The Texas Ranger (14 page)

She made a face at him. “Don't read my mind.”

“I assumed Jennings was guilty because of what I knew about his mob connections,” he told her. “But I'm beginning to wonder.”

“I was so certain that Dale wasn't guilty, and that your friend Bib was. Now, the further we get into this case, the more certain I am that he wasn't guilty, either.”

“Just as I am, about Jennings. It's so easy to rush to judgment.”

She reached up and shyly traced around the cut on his forehead. “Good thing you have such a hard head,” she commented with a faint smile.

“One of my assailants won't be smiling straight for a while,” he replied, irritated at the memory. He searched her eyes slowly. “You keep your doors
locked tight when I leave here,” he said firmly. “And don't open that door to anybody you don't know, regardless of the reason. Got that?”

“Are we going to do the protective male thing?” she said wickedly, and smiled. “Oh, that's so sexy!”

“Cut it out,” he muttered, ruffling her hair again. “It's the understaffed thing. I can't solve this case alone, and they won't give me any more people.”

“Which means you're stuck with me.” She looped her arms around his neck. Amazing, how comfortable she felt lying like this with him, when she was the most standoffish woman in the world with men.

“That works both ways,” he taunted.

“Well, then, you have to be careful, too, and keep an eye behind you,” she cautioned. “That's the protective female thing,” she added.

He drew a strand of her long hair across her lips and bent to kiss her through it. “Even if you do have half a dozen good reasons to, I'm glad you don't hate me, Josette,” he said huskily.

“I wouldn't know how to start.”

He moved her hair aside slowly, and his mouth toyed softly with her upper lip, while the tip of his tongue probed under in lazy darting thrusts. She wondered if it was meant to make her feel hot all over. Probably it was. She wished she knew more about men.

He nibbled her lip before he coaxed her mouth to open. Then he kissed her again, with an oddly hesitant tenderness, his big, lean hand lying warm and strong against her cheek. It moved slowly down to her collarbone and teased around the opening of the robe. But when he heard her jerky intake of breath and felt her hands clench behind his head, he stilled.

He knew that it wasn't fear. He could feel the soft rush of her breath, feel the tension in her body, almost hear her wild heartbeat. She was involved already. So was he. But it was too soon. He'd been relentless the last time, overwhelming her protests. This time, he had to go slow. He had to treat her like a priceless treasure, and not make her feel uneasy because she wanted him. It flattered him that she could still want him, with their past. He had to be tender with her, now more than ever, and patient. Very patient, despite the ache in his loins.

So he lifted his mouth slowly from her clinging, soft lips and gave her a long, searching look. Then he pushed himself away with a long, jerky sigh and got to his feet in one fluid, graceful movement. He gazed down at her with muted delight. Now she looked frustrated.
Very
frustrated. Good.

“You're leaving?” she asked abruptly, propping up on her hands. Her eyes widened. “You're leaving
now?
”

He straightened his shirt and string tie, and picked up his hat. “What would be the point of staying?”
he asked with faintly amused eyes and a soft chuckle. “I don't have anything in my wallet to use. And even if I did, if I tried to do what you're thinking of right now, we'd both end up in the emergency room!” He pursed his lips at her faint gasp. He pursed his lips and gave her a wicked grin. “Of course, we could rush right over to the hospital and ask if there's a gynecologist on call for emergency minor surgery…?”

She colored when she realized what he meant. She got to her feet and stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her robe. “You can stop right there, you sex maniac!” she said haughtily. “I don't sleep around, minor surgery or not! And I don't give a damn who says it's perfectly okay in a modern woman!”

He smiled, without sarcasm or mockery. “That's more like the woman I remember. I always admired that about you,” he said, with a faint glitter in his gray eyes. “You never followed the crowd.”

She shrugged. “My father was never one to keep his opinions to himself,” she said, and smiled. “He taught me to be politically incorrect!”

He chuckled, remembering some firm lectures he'd heard from the Reverend in the old days.

There was an odd little silence. “Thanks for stopping to see about me.”

He moved close to her and tilted her chin up to his eyes. He noticed that she didn't have her glasses
on. She'd left them on the vanity when he'd started drying her hair. “Can you see me?” he asked suddenly.

“You're a little blurry,” she confessed.

He smiled. “And it makes you feel vulnerable.” He nodded when her shocked expression blossomed. “Yes, I remember. You didn't have your glasses on that night, when I found you huddled in a corner of that boy's room, and the first thing you said to me was that you felt completely vulnerable because you couldn't see anything clearly. Then, years later when we were dating, you wouldn't wear glasses when you went out with me. Or contact lenses,” he added.

She smiled. “I always thought I looked better without glasses. I can't wear contacts,” she said, “because I kept getting infections. I'm not meticulous enough about keeping them clean.”

“Excuses, excuses,” he chided, chuckling.

“Your vision is perfect, isn't it?”

He nodded. “So far. When I get old, I expect I'll be decked out in reading glasses.”

She changed the subject. “Did you ask the police to keep an eye on Mrs. Jennings?”

He grimaced. “I meant to,” he said at once. “But I got sidetracked.” He moved away from her and picked up the phone. He dialed a number and explained the situation to the duty officer, adding a thank-you before he hung up.

“He'll take care of it,” he told her. He shook his
head. “I phoned the sheriff about Holliman and his place, but I forgot Mrs. Jennings.”

“You've been busy,” she replied.

“Not that busy.” He moved back to her. “I'll pick you up for breakfast in the morning, and we'll go see some of Jennings's correspondents.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him hesitantly. “You be careful going home.”

He touched her nose. “You be careful here. Remember what I said.”

“I will.”

He opened the door and waited outside until she closed and locked it. She peered out the venetian blinds as he got into the big black SUV and drove off. Now she was worried about him. If two men had jumped him and been routed, what if the killer sent more back after him? She grimaced. This case was turning into a nightmare.

She perched on her bed and stared sightlessly at the case files that had been quickly tossed aside by an impatient Marc Brannon. Her heart rippled with delight as she felt all over again the warmth of his hard mouth on her own, the feel of his long fingers on her bare skin. She shivered with desire. It was happening all over again. She was still in love, living for a sight of him, a phone call, a touch. She closed her eyes tight. She didn't dare walk that road twice. He'd turned and walked away from her two years ago without a single look over his shoulder.
Which meant that he could do it again. She couldn't live through a second rejection. So she'd better remember the pain as well as the pleasure, and not get in over her head.

 

The next morning, she phoned Simon Hart and filled him in on what was happening, especially about the computer break-in.

“I don't like that,” he said curtly. “I really don't like that.”

“Well, we've got our own hacker right in your office,” she reminded him. “Phil Douglas could solve this case before lunch. He's the best cybercrime expert we have.”

“I sent him down to Mala Suerte, remember?” he said with a groan.

“Then get him back! It won't take him an hour to find out who hacked into the files and got Dale transferred.”

There was a hesitation. “We do have other, more experienced, people in the cybercrime unit.”

“Simon, you're hedging,” she said.

He made a rough sound in his throat. “Well, the FBI borrowed him on another case.”

“You never loaned me to the FBI,” she said, disconcerted, “and I've been there two years. Phil's only been there eight months!”

“I didn't want to get rid of
you,
” he emphasized.
“Okay. I'll phone their office and have him sent back.”

“He's very good at his job,” she added.

“I was getting even,” he blurted out.

She paused. “Huh?”

“Do you remember that agent, Russell, who's been giving us so much trouble over Jake Marsh?”

“The same one Marc almost decked at his ranch when his sister was there with the Sheikh of Qawi?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Anyway, Russell heard about this case and came in here like a pit bull, trying to get help to prove that a local mob boss had Jennings killed. Russell has been trying to get the goods on Jake Marsh for two previous unsolved murders in San Antonio.”

“Jake Marsh is our main suspect, too,” she agreed, “but nobody seems to know where he is right now. But despite the best efforts of the forensic people and the evidence technicians, we can't tell anything more than the caliber of the gun Dale was killed with—a nine millimeter pistol.”

“That's discouraging. If you had good evidence, I could inflict Russell on you. Anyway, he has suspicions, but he needed a cybercrime expert to go through the law enforcement database for him and run checks on mutual acquaintances and previous charges. I loaned him Phil.”

“You might hit paydirt by letting Phil work for
Russell. We need all the help we can get. I would like to know who perpetrated that prisoner transfer.”

“So would I, and the more people working on it, the better. I'll get the crime lab guys over at the FBI office on it, too,” he said with a chuckle. “If they can borrow our people, we should be able to use theirs. This is a capital crime, after all.”

“Thanks a lot, Simon. I'll be in touch.”

“Meanwhile, I'll get in touch with the state judicial board and get them to launch an independent investigation into the Jennings release.”

“Good idea.”

She hung up, more puzzled than ever. So the FBI was in on this, too, were they? Well, it did involve a candidate for national office, it was murder and there were rumors of mob ties. Jake Marsh's name kept turning up around every corner. She'd have to remember to tell Brannon that. If only they could find Marsh!

 

When Brannon showed up to drive her down to Floresville to talk to Jennings's correspondent, she told him what Simon had said on the way down.

“Jake Marsh, again,” he murmured, frowning. “I know Simon wants to put him out of business as much as we do.”

“Yes. Your old pal Russell does, too,” she added.

“Curt Russell.” His eyes began to glitter. “I still don't understand what he's doing on this case. Last time I looked, he was Secret Service.”

“Well, he told Simon that the FBI sent him, so I guess he's changed jobs. He's after Marsh,” she told him.

“He thinks Marsh was involved in Jennings's murder.” He nodded thoughtfully. “So do we. But we still don't have a motive.”

“Not unless that information Dale had concerned Marsh and some of his dealings. If he had concrete proof of wrongdoing,” she said with a curious frown, “that would certainly make a motive for murder.”

“It would,” he agreed tersely.

He led the way to the parking lot out back, where he'd left his black SUV. On the way, a small, towheaded boy in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and sneakers was wandering along between the endless rows of cars in the huge lot and bawling his eyes out. He couldn't have been more than four years old.

“Hey, partner,” Marc called softly and picked the little fellow up. “What's the matter?”

“Lost Mama” came the plaintive sob. Little pudgy fists wiped little wet eyes. “Lost Mama!”

“Well, we'll just find her for you,” he said, cuddling the child close.

Josette's heart twisted. She'd seen Marc with children before. They changed him. The implacable law enforcement officer with his wild temper and furious expressions was suddenly every woman's ideal of the perfect father for her children. She looked at him and knew how he'd be with his own child. She
wanted to throw herself down on the concrete and squall her own eyes out, just to get those lean, muscular arms around her so securely.

“He can't be four yet,” Josette said as she joined him. She smoothed the silky, clean hair of the little boy and smiled. “What's your name, little guy?”