Texas Glory. Joan Elliott Pickart

was just so aware of Bram Bishop sitting beyond the enormous toy. It was as though he was emanating a masculine current that crackled and hummed over and around her.

      She somehow knew that he was sliding glances her way, scrutinizing her from head to toe. She could feel the heat radiating from Bram’s gorgeous blue eyes as his gaze touched her body, causing her skin to first tingle, then draw the warmth inward, deep and low

      Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. But then again, she reasoned, she couldn’t remember ever being quite this exhausted. Of course. That had to be the answer to her overreaction to Bram’s blatant male sexuality. Her state of total fatigue.

      But even though there was a reasonable explanation for her being flustered by Mr. Bishop, it was still disconcerting and definitely unacceptable.

      Well, there was only one solution. Bram couldn’t sneak little peeks at her body if she was talking to him. She could keep those compelling, dangerous eyes of his centered on her face if she chatted with him

      “So, Bram, what do you do in Houston?” Glory asked pleasantly.

      Bram jerked in his seat at the sudden sound of Glory’s voice.

      “When?” Bram asked, just as pleasantly.

      Glory frowned. “When?”

      “Yeah, you know, are you asking what I do for a living during the day? Or—” his voice seemed to drop an octave “—what I do at night in my private time? What hours exactly are you interested in?”

      This had not been a good idea, Glory thought. Talking to Bram was not solving the problem of the strange heat swirling through her. He’d taken an ordinary what-do-you-think-of-the-weather type question and somehow turned it into a sensuous image-evoking event....

      Bram Bishop at night, in a room glowing with candlelight. Tall, ruggedly handsome Bram, reaching out those powerful arms to draw a woman close and... A woman? Oh, why not.... Go for it, Glory. Bram pulling her into his embrace, pinning her in place with those blue, blue eyes, then slowly, tantalizingly lowering his head toward her lips and...

      “Glory?”

      “Who?” Glory blinked. “What?” She sighed. “Never mind. I’m really too tired for chit-chat, I guess. I apologize if I’ve been rude in any way, Bram. I’m not at my best, by any means. I’m going to shut up until we land. It was nice meeting you. Goodbye.”

      “I own Bishop Construction,” Bram said quickly. “Would you like me to build you a house?” He smiled. “A patio? How about a gazebo? You strike me as the type of lady who would really enjoy a gazebo.”

      “I do? I don’t think... No, I know, I’ve never sat in a gazebo.”

      “Why not?”

      “Well, I haven’t had the opportunity or the time, I guess.”

      “Ms. Glory Carson, you should correct that as soon as possible.” Bram nodded decisively. “You’re definitely a gazebo person.

      “Hey, don’t misunderstand me here. This isn’t a sales pitch to have you hire me to build you a gazebo. I simply picture you really liking one.

      “Let’s see now,” Bram went on. “You’d wear a summer dress, one of those filmy, swishy things, and a wide-brimmed hat. Yes, that’s good. Don’t forget the hat. And—” he grinned “—your hair would be down, loose. Yep, that’s you, all right.”

      It certainly was not, Glory thought. The verbal picture Bram was painting was of a woman with idle hours, who was whimsical and romantic. That definitely was not who Dr. Glory Carson was.

      “Well,” she said, “if I ever decide to have a gazebo built, I’ll give you a call.”

      “Speaking of calling,” Bram said, “I was wondering if you’d be comfortable giving me your telephone number so I could—”

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said, “we’ll be landing in Houston in five minutes. Please be certain that your seat belts...”

      Damn, Bram thought, tuning out the remainder of the attendant’s message. Glory had retreated behind the panda, was checking her seat belt and fiddling with her purse. There was a briefcase under the seat in front of her. Cripe, he hadn’t even found out what she did for a living.

      Why had she been in Austin? What had she been doing to become so exhausted? Where did she live in Houston? What was her telephone number?

      Who was Glory Carson?

      If his brothers knew how badly he’d blown the opportunity to gather information about a possible wife candidate, they’d razz him from now until next Tuesday.

      Well, all was not lost.

      They still had to land, exit the plane and walk up the tunnel. Before he was separated from Glory in the crunch of people in the terminal, he was definitely going to find out how to contact her.

      He had no intention of losing track of her, because he had every intention of seeing Ms. Glory Carson again.

      Two

      Bram sank onto the sofa in his living room and muttered a word his mother would never have allowed to be spoken under her roof.

      It was totally unbelievable, he mentally fumed, reflecting on the mayhem that had arisen the moment the powers that be had given permission for the passengers of the airplane to leave their seats.

      He’d leaned over to retrieve the panda and to tell Glory Carson that he wished to speak to her—his intention being the request of her telephone number—when a little old lady, who looked no bigger than an elf, had asked him if he’d please retrieve her parcel from the overhead compartment, dear boy?

      Two more women tagged him for the same job, as well as one short, stocky man. When he’d finally been able to return to his seat, the panda was still there, grinning like an idiot, but Glory was gone.

      His last hope had been the luggage claim area, but no Glory Carson appeared to snatch a suitcase from the rotating jumble of luggage. Apparently she had been in Austin for a short enough stay to have a carryon in the overhead compartment like the rest of the world.

      “Damn it,” Bram said, then lunged to his feet. “The telephone book!”

      Twenty minutes later, Bram smacked the large book shut and glowered into space.

      Nothing, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. He’d looked up every spelling of Carson imaginable. He’d even called directory assistance and come up empty. The operator had found a Dr. G. Carson, but Bram hadn’t bothered to ask for the number.

      No, Glory wasn’t a doctor, for Pete’s sake. They’d covered the Ms. versus Mrs. bit on the plane. If Glory was a doctor, she would have said so at the time.

      Bram began to pace, the large living room accommodating his long, heavy strides back and forth across the chocolate-colored carpeting.

      He’d decorated his apartment on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise in earth tones: brown, oatmeal, yellow, burnt orange and deep green. The knickknacks and pictures were of a Southwestern motif, the furniture oversize to allow for his height. The color scheme, he’d told his mother, represented Texas, which was exactly the way he wanted it.

      He’d decided years before that even though he owned a construction company, he wouldn’t build himself a house until he was ready to marry and settle down. Then he would draw up plans with his wife’s input to create a home, not just a structure with the label of “home.”

      But here he was, thirty-three years old, more than ready to find the woman of his dreams, have babies with her, build that special home.

      Here he was, alone and lonely.

      And he’d let a very viable wife candidate in the form of Ms. Glory Carson slip through his fingers.

      “Man,”