Millionaire M.D.
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Jennifer Greene
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16,2K
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11
One
Ask Dr. Justin Webb, and “The Tennessee Waltz” was a downright ridiculous—if not insulting—song to play at a Texas bash, but what the hey. He didn’t care what it took to get his arms around Winona. Never had. Never would. He didn’t even mind having to wear a tux and be on his best starched behavior for an exhaustingly long evening, as long as he could catch some private moments with her now and then. Like this one.
“I swear, honey, you look good enough to marry.”
“Why, thank you, doc.” Wearing spindly tall dress pumps, Winona almost reached his cheek in height, but she still had to tilt her face to make eye contact. He marveled. Those eyes of hers were the same soft, wistful, breathtaking blue of a dawn sky—but her smile, so typically, was full of the devil. And that was when she was being reasonably nice to him. “You haven’t proposed marriage to me in, what, two weeks now?”
Twelve days and six hours, but who was counting. “Give or take a few days.”
She nodded demurely. “And how many times do I have to tell you? If I’m ever in the mood to marry a hard-core womanizing bachelor with way too much money, I’ll let you know.”
Justin grinned, since there was no point in taking the insult to heart. In the past, she’d dished out far, far worse.
Come to think of it, so had he.
Tightening his grip, he whirled her past the banquet table, the fiddlers, the receiving line of dignitaries and Asterland royalty. He wanted to waltz her past and out the tall balcony doors and into the star-studded night—where he’d have Win to himself—but the idea just wouldn’t fly. Unfortunately, the January night was typical of west Texas, the temperature colder than a witch’s heart, and the wind twice as bitter. “Well, shoot, darlin’. If I can’t talk you into marriage tonight, how about a nice, immoral, amoral, down-and-dirty affair?”
“I’d love to, doc—with anyone else. But you’ve already done that with so many women in town that I’d just be one in a long line. Thanks, but no thanks.”
He winced—not from her comment, but because she’d just stepped on his foot. God knew, Winona was adorable, but she did have the grace of a coyote on a dance floor. A hand at the small of her back coaxed her physically closer to him. Close enough for him to feel the tips of her nipples beneath the monk-black dress that zipped straight and plain, right to her throat. Close enough so that he could see her light blue eyes dilate when her tummy rubbed against his satin tux cummerbund. Close enough to see the spare, soft gloss on her small mouth.
Close enough to see her scowl.
“Behave yourself, you dog.”
His eyebrows arched, trying out the charmingly innocent expression that had always worked on the softer sex. With one exception. “Now, Win, you know I’m just trying to help. I’m afraid you’re going to trip and fall. And I know you’re not fond of advice, but if you’d just quit trying to lead, I swear you’d have a lot easier time on the dance floor.”
“You’re trying to help? Said the wolf in the fox den. And what do you think your hand is doing on my butt? You think I won’t punch you?”
Actually, he knew she’d punch him—in public, in private, in church, at a black-tie gala or anywhere else. She’d been doing it ever since she was a furious, bad-tempered twelve-year-old, and he’d been a suave, worldly seventeen who’d known everything—except why the hell such a squirt-age girl had managed to wind his heart around her finger. “I’ve had my hand on your butt before,” he reminded her delicately.
“That was significantly different. I was hurt, I’d fallen on some broken glass and you were playing doctor—”
“And I’m so glad you brought that up. I never had a chance to tell you before how much I always loved playing doctor with you,” he said fervently.
There now. She had to choke back laughter. Winona never could keep that terrific sense of humor under wraps for long—but this time, she turned serious again all too quickly. “Cut it out, you. And this time, I mean it. The point is, you know I’d never be attending this fancy shindig if I weren’t working. Just because I’m not in a cop’s uniform doesn’t mean that I’m really here to play. I’m here in a professional role—which means that you either put your hand where it belongs, or I really just might slug you—and I’m not kidding, Justin.”
He heard her. And he not only believed her, but he’d never have done anything to publicly embarrass her in a million years. A teasing pat was one thing, an inappropriate grope in front of others, another—not just because he respected Winona and her job, but because if he ever got a shot at really getting to Win, he wanted no audience around. Anywhere. Preferably for a several-hundred-mile radius.
Temporarily, however, it seemed that he was incapable of removing his hand from her fanny. It wasn’t a choice. Normal honorable, ethical standards of behavior simply couldn’t apply. His palm slid down the silky dress from the hollow of her spine to the fullest slope of her rump. He squeezed several times, because hell, he had to.
Said squeezing produced the obvious biological response in him—he was hard as a hammer in three seconds flat. Above the neck, though, his forehead produced a frown darker than a Texas thunderstorm. “What in God’s name are you wearing under that dress?”
He would never have asked the question, except that the answer seemed to be nothing. Absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a woman in the Club—except for Winona—who wasn’t dripping diamonds and sequins. Jewels winked from ears, throats, wrists and fingers, all across the dance floor. Win’s ears were naked and so was her throat; the long, soft black dress made all the pricey designer gowns look overdone and fussy. To Justin, she stood out as a hopeless beauty. Always had, in his eyes.
It was just…he couldn’t feel any underwear. He certainly hadn’t put his hand on her fanny expecting to feel underwear. But the silky dress was a thinnish material, so that his hand instinctively expected to find panty lines, a sense of fabric. And when they didn’t, alarm bells clanged in his mind on a par with a fire truck’s siren. There weren’t too many reasons a woman would neglect to wear underwear to a very public, very fancy gig—especially Winona, who didn’t reveal nuttin’ to no one—normally. When it came down to it, Justin could only think of one reason she’d be running around sans panties. There had to be a lover she was trying to turn on.
A lover.
A man.
A man—who wasn’t him.
“Justin, what the Sam Hill is the matter with y—”
He sensed her right fist clenching, preparing to punch him.
“Get your hand off my… The dress showed lines,” she hissed. “I couldn’t wear anything underneath it. Not that I owe you any explanation, you low-down, overprotective, bossy son of a gun. Now you’ve got five seconds, max, before I—”
He was removing his hand. Really. Right then. It just took a couple seconds for relief to catch up with him, and for those few seconds he really couldn’t seem to breathe. In the meantime—possibly because Win didn’t realize he was sincerely getting around to behaving better—that small right fist of hers was still aiming straight for his solar plexus. That is, until a tall, handsome, dark-haired dude showed up on the scene, winked at Win, and smoothly lifted her clenched fist to his right shoulder.
“I’m cutting in,” Aaron Black announced, “before either of you come to blows. Besides which, I dance a ton better than he ever will, Winona. And I’m better looking.”
“Well, hell,” Justin grumbled. But he let Aaron take off with Winona across the dance floor. For one thing, the orchestra changed tunes to a rousing, foot-stomping bluegrass, so any cheek-to-cheek opportunities had abruptly disappeared. For another, Aaron was not only a fellow member of the Texas Cattleman’s Club, but a friend that Justin would trust to the wall—and had. And for yet another reason, damn Aaron, but he was a diplomat in his professional life as well as his private one, and when he motioned a thumb toward the bar, Justin picked up the subtle, tactful clue that, just possibly, he needed to get out of Winona’s sight for a minute or two.
He loped over to the bar, all right…but watching Win whirl off in Aaron’s arms still gave him a case of the glums that a whole well of whiskey couldn’t cure.
They’d always bickered like two toddlers in the same sand-box. Justin didn’t specifically mind that, because they mutually enjoyed teasing each other. But she’d always treated him like a friend, a neighbor, a loved but insufferable big brother. Never as a man.
He must have asked her to marry him fifty times—and all fifty times, she’d cracked up laughing, as if the idea of marrying him was the best joke they’d ever shared.
He got it, he got it. It didn’t matter if half the women in town chased him nonstop. Winona just couldn’t seem to imagine him as a lover. For several years now, Justin kept thinking if she could just need him. If he could just get a chance to show her a different side of himself. If something could jolt her into looking at him differently, maybe, just maybe, he’d have a serious shot with her.
“Hi, Dr. Webb.” Riley Monroe, the Club’s longtime caretaker, had a smile waiting even before Justin reached the bar. “You guys sure outdid yourself with the party tonight. This is quite a shindig. What can I get you?”
“Whiskey. Straight. And thanks, Riley.” Justin didn’t have to wait thirty seconds before the glass of liquid gold was in his hands. Riley might be the Texas Cattleman’s Club night caretaker, but he’d subbed as a bartender for formal functions for as long as Justin could remember. The ladies loved him—likely because he had a dose of flimflam in his character. Occasionally he could spread on the Las Vegas-type charm too thickly for Justin’s taste, but that didn’t matter. Riley was as dependable as the sunshine and as loyal as a hound. Good qualities in any man, and normally Justin would have chatted for a few minutes.
Tonight, he gulped down a big enough sip to feel the whiskey burn some new holes in his tonsils, then leaned back against the bar.
He spotted her, still out there, still high-stepping with Aaron…and damnation, looking like she was having a hell of a good time.
He looked around, determined to get his mind off Winona—and to keep it off. The party was in full swing, and although good taste had to be an issue with so many royal guests, so was having fun Texas-style. Messy, finger-dripping lobster and Texas barbecue was set up on the same table as the fragile hothouse roses and elegant ice sculptures. The formal orchestra was all dressed in black tie—but naturally, it had a damn good fiddling section. The giant boar’s head hanging on one wall looked down on more diamonds and rubies than the bugger had ever seen in the wild, for darn sure, but the blaze of firelight winked on the iron-studded plaque over the entrance door. Leadership, Justice and Peace was burned into the wood—the long-term logo for the Club that had a uniquely special meaning this night.
Justin gulped down another slug of whiskey, trying to ignore the short-haired brunette dancing past him yet again. He winked at a blonde instead. The Princess Anna von Oberland of Obersbourg—at least that’d been her title until she’d married Greg, who was plastered against her on the dance floor in total oblivion to the foot-stomping, sassy rhythm of the current song being played.
The whole purpose of this black-tie shindig was Anna. An outsider would surely find the situation confounding—what could a bunch of Texans possibly have in common with royalty from the small European countries of Obersbourg and Asterland? But months earlier, Princess Anna had been in grave trouble, and the Texas Cattleman’s Club had stepped in to rescue her. Two days from now, twelve citizens from both Asterland and Obersbourg were returning to Europe via private jet—without Anna, of course, who was head over heels for her bridegroom and Texas both. But this party was it. A chance for Anna’s family—and government—to say thank you to the Texas Cattleman’s Club boys…and a chance for the Club to strengthen the ties between the governments.
Justin finished the last gulp of whiskey, thinking how unusual this whole shindig was. Not the party itself. Truth to tell, the Texas Cattleman’s Club used any excuse to throw a formal brawl—and the bigger the better. But the group generally kept a low profile about their “quieter” activities. The world was pretty damn lousy at protecting its innocents. It’s not like the Club stuck its nose in a hornet’s nest if there was any choice, but sometimes an innocent’s life could hang in the balance—a situation where diplomacy either failed or where politics were so ticklish that tuning to normal channels simply didn’t get results.
An edgy thought needled through Justin’s mind, stealing the jubilant party mood and making him shift uneasily on his feet. He was the only Club member who didn’t own a gun. He used to. His grandparents were big in ranching and oil both, and anyone owning a big spread who lived in that kind of isolated country knew how to handle a gun. So did Justin, but that was years ago. At this point, he was starkly aware that he was the only member who never shot anything but a hypodermic. The others had strong military skills in their background. He did his rescuing with a scalpel.
And there was nothing precisely wrong with that, but suddenly his mind was whirling, spinning down dark roads. He’d come home from Bosnia to abruptly and completely change medical specialties. No one had asked him why he’d switched to plastic surgery. No one had noticed that there were certain medical cases he no longer touched. And so far it hadn’t mattered, because none of his private work with the Texas Cattlemen’s Club had forced him into situations that he couldn’t handle. But it could, Justin knew, and he feared letting his Club members down.
So far, thank God, the only one he’d let down was himself.
The orchestra suddenly changed to a slow dance. Swiftly, Justin lifted his head. A redhead winked at him as she sashayed past. Moments later, an elegant blonde wagged him a hello over her dance partner’s shoulder.
He winked back and smiled back, but his heart wasn’t in it. Tarnation, where had Winona disappeared to? Invariably he got a lot of female attention at these gigs, and that was nice, real nice, but primarily the reason he got such a rush from the single females in town was because of his wealthy, jet-set reputation.
The wealth was real enough—his grandparents had left him a ton, on top of what he hauled in as a plastic surgeon. But believe the social columns, and he only did tummy tucks and nose jobs when he wasn’t taking off on impulsive, lavish vacations.
He not only didn’t mind the stupid image. He catered to it. Since people expected him to disappear on a whim, it made his projects and missions with the Texas Cattleman’s Club easier to pull off. In this particular situation, though, the media had been led to believe that some good old Texas boys had “accidentally” become involved in Princess Anna’s dilemma. Justin had never kept his association with the Club a secret. He never kept secrets. Nothing in life got out faster or caused more trouble than a secret. But he did believe in keeping quiet when….
There she was. Win. His narrowed gaze soldered on her brilliant smile. Who was the blasted woman smiling at now? She wasn’t still dancing with Aaron Black. This guy had lighter hair, broader shoulders, wasn’t quite so tall…Justin’s stomach muscles suddenly unclenched. It was Matt. She was just dancing with Matt Walker, and although God knew the rancher was known to turn more than one single woman’s eye, he was also a member of the Club. A friend.
Still, that didn’t mean Justin had to like the way he was holding Win. Or smiling at her, for that damn matter. There was a limit to loyalty and friendship. Come to think of it, there was a limit to loyalty and friendship and honor and ethics.
And that damn limit was Winona Raye.
Aw, hell. He was losing his mind. It was her. She’d always made him lose his mind, and every year it was getting worse. He was beginning to sound like a lovesick cow. More pathetic yet, he was beginning to act like one.
“Hey, Dr. Webb, can I get you another?”
Justin’s head snapped around. “Sure, Riley. I’d appreciate a refill.” Well aware he’d been acting—and thinking—way too soberly for a party, he offered a companionable grin for Riley Monroe and another for the stranger next to him.
The short gentleman offered his hand. “I believe that we met on one other occasion, Dr. Webb. My name is Klimt. Robert Klimt.”
“Oh, yes. Of course, I remember.” Actually Justin had no memory of the man whatsoever, but he scrounged his brain for some connection. Klimt, Klimt…he was almost sure somebody’d told him that Robert Klimt was a minor cabinet member in the Asterland government.
“I was just asking Mr. Monroe about the sign over the entrance door.” Klimt motioned to the Leadership, Justice and Peace logo. “I heard someone say that slogan came from a historical story about the town. I gather that there’s some kind of romantic legend about Royal, Texas, and some jewels?”
“Oh, there is, there is.” Riley topped off Justin’s glass with a flourish, then reached behind the bar for Klimt’s poison—imported schnapps. “Next door to our Texas Cattleman’s Club here is a park. You probably noticed. In the early l800s, there was a mission here, an old adobe church. It’s just part of the park now, but back in the War with Mexico, l846 or so, there was a Texas soldier found a comrade fallen in battle, tried to save him….”
The fiddlers had picked up the pace for “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Justin, half listening to Klimt and Riley, researched the dance floor for the black, bouncing curly hair again. She wasn’t with Aaron, wasn’t with Matthew. In a sense, she really was working this evening, even if she was wearing formal attire. Win had never been a carry-a-gun kind of cop—she normally worked with juveniles, kids in trouble, kids at risk. But everyone on the local police force had been quietly coaxed to attend the gathering tonight, because the whole town wanted this shindig to go well, and Winona was always pulled into special problems like this. She was ideal. Everyone knew her. Everyone trusted her. And that was just great, except that she was so damned beautiful, Justin figured some guy, sometime, was going to zip down those cool defenses of hers….
“… So anyhow, this Texas soldier was just trying to save a wounded comrade, but it was just too late. Our Texas soldier had no idea the guy was carrying these three fancy jewels until he’s caring for the body, trying to bury him. Anyway, the old guy was gone, no identification on him, so he took the jewels back to Royal—”
“And this is a true story?” Klimt asked.
Justin yanked his gaze off the dance floor and looked at Klimt again. The man couldn’t be five foot five, but for a little guy, he sure had the puff of a banty rooster. Everything about him was starched—posture stiff as a ramrod, linen shirt perfectly creased, hair perfectly brushed, smile perfectly appropriate. Even his shoes shone like mirrors. Justin’s glance strayed to the smaller man’s left temple. There was a mole there, right by his eye. There were beauty marks, and then there were moles. This happened to be a plain old ugly mole—Justin immediately looked away; it was just second nature as a doc to notice a precancerous physical condition. And in this case, the minor flaw was particularly striking because everything about the guy was so spiffed-up-perfect in every other way.
Riley was laughing. “Aw, none of the story is true. Or maybe it is. The truth is that none of us seem to care. The town loves the legend, so we’ve been passing it on for years.”
“So tell me more about these jewels,” Klimt requested.
“Well, to start with, each of the jewels refers to the motto on the Texas Cattleman’s Club sign, see? Each of the gems is really unusual, partly because they’re so rare as to be priceless. You couldn’t buy one for love or money, not then and not now. Which made it all the more interesting and mysterious, why this Texas soldier was carrying them—but we’ll never know that answer. The point is that he had them. And one stone was a red diamond—”
“I never heard that diamonds came in a red color.”
“They don’t, they don’t,” Riley said. “Except once in a real rare while. And you study some gem lore, now, and you find red diamonds were the stones of kings, because they were that rare. So you look up in our motto sign, and that’s what the first word—leadership—is about. That’s what the red diamond is a symbol for. Right, Dr. Webb?”
“Right, Riley.” The orchestra had switched tunes to an old-fashioned waltz. Aaron Black glided past with a tall, plain young woman in his arms. Justin thought he recognized her. Pamela something? A teacher? Very shy, very proper—and how typical of Aaron to pick out a wallflower and make sure she wasn’t pining on the sidelines.
Even better that he wasn’t dancing with Win. Justin searched the crowd again. He saw Aaron, he saw Matt, he saw… Finally, he caught a glimpse of her again. This time she was partnered by a man with coal-black hair and striking gray eyes, teeth shining stark white in a face that so rarely smiled—the Sheikh. Ben. And another Texas Cattleman’s Club member, thank God, so it wasn’t like Justin had to worry she wasn’t in a gentleman’s hands.
Exactly.
He trusted Ben the same way he trusted Aaron and Matt. With his life. But trusting them with a single, attractive woman was a different story—particularly when the men had no idea how much he cared about her.
Nor would they.
“Dr. Webb, Mr. Klimt was asking about the other stones….” Riley prompted him.
“Yeah? Well, the legend has it that there’s the red diamond…and then a black harlequin opal…and then an emerald.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Riley agreed, and settled on his elbows on the bar to keep spinning the tale for his willing listener. “See, technically the opal’s the least valuable of the three stones. But a black harlequin opal—she’s a rare mother. And those who get into the magic of gems tend to see the harlequin opal as both having healing power and as somehow having the inner light and power to bring justice—so that’s where the second word in the Club motto comes from. Justice. As an ideal, you know?”
“Yes, Mr. Monroe, I believe I know what an ideal is,” Klimt said impatiently. “And the third stone, the emerald?”
“I’m coming to that one. Around the world, for centuries, emeralds were always considered the stone of peacemakers, and this particular emerald was said to be one giant stone besides. So peace was naturally the third word they put in the Club motto.”
“Leadership, justice, peace,” Klimt echoed. “That’s quite a story. But it seems such an elaborate legend if the stones never really existed.”
“And there’s more to it than that,” Riley said happily. “Our guy brought the stones back to Royal after the war with Mexico. He was gonna be rich, you know, sell ’em, buy a big spread, put up a fancy house and all? And he meant to, only he got home, and oil was found on his homestead. He had black gold coming out of his ears, so he never did need to sell those stones to have his fortune made.”
“So what happened to them?”
Riley peered over Justin’s glass, then Klimt’s, then ducked down to bring up bottles again. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. The Texas Cattleman’s Club…well, there were some men formed this group, back even before Club founder Tex Langley’s time. Some say they first got together to guard the jewels. Some say they were just the leading citizens of Royal, who passed on responsibility for the town’s security from generation to generation. Some say they just used the legend of the jewels to create that motto, because, well, it was a good motto. Those are our values around here. Leadership. Justice. Pea—”
“You think the jewels exist?”
Riley fingered his chest. “Me? Oh, you bet. I think they existed for real, back then, and they exist somewhere now.”
“So what do you think happened to them?”
“Well, everybody’s got a theory….”
Someone cut in on her with the Sheikh. Dakota Lewis. Justin’s eyes tracked the two of them on the dance floor, and he almost had to smile. Dakota wasn’t much on dancing. Win’d be lucky if she left the floor without broken toes if she stuck with him long. Dakota looked what he was—no uniform, but the retired military status was obvious from his unyielding posture and scalped haircut. On the surface he looked tough and hard—and truth to tell he was—but Justin couldn’t worry about Winona with Dakota. Since his divorce, Dakota had shown no interest in any women.
“Well, if the jewels did exist, where is your best guess they’d be hidden?” Klimt asked Riley.
Again Justin turned his head to the other two men. Klimt could only seem to march to one drummer. The town loved its legend. Actually, outsiders seemed to love it just as much; tourists consistently ate it up. But Klimt was pushing it beyond anyone’s normal interest. “If the jewels really existed, they’d be under heavy lock and key,” he said mildly. “We only encourage the legend because it’s good fun for everyone. And who’d want to be the one to break hearts by confessing that Santa Claus didn’t exist? I sure plan to believe until I’m ll0.”
Riley chortled appreciatively. “You saying you believe in Santa or the jewels, Dr. Webb?”
“In Santa, of course. You can have the jewels. I’ll take the loot Santa carries around any day.”
Riley laughed again. Klimt even threw him a sour smile, and, temporarily, Riley seemed to be off the hook for entertaining Mr. Banty Rooster. Klimt, carrying a fresh schnapps, wandered off into the crowd.
And Justin was about to do that, too…until Winona caught his attention again. She was still on the dance floor, but dancing with a stranger this time.
A non-Texan. One of the Asterlanders that Justin didn’t know. He watched the dude’s big hand sift down to her fanny.
She smiled at the guy. And then reached back and removed his hand.
Justin shifted on his feet. Something kicked in his pulse. Not just jealousy—God knew he knew all the shades of green there were in that particularly annoying emotion. But Winona was clearly handling the guy—no matter how protective Justin felt, the truth was, he’d never seen a man that Winona couldn’t handle with both hands tied.
That was, in fact, why she so often got conned into attending these kinds of shindigs. Regular cops were always around for security, but it wasn’t the same. The few serious crimes in Royal tended to be robbery. Sure, there was a crime of passion now and then, a fight at the Royal Diner occasionally, domestic dispute problems and that sort of thing. But basically this just wasn’t a high-crime community. This was oil country. Those who’d made it, made it big. And those who hadn’t made it were paid well, simply because there was ample to go around. The school systems were top-drawer, the whole area supported with fine services. The only “risk” prevalent in a small, ultrarich town like Royal was its being a draw for thieves.
Which was exactly why and how Winona was irreplaceable at these galas. She always showed up in the same evil black dress, the same sassy high heels. It wasn’t that she showed off anything—ever—but there just didn’t seem to be a man born who wouldn’t talk to her. On top of that, she sensed things. She had an intuition when someone or something wasn’t right.
And Justin frowned again suddenly. No guy was eyeing her at that specific moment—and her dance partner had quit trying to put the make on her. But her gaze was roving the room. She tripped in her partner’s arms—which wasn’t that much of a shock, because unless a man let her lead, she couldn’t dance worth a Texas jumping bean. But it was the way she suddenly moved—stiffly, warily—that had Justin suddenly alert and pushing through bodies to get to the other side of the room.
Maybe she didn’t know he was in love with her.
Maybe she’d never think of him as anything more than the old friend she’d grown up with.
For damn sure, maybe she’d never realize that his offers to marry her were sincere.
But if Winona were in trouble, Justin was going to be there for her—whether she wanted him there or not.
