A Little Town In Texas. Bethany Campbell

independence?”

      His jaw tightened. “A man should have loyalties,” he said.

      “Your brother didn’t?”

      “That’s talking about my brother. I don’t want to do that.”

      She inched her chair a bit closer to the table, to him. “Fine. I’d rather hear about you. Why didn’t you fit in?”

      Mel gave her an odd look. “You know, you’re really a good listener.”

      She shrugged modestly. “I’m just interested. You seem like the sort of guy who’d be captain of the football team, president of the student council, homecoming king, all that.”

      His smile went almost shy. He rubbed his upper lip again. “No. Track team. That’s all.”

      She traced a question mark on the tabletop. “So. What were you running from?”

      “I could ask you the same thing. You were in track. Were you running to something? Or from something?”

      She shook her head. “No fair. The deal is that I learn about you first. So tell me. What made you feel different from other people? That your family didn’t have money?”

      “Lots of people don’t have money,” he said, a frown line deepening between his dark brows. “Most people don’t.”

      “Then what was it?” she asked softly.

      His frown changed from thoughtful to unhappy. “It’s really no big deal. It just seemed so then. It doesn’t—”

      The waiter interrupted them. He set a plate with a sandwich and pickle before Kitt and an empty plate before Mel. “I’ll let you two divide the goodies.” To Mel he said, “Do you want the check now or later?”

      “I’ll take it now,” Mel said.

      “No, no,” Kitt protested. “It should be checks, not check. We’re not together. We’re just sharing this table—”

      The smile died on the waiter’s round face. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “You looked like a couple. You acted like you belonged together—excuse me. My mistake. Sorry.”

      “It’s been my pleasure,” Mel said, “and it’ll be my treat.” He handed the man two twenties. “Keep the change.”

      The waiter grinned and eased off into the crowd.

      “No,” Kitt said to Mel. “Let me pay my share. I insist—”

      “I said it’s my pleasure. Maybe I can see you while you’re in Austin. Does your aunt live in the city?”

      “Um, no,” Kitt said carefully. “Kind of—outside it. But you were saying?”

      “Nothing, really,” he said. “Put part of that sandwich on this plate, will you?”

      Damn, she thought. He’d been about to reveal something. How could she steer this conversation back on track?

      She heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. It wasn’t hers. It was his.

      He looked irritated at being interrupted, but his voice was pleasant. “DeJames. How are you, my man?” His face hardened and he gazed at Kitt. “Which magazine?” he asked. “Her name is Katherine what?”

      The change in his expression was both remarkable and frightening. Kitt felt a swell of foreboding.

      “Repeat that description,” he said into the phone, never taking his eyes from hers. As he listened, the set of his mouth grew harsher. “Got it,” he said. “Thanks.” He snapped the phone off.

      His stare didn’t waver. Kitt’s face grew hot and her heartbeat speeded in dread.

      “That was my office,” he said from between clenched teeth. “With a warning. About a reporter.”

      “Well,” she said, “I’ll be going now.” She put her hand on the table to push her chair back and escape.

      With cobra-like swiftness his arm shot out, his hand pinning hers in place. “Stay put,” he ordered. “It’s you. From Exclusive magazine.”

      “Yes,” she said. “I never said otherwi—”

      “You were pumping me.”

      “Well, I—”

      She squirmed, trying to slip away from his grasp, but he held her fast. “Visiting your aunt. Pathetic.”

      “I do have an aunt,” she interjected.

      “Uptown Girls. What a cheap ruse. Using sex to lead me on.”

      “You’re the one who brought sex into—”

      “You little liar,” he said. He released her hand as if letting go of something hopelessly soiled.

      “Look,” she began, “you followed me in here. You assumed—”

      It was too late. He had already risen and was disappearing into the crowd. Her face burned with shame and anger. She rose, stood on tiptoes, and cried out after him, “You haven’t seen the last of me, you know!”

      People glanced at her oddly. She sat back in her seat, feeling small and devious. She shouldn’t have led him on. She wished she hadn’t. But he had started it, and not from the purest of motives. To hell with him.

      Her shame died. Her anger sank into a hot, hard ember that she could nurse for a long time and use against him.

      She thought about what she had done, and she forgave herself. She ate her half of the sandwich. Then, with a philosophic shrug, she picked up his and ate it, too.

      CHAPTER THREE

      HER TAUNT RANG in Mel’s ears: “You haven’t seen the last of me….”

      He vowed that she’d heard the last of him. He’d sooner cut his tongue out than talk with her again, the lying little minx.

      Angrily he strode to the nearest Avis desk to rent a car. He’d be damned if he’d get on the same plane as Kitt Mitchell—she’d probably smirk all the way to Austin.

      It was going to be rotten enough to be trapped in the same county with her. She’d be covering the Bluebonnet Meadows battle, and that meant she’d lurk, stalk, spy and breathe down his neck. Tough.

      He could not only stonewall her, he could ruin her. Soothing himself with this pleasant prospect, he tossed his carry-ons into the back of the rented luxury car.

      He should sic the most rapacious sharks in Fabian’s legal department on that deceiving redhead. Have one of the media experts phone her magazine, threaten action and get her cute little butt fired—that’d teach her.

      If Fabian wanted, he could get her blackballed forever from respectable journalism. She’d be lucky to get a job writing space alien stories for the cheesiest tabloid.

      Obsessively he listed and relisted the sins of Kitt Mitchell. She’d solicited information under false pretences. She’d used her pixyish face and wide blue eyes to lead him on. She’d shamelessly offered sex as bait—oh, yes, he’d have the office throw the book at her.

      No, I won’t, he thought in self-disgust as he drove. Be honest. He was thinking like a bully and an oaf. What had happened was his fault, far more than hers. That’s what made him sick with anger.

      She hadn’t set a trap for him; he’d set it for himself. Then, like a fool, he’d barged straight into it. He’d thought she was cute and feisty, and he’d heeded his hormones instead of his brain.

      His disgust didn’t disappear; it merely changed its target. Sure, he could punish her because he had the power—or Fabian did. But the author of Mel’s shame was not Kitt Mitchell, but himself.

      Still, she was a threat to the job he had to do