Texan's Honor-bound Promise

The Craftsman-style two-story house Sam parked his truck in front of was situated in an older neighborhood near Tyler, Texas's downtown area. A breezeway connected the house to a carriage-style garage and served as a pass-through to the garage's rear entrance, discreetly hidden in the backyard.The house was owned by Leah Kittrell. Mack McGruder had provided Sam with the woman's name, as well as her address and telephone number. An Internet search had provided him with a few more details. According to the information he'd found, Ms. Kittrell owned her own business--Stylized Events--had gone through a messy divorce three years prior and currently served on the boards of several civic and charity organizations. The photos he'd found of her in the archive section on the Tyler newspaper's Web site provided an image of a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties to early thirties, with long dark hair, classic features and legs that seemed to stretch forever.More facts than he probably needed, but Sam preferred to know as much about a person as he could before entering into negotiations.Now all he had to do was squeeze what he wanted out of the woman and he could call it a day.Confident that he'd be back on the road within the hour, he punched the doorbell, then stepped back, smoothing a hand over hair the wind had rumpled earlier while he was changing a flat tire on the interstate.The door swung open and a woman appeared. Leah Kittrell, he thought, easily recognizing her from the photos he'd found on the internet. But the pictures hadn't done her justice, he thought appreciatively. While attractive in the photographs, in person she was drop-dead gorgeous. What the pictures had revealed as dark hair was in fact a sleek raven-black. But the image of her legs had been right on target. They did seem to stretch forever.Mesmerized by eyes the color of aged whiskey, it took him a moment to realize that she was frowning at him. He quickly extended his hand. "Sam Forrester," he said, introducing himself. She glanced down at the hand he offered and her frown deepened. Following her gaze, he saw the grease that stained his palm and yanked it back to drag across the seat of his jeans. "Sorry. Had a blowout on the way here. Haven't had a chance to clean up."Her gaze met his again. "How many are you expecting for dinner?"He blinked. Blinked again. "Excuse me?" Rolling her eyes, she angled her head and pointed to the minuscule headset attached to her ear."Oh," he murmured, realizing that her question hadn't been directed to him but someone she was talking to on her cellular phone. "Sorry."She stepped back and motioned for him to come inside. "Forty guests," she said thoughtfully as she closed the door behind him. "To be safe, I'd suggest we plan to serve thirty-five. Some won't bother to RSVP but will come anyway. Others will say they're coming and not show up."She turned for the rear of the house, curling her finger in a signal for him to follow. With a shrug, he trailed behind her, glancing at the rooms they passed through. Neat as a pin, he noted. Not a thing out of place. Not even in the kitchen. The woman either had a full-time housekeeper or was anal as hell.She opened a rear door, stepped out onto a patio and led the way to the garage.It's in there,she mouthed, indicating a side door.Wondering what "it" was, he eased past her and opened the door. Like the rest of her house, the garage was hospital-clean and neat as a pin. An SUV was parked in the slot nearest him. In the other, a vintage Ford Mustang.He pressed a hand over his heart. "Oh, man," he murmured and headed for it.He walked a slow circle around the car, then stopped in front and popped the hood. Behind him he could hear Leah talking on the phone, but he was more interested in the vintage set of wheels in front of him than her discussion of food and flowers.Bracing a hand on the radiator for support, he stuck his head beneaMoreland, Peggy is the author of 'Texan's Honor-bound Promise ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373767502 and ISBN 0373767501.