He had in mind to take her to Stetson’s, where else? Nothing like a half pound of good, quality beef to sober up a skinny, wacko woman.
Naturally, they weren’t going anywhere without some wrangling, because, not surprisingly, Miss High and Mighty wasn’t in the mood to dine with him. Actually, she wasn’t in the mood to dine at all, and seemed rather intent on drinking her way through the evening, while at the very same time proclaiming, emphatically, that she didn’t drink. There was, Matt supposed, a gentleman buried somewhere in him, because he could not sit there and look at such a beautiful lush and leave her for the likes of Fred Davis. Nor could he possibly allow her to drive anywhere, so he figured that he was honor-bound to see her safely somewhere.
“Where do you live?” he asked her, once he had managed to send Tom tottering away with the bad news for Fred.
“Ruby Falls,” she said, leaning over so far that she almost tipped out of her seat.
“Great. That’s way the hell out there.”
“Forty-five minutes driving eighty miles an hour,” she stoically informed him.
He didn’t even want to think about her driving on those curving hill country roads. “Where is your son?” he asked.
“In South Padre with his dad!” she exclaimed, hitting him playfully on the arm as if he somehow should have known that.
“Any family or friends in town?”
“Nope.”
“An apartment?”
“Uh-uh,” she said, giggling as if they were playing a game.
“Is there anywhere I could take you?”
She thought about that a moment, tapping a manicured nail against a full bottom lip. “Nope,” she said at last.
“Then you’ll just have to go with me,” he sighed.
Rebecca snorted like a dock worker at that suggestion. “I don’t think so. I’m not interested,” she said haughtily.
“Trust me, I’m not interested, either,” he quickly and decisively informed her, and started looking around for her purse.
Fortunately, Rebecca’s tipsy state of mind made her easy to maneuver, and in spite of the heated discussion that ensued, Matt managed to convince Miss Texas that she was too inebriated to drive (Am not! Well, I can’t drive right this very second, but give me a little bit!), and furthermore, she’d only make herself sick drinking that much Chablis on an empty stomach (I hate Chablis!). Finally, he got her by pointing to Fred Davis, who, having tossed a few back himself, was doing the sloppy duck lip thing at her.
“You can’t drive, agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said, nodding resolutely.
“So if you don’t go with me, you’re looking at that guy. Choose your poison.”
She squinted at Fred. “Okay,” she said instantly, then slid out of her chair, sighing resolutely as if she were teetering off to hell. And away she went, sloshing her way into the parking garage and managing to pour herself into his Jag. That was the point at which Matt eighty-sixed the Stetson’s idea. So where? Sitting in the car in the parking garage while he was trying to figure out what to do with her, Rebecca chattered on about campaign slogans and some nonsense about kicking Gunter’s ass, the reason for which, Matt did not quite catch. The woman needed food, and quickly.
He hit on a brilliant idea. “You like steak?” he asked, reaching for his cell phone.
She snorted. “Don’t you know? You have all the answers, don’t you?”
“Oh, come on, Rebecca,” he scoffed. “I just have most of the answers. And for your information, smart-ass is not going to work on me. First of all, I’ve had a bossy sister all my life, and on her best day, she can’t get under my skin. Second, I am frequently in family court, which means I have seen the best smart-asses the world has to offer, and you are no competition. I am going to call in some filets, okay?”
“Okay!” she shot back, swaying a little with the force of it.
“And a gallon of strong coffee,” he added, more to himself.
“Don’t start,” Rebecca warned him, folding her arms across her middle to steady herself. “You always start.”
Whatever that meant. Matt couldn’t help noticing that the bucket of wine she had imbibed had given her a bit of a flush that made her look . . . well, gorgeous. Man. He was a sick bastard.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded.
“Oh, for the love of—Rebecca, listen very carefully and let’s see if we can’t get at least some of what I’m about to say into that thick skull of yours. I am not looking at you. I do not want in your pants,” he said, even as the thought that it wouldn’t be all bad zoomed across his mind. “I’m not doing anything but trying to sober you up because you are three sheets to the wind. That’s all.”
Her frown crumbled, and she unexpectedly admitted, “I know. It’s so weird. It just sort of happened without me knowing it.” She groaned; her head dropped back against the seat. Matt dialed Stetson’s. “How did this happen?” she sniffed, suddenly maudlin. Matt shrugged. “I mean, I was just sitting there—”