Out of Control (7 page)

I backed the Athey wagon up several more feet, then killed the engine. Robichaud shut
down the water pump. Other than the low hum of the air conditioner in the trailer
house, all was quiet. It was strange, after days and days of the roaring fire.

When I stepped out of the shed, I saw Conaway, who looked ready to jump up and down
and squeal, she was so excited. But she managed to videotape everything without an
excess of physical enthusiasm. All the same, she kept repeating, “That was
so
fucking cool!”

I assumed she could edit that out later. Something told me that her professor at UCLA
might mark down for yelling F-bombs in the middle of a documentary.

Although the crew and I were covered in oil, it was primarily on our fire suits and
hard hats. The men climbed out of their suits and left them in a heap close to the
truck while they broke out the whiskey and made congratulatory toasts, looking pretty
funny dressed in only their boxers and steel toed boots.

Except Robichaud. He didn’t look funny. He looked excellent, even with the boots and
his face smudged with oil.

We usually wear clothing beneath the suits, but it was way too hot for that. I couldn’t
take mine off in front of everyone, so after one toast and a shot of whiskey, I went
behind the trailer house and climbed out, thankful for the cool desert night air against
my sweaty skin.

I was about to slip a T-shirt over my head when I heard Robichaud’s deep drawl from
behind me. “Turn around, sugar.”

Yes, it was a stupid move, but I turned around. Of course I did. And dropped the T-shirt.

It was darker than it had been for a week, day or night, but the light from inside
the trailer shined through the window illuminating his face. His gaze met mine for
several heartbeats before it dropped, slowly, to my breasts. His lips curved into
a smile I’m certain men have given women since Adam chased Eve around the garden of
Eden. Appreciative and wolfish.

“So, doc, whatdya think?”

He reached for me, drawing me against him with an unhurried certainty, lowering his
head, sliding his lips across mine slowly, lightly. His seven day beard, though not
full, was long enough not to prickle. Instead, it was soft and erotic touching my
face. “I’d tell you what I think,” he whispered against my mouth, “but my mama taught
me not to talk that way in front of a lady.”

Then he kissed me, moving his tongue against mine with lazy strokes. Me in only a
thong and a pair of boots; him in his boxers and boots. He smelled of crude oil and
sweat, and tasted like whiskey. His body, the wide stretch of his bare back, was hard
and smooth and unbelievably hot.

As kisses went…oh my God, it was amazing. I decided Robichaud could be conceited about
his kissing abilities because he wouldn’t be exaggerating. Despite my very naked breasts
pressed intimately against his solid, lightly hairy chest, his hands remained at my
back, his fingers splayed across my skin, some of them tangled in the thin band of
my thong. His arms held me close enough to fuse our skin together. His erection pressed
against my pelvis firmly, inevitably, without demanding anything at all.

He broke the kiss and moved his lips across my cheek, down to my throat and up to
my ear. “You’re dirty, you smell like a barrel of crude, and you’re wearing steel-toed
boots, but sugar, you’re beautiful. I’ve never in my whole life wanted a woman as
much as I want you.”

“You have a thing for dirty women in work boots?”

His lips nibbled my earlobe. “That’s the weird part. I usually go for blondes with
too much makeup and expensive shoes.”

“Maybe you’ve just been away from civilization too long. Or maybe the fumes are getting
to you.”

“I might buy that, except that I wanted you five minutes after I met you. Remember?”

“At the office. You said I reminded you of a cute little gal you dated at LSU. It
was your way of patronizing me.”

“You said I reminded you of a dumb jock you
didn’t
date at Tulane. It was your way of slapping me for patronizing you.”

“Why, exactly, did that make you want me?”

His fingers dipped to my ass and he cupped it hard, drawing me closer to him. “It
didn’t. That was several minutes later, after a few more zingers, when you turned
around and walked away. I’d never seen a woman walk like that, or one that was put
together like you. And no woman, anywhere, ever threw my bullshit back in my face.”
He kissed me again, long and slow, wet and hot. My thong was now completely soaked,
every feminine part of me on high alert, ready for him.

Too bad we couldn’t finish what we’d started.

We didn’t even get to finish the kiss. I heard Cash calling my name and knew it was
only a matter of time before he came behind the trailer to see if I’d been bitten
by a rattlesnake.

With severe regret, I pulled away from Nick, turned and bent to retrieve my T-shirt
from the ground. When I raised up and turned back, he was gone.

Chapter Five

The FBI agents finished their work within an hour and told us the well hadn’t been
blown on purpose. It was a true blowout, sparked when the drilling crew started the
drill stem test, which made sense, because that’s when most blowouts occur on drilling
wells.

With Maresco the only oil operator to get hit by intentional blowouts, all of which
would cost them millions of dollars, effectively inhibiting their ability to renew
the Alaskan leases, A.J. looked even more guilty.

The agents loaded Tim Fresh in the back seat of the sedan and took off. I was glad
to see the last of the jerk.

Not so Conaway. Saying goodbye to her sucked. After she gave a hug and a kiss to each
of the crew, she promised to send me a copy of her documentary, hugged me fiercely,
then got in her rattletrap compact and drove away.

We spent several more hours cleaning up and loading the truck, and as soon as the
crew from Odessa arrived to collect the equipment, we set off for the plane.

The flight back was uneventful, particularly because Robichaud sat several seats away
from me, saying there was no way he could sit next to me for four hours without kissing
me again. I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until we landed.

We arrived in New Orleans early in the morning and he asked if I was still up for
breakfast. I knew if I said yes we’d wind up in bed, so I shook my head. “I’m going
home to wash my hair.”

He shot me a crooked smile. “You’re the first girl who ever gave me that excuse.”

“You get a lot of excuses?”

His smile faded. “Actually, no. Up ‘til now, women seem to like me.”

No doubt. He was sexy and hot, smart and gentlemanly—in an alpha sort of way. Once
a girl got past his I’m-the-cock-of-the-walk routine, he looked mighty fine as a potential
love interest. I met his dark gaze. “You know it’s not a question of liking you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

So we parted ways and I went home and took the longest shower in history. I went through
my mail, paid some bills, and did some laundry. I called Deke’s mom and we talked
for over an hour. She said they buried him three days earlier, but the memorial wasn’t
until tomorrow, that she’d waited until most of the Lacrouix and Book staff were back
in town.

Then she said, in her soft Cajun voice, “He was always talking about you, Blair, and
I guess I can tell you now, I think he was half in love with you. But you bein’ a
Drake and all, he never thought you’d give him the time of day.”

I was surprised, I’ll admit. And not just at the thought of Deke being interested
in me in a romantic way, although that did sort of blow my mind. So much for my feminine
intuition. I was mostly surprised because never, in all the time we’d worked together,
had I talked about my family. I assumed, naively, I guess, that no one knew I was
one of
those
Drakes.

“I told him it didn’t matter, that if he wanted you, he should go for it. How could
he know how you felt if he never asked?” She sighed. “Life is so short. Think of all
the things we miss because we’re afraid, or mad, or just plain lazy. I reckon we always
think we’ll get a chance later, but maybe we don’t, and, well, that’s what gets me
most about my Deke.” She started crying then.

It was difficult to finish the conversation, I was so choked up. As soon as I hung
up, I laid on my bed and let it all out. I’d planned to go to the office, but changed
my mind. I couldn’t see Deke’s desk, or our friends, or anything that reminded me
of him. All I wanted to do was lie there and stare at the ceiling and cry my heart
out in private.

By early the next morning, I felt a little better. At the office, I sat in on a meeting
with Trick, Robichaud, and a couple of the guys who were going with us to Venezuela.
We were scheduled to leave late in the afternoon, not long after Deke’s memorial service.

When the meeting was over, Robichaud followed me to my desk. “Let me take you to the
memorial,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Look, Nick, this really isn’t—”

“It’s going to be hard on you, Blair. Let me take you.”

I looked in his dark eyes and saw a wealth of sympathy there. “Thank you.”

“Come get me when you’re ready.”

…

He was right. I thought I’d cried all I could cry, but when Deke’s brother got up
and spoke, I lost it all over again. Robichaud snaked an arm around my shoulders and
handed me a handkerchief. I was too upset to be surprised that a thirty-ish guy, especially
one as macho as Nick Robichaud, carried a handkerchief. Maybe it was just for the
occasion.

After the service there was a reception in the church fellowship hall. Nick left me
to go talk to Deke’s brother, Cash wandered off to talk to his cousin, and Harley
was looking stoic in the opposite corner, listening to Deke’s grandma regale him with
stories about alligators. I stood alone, holding a glass of watered down Hawaiian
Punch, when a man came to stand next to me. I glanced to my right and sucked in a
breath. Cole Fox. He was as good looking as I remembered. “What in God’s name are
you doing here?”

He looked straight at me. “Paying my respects. It’s the least I can do, considering
what my brother did.”

The man had very big
cajones
. “I suppose you heard they made an arrest?”

His expression hardened. “I heard, but I’m convinced they got the wrong man.”

“If he’s wrong, any ideas about who
is
the right man?”

“Remember I told you about those friends of Parnell’s from boarding school?” At my
nod, he continued, “One of them was Dylan Sharpe. That day I came out to the fire,
I had no idea he and his father were financing that well. I didn’t know they’d gotten
into the oil business. But as soon as I found out, I started thinking about it, about
how it’s just too coincidental.” He stepped closer. “Parnell was sick, and he needed
help, but he wasn’t that smart. I never believed he was behind what happened at school,
that he talked Dylan and Hakeem into going along with him, which is how Dylan explained
it.”

“He was an engineer. Nobody becomes an engineer who isn’t smart.”

“Math smart, maybe, but he had no common sense.”

“Who’s Hakeem, again?”

“The other friend who planted the school bomb.” He waved it off. “The thing is, Parnell
wasn’t a big picture thinker, and whoever planned that fiasco gave it a lot of thought.”
He set his cake plate on the table behind us. “Just like whoever dreamed up the blowouts
gave it a lot of thought.”

“You think Dylan is responsible?”

His handsome face was hard and angry. “I think he wants those leases in Alaska and
he’ll do anything to get them. He kept up with Parnell all these years, knew he was
having a hard time keeping a job and needed money. I expect it was easy to get my
brother to go along with him, to do anything he asked.”

“Have you told the FBI?”

“More than once. But they have a suspect, and evidence. They’re not interested in
Dylan.”

“Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe A.J. really did do it.”

“Oh, he looks guilty, all right. Dylan made sure of that.”

“Maybe they’re in it together.”

“No doubt A.J. is aware of the Alaskan leases and was promised a piece of the pie
if Arroyo wins the bid.” He shook his head. “But I’ll bet he had nothing to do with
the blowouts. Dylan set him up to take the fall and get him out of the way.”

Robichaud had said he thought A.J. had an inside guy who was going to leak the bids.
That had to be why he’d been allowed into Arroyo in the first place. It certainly
wasn’t because he knew jack about the oil business. So Dylan led him along, promising
him he’d have a percentage of the Alaskan production in return for his contact with
whomever was auctioning the mineral rights.

I switched my gaze from Cole’s amazingly great face and looked across the room toward
Robichaud, who was staring at me curiously. He’d been in the mesquites looking for
rig motor parts the day Cole came out to location, so he hadn’t seen him. He was no
doubt wondering who he was. And why he was talking to me so intently.

Come to think of it, I wondered the same thing. Refocusing on Cole, I asked, “Why
are you telling me all of this?”

His anger subsided slightly and he seemed terribly earnest. “I hoped you’d help me
find out if I’m right about Dylan. Call it a vendetta if you want, but I can’t stand
the idea that he’s going to get away with it again, that my brother’s dead because
of him.”

“How do you expect me to help?”

“I obviously can’t get anything out of him. He knows I hate his guts.”

Remembering the night I kneed Dylan in the groin, and the day his father wanted to
fire us, I said, “It’s a pretty sure bet he knows I’m not a big fan either. I doubt
he’d spit on me if I was on fire, so the idea that I could get any information from
him is ludicrous.”

“But you’re a woman.”

“Yeah, and the sky’s blue. So what?”

“Dylan’s biggest downfall is women. Been married twice already and has a string of
girlfriends.”

Were those women mentally challenged? Blind and deaf, maybe? Either way, Cole was
barking up the wrong tree. I set the sweaty glass of Hawaiian Punch on the table next
to his cake plate. “Look, I understand why you’re anxious about this, but you should
leave it alone and let the authorities do their job. If A.J. isn’t guilty, they’ll
figure it out. If Dylan’s their man, they’ll get him.”

His eyes narrowed. “You can’t be that naïve. There are hundreds of innocent men in
prison right now.” He lowered his voice. “They say on the news that you were married
to A.J. Surely you’d like to know he isn’t guilty?”

It had been on the news? For the love of God. My family was most likely in hysterics.
I imagined my sisters and their perfect, well-bred, trust fund husbands rallying around
our parents, all of them horrified by the terrible scandal I’d brought down on them.
For all they knew, I was still married to A.J. Since the last knock-down drag-out
shouting match with my father, I hadn’t spoken to any of them. Nor had they tried
to contact me. I was dead to them. Now they knew I was divorced, but it wouldn’t matter.
My name, which was their name, was linked with A.J.’s, and this incident would put
the last nail in the coffin. I could kiss any hope of reconciliation goodbye.

Swallowing, I looked at Cole and nodded. “Yes, it would be good to know my ex-husband
isn’t a murderer.”

“He was charged with mail fraud and got off on a technicality, largely due to police
error. If nothing else, I’d think that’d shake your confidence in law enforcement
and the legal system.”

He had a point.

Cole nodded toward the room at large, at the mourners. “My brother killed your friend,
but he was at the blowout site that night because he was put up to it by someone.
Don’t you want to know who was giving the orders? Do you really trust the authorities
to find out?”

I thought of Tim Fresh, one of those authorities, a man who couldn’t find his ass
with both hands. Then I thought of dickwad Dylan, and really questioned my ability
to make nice with him, even for the greater good. “Suppose I give it a shot, and hell
freezes over and he believes me when I extend the olive branch. What makes you think
Dylan will tell me anything at all?”

Evidently sensing imminent capitulation, he relaxed a bit. “All you have to do is
ask him if Arroyo Petroleum is still planning on bidding on those leases. Insinuate
you’d like to invest with him, that your family is interested.”

There it went with the family again. “How would you know anything about my family?”

He smiled then, and I was a little dazed by the beauty of it. Good lord, the guy was
hot. Not as hot as Nick, of course, but definitely smokin’. “Are you kidding? You’re
famous after being on that platform just before the well blew out. There’ve been articles
about the blowouts, and about you, all during the past week.”

Oh God, it just got worse. Not only was I linked to A.J., I was publicly linked to
my disapproving family. Now the whole world knew one of the Drake daughters married
a lowlife—one accused of heinous crimes. Great. Just great. After they killed me,
they’d change their name, pack up, and move to Borneo, unable to face anyone at the
country club.

I grimaced. “I’ve been on location. Haven’t seen a paper, or television news.”

Cole didn’t notice my distress, and continued, “Dylan will ask you to come to his
office, to show you the lease particulars. While you’re there, you can look for any
evidence he’s behind the blowouts.”

“Do you seriously think he’d leave something lying around that would point the finger
at him?”

“Yes, I do. Dylan’s a slob, and a drunk.” Cole straightened his tie, then smoothed
it with one hand.

I noticed his nails were perfectly manicured. And the tie, though plain and uninspired,
was Hermés. What did this guy do for a living? Maybe he inherited money. If he and
his half-brother went to boarding school, their mother must have had money. Then again,
I went to boarding school and I knew plenty of people who were there on scholarship.
“So I’m supposed to bury the hatchet, then ask if he’ll take my family’s money, and
he’s supposed to fall right in line and invite me to his office, then conveniently
leave me alone so I can rummage around. Is that about it?”

Cole swallowed audibly. He looked a little desperate. “It sounds lame, I know, but
it’s all I have. My brother’s dead, and I believe a lot of his problems stemmed from
what happened at school, which I blame on Dylan. If there’s any way I can get anything
at all to convince the FBI to take another look at him, I’ll do it. But as I said,
I can’t get close to him. Please, Ms. Drake. I know you probably hate me because of
what my brother did, but you seem like a decent sort of person. Surely, you can see
why this is so important.”

“I scarcely know you. Of course I don’t hate you.” Glancing at Robichaud, who appeared
ever more curious, I said, “It’ll have to wait a couple of weeks, until I get back
to the States. I’m scheduled to leave for Venezuela in about three hours.”