A Little Town in Texas Read online

  It was like the fly chasing the spider

  Kitt recognized the name on the business card, and she recognized the firm he represented. Mel Belyle, Corporate Attorney, Castle Enterprises, New York.

  Castle Enterprises was the corporation created expressly to handle the housing project in Crystal Creek. And this was the man her boss had predicted would never speak to her.

  Yet here, in all his glory, was Mr. Belyle himself, trying to pick her up. She began to sound him out. “So,” she said with a demure smile, “what takes you to Austin?”

  “Business,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to visit my aunt.” After all, it wasn’t a lie. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s a shame to be out of touch with family, don’t you think?”

  For a split second his smile wavered. He didn’t answer her question. “So what do you do?”

  She shrugged as if her job was of small interest. “I work for the Gilroy Group.” This was misleading, she knew. The Gilroy Group owned six magazines, but was far more famous for its other holdings, especially its television network.

  His eyes kindled with mischief. “Gilroy? Are you connected with that Uptown Girls show?”

  You lecher, Kitt thought. “That would be telling. I’m not going to discuss it until I know you much, much better.”

  He leaned closer. “That can be arranged. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” she said. “Tell me simply everything.”

  Dear Reader,

  Things are changing in Crystal Creek, Texas. The question is, who will decide the future of this fabled land? Will it be the McKinneys, its fiery leading family, determined to defend the heritage of the Hill Country?

  Or will it be the mysterious outsider, Brian Fabian? He commands a greater fortune than anyone else in Crystal Creek—and he has a secret weapon. That weapon is negotiator Mel Belyle, brilliant, charming, handsome—and ruthless.

  Mel comes to Crystal Creek with a score to settle and a fight he intends to win. But he hasn’t counted on a certain redheaded reporter. Kitt Mitchell is a spitfire with an attitude as big as Texas itself.

  This is the twenty-ninth book in the series about Crystal Creek. I’m proud to be taking part in its ongoing story and hope you enjoy visiting A Little Town in Texas.

  With warmest regards,

  Bethany Campbell

  Books by Bethany Campbell

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  837—THE GUARDIAN

  931—P.S. LOVE YOU MADLY

  1052—THE BABY GIFT

  A Little Town in Texas

  Bethany Campbell

  To Linda Bitcon, a friend for all seasons.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “SEND IN THE SPITFIRE,” Heywood Cronin said to his secretary. “The whirlwind. You know which one—from staff writing. The little redhead.”

  “Kitt Mitchell? Yes, sir,” said Miss Lundeen.

  “Writes like an angel,” muttered Cronin. “Dresses like a bag lady.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Miss Lundeen said mildly. “She just likes to be casual.”

  “Casual,” Cronin said with a snort. “She’d be a pretty girl if she’d dress up. O tempora O mores. That’s Latin, Miss Lundeen. Do you know what it means?”

  “Yes, sir. O, the times, O, the manners.”

  “Anyway,” Cronin said, “send her in.”

  Miss Lundeen exited with such speed and silence it was as if she evaporated. Cronin looked at the picture of his wife, framed in platinum, on his desk. She was in her wedding gown, and a damn fine gown it was. He missed the 1950s when women had waists and wore pearls and full skirts and exciting shoes with pointed toes and high heels.

  He chased the thought from his mind. That was looking backward. It was thinking like an old geezer. He was a man who looked forward, and that’s why journalism awards half-covered his office. He intended to collect a few dozen more before he cashed in his chips. It was one of the reasons he cultivated young writers like the spitfire.

  In a few moments, Miss Lundeen announced her. “Kitt Mitchell, sir.”

  And in she walked. Cronin fought against wincing. The woman wore cargo pants and a pale blue camp shirt. Her shoes made her look like she was going to climb the Alps.

  She was a petite woman, barely over five feet tall, and she was slight rather than shapely. Still, Cronin thought, she was a fetching little thing. Maybe she dressed like Indiana Jones to fend off unwanted male attention. She could attract men like a magnet—if she wanted.

  Her most startling feature was her long, flame-red hair. Her skin was fair, her eyes were blue, and her eyebrows and lashes auburn. She was pretty enough, but Cronin always found himself noticing the vivacity in her face before her actual features. In motion she was swift as a hummingbird.

  She had a reputation for being sassy, of not being afraid of the devil himself. This did not mean that Cronin did not make her nervous. He made everyone on his staff exceedingly nervous; he considered it part of his job.

  “Sit down, Mitchell.” He ordered, he did not invite.

  Kitt Mitchell gave him a measuring look and sat down in the leather chair before his desk. His desk was mounted on a dais so he could stare down, lordlike, upon whomever sat in that chair.

  She returned his gaze with wary coolness. “Miss Lundeen said you wanted to see me.”

  He laced his fingers together and peered harder at her. She didn’t squirm, not one whit. Was he losing his touch? He’d wipe that calm off her face.

  “Yes,” he said, hitting her with it immediately. “I’m going to give you the assignment of your life.”

  Her fair skin went paler. Her blue eyes got wider.

  “This story won’t just change your career. It will make your career.”

  She seemed speechless. Good. Inwardly he smirked.

  “This is big stuff, Mitchell,” Heywood Cronin told her. “It’s got everything—money, mystery, power struggles. Sex. Revenge. But most of all, human interest. Your specialty.”

  He sat back with satisfaction and watched his words sink in.

  DELIGHT FLOODED KITT. Suddenly Heywood Cronin, elderly, grizzled, balding and bent, looked as radiant as a spirit guide to her.

  Then he squinted through his thick glasses and smiled his thin smile. “Go home and pack. Monday you leave. For Crystal Creek, Texas.”

  Crystal Creek? Kitt felt as if the office ceiling had crashed down on her. Dismay swept away her delight. Crystal Creek was the last place in the universe she wanted to go. Heywood Cronin no longer seemed luminously benevolent. He seemed like a capricious troll playing games with her life.

  “Well?” he demanded, leaning toward her over his vast desk.

  Say something! Kitt commanded herself. She cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. Cronin, you see…I—I’m from Crystal Creek. It could cause a conflict. It would be hard for me to write objectively about it.”

  Cronin hunched lower, as if crouching for attack. “I want objectivity—up to a point. I also want feeling. Passion. A town ripped in twain, blah, blah, and so on.”

  “But—but, you see—there could be a problem—”

>   “No,” Cronin said, shaking a bony forefinger. “You see. What you call a problem, I call opportunity. You can write about this place because you’re of this place. You tap into its deepest psyche. It’s your old hometown. The site of your fondest childhood memories. And so forth.”

  Kitt blinked hard. “You mean you knew I grew up there?”

  He laughed the laugh that was famous at Exclusive magazine. It was described as the gurgle of ice water pouring over a grave. “Of course. That’s why I picked you.”

  “Oh,” Kitt said tonelessly. She’d hoped he’d chosen her for her ability.

  “That,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and the fact you can write. I assume you’ve lots of connections in this one-horse town? Relatives? Old friends and neighbors? People who’ll pour out their hearts to you?”

  Kitt drew a deep breath, mind whirling. She didn’t think of Crystal Creek as her hometown; she tried not to think of it at all. When she’d left, she’d meant to leave forever. People opening their hearts to her? Hardly.

  But—there was Nora.

  Ah, yes, thank God there was Nora. A lifeline back then. And possibly a lifeline now. “I know people, yes,” Kitt said vaguely.

  “Then you know what this story’s about? Eh? Do you?”

  Kitt’s mind spun more swiftly. “It has to be about Brian Fabian,” she guessed. “About his buying land there. To build some megahousing development.”

  Cronin sank back into his chair and folded his hands over his vest. “Ha. You do have sources. Yes, Brian Fabian. He’s always news. He sells magazines, by God.”

  So that was Cronin’s angle, Kitt thought. If Brian Fabian was interested in Crystal Creek, so was Exclusive magazine. Cronin knew what fascinated the public, and he played that fascination like a magic flute.

  Cronin’s eyes stayed fixed on her, gauging her. “Tell me what you know about Fabian.”

  Kitt told him what she knew, what everybody knew—next to nothing. Fabian was a billionaire and almost total recluse. No known photo existed of him. Information about his private life usually proved to be false or misleading or both.

  Facts about his business ventures were just as elusive. They were hidden in a maze of mergers, partnerships, shell corporations and deals of dizzying complexity.

  “I’d guess he’s the mystery in the story,” Kitt mused. “And the money and power.” Then she added, “And probably the sex.”

  One thing certain about Brian Fabian was his appetite for beautiful women. But none of these women ever talked about him. Never a one said so much as a word. His affairs remained as secret as everything else.

  Cronin gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “The sex? Not Fabian—this time. Sex came into the story with the lawyer he sent there to buy land. Nick Belyle. He fell for some local Venus and did the unthinkable. He violated Fabian’s confidence. He told about the plans for the development.”

  Kitt said, “I heard.”

  Nora had sent a long, excited letter about it. At the time, Kitt had given it little thought. So Fabian wanted a few thousand acres in Texas for some harebrained housing development—so what? For him such a project would be no more important than a mere whim, an expensive toy.

  “That lawyer,” Cronin said, tapping his mahogany desktop, “let the cat out of the bag. And it was a rabid wild cat. Fabian wants to start a ‘planned’ community. The folks in your old neighborhood want to stop it.”

  It’s not my old neighborhood, she wanted to retort. But she said, “I heard that, too.”

  “A clan named McKinney’s leading the battle. Know ’em?”

  Kitt’s body stiffened. J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to remember, more than she dared to remember.

  But she let her face betray nothing. “Yes. I know—most of them.”

  “They’re stubborn, and they’re full of fight,” Cronin said, watching her expression closely. “They’ve got money and power. One of them’s out of the country—Cal—but the rumor is he’s coming back for this. Of course, next to Fabian, they’re small potatoes. Nothing, really.”

  Cal’s name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn’t flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.

  She shook her head. “If you want a story on the McKinneys—”

  Cronin waved his hand negatively. “No, no. They’re only one part. It’s the whole town—the whole county. It’s split. Some want the development. Some don’t. A house divided against itself. That’s the drama.”

  Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. “But to fight Brian Fabian—”

  “Yes,” Cronin said with pleasure. “A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered.”

  Kitt kept her face carefully blank.

  “Hopeless cause,” Cronin mused. “Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life ending forever. Heartrending.”

  Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren’t the sole players, they were involved. She couldn’t help it—the fact made her profoundly uneasy. “I see,” she said without enthusiasm.

  “Do you?” he challenged. “There’s something you haven’t asked. I expected more from you, Mitchell. Why haven’t you asked about the revenge part?”

  Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. “I was about to. My sources—” she meant Nora, of course “—never mentioned such a thing.”

  He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. “That’s because your sources don’t know yet. And you’re not to tell them. You’re going there to gather information—not leak it.”

  Her chin jerked up defiantly. She’d never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she never would.

  Cronin smiled at her reaction. “Here’s the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he’s so incensed at his turncoat lawyer—”

  “Nick Belyle,” furnished Kitt.

  “—that he’s sending down the man’s own brother to finish the job.”

  Kitt’s interest shot up several notches. “His own flesh and blood?”

  “Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I’m told. I’ve had research prepare a folder of information for you on each of them.”

  Kitt narrowed her eyes. “Brian Fabian’s setting brother against brother? Like…the Civil War?”

  “Yes. It’s quite nasty. I like it,” said Mr. Cronin.

  Kitt didn’t. “What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”

  “You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”

  “I could try—” Kitt began.

  “Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”

  Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.

  But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”

  Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover
a story in the hottest part of hell.

  EVERY DAY AFTER WORK when the weather was decent, Kitt went for a run in Central Park. Then she showered, nuked a frozen dinner and settled down to read.

  She unplugged the phone because men sometimes called, and recently she wasn’t in a mood to bother with them. She was currently between boyfriends, a state she didn’t mind a bit. It was restful.

  Now, wearing her ratty bathrobe, she flopped onto her sofa and opened the folder on the Belyle brothers. True to Fabian form, the information about them was scant.

  There were actually three brothers, and their widowed mother had moved with them from Texas to New York. She’d worked for Brian Fabian as a cleaning lady or maid. Accounts differed, but he’d befriended her.

  All three sons had gone to law school, and all three had taken jobs with Fabian’s firm. Rumor said that Fabian had been a patron to them.

  Nick Belyle, the brother who’d defected, had gone to Harvard. Mel, the one being sent to fight him, had gone to Yale. Research had provided copies of their transcripts. Both had A averages. Kitt gave a grudging whistle of approval—these two should be able to wage a hell of a battle.

  Mel made the gossip columns from time to time, dating models. Fabianesque, that appetite for beautiful women. Otherwise, the brothers kept their private lives private. That, too, was in Fabian’s mode.

  Until Nick settled in Texas, he’d kept on the move for the corporation, living in a dozen different places. Mel stayed based in New York. His address was fancy. Very fancy.

  And that was it. There were a few boyhood and teenage snapshots of Nick. None of Mel. Also missing was any mention of either brother’s hobbies, clubs, political affiliations—nothing. Kitt closed the folder, wishing the research department had dug more deeply.