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  Don’t Let It Be True

  Jo Barrett

  Houston is, without a doubt, the weirdest, most entertaining city in Texas, consisting as it does of subtropical forest, life in the fast lane, a layer of oil, cowboys and spacemen.

  Texas Tourism Guide

  Contents

  Epigraph

  One

  Every woman in Texas has a dirty little secret. A…

  Two

  The Colonial Funeral Home was exactly as Dylan imagined it…

  Three

  Dylan stomped on the accelerator and felt the sports car…

  Four

  Kathleen knew there was a bottle of vodka hiding somewhere.

  Five

  Dylan stretched his arms out wide and felt a pop…

  Six

  Stepping inside the condo always took Dylan’s breath away. The…

  Seven

  Dylan was sleeping. Like a big bear. On her canvas.

  Eight

  Dylan didn’t want to deal with another mess. It wasn’t…

  Nine

  Kat had done this a thousand times before, but it…

  Ten

  I need a cheeseburger, Dylan thought.

  Eleven

  Kat was nursing an iced green tea latte and picking…

  Twelve

  Time to get down to business, Dylan thought. Enough fiddle…

  Thirteen

  In Texas, when wounded animals die on the side of…

  Fourteen

  “Dylan Charles Grant!” Kat shrilled. “Are you telling me we’ve…

  Fifteen

  Kat wandered through the hospital, wishing she’d worn a sweater.

  Sixteen

  “We’re SOL,” Wyatt said, taking a slug from his beer.

  Seventeen

  The reinforcements had arrived in the form of Crazy Aunt…

  Eighteen

  Dylan and Wyatt bumped along I–10 toward Winnie, Texas. Sabine…

  Nineteen

  Kathleen was about to pull an Ingrid Bergman. Her mother,…

  Twenty

  Dylan wasn’t the paranoid type, but the black sedan that…

  Twenty-One

  Kathleen was in one of those moods. The mood for…

  Twenty-Two

  The next morning, Dylan woke with a renewed vigor. He…

  Twenty-Three

  Dylan zipped into the elevator wearing his morning costume. Jeans,…

  Twenty-Four

  The best steakhouse in town for chasing skirt was Smith…

  Twenty-Five

  Kathleen was smiling through her teeth. She’d spotted Dylan, Wyatt,…

  Twenty-Six

  “Did you see that movie, The Thomas Crown Affair?” Wyatt…

  Twenty-Seven

  Kathleen adhered to the mantra of “Those with Family Names”…

  Twenty-Eight

  Kathleen arrived back at the apartment and found Dylan sitting…

  Twenty-Nine

  Dylan awoke before Kathleen, which surely set some kind of…

  Thirty

  Kat wondered what all the fuss was about. When Dylan…

  Thirty-One

  Dylan wondered why Kathleen had been oddly quiet during the…

  Thirty-Two

  Kat had been substituting sex for the real issue. Dylan…

  Thirty-Three

  They’d decided to take a little hike around the ranch.

  Thirty-Four

  Fridays were balloon day. Kathleen moved confidently from room to…

  Thirty-Five

  “No, no,” Diego’s mother was crying uncontrollably. She dropped to…

  Thirty-Six

  Saturday was the day of the big heist. Dylan, Wyatt,…

  Thirty-Seven

  Dylan, Wyatt, Steve, and C. Todd huddled behind the Enron…

  Thirty-Eight

  Kat’s face was contorted in fear as she stared at…

  Thirty-Nine

  Wyatt and Dylan sat on the couch, looking like a…

  Forty

  The three of them piled into the truck and set…

  Forty-One

  “Round up the troops,” Dylan ordered Wyatt. Ever since finding…

  Forty-Two

  “Never in my entire career,” Dr. Levin was saying, “have…

  Forty-Three

  Dylan swept the binoculars across the broad expanse of ranch…

  Forty-Four

  Kat felt like a scarecrow. Her arms were raised in…

  Forty-Five

  Dylan had been drinking. Not drinking, drinking. Like his old…

  Forty-Six

  Dylan rolled over in bed and groaned. Kat threw her…

  Forty-Seven

  Jonathan Whipley sat across the conference table from Dylan. The…

  Forty-Eight

  Sailors and baseball players were notorious for being superstitious. That’s…

  Forty-Nine

  Shelby Lynn Pierce and Bo Harlan were officially “an item,”…

  Fifty

  Since Kat was spending the afternoon at her tasting lunch,…

  Fifty-One

  The poker game was going on its fifth hour. Shelby…

  Fifty-Two

  Watching a six-thousand-ton oil rig snap in half was not…

  Fifty-Three

  “No,” Kat said. She crossed her arms over her chest…

  Fifty-Four

  The next morning, Dylan and Kat left early so they…

  Fifty-Five

  Kat glanced around the plush first-class cabin of the Continental…

  Fifty-Six

  Around eight o’clock that evening, Shelby Lynn insisted on having…

  Fifty-Seven

  The oil business was all about delays. Delays and risk.

  Fifty-Eight

  Kathleen couldn’t believe the big day had finally arrived. The…

  Fifty-Nine

  The cocktail hour had come and gone, but Kathleen and…

  Sixty

  Dylan requested for the band to play, “What a Wonderful…

  About the Author

  Other books by Jo Barrett

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Every woman in Texas has a dirty little secret. A secret that could destroy her reputation, crush her fragile confidence, and sully her good name forever.

  The most common Texas dirty little secret had to do with strippers. Here’s how that one went: Wealthy Texas oilman divorces first wife for second wife. Second wife bears children, dresses in expensive designer clothes, and builds impressive rococo-style swirling McMansion, complete with French chandeliers and fulltime gardener. Second wife joins “society” and becomes philanthropic. She is photographed at all of the best events in the best clothes. Her friends are similarly wealthy, powerful, and stylish. Second wife’s dirty little secret is that she met her wealthy husband while dancing the pole at the Men’s Club in Las Vegas, or worse, Tampa.

  Kathleen Connor King had two dirty little secrets. The good news was that neither of them had to do with stripping. The bad news was that she was poor.

  This was secret number one.

  The reason for this secret is that everyone assumed Kathleen was wildly rich. Everyone who was anyone in Houston, that is. She’d been born a King. As in “the Kings” from Houston. As in owning most of the oil in the surrounding counties. Which was more fuel than anyone could possibly imagine. Except maybe the folks over at Shell, Exxon, and Texaco.

  Carrying the last name of King trumped everything else about Kat. It didn’t matter that she was artistic and wore all the wrong clothes. For other girls—plain girls wi
thout King in their last name—this would equate to social suicide. But Kathleen was simply viewed as eccentric. Wildly rich and eccentric! How exciting, everyone thought. And so Kat was extended all the courtesies that the Houston socialite set could afford. Free tickets to the best events. The Houston Opera Ball, the Contemporary Arts Museum Gala, the grand opening of this restaurant or that boutique; and, of course, the most fashionable charity dinners.

  Kat usually made a splash at each function, wearing clothes she’d picked out from Twice Around Texas, her favorite thrift store. She was a trendsetter, to say the least. No one knew it was because she couldn’t afford the designer stuff. The other society women, in their Gucci, Hermès, and Carolina Herrera, fawning over Kat in her funky, vintage threads.

  The sham continued right onto the society pages. The Guccis, Hermès, and Carolina Herreras always made sure to be photographed with her. To be seen in the society pages with their arms looped around little ol’ Kat, as if they were best friends forever. As if they bothered to get to know her. But they didn’t. As much as Kat tried, they didn’t bother to understand her personality, her flair, her art.

  This was why Kat was drinking an ice-cold Corona straight from the bottle. She was nursing a splitting headache. Even after two extra-strength Tylenols chased down with beer, the pain radiated across her temples like flashes of lightning.

  Kat’s headache had started earlier this afternoon. When the Guccis had suggested an afternoon of shopping at Neiman Marcus followed by Botox treatments at the medical spa in Uptown Park, Kat countered with African tribal dancing, which was free on Wednesdays in Hermann Park.

  The Guccis looked at her funny, smiled politely, and said:

  “Oh, Kat. You’re adorable, sweetie.”

  And then they skipped off to enjoy their shopping and Botox, leaving Kat to mull over a half-eaten Cobb salad.

  Kat drank the rest of the beer, set the bottle on the floor, and considered her predicament. I don’t care to be in the scene, she thought.

  A part of her didn’t care if Houston society found out about her dirty little secret. Sometimes, at charity events, Kat would fight the urge to jump up and shout, “Don’t you people know that I’m poor!”

  But she couldn’t do this. She had to remain Kathleen Connor King. She had to keep the myth of her family name, the aloofness of all that wealth and entitlement alive. And why? Because of the Foundation. The foundation her grandfather—Cullen Davis King—had named after himself, and the one that Kathleen carried the torch for to this day.

  The King Foundation was Kathleen’s raison d’être, and not because she hosted the most powerful ticket of the year. But because deep down, despite the fact that Kathleen had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she had a heart of gold.

  It was the most exclusive event of the year. It raised millions of dollars for the Pediatric Cancer Hospital. And it was hosted by Kathleen herself—the last remaining King in the prominent King family.

  Using her last name like a weapon, Kathleen Connor King had single-handedly created the most famous fund-raising event in Texas. Each ticket cost (gasp!) ten thousand dollars. A table cost one hundred thousand. There were fifty tables. And Kat managed to sell out every year.

  It was the reason that she suffered through society events and agreed to have her picture taken with the Guccis, Hermès, and Carolina Herreras.

  It was the reason she was painting, this week. Her “jungle art” would fetch a few thousand dollars during the foundation’s annual auction.

  Kat dipped her brush in the can of hot pink boudoir paint and swirled it around the canvas, making the shape of a tree. She was painting a hot pink forest, in fact. Complete with hot pink birds and hot pink monkeys.

  She scratched a fleck of dried paint from the tip of her thumb and wondered when Dylan would get home. She was feeling the feeling. Or, as her mother would’ve said, “hot between the thighs.”

  Two

  The Colonial Funeral Home was exactly as Dylan imagined it to be. Grim and macabre, with fake flowers everywhere and coffins displayed like Cadillacs. Dylan tried not to breathe, but something smelled. It was one of those cover-up smells. Like when someone sprays lemon freshener over a recent cigarette he smoked.

  It was sort of like that. Only worse.

  Dylan imagined it was the smell of death covered up by ammonia and bleach and possibly a peach candle. He spotted a candle burning on a nearby table and leaned closer to take a peek.

  Peach Frosting.

  The candle was named “Peach Frosting.”

  Dylan shivered. He could smell peach from a freakin’ mile. What a nasty, hairy little fucker. The peach.

  He gulped back the sour bile forming in his throat and tried not to focus on the fact that he was freezing his balls off. Why did Colonial Funeral Home insist on cranking up the A.C.? Why couldn’t it feel more like a log cabin, with a nice crackling wood fire and some warm apple cider for folks to drink?

  Why did it have to be so damned…clinical? With all that cold air blasting from the vents, and all those coffins lined up in neat rows.

  Dylan tried not to think of his father’s body lying frigid and dead in the back room.

  The funeral director, in his somber suit and discount store tie, was whispering something about “arrangements.” Dylan was hardly listening. All he could focus on was Peach Frosting. The candle was called “Peach Frosting.”

  Dylan knew he’d never eat another peach as long as he lived.

  “Many of our clients choose the music package,” the director said, which caught Dylan’s attention. “You get the coffin, the flowers, the transportation, and the music.”

  “You mean like a band?” Dylan choked. The idea of having a band at Butch Grant’s sorry little send-off was enough to cast a smirk across his face.

  “A harp,” the funeral director said, raising a pencil-thin eyebrow.

  “Jesus,” Dylan said under his breath.

  He needed to get out of this place. Pronto.

  It had been two hours. Two hours of Dylan’s life dedicated to the ungrateful Butch Grant, yet again.

  Dylan peered inside one of the coffins. It was lined with red velvet and reminded him of a Halloween prop that a vampire would pop out of. He knocked his fist against the coffin.

  “No harp. No bells and whistles.” he said. “I want his ashes to be put in”—he pointed to an urn on a table next to the peach candle—“in one of those.”

  “That is a vase, sir. The urns are in the next room.”

  Dylan scowled and scratched his arm.

  It was almost comical. Here he was. In a funeral home in Tanglewood, with the larger-than-life Butch Grant lying dead in the next room—and he’d just pointed to a flower vase as the vessel for his father’s remains.

  Nice job, genius.

  He might not be a rocket scientist, but Dylan knew when to say when. “Tell me your name again?” he asked. The funeral director had mentioned it, but Dylan had forgotten.

  “Ned Greely.”

  “Mr. Greely, I’m no good at this. Picking out this stuff is not my forte.”

  “It’s a difficult process for anyone, Mr. Grant.”

  “Listen up. I need you to pick out an urn from the next room, put my father’s ashes in it, and call me when it’s finished.”

  The funeral director worked his bottom lip feverishly. This was obviously not how it was done.

  Dylan stared at the floor.

  “I’ll pay extra,” he mumbled.

  “Of course, Mr. Grant. You must be very upset.”

  Ned Greely had a cold fish handshake, and as Dylan pumped the cold fish up and down, he felt a chill creep across his skin. His stomach flip-flopped and he gulped back the vomit that was steadily trying to come up his throat.

  “Th-th-thank you for your help, Mr. Greely.”

  Dylan pivoted on his heel and strode quickly toward the door—the door with the little bell chime—the door that exited ammonia and bleach and dead bodi
es and peach candles.

  Three

  Dylan stomped on the accelerator and felt the sports car rocket forward down Interstate 10. There would be no tears today. He wasn’t made of stone, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Crying over Butch Grant would be like getting punched in the face all over again. Jeez. After too many whacks, even a dog learned not to care.

  On the seat next to him was Butch Grant’s last will and testament. Scrawled out in his dad’s own chicken-scratch handwriting.

  Dylan knitted his brows together. Who the hell writes their will in red ink?

  He balled up the pages in his hand and tossed them in the backseat.

  Gunning the accelerator, he sped toward the exit ramp for Shepherd. Past the ol’ taco shack, the Chevron, the dry cleaner’s. Finally, Dylan was back in his ’hood. The familiarity felt like a warm blanket.

  He exhaled sharply and realized he’d been holding his breath. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out behind the wheel.

  Enough is enough, he thought, shaking his head like a dog fresh out of the water.

  He eased the car past the towering fountain gracing the front entrance of the Royal Arms Luxury Residences. The high-rise building was thirty stories of breathtaking metal and glass, boasting terraces with dead-on views of the Houston skyline. A towering behemoth of new money set stubbornly amid the whispering blue-blood Houston neighborhood that had frowned on such development.