attire she’d ever seen on a businessman. It simply provided evidence that her auction purchase had been the right one.
His nose was slightly off-kilter, and he had a small, thin scar on his square, rugged chin. The battered look suited him. But it also reassured her that he was a man of action. He was also the walking, talking, warm-to-the-touch ad for ruggedly handsome. If one liked the type. She didn’t.
He looked at the clock on the wall. “We can talk in my office.”
She nodded, then preceded him into the inner sanctum, which turned out to be a stark contrast to the elegant reception area. The only thing that carried over was the thick carpet. Sitting on it was his battered L-shaped desk, which would have looked more at home in a thrift store. But it held what looked like a top-of-the-line computer. Instead of the expensive artwork she’d expected on the walls, they displayed framed photos. She couldn’t make out any specific details.
“Have a seat.” He indicated one of the utilitarian chrome and gray-blue upholstered chairs in front of the desk. “I have eight minutes.”
After he sat behind the desk, she met his gaze. “Your wife said you could give me ten minutes.”
“Wife?”
“The receptionist.”
“My sister.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands. There was no ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. That didn’t mean anything. Some married men didn’t wear rings. And… And it didn’t matter a fig whether he was married.
“Your sister,” she said. “So this is a family-owned business?”
“No. I own it. Nora works for me. She’s good at her job.”
“Meaning if she wasn’t, family or not, she’d be canned?”
One broad shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. “Yeah.”
“Do you have a wife?” Doggone it. She hadn’t meant to ask that. She didn’t care. But the rogue part of her subconscious that had temporarily taken over her brain neglected to send that message to her mouth.
“I’m not married.” His gaze was penetrating as he frowned at her. “Now you’ve got six minutes. And if my marital status has something to do with why you’re here, you’re wasting my time. I can put those six minutes to better use.”
“Look, I’m a people person. That makes me curious. It was certainly not my intention to offend you with the question.”
His impassive look gave no clue to what he was thinking. “So you have a security concern?”
Wow. He gave the expression single-minded determination a run for its money. Not to mention that his tone was just this side of abrasive. “Apparently in your line of work, one can be successful even without courtesy and charm.”
“If you’re here about personal safety, home or business protection, I can be as charming and courteous as the next guy. If not…”
“I’m here because I bought the survival weekend you donated to the Charity City auction. I mentioned that to whoever I spoke with on the phone.”
It seemed impossible, but his frown deepened. “I didn’t get the message.”
“And I didn’t actually get an appointment. Is your sister’s job in jeopardy?”
“No. She was sick recently. A temp replaced her.”
His shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly as his mouth straightened into a thin line, telling her he was disapproving. She’d known him about two and a half minutes—although he was the only one keeping exact time—so how she knew he was surprised or annoyed, she couldn’t say. But she’d stake her reputation as Charity City High School’s favorite librarian that he was both surprised and annoyed.
“So you’re the one who bought the survival weekend?” He sounded skeptical.
She nodded. “And I’m here to make arrangements to collect it.”
He let his gaze drop to her cap-sleeved silk shell with the loose-fitting floral jumper over it. “Why?”
“Because I paid for it.”
He shook his head. “Why did you buy it in the first place?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe part of the deal is explaining my motivation.”
“You don’t look like the outdoorsy type.”
The fact that he was right made her resent his attitude even more. “If we’re judging books by covers, Mr. Dixon, you don’t look like the type, either.”
“What type would that be?”
“One who would donate to charity. The type to give back to his community.”
“It was a debt.”
“Oh?”
“The foundation gave me interest free start-up capital for my business.”
“And when one benefits from the auction proceeds, one is obligated to give back.”
“I always pay my debts,” he confirmed.
“Very reassuring. That’s why I’m here. My daughter, Kimmie, belongs to The Bluebonnets—”
“What?”
“It’s an organization that sponsors outdoor activities for girls in her age group—”
“How old?”
“Excuse me?”
What did that have to do with sleeping outside and starting a fire with two sticks when she was on a very tight schedule? She’d be wasting less of her remaining time if he would impart information in sentences of more than three two-syllable words. And she had no illusions. When the allotted time was up, he would throw her out. She stole a glance at his biceps, the intriguing place where the sleeve of his T-shirt clung to the bulging muscle. There was no doubt in her mind that if he wanted her out, he would and could pick her up bodily and make it so.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Six. When I saw the weekend listed for auction, I knew it was exactly what I needed. And I figured I could kill two birds with one stone.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Maybe he was finally listening and they could wrap this up quickly. “I could do my civic duty in support of the town charity. Buying your services to get my daughter her hiking and nature badges—”
“You can’t take her camping?”
“I could,” she said. “But her survival might be in question. I’m afraid you were right about me. My idea of the outdoors involves a lounge chair, a pool and a sissy drink with an umbrella in it.”
“What
