One Ticket To Texas. Jan Hudson

there’s an idea that appeals to me. My mama always said, ‘It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.’”

      “I thought that your father was a butcher.”

      Irish waved off the comment. “Mama was a slow learner.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward, staring at a young Lauren Bacall. “I didn’t have her kind of luck in New York. I wonder where one goes nowadays to find millionaires—the kind that are good-looking, single and itching for a meaningful relationship?”

      “Texas.”

      Irish and Olivia turned to Kim, who at twenty was the youngest member of the household. “Texas?” they echoed in unison.

      “Sure. My...boss is a millionaire and from Texas.”

      “But your boss is a woman. Remember, Congress-woman Ellen O’Hara.”

      “Yes, but she has a couple of younger brothers and two cousins who are single and rolling in dough.”

      “Fat and bald, right? And short?”

      Kim grinned. “Nope. Not the ones I’ve seen. They’re quite good-looking. And tall. Want me to borrow their photographs from the office and bring them home?”

      “Not for me,” Olivia said. “I’m not interested.”

      Irish sat up. “I am. I’ll be thirty next February. I’d like to be snuggly settled into a nice Dallas mansion and driving a Beemer by my birthday. I’m sick of selling cosmetics at Macy’s and trying to hustle freelance articles on beauty tips to keep up the payments on my little car. Which one of her brothers is tall, dark and the richest and the most handsome?”

      Kim cocked her head. “Well, that probably would be Jackson, but he doesn’t live in Dallas. Although the cousins...”

      “Enough said. Jackson it is. How do I meet this guy?”

      Olivia looked aghast. “You can’t be serious. You wouldn’t judge a potential husband simply by the size of his bank account.”

      “I wouldn’t? Pray tell, why not?”

      “What about love?” Kim asked. “What about passion?”

      “What about it? Passion is vastly overrated. I want security in my old age. Besides, I find money very sexy.” Irish glanced at the movie, then watched intently for a few minutes. As the story unfolded, wheels and gears spun to life in her head. With a devilish gleam in her eyes, she turned to her roommates and said, “We need to map out a strategy.”

      One

      When Irish Ellison rattled the padlocked chain on the gate and it didn’t budge, her spirits sank deeper than the high heels of her new suede boots into the soft ground.

      “Drive through the gate and continue for another half mile,” Ellen Crow O’Hara’s secretary had said. But how the heck was she supposed to drive through a locked gate?

      Thoroughly disgusted, Irish picked her way back to the Mercedes she’d rented over two hours before at the airport in Dallas. Things weren’t turning out the way she’d planned at all. She’d gone for broke on the scheme she and her roommates had hatched. She’d maxed out her credit card on a seductive wardrobe and had wrangled an advance from an editor friend at Esprit for an article about young Texas millionaires at play. The advance had covered her ticket to Texas and the car rental. Her food and lodging at Crow’s Nest, Jackson Crow’s golf retreat beyond the locked gate and in the middle of nowhere, were supposed to be compliments of Ellen’s brother.

      Or so the secretary had said.

      Her stomach growled. Lunchtime.

      Had she made a wrong turn somewhere?

      She had no alternative except to go back the way she’d come and find a phone. After several minutes of muttering and maneuvering, she turned the car in the narrow space and retraced her route to the highway. There wasn’t a single house in sight, only thickly wooded areas interspersed with grassy fields dotted with big machines that looked like giant black grasshoppers bobbing their heads up and down.

      When she reached the highway intersection, Irish turned into the parking lot of a quaint log building. The sign over the front door proclaimed: Cherokee Pete’s Trading Post. In smaller letters it said: Grocery Store, Indian Museum, and Tourist Tepees, Pete Beamon, Prop.

      To the left of the log building were four large, garishly painted tepees fashioned of something that looked like stucco or cement. Irish wrinkled her nose at the tacky structures, got out of the Benz and went inside the trading post.

      Not a soul was in sight. If you didn’t count the wooden fellows in feathered headdresses.

      “Yoo-hoo,” she called.

      Silence.

      She ventured a few steps into the dim interior filled with cluttered shelves of merchandise, a refrigerated case and a long wooden bar. Toward one end of the room two tables with chairs sat near a potbellied stove, and assorted merchandise—from saddles to shovels to souvenirs and bushel baskets of sweet potatoes—filled almost every available space. “Anybody here?”

      More silence.

      Spooky silence.

      Then a rapid rattling like distant castanets whispered through the air.

      Suddenly apprehensive, she backed out of the place and closed the door quietly.

      Irish stood on the long porch, feeling frustrated and contemplating her next move, when a whining noise to her right captured her attention. The sound seemed to be something like a motorbike, and it came from a log shed a few yards away from the trading post.

      She headed in that direction, carefully making her way over the soft ground, tiptoeing to preserve her boots from further destruction. When she rounded the corner and could see inside the shed, she went dead still.

      Her eyes widened and her heart almost leapt out of her chest when she saw the man standing there.

      But this wasn’t just any man. Dressed in only a white cowboy hat, boots and low-slung jeans, he was about six and a half feet of blatant male pulchritude. The sinewy muscles of his arms and shoulders bunched and rippled as he wielded a small chain saw.

      Never had a man affected Irish so immediately or so viscerally as this one did. Seductive masculinity pulsated from his core and cast an aura around him like the glow of a sizzling neon sign. She could only stand there, openmouthed and mute, and stare at him. At bits of sawdust caught in his light chest hair and at beads of sweat glistening on his spectacular pecs, on his lean, muscled abdomen where the skin glistened golden tan. His jaw was as finely carved as the huge wooden bear he worked on with the chain saw. Unbelievably handsome, he had wonderful high cheekbones, a perfect nose.

      And his eyes...his eyes took her breath away as their mind-blowing blue bored into hers.

      He lopped off one of the bear’s ears.

      “Damn!”

      He killed the chain saw and laid it aside.

      Mortified by the sudden amputation she’d caused, Irish said, “Oh God, I’m sorry I startled you. Now your thing is ruined.”

      “My thing?” he asked in a deep, sexy voice that resonated inside her from gut to womb to toes.

      She felt her face heat. If she hadn’t known better, Irish would have sworn that she blushed, but she hadn’t blushed since she was in puberty. She gestured toward the rough carving. “The bear.”

      He flashed a blinding smile that, if she hadn’t already been awe-struck, would have laid her low. He removed his goggles, repositioned his hat over his damp blond hair and patted the bear’s head. “No problem. We’ll just rename him Vince.”

      Mesmerized, she continued to gape at him as all sorts of switches were being thrown inside her body. “Vince?”