pretty sure he jogs at Town Lake every morning. My friend Ginger has seen him there two or three times. She likes to follow him, to watch his moves. Says he has great buns, says—”
“Meg, is there a point to this?”
“Oh, yeah... well, tomorrow’s Saturday, see. You could get there before he arrives and sort of accidentally on purpose run into him, then—”
“I’d like to run into him,” Mark broke in. “Hard. Then when he’s lying on his back, let him know how difficult he’s making it for Cara with her boss.”
Cara smiled. “Thanks, guys, but I don’t think either method of running into him would help my cause.”
“Mine might,” Meg said, refusing to give up on her idea. “He’ll be on an exercise high, in a great mood, you’ll ask him again and—kaboom!—he’ll consent.”
“I can’t imagine anyone getting in a good mood by working up a sweat.” Cara hated exercise. As far as she was concerned, workouts—the fewer the better—were to be endured the same as spinach or broccoli on the dinner plate. Just because something was good for you didn’t make it palatable. “I have no desire to mix with that throng of physical fitness buffs at Town Lake,” she said. “Especially on the first Saturday in weeks when I don’t have to work. I prefer to use my day off for something useful—like sleeping late.”
“Listen to yourself,” Meg scolded. “Preferring sleeping to meeting guys. I’ve met some fine—”
“Meg!” Cara’s hand signaled “stop.” “First, Wyatt McCauley’s a business project, not a potential romance. Second, he’s my problem to solve, not yours. You’ve got your own concerns to deal with...like school. That reminds me—when are midterms scheduled?”
“You sure know how to kill a conversation,” Mark groaned, then he and Meg began filling Cara in on their course activities.
The meal over, Meg and Mark were studying and Cara was washing the dinner dishes when the telephone rang.
“Well?”
The caller was Brooke. The one-word question—and the fact Brooke was phoning from Dallas just hours after Cara had seen her off from the Austin airport—spoke volumes. Cara might be able to quiet Mark and Meg on the subject of Wyatt McCauley, but she wasn’t about to silence her boss. Like it or not, Cara had to try, try again.
Meg’s informant had been correct. Less than a hundred yards away, chugging toward her, was McCauley—head erect, body balanced, intense and wide awake. Cara couldn’t say the same thing for herself. She stifled an emerging yawn and pretended to stretch her muscles as she surreptitiously watched his advance. The closer he got, the better he looked.
He was dressed in a gray T-shirt and skimpy gray running shorts, his legs tanned and well-proportioned. The man’s body was as perfect as his face.
Self-consciously Cara stared down at her own bare legs, which seldom saw the sun, thanks to long work hours. True, there was no cellulite...yet, but the color was a hospital white. Why should I care how I look? This isn’t about me. Yet Cara had begun to feel as though it was.
Resisting an urge to trip the man for yesterday’s upbraiding, Cara trotted up beside him, praying she could maintain the pace long enough to pitch the auction again.
Without breaking stride, he gave her a surprised flick of the eye. “Well, hello, Ms. Breedon. Fancy meeting you here.”
The edge in his tone wasn’t unexpected. “I happened to spy you jogging my way...decided to see if you’ve reconsidered helping us out.”
“I did help—two checks, remember?”
“Your presence would aid even more,” she said in a slightly breathy voice.
“No can do. Sorry.” He sped up.
She sped up, too, determined not to lose him. “Are you sure?” Her voice was now jagged.
“Positive.”
“Can’t I—” pant, pant “—say anything to change your mind?”
“I think you’ve said it all. Might as well give it up.”
“I—” gasp “—can’t take—” another gasp “—no for an answer.”
He glanced over at her, then began slowing before stopping altogether. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down before you collapse.”
Gratefully Cara dropped onto the grass. She took in great gulps of air and mopped her brow with a soggy tissue from her pocket. She guessed her face to be the shade of a boiled lobster from the physical exertion. After only a brief jog, her clothes were plastered to her body, wild strands of hair escaping from her ponytail.
It wasn’t fair that, even sweaty, he still looked wonderful. The damp T-shirt clinging to his chest only emphasized his pectoral muscles and washboard torso.
Wyatt pulled a terry-cloth towel from his waistband to dry his face and neck, leaned against a tree to do a couple of calf stretches, then flopped down beside her, trying to come to terms with the rush of exhilaration he’d felt on seeing Cara. Every time he thought he’d brushed off the woman, she was back, as relentless as gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. So why in Hades should he be secretly glad to see her? Anyone with the brains of a gnat would be seizing the advantage of superior conditioning and making a getaway. But not you, McCauley—you blew it. Well, he’d simply have to use other means to discourage her from this ceaseless pursuit.
He waited until Cara’s breathing had settled then took her hand. “Listen, sweet cakes...” Cara yanked the hand away, but not before Wyatt’s fingertips had memorized the softness of her skin.
So she objects to being called “sweet cakes.” Wyatt smiled. Or is it the touch she objects to?
He had to admit that she was cute, especially now, all warm and rosy-cheeked. Those tender feelings were resurfacing. Whatever he tried to tell himself, part of him didn’t want to get rid of Cara Breedon. Part of him... He stole a peek at her again and felt the temptation to smooth back one of those wayward wisps of golden hair.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Cara brushed at the unruly hair herself. As she did, Wyatt couldn’t help noticing—no wedding ring. Cara Breedon was not only cute, she was available. Cool it, McCauley. You’re growing soft in the head. The lady’s marital status is irrelevant. Remember her mission. He should be taking steps to stop this paparazzi-like hounding. Since plain talk and directness didn’t seem to work, maybe it was time for a different approach, a little reverse psychology.
Wyatt took Cara’s hand again and held it. When she tried to pull away, he held tighter. “Don’t be standoffish,” he chided. “You’ve caught my attention like you wanted, so tell me about yourself.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Still holding on to her, he lay back, pulling her down beside him. “Oh, don’t be so modest. Surely there is. Who’s the real Cara Breedon?”
She quickly sat up and scooted a few feet away. “No one important.”
“Ah,
