A Little Town In Texas
Mel Belyle has come to town, and no one's happy to see him.He's the new point man for the corporation that's trying to buy up land and turn Crystal Creek into suburbia. He's also public enemy number one, or so the Concerned Citizens have decided.Kitt Mitchell, native daughter (but quite happy to forget about that), is a reporter sent from New York. Her job? Get the notoriously tight-lipped Mel to talk. And Kitt's ambitious enough to do whatever she can to make that happen.
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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
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.
