The Texan's Contested Claim: The Texan's Contested Claim / The Greek Tycoon's Secret Heir
cops around here drive unmarked vehicles.”
“And ruin your fun?” she said sweetly. She hit the button to lower the window and greeted the patrolman approaching the car. “Good morning, Officer.”
He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Morning, ma’am. Is there a reason you were driving forty-five miles per hour over the speed limit?”
“Only one,” she replied, and hooked a thumb over her shoulder at Garrett. “Him.”
Garrett hissed a breath between his teeth, then yanked off his sunglasses and leaned around Ali to look up at the policeman. “My fault entirely,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were a police officer.”
“Ah,” the patrolman said, nodding. “So speeding’s all right, so long as the law isn’t around.”
“No, no, no,” Garrett replied in frustration. “That’s not what I meant, at all. I was buying a newspaper and saw you watching me. I thought you’d recognized me, so I told Ali to lose you.”
“Why don’t you dig yourself a little deeper?” Ali said under her breath.
Garrett burned her with a look, then shifted his gaze to the police officer again. “I’m Garrett Miller,” he said, as if that explained everything.
The officer looked at Ali. “What? Is he some kind of rock star or something?”
Ali rolled her lips inward, to keep from laughing. “Uh. No, sir. He owns Future Concepts, a computer company.”
When the officer’s expression remained blank, she looked over at Garrett and shrugged. “Your turn.”
“It’s not funny,” Garrett snapped as he flopped down on the sofa.
“No, it’s not,” Ali agreed, trying her best to hide her smile. “But if you could have seen your face when Officer Wilhelm told you to put your hands on the trunk of the car and spread ’em….” She sputtered a laugh, unable to help herself. “Now that was funny!”
Scowling, he folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I’m glad you found it humorous. Being frisked like a common criminal certainly isn’t my idea of fun.”
“I’d think you’d be relieved,” she said, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “You told him everything about yourself except your favorite color of underwear and he still didn’t have a clue who you were.”
“No, but the dispatcher recognized my name.”
“Which is all that saved you from taking a ride in the backseat of a patrol car,” she reminded him.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She didn’t even try to hide her smile. “Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
“Honestly? Because I think you place way too much importance on yourself.”
He lifted a brow. “Oh, really.”
“Yes, really. You need to lighten up. Forget you’re a zillionaire for a while. Kick up your heels and have some fun for a change.”
He snorted. “You don’t have a clue what it’s like to be me.”
“Other than boring, no.”
“Boring?” He pushed to his feet, his jaw clenched in anger. “Let me tell you what it’s like to be me,” he said, bearing down on her. “Money attracts people, including crazies and crooks. And unlike our friendly police officer this morning, most people recognize my name, if not my face, which causes problems for me. Because of my success, I haven’t been able to fly commercially in years. I can’t go to a movie theater or a restaurant, or anywhere for that matter, without drawing attention. If I do venture out to a highly publicized event, I’m forced to take a bodyguard along, just in case some lunatic decides to try to kidnap me for ransom.
“And as for having fun,” he continued, “unless it can be boxed and delivered for me to enjoy in the privacy of my home, I can forget it. Going out in public is a freedom I lost the day I made my first million.”
By the time he finished his tirade, he was standing nose to nose with Ali, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth.
“I—I had no idea,” she stammered.
“Most people don’t. They envy my success, even try to emulate it, but they don’t know what success has cost me, what it would cost them if it was theirs.” Hiding a smile, he turned away. “But you’ll get a taste of it soon enough.”
She tensed. “What do you mean?”
“Our good friend Officer Wilhelm gave us his word he wouldn’t tell anyone about seeing me, but I’ll bet you money he tells someone. Or the dispatcher will. And if one of them does tell, you can expect the media to start arriving by morning.”
Her eyes rounded. “Here?”
“Here and anywhere we dare venture. Media hounds are like fleas on a dog. Irritating as hell and all but impossible to get rid of.”
* * *
Ali paced the living room, stealing an occasional peek through the blinds she’d closed. So far, so good, she thought. Not a person or a car in sight.
Confident that Officer Wilhelm had been true to his word—or Garrett had exaggerated his own importance, which is what she felt was more the case—she abandoned her watch and went to the kitchen for something to drink.
“I’m getting a glass of wine,” she called to him in the den. “Do you want one?”
“Yes, please.”
She filled two glasses and carried them to the den. She glanced over her shoulder at the television as she handed Garrett his drink. “What are you watching?”
“Jeopardy.”
Figures, she thought, biting back a smile, as she sank down on the sofa beside him. “Who’s winning?” she asked.
“Guy on the left. They’re about to start Double Jeopardy, though, so that could change things.”
A commercial came on and he lifted the remote to surf through channels.
“Do you have something against commercials?” she asked in frustration.
“Other than being an utter waste of my time?” He shook his head. “Not particularly.”
“You advertise,” she reminded him.
“Some.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Why? Because I refuse to watch a boring commercial?”
She opened a hand. “If the shoe fits…”
“It’s marketing’s responsibility to capture the attention of the consumer. If they fail—” he clicked the remote “—which my company’s commercials seldom do,” he informed her, “I change channels until I find something that does catch my attention. Like that,” he said and set the remote aside.
“The stock market report?” She fanned her face. “Stop. Please. I’m not sure my heart can take the excitement.”
He shot her a scowl. “Why don’t you go spy on the reporters lurking outside some more?”
She tucked her feet beneath her and took a sip of her wine. “There’s nobody out there.”
“There will be by morning.”
“You’re full of bologna. No reporters are coming here.”
“Wanna bet?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said.
“Five hundred says they’ll be here by morning.”
She