Millionaire M.D.

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.

Two

Winona was in such trouble.

She’d slept with the same dream two nights running, replaying the evening of the Texas Cattleman’s Club gala. She knew it was just another dream, because the same details kept getting embellished. In the dream, she was breathtakingly gorgeous-which was a lot of fun, but not remotely realistic. She’d been whirling and swirling on the dance floor, not tripping, being graceful-which was another reason she knew it was a dream. And she kept dancing with different men-man after man after man, all of them adorable, all of them charmed by every word that came out of her mouth, fighting to have another spin with her around the floor…

Okay, okay, so these were pretty ridiculous dreams. But they were her dreams, and she was having a great time with them.

Only in this particular night’s version, Justin pulled her into his arms. For “The Tennessee Waltz”-which had to be one of the schmaltziest songs of all time, a song doomed to bring out romantic feelings in even the toughest of women-such as herself-and suddenly she was naked. Whirling around the floor. Waltzing. Without a stitch on. Only being naked was okay, because there wasn’t a soul in the room who realized that she was naked. Except for herself.

And Justin.

Alarm bells started clanging in her ears, but Winona determinedly ignored them. Obviously this wasn’t real, and since this happened to be her personal, wicked dream, she didn’t want to let go of it until she had to.