the bell. And rang and rang. Then she resorted to pounding. She was not going to be treated shabbily by that rascal. “Brad O’Neal, I know you’re in there. Open this door immediately!” She pounded some more.

      About that time, the door was opened by the wrinkled black maid. “Yes?”

      She mustered as much dignity as she could, considering she was puffing from her exertion. “I am here to see Mr. Bradley O’Neal.”

      “He don’t usually see visitors this early in the morning, Miss.”

      “I am not surprised. I assume he is sleeping off a hangover?”

      “No, ma’am, he’s in the kitchen.”

      “What? Then I will go to the kitchen.” Lillian pushed past the old woman and looked about. The delicious scent of strong coffee and frying ham drifted to her nose. She marched toward the kitchen with the small maid trailing in her wake.

      It was a spacious kitchen and the scene as she entered caused her to stop short. Seven beautiful but sleepy-looking young women in various stages of dress sat about a big round table. Brad O’Neal, needing a shave and in his shirt-sleeves, worse yet, wearing an apron, stood at the stove. He turned and grinned. “Oh, hello, Miss Primm. Would you like some breakfast? I cook on Sunday sometimes.”

      “He’s great at flapjacks,” the blond girl volunteered and lit a cigarillo.

      “No thank you, I’ve had breakfast. Mr. O’Neal, we need to talk—”

      “Well, I haven’t, so you’ll have to wait. Delilah, get the lady some coffee.”

      She wasn’t about to accept hospitality from this rascal. “Thank you, but I’m here on business—”

      “You might as well have a cup, Miss,” the black maid said, “Mr. Brad is right stubborn.”

      Stubborn? She’d show him stubborn. His oily charm might work on weaker women, but not on a Primm descendant. However, Lillian accepted the coffee and stood there awkwardly.

      “Sit down,” O’Neal ordered, gesturing toward the table, but the whores didn’t look too friendly.

      “Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I am here on business.”

      “Suit yourself.” He shrugged and returned to his cooking. He had pots boiling and ham frying along with his flapjacks.

      She didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t expect you to be the cook.”

      “It’s just one of my talents,” the rascal said, winking at her, and the girls around the table giggled. “I like to keep my hand in; learned a lot in New Orleans, but all but Sundays, the kitchen belongs to Delilah.”

      She watched him dish up food. Something in the big bowl looked like mush. “What in the name of goodness is that?”

      “Grits.” Brad grinned. “You know you’re in east Texas when they serve you grits with your eggs. In north Texas, its more likely to be fried potatoes and along the Mexican border and in west Texas, it’ll be beans and tortillas. Want some?”

      “I said I had already eaten.” She answered frostily.

      The girls were digging into their heaping plates.

      “Oh Brad, honey,” a brunette smiled at him, “you got so many talents.”

      “Evidently, Miss Primm doesn’t think so.” He grinned and dished himself a plate of food, then poured himself a cup of coffee. “Very well, Miss Primm, if you’ll precede me, we can talk in my office while I eat, if you don’t mind.”

      The girls set up a moan. “Aw, Brad, honey, we thought you was gonna eat with us.”

      He winked at them. “We’ll have dinner together. Remember, I’ve got a roast ready to go in the oven and Delilah, you’ll watch my coconut cake, while I visit with Miss Primm, won’t you?”

      “Sho ’nuff, Mister Brad, you gonna want seven minute icing with that?”

      He nodded as he pulled off his apron. “Get the eggs out of the root cellar now. You know the whites whip higher when they’re room temperature.”

      “Well!” sniffed Lillian. “Is there no end to your talents?”

      He winked at her. “Ask the girls.”

      They all broke into giggles while Lillian’s face burned. Oh, she wanted to grab the syrup pitcher and pour it all over his head, but of course, a lady of quality would not lower herself to that. Besides, rascal that he was, he might return the gesture. “We have business to discuss,” she reminded him with a frosty tone.

      “Come, Miss Primm,” he commanded, leading the way out of the kitchen, food in both hands.

      She followed along behind with her coffee cup as he led her into a large office in one wing of the big mansion.

      He set his plate and coffee on his desk and gestured her to a nearby chair. Instead, she chose to take the one directly across the desk from him. She set her cup on the desk with a bang as he dug into his food, eating heartily. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some, Miss Primm? You look like a rack of bones.”

      She felt herself flush. “It is not polite to make such personal comments and a gentleman should not greet ladies in his shirt-sleeves.”

      He grinned at her and a lock of black hair fell down over one eye. “Let’s get one thing straight, lady, I never claimed to be a gentleman. I’m a Texan and a gambler and I was a very good friend of your late aunt’s.”

      “How good?” She asked without thinking.

      “Now who’s being rude? She was almost like a mother to me, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

      “I—I beg your pardon.” She realized that he was right. She might have to change her attitude to get anywhere with this rascal. Evidently, he was accustomed to dealing with women, if not ladies. Well, his oily charm wouldn’t work on her. “Mr. O’Neal, you must understand that I am rather startled to discover my aunt’s past.”

      “You ain’t startled, lady, you’re shocked out of your drawers.” He put a bite of ham in his mouth. “Lil was a great old gal and you can only hope to be half the woman she was. You goin’ out to visit her grave?”

      “Certainly not, and I will not sit here and be insulted.” She felt herself flush and half rose from her chair.

      “My