Tall, Dark...And Framed?. Cathleen Galitz

lay the Texas desert, equally breathtaking in its stark beauty. A profusion of bluebonnets, the state flower—named by pioneer women reminded of their own simple head coverings—draped the desert in bolts of bright homespun calico.

      “You,” she replied succinctly, giving him the first genuine smile she’d been able to locate all day long.

      What she would have given for the experience of coming home to find Joe wearing such domestic garb. To the best of her recollection, the closest her ex-husband had come to donning an apron was when he brushed against it hanging up in the pantry while searching for a bottle of cognac.

      “I have to admit I never imagined this meeting occurring with you in an apron.”

      Sebastian didn’t seem to take offense. “And just what did you think I’d be wearing?” he asked.

      Susan noticed how his friendly expression softened the angular cut of his jaw.

      “A smoking jacket, I suppose. An imported red-silk one that your manservant helped you into,” she replied with a blush that threatened to match the sunset in all its flaming glory.

      Feigning regret, he shook his head at her. “It’s not often that I’m mistaken for Bruce Wayne. I hope you’re not disappointed that Robin can’t make it tonight and that the Bat Cave is closed for repairs.”

      Susan couldn’t refrain from smiling at the witty remark.

      “A smile does nice things for your face,” Seb commented. “You should think of wearing one more often.”

      “The same goes for you,” she replied, recalling the fierce creature who had marched into her office a few short hours ago and left her feeling breathless and a little frightened. On his own turf this man was far less intimidating.

      Susan was secretly pleased when Sebastian pulled out the chair for her and bid her to sit down. She appreciated the gesture. It was the kind of simple courtesy that, in her opinion, too many women took for granted.

      “Are you sure you aren’t the least bit hungry?” Sebastian asked.

      The telltale twinkle in those silver eyes could have been merely the reflection of light off the pool, but Susan didn’t think so. Drinking in the aroma of juicy T-bone steaks, she allowed her earlier resolve to dissipate amid the steam of two huge, aluminum-covered baked potatoes that Sebastian pulled off the grill and placed beside the platter of meat.

      “I suppose I could eat a bite or two—that is, if you wouldn’t mind cutting one of those steaks in two and saving the rest for later,” she suggested, hoping that her host would give her arm one final tiny twist.

      Sebastian hastened to assure her that she should simply eat as much as she wanted and that he would give whatever was left over to his dogs, Pal and Buddy. Since Miss Manners insisted that one shouldn’t speak with a mouthful of delicious food, Susan was saved from commenting on his dogs’ names, which seemed far too cute for such a macho man.

      Not liking to cook for herself alone, Susan often grabbed a bite at the local diner, a greasy spoon that proudly splashed its name across paper place mats: “The Royal Diner—Food Fit for a King!” Looking around at her present elegant surroundings, Susan doubted that Sebastian frequented the place.

      When he graciously offered to make her any kind of drink she wanted from the poolside bar, she primly declined anything more potent than a cola. It was, after all, one thing to succumb to hunger pangs and quite another to compromise her professionalism by clouding her judgment with alcohol. Furtively eyeing her client’s cold beer, she was relieved to find he wasn’t the type who favored drinks with difficult-to-pronounce names in hopes of impressing her. It pleased her to discover that her host wasn’t a snob like Joe, who sniffed corks and made a big deal out of knowing the vintage of priceless wines. And, Susan was glad to see that, also unlike Joe, Seb had no problem stopping after one drink.

      How easy it had been to slip into the habit of calling this lion of a man by his pet name. Seb certainly suited him better than Sebastian, Susan thought. As she polished off the last bite of a steak she had earlier protested was far too big for her to consume alone, she wondered if Jack Wescott had deliberately chosen the imposing name “Sebastian” for his baby boy, planning to mold his son into a man who would someday take over an empire. Having grown up without the benefits of privilege herself, Susan found it difficult to imagine the woes of a poor little rich boy. Still, the thought that Seb might not have had a picture-perfect childhood bothered her more than it probably should have.

      Susan refused to allow such speculative thoughts to darken the luxurious pleasure of a perfect spring evening. As she drank in the fading rays of the setting sun, apprehension slipped from her slender shoulders as easily as her jacket had earlier. It had been far too long since she had last watched the sun bid the day a glorious adieu and paused to appreciate the beauty of the surrounding countryside. Midland was the closest city, and it was a good fifty miles away. The seclusion of this lush estate, surrounded as it was by desert and buffeted by almost unceasing winds, made it seem as if Royal itself was equally distant.

      “A girl could get used to this kind of treatment,” Susan admitted, feeling as if she was dropping in on a mirage. With a satisfied sigh, she pushed herself away from the table and announced that the evening was growing cool and it was time to get down to business.

      Though Seb grimaced, he dutifully rose to his feet and began clearing the table. Susan followed his lead.

      “My housekeeper, Rosa, would have my hide if I left the dishes outside overnight,” he explained with a touch of chagrin.

      Happy to pitch in, Susan was impressed both with the clout Rosa wielded over her employer and with Seb’s willingness to do what she assumed most millionaires would find beneath their dignity. The easy banter that accompanied them into the kitchen seemed somehow incongruent in their surroundings. The latest in kitchen appliances sparkled beneath soft lighting, a testament to Rosa’s dedication. All that gleaming black-and-white modernism was saved from its usual cold feel by the very same lemony scent that Susan remembered in her own mother’s kitchen. One whiff carried her back to a simpler time when she and her five siblings were all crowded together in public housing that offered little in privacy, but much in the way of inspiration nurtured by their parents’ dreams of a better life for their children.

      Her background had a lot to do with shaping her dream of making life better for other children. Particularly those coping with lack of available and adequate housing, uncooperative slumlords, insufficient food and, God forbid, abusive parents. Folding her dish towel and setting it atop a spotless counter, Susan realized just how far down the road this man’s case was from her original goal. Defending millionaires was hardly championing the cause of the poor. In a system in which “justice” too often could be bought, she couldn’t help but wonder why someone with Seb’s resources would bother taking a chance on her skills as a lawyer.

      But reminding herself how desperately she needed to win this case to resuscitate her floundering dream, she refused to second-guess her host. Determined not to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, she promised simply do her best and prove herself worthy of Seb’s trust.

      Citing the need to go to the bathroom, she returned to the kitchen a few moments later carrying her briefcase. “Would it be all right to work in here?” Susan asked, setting it on the table. “Or would you rather we moved into the den?”

      “Here is fine,” Seb agreed amicably, pulling up a chair to the kitchen table himself.

      Susan noticed him looking at the battered leather case and briefly considered explaining that it had been a gift from her parents when she graduated from law school. More than just one of her colleagues had hinted that she should invest in a new briefcase, but this particular one held more than just papers. In it resided her parents’ pride and her own aspirations. Every nick and scratch in its surface represented her hard-fought battle for independence. Once she had actually used it as a shield when, in a childish temper tantrum, Joe had thrown his drink across the room at her, demanding she give up this foolishness and drop out of school altogether. As the man of the house, he was deeply insulted