Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(56)

Gracie watched apprehensively as he approached. She knew enough about the way Bobby Tom behaved with women by now to predict exactly what he was going to say. He would flatter her outrageously, probably tell her she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen in his life, and under his barrage of preposterous compliments, she’d have no idea what he really thought about the changes in her appearance. If only he’d be honest with her so she could know whether or not she looked ridiculous.

He stopped in front of her. Several seconds ticked by as she waited for that lady-killer grin to take over his face and the blarney to start flowing. He rubbed his chin with the back of his knuckles.

“Looks like Buddy did a good job. Did he give you a receipt?”

Stunned, she watched him walk right past her, glance at the headlight Buddy had replaced, and crouch to examine the new tires. Her pleasure in the moment faded, and she felt deflated. “It’s in the glove compartment.”

He stood back up and glared at her. “Why the hell were you driving so fast?”

Because the pretty lady with the reckless hair and frivolous little sandals without any arch support is a free spirit who doesn’t worry about mundane things like speed limits.

“I guess I had other things on my mind.” When was he going to tell her she was the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen in his life, just like he told every other female?

His mouth tightened in annoyance. “I’ve been planning on letting you use the T-bird to get around while we’re here, but I'm seriously thinking about changing my mind after what I just saw. You were driving this car like it’s some old junker.”

“I apologize.” She gritted her teeth as anger overcame her hurt. She had spent a fortune today, and he didn’t seem to notice.

“I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t let it happen again.”

She straightened her shoulders and stuck her chin up in the air, determined not to let him bully her. She knew she looked pretty, maybe for the first time in her life, and if he didn’t think so, that was just too bad. “It won’t happen again. Now if you’re finished yelling at me, I told Natalie I’d watch Elvis for her this afternoon.”

“You’re supposed to be my assistant, not a baby-sitter!”

“One and the same.” She stalked away.





11




The dark maroon Lincoln stopped before the entrance of the spacious whitewashed brick country house Wayland Sawyer had built overlooking the river. As the chauffeur came around to open her door, Suzy decided that Sawyer couldn’t have found a better way to let the people of Telarosa know that he’d made a success of himself than by building this magnificent estate. According to local gossip, he planned to continue using it as a weekend retreat even after he’d closed Rosatech.

As the chauffeur opened the door and helped her out, her palms were damp. Ever since her meeting with Sawyer two days ago, she’d been able to think of little else. She’d chosen to wear loosely fitted cream-colored evening trousers instead of a dress. The matching tank top and hip-length silky jacket were printed with wearable art, a fanciful Chagall village scene in jewellike tones of coral, turquoise, fuchsia, and aquamarine. Her only jewelry was her wedding band and the large diamond studs Bobby Tom had given her when he’d signed his first contract with the Stars.

A Hispanic woman Suzy didn’t recognize admitted her and escorted her across the black marble floor into a spacious living room with Palladian windows that soared two stories and looked out on a softly illuminated rose garden. Silk-shaded lamps cast warm shadows on glazed ivory walls. The sofas and chairs sitting in pleasant groups were upholstered in cool shades of blue and green touched here and there with black. Matching shell-shaped wall nooks on each side of the marble fireplace held unglazed terra-cotta urns massed with dried hydrangeas.

Way Sawyer stood next to a shiny ebony baby grand piano positioned in front of the largest window. Her uneasiness increased as she saw that he was dressed entirely in black, like a modern day gunslinger. But instead of chaps and vest, his unstructured designer suit was Italian and his shirt silk. The room’s soft lights did nothing to temper the harsh lines in his face.

He held a cut glass tumbler in his hand and gazed at her with dispassionate dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “What would you like to drink?”

“White wine would be fine.”

He walked over to a small chest that held a mirrored tray filled with an assortment of bottles and glasses. While he poured her wine, she tried to calm herself by wandering around the room and studying the art hanging on the walls. There were several large oils and a number of watercolors. She paused in front of a small pen-and-ink drawing of a mother and child.

“I bought that at auction in London a few years ago.”

She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. He extended a gold-rimmed wineglass, and, as she took a sip, he began telling her a bit of the history of each painting. His words were slow and measured, giving her information but not putting her at ease. She had difficulty reconciling this man who spoke calmly of a London art auction with the sullen-faced hoodlum who had smoked cigarettes by the gym and gone out with the fastest girls.

In the past few weeks, she’d done some research to fill in the holes about Sawyer’s past. According to the story that she’d been able to piece together from some of the older residents, his mother, Trudy, at the age of sixteen, had claimed to have been gang-raped by three highway workers, one of whom was Way’s father. This had happened several years before the end of World War II, and no one had believed her story, so she had become an outcast.