to the terminal. If this guy knew her lawyer, he had to be legit.
“Do you think we could get something cold to drink on the way to the hotel?” she asked.
“It would be my pleasure to make that happen,” her escort congenially replied.
Though she didn’t glance sideways, Paxton was aware of every move the guy made. He purposefully shortened his strides to accommodate hers. Having him beside her was both a boon and another unsettling feature of this trip. Speed hampered by the height of her heels, Paxton felt doubly foolish and out of place. She no longer belonged here. She was trespassing on the past—both its ideals and its pain.
What the hell was I thinking?
As they entered the small terminal, her companion placed a hand on her elbow to guide her toward the bags. His touch was electric, empathetic. Paxton wanted to lean into him for the kind of support she needed to get through this ordeal, when giving in to the urge to fold up like an accordion would have been the end of her.
Gently, he steered her toward her luggage, the two small bags she had seen fit to bring for a weekend in the desert. Her companion lifted the bags easily and reached to take her briefcase. She gave him a firm head shake, preferring to hold on to the paperwork she’d need for a quick sale when the reclusive Grant Wade agreed to her terms.
“There’s a watering hole down the road,” this guy said. “The truck is right out front.”
When she glanced at him, he added, “It’s a café. We can get something to drink there or take it to go.”
Paxton nodded. She followed her guide through the revolving doors and onto the street where a large blue truck sat parked at the curb. Like the cowboy beside her, its lines were tall, long and sturdy. Chrome wheels and other fancy stuff were missing. The hood was covered in dust and there was a baseball-sized dent in the passenger door. This truck was a working man’s transportation, not merely a vehicle meant to prove male bravado.
After tossing her bags in the back, her makeshift chauffeur came around to open her door. Getting in while wearing a short skirt took some feminine know-how when the truck’s cab was so high off the ground.
Once she was inside, Paxton stuck out an arm to stop the door from closing and faced the guy helping her. “I really am grateful for the ride. And I’m sorry I seem to have lost my manners. I didn’t ask your name.”
“Wade,” he said, the dazzling smile no longer in evidence. “Name’s Grant Wade.”
Paxton Hall wasn’t what Grant had expected, and that came as a surprise.
She looked the part of the spoiled young woman he had expected to show up, and she dressed well, but Paxton didn’t really seem spoiled. She’d brought one bag and an overnight case that not too many fancy outfits would have traveled well in. She had been happy to let him choose her hotel and had allowed him to guide her along without complaint.
And she was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. Though he’d seen a few pictures of her in Andrew Hall’s file, in person, Paxton Hall was a whole new deal.
He liked all the details ringing up—the big eyes that were an unusual amber color, the porcelain skin and the kind of oval face that begged a second and third look. Dark blond hair was cut in a swingy, shoulder-length style and appeared to be natural in color. Very little makeup muddied her face, just a swipe of something dark on her eyelashes and a hint of rose on her cheeks. In his estimation, she didn’t need even that.
She was antsy, her discomfort easy to read. Being beside her made his nerves buzz. Back in the terminal, when he had touched her arm, that buzz had been transmitted to a spot way down deep inside him.
The feminine perfume she wore didn’t help with his initial response to her, either. Some kind of woodsy aroma trailed her, almost completely covering up a more elusive scent he couldn’t yet place. Everything about Paxton Hall, all those details, were laced with a layer of subdued anxiety and anger. Because of him, in part.
He slammed her door and walked around the truck, acknowledging that Paxton was surprised by this unexpected meet up. She knew his name now, but he’d had the advantage of getting to see what she was like before she found him out and the arguments he anticipated began.
Did she consider him the enemy? A problem to be solved?
He had told the truth about her lawyer giving him a heads-up on her visit and knew Paxton would have questions. Plenty of them. Most of those were questions he wouldn’t be able to answer, due to secrets he had to keep, though she deserved some kind of explanation for what was written in that will.
The reason for her visit was a no-brainer. Paxton Hall wanted to sell the land her father left her and have nothing more to do with her early Arizona upbringing. But her father had left him part of that acreage in order to make sure a sale didn’t happen, so surely Andrew Hall must have foreseen that some sort of contact between his two heirs would take place.
As an ex-Ranger with connections, Grant had been tracking Paxton since her father’s death a few weeks ago. And here she sat, in his truck, putting traitor and Grant Wade together in the same unspoken breath. She’d be thinking that the man she had been trusting to get her settled for the night had turned out to be more like the personification of sabotage.
Grant climbed into the cab and rested both hands on the wheel. Without looking at his guest, he said, “Would you like to talk now or wait a while?”
“Now,” she said breathlessly.
Her attention on him was unforgiving. His Were senses told him Paxton’s heart rate had kicked up a notch and that Paxton Hall had expected someone else attached to the name Wade. Someone different. She was trying to reconcile his image with her former ideas about who might turn up to potentially oppose her.
“If you’re uncomfortable, I can call you a taxi,” he said.
“I’ve been uncomfortable since I read my father’s will, as you must already know.”
Direct and to the point. Grant liked that, usually.
She turned on the seat. “You are that same guy?”
“One and the same, if you’re talking about Andrew’s legacy,” Grant replied. “If you’re talking about anything else, I probably didn’t do it.”
Levity wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He didn’t have to look at Paxton to feel the animosity creeping into her tone.
“Why?” she demanded.
Pretending to misunderstand what she was asking would have been lame, so he said, “It was important to your father and to others that the property wasn’t sold.”
“Why?” she repeated.
“I can’t tell you about the specifics of that right now, other than to stress your father’s desire for me to hold on to the town.”
“You’re talking about an old tourist attraction that’s been closed for twenty years. I fail to see why hanging on to a defunct ghost town wins out over selling the place,”
