That Man Matthews. Ann Evans

to discuss the details of the case.”

      She frowned, unable to hide her surprise. “Mr. Matthews—”

      “I’m kidding,” he said with a laugh. “You need to lighten up, Miss Paxton. Are you always so serious?”

      The teasing glint disappeared from his blue eyes, and for a moment she was stunned by the curious intimacy of his gaze. It reminded her of those moments at the table when her hand had been on his arm. She felt the power of physical awareness arc between them, a temptation to reckless things. It was gone in an instant.

      Unsettled, she found her voice, wishing him a safe trip back to Texas.

      “Pack for hot weather,” he instructed.

      She nodded blindly, but just as she was closing the door behind him, he snagged the edge of it with his hand. “One more thing,” he added, and an unholy grin laced his features with subtle mischief. “This belt buckle is special. It was a gift from my daughter, so I wouldn’t advise telling her what you really think of it.”

      He was gone before she could ask what he meant by that. Scowling, she leaned against the door. While she didn’t like that silly buckle, she’d never said a word to him about it, had she? She’d only—

      The blood drained from Joan’s cheeks. The list. All his flaws itemized on paper. What had she done with it? She hurried to the dining-room table where the papers Cody Matthews had retrieved from the floor now lay neatly stacked.

      Two envelopes down, right beneath the electric bill, lay the list she’d compiled—What Makes Cody Matthews So Obnoxious. The words practically leaped off the page. “Poor taste in clothes—especially belt buckles!”

      Scathing.

      Satisfyingly petty.

      And listed right below it, where he could not have failed to read it, “Beautiful bedroom eyes.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      HE SHOULD HAVE SENT one of the ranch hands to pick her up.

      In twenty-four hours he had to be in Dallas, negotiating his way past a school of legal sharks determined to chew up his plans for the property he’d bought in San Antonio. He should be gearing himself up for the mental gymnastics of that confrontation. Not bumping along the dusty, knotted ribbon of road that led to Luna D’Oro with Miss Joan Paxton seated primly beside him on the sun-cracked seat of the ranch pickup.

      The truck smelled like feed-store molasses and needed new shocks. It was rattling the fillings right out of his teeth, for Pete’s sake. He should have thought to bring the Rover. But it had been an impulse decision to pluck the keys from Tomas’s hand at the last minute to run this errand himself.

      He slid a glance across the seat as the pickup lurched into and then out of a pothole. The woman looked tired and uncomfortable, trying to hang on to that ramrod posture of hers, in spite of every rut and curve that threatened to toss her around the cab like a pea in a hollow gourd.

      She’d hardly said two words since they’d left San Antonio. There was a pinched look around her lips, and he wondered if some grievance against him was fermenting in her. She was probably angry because he’d taken one look at her expensive luggage, snorted in disgust and then tossed the bags into the truck bed with little more respect than he’d give sacks of grain.

      He hadn’t been able to help himself. In spite of his suggestion that she dress in casual, comfortable clothing, she’d come off the plane looking like a Madison Avenue executive: tailored suit, designer attaché case and an air of indomitability. She looked primed for a nine-o’clock appointment with a company president, not a twelve-year-old child. Cody knew that the moment Sarah saw her she’d become as balky as a barn-sour nag.

      He felt some of his old rebellion and resentment rise. How could this haughty blue blood succeed where he could not? What had he seen in Joan Paxton that day in her apartment to make him think she’d have some special talent for figuring out what the hell was wrong with Sarah? The woman had admitted she wasn’t in the business of working miracles, so why had he pushed her to take the job?

      ’Cause you’re flat-out desperate, that’s why. And if he wanted to deny that, he had only to remember last night—the latest go-round with Sarah over the poor showing she’d made for the school year.

      She was already barely hanging on by her teeth in two subjects. Last week Miss Beasley had sent home a note about Sarah’s final exam.

      Maybe he ought to float the latest problem past Joan Paxton and get her opinion. No sense stalling. Hells bells, wasn’t that the reason he’d brought her here? He chewed the inside of his cheek a moment, thinking that the woman had one heck of a challenge ahead of her.

      “Sarah’s in the doghouse with me right now.” He broke the silence. “I’d like to think that means she’ll be on her best behavior, but there’s no telling how she’ll react to you.”

      Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head swing in his direction. “Given what you’ve told me, I’m not expecting to be welcomed with open arms,” she said mildly. “What did you tell Sarah was the reason for my coming here?”

      “I told her that I knew she was having a hard time in school lately. At home, too. And that I didn’t seem to be helping the situation much. I said you were an educational expert for children her age, and that you might be able to give us some advice.”

      “How did she respond to that?”

      “Suspicious looks. A surly attitude. We ended up in an argument.”

      “Over what?”

      “Her school progress reports this year have been going steadily downhill. Math. Science. Now history. Just before Sarah’s last test, her teacher, Miss Beasley, sent home a note saying that because she didn’t finish some big semester project, if she got anything less than a B on her exam she’d ‘jeopardize her chances for promotion.’ Which, if I remember correctly, is diplomatic teacher talk for being held back a year.”

      “So how did Sarah do?”

      “She thinks she passed the test. We won’t know for sure until we pick up her grades at the end of this week. But she’s all in a huff. She got a real attitude when Beasley claimed she hadn’t turned in the written portion of her project.”

      “What kind of attitude?”

      “She called Miss Beasley a liar.”

      He sensed her grimacing reaction. “And your response to that?”

      Cody took his eyes off the road for a moment to meet her inquiring gaze. “Personally, I think Miss Beasley is still the same dried-up, embittered old biddy she was when I had her as a kid, but I couldn’t let Sarah call her teacher a liar. I lectured her until I ran out of breath and then sent her to her room without supper. I told her if she got held back a year, she could kiss her horse goodbye.” He snorted, remembering what a storm of protest that comment had brought. “She still wasn’t speaking to me this morning. When I told her I would be back around noon and she’d better be there ready to meet you at lunch, she just looked at me.”

      Joan Paxton nodded absently, and he wished he could tell what she was thinking. He switched his attention back to the highway.

      “Why do you think she called her teacher a liar?” she asked after a long silence. “Why not just call her mean or crazy or too hard? Why specifically that accusation?”

      He thought about it a moment, but came up empty. “I don’t know. Maybe she felt cornered. Maybe she’d got caught not completing an assignment,” he said at last, “and that was the first thing she could think to say.”

      “Is it possible she did complete it? That Miss Beasley is wrong?”

      That approach surprised him. He’d expected her to state Sarah’s behavior was classic ADD. “I’d like to think that Beasley’s wrong,