“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Gaining her footing once more, she peered down at him. Her tousled brown hair flowed forward and her dark brown eyes moved from his face to his hands at her waist. He quickly removed them, though they tingled because he’d felt her warmth underneath her blouse.
“What makes you think I’m a veteran cowgirl?” she asked, climbing down the ladder.
“Your boots,” he answered quickly. He’d been trained to notice details.
She looked down at her boots as if she hadn’t remembered what she was wearing. They were brown leather, well creased, with the shine long gone.
“They’re comfortable and I like to cook in them.” She sounded a bit defensive.
“I came down because something smelled wonderful. But if we keep up this conversation, I have a feeling you’re not going to give me anything you made for breakfast.”
She laughed and it was a pretty sound. When had he last noticed a woman’s laughter?
On the ceramic tile of the kitchen floor now, Cassie Calloway looked up at him. She wasn’t short, maybe about five-seven. But he was six-three so her chin had to come up for her to meet his eyes. “You didn’t come down for breakfast yesterday. Didn’t smell the bacon?”
Yesterday he’d still been trying to make sense out of what he was doing. Oh, he knew what his mission was here in Austin, Texas. Although he was the love child of an affair between his mother and Jerome Fortune, aka Gerald Robinson, he wasn’t in Austin about that. He had no desire to see his biological father. He was after information—information that could land Gerald Robinson’s wife, Charlotte, in jail. He hoped he didn’t run into any of his half brothers or sisters, either. He didn’t want anything to muddy his investigation or sway his judgment. He was undercover and intended to keep a low profile.
“Maybe I just like cinnamon more than bacon.” Teasing Cassie and seeing her smile seemed to make his day. Maybe because everything about why he was here was so serious.
“I didn’t know financial consultants were so picky,” she joked back.
He almost winced. He’d needed a cover story. A financial consultant on vacation from Mississippi seemed the perfect one to hide his real identity: a detective from Mississippi investigating fraud.
When Cassie Calloway looked into his dark brown eyes with hers, he felt his conscience stab him. He wished he could tell her the truth. But that was ridiculous. He didn’t even know this woman, let alone know if she was trustworthy. Hormones were the downfall of many a man and he’d do well to remember that.
He nodded to the ladder and the smoke alarm in the ceiling. “What’s the problem?”
She opened her hand to reveal a new nine-volt battery. “I need to change the battery, but I couldn’t quite reach it.”
“And you shouldn’t have tried. Don’t you have a handyman’s number you can call when you need one?”
She scoffed at that and shook her head. “Handyman? I don’t think so. I have a mortgage and I need to fill rooms. That’s why I opened them to extended stays. You’re the first one to take advantage of that.”
Nash looked around at the quirky colors of paint on the walls—lime green and sky blue—as well as a mural that had to have been hand-done. It depicted a scene of children sitting under a huge oak. A cowboy was seated on a stool with an open book in his lap as he read them a story. It was really good and he realized the bright wall colors complemented those in the painting.
“You have a nice place here. Have you done many renovations?”
She moved a few steps away from him as if the distance was necessary to talk to him. “I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. It was in foreclosure. It mainly needed fresh coats of paint.”
He nodded to the mural. “Who did your artwork?”
Her cheeks turned a little pink. “I did.”
“You’ve got talent.”
Her eyes were bright and her smile wide when she said, “Thank you. I love to paint. I mean real paintings. I was an art history major in college, and I took education courses so I could teach. But teaching positions are hard to find in these days of budget cuts, especially art teaching positions.”
Glancing around again, taking in the whole bed-and-breakfast’s first floor as if it was a piece of art, he decided, “You shouldn’t let your talent go to waste.”
“Oh, I don’t. I teach private art lessons, and I help with the community art center.” After a brief hesitation, she said, “Now that I told you about me, why don’t you tell me about Mississippi?”
He knew she’d called his reference in Oklahoma, the state where he was born. Dave Preston was a close friend who could and would adhere to Nash’s cover story.
Nash held his hand out for the battery. “Why don’t you let me take care of this before you actually need the smoke alarm?”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind—”
Not minding a bit, he took the battery from her palm. The tips of his fingers touching her skin sent an electric jolt through him. No, no, no! He didn’t have time for an attraction now. He had to save his energy for the job he was here to do and not be distracted by a pretty woman.
Climbing the ladder, he easily changed the battery. Then he was down the ladder once more.
She glanced down at his well-worn boots. “Your boots look comfortable, too.”
He had to chuckle. “Yes, they are. Perfect for walking or driving.”
“Not for meeting clients?”
Damn it. He was going to have to buy a new pair of boots so he could show her he dressed up for client meetings. Not that he had any of those planned.
He winked at her. “I prefer black boots for a more professional look.”
She seemed to look him up and down, from his dark brown hair, over his squarish jaw, down his red T-shirt and his jeans. Her gaze on him made him feel hot.
“I clean up well, too.”
She blushed. “Oh, I didn’t think you didn’t. How about that cinnamon roll?” she asked, obviously embarrassed.
“That sounds good. Join me?” The question came out of his mouth before he thought better of it. He really shouldn’t have asked her that.
She hesitated and he thought that was wise of her. After all, even though she’d called his reference, he was practically a stranger. But then deciding it must be safe enough to have breakfast with him, she waved at the eat-at counter on the kitchen side of the room. The other side of the room was filled with tables and chairs, no doubt for the dinner he remembered she also served. He hadn’t taken advantage of that yesterday simply because he didn’t want to get tied up with her or any other guests. Anonymity was best cultivated if he spent most of his time alone. However, after a quick canvas of the comfortable-looking sitting area, he could see himself working on his laptop there.
“Coffee?” Cassie asked.
“If it’s black and strong.”
“It is,” she said, but then smiled. “I dose mine with cream and sugar.”
He rolled his eyes in mock horror. “None of those for me.”
“At least I don’t serve flavored coffees.”
He laughed at her tone. “Your