The Last Man In Texas

“My letter of resignation is printing now.”

“Lizzy, it might take you a year to land a comparable position. Are you prepared to give up everything?” Cameron asked.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“Then I hope you’ve got cable. That’s a lot of time to spend alone.”

Her fussy movements stilled. “What makes you think I’ll be alone?”

“No offense, honey, but your social life isn’t exactly active. By choice, I’m sure,” he added hastily and much too late.

Ten years she’d waited for him to call her honey, to see his eyes warm with tenderness. But not out of pity.

Deep in that place where insecurity and pride waged war in a woman’s soul, the latter raised a mighty sword and sounded a Valkyrie battle cry.

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Please don’t worry about me. I won’t be alone. Along with finding a new job, I’ll be starting a second career. The most exciting and challenging one any woman can have.”

“And in plain English that would mean?”

That I’m through settling for what I can get. “It means I’m getting married, Cameron. If you really want what’s best for me, you’ll wish me well.”

Dear Reader,

I’ve been an executive in a large financial institution, a co-owner of an advertising agency and a novelist. Each career has provided moments of profound satisfaction, tremendous frustration and everything in between. Sound familiar?

Of course it does. I’ve described the lives of Superromance readers.

Whether you work outside the home or in, own a huge corporation or a mom-and-pop business, you’re required to squeeze too many responsibilities into too little time for too little money and too little appreciation. That’s not a whine. That’s human nature. And life in the world today.

At times, professional goals clash with personal ones, and difficult choices must be made. I hope each and every hardworking one of you enjoys Cameron and Elizabeth’s romance and personal journey. As they learn to redefine “success,” perhaps you’ll be reminded of a truth easily forgotten during hectic stressful days. It comes from a poster hanging in my office, and I share the words with you gladly:

“Happiness is not based on possessions, power or prestige, but on relationships with people we love and respect.”

Warmly,

Jan Freed

Jan is a recipient of RT’s Reviewer’s Choice Award, and a multiple RITA Award nominee. She loves to hear from readers, and invites you to write her at: 1860 FM 359, PMB 206; Richmond, TX, 77469. Or visit her Web site at: www.superauthors.com.

The Last Man in Texas

Jan Freed

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Lesa and Steve Moller,

orange-blooded Austinites, master raconteurs

and my favorite twin sister and brother-in-law.

Hook ’em Horns!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

WELL, HELL. He looked more like one of America’s Most Wanted Criminals than one of Austin’s Ten Most Eligible Bachelors.

Cameron Malloy snapped open the newspaper wider—and really wished he hadn’t.

Sharp movements, bad! Slow movements, tolerable. Hangover 101 basics a worldly thirty-two-year-old bachelor shouldn’t forget.

As pain reverberated inside his skull, he cursed last night’s wedding reception. And champagne. The fact that he’d even touched the fizzing stuff, Queen-Mother-of-morning-after headaches, proved he wasn’t as unaffected by months of stress as he pretended. Unclenching his molars, he relaxed by degrees.

Okay. The pain was receding. He just might live, after all. Forcing his attention back to the double-page feature article, he concentrated blearily on the other nine photographs. Informal poses all, taken of each interviewed subject “on the job.” Not a threatening face among them. At least, not in the escaped convict mug shot sense. He supposed one could argue subtle nuances of definition and make a case against bachelor number two.

The poor schmuck had been caught with his eyes three-quarters closed, transforming his slight smile into a sleazy leer. Less than reassuring in any physician. Downright creepy in a pediatrician.

And bachelor number eight wasn’t much better. Behind that startled scarecrow expression, there had to be a brain. The guy was top dog at S-mart Computers, the cutting-edge leader in built-to-order computer hardware manufacturing. Still…he looked like he’d stayed a leee-tle too long in the poppy fields on his way to Oz. Cameron’s spirits lifted.

He swiveled toward his desk and reached carefully for his coffee. Maybe he’d overreacted. He did that a lot, according to Lizzy. Taking a sip, he re-studied his own photograph through a mist of rising steam.

His wince had nothing to do with the scalding liquid, and everything to do with his hot-tempered image on the page.

The lens had captured him leaning over Malloy Marketing’s conference room table, his braced arms straddling an accordion stack of client billing statements, his murderous expression yelling loud and clear “Get out before I break that camera and your nose!”

Damn. Even the lech and dimwit came across better.

Of course, they hadn’t been ambushed by a sneaky photographer intent on one last “candid” shot. Considering the balance sheet Cameron had reviewed seconds before the shutter clicked, who could blame him for appearing upset?

His office door swung open.

I had to ask.

Letting the newspaper fall to his lap, he braced himself and tried to look healthy.

Elizabeth Richmond, senior vice president and second in command of Malloy Marketing, walked briskly toward his desk, her aura crackling with purpose and the crisp light scent of Lemon Mist body spritz. The fragrance, courtesy of his annual birthday gift, suited her analytical mind, tart humor, and the sweet nature underlying it all. She’d dressed comfortably as well as professionally in one of her usual pantsuits.

This morning’s was a dull pin-striped gray. Incongruous next to her mop of curly dark hair, wide-set brown eyes, and Kewpie doll lips. Betty Boop meets G.I. Jane, his youngest brother had once described the woman most men underestimated or overlooked.

For someone who joked his way through life, Jake could be surprisingly perceptive at times.

Cameron watched his colleague sink uninvited into a guest chair, then mustered his best smile. “Morning, Lizzy. You look extra nice today.”

“You look like roadkill.”

So much for idle chitchat. “You know,” he said dryly, “it’s customary to thank a person who compliments you. Maybe even say something nice in return?”

“Okay. I like that navy suit you’re wearing. It brings out the lovely shade of red in your eyes.”

Jeez.

Her teasing gaze moved to his newspaper and sobered. “Aha. No wonder the aspirin hasn’t kicked in, yet. You’ve seen your Most Eligible Bastard portrait.”

Guilt pricked his foul mood. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“What wasn’t? Drinking too much last night, or losing your temper last week?”

“Neither.”

“Neither,” she repeated, lifting a straight dark brow.

“Yes, Mother Teresa, neither. Do I have to say it again, or is three times the charm?”

She waited just long enough to make him feel three years old. “Charm appears to have deserted you, but I think I’ve grasped your meaning. You aren’t in the least bit responsible for your bloodshot eyes or surly mood this morning, correct?”

Despite the headache intensifying with each second, he suppressed a smile. “And people say you’re slow.”

“Yes, well—” her mouth twitched “—I have my moments. Next you’ll say that Carol tackled you in front of the groom’s cake last night and forced free Scotch down your throat.”

“Now, now, no need for sarcasm. That’s a gross exaggeration.” He raised the coffee mug toward his lips. “It wasn’t Scotch.”

She snorted. “Rum and Coke, then.”

Swallowing, he shook his head.

“You mean they served Heineken at a swanky wedding reception?”

Startled, he lowered his forearm and mug to the desk. In all their years of working together, he could count on one hand the number of times she’d attended a business-related social function or client dinner. Yet she’d just named his favorite schmooze booze in order of preference.

“Cameron?”

“Huh? Oh. No, no Heineken.”

“Then what were you drinking?”

“Ayala shooters.”

She blinked. “Gesundheit.”

He barked out a laugh, then sandwiched his skull with both hands. Oh, man. Oh, jeeez! Loud noises bad! Eyes squeezed shut, he massaged the pain battering his temples.

“Good grief, Cameron, what’s in an ayala shooter?” Equal parts fascination and sympathy rang in her tone.

“Poison,” he said in a near whisper.

“Really?”

Lowering his hands, he cracked open his lids. Sure enough, her distracted expression said she was scanning her encyclopedic memory.

“There’s a traditional liquor in Japan that’s produced by taking live venomous snakes, mashing them into a fermenting potion, then collecting the runoff. But I don’t think it’s called ayala.…” Her unfocused gaze lit with triumph and snapped to his. “Yes, mam!”

“Yes, ma’am, what?”

She smiled indulgently. “Mam is the name of the liquor I told you about. Spelled m-a-m, shortened from poisonous snakes called mamushi. They’re indigenous to the Pacific islands, but related to our copperheads in North America. Remember that oral report on Japanese customs that I gave in Mrs. Conner’s class?”

Actually, her red-faced stumbling delivery was one of the few things he did remember about Lizzy from their high school days. He struggled for a tactful answer.

Her enthusiasm dimmed. “Stupid question. It was a long time ago.”

His heart squeezed. “O-o-oh, yeah, mamushi. I remember, now. Crazy party animals, right?”

She looked at him strangely.

“Can’t go anywhere without getting smashed,” he explained.

Her incredulous groan turned into low laughter, a rich tumble of sound as infectious as it was rare. When her smile faded, the lively light in her eyes had been restored. “Pretty lame, Malloy. Be sure and pass that on to Jake next time he’s in town. He’ll love it.”

Ridiculously pleased with himself, Cameron leaned back in his chair and propped threaded fingers on his stomach. “Why don’t you tell him yourself? He’s driving up from Lake Kimberly in two weeks for the ADDY Awards, along with Dad and Nancy. Travis and Kara are coming, too. Even Seth said he’ll be there.”

“Your whole family’s going?”

Cameron nodded. After Malloy Marketing had received sixteen award nominations, he’d impulsively invited the entire Malloy clan to attend the ceremony. “You can join our table and make it an even number. C’mon, Lizzy. I’d really like you to attend this year.”

Her eyes rounded, then narrowed. “Why?”

Jeez. “We’ve been nominated for ADDY Awards—what?—ten years now?”

“Eight. The Austin Telco introductory campaign was our first shot at a decent production budget.”

So it had been. “Okay, eight. And I’ve tried to talk you into going to the awards ceremony eight years in a row without—”

“Five.”

At his sharp glance, her chin rose. A tide of pink swept up her pale throat.

“Facts are facts,” she said doggedly. “You asked me five years in a row. I’m sure for the past three years you thought, and rightly so, that I didn’t want to attend.”

In truth, he couldn’t remember thinking about her, period.

His foul mood worsened. “The facts are that I dress in a monkey suit every year, and eat rubber chicken and smile until my face hurts, and accept insincere congratulations that belong as much to you as to me. You should sit beside me for once and share all the fun, damn it.”

“But…what about Carol?”

His mind scrambled for footing.

“You do remember Carol? Tall. Gorgeous. Blond. Laughs at everything you say.”

And annoyed him more with each successive date. Cameron made a quick decision to break off his relationship with the well-connected socialite…uh-oh. He vaguely recalled her giggled yes in response to his woozy invitation last night.

Damn, but he hated champagne!

“Not a problem,” he hedged. “The table is round. Carol can sit on my other side.”

Lizzy’s flush reached high tide. “Look, I appreciate the invitation, but you know I hate those stuffy black-tie affairs. I’d much rather stay at home.”

An odd urgency compelled him to change her mind. “Why don’t you invite your folks to come? They’d enjoy seeing their only daughter pick up a slew of gaudy awards. It’ll be a fun evening out for them, and Dad and Nancy would love their company. Besides, with Jerry and Marian sitting at the table, my brothers might actually behave themselves.”

Her thick short lashes fluttered and dropped. She tweaked the crease of her slacks. “My mother’s name is Muriel.”

Real smooth, Malloy.

She lifted a gaze conspicuously devoid of emotion. “She and Dad are in the middle of ugly divorce proceedings, if you’ll recall. An evening together would most definitely not be fun for them. Or for me.”

“Lizzy…” Any excuse sounded weak.

“Don’t worry about it, Cameron. You have more important things on your mind than my dysfunctional family.”

He frowned at her self-mocking tone. “Anything that upsets you is important to me.”

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“But I—”

“Please.” Settling back in her chair, she duplicated his pose, her thumbs lifting to slowly twirl. “You never answered my original question. What’s an ayala shooter?”

He expelled a resigned breath. “French champagne, served in plastic flutes the size of a shot glass.”

“I thought you hated champagne.”

“I do. But the senator cheaped out and nixed an open bar. No boiled shrimp on ice. No prime rib station. No stuffed mushroom caps.” The injustice still rankled. “Since he couldn’t disguise his daughter’s wedding as a fund-raiser and dip into the campaign till, his guests hacked at cheese balls and drank from plastic glasses. Never mind that their generous donations helped get him elected.”

Her thumbs stilled. “So, to get even, you sucked up as much of his expensive French champagne as you could without losing consciousness?”

Damn straight. “After the commercial I wrote and produced for him gratis, he owed me.”

“Wo-o-ow. You really showed him.” This time, her mockery was directed at Cameron. “For someone so smart, you can be so clueless.”

She didn’t know the half of it.

He tried for a careless shrug. “Hey, I’m the high concept front man. You’re the analytical details person.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m missing crucial facts? What are you hiding from me, Cameron?”

A trill of alarm zinged up his spine. “Excuse me?”

She leaned forward and gripped the edge of his desk, her intelligent eyes far too probing. “You’ve been tense and grouchy for months. You’ve come in with a hangover five out of the last ten workdays. You’re wearing a tie right now with a stain on it.”

His gaze jerked down to the pricey strip of silk bisecting his torso.

“Lift your hands. It’s underneath. See?”

Oh, man. How could he have missed that this morning? “Big deal,” he bluffed, resettling his clasped fingers over the offensive sight. “Stains happen.”

“Not to your ties, they don’t. Or if they do, you don’t wear the evidence. You’re meticulous about your clothes. You send your blue jeans to the dry cleaners, for heaven’s sake!”

He bristled. “Does this vicious attack on my wardrobe have a point?”

“The point is, if you didn’t notice a big ol’ nasty grease spot on your tie when you dressed this morning, something is distracting or bothering you, big time.” She flicked a glance at the newspaper in his lap. “Then there’s that photograph.”

Normally he appreciated her honesty. Champagne hangovers notwithstanding. “I told you, that wasn’t my fault.”

She made a disgusted sound.

“For cripe’s sake, Lizzy, the guy barged in without knocking and started snapping pictures! He caught me by surprise.”

“I’m sure the feeling was mutual. He’d just shot an entire roll of Prince Charming’s irresistible grin. That demon frog in the conference room must’ve freaked him out.”

Cameron sat a bit straighter.

“I can’t believe the newspaper printed that pose,” she muttered. “The first roll of film must’ve gotten messed up somehow. That’s the only explanation…” Trailing off, she eyed him warily. “What?”

“Irresistible, huh?”

For the second time that morning, her cheeks turned conch-shell pink. She flounced back against her chair. “Don’t get cocky, Malloy. I was quoting the article, not my opinion. Fortunately, the reporter was a woman, so the interview is slanted in your favor. It might cancel out the damage that portrait did to your Golden Boy reputation.”

His glow of pleasure dissipated.

“I’m not a fool, Cameron. I saw the client billing statements in the photograph. Tell me the truth. Is Malloy Marketing in financial trouble?”

Oh, jeez. He’d rather rip out his tongue than admit his error in judgment. Yet he couldn’t outright lie. “Yes.”

A meteor of shock streaked through her eyes. She opened and closed her mouth.

The sight of Lizzy speechless unnerved him. His guilt swooped back with a vengeance.

“How can that be?” she finally asked. “We’re handling almost twice the volume of work we did last year.”

“Yeah, but the move to new headquarters alone ate up those profits.”

Her stunned gaze turned accusing.

He tossed the newspaper beside his calendar, rose from his chair and walked to the eighteenth-floor corner window he’d paid for dearly. A half mile in the distance, the state capitol’s pink granite dome glittered in October’s sharp unfiltered sunlight. The sight barely registered.

He knew what she was thinking. Six months ago she’d questioned his decision to double the agency’s space and rent, and he’d assured her the company wouldn’t be overextended. He sure hadn’t intended to jeopardize cash flow.

But higher rent was only part of the cost involved. New furniture, leasehold improvements, computer network and server installation, quality art for the walls, upgraded media room equipment, fire code glass lobby doors…one expense had led to another…and another.…

It was either go the whole nine yards, or invite clients to his new upscale address only to hack at cheese balls and drink from plastic glasses. Talk about tarnishing his winner’s image!

He’d had no choice but to overextend.

Still, he wished she’d say something. Anything. Her silent I-told-you-so added crushing weight to the burden constricting his chest.

“When—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “When were you planning to tell me about this little detail? The day you declared Chapter Eleven?”

Unconsciously widening his stance, he turned around. “I didn’t want to worry you for nothing. The check from Austin Telco came in yesterday—enough to cover overhead for the month. As long as I keep current clients happy, there’s no danger of the agency folding.”

The last ounce of color drained from her cheeks. “My God…folding? Things are really that bad?”

The company’s bottom line gave new meaning to the phrase “red-hot agency.” A detail he would keep to himself.

She obviously read the truth in his expression. “Have you gone crazy? You told Mitch just last week he could order a new color laser. Lowering debt should be our priority, not adding to it.”

The pressure against Cameron’s sternum increased. “The old printer broke down every other day. Even when it did work, the quality was poor. And the damn thing was so slow it brought production to a screeching halt. An upgraded printer will pay for itself in the long run.”

“It’s paying the bills right now that I’m worried about.”

“Like I’m not?” His headache shrieked a painful echo. Yelling, bad. You’d think he’d learn.

He uncurled the fists at his sides and tried again. “I did what I had to do to bump the agency up to the next level. Malloy Marketing wouldn’t have made the first review cut if SkyHawk Airlines’ management had toured the old headquarters. They would’ve pegged the agency as small potatoes and handed their launch budget to some fat Idaho spud.” Poised to offer service to thirteen major cities throughout the U.S., the new airline carrier would be a highly visible and profitable account for its agency of record.

“Maybe. We’ll never know for sure, will we?”

The pain in his chest caught up with his headache and grew agonizing. Failure, very bad.

“Oh, well. What’s done is done.” She straightened her spine and set her jaw. “I’ll need to review the balance sheet and client billing statements as soon as possible.”

Panic clawed at his control.

“If we focus on cost-efficiency and revise our growth strategy, we’ll be okay.”

He couldn’t think.

“Cameron?”

He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, are you all right?”

“No!” Cameron roared, heaving off his unbearable fear and guilt.

He stalked forward to Lizzy’s chair, leaned down and braced a hand on each upholstered arm. “What’s this we business, huh? I don’t see your name on the letterhead, or the bank loan papers, or the building lease agreement, or the payroll checks. It’s my ass on the signature line. My company you’re talking about, not cold facts and figures on a page. So listen up, Lizzy, because here’s our game plan and I’ll only say it once.

“You’ll keep hiding from the real world in your nice safe office, converting real marketing problems into theoretical marketing strategies that other people will keep presenting and implementing. You’ll let me keep handling the agency finances, just like always, without your interference. And you’ll keep the company’s financial status to yourself, because even a hint of trouble would be bad for employee and client morale, wouldn’t it? Especially since Malloy Marketing won’t fail. I repeat, this company will not fail.”

The thud in his ears was loud and frantic, dominating all other sensory input. Gradually his heartbeat slowed. The vise squeezing his lungs loosened. He inhaled deeply and detected the scent of lemons. Good Lord!

Cameron stared down at Lizzy in bemusement as her quick warm breaths fanned his skin.

Her uptilted face was in classic kissing position. Automatically he lowered his gaze to her mouth. Small, plump and pretty. Familiar…and yet not. Sampling those cupid-bow lips would be as natural as taking a sip of Heineken.

And as foreign as swallowing a taste of mam.

“I believe I grasp your meaning, Cameron. You can move aside, now.”

His gaze jerked up to meet wounded Betty Boop eyes. Every malicious word he’d uttered replayed in his head.

He didn’t budge. “Lizzy…God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that stuff. You know I didn’t.”

“Oh, I think you did. It might’ve taken me ten years to figure out, but by George, I’ve finally ‘got’ it.” Her expression hardened. “This is your company, not ours. You’ll let me share credit for the agency’s awards, but not responsibility for its problems. I shouldn’t overstep my bounds, or even leave my office except at your invitation. Because you’re the high concept front man, right?”