One Stubborn Texan. Kara LennoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
he was putting on a bit of an act for her, but she responded to it anyway.
When they called Russ’s name and he went to collect their food, he returned with a tray loaded with a mountain of Tex-Mex.
“Oh, my gosh. Where do you start?” she asked.
“Anywhere you want. Just dig in. I got lots of everything, so there’s bound to be something you like.”
After sampling the guacamole, the crunchy beef tacos and the shredded chicken tamales, Sydney declared that she liked it all. “I’m not going to fit into my clothes if I keep eating like this.”
“We’ll work it off dancing,” he said.
If the restaurant wasn’t exactly classy, the club was downright questionable. Russ pulled up to a barn-sized corrugated tin building with a flickering neon sign that read Kick ’em Up Club. The dirt parking lot was filled with beat-up trucks and motorcycles. If the handful of kids smoking near their bikes was any example, Russ in clean jeans and shirt was on the elegant end of the dress scale.
A three-dollar cover charge got them inside. Sydney almost laughed: if you wanted to hear live music in New York, you had to pay at least ten.
The inside of the club was like a big cave. Tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly around the dance floor and a bar lined one long wall. Onstage, the band was just getting set up, but a jukebox pumped country twang into the beer-rich air.
“We better grab a table fast,” Russ said. “This place gets packed when the Jimmy LaBarba Band plays.”
“Hey, Russ, over here!” A couple of guys were waving to Russ from a table already crowded with beer bottles.
“Do you mind sitting with some friends?” Russ asked. “We can get our own table if you want.”
“No, let’s sit with a group.” That way, it would seem less like a date.
The group consisted of two couples who were kayaking buddies. It seemed whatever the outdoor activity, Russ was involved. Cycling, hiking, swimming, windsurfing—he did it all. The other couples were friendly to Sydney and she made herself relax and go with the flow. It had been so long since she’d socialized with people her own age and it felt really good just to kick back and enjoy herself.
Russ hadn’t exaggerated—the band was good. Sydney was familiar with most of the songs, covers of her dad’s favorite artists like Lyle Lovett, Delbert McClinton and Omar and the Howlers. But they also played a few original songs and Sydney was impressed enough that she bought their CD as a present for her dad.
After a couple of beers, the band had launched into a set of more traditional country fare. The music was a little more dance-friendly.
“What do you say?” Russ asked. “Want to give it a try?”
“Okay.” What the heck. If she made a fool of herself, it didn’t matter. She’d never see these people again.
She soon knew she’d made a mistake. Russ was a good dancer and before the end of the first song he had her two-stepping like a pro. But the feel of his hands on her—he held one of her hands and put his other on her waist—left her flushed and breathless.
When the band started a slow song, she knew she should insist they take a break. But she didn’t. She let herself go into his arms, let herself rest her head against his shoulder.
It felt so good, better than anything she could remember in a long time, and she knew she would think about this night a lot in the days to come and the longing to be with him again would consume her.
The party broke up relatively early, it being a weeknight and all of them having to work the next day. The band was still going strong, though, as they left the club.
Russ held her hand as they walked across the parking lot to his car, ostensibly to guide her around the many potholes. But she liked the feel of it.
“That was really a lot of fun,” she said as he drove her back to the B and B. She half hoped he would ask her to go home with him. As vulnerable as she felt, she might have succumbed to the temptation. But he honored her request that they keep things light. He walked her up to the front door of the B and B.
“You have a key?”
“Oh, yes. Miss Gail and Miss Gretchen made a point of informing me that they went to bed promptly at nine o’clock and after that I was on my own till morning.”
“They’re nice ladies. And they cook a mean breakfast.”
“Oh, no, I can’t even think about more food! I’m still stuffed from dinner.”
“Make room. The sweet rolls are not to be missed.” He kissed her once on the cheek and then very lightly on the mouth. It wasn’t nearly enough. “Good night, Sydney.”
“’Night.”
She watched him through the window as he walked back to his Bronco with that loose-limbed gate, and couldn’t help regretting what would never be.
AT A LITTLE BEFORE ONE O’CLOCK the following afternoon, Sydney returned to Linhart. Every lead she’d followed that morning had been a bust. She had two choices: concede defeat or take Russ up on his offer to go through the papers at his cabin. Defeat wasn’t an option.
A bunch of papers in an old cabin was a weak lead, but she wasn’t exactly depressed by the work that lay ahead. She was curious to know more about Russ and his family. Last night he had deftly sidestepped any questions she’d asked about his relatives, but he’d done it so smoothly she hadn’t really realized it until later, when she’d lain in bed dissecting the date.
Most people loved to talk about themselves. And while she guessed Russ really was a private person, she still had a hunch he was hiding something. But why would anybody hide from ten million dollars?
She knew her way through the town now, and she reached the square and navigated the one-way streets to get to Main, again marveling at what a pretty town Linhart was. A new, quaint scene greeted her around every bend. The town could have been mistaken for an Alpine village and the German influences were unmistakable: the Willkommen Guesthaus, the Dietzel Microbrewery, the Schnitzel Haus Family Restaurant.
Sydney pulled up to the curb in front of the general store, parking neatly between two trucks. If there was one thing she could do, it was parallel park, though her old Volkswagen Beetle back home was a lot easier than the beemer she’d borrowed from her aunt Carol. Sydney had been a bit nervous about driving the luxury car, but Carol, who lived in a fancy retirement community in Austin and seldom drove her car, had insisted she borrow it rather than getting a rental.
Given the state of Baines & Baines’s accounts, Sydney had readily agreed. After her mother’s death, her father, Lowell, had fooled her into thinking he was doing okay, but eventually she’d discovered the state of his finances. If she’d known how bad things were, she could have intervened sooner. Now, unless she could track down the elusive heir, it was too late for the business.
After exiting the car, Sydney made a final check of her appearance, smoothing the olive wool skirt over her hips and adjusting the collar of her black silk blouse. Maybe the zebra-stripe jacket was a little flamboyant for small-town Texas, and it was true she hardly needed it—the weather had improved a great deal from yesterday morning’s dreary drizzle, but it matched her long scarf and she was a sucker for matching accessories.
When she reached the general store’s front door and opened it, she found Bert sitting by the stove again, crunching on another pickle. He was just the sort of quirky old man you’d expect to find in a small Texas town. He was thin and slightly stooped, with wispy silver hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.
“Hello, again,” he said without much enthusiasm
“Good morning,” she said as she strolled in, bringing a gust of wind with her. “Where can I find Mr. Klein?”
“He’s busy right now,” Bert