“Like what?” He saw the same ripe blonde who’d already passed Billie’s office several times make yet another round. Bolder than most, she gave him a direct smile and pressed her hands together over her heart. He automatically grinned a response and she stopped dead in her tracks. At least until an older man with a frown passed her, and she scurried away.
“If you prefer single-story, or must have a wine cellar, fireplace, pool,” Billie was saying. “Things like that.”
“I’m more beer than wine.” He shrugged. “No particular preference. Just want a place I can put away the bedroll.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Bedroll?”
“Figure of speech,” he said dismissively. Though it wasn’t. He still traveled between rodeos with a bedroll in his truck. He could afford hotels now, but sometimes it was easier to bed down with the horses in the trailer, or under the stars. “I’m on the road a lot. Just need a place to land. And not too close to the city.” He would never be able to replicate the ranch in Paseo, but he could try. “I like my space and my privacy. As for the house, I guess a fireplace for cold days. AC on hot.” He grinned. “Running water and electricity.”
Her smile edged toward impish again. “I’ve always thought they were convenient.”
“’Course, that’s when the fireplace comes in handy...good place to keep warm. ’Specially with the right company.”
Her cheeks pinkened again. “And your budget?”
Did he have one? He supposed he should. He kept his eye on the broad levels, but Deborah kept her finger on all of the finer points. He knew he could walk away from rodeoing tomorrow and all of his resulting endorsements without personally missing the money a speck. Grayson Gear had become far more profitable in the last decade than anything else he did. But he had rodeoing in his blood. It kept Grayson Gear’s name prominent, and as a result, he was able to keep his charitable efforts funded.
Which meant as long as he was physically able to rodeo, he would. Even if the rest of the rodeo world was starting to consider him ancient.
Billie was still looking at him inquiringly. Her hair had slipped free of her enticing ear and she tucked it there once more as she waited.
He felt thirsty all over again.
He tapped the toe of his boot. “Darlin’, when I find the right one, no price’ll be too high.”
Her eyes did flicker at that. Still the model of decorum, though, she looked back at her screen and glided her fingers on her glass pad again.
“Does it get to you, working in a fishbowl like this?” He gestured at the clear, short walls, and the middle-aged redhead who’d been passing Billie’s office with the speed of a snail suddenly picked up her pace.
Billie looked wry. “Everything here takes some getting used to. Particularly knowing the boss is always watching. He has a very strict code of ethics that I guess he wants to ensure we’re all following.”
“What does he expect to catch y’all doing? Stealing cucumbers and water?”
She smiled. “One of these days, I’m sure I won’t even notice all this glass at all. But it is very disconcerting when you first experience it.”
“No kidding.” His working life was fishbowl-ish, too, though it sure hadn’t started out that way. Like a lot of the guys and gals competing in rodeo day in and day out, he’d done so in obscurity until a championship buckle was on his belt, and suddenly he had endorsement offers landing at his feet. “Probably not easy to get used to.”
“No, but it’s like what you’ve done in rodeo. You have a job to do and you get on with it.”
His toe stopped tapping. “You do know who I am.”
“It’s hard not to know who you are. You’ve been on the news a few times this week. And then there are the Grayson Gear billboards around town.” She smiled slightly. “Despite the impression of our local lookey-loos, you’re not the first celebrity who’s chosen to work with Austin Elite. All I care about is finding a perfect property for you, Mr. Smith.” She waited a beat. “But if you prefer a more experienced agent—perhaps Elena. She’s the blonde who has traipsed by a dozen times and she’d be entirely—”
“God, no. You, uh, you just surprised me for a bit.” Bemused him, more like. “And it’s not really Smith. It’s Fortune.”
She looked only mildly curious and he almost wished he hadn’t said anything. Grayson Smith was simply the name he used on his professional bio. But at least his real last name hadn’t raised any obvious flags for her.
Considering the way the Fortune name had been in the news since the revelation that Austin icon and bazillionaire Gerald Robinson was actually Jerome Fortune—an heir to even more millions who’d supposedly died a lifetime ago—it was a relief.
It was time to leave the subject of his name well enough alone. “Mind if I pull my chair a little closer so I can see better?”
“Please do.” She rolled her own chair a few inches over so he could edge nearer to the desk.
Nearer to her.
“I apologize again for the close quarters. I’m still the smallest fish in the pond here, so I don’t get the pick of offices just yet. Or the pick of clients, so I have to thank you again for requesting me specifically, Mr. Fortune.”
His mother had requested Billie, but who was he to correct her now?
“Just Grayson,” he replied. He hadn’t set out to be known only by his given name any more than he’d set out to be a celebrity. Over the years, it had sort of cemented itself in the public eye. But ever since his mother had admitted that she hadn’t simply decided to use the last name Fortune because of her good fortune when she gave birth to healthy triplets, but had actually given them their father’s name, he’d been increasingly happy not to use it.
Which was a line of thinking certain to put him in a bad mood.
And Billie—young or not—was too much of an unexpected pleasure for him to be in a bad mood thinking about the bastard who’d sired him and his brothers.
He maneuvered his chair almost next to her. It meant he had to stretch one leg out her office door, where someone might trip over it as they dawdled and gawked, but he didn’t much care. “And I’m not complaining about the tight space.” He nodded toward her computer screen. “All right, darlin’. Show me what you’ve got.”
Thirty minutes later, Billie watched Grayson stride out the Austin Elite front door. She held her breath and turned to face the receptionist.
Amberleigh Gardner was fanning herself. “That man makes even an old woman like me feel faint. And you’re the lucky girl who gets to work with him.” She winked. “You know he’s not married.”
Hoping that she was hiding the shakiness she’d felt since realizing that her prospective client Mr. Smith was The Grayson—famous rodeo rider, local business owner, endorser of everything from beer to saddles—Billie calmly started back to her office. “He’s a client, Amberleigh. No more or less important than any other client. His marital status isn’t relevant.”
Right.
Which was why she’d darn near tripped over her own feet in shock when she’d come out to greet her new client and recognized him. “Besides, you know the rules.” No romantic involvement with clients. It was DeForest Allen’s sacrosanct rule after having seen too many deals go south because of it.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that,