"Not quite yet," Dallie said. He rested comfortably on the grave marker, his long, jean-clad legs stretched out before him, dappled light playing in the silver threads of his dark blond hair. Even at fifty-nine, he was a beautiful man, which made Skeet's leathery ugliness all the more p.r.o.nounced.

Her feet sloshed in her sneakers as she moved closer. "You could do worse than this place."

"I s'pose." Dallie crossed his ankles. "The surveyors showed up a day early, and Ted's out at the landfill with them. This resort deal might go through after all. We told him we'd help you move your things to his house."

"I've decided to stay here."

Dallie nodded, as if he were thinking it over. "Doesn't seem too safe."

"He's set up at least one security camera."

Dallie nodded again. "Truth is, Skeet and I already moved your things."

"You had no right to do that!"

"Matter of opinion." Dallie turned his face into the breeze, as if he were checking wind direction before he made his next golf shot. "You're staying with Skeet."

"With Skeet Skeet?"

"He doesn't talk much. Figured you'd rather move in there than have to deal with my wife. I might as well tell you I don't like it when she gets upset, and you sure do upset her."

"She gets upset about the d.a.m.nedest things." Skeet shifted his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "Not much you can do to talk her out of it either, Francie being Francie."

"With all due respect ..." Meg sounded like a lawyer, but Dallie's calm a.s.surance rattled her in a way the women didn't. "I don't want to live with Skeet."

"Don't see why not." Skeet shifted his toothpick. "You'll have your own TV, and I won't bother you none. I like to keep the place neat, though."

Dallie rose from the tombstone. "You can follow us over, or Skeet'll drive your car and you can ride with me."

His steady gaze testified that the decision had been made, and nothing she said would change it. She weighed her options. Returning to the church clearly wasn't an option right now. She wasn't moving in with Ted. If he didn't understand why, she did. That left Shelby and Warren Traveler's house, the inn, Francesca's guesthouse, or staying with Skeet Cooper.

With his grizzled, sun-cured face and Willie Nelson ponytail falling between his shoulder blades, Skeet looked more like a derelict than a man who'd picked up a couple of million dollars caddying for a golf legend. She pulled her shredded pride together and regarded him loftily. "I don't let my roommates borrow my clothes, but I do enjoy a little spa party on Friday nights. Manis and pedis. You do mine. I'll do yours. That kind of thing."

Skeet shifted his toothpick and gazed at Dallie. "Looks like we got ourselves another live one."

"Seems that way." Dallie pulled his car keys from his pocket. "Still too soon to tell, though."

She had no idea what they were talking about. They set off ahead of her, and she heard Skeet chuckle. "Remember that night we almost let Francie drown in the swimming pool?"

"Sure was tempting," Francie's loving husband replied.

"Good thing we didn't."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways."

Skeet flicked his toothpick into the scrub. "He sure seems to be workin' overtime these days."

She'd seen Skeet's small, stone, ranch-style house when she'd first explored the Beaudine compound. Double-hung windows flanked a front door painted a nondescript tan. An American flag, the only decorative feature, hung listlessly from a pole near the front walk.

"We tried not to mess up your things too much when we moved them," Dallie said as he held the front door open for her.

"Thoughtful." She stepped into an immaculately neat living area, which was painted a lighter version of tan than the front door and dominated by a pair of high-end, exceptionally ugly, brown recliners pointed directly at a large, wall-mounted flat-screen television. Dead center above it hung a multicolored sombrero. The room's only true aesthetic touch came from a beautiful earth-toned rug similar to the ones in Francesca's office, a rug Meg suspected Skeet hadn't chosen himself.

He picked up the remote and turned on the Golf Channel. The wide opening opposite the front door revealed part of a hallway and a functional kitchen with wooden cabinets, white countertops, and a set of ceramic canisters shaped like English cottages. A smaller flat-screen television hung above a round wooden dinette table with four padded swivel chairs.

She followed Dallie down the hallway. "Skeet's bedroom's at the end," he said. "He snores like crazy, so you might want to buy yourself some earplugs."

"It gets better and better, doesn't it?"

"Temporary. Until things settle down."

She wanted to ask him exactly when he expected that might be but thought better of it. He led her into a spa.r.s.ely furnished bedroom with ma.s.s-produced Early Americanstyle furniture: a double bed covered in a quilted, geometrical-print bedspread; a dresser; an upholstered chair; and another flat-screen television. The room was painted the same tan as the rest of the house, and her suitcase, along with some packing boxes, sat on a bare tiled floor. Through the open closet door, she saw her wardrobe hanging from a wooden rod and her shoes neatly lined up beneath.

"Francie's offered more than once to decorate the place for him," Dallie said, "but Skeet likes to keep things simple. You have your own bathroom."

"Hooray."

"Skeet's office is in the bedroom next door. As far as I can tell, he doesn't use it for a d.a.m.n thing, so you can set up your jewelry making in there. He won't notice, not unless you lose the remote control he keeps on top of the file cabinet."

The front door slammed, and even the Golf Channel couldn't drown out the sound of angry footsteps followed by the demanding bellow of Wynette's favorite son. "Where is she?"

Dallie gazed toward the hallway. "I told Francie we should have stayed in New York."

Chapter Eighteen.

Skeet turned up the volume in response to Ted's intrusion. Meg pulled herself together and poked her head out into the living room. "Surprise."

Ted's ball cap shaded his eyes, but his rigid jaw indicated stormy weather. "What are you doing here?"

She made a grand gesture toward the recliner. "I've taken a new lover. Sorry you had to find out like this."

"Golf Central's on," Skeet grumbled, "and I can't hear a d.a.m.n thing."

Dallie came out of the hallway behind her. "That's because you're going deaf. I been telling you for months to buy some d.a.m.ned hearing aids. Hey there, son. How did things go at the landfill?"

Ted's hands stayed aggressively planted on his hips. "What's she doing here? She's supposed to be staying with me."

Dallie turned his attention back to her, his blue eyes as clear as a Hill Country sky. "I told you he wouldn't be happy about this, Meg. Next time you need to listen to me." He shook his head sadly. "I tried my d.a.m.nedest to talk her out of it, son, but Meg sure does have a mind of her own."

She had a couple of choices. She picked the one that didn't involve punching someone. "It's better this way."

"Better for whom?" Ted retorted. "It sure as h.e.l.l isn't better for me. And it's not better for you, either."

"As a matter of fact, it is. You have no idea-"

"Best you two have this discussion in private." Dallie looked embarra.s.sed, which he wasn't. "Your mom and I are eating at the club tonight. Normally, I'd invite you both to join us, but there seems to be a lot of tension."

"You're d.a.m.ned right there's tension," Ted said. "She's got some wacko out there gunning for her, and I want her where I can keep an eye on her."

"Doubt she'll come to much harm here." Dallie headed for the front door. "Except for her eardrums."

The door closed behind him. Ted's censorious gaze, along with her damp clothes and clammy underwear, gave her goose b.u.mps. She stomped down the hallway to her bedroom and knelt before her suitcase. "I've had a hard day," she said as he stalked into the room behind her. "You can go away now, too."

"I can't believe you let them get to you!" he exclaimed. "I thought you had more backbone."

She wasn't surprised that he'd seen through his father's charade. She pulled a bag, neatly packed with her toiletries, from the suitcase. "I'm hungry, and I need a shower."

His pacing stopped. The mattress sighed as he sat on the edge. Seconds ticked by before he spoke so softly she could barely hear. "Sometimes I want to leave this town so bad I can taste it."

A rush of tenderness filled her. She set aside the bag and went to him. As the sounds of a v.i.a.g.r.a commercial echoed from the living room, she smiled and pulled off his ball cap. "You are this town," she whispered. And then she kissed him.

Two days later, as she sat in the shade by the fifth tee reading about large-scale composting, one of the junior caddies buzzed toward her in a cart. "You're wanted in the pro shop," he said. "I'll take over here."

She drove his cart back to the clubhouse with a sense of foreboding that turned out to be justifiable. No sooner had she stepped into the pro shop than a pair of large, sweaty hands settled over her eyes. "Guess who?"

She suppressed a groan, then pulled herself together. "The manly drawl suggests Matt Damon, but something tells me ... Leonardo DiCaprio, right?"

A hearty laugh, the hands dropped, and Spencer Skipjack turned her to face him. He wore his Panama hat, an aqua sports shirt, and dark pants. A big grin stretched his big mouth over his big square white veneers. "I have definitely missed you, Miz Meg. You're one of a kind."

Plus, she had ultrafamous parents, and she was more than twenty years his junior, an irresistible combination to an egomaniac. "Hey, Spence. Thanks for the presents."

"That soap dish is from our new line. Retails for a hundred and eighty-five dollars. Did you get my message?"

She played dumb. "Message?"

"About tonight. What with all my traveling, I've been neglecting you, but that's going to change starting right now." He made a vague gesture toward the front offices. "I sprung you from work for the rest of the day. We're flying to Dallas." He grabbed her arm. "First, a little shopping trip for you at Neiman's, then drinks at the Adolphus and dinner at the Mansion. My plane's waiting for us."

He'd dragged her halfway to the door, and this time he wasn't going to let her put him off as she'd done before. The most appealing of her options involved telling him to go to h.e.l.l, but the land surveyors were still in town, the resort deal was practically signed, and she wouldn't be the ultimate spoiler. "You're the most thoughtful man."

"Neiman's was Sunny's idea."

"She's amazing."

"She's spending the day with Ted. The two of them have a lot of catching up to do."

Sunny might not have heard about the luncheon kiss, but she would almost certainly have heard about Ted's legendary lovemaking skills, and Meg suspected she'd be doing everything she could to find out for herself if the stories were true. Meg also knew Ted wouldn't touch her. Having that much faith in a man unsettled her. Hadn't she trusted men before? But none of those men were Ted.

Ted ... who'd claimed her in front of the town and d.a.m.ned the consequences. A stupid, boneheaded thing to do that meant everything to her.

She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. "We know each other well enough that I can be honest, right?"

The sight of his narrowing eyes wasn't encouraging, so she dumped her dignity and tried a pout. "What I'd really like is a golf lesson."

"A golf lesson?"

"You have such a beautiful swing. It reminds me of Kenny's, but I can't exactly ask him for a lesson, and I want to learn from the best. Please, Spence. You're such a great player. It'd mean a lot more to me than another trip to Dallas, where I've been at least a thousand times." More like once, but he didn't know that, and twenty minutes later, they were on the practice range.

Unlike Torie, Spence was a miserable teacher, more interested in having her admire his swing than helping her develop her own, but Meg acted as though he was the king of all golf instructors. As he droned on, she found herself wondering if he was as committed to building an environmentally conscious resort as Ted believed. When they finally sat on the bench to take a break, she decided to go on a fishing expedition. "You're so good at this. I swear, Spence, your love for the game shows through in everything you do."

"I've been playing since I was a kid."

"That's why you have so much respect for the sport. Look at you. Anybody with money can build a golf course, but how many men have the vision to build a course that'll set the benchmark for future generations?"

"I believe in doing what's right."

That was encouraging. She amped it up a little. "I know you'll say all the environmental awards you're sure to win aren't what's most important, but you deserve every bit of the recognition that's coming to you."

She thought she'd gone too far, but she'd once again underestimated his bottomless ego. "Somebody has to set the new standard," he said, echoing words she'd heard from Ted.

She pressed a little harder. "Don't forget to hire a photographer to take photos of the landfill the way it is now. I'm not a journalist, but I'm guessing the various award committees are going to want really good before and after pictures."

"Now don't be putting the cart ahead of the horse, Miz Meg. I haven't signed anything yet."

She hadn't really expected him to reveal his final decision to her, but she'd hoped. A hawk soared overhead, and Spence started making noises about a romantic dinner at one of the local vineyards. If she had to eat with him, she wanted to do it someplace where she'd have lots of company, so she insisted that only the Roustabout's barbecue could satisfy her appet.i.te.

Sure enough, they'd barely been seated before reinforcements began to arrive. Dallie sauntered in first, followed by Shelby Traveler, who hadn't even taken time to put on her mascara. Kayla's father, Bruce, still wearing his workout shorts, rushed in next, darting dirty looks at Meg while he ordered. They had no intention of leaving her alone with Spence, and by nine o'clock, their group occupied three tables, with Ted and Sunny noticeably missing.

Meg had taken a shower in the locker room before they'd left the club and changed into her spare outfit: an unimpressive funnel-neck gray top, swirly skirt, and sandals, but dressing down didn't discourage Spence, who couldn't keep his hands to himself. He took advantage of any excuse to press against her. He ran his finger over her wrist, readjusted the paper napkin in her lap, and brushed her breast with his arm as he reached for a bottle of Tabasco. Lady Emma did her best to distract him, but Spence had all the power, and he intended to use it to get what he wanted. Which was how she ended up standing in the parking lot under the red and blue neon roustabout sign with her phone pressed to her ear.

"Dad, I have one of your biggest fans here," she said when her father picked up. "I know you've heard of Spencer Skipjack, the founder of Viceroy Industries. They make the most luxurious plumbing products. He's basically a genius."

Spence grinned, and his chest inflated in the neon flicker like one of Chef's precar crash souffles.

She'd pulled her father away from his ancient Smith Corona typewriter or from her mother. Either way, he wasn't happy. "What's this about, Meg?"

"Can you believe it?" she replied. "As busy as he is, he gave me a golf lesson today."

His annoyance shifted to concern. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Absolutely not. Golf is the most amazing game. But then, you know that."

"You'd better have a good reason for this."

"I do. Here he is."

She shoved the phone at Spence and hoped for the best.

Spence immediately adopted an embarra.s.sing intimacy with her father, peppering a movie critique with plumbing advice, offering the use of his private jet, and telling Jake Koranda where he should eat in L.A. Apparently her father didn't say anything to offend him because Spence was beaming when he finally handed her phone back.

Her father, however, wasn't nearly as happy. "That guy's an idiot."

"I knew you'd be impressed. Love you." Meg flipped her phone shut and gave Spence a thumbs-up. "My father doesn't usually take to people so quickly."