Read Online McKettricks of Texas: Tate by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online Page B

since he bore such a strong resemblance to the actor, back in Denzel Washington’s younger years.
    His gaze swung in Julie’s direction, then back to Libby. “The usual,” he said. “Please.”
    “Sure, Chief,” Libby said, with nervous good cheer, and started the mocha with a triple shot of espresso he ordered every day at about the same time.
    Brent approached the counter, braced his big hands against it, and watched Libby with unnerving thoroughness as she worked. “I would have sworn I saw that Impala of yours rolling down the alley last night,” he said affably, “with the headlights out. Did you get the exhaust fixed yet?”
    “That was my car you saw,” Julie hastened to say.
    It was a good thing Calvin wasn’t around, because that was a whopper and he’d have been sure to point that out right away. Julie’s car was a pink Cadillac that had been somebody’s Mary Kay prize back in the mid-’80s. Even in a dark alley, it wouldn’t be mistaken for an Impala, especially not by a trained observer like Brent Brogan.
    Libby gave her sister a look. Sighed and rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms down her jean-covered thighs. “I had an appointment at the auto-repair shop,” she told Brent, “but then a pipe blew in the kitchen and I had to call a plumber and, well, you know what plumbers cost.”
    Brent slanted a glance at Julie, who blushed that freckles-on-pink way only true redheads can, and once again turned his attention back to Libby. “So it was you?”
    “Yes,” Libby said, straightening her shoulders. “And ifyou give me a ticket, I won’t be able to afford to have the repairs done for another month.”
    The timer bell chimed.
    Julie rushed to take the latest batch of scones out of the oven.
    “I’m going to give you one more warning, Libby,” Brent said quietly, raising an index finger. “Count it. One. If I catch you driving that environmental disaster again, without a sticker proving it meets the legal standards, I am so going to throw the book at you. Is—that—understood?”
    Libby set his drink on the counter with a thump. “Yes, sir,” she said tightly. “That is understood.” She raised her chin a notch. “How am I supposed to get the car to the shop if I can’t drive it?”
    Brent smiled. “I’d make an exception in that case, I guess.”
    Libby made up her mind to put the repair charges on the credit card she’d just paid off, though it would set her back.
    Julie looked toward the street, smiled and consulted an imaginary watch. “Well, will you look at that,” she said. “It’s time to pick Calvin up at playschool.”
    The pit of Libby’s stomach jittered. She followed her sister’s gaze and saw Tate walking toward the door, looking beyond good in worn jeans, scuffed boots and a white T-shirt that showed off his biceps and tanned forearms.
    Scanning the street, she saw no sign of his truck, the sleek luxury car he sometimes drove or his twin daughters.
    Libby felt as though she’d been forced, scrambling for balance, onto a drooping piano wire stretched across Niagara Falls. It was barely noon—Tate had suggested dinner, hadn’t he, not lunch?
    Either way, she reflected, trying to calm her nerves with common sense, she’d said “Maybe,” not “Yes.”
    Tate reached the door, opened it and walked in. His grinwas as white as his shirt, and even from behind the register, Libby could see the comb ridges in his hair.
    He greeted Brent with a half salute. “Denzel,” he said.
    Brent smiled. “Throw those blueberry scones into a bag for me,” he said, though whether he was addressing Julia or Libby was unclear, because he was watching Tate. “I’d better buy them up before McKettrick beats me to the draw.”
    Tate was looking at Libby. His blue gaze smoldered that day, but she knew from experience that fire could turn to ice in a heartbeat.
    “You had any more trouble with those rustlers?” Brent asked.
    Libby ducked into the kitchen, nearly causing a