clothes were sticking to his skin. Even though he’d shed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, he’d still perspired through his undershirt. His trousers were streaked with whitish dust and his button-down looked and smelled as though he’d worn it to shear sheep.
He was hot, he was uncomfortable and he was beginning to feel the effects of two sleepless nights and jet lag. Add the unaccustomed seasoning of his gluttonous lunch and he was closing in on a sensory meltdown. Still, as much as he wanted to check into the famed Galvez Hotel, take a cool shower and fall across a king-size mattress, he wanted to make progress on this assignment more. Once he had details and a starting point, he could begin organizing his thoughts. He would treat the exercise like the writing of a graduate school research paper. The kind of work he loved. And the reward would be returning to London with a mission successfully accomplished.
Finally.
But right now he had to take his sticky, rumpled self to, of all unappealing places, a construction trailer to observe a woman in dirty work boots giving orders to her hired help. Two hours earlier she’d excused herself and left him in the company of her man Cooper for a tour of the site. While it had been an enlightening use of his time, Barrett’s gut told him the gangly old guy was a decoy. In fact, he had the distinct feeling the aging foreman was stalling for his employer. As he aimed disgusting spittle into a paper cup, Cooper was forthcoming enough on matters related to construction but questions beyond that were deflected with shrugs and feigned ignorance. The old boy was about as ignorant as a Scotland Yard detective. Years of Oxford-trained cross-examination skills were essentially wasted on this Cooper fellow.
At the end of the tour Barrett was given directions to the meeting place. He parked his luxury sedan alongside several ostentatious pickup trucks and entered a building that was nicely, if temporarily, constructed.
A blast of cool, dry air greeted him as he stepped inside. Barrett noted the professional decor of the interior, dimly and comfortably lit in contrast to the glaring afternoon sun. For a moment he battled the desire to locate and stand beneath the air-conditioning vent directing the chilly breeze down the neck of his unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Westbrook.”
A smiling creature crossed the room.
“I’m Casey’s personal assistant, Savannah, and I’ve been warned about your injuries so I won’t offer to shake hands. May I at least get you some tea?”
“That would be lovely. Yes, please. And do call me Barrett.”
“I’ll just be a moment, Barrett. There’s a powder room through there if you’d like to freshen up.”
The curvy brunette in jeans and sneakers gave him a cheeky smile, made a tick mark on the clipboard she carried and turned to leave.
He seized the opportunity to duck into the small room where he washed his battered hands and splashed cool water on his face. As he stood before a large decorative mirror, he reviewed the day’s damage. Dark smudges beneath his eyes, hair askew, clothes limp and wrinkled. He looked as disheveled as he felt. A strong cup of Earl Grey with lemon would help him endure the afternoon. He considered going out to the car for his jacket and tie, but hadn’t the energy.
“When in Rome,” he reminded himself of his best friend Sig’s advice to blend in rather than stand out. So far everybody he’d encountered was in laborer’s attire so there was no need to drag back on the wool jacket that had been so appropriate twenty-four hours ago in fog-dampened London.
Back in the reception area he stepped close to a wall of framed photos that seemed to chronicle the growth of the company. Interspersed with aerial shots of the huge stores were smiling faces of employees at various gatherings. Casey’s eyes flashed at him from several of the pictures as she stood arm in arm with people who resembled her too much to be anything but family members. They appeared to be a large and cheerful lot.
“Barrett, if you’d like to join them, the other men are waiting for Casey in the conference room.” The assistant motioned toward the double doors at the end of the reception area.
“Super,” he agreed.
She went before him and pulled one of the doors wide. It was immediately clear his lack of more professional attire was a blunder. Three men were grouped together at the far side of the room, impeccably dressed in summer-weight suits and gleaming leather cowboy boots. Three wide-brimmed straw hats hung behind them on a rack made of some deceased animal’s antlers.
“Gentlemen, this is Barrett Westbrook of Westbrook Partners, Esquire.” Savannah made the introductions. “Barrett, may I present Doc Mosley, George Duncan and Manny Fernandez. Keep an eye on your wallet around these three. They’re known as the Cowboy Cartel and they’ll make a partner out of you quicker than you can sing ‘The Eyes of Texas.’”
“Well done, little lady.” The man identified as George winked at Savannah, a woman less than half his age. “Nice to meet ya, Westbrook. Put ’er there.” He thrust out a tanned and weathered hand.
Barrett extended his palm upward but before he could explain his injuries George had him locked in a grip that nearly induced tears. Doc stepped forward next and clasped with equal fervor. By the time Manny ended his bone-crushing assault, Barrett’s hand was numb. He gently flexed his fingers and slipped his right hand into his trouser pocket, determined not to check for bleeding.
“Would you like lemon in your tea, Barrett?” Savannah stood at a sideboard with her back to the men.
“Yes, please. And milk if you have it.”
Her dark head turned as she lifted a glass filled with ice and amber liquid. “It’s cold tea and it’s already sweet. I hope that’s okay since it’s the only way to drink it here in Texas.”
“Yes, of course. Even better after such a warm day.”
“Yeah, doggie.” Doc slapped a beefy hand on Barrett’s shoulder. “You can’t ask for nicer weather than this. Bet the water’s eighty in the bay today.”
Barrett’s concern for his hand abated. “Eighty degrees Fahrenheit?” That was a Roman bath compared to the ocean temperature back home. He had to find a marina where he could rent a sailboat. Suddenly a short stay in Texas held some appeal.
“Marine report said eighty-one.” Manny nodded.
“Perfect for specks. You fish, Westbrook?”
“Not since I was a youngster on holiday with the family. My grandpa fancied a bit of wading with a surf rod. I myself am partial to a sail over an outboard motor.”
“How ’bout joining us anyway?” Manny extended the invitation. “We’re making a run out to Trinity Bay. I’ll put you on a mess of trout. What do ya say?”
Barrett glanced toward Casey’s assistant who waved away his question before he voiced it.
“Casey’s booked solid in the morning. She can’t possibly see you before lunch anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”
Barrett would much rather skim over the waves than dangle a hook beneath them but it would be inhospitable to reject the kind invitation. Besides, he might discover something of value from these chaps.
“If you’re sure it’s not an imposition, I accept.” Barrett nodded. “It’s very generous of you to offer.”
Doc began to make a sound that Barrett could only surmise was laughter. The man displayed all of his teeth and tossed his head, not unlike a braying donkey. The odd sound was infectious and Barrett felt a smile pulling at his mouth though he had no earthly idea why.
“What does your friend find so amusing?” he had to ask.
George spoke up. “The idea of Moneybags Manny being generous is something to laugh about all right.”
“Hey, wait a minute now.” Manny pretended to be offended.
“Save it for the company, dubs.”