The woman propped a hand on her hip and sneered. “Dallas deals on a daily basis with females who come here under the guise of business.”
“Oh, so true, Maria,” came from behind Paris. “Our stepson is a regular chick magnet.”
Paris turned to find a pretty middle-aged blonde dressed in a chic coral sundress, standing at the front door. Apparently the place was rife with the now-deceased J. D. Calloway’s wives. Determined to get off on the right foot with this one, she held out her hand and smiled. “I’m Paris Reynolds.”
The blonde returned her smile and shook her hand with much more gusto than Paris expected. “I’m Jenny Parks Calloway, J.D.’s third wife.”
“Not officially,” Maria added in a sour tone.
Paris assumed there must be a story behind that comment, but chose to remain silent and await the fallout between the feuding former spouses.
It came out in Jenny’s intense frown. “Please forgive the second missus. Sometimes Maria forgets her manners. What shade on the color chart is your blond, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Paris’s hand immediately went to her hair. “I wouldn’t know. I’m actually a natural blonde.”
Jenny chuckled. “Oh, so am I.”
“And I’m the queen of Texas,” Maria said with a smirk.
Ignoring the other mother, Jenny turned her smile back on Paris. “By the way, I love, love, love your suit, sugar.”
Paris grasped to find a return compliment. “Thank you, and I love your bracelet.”
Jenny twisted the diamond and silver leaf bauble around her wrist. “And thank you. I picked this up at a silent auction at the art center in San Antonio last month.”
Unbelievable. “Really? I was there, too.” But she hadn’t had the funds to bid. She’d been there to drum up business. An unsuccessful plan that had led her to this remote ranch.
Jenny laid a hand beneath the strand of pearls at her throat. “A small, small world it is.”
“Way too small if you ask me,” Maria grumbled.
Jenny sent her another scowl. “No one asked you, Maria, and no one appreciates your attitude or your sarcasm. You really should learn some Southern decorum.”
“I think we all can work on that,” Dallas chimed in as he opened the half door built into the counter. “Ms. Reynolds, if you’ll follow me to my office, we can get away from all this verbal sparring and you can tell me what you need.”
“But make it quick,” Maria added. “He has work to do.”
“Oh, hush,” Jenny replied as Paris stepped through the opening. “He’s not too busy to entertain a pretty girl. Also, their names go so well together—Paris and Dallas. Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“Sounds like an airport flight schedule,” Maria muttered.
“It’s high time he meets a nice girl, Maria,” Jenny added. “Don’t forget what’s coming up at the end of the week and we both know what that means.”
If only Paris knew what that meant. Regardless, she could tell Dallas wasn’t comfortable with the conversation when he rushed toward an opening to his left without responding.
With her mind riddled with confusion, Paris followed Dallas down a lengthy corridor, all the while unsuccessfully trying to keep her eyes off his derriere. She found the way he dangled his arms at his sides, his perfect lean build and the roll of his hips quite fascinating.
Good grief. Evidently the lengthy amount of time she’d been without male companionship had her falling head over common sense over some cowboy. Okay, not just any cowboy. An extremely gorgeous, rich cowboy who had succeeded at everything he’d tried, from rodeo to ranching, according to what she’d read on the internet. A far cry from her seedy ex-husband who’d managed to screw up everything he’d endeavored, including their marriage.
Dallas soon paused to lead Paris into a well-appointed office that served as a tribute to his success. The lush brown leather sofa and love seat set near the window complemented his masculine aura, and the massive mahogany desk spoke to his rugged persona. The hand-scraped dark wood floors topped off the decor that couldn’t have been done any better if she’d done it herself, even if it wasn’t exactly her cup of tea.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he crossed the room to the elaborate granite-covered wet bar in the corner.
“Water would be fine,” she said, although wine would be better, she thought.
“Water it is. Have a seat.”
After settling in a beige club chair across from the desk, Paris set her case on the floor, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt and prepared to make her pitch. She decided to begin with casual conversation and in the same instant, assuage her natural curiosity. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s coming up at the end of the week?”
“I turn thirty-eight on Saturday,” he said as he retrieved a crystal highball glass from the upper cabinet.
Six years her senior. Not too bad. Not that it mattered. “Big party planned?”
Once he filled the tumbler with ice from a bucket on the counter, then poured water into it from a pitcher he pulled from the built-in stainless refrigerator, he returned to the desk and set the glass on a coaster before her. “I hope like hell that’s not going to happen. I’m not one for having people making a big deal over my birthday.”
She sensed he would be that kind of man. “I have a feeling your stepmothers might be planning a big deal.”
He dropped down into the chair behind the desk, leaned back and affected a relaxed posture, but his expression said he didn’t exactly appreciate her conjecture. “They know better than to pull that on me.”
Paris gathered he might be suffering from a severe case of the birthday blues. “Are you sure? It sounded as if at least one of them wants you to have a date for some soiree, hence the nice girl comment.”
He sent her that sexy, crooked smile again. “If that’s the case, are you volunteering to fill the role?”
If she were only that brave. Then again, if it helped her secure the job... “I generally avoid mixing business with pleasure, although your family seemed to jump to the conclusion that my business is pleasure.”
He narrowed his eyes and studied her straight on. “Speaking of that, what exactly do you do for a living?”
The suspicion in his tone ruffled her feminine feathers. “It doesn’t involve a nine hundred number or a pimp, I promise you that.”
Now he looked amused. “Glad you cleared the air.”
So was she, and she planned to be perfectly clear. “In reality, I’m—”
“Wait. Let me guess.” He inclined his head and pointed at her. “You’re a stockbroker and you want to get your hands on my investments.”
She might like to get her hands on something of his that happened to be a far cry from his portfolio. Since when had she become a purveyor of naughty thoughts? “Not even close.”
He rubbed a palm over his chin. “I would bet the back forty you have an accounting degree.”
If he only knew about her lack of accounting skills, he would never have assumed such a thing. That downfall had landed her in deep trouble and served as another reason for being there, about to beg for employment. “Believe me, math is not my forte.”
“Marketing?”
In an effort to clear her parched throat, Paris took a quick sip of water. “Try again.”
His