door.
It was the first time she’d ever had a man in her apartment. She was all thumbs while she took a quick shower, washed and dried her hair, and put on a neat gray crepe dress with white collar and cuffs, and shoes to match. She curled her hair into a neat bun atop her head, added a dash of pink lipstick, some powder, and a hint of perfume, and went to join Bowie.
He was standing at her window, looking out, his black eyes narrow and brooding. He turned as she came back, his appraisal electrifying as it slid boldly down her body and back up to her face.
“Is it too dressy?” she asked nervously.
“I’d have said it was twenty years too old for you,” he replied. “You’re an attractive young woman. Why do you dress like a matron?”
She bristled. “This is the latest style...”
“No, it isn’t. It’s a safe style. You’re covered from neck to calf, as usual.”
Her face was going hotter by the minute. “I dress to please myself.”
“Obviously. You sure as hell won’t please a man in that rig.”
“For which you should be grateful,” she said with a venomous smile. “You won’t have to fight me off all evening.”
He considered that carefully, his sensuous lips pursed, a faint twinkle in his black eyes as the cigarette smoked away in his hand. “I’ve never made a pass at you, have you noticed? What is it now—eight years?”
“Nine,” she said, averting her eyes to the window.
“And I know as little about you now as I did that first night,” he continued. “You’re an enigma.”
“I’m also starving,” she said, changing the subject with a forced, pleasant smile. “Where are we going to eat?”
“That depends on you. What appeals to you?”
“Something hot and spicy. Mexican.”
“Fine by me.” He held the apartment door open for her, one of his habits that secretly thrilled her. Aggie had raised him to be a gentleman, and in times when most men left women to open their own doors and lift their own burdens, Bowie was a refreshing anachronism. He was courteous, but not chauvinistic. Two of his executives were women, and she knew for a fact that he had hired a female architect and several female construction workers. He never discriminated, but he did have a few quirks—such as insisting on opening doors and carrying heavy packages.
They went to a festive Mexican restaurant just two blocks from Gaby’s apartment, and were given a table on a small patio near a wealth of potted trees and flowers.
“I love this,” Gaby sighed, fingering some begonias in a tub.
“You and Aggie have this hangup about flowers, I’ve noticed,” he murmured. He laid his cigarette case on the table and glared at it. “I hate damned cigarettes.”
Gaby’s eyebrows lifted. “Then why smoke?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nerves?” she asked daringly.
He leaned back, crossing his long legs under the table. His black eyes pinned hers. “Maybe.”
“About Aggie,” she guessed, because she couldn’t imagine making any man nervous, least of all Bowie.
“About Aggie,” he said flatly. He fingered the case, smoothing over his initials. J.B.M., it read—James Bowie McCayde. He’d never liked his first name, so he’d always been called Bowie.
“What’s she done?”
“It isn’t what she’s done, so much as what she’s about to do.” He leaned forward suddenly. “She’s bringing a man home to Casa Río.”
“Aggie’s bringing a man... I need a drink—something big.”
“That’s what I felt, too. It isn’t like her.”
The waiter came, but Bowie ordered coffee, not drinks, and sat patiently while Gaby read the entire menu twice before settling for a taco salad.
“My God, you didn’t need a menu to order that,” he said curtly when the waiter had gone.
“You didn’t need one to order steak ranchero, either,” she told him with a grin, “but you read the menu.”
“I wanted to make sure they still had steak ranchero.”
She shrugged. “Who is this man?” she asked.
“I don’t know him. She met him on a cruise down to Jamaica. His name is Ned Courtland.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Neither do I. She says he’s a cattleman from somewhere up north.” He glowered at the table. “More than likely, he’s got a couple of calves in a lot out back and he’s looking for a rich widow.”
“Aggie wouldn’t get mixed up with a gold digger,” she began but she was wondering about it herself.
“Aggie’s human, and she misses my father. She’s ripe for a holiday affair.”
She stiffened. “Aggie isn’t the type to have affairs, any more than I am.”
His head lifted and his black eyes scanned her face. He seemed to see right into her brain with that unblinking appraisal. It upset her and she moved her hand too quickly, almost overturning her water glass.
“Careful.” He righted the glass, his big, lean hand momentarily covering hers. Its warm strength sent an electric sensation up her arm. She lifted her eyes to his, curious and questioning, and he stared back at her with a faint scowl, as if the contact bothered him, too.
She didn’t try to pull her hand away. She was nervous of Bowie, but she’d never had any physical distaste for him, as she did with other men. She liked the touch of his skin against hers very much, and every once in a while, she found herself staring at his mouth with frank curiosity. She wondered how it would feel to kiss him, and that shocked her. She’d been kissed, but it had been somehow mechanical. She’d never really wanted it with anyone except Bowie—not that he knew. She’d made very sure that he hadn’t. He was the kind of man who took over people. She couldn’t bear the thought of that, ever.
He drew his hand back slowly, aware of an annoying surge of pleasure at the feel of those slender fingers under his. Gaby was off limits, he had to remember that. Aggie would cut his hands off if he tried anything with her baby.
Aggie had never made any secret of her love for Gaby, nor had his father. They seemed to stop caring about him the day Gaby had moved into Casa Río, and he felt like a spare person in the family. Gaby had robbed him of his rightful place. He tried not to show that resentment, but he frequently felt it. It had been Gaby at his father’s bedside when he died, because his father had called for Gaby before he had asked for his son. By the time he got to Copeland, it had been too late. He’d resented that, too. Aggie hadn’t seemed to notice. She was affectionate, but she reserved her displays of emotion for Gaby. Not once in recent years had she offered to embrace her son.
Gaby was blissfully unaware of his anger, but she had her own secrets, he was sure of it. Her attitude had puzzled him for years. It was odd to find a fifteen-year-old alone in a barn, especially one with no apparent background. His parents had been too fond of her to make inquiries, but Bowie hadn’t. He’d wanted to know all about her, but he had drawn a total blank. All his contacts and all his money hadn’t managed to ferret out one piece of information about her that he didn’t already have. He suspected that she had a past, but he had no idea what it was—or even where. She’d covered her tracks with excellent shrewdness, and that made him more suspicious about her.
“Why did you come to see me?” she asked to break the uneasy silence.
“You’ve got to help me do something about Aggie.”