The Texan's Contested Claim. Katherine Garbera

the Bob Bullock Museum.”

      “Have you lived here all your life?” he asked.

      She chuckled, amused that he would mistake her for a native. “No. I’d think my northern accent would give me away.”

      “Northern?” he repeated, then shook his head and speared a plump strawberry with his fork. “Trust me. Whatever accent you had was lost to a Texas twang long ago.”

      “Really?” she said, considering that the ultimate compliment.

      “Really. Throw in a couple more y’alls and you could pass for Sue Ellen from the Dallas TV series.”

      “Wow. That really takes me back. I watched that show when I was a kid. Sue Ellen, J.R., Bobby….” Hiding a smile, she shook her head. “The Ewing family was so dysfunctional, they made mine look like the Waltons.” Reaching the end of the island where the coffeemaker sat, she lifted the carafe. “More coffee?”

      “None for me.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then set it beside his plate. “You’ve mentioned your family several times and not necessarily in a good light.”

      She shrugged. “Just being honest. My parents are strange people.” She carried the carafe to the sink. “If you have any food preferences,” she said, changing the subject, “let me know. I try to accommodate my guests’ tastes whenever I can.”

      When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder and found him frowning at her back. “Is something wrong?”

      He shook his head. “No. I…I was just wondering if you’d have time to drive me around today.”

      Her stomach clenched at the thought of being trapped in a car with him all day. “If you’re worried about getting lost, I can provide you with plenty of maps.”

      “I don’t need a map. It’s your opinion I want, as well as your knowledge of the area. You seem to know the city well and can probably offer me insight on things I wouldn’t think to ask.”

      “I don’t know,” she said slowly, while trying to think of a plausible excuse to refuse him. “I’ve got a lot to do today. I finished boxing up all the Christmas decorations yesterday, but I still need to carry all the crates to the attic.”

      “Tell you what,” he said. “If you’ll act as my tour guide for the day, I’ll help you haul the crates upstairs. And,” he added, as if sensing her reluctance, “I’ll compensate you for your time.”

      “You’ll pay me?” she said in surprise.

      “Yes.”

      He named an amount that made her jaw drop. “That’s more than some people pay for a car!”

      “I assure you I can afford it.” He lifted a brow. “So? Do we have a deal?”

      “Well, yeah,” she said, then stuck out a hand, fearing he’d try to renege on the deal later. “In Texas, a man’s handshake is as good as his word.”

      He took her hand. “Is it the same for a woman?”

      The tingle started in the center of her palm and worked its way up her arm. Wondering what it was about him that spawned the sensation, she curled her fingers into a fist against her palm.

      “Yeah,” she said, surprised by the breathy quality in her voice. “Same goes.”

      If the computer industry ever bottomed-out and Garrett suddenly found himself in need of a job, he thought he might try his luck as a private investigator. He was getting pretty damn good at this clandestine stuff. Asking Ali to chauffeur him around Austin might have been spontaneous, but it was pure genius. Not only had he finessed a large block of time in which to learn more about her, he’d also finagled a way to check out her attic. He hadn’t expected to find the missing deed lying in plain sight up there—and he hadn’t—but he had familiarized himself with the attic’s layout, which would come in handy if Ali refused to relinquish her portion of the deed to him, and he was forced to search for it on his own.

      He hoped it didn’t come to that. Lying was one thing. Stealing was quite another.

      “Am I driving too fast?”

      He glanced Ali’s way. “No. Why?”

      “You were frowning.”

      “Was I?” He turned his gaze to the roadway again. “Just thinking.”

      “You must think all the time.”

      “What makes you say that?”

      “Because you’re always frowning.”

      “Am I?” He considered the possibility a moment, then shrugged again. “I’ve never noticed.”

      “Do you ever have happy thoughts? Things that would make you smile?”

      “Like what?”

      “I don’t know. A pleasant memory. Maybe a funny movie you’ve seen that makes you laugh when you think about it.”

      “I don’t recall the last comedy I saw.”

      She glanced his way. “Are you serious?”

      “Why would I lie?”

      Shaking her head, she turned her gaze back to the road. “So what do you do for grins?”

      “I enjoy playing computer games.”

      She spun a finger in the air. “Whoopee.”

      “What do you do for fun?” he asked, neatly turning the tables on her.

      “There’s very little I do that’s not fun. Going out to dinner or to the movies with friends. Working in my garden. Taking pictures.”

      “Taking pictures doesn’t count. That’s a job.”

      “Just because it’s a job doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.”

      Realizing that she had unwittingly offered him the opportunity to probe into her life for that weakness he needed, he decided to take advantage of it. “If you enjoy photography so much, why have the bed-and-breakfast? Why not be a full-time photographer?”

      “At one time, that was my plan. I was going to travel the world, taking pictures, then publish them as books.”

      “An album of your personal travels?” he said, as if doubting there was a market for such a thing.

      “It wouldn’t be personal,” she told him. “At least, not in the way you mean. The pictures would be of people, places and things that share a theme or tell a particular story.”

      “What do you mean, ‘tell a story’?”

      “Well, let’s say I wanted to do a photographic study of an Amish family,” she said. “I’d photograph them at work, at play, in their home, in their community, capturing their lives, as well as their lifestyle on film. The pictures would tell the story.”

      “Isn’t that the same as theme?”

      “In some ways, yes. But when I think of theme, I think in terms of a single topic. Take poverty for instance,” she said. “If I were to choose that as my theme, I might travel around, photographing examples of poverty in different parts of the country or even the world. Poverty would be obvious in all the pictures, but the people and the settings would be different.”

      That she enjoyed photography was obvious in the enthusiasm in her voice, the light in her eyes. “And if you chose families as a theme, you’d photograph different families, not just one.”

      “Score!” she cried and held up a hand to give him a high five.

      Amused, he slapped her hand. “As interesting as all that is, it doesn’t explain why you’re running a bed-and-breakfast and not focusing on photography.”

      “Long and depressing