Don't Mess with Texas Read online

  Don’t Mess

  with Texas

  CHRISTIE CRAIG

  NEW YORK BOSTON

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  A Preview of BLAME IT ON TEXAS

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is a solitary business, but I didn’t, and couldn’t, have gotten this far without my support system, a system that first and foremost includes my husband. I know the extent of his love when he comes tiptoeing into my office and whispers those sweet heartrending words in my ear: “I’ll do the laundry.” Thank you, Steve.

  To my critique group and best friends in the whole world: Faye Hughes, Jody Payne, Suzan Harden, and Teri Thackston, whose support, laughter, and spelling and grammar abilities keep me going. To my newfound critique and walking buddy, Susan Muller, who allows me to rattle on about plot problems for about two miles every day. To my agent, Kim Lionetti, who knows just when to say, “You’re overthinking it again.” To my editor, Michele Bidelspach for helping me make my stories as good as they can get.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “IT’S THE RIGHT THING. It’s the right thing.”

  At five o’clock on the dot, Nikki Hunt drove past the valet parking entrance to Venny’s Restaurant and turned into the one-car alley lined with garbage Dumpsters. She eased her car over potholes big enough to lose a tire in, and parked her Honda Accord. “It’s the right thing,” she repeated then rested her forehead against the steering wheel. After one or two seconds, she squared her shoulders and mentally pulled up her big girl panties. Letting go of a deep breath, she stared at the Dumpster adjacent to her car and hoped this wasn’t a foreshadowing of the evening.

  Though no one would guess it—other than that one bill collector, her bank, and the McDonald’s attendant who’d waited for her to dig out enough change to pay for her sausage biscuit this morning—Nikki couldn’t afford valet parking.

  Her local gallery barely made enough money to cover the rent. Who knew that a little downturn in the economy would prevent the general population from appreciating art?

  Okay, fine, she knew. She was financially strapped, not stupid. And yeah, she’d also known that opening the gallery had been risky. But at the time, she’d had Jack to fall back on if things got tough. Good ol’ Jack, charming, financially stable, and dependable—dependable, that is, as long as one didn’t depend on him to keep his pecker in his pants.

  She pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse, turned the rearview mirror her way and added a hint of pink to her lips.

  Please, Nikki, meet me at Venny’s. I made some mistakes, but we can fix it.

  Jack’s words skipped through her head.

  Was Jack really going to ask her for a do-over? Was she really contemplating saying yes? And was saying yes the right thing? The questions bounced around her brain, hitting hard against her conscience.

  Rubbing her lips together to smooth the pink sheen on her mouth, she looked at the back of the restaurant—probably the most expensive restaurant in Miller, Texas. The one where Jack, the man she considered the love of her life, had proposed to her four years ago. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard from Jack since the divorce. The flowers he’d sent had gone to her grandmother’s retirement center. Someone should enjoy them. The messages where he begged her to take him back went unanswered. She hadn’t even been tempted. Until today.

  Today he’d called the gallery right after Nikki had received a call from the retirement home, reminding her that her grandmother’s cable bill was due. Right after she realized she was going to be short paying Ellen, her one and only part-time employee. There’d been desperation in Jack’s voice and it had mimicked the desperation Nikki felt in her own life.

  She focused on the rearview mirror again and gave herself a good, hard look. She fluffed her hair, hoping her thick, blond curls would appear stylish and not impoverished. Nana’s cable trumped her regular clip job. Her grandmother had spent thirteen years taking care of Nikki, so the least she could do was allow the woman to watch the cooking network.

  And Ellen—how could she not pay the woman who’d become her best friend? The woman who singlehandedly dragged Nikki out of the done-wrong slumps kicking and screaming.

  Nikki stepped out of her car. The heat radiating from the pavement assaulted her. She could almost feel her hair frizz. Humidity thickened the air, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe that was just the anxiety of seeing Jack, of making a decision to reenter the holy union—a union that turned out not to be so holy for him.

  Passing the Dumpster, she wrinkled her nose and walked faster. The ring of her cell brought her to a stop. She grabbed the phone from her purse, and checked the number.

  “Hello, Nana?”

  “You’re my one call,” Nana said.

  “Shoot.” Nikki hurried her steps to escape the garbage smell. Common sense told her Nana was playing the timed crossword game with her Ol’ Timers Club. A game that allowed the participant a single one-minute call to someone who might be able to help. But the first time Nana had used her one-call line, she’d been in jail. Sure, Nana had only been arrested once, but bailing your grandmother out of the slammer was not something one tended to forget.

  “Name of the club you join when you get it on at high altitudes, twelve letters,” Nana said.

  “What kind of crossword puzzle is this?” Nikki asked.

  “Smokin’ hot.”

  Figures. The Ol’ Timers Club members, on average, had a better sex life than Nikki did. “Mile High Club. Not that I belong.” She cut the corner to the restaurant, welcoming the warm scents of Venny’s menu items.

  “You should,” Nana said.

  “Gotta go,” Nikki said before Nana started ranting about Nikki’s less-than-exciting social life.

  “You’re coming to the dress rehearsal tonight?” Nana asked.

  What dress rehearsal? Then Nikki remembered. Her grandmother and several of the Ol’ Timers had gotten parts in a small neighborhood theater show.

  “I can’t, but I’ll come to the show.” If she could afford the ticket.

  “Where are you?”

  “About to walk into a restaurant.”

  “A date?” Nana sounded hopeful.

  “No.” Just possibly coming to get proposed to for the second time by the man I used to love.

  Used to? Nikki stopped so fast she almost tripped. Didn’t she still love Jack? Weren’t there still feelings underneath the pain of his infidelity? Because if she didn’t really have feeling for him then…

  “Who are you meeting?” Nana asked.

  It’s the right thing. “No one,” she lied, flinching.

  In the background, Nikki could hear Nana’s friend Benny call out, “Five seconds.”

  “Gotta go,” Nikki repeated.

  “Nikki Althea Hunt, do not tell me you’re meeting that lowlife scum of an ex—”

  “Love ya.” Nikki hung up, dropped her cell back into her purse and tried to ignore the doubt concerning what she was about to do. Instead, she wondered what the hell her mother had been smoking when she named her Althea. Then again, figuring out what her mother was smoking when she’d dropped six-year-old Nikki at Nana’s with the request that Nana raise her was a much better puzzle. And not one Nikki liked to think about, either.

  Walking into the restaurant, pretending she belonged in the rich, famous, and lawyer circle, Nikki was embraced by the scents of beef burgundy. Her stomach gave one last groan, then died and went to heaven without looking back. The biscuit she’d scraped change together for this morning was a forgotten memory.

  “Meeting someone?” the hostess asked as Nikki peeked into the dining room.

  “Jack Leon.” Nikki spotted
him sitting at the table—the same table where he’d proposed to her—talking on his cell phone.

  “This way.” The hostess started walking but Nikki caught her arm and yanked her back. The woman’s eyes rounded.

  “Just a second, please.” Nikki continued to stare at Jack and waited. Where was it? Where was the heart flutter when her gaze landed on him? A light flutter would do. That’s all she was asking for.

  No flutters, damn it. The only emotion bumping around her chest was residual fury at finding him in her gallery office, on the sofa, banging her hired help.

  Not a good memory to be hanging in her mental closet tonight. Not if Jack was going to propose. Because if she said yes, then she might be the one banging her ex.

  “Crappers,” she muttered and her heart did a cartwheel, hitting the sides of her ribs. Nikki had no problem with sex. Not that she’d had any pleasure in a long time. A really long time. Like… since Jack.

  The truth rained down on her. She wasn’t here because she loved Jack. If she went back to him it wouldn’t even be for pleasure. It would be for money. Sure, the money was to pay Nana’s cable, to pay Ellen, and to keep her gallery afloat, but still… the hard fact was she’d be having sex for money.

  “Oh shit!” Could she stoop that low?

  My name is Nikki Hunt, not Nikki Name Your Price.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” she muttered and tightened her hold on the hostess’s arm.

  “You don’t think you can do what?” asked the hostess.

  “Oh hell. It’s not the right thing.”

  “What’s not the right thing?”

  Nikki stared at her feet. “How important are the cooking shows anyway?”

  “Which one?” asked the hostess, still mistaking Nikki’s muttering for conversation. “I like Rachael Ray.”

  Releasing the hostess’s arm, Nikki turned to go, but stopped short when a waiter carting a tray of yeast-scented bread and real butter moved past. He left a wake of warm tantalizing aroma.

  Crapola. She wouldn’t have sex with Jack. She wouldn’t remarry him, but could she sit through a dinner for some mouthwatering food? Yup, she could stoop that low.

  Call it payment for defiling the much-loved antique sofa in her office. No way could she have kept it after seeing him and her employee going at it doggy-style on the piece of furniture.

  Mind made up, Nikki swung around and, without waiting for the hostess, shot across the dining room and plopped down at Jack’s table.

  Still on the phone, Jack looked up. His eyes widened with what appeared to be relief, and he nodded. Dropping her purse at her feet and, not waiting for a bread plate, she snagged a hot roll and smeared a generous amount of sweet butter on it. Her mouth watered as the butter oozed over the bread.

  “No,” Jack snapped into the phone and held up an apologetic finger to her.

  She nodded, smiled, and took a bite of the roll. Her stomach growled as if it were saying bread alone wouldn’t silence or satisfy it. She noticed a bowl of gumbo sitting in front of Jack. She’d kill for gumbo. Too bad Jack had a thing about sharing food.

  “Fuck, no!” Jack seethed. “I can’t do this.”

  The F word brought Nikki’s gaze up from his gumbo. Jack, a refined lawyer trying to make partner and always concerned about public decorum, seldom cursed. Amazingly, from his viewpoint, screwing your wife’s part-time help wasn’t considered bad manners.

  “Listen to me,” Jack muttered.

  Nikki recalled Jack taking offense at her occasional slip of “shit,” “damn,” and “hell”—a habit she’d obtained from hanging out with Nana and the Ol’ Timers. Jack had almost broken her of it, too. Then, staring at his Armani suit and his hundred-dollar haircut, Nikki had an epiphany.

  Jack had spent the entire two years of their marriage, not to mention the year they’d dated, trying to turn her into someone else—someone who would look good on the arm of a partner of the Brian and Sterns Law Firm. Don’t say this. Say that. Wear this. Do you have to spend so much time with your grandmother?

  Glancing down at her black pants and knit top, she knew he wouldn’t approve of her wardrobe. How odd that she hadn’t even considered dressing up for the event. Or maybe not odd. It should have been a clue that their reconciling was a joke. Seriously, she hadn’t even put on sexy underwear. Her gaze shot back to his gumbo.

  Screw Jack’s apparel approval and his no-share policy. She reached for the bowl and, suddenly feeling lowbrow and proud of it, dunked her roll in the roux and brought the soupy mess to her lips.

  Heaven.

  Spotting a floating shrimp in the cup, and not lowbrow enough to use her fingers, she went for Jack’s spoon.

  He slapped his hand on top of hers and frowned—a disapproving, judgmental frown that pulled at his brown eyes.

  Big mistake on his part.

  Slipping her hand from under his, she fished out the shrimp with two fingers and ate it. Even made a show of licking her fingers. Jack’s mouth fell open at her lack of manners. Not that she cared. Considering the way things were going, the gumbo and rolls were all she’d be having for dinner. She might as well enjoy them.

  A tuxedo-wearing waiter ran up and placed a spoon in front of her. Nikki smiled at his pinched, disapproving look, which matched her husband’s frown.

  “Thank you,” she said, proving she wasn’t totally lacking in the manners department.

  “Something to drink?” the waiter asked, his expression still critical of her lack of etiquette.

  “A Budweiser, please.” She didn’t like beer, but it fit her mood. And just like that, she knew why. All this time—even after she’d caught Jack bare-ass naked with her employee, even after she realized how badly he’d screwed her with that prenuptial agreement—she’d never given Jack a bit of comeuppance. And why? Because she’d been more hurt than angry. Now, realizing she’d stopped loving him, the hurt had evaporated and she was just angry. And it wasn’t altogether a bad feeling, either.

  Jack stood up. Frowning, he pressed his phone to his shoulder. “Order for us,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He snatched up his gumbo and handed it to the waiter. “And she’ll take a glass of Cabernet.” He took off.

  Nikki tightened her hands on the edge of the table and considered walking out, but another waiter walked by with a plate of chicken marsala. She inhaled and eyed the waiter clutching Jack’s gumbo as if afraid she might fight him for it. And she might have but suddenly, she got an odd aftertaste from the gumbo. “Bring us one beef burgundy and one chicken marsala. And my beer.”

  After one disapproving eye roll, the waiter walked away.

  She’d already sipped from the frosty mug and devoured another roll when Jack returned. He sat across from her and frowned. She snatched another bite of bread, pretty certain her free meal had just come to an end.

  His frown faded. “You have no idea how glad I am that you came.”

  Nikki nearly choked on her bread. What? No condescending remark about her lack of manners? Jack was playing nice. Jack never played nice unless he really wanted something.

  Did he want her back that badly? It wouldn’t change anything, but whose ego couldn’t use stroking?

  He picked up his linen napkin and dabbed at his forehead where she’d just noticed he was sweating. Sweating was right up there with playing nice. Jack didn’t sweat.

  Her pinching gut said something was up and it had to do with more than just her. She leaned in. “What’s going on, Jack?”

  Dallas O’Connor walked into the building that housed both his business and apartment. Stopping just inside the doorway, he waited. Five seconds. Ten. When Bud didn’t greet him, Dallas looked over at the coffin against the nearby wall. Someone had opened the dang thing again.

  He growled low in his throat, “Get out of there.”

  One soulful second later, Bud—short for “Budweiser”—raised his head from inside the coffin and rested his hanging jowls on the edge of the polished wooden box. The pa
in of being chastised flashed in his huge bug eyes. Bud, an English bulldog, hated being chastised.

  “Out,” Dallas said, lowering his voice. “It’s not a doggy bed.”

  The prior owners of the building, which had been a funeral home, had left the damn casket when they moved out six months ago. Dallas had called and left numerous messages asking them to remove the dang thing, but no response. The last time he’d told them they had one more week, and he was going to sell it on eBay. He was tired of having to explain the casket to his clients.

  The dog leaped out of the coffin and barreled over to Dallas. After one swipe over the dog’s side, Dallas glanced at his watch and shot back to the office. He found Tyler, one of his Don’t Mess with Texas Private Investigations partners, listening to the police scanner as he watched the television. Tyler’s expression had worry stamped all over it, too.

  “He hasn’t called yet?” Dallas removed his gun from his holster and placed it in his desk—a habit he hadn’t broken from the seven years he’d worked for the Glencoe Police Department. Seven years he wished he could get back. The only good thing that had come from those years was the friendship of his PI partners, Tyler and Austin.

  Tyler glanced away from the television. “Not a word. Any luck at the park?”

  “There were two female joggers, but neither of them fit the description Nance gave.”

  Frowning, Tyler leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid we’re not going to get anything to save this kid. He’s going to go down for robbery.”

  “It’s not over.” No way would Dallas let that innocent boy do time. But right now, both he and Tyler should be worried about one of their own. Dallas motioned to the police scanner. “Have the cops been called out yet?”

  Tyler nodded and concern pinched his brows, making the two-inch scar over his right eye stretch tighter. “Thirty minutes ago.”

  “Shit,” Dallas said. “Why the hell hasn’t he called?”

  “You know Austin,” Tyler said. “He’s a lone wolf.”