A Man of His Word (3 page)

Educate him? After that history lesson, he was coming back for more? Suddenly, Rosebud realized just how great a
danger Dan Armstrong was. She knew how to fight against faceless corporate stool pigeons. She had no idea what to do with a real man who apparently had a grasp on compassion—and already had her at a disadvantage. The feeling of helplessness left her with only one other emotion to grab at—anger.

“Fine.” She unpacked all the files again at a rate that struck even her as irritated. “Cecil Armstrong has been a blight upon this land since he came here five years ago. He's strong-armed local ranchers—many with whom we had unspoken agreements—out of their water rights and lands. He's filed frivolous lawsuits against the tribe and attempted to use eminent domain as legal justification for taking our land.” Eminent domain was the biggest threat to her whole legal standing, the one she knew she'd lose. Who the hell cared about a few hundred Indians when they could get their electricity for pennies-on-the-kilowatt cheaper? No one, that's who. No one but the tribe.

Armstrong sat down and began scribbling furiously. If this was an act, it was a damn good one, she decided. This must be why
that man
had sent him. The new, caring face of Armstrong Holdings. When he paused, she continued.

“He has engaged in a campaign of intimidation against members of the tribe.” And wouldn't it be lovely if she had some proof of that? But who else would be responsible for Aunt Emily's shot-out windows or Joe's missing spark plugs and punctured tires? Who else would have left another skinned raccoon spread-eagled on her front porch three days ago? No one, that's who. No one else hated her with the passion of Cecil Armstrong.

“That's a serious charge,” Dan said without looking up. His voice held steady, with no trace of knee-jerk denial.

“Men have died.” Too late, she realized her voice was cracking. Aunt Emily reached out and rested a calming hand
on Rosebud's arm. Dang it, she was losing her cool in a meeting. She
never
lost her cool.

Armstrong raised his eyes to meet hers. “Do you have proof?” It didn't come out sneering. It was just a simple question.

With a complicated answer. “The FBI determined that both cases were suicides. The tribal police didn't agree. Nothing ever came of it.” Because money talks. The tribe had no money. Cecil Armstrong, it seemed, had it all. Broken, drunk Indians shot their heads off all the time. What were another two? Who cared that Tanner had never had a drink before in his life? He was just another Indian—who'd realized the danger Armstrong Holdings posed to the tribe from the beginning. Who'd happened to be making a run at the tribal council. Who'd happened to be her brother. Just another Indian, that's all.

Armstrong looked at her, then at Aunt Emily's hand, then back to her. “I'm sorry for your loss.” And the hell of it was, he really seemed to mean it. Rosebud felt the ground shifting under her feet. Suddenly, she wasn't sure where she stood. “As I said, those are serious charges. I'd like to review your documents before I do anything else.”

Finally, something technical she could hold on to. “I'm sure you can understand that we can't let the originals leave this building.”
That man
would have himself one hell of a bonfire, that much she knew.

“Of course,” he agreed far too easily. “Can you have a copy made for me?”

Another unpleasant reality smacked Rosebud upside the head. Of course this Dan Armstrong was used to a world where copiers worked. That world had shiny new computers that connected to the internet, real office space and chairs that didn't try to eat a person alive.

That wasn't her world.

She held her head high. “Your predecessor in negotiating, Mr. Lon Johnson, had a copy of all my files.” Or at least, that was what he
thought.

“Actually, I looked into that last night.” Armstrong's mouth bowed up into an appreciative smile. “It appears that all those files up and disappeared out of his car one day, about a week ago. In addition to his laptop, iPod and three candy bars.”

Hmm. That sounded like Matt, who was trying to fashion himself as the ideological heir to Tanner but thus far had just succeeded in being a low-level criminal. She would have loved to have gotten her hands on Johnson's laptop, but there was no question that it had already been pawned off or sold outright. Dang it, she thought. Another missed opportunity. She tried to look surprised, but given how Dan's grin got bigger, she didn't think she'd made it. “That's unfortunate.” Armstrong cleared his throat. Time to go to the lame-excuse file. “Our copier recently had an…incident, shall we say. We are awaiting the parts.” Which was only a small lie. The copier had had an incident, all right. Two years ago.

Armstrong seemed to buy it. “I guess that leaves only one other option. I'd like your permission,” he said, directing his statement to all three of them, “to come back and review the files myself and take notes. That way, they don't leave the building, and I still get what I need.”

Rosebud deferred to Aunt Emily, who was weighing the offer. Finally, she nodded. “Of course, Mr. Armstrong, you understand that there'll be conditions.”

“Of course,” he agreed, leaning back in the chair. He seemed to be getting used to the wobble. He looked to Rosebud, and again she saw the arrogant smile. A man used to getting his way. “I imagine you won't want me to have unsupervised access to original documents.”

The implication was clear. He had her cornered, and they both knew it. Nobody else on the rez grasped the full import
of all the details Rosebud had meticulously collected over the last three years, not even Aunt Emily. Rosebud was the only one who could possibly make sure nothing original “walked off.” She was going to have to sit in this small room for hours—days—on end with a handsome, charming man while he copied her life's work by hand. He was going to leverage all that compassionate charm against her under the auspices of a fact-finding mission.

Whoever the hell Dan Armstrong was, she had to give him credit. He was a worthy opponent.

Aunt Emily took up her cue again. She began to go on about how the tribe just wanted to be left in peace and get a little respect from the outside world. Rosebud tuned her out. Instead, she found herself studying Armstrong's hands. He had calluses that told her he'd earned them the hard way. As he leaned back, she saw an impressive buckle that didn't look store-bought. Actually, upon closer inspection, she didn't think that his shirt was store-bought, either. She glanced down at his boots. Top-of-the-line alligator. They probably cost more than she took home before taxes last year. He wasn't some office gopher, but a man who worked and made more than a nice living. Somehow, she knew he didn't send anyone out to do his bidding. If this Dan Armstrong needed something done, he either asked the right person or he went and did it himself.

If she wasn't careful, she was going to be caught staring. She wondered what he'd been doing in the valley, and immediately, the guilt began to build. God, what a mess. She'd assumed he was one of Cecil Armstrong's mercenary “security” guards. That had been her second mistake. She couldn't be sure it had been her last one.

Finally, as Aunt Emily began to wind up, she noticed that Armstrong was starting to fidget in his chair. All that coffee was finally getting to him. Normally, she'd take advantage
of his discomfort to really rake him over the coals, but not today. She needed to get out of this room, far away from this unusual man, and figure out her next move.

On Dan's way out the door, Joe still didn't shake Armstrong's hand, but Aunt Emily did. Then Dan shook Rosebud's hand. “I look forward to working with you,” he said as he put the slightest pressure on her fingers. The warmth was still there, but this time it moved up her arm with a greater urgency until she was afraid her face was going to flush.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She was afraid she was looking forward to it, too.

R
osebud was sure she'd thrown the files in her office and locked the door, but that part was a little hazy. The next thing she was really conscious of was the soft breeze and the warm sun on her face as she stood in the parking lot, facing south. The breeze still had a touch of cold spring in it, which was just enough to let her mind clear a little.

The situation was far from out of control, she quickly decided. Dan Armstrong might be a different kind of danger to her, but he was still just a man, and a woman didn't make it through law school without figuring out how to handle a man. She just needed to remember who he represented, not what he looked like or how he addressed her with all that “respect” and “compassion.”

“You okay, Rosie?” Joe's hand rested on her shoulder.

“Oh, fine.” Not true, but she was a lawyer, after all. Never admit weakness, because weakness is defeat. She opened her eyes to see Aunt Emily standing before her, a serious look on her face. “What?”

Aunt Emily looked to Joe and then sighed. “That man…”

“I can handle him.”

Aunt Emily regarded her for a painful second. Then she leaned forward and grasped the sticks holding Rosebud's braided bun into place. The whole thing unfurled like a sail. “He is different. He is a handsome man, dear. And you are a handsome woman.”

Something about the way she said it hit Rosebud funny. “What are you saying?”

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” Joe said, sounding surprisingly serious about it. The weight of his hand suddenly felt like a vise, pinning her in place.

“You want me to—what? Sleep with him?” When Aunt Emily didn't say anything, Rosebud tried to take a step back, but Joe held her in place. The breeze—colder now, so cold it chilled her to the bone—caught the straggling remains of her braid and unwound it for her. “You
want
me to sleep with him?” Shame ripped through her.

Of all the things asked of her—leaving home for so many years to get that damned law degree when she really wanted to study art; giving up any semblance of a normal life to eat, drink and breathe legal proceedings against Armstrong Holdings; having dead animals show up around her house; losing her brother—sleeping with the enemy was the worst. Even if the enemy was as attractive as Dan Armstrong. That was irrelevant. It didn't matter that she'd given her life to the tribe. Now it wanted her body, too.

“No, no,” Joe finally protested, too late. “But a beautiful woman can muddle a man's thinking.”

“This may be the chance we've been waiting for, dear,” Emily added. Rosebud could hear how little her aunt really believed it, but she kept going. “He could let something…useful slip about his uncle. He might know something about Tanner.”

The blow was low. For a second, Rosebud wanted to smack the woman for pouring salt in her wound, but it was a short second. Of course, they were right. Dan Armstrong was an opportunity to do a little domestic spying, that was all. And if she could link Tanner's death to an Armstrong—any Armstrong—she'd be able to sleep at night. Hell, she might even find a new way to stop that dam.

Aunt Emily gave her an artificial smile. “It's what Tanner would do.” She pulled Rosebud's glasses off her face and gently tucked them into the pocket of her one-and-only suit jacket. “Do it for Tanner.”

Tears that she normally kept out of sight until the middle of the night, when no one would know she cried them, threatened to spill. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep them in. “All right,” she managed to get out.

Aunt Emily kissed her cheek in painful blessing. “Find out what you can. Give away nothing.”

“Do your best,” Joe added, finally removing his clamping hand from her shoulder.

Her best. She'd been doing her best, fending off that dam for three years, but it hadn't been good enough. She wondered if anything ever would be.

She heard both car doors shut, heard both of them drive away, but still she couldn't open her eyes. The breeze tickled her hair, and the sun tried to reassure her it would, in fact, be all right, but she couldn't move. When Tanner had died, she'd sworn to do anything to find out who put that gun in his hand and pulled the trigger. She'd never thought it would come to seducing Cecil Armstrong's nephew.

“Ms. Donnelly?”

Oh, hell.

“Mr. Armstrong,” she said without turning around. How on God's green earth was she supposed to muddle his thinking when her own mind was exactly as clear as the Dakota
River during the spring floods? “Thank you for coming today.”

He stood next to her. She didn't know how she felt it, but one moment, she was alone, and the next, his solid warmth was close enough that she thought he was touching her arm. Moving slowly, she turned to meet his gaze.

As she did, the breeze surged like a trickster, throwing her hair around. The look in his eyes went from curious regard to recognition—the wrong kind of recognition. His nostrils flared as his jaw clenched. She was no longer facing a compassionate man. Any fool could see that Dan Armstrong was fighting mad.

“Tell me, Ms. Donnelly,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you ride?”

He knew—or thought he knew. In a heartbeat, she realized she needed to play innocent. “Of course. Everyone out here does. Do you?”

She couldn't even see those lovely greenish eyes. They were narrowed into slits. He wasn't buying it. “Sure do. What kind of horse do you ride?”

“Scout is a paint.” She wanted to cower before that hard look, but she refused to break that easily. With everything she had, she met his stare. “Yours?”

“Palomino.” He stepped around her so quickly that she couldn't help but flinch. “In fact, I was riding him near the dam site in a pretty little valley the other day.”

“Is that so?” That was the best she could do as he threw open the door of an enormous, shiny black truck and yanked out a brown cowboy hat.

With a bullet hole through it.

She'd gotten a lot closer than she meant to. She hadn't actually been trying to hit him. She'd been trying to go right over his head, just close enough that he could hear the bullet. But she'd missed. She'd come within an inch of killing a man.
For the first time in her life, she felt really and truly faint. The only thing that kept her on her feet was the knowledge that fainting was a confession of the body. No weakness. No confession.

No matter if she was guilty of attempted murder.

Armstrong was watching her with cold interest. “Someone took a shot at me in that valley.”

She managed to swallow, hoping that her reaction would be interpreted as mere shock and not guilt. “That's awful!” Her voice sounded decidedly strangled, even to her own ears. “Did you see who did it?”

He took a step toward her, until he was close enough that she could see how much his pupils had dilated. The almost-green was gone, replaced by a black so inky that he looked more like a
sica,
a spirit, than a man. “It was a woman.” His voice was low and quiet, which gave him an air of danger. “A beautiful Native American woman with long, black hair.” With his free hand, he reached out and grabbed a hank of her hair, twisting it around his hand until she had no way to escape. He pulled her face up to his. “Wearing buckskins and moccasins. Riding a paint.”

Beautiful.
She swallowed again. He smelled vaguely of coffee and horse, with a hint of something more exotic—sandalwood, maybe. He smelled
good.
And he was less than a minute from committing assault.

“Buckskins, Mr. Armstrong?” She paused long enough to muster up a look of slight disbelief. “Most of us prefer T-shirts and jeans these days.” His mouth opened to protest, but she cut him off. “I can ask a few questions, Mr. Armstrong.” Oh, thank God her lawyer voice had returned. She pressed on. “While we do not approve of your uncle's actions, we certainly wouldn't resort to attempted murder.”

“A few questions?” His lips—nice, full lips, with just a
hint of pink—twisted into a full sneer as he leaned in even closer. “I want answers.”

Friends close, enemies closer. She swallowed, and saw his eyes dart down to her mouth. This was playing with fire, but what else was there? “Are you going to kiss me?” Her lawyer voice was gone again, and instead she sounded like a femme fatale from a '40s film. Where that came from, she didn't know. She could only hope it was the right thing to say.

It was. His jaw flexed again, answering the question for her. Then his other hand moved, brushing a flyaway hair from her face and stroking her cheekbone with the barest hint of pressure. A quiver went through Rosebud, one she couldn't do a thing to stop. The corner of his mouth curled up, just enough to let her know that he'd felt that betraying quiver, too.

He wanted to kiss her, which should have made her feel successful—Aunt Emily would be proud. But his mouth had something else to say about the matter. “Are you fixing to take another shot at me?”

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about.” She couldn't even manage to pull off indignant. The best she could do was a throaty whisper better suited to that kiss that still hung in the air between them.

His hand tightened around her hair. Oh, no, he wasn't about to let her off easy. “I thought lawyers were better liars.”

Now she was back on more familiar footing. “That's funny. I always heard that liars were better lawyers.”

Her stomach turned in anticipation. She'd been kissed, of course, but she'd never been hit. She had no idea which way this would go.

Kiss me.
The thought popped into her head from a deep, primitive part of her brain that had nothing to do with Aunt Emily or self-defense. How long had it been since she'd been properly kissed? How long had it been since she'd been this
close to a man who looked this good, a man who
smelled
this good? That primitive part of her brain did a quick tally. Way too freaking long. That part didn't care that this was the enemy, didn't care that she'd perpetrated a crime upon his hat. It just cared that he was a man touching her hair, a man who seemed to see past all of her artificial “lawyer” constructs—a man less than three inches from her face.

Kiss me.

He didn't. With a jerk of his head, he let her hair slip through his fingers and took an all-important step away from her. A sense of irrational rejection immediately took up battle with relief.

She wasn't out of the woods yet, though. He was still watching her every movement, her every twitch. Her footing became more familiar. She could do this, whatever
this
was. “I do not take kindly to being a target,” he finally said into the wind.

“I don't know of anyone who does.” She watched his face as she flipped her hair back over her shoulder. His eyes followed the movement. Why hadn't he kissed her? “If I find out anything about it, I'll let you know.”

He licked his lower lip. Yes, it did appear that a beautiful woman could muddle a man's thinking. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and fished out a business card. “If you find out anything,” he said, the sarcasm dripping off every syllable, “give me a call. I'd like to press charges. That address is wrong, but the cell number is still good.”

Armstrong Holdings, the card said. Wichita Falls, Texas. Daniel Armstrong, Chief Operating Officer. Damn. He wasn't just some errand boy, he operated the whole company. Did that include the part that wanted to build the dam? “Of course,” she tried to say smoothly as she tucked the card into her pocket behind her glasses. She had the feeling that pressing charges was the least of her worries. But a cell phone
number wasn't exactly an in. She needed something more. “Where are you staying now?”

The steel left his eyes a little. Yes, maybe they were both back on familiar footing now, because a smaller version of that arrogant smile was back. “At my uncle's house.” He slouched back against the side of his truck, one thumb caught in a belt loop, the other holding the apparently forgotten hat. Now that the anger had left his face—or at least gone deeper under cover—he was right back into handsome territory. “You should come to dinner.”

“Excuse me?” Of all the things she thought he might say at that exact moment, dinner wasn't even on the list.

“Look, I can appreciate you not—” he shrugged his shoulders in defeat “—
liking
my uncle very much. But he's not such a bad guy. You should see for yourself.”

The spawn of Satan wasn't
such
a bad guy? Even Dan didn't sound like he believed it. With her last bit of self-control, she managed to keep her snort to herself. Besides, a dinner invitation was exactly the sort of in she'd been angling for. Aunt Emily would be thrilled that Rosebud had managed to get invited to that creepy ranch house. God only knew what sort of dirt she could dig up from the inside.

He was falling into her trap—or, she suddenly realized, she was falling into his. After all, two could play at this game.

He notched an eyebrow at her. Oh, yes,
play
was the operative word. She mustered up her best sly grin as she pretended to think about it. “Quite the peacemaker, aren't you, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Mr. Armstrong is my uncle.” His smile broadened. “Please call me Dan, Ms. Donnelly.”

Suddenly, she decided she might not mind playing this game. After all, she could string him along with a wink and maybe a kiss—okay, definitely a kiss—without giving away anything, including her body. Just so long as she was the one
doing the stringing. “Rosebud,” she corrected him as she batted her eyes and managed a faint blush.

His smile grew warmer—she thought. “Saturday night? Around seven?”

Two days? He wasted no time. She wouldn't have the chance to find out anything about him before then. She'd be walking into the devil's lair with nothing but her wits and her looks to keep her safe. Sometimes, she thought as she carefully considered his offer, that was all a girl needed. “All right. Saturday at seven.”