The Last Man In Texas

She set her briefcase on the floor, fished a compact from her purse, checked her face in the mirror—and snapped the sight closed. Egad, what a shock! She’d changed outfits a half-dozen times before deciding on rust-brown jeans and a matching lamb’s-wool sweater. The rich autumn color had seemed to require more makeup than she normally wore. But cinnamon-red lipstick made her mouth look so…red.

No guts, no glory.

She picked up her briefcase, squared her shoulders, raised her fist and knocked.

Instantly her heartbeat hammered her ribs.

She shouldn’t have come here! This was a big mistake. She should’ve stayed gutless on safe, familiar ground.

Maybe he hadn’t heard her knock.

The stereo cut off abruptly. “Hang on,” Cameron called, his bass voice vibrating a part of her the music hadn’t touched.

This was devious. She wasn’t a devious person. She should’ve stayed guileless and alone.

A dead bolt clicked.

She should’ve stayed passive.

The door swung open.

She should’ve stayed pitiful.

Cameron’s welcoming smile faltered.

Oh, God, she should’ve stayed in the lavender outfit!

His gaze swept down her body, came up more slowly and glowed. “Good evening, Lizzy. You look extra nice tonight.”

He’d said much the same thing the day before, but oh, what an exhilarating difference it made to believe him!

“Thank you, Cameron. You look quite…fetching, yourself.”

Glancing down, he loosed a bark of laughter, then yanked off the white dish towel tied apron style around his waist. His jeans and black polo shirt appeared fresh from the dry cleaner’s bag. Even so, they were a drastic change from business suits.

She tried not to ogle.

“Come on in,” he said, stuffing a corner of the towel into his back pocket as he pulled the door open wide.

Elizabeth entered a small enclosed foyer with a hardwood floor, her nose rising with each step, and sniffed appreciatively. “Mmm.”

“I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” she admitted, only just then realizing it was true. “What smells so delicious?”

“Could be the mushrooms in wine sauce simmering on the stove. Or the squash casserole in the microwave. Or the chocolate brownies cooling on the counter.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh! Did I mention the French bread warming in the oven?”

Elizabeth gaped. “You cooked all that since you got home?”

He rocked smugly back on his heels. “Yep.”

“For me?”

“Well, I was kind of hoping I could have some, too, if that’s all right.”

Her face heated. “I meant, I hadn’t expected you to go to so much trouble—I mean, I didn’t want you to put yourself out.”

“Lizzy, relax. I know what you meant. Cooking is a form of stress relief for me. I do it to unwind, even when I don’t have company.” He glanced at her briefcase and frowned. “Speaking of relaxing…you can leave that thing on the bench. This isn’t a working dinner.”

Unnerved, Elizabeth deposited the offending article along with her purse on a parson-style bench upholstered in raw black silk. Above it, a huge beveled mirror in a striking mosaic tile frame reflected her flustered expression.

Calm down. He didn’t mean this is a date.

The hopeful hum in her body refused to quiet. Whatever else her resignation from Malloy Marketing had failed to accomplish, it had succeeded in shocking Cameron out of complacency. She sensed his sharpened alertness, as if he didn’t quite know what to expect from her.

It was a heady feeling for someone used to indifference.

She turned and smiled. “I know this isn’t a ‘working’ dinner, but surely there’s something I can do to help?”

“No, I think I’ve got everything under control. But you can keep me company on the terrace while I grill the steaks. Follow me. I’ll give you the ten-cent tour first. It won’t take long.”

He led her into a living area that seemed the size of a basketball court to Elizabeth, an illusion reinforced by the varnished oak floor and soaring vaulted ceiling. Only three pieces of furniture occupied the floor: a black sofa in the same fabric as the entryway bench, a large overstuffed chair in a red-and-black checkerboard print and a big-screen television.

She noted the frenzied images flashing on screen. “So that’s what I heard blaring through the door. The MTV channel.”

He looked sheepish. “Sorry about that. Sound really echoes in here with it being so empty. I’m not letting myself buy anything on credit, so it’ll take a while to furnish the place.” He caught her surprised glance. “You’re not the only one who can be prudent, Lizzy.”

She arched a brow at the mammoth television. “Your self-restraint is admirable.”

“Hey, do you see any JAMO 55 watt rear-channel surround speakers with overload protection?”

Like she’d know what to look for.

“Okay, then,” he said as if vindicated. His expansive gesture encompassed a loft on the far left overlooking where they stood, and a kitchen to the right. “This is basically the beginning and end of the tour. After living in matchbox apartments for so long, I wanted a place that didn’t make me feel claustrophobic.”

Elizabeth swiveled toward the right. Eight bar chairs upholstered in checkerboard fabric surrounded a granite-topped island counter, the only divider between the kitchen and her wide-eyed gaze.

Suspended lamps resembling flying saucers beamed light on red laminate cabinets, sleek black appliances, black granite-topped counters and red porcelain double sinks. Surfaces gleamed or sparkled. Despite the mouthwatering smells proving that he’d cooked, not a single flour fingerprint or mixing bowl defiled the magazine-worthy picture. No surprise there.

Moving her gaze to the place settings laid out on the island counter, she noted cloth napkins, wineglasses and a floating candle centerpiece. Her stomach fluttered with anticipation. Pitiful woman. This isn’t a date.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Cameron said. “What are you thinking?”

Composing her expression, she turned to see him perched casually on one arm of the sofa, watching her reaction.

“I’m thinking I’m a slob and a bad cook and my house is a dump. Thanks for inviting me over and cheering me up.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You had me a little worried.”

“Don’t be. I assure you I’m thoroughly depressed.” She focused behind him on the far side of the room and found herself moving in for a closer inspection.

She’d noticed it earlier, of course. Painted bright red, the wrought iron spiral staircase curling up to the loft was hard to ignore.

Approaching the intricate pattern of intertwined ivy, she reached out and trailed fingertips over the beautiful workmanship. “This is beautiful, Cameron. More like a sculpture than a functional staircase. Did you have it custom-built?”

“No, Kara spotted a guy hauling it off from an estate sale just as she pulled in. She chased him down, got me on her cell phone, and we struck a deal for him to bring it here.”

“Kara’s got a good eye for design. This draws attention away from the kitchen and visually balances the room.”

With a final rub of the cool metal, Elizabeth turned around and scanned the entire condominium, an idea formulating. “You should consider hosting the office Christmas party here. Capitol Tower is centrally located, exclusive, and you’ve got enough open floor space to handle whatever Mitch comes up with this year.”

Last year at The Banana Tree Restaurant, he’d led a giggling conga line of Malloy Marketing employees from their private room into the cramped main dining area. When the piped-in Brazilian music had abruptly ceased, the line had staggered to a stop and swayed into adjacent tables. Only Rachel’s quick thinking prevented disaster, her impromptu rendition of “Havah Nagilah” spurring the dancers safely back to their tables.

Elizabeth met Cameron’s amused gaze and knew he’d remembered the same scene. “You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. A caterer could do all the work. You could OD on all the prime rib, boiled shrimp on ice and stuffed mushroom caps you could hold. We’d save enough money on the party room rental fee alone to go first-class on the catering.”

“We would, huh?”

“I mean, the agency would.”

His eyes warmed to burnished gold.

A forewarning she ignored in favor of watching straight white teeth flash in a lean bronzed face, transforming mere handsomeness into blazing glamour.

Dazzled and despairing, she wrenched her gaze away before she saw sunspots.

“Well—” slapping his thighs, he recaptured her attention “—I know you’re starving, and I hate to keep a woman hungry. Whaddaya say let’s get those steaks out of the fridge and onto the grill?”

He stood and waited for her to reach his side before walking with her toward the kitchen. And damn her pathetic hide, she could not stop the thrill of hope his simple courtesy produced.

She stole a peek up at his tall form. “So what has Kara picked out for your next purchase?”

“Huh?”

“To fill all this empty floor space. Isn’t she helping you decorate?”

“Kara spotted the staircase, yeah. But I planned the space build-out and chose everything that’s in here.” He stroked the island countertop as they passed. “This is one solid piece of granite. Took me days to locate enough from the same quarry to cover it and the kitchen counters.” He approached the sleek black refrigerator possessively. “Got this baby at an auction on the Internet. Thirty-six-inch side-by-side model, through-the-door water and ice dispenser. One year parts and labor warranty.”

Wrenching open the right door, he crouched down, waved her closer and pointed out features. “Adjustable spill-saver glass shelves. Over twenty-five cubic feet of storage space. Good air circulation so mold doesn’t set in. Look—” he pulled open a bin filled with vegetables “—this stuff is over a week old, but it’s still crisp.”

Leaning over his dark blond head, she caught a scrumptious whiff of sandalwood cologne. “Very nice. Obviously you don’t need Kara’s help on the home front. Sorry if I offended you.”

He closed the bin, reached for a plate wrapped in aluminum foil on the lowest shelf. “No problem.”

“I guess I didn’t realize you were such a…nester.”

Hand on the plate, he paused. “A what?” Suspicion laced his voice.

“Maybe a better word is domestic.”

“Domestic? What the hell does that mean, domestic?”

She bit back a smile. “I believe the Webster’s definition that most closely applies is—devoted to home duties and pleasures. That’s a compliment, by the way. So few men are…confident enough to express that side of themselves.”

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