“Sure.” Bram pushed in his chair and ambled toward the door, delivering a knowing smile over his shoulder. “Them? Or her?”
A chuckle rumbled in Jamie’s throat as he cranked at his tie some more, loosening it to cool the sweat ringing his collar. He rounded his desk. “Them. I’ll take care of her.”
“So far, it looks like you’ll be buying your own Dr Peppers for the rest of the year, Mac.” Bram flashed some teeth. “The wager was ‘love’ as I recall, not friendship, so I’m not sure how you’re going to pull that rabbit out of your hat.”
A smug smile slid across Jamie’s lips as he followed his friend into the reception area. “It’s called the old MacKenna magic, old buddy, so I suggest you keep your pockets full.” He opened the outer door, allowing Bram to go first. “Because first it’s friendship where I woo . . .” He slapped him on the back and shot him a wide grin. “Then it’s lovestruck and I do.”
16
So, it’s settled.” Logan tossed his napkin on the plate and stretched in his chair to study Caitlyn at the other end of the table while Rosie collected dishes practically licked clean. He clamped a hand to the plate that held his third helping of dessert so Rosie wouldn’t steal it away. “Hadley will drive you and the girls to Napa the afternoon of the 3rd, and the boys and I’ll follow after work.” He glanced up at Rosie as she passed and took a stab at a conciliatory smile. “That trifle put The Palace to shame, Rosie—you’re a great cook.”
“The best,” Bram said with a wink at the housekeeper who promptly gave him a crooked grin. Logan stifled a grunt, sliding Bram a narrow look. Says the man who walks on water.
The housekeeper’s gaze slid to Logan, and her smile withered. “A little too great, apparently,” she mumbled, reminding him that nothing he could say or do would ever change Rosie’s opinion of the “flea-infested skunk” who’d broken her little girl’s heart. “May as well pop a tent outside much as you come to dinner,” she groused in a gravelly tone reserved just for him. The titter of laughter around the table steamed the back of his neck. His lips compressed as he locked eyes with Cait, hoping that just once, she’d keep her piranha in line. As if anyone could, he thought with a flash of irritation, noting the near-smile on Cait’s face.
“Tent? When there’s a perfectly good doghouse in the backyard?” Cait said sweetly, brows arched over jade eyes that sparkled like emeralds. “Inscribed with his name, no less?”
Reaching to scrub the bulldog who lay at her feet, Alli winked. “Goodness, with that scowl on your face, Uncle Logan, it’s hard to tell you and Logan Junior apart.”
“Humph . . . the dog smells way better,” Rosie said, muttering loud enough for all to hear.
Logan glared. Says the hound permanently clamped to my hind quarter. Jaw grinding with every giggle around the table, he cocked his head to sear Caitlyn with a gaze so heated, the woman should be sporting a sunburn. “Cait?” he said, tone clipped and brow angled, clear indication he was waiting for her to put an end to Rosie’s blatant humiliation.
“Dinner was wonderful as usual, Rosie,” Caitlyn said, lips twitching as if she were fighting a smile. She glanced at the sideboard, starting to rise. “Any coffee left?”
Rosie had it poured in Cait’s cup before the woman could clear her chair. “Anybody else?” the housekeeper asked, conveniently ignoring Logan’s lifted cup as she scanned the table.
“Nope, we have a whist tournament waiting in the parlour,” Blake said, tugging Cassie from her seat. “Come on, Cuz, it’s you, me, and Maddie against the less fortunate.”
“In your dreams,” Alli said to her brother, prodding Bram to his feet. “Meg is a genius, Bram was champ of his fraternity, and I’m just plain smarter than you.” She patted his shoulder. “Before we’re through with you, you’ll be sharing that doghouse with Uncle Logan.”
“Hey . . .” Logan skewered her with a glare, prompting Alli to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Logan,” Meg said with a hug. “I love you even if Rosie doesn’t.”
“Me too,” Maddie said, giggling when Logan tickled her waist.
The chatter and chuckles faded as the card players quickly exited and Rosie stole away to the kitchen, leaving nothing but the tinkling of Cait’s spoon while she stirred the cream in her coffee. Exhaling a heavy blast of air, Logan rose and moved to the sideboard to refill his cup to the brim. Black and bitter—like his mood was prone to be.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you wanted any,” Cait said in a gentle tone.
He returned to his seat and took a sip, his gaze ominous over the rim of his cup. “For the love of decency, Cait—must you encourage her? God knows I’m more than well aware the woman despises me without adding indigestion to my meal.”
“I’m sorry, Logan,” she said with a slope of brows, “but it’s just that you’re so easy to bait.” A playful sparkle in her eye told him she was parroting his comment the night they’d danced at The Palace. She gave him a little-girl smile that warmed his body more than the coffee, a hint of tease flirting on her lips. “Especially when you’re in a mood.”
“A mood?” He snatched his fork from the table to stab at the trifle. “What the deuce is wrong with my mood?”
Cait’s smile was patient. “Well, nothing, I suppose, except that you’re grinding your jaw with a cream dessert that doesn’t require chewing, your tie is askew like you’ve been wrestling with the devil, and your hair—” her gaze flicked to his head and back, a hint of apology in those deadly green eyes—“looks like you’ve gouged at it more times than the trifle.”
His gaze narrowed as he jabbed another bite in his mouth, a definite edge to his jest. “So I’m not fond of Rosie ‘trifling’ with me, Cait—is that a crime?”
“No, no it’s not . . . ,” she said with a faint smile that slowly ebbed into concern. “But I’m not fond of seeing a dear friend so out of sorts, either.” She leaned forward to rest her chin on clasped hands, eyes probing his. “What’s bothering you, Logan? I hate to see you like this.”
Then marry me, Cait.
He unleashed a disgruntled sigh. “I lost a case today.” He tossed his fork down and massaged his temple, appetite suddenly gone. “That doesn’t happen very often,” he said quietly.
“An important one?”
“They’re all important, Cait. I’m the head of the firm—I’m not supposed to lose.”
“You can’t win all the time, Logan.” Her voice was gentle.
He glanced up and met her eyes with a pointed look that spoke his mind, if not his words. “Nobody knows that better than me,” he said, his gaze locked with hers as he poured himself more wine. He bolted a third of the glass with a hard swallow, the implication of his words coloring her cheeks.
She quickly took a sip of coffee. “Heavens, everyone knows you’re the best lawyer in the city, but you’re a human being, for goodness sake—you simply cannot win every case.”
“But I should have won this one.” Releasing a heavy breath, he absently toyed with the stem of his glass, eyes lapsing into a stare as glazed as the scarlet liquid that coated the bowl. “My client was guilty, and I knew it, and I let it affect my case.” He downed another healthy swig. “A good lawyer doesn’t do that.”
“No,” she whispered, her respect carrying from across the table. “Just an honest one.”
He kneaded the bridge of his nose. “It’s not about honesty, it’s about integrity. A good lawyer does his job to the best of his ability, no matter personal feelings. I failed at that today.”
“Everyone fails sometime, Logan, even you. You need to allow yourself some mistakes.”
He peered up, pinning her with a hooded gaze. “You didn’t,” he said quietly.
Her cheeks burned so scarlet, he could almost feel the heat. Hadley saved her with a gruff clear of his throat. “Mrs. McClare—there’s a gentleman to see you, a Mr. Andrew Turner.”
“What the devil does he want?” Logan’s tone was close to a
snarl, fairly commonplace where Turner was concerned, his name akin to the foulest swear word in Logan’s well-heeled vocabulary. He seized his sterling silver fork and commenced to bludgeoning the remains of the trifle. “Send him away,” he snapped.
Caitlyn rose like a royalty, head back and shoulders square, ignoring Logan to award Hadley with a kind smile. “Thank you, Hadley. Will you please show him to the study for me?”
Hadley gave a short bow with a click of heels. “Very good, miss. Scones with that tea?”
A twitch of a smile diffused Logan’s anger somewhat when Hadley misheard Cait’s request. But the confounded woman would never let on about the butler’s poor hearing to save her soul, her heart too soft to tread on anyone’s feelings. His twitch turned to a scowl.
Except mine.
“Yes, Hadley,” she said, volume bumped up. “Tea and scones in the study would be lovely, thank you.” Her smile could have warmed a dead man’s soul, but the moment the butler left, she frosted Logan with a look. “The last time I checked, Mr. McClare, I was mistress of my own home, so I’ll thank you to allow me to conduct my own affairs.”
“Not with that weasel, Cait, you can’t trust him.”
She paused while pushing in her chair, one brow notched in unspoken question.
He shot to his feet, slamming the fork onto the plate. “Okay, all right—you couldn’t trust me at one time, either, but for the love of decency, haven’t I proven myself? With the kids, with your legal affairs, with you?” He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Blast it, Cait, Turner is the slimiest D.A. we’ve had in years, and I flat-out don’t trust him, and neither should you.”
A harsh gasp parted from her lips. “He is no such thing! Andrew is a God-fearing man who shares my interest in cleaning up the Coast.” The hard line of her jaw softened as she approached, stopping to distance herself a good two feet. “I appreciate your concern, Logan, truly, but I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself.”
A grown woman, oh, yes . . . Logan scanned her head to toe, barely aware of the habit he’d long since cultivated with the woman before him. His gaze returned to her face where a blush was in bloom. A begrudging smile tipped his mouth. “I’m well aware, Cait, but Turner’s a snake.” He honed in with a fold of his arms. “What exactly is his business with you?”
A lump shifted in her creamy throat before her chin elevated in the way it always did when battling his intimidation. A ridge creased in his brow. Or maybe her guilt?
“And exactly what business is that of yours?” she asked, the full lips suddenly thin.
He moved forward and nearly smiled. Instead of a dainty step back as was her custom, the chin jutted higher and the shoulders straightened. A tightly strung bow taking sharp aim . . .
Hands balled at his sides, the competitor in him swelled. He peered down, dwarfing her with his height. “You’re my business, Cait—the welfare of this family at Liam’s bequest.”
Her lips parted in a shallow breath, shock evident on her face. “You mean Liam—”
“Yes . . . he did,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. He latched firm hands to her arms, voice gentling along with his touch. “Liam loved you, Cait, and he asked me to watch out for you . . . to protect you. And the simple truth is, I do not trust Turner.” He released her then, a slow exhale as he attempted to mollify his tone. “I repeat—what business do you have with that slime?”
She took her customary step back. “Really, Logan, there’s no need for slander or melodrama or calling the man out. He’s simply here to discuss—” Her eyes peeked up beneath a fringe of heavy lashes, the grate of her lip all but shouting her guilt. “The Vigilance Committee.”
“The Vigilance Committee?” His brows dipped thunderously low. “To badger you into a token board position you have no intention of accepting?”
“No . . . ,” she said quietly, retreating yet another step back. “To discuss the presidency to which I have already agreed.”
His jaw fell while his temper rose. “You’ve accepted? Without consulting me?”
“You are not my guardian, Mr. McClare, no matter what Liam may have said, and I will make—and disclose—my own decisions in my own time, is that clear?”
Blood warmed his face. “Even if they’re reckless?”
A shot of color bruised her cheeks while her eyes glittered like jagged glass. “Don’t you dare preach to me about ‘reckless,’ ” she breathed, chest heaving while she singed him with a look that silenced the rage on his tongue. Lips pressed tight, her inhale quivered with anger before she released it again, a flicker in her jaw clear evidence of her attempt to restrain her temper. “This-discussion-is-over,” she said in a clipped tone seldom used, confirming he’d overstepped his bounds—again. Her voice was terse. “Good night, Logan.”
He watched her hurry from the room, his eyes following her graceful form as she glided into the study, careful to close the door. “No, not over, Cait,” he whispered, truly annoyed at how the woman had an infernal gift for making him crazy. “Not by a long shot.”
Jerking his tie loose, he strode toward the sound of laughter that did little to ease his sullen mood. Caitlyn McClare had no business presiding on an all-male board, especially one with the potential to drive an even bigger wedge between Logan and her. Cursing under his breath, he stormed into the parlour and peeled off his jacket, hurling it on the love seat. With a tic in his temple that belonged only to Caitlyn McClare, he rolled his sleeves and yanked a chair to the table, ignoring the gaping stares. “The deuce with whist,” he said, sweeping the table with his arm. He shuffled the cards into a ragged, little pile. “We’re playing poker, so ante up.”
“But Mama doesn’t like us to play poker,” Maddie said, tone innocent and blue eyes as wide as Caitlyn’s would be if she were to walk in the room.
“Awk, awk, ante up, ante up . . .”
Logan shuffled and dealt the cards, sailing them hard to each player with a clamp of his jaw. Reaching into his pocket, he tossed a fistful of change onto the table along with a thick wad of bills. He slipped Maddie a wink before flashing a menacing smile. “Good.”
17
You know, there’s just something intrinsically wrong with a sweet, innocent girl winning at poker.” Jamie held the door as Cassie floated into the billiard room, the scent of lilacs lingering like she, unfortunately, lingered in his mind. He was glad Logan left when Caitlyn broke up the poker game, taking Bram and Blake along while everyone else opted for bed, giving Jamie a rare chance to be alone with Cassie. His lips crooked. Although it’d cost him a half-night’s wage at the Blue Moon to bribe Blake to forgo “chaperoning,” a task his mother—and Cassie—had expected. Not to mention Blake’s ribbing that Cassie would hang him out to dry—both in pool and in courtship. His eyes followed the jaunty sway of her hips as if she wore her ranch issue of scandalously curved blue jeans rather than a pink chiffon dress, and his mouth went dry at the thought. He quickly cleared his throat. “Playing poker—much less winning—is not something one expects of a lady, Miss McClare. Even if she is a cowgirl from lower East Texas.”
Her chuckle floated behind, as soft and billowy as the pink chiffon. “What can I say? Father wanted a boy, so he settled for a tomboy to which he could impart his skills.” She peeked back, nibbling her lip in that adorable way she had when she felt sorry for him.
Like now.
Her sympathetic smile suddenly tilted just short of sassy. “Now that I’ve fleeced you at cards, are you sure you want to do this?” The scalloped hem of her dress wisped across the carpet as she made a beeline for the billiard table with the same unwavering assurance with which he entered the boxing ring at the Oly. She commenced to setting up the table with a rack of the balls, humor lacing her tone. “I can’t help but worry about your male pride, you know, losing to a woman—again. Like Daddy always says, ‘There’s a time in a man’s life when he just needs to cowboy up and ride into the sunset.’ ”
Ride away? Not a chance
, Cowgirl. Jamie closed the door, and the click seemed to drain the blood—and the sass—from her cheeks. “B-Blake is joining us, isn’t he?” she said in a rush, a hint of a wobble in the luscious line of her throat. “We should leave the door open till he comes.”
He offered a gentle smile to allay her fears. “I’m afraid Bram and Blake bowed out, Cass, something about joining Logan for a nightcap on the Coast, and with the billiard room so close to Mrs. McClare’s bedroom, we should really keep the door closed.” Hoping to deflect the anxious look in her eyes, he tossed a cocky grin. “And I wouldn’t worry about my pride, if I were you,” he said with a swagger that matched his stride across the room. “I guarantee you’ll be too busy worrying about your own.” He handed her a cue before chalking his. “Hate to burst your bubble, Cowgirl, but I was hustling in pool halls while you were still riding your pony.”
“Were you now?” A squirm of her smile told him she wasn’t impressed. She replaced the cue he’d given her and took another. “Sorry, I prefer the mushroom tip.” With a focused squint, she carefully applied a slight edge of chalk around the cue’s perimeter rather than grinding it as most novices did, then clunked the cue stick on the floor several times. “A hustler, eh?”
“Yeah,” he said with a hike of his jaw, his faint smile issuing a challenge. “Not to mention Oly Club billiards champ two years in a row.”
“My, my, a title as well.” She tilted her head, green eyes sparkling with humor. “And are you the pretty-boy champ too?”
“That settles it.” He stripped off his jacket and tossed it over a wing chair with a perilous grin. “I’m going to put you in your place, Miss McClare, right where you belong.”
She gave him a wide-eyed stare, lashes aflutter. “In the trophy case?”
No, in my arms. “I’ll even forgo the coin toss and let you have the break.”