Authors: Barbara White Daille
“Lucille said you’d be difficult. I needed to talk with you before we landed and I wanted to get started early. And to that end...”
She finished her milk, put her tray away, retrieved her carryall from beneath the seat and took out a computer tablet. She brought up a screen titled Talking Points for Lockhart Foundation Crisis and set it in front of him. “I want you to memorize these.”
One hand on the cup, lest it spill, he stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The hell of it was, she wasn’t. “There’s a press conference later today,” she informed him crisply, suddenly all business. “We need you to be ready.”
This was like a replay of his past, only in a more formal venue. He hadn’t played those games then, and he certainly wasn’t getting sucked into them now. “No.”
Hope leaned closer, her green eyes narrowing. “You have to be there.” Her tone said the request was nonnegotiable.
His mood had been grim when he got on the plane. It was fire and brimstone now. No wonder his mother hadn’t wanted to be specific when she’d sent out that vague but somewhat hysterical SOS and let him know he was needed in Dallas ASAP.
He worked his jaw back and forth. “Why? I don’t have anything to do with the family charity.”
“You’re on the board of directors.”
Which basically did nothing but meet a couple times a year and green light—by voice vote—everything the CEO and CFO requested. “So are my mother and all my siblings.”
“All of whom have been asked to participate and follow the plan.” Hope paused, even more purposefully. “Your mother needs you to stand beside her.”
Garrett imagined that was so. Lucille had been vulnerable since his dad’s death. Knowing how much his parents had loved each other, that they’d been together for over forty years, he imagined the loss his mom felt was even more palpable than his own.
But there were limits as to what he would do. In this situation or any other. “And I will,” he promised tautly. “Just not like a puppet on a string. And certainly not in any scripted way in front of any microphones.”
* * *
O
NE
LOOK
AT
the dark expression on Garrett’s face told Hope there was no convincing him otherwise. Not while they were on the plane, anyway.
So she remained quiet during the descent. Thinking.
Strategizing.
By the time the aircraft landed in Dallas, she knew what she had to do.
She waited for him to catch up after they’d left the Jetway and walked out into the terminal, dragging her overnight bag behind her. “Your mother is sending a limo for us.”
He slung his duffel over one brawny shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll find my own way home.” He turned in the direction of the rental cars.
Hope rushed to catch up, her long strides no match for his. “She’s expecting us at the foundation office downtown.”
“Okay.”
Desperate to keep Garrett Lockhart from getting away from her entirely, she caught his arm, steering him off to the side, out of the way of other travelers. “Okay, you’ll be there?” she asked, as amazed at the strength and heat in the powerful biceps as by the building awareness inside of her. She had to curtail this desire. She could not risk another romantic interlude like the last. Could not!
One second she’d been holding on to him. Now he had dropped his duffel and was holding on to her. Hands curved lightly around her upper arms, oblivious to the curious stares of onlookers, he backed her up against a pillar, his tall, powerful physique caging hers. The muscles in his jaw bunched. “Get this through that pretty little head of yours. You are not in charge of me.”
Like heck she wasn’t! This was her job, gosh darn it. Refusing to be intimidated by this handsome bear of a man she lifted her chin. Valiantly tried again. “This crisis...”
He stared her down. “What crisis?”
He had a right to know what they were dealing with, but best they not delve into the exact details here, with people passing by right and left. She swallowed in the face of all that raw testosterone, the feel of his hands cupping her shoulders, the wish that... Never mind what she wished! “I’d prefer...”
He didn’t wait to hear the rest. Pivoting, he picked up his olive-green duffel, slung it back over his shoulder and headed for the doors out of Terminal B.
She raced after him, her trim skirt and high heels no match for his long, masterful strides. She would have lost him entirely had it not been for the contingent waiting on the other side.
No sooner had he cleared the glass doors than a group with press badges rushed toward him, trailing his sixty-eight-year-old mother.
As usual, the willowy brunette socialite was garbed in a sophisticated sheath and cardigan, her trademark pearls around her neck. Despite the many conversations they’d had this morning, Lucille Lockhart also looked more frazzled than she had the last time Hope had seen her. Not a good sign.
“Garrett, darling!” Lucille cried, rushing forward to envelope her much taller son in a fierce familial hug, the kind returning military always got from their loved ones.
Just that quickly, microphones were shoved into his face. “Captain Garrett! What do you think about the broken promises to area nonprofits?” a brash redhead demanded while cameras whirred and lightbulbs went off.
“Were you in on the decision not to pay them what was promised?” another reporter shouted.
“Does your family want the beneficiary charities to fail in their missions? Or did they take the money from the foundation, slated for the area nonprofits, and use it for personal gain?”
Lucille clung to Garrett all the harder, her face buried in his chest. With a big, protective arm laced around his mother’s shoulders, Garrett blinked at the flashbulbs going off and held back the approaching hoard with one hand.
“Don’t answer,” Hope commanded.
* * *
L
IKE
HE
HAD
an effing clue what to say. He had no idea what in tarnation the press was referring to.
Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett saw another woman approaching. She was pushing a convertible stroller with a hooded car seat snapped into the top. Dimly aware this was no place for an infant, Garrett turned back to the crowd. His mother looked up at him. “Listen to Hope,” Lucille Lockhart hissed.
Like hell he would.
More likely than not, it was Hope Winslow’s “management” of the crisis that was turning it into even more of a media circus. Certainly, she’d whipped his mother into a frenzy with her dramatics.
“Of course we didn’t take money out of the foundation for our own personal use,” he said flatly, watching as Hope signaled vigorously to an airport security guard for help. “Nor do we want to see any area charities fail.” That was ridiculous. Especially when his family was set to give away
millions
to those in need.
“But it appears money did not end up in the right hands,” another chimed in. “At least not this past year.”
“Say the foundation is looking into it,” Hope whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
Ignoring her, he turned back to the reporters and reiterated even more firmly, “No one in my family is a thief.”
“So they are just what, then? Irresponsible?” another TV reporter shouted. “Heartless?”
An even more asinine charge
. Garrett lifted a staying hand. “That’s all I have to say on the matter.”
More flashbulbs went off. A contingent of airport security stepped in. They surrounded the reporters, while on the fringes the young woman with the baby resumed her resolute approach. As she neared, Garrett could see it looked as though the young woman had been crying. “Hope! Thank heavens we found you!” the young lady said in a British accent.
Now
what?
Garrett wondered, exhaling angrily. Was this seemingly heartfelt diversion yet another part of the scandal manager’s master plan? Bracing for the answer, he swung back to Hope, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who’s this?”
Abruptly, Hope looked as tense and on guard as he felt. “Mary Whiting, my nanny,” she said.
Copyright © 2016 by Cathy Gillen Thacker
ISBN-13: 9781488010279
Cowboy in Charge
Copyright © 2016 by Barbara White-Rayczek
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