Как ни в чем не бывало. Алексей Толстой

straight on. “Speaking of that, what exactly do you do for a living?”

      The suspicion in his tone ruffled her feminine feathers. “It doesn’t involve a nine hundred number or a pimp, I promise you that.”

      Now he looked amused. “Glad you cleared the air.”

      So was she, and she planned to be perfectly clear. “In reality, I’m—”

      “Wait. Let me guess.” He inclined his head and pointed at her. “You’re a stockbroker and you want to get your hands on my investments.”

      She might like to get her hands on something of his that happened to be a far cry from his portfolio. Since when had she become a purveyor of naughty thoughts? “Not even close.”

      He rubbed a palm over his chin. “I would bet the back forty you have an accounting degree.”

      If he only knew about her lack of accounting skills, he would never have assumed such a thing. That downfall had landed her in deep trouble and served as another reason for being there, about to beg for employment. “Believe me, math is not my forte.”

      “Marketing?”

      In an effort to clear her parched throat, Paris took a quick sip of water. “Try again.”

      His gaze landed on her fingers still wrapped around the glass. “Considering your perfectly manicured nails, I’m guessing you’re not a ranch hand.”

      “I haven’t even seen a cow up close.”

      “Not even on your dinner plate in the form of filet mignon?”

      “I’m primarily a vegetarian.”

      “I’m strictly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”

      What a shocker. “I won’t judge your food preferences if you won’t judge mine.”

      “Agreed.” He took off his hat to place it brim up on the desk, then forked a hand through his dark brown hair that worked well with those deadly blue eyes. “If you’re a beautician, I don’t need one. Just a quick round with the clippers and I’m good to go.”

      Yes, he was. Good enough to go anywhere he might want to take her. “No, I’m not a hairstylist. Do you give up now?”

      “Yep. I’m all out of guesses.”

      The time had come to lay all her cards on the table, less a few secrets he didn’t need to know. “I’m a commercial interior designer.” Disgraced designer.

      “No kidding?” he said, sounding somewhat awed over the admission.

      “No kidding. And that’s why I’m here. I wanted to speak to you about—”

      “Hey, Dallas, I’m about to head out.”

      Paris shifted in her seat to see a young, buff blond guy filling the doorway. Aside from the tattered jeans and worn cowboy boots, he looked more surfer than rancher. Or body builder in light of the fit of the lime-green T-shirt hugging his muscled arms and torso.

      “Where are you going now?” Dallas asked, looking and sounding none too pleased.

      “To the beach for the weekend,” the stranger replied as he strode to the wet bar.

      Aha! Paris had pegged him right on his surfer status, though she still didn’t know his relationship to the Calloways. He certainly didn’t resemble Dallas.

      “Did you talk to Fort yet, Worth?” Dallas asked.

      “I called him,” the man with the unusual name said as he pulled a soda from the fridge and popped it open. “But he’s still pissed I left him high and dry and came here. He refuses to call me back.”

      “Figures,” Dallas muttered. “By the way, does Houston know you’re leaving?”

      “Yeah, and Austin’s agreed to hang around in case any of the heifers calve.”

      “That’s good because Tyler’s going to be gone until Monday.”

      Paris felt as though she’d just gone on a Cities of Texas tour. Without further hesitation, she stood to face Surfer Worth and smiled, bent on introducing herself since her potential boss evidently wasn’t going to do the honors. “Hi, my name is Paris Reynolds.”

      Worth grinned and shook her extended hand, revealing the same dimple Dallas sported. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Are you a friend of my big brother’s?”

      That confirmed her supposition that he was a Calloway sibling, although she couldn’t recall any mention of him in any of the press releases she’d recently read. “Actually, we just met today.”

      Worth winked. “Well, if he doesn’t treat you right, you’re welcome to come to Padre Island with me. I’m a helluva lot more fun.”

      And way too young for her, Paris decided. Plus, she had always been attracted to brown-haired men, like the one seated not far away.

      Dallas pointed at the door. “Get out, Worthless. Ms. Reynolds doesn’t need you coming on to her.”

      Worth backed toward the exit with hands held up, palms forward. “All right. And when you find out where the hell you left your sense of humor, let me know.”

      With that, the younger Calloway son winked at Paris again before striding out of the room.

      “I apologize for his behavior,” Dallas said as he resumed holding cowboy court from his place behind the desk.

      Paris dropped back down into her designated chair. “No need. He seems relatively harmless.”

      “He’s a skirt chaser, according to his mother, and I’ve seen more than enough evidence of that fact.”

      The identity of Worth’s mother didn’t require a lot of guessing. “Is that Jenny?”

      “Yeah, my father’s third wife. Maria is the second.”

      “And your mother is?”

      Dallas’s gaze drifted away for a moment. “Gone. She died when I was pretty young.”

      “I’m sorry, Dallas.” And she sincerely was. “I’m sure that’s been really difficult for you.”

      “Not so much,” he said. “I barely remember her. Now let’s get back to the reason why you’re here.”

      Being summarily dismissed wasn’t all that surprising to Paris. Most men clammed up when it came to emotional issues, including her own father. “Well, as I was saying, I’m a commercial interior designer, and since it’s apparent you’ll need my services soon, I’m here to apply for the position.”

      He frowned. “Why do you believe I need an interior decorator?”

      She wasn’t certain if he was kidding, or he really didn’t have a clue. “Look, I saw an article in the San Antonio paper about this Texas Extreme project and how you’re going to cater to people who want to enjoy the whole high-risk rodeo experience.” Though she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do that. “I also read about your plans to build a lodge to house your guests, and that’s where I come in. I would like the opportunity to oversee the design of that lodge.”

      “We haven’t even broken ground yet,” he said. “In fact, we haven’t seen the final plans from the architect.”

      That could definitely work to her advantage. “All the better. If I’m involved in the beginning, then I can make suggestions that will only enhance the guests’ experience. I have extensive knowledge in hotel design. I have a strong attention to detail and—”

      “Ms. Reynolds—”

      “Paris.”

      “Okay, Paris, first of all, these guests are wannabe cowboys. They don’t need a fancy room. They only need a bunk and a bathroom. Hell, they might be satisfied with an outhouse