The Texas Ranger (22 page)

Her nails bit into his chest helplessly as her mouth followed the open, teasing pressure of his hard lips.

“Hell, don't play. Touch!” Brannon guided her fingers to the snaps that held his creamy Western-style shirt together.

Josette didn't need prompting after that. Her fingers ripped it open to the shiny silver and gold metal of his belt buckle with the Texas Rangers logo embossed on it. Her hands found thick, rough hair over the warm, damp muscles of his chest and burrowed into it even as her mouth pushed up at his to tempt it into longer, deeper contact.

He smiled as he kissed her with slow enjoyment. “Grier may be something with a K-Bar,” he whispered into her yielded lips, “but I'm in a class all by myself with you. Open your mouth a little more, Josie….”

His leg began to move seductively between hers and made her tremble. She kissed him back helplessly, with a tiny little moan of pure pleasure as her arms reached up and around his neck.

“Wait…just a minute…” His hands were busy and all at once, she felt cool air on bare skin. But she was too far gone to care. Brannon looked down at bare silky breasts with hard, dusky little nubs. His hands smoothed over them and she moaned again. “Yes,” he breathed, drawing her against his bare chest. “Oh God, yes…!”

“It's been…so long,” she whimpered as he kissed her.

He pulled her up even closer, groaning against her soft, tremulous mouth. “Yes,” he whispered huskily. “Too long! Come closer, baby. Come…closer…closer!”

His hands went to her rounded hips and jerked her roughly, hungrily against the visible evidence of his desire. A shock of pleasure shot through his powerful body like fire and he groaned harshly.

Josette felt tears sting her eyes as her hands moved helplessly into his thick blond-streaked brown hair, dislodging his hat as she tore her mouth from his and pulled his head down to her breasts. She arched backward, whispering, pleading.

He couldn't resist her. His mouth opened over a hard nipple and began to suckle her in a hot, tempestuous silence that was like the flash before a thunderclap. She cried out softly as her body throbbed with hunger. It had been two years since he'd handled her like this, since she'd lain in his
arms all but nude on his sofa and begged him not to stop.

Brannon lifted his head and looked into her wide, hungry eyes. “I had your clothes off,” he said harshly. “Do you remember? I stripped you out of your clothes and you fought mine out of the way. I was over you, my mouth on your mouth, my legs between yours…” His mouth ground hard against hers. “And you cried out. I could barely breathe by then. I was shaking, I wanted it so much. But I couldn't get…inside you! For a few seconds, I didn't even realize why. Not until you started sobbing and begging me to stop. It was like having a bucket of ice thrown on me.”

Josette moaned and hid her face against his chest. Her eyes closed as she, too, relived the memory.

“You turned every shade of red when I pulled away and looked at you,” he recalled huskily. “I knew then, without a word, that you'd never been with a man. I was so ashamed that I couldn't even speak.”

“But you did,” she reminded him painfully. “You said…plenty!”

“Josie, I really hope you've seen at least one X-rated movie by now, so that you begin to understand why I was upset!”

She was blushing, she knew she was, but she couldn't meet his eyes. “Well, I do, sort of,” she stammered.

Brannon laughed gruffly. His hands moved in her hair, removing hairpins, until the wealth of the golden mass fell around her shoulders. “No, you don't,” he murmured dryly. “But I remember too well how it felt to want to repeat it. So this is as far as it goes. For now.”

All at once, Brannon moved away from her jerkily, his hands hard on her waist as he held her at a faint distance and dragged air into his lungs, a faint tremor in his body as he fought the demons of his own headlong hunger.

“I'm sorry about that,” he added huskily, and he smiled. “I didn't mean to get in over my head so fast.”

The apology was unexpected, like his nonexistent restraint toward her. Slowly it began to dawn on her numbed senses that he wasn't playing. Apparently he wasn't exaggerating his length of abstinence, either, because he was visibly shaken.

His very vulnerability made her curious and chased away her own embarrassment at her abandon in his arms. Josette stared at him with quizzical affection, a little shy, even now.

He saw that, and he liked it. She was so capable in her job that she seemed impervious to temptation. She wasn't. If he was a slave of his passion, so was she. He relaxed.

“I realize that you must feel like the main course.
But I actually meant it when I promised you crepes,” he said dryly.

“That's okay,” she replied, and smiled gently.

The smile made his chest swell. Her eyes were luminous, soft, full of secrets. He looked down at her bare breasts, making a meal of them until she laughed a little nervously and started doing up fastenings. He did the same, but without the least sign of anger.

Brannon glanced at her ruefully. Her mouth was swollen from the hard pressure of his lips. She looked disheveled and off balance. She also looked happy. He smiled, too. Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps…

 

Brannon did cook crepes, and Josette made a salad to go with them, and an egg custard for dessert. She was walking around in her stockings, he in his socks. He had on jeans and a black T-shirt, and she was in her suit slacks and a scoop-neck beige blouse with her long hair loose down her back. They worked in quiet harmony as if they'd lived together and worked in the kitchen together forever.

She savored every bite of the unexpected treat, surprised at his proficiency. He'd actually made the crepes from scratch, not from a mix.

“You're impressed,” he mused with a grin. “I can tell.”

“I'm very impressed,” she replied, finishing the
last bite of her crepe and eyeing the last bite of his with helpless envy.

Brannon chuckled, forking that last bit and offering it at her lips. “No need to thank me,” he murmured. “Flattery is quite adequate.”

“They really are delicious,” Josette admitted sheepishly, and with a smile.

“And just think, if we lived together, I could make you crepes all the time.”

She paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips and stared at him, uneasy and uncertain.

Brannon wasn't smiling. His pale eyes glittered as they stabbed into hers with determination and something else, something even deeper.

The sudden jangling of the telephone was more than enough to shatter the tension between them. He got up, muttering, to answer it.

“Hello?” he said shortly. He hesitated as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. He glanced toward Josette and frowned. “Why now? Can't it wait until in the morning?” he asked impatiently.

There was another hesitation. He let out a long breath. “Okay,” he replied. “If it's that important. Sure. Twenty minutes.”

He hung up, staring at the telephone blankly for a few seconds before he faced Josette. “Bib,” he said slowly. “He's at their San Antonio place. He wants me to come over. Some enterprising reporter
has a new angle on the Garner case and seems to know the reason behind the murders. The reporter approached Becky with his theory and now Bib's scared to death.”

“What does he want you to do, arrest the reporter?” she asked.

“He wants to ask advice. And considering the nature of the story, I think you'd better come along.”

“Why?”

“Because the reporter says that someone in the local underworld has found a damaging piece of evidence against him and is planning to blackmail him with it.”

Her eyes lit up. “At last! The evidence and maybe even the culprit himself!”

“A break, at least, if we're lucky. Come on.”

 

He drove them quickly to the spacious estate where Bib Webb lived when he wasn't in the state capitol. Josette thought, not for the first time, what an empire he'd inherited when Henry Garner was murdered.

There were two cars in the driveway that wound up to the front door. One was a small gray VW Beetle, the other was a stately late-model dark Lincoln.

“Is his wife here?” Josette asked curiously, indicating the VW.

“Silvia drives a Ferrari,” he remarked idly, noting the little German-made car. “That's Becky's car.”

“Another scandal in the making?” she mused.

“I think you're going to find that Bib's tired of living a lie,” he said enigmatically. “A scandal over Becky is the least of his worries right now.”

“You're not thinking that he was mixed up in Garner's death at this late date?”

“Not a chance,” he replied with conviction.

“Aren't you going to tell me why we're here?” she persisted.

“I'll let Bib do that.”

He cut off the engine and came around to open her door for her.

“You have nice manners, Brannon,” Josette remarked with a smile.

“My mother was a stickler for them. Just like yours,” he added gently.

He took her hand in his and pulled her along to the front door. When he rang the bell, Bib Webb himself opened the door. He was holding a can of diet cola and he looked worn to the bone. His jacket and tie were off, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. His hair was ruffled, as if he'd been running a nervous hand through it. There were dark circles the size of apple slices under his eyes. He looked miserable.

“Come on in,” he drawled. He managed a smile
for Josette. “Nice of you to come, Miss Langley, under the circumstances.”

“Nice of you not to mind, Mr. Webb,” she replied pleasantly.

Becky Wilson was standing nervously in the center of the living room, looking uneasy. She was wearing a long, patterned dress that came to her ankles. It had a neat white collar and long sleeves. Her dark hair was in a bun, and she wore glasses. She was the exact opposite of Silvia Webb, right down to her nondescript flat shoes.

“You know Becky,” Bib said, smiling at her.

“Yes. Good to see you,” Brannon replied.

“He's going to be ruined, absolutely ruined,” Becky blurted out. “What are we going to do?”

Bib held up a hand. “Don't throw in the towel yet,” he told her with a faint smile. “First, we explore the options we've got.”

“What options, for heaven's sake?” she moaned.

“There are always options,” Bib told her gently. “Sit down, Becky.”

She dropped into an armchair, but leaned forward as if she couldn't bear to relax.

Bib sat down on the sofa. Brannon sat next to him, motioning Josette beside him.

“What does the reporter have, exactly?” Brannon asked, cutting to the chase.

“He has a sworn statement from an acquaintance of Jake Marsh's, who says he overheard Marsh talk
ing about a ledger that would prove I took kickbacks from mob affiliates to rig the vote and blackmail my opponent into quitting the race when I became lieutenant governor a little over two years ago,” Webb said gruffly. “The acquaintance says that Marsh doesn't have the ledger, but he knows who does.”

“A ledger. Of course!” Brannon said, glancing at Josette, who looked equally surprised. It would certainly fit the few facts they had so far, including the apparent size of the missing evidence. Brannon frowned. “Is it true?” he asked, concerned. “Did you take kickbacks?”

Bib looked at him wryly. “You've known me for years. Am I the sort of man who would pay for votes?”

Brannon only laughed. “Of course not.”

“But I fired a man who was working on my election staff who tried to do that very thing,” Bib continued. “That was the week before the party, two years ago. The man was a friend of Jake Marsh, and an acquaintance of Dale Jennings. But I knew nothing about any ledger. I did know that Dale Jennings fought with Henry Garner about an item Henry said was missing from his safe, the day before Henry was killed. In fact, Henry and I argued over his keeping Jennings around. Henry wanted him close until he could make him give the ledger back. I was sure the man was up to something, and I said so.” He shook
his head. “I'd give anything to take back that argument, even if it wasn't a bad one.”

“We've managed to put that much together,” Brannon said. “Did you know that Dale Jennings's mother was killed?”

Bib looked horrified. “The poor woman.”

“She was cheated out of her life's savings, evicted from her home, her possessions were burned and then she was tortured to death for some information her killer thought she had.”

Bib put his head in his hands. “Dear God!”

“A man and woman were seen going into Mrs. Jennings's apartment the day before her body was found,” Josette added quietly. “We've tentatively identified the man as Jake Marsh. We've also identified the contract killer who shot Dale Jennings, and the computer expert who manipulated files to get Jennings transferred to Floresville and out on a work detail.”