At The Playboy's Command: Millionaire Playboy, Maverick Heiress. Robyn Grady

considered him for a moment before her expression eased and she lowered back down. “Well, if you have time. It goes way back to the War with Mexico. Did you notice the park next to the club headquarters?”

      He got comfortable. “Sure.”

      “Back in the early eighteen hundreds, just beyond that park, a parcel of missionaries set themselves up. The adobe church is still there. You’d know all about those.”

      “Vaulted ceiling,” he said. “Naves that were slightly taller than they were wide. Few windows although the light was organized to illuminate the altar to dramatic effect. The walls needed constant remudding to stand a chance against the New World elements.”

      She sent an impressed smile. “Ten out of ten.”

      Sitting back, they let Barb fill their cups before going on.

      “Back in the War with Mexico,” she said, when the waitress had left, “around 1846, a Texas solider found a fallen comrade. The soldier tried to save his life, but it was too late. It wasn’t until he was burying the body that he came upon the jewels. A black opal, an emerald and a red diamond. The dead man had no identification so the solider decided he’d take the jewels back with him to Royal. They’re so rare, each on its own is priceless, back then as well as now.”

      “Did anyone ever find out why the fallen soldier had them?”

      “Never, which makes the legend all the more mysterious, don’t you think?”

      He grinned, spooning sugar into his cup. “So how do these gems relate to the plaque?”

      “Apparently red diamonds are the gems of kings. That’s how the first quality of the plaque came to be—leadership. The black harlequin opal is perhaps the rarest. It’s said that this particular type of opal possesses healing powers and also an inner light that illuminates honesty, integrity or, more simply, justice.”

      “The plaque’s second quality. And the emerald?” he asked, thinking of how her eyes were sparkling like priceless jewels as she spoke.

      “For many centuries around the world emeralds have been thought to be the stone of peacemakers.”

      “Leadership, Justice and Peace.” He nodded and smiled. “Nice. So where are these mysterious jewels now?”

      “No one knows for sure. The story goes that the soldier had wanted sell them, buy an even bigger spread, build himself a whopping great mansion. But when he got home he struck oil.”

      “Black gold.”

      “Ended up he didn’t need to sell the jewels to make it rich.”

      “Has anyone ever tried to find them?”

      “Way back, even before Tex Langley’s time—”

      “The founder of the Cattleman’s Club.”

      “That’s right. A group of men got together, the legend goes, to guard the stones. Others say they were simply some of Royal’s leading citizens who’d made a pact to protect the town and its citizens. There are even some disbelievers who say those men just made up the story to build their motto around.”

      “You don’t believe that?”

      Her eyes flashed. “The legend’s far more exciting.”

      “So, if the jewels exist, where do you think they are now?”

      “Somewhere safe. Not that Royal’s big on crime. We’re big on oil and cattle.”

      “There are always visitors,” he said, looking at her over the rim of his cup as he sipped.

      She sent him a teasing look. “Are you aiming to go treasure hunting?”

      He laughed and set his cup down. “Not this visit. You look as if the thought of a treasure hunt excites you.”

      “I like finding new and beautiful things. A painting I can look at all day long. A song that gives me goose bumps because the words and tune are so full of meaning. Know what I mean?”

      He smiled, nodded. Yeah, he knew.

      “What’s your favorite piece?” he asked.

      “Of music?”

      “Of treasure.”

      She stared into her cup for a long moment, considering. “I don’t know that I have one.” Her glittering eyes met his. “At least not yet.” She tipped forward. “Do you have any hidden treasures?”

      The question took him aback. He did have one. Something he rarely took out because it was that precious. It mightn’t make sense to some, but the feelings it evoked … he could barely bring himself to look at it. But Elizabeth didn’t need to know any of that.

      “No,” he lied. “I have nothing like that.” Straightening, he finger combed hair fallen over his forehead. “Any more Royal stories I should hear?”

      “It’d take all day to go over this town’s history.” She glanced at the clock above the jukebox. “And you have a flight to catch. Have you told Abigail you’re leaving?”

      “Not yet.”

      “She’ll be disappointed.”

       Or relieved.

      He set aside the pang of guilt and disappointment in himself and laid another bill on the table. Glancing at his empty cup, he angled his legs out from beneath the table.

      “Better get back to the hotel to pack.”

      “I’m headed that way. Mind if I tag along?”

      He should have at least hesitated. He was leaving. No need to prolong this impromptu meeting. Get any more involved. But as he found his feet, he heard himself say, “Not at all.”

      That waitress stopped taking an order to watch them walk by and, it seemed, every other person they passed as they strolled down the street gave a curious smile and tip of their head. But Daniel didn’t care how many tongues would wag. Soon he’d be back home where a person could truly lose himself in the rush, although he wasn’t looking forward to the cooler weather, particularly after today’s pleasant change. Rather than shrugging into his coat, he folded it over an arm and, with a valid reason, inspected Elizabeth’s attire.

      “No need for your fur today.”

      She flashed a cheeky smile. “It’s not a real fur.”

      He tucked in his chin. “Not real? It looks so …”

      “Expensive? It is. For a fake.”

      “That foxtail belt?”

      “Imitation, too. One thing I did change at home was the so-called trophy room.” Despite the sun, she visibly shivered. “From as far back as I can recall, I’ve hated the thought of those walls.” She shot him a look. “Was your father into hunting?”

      “He used to be.” When his stomach swooped a sick loop, Daniel cleared his throat and changed tack slightly. “He’s into the law now more than ever. He’s a judge.”

      “Did he want you to study the law, too?”

      “He demanded that I did.” Glaring dead ahead, he set his jaw. “Only made me more determined not to.”

      She pretended to gape at him. “Why, Daniel Warren, you’re a rebel.”

      “It’s not rebellious to want to live your own life.”

      Decide when to come and when to go. He caught her downcast look. That last comment had obviously got her thinking about her own predicament, and so he swerved the conversation back onto a higher note.

      “I wanted to do something different.”

      She nodded a greeting to a middle-aged couple walking their dachshund then asked, “What got you interested in architecture?”