Out of the Dark
Justine Davis
To TSO—
Thanks for not giving up.
DWK
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
Oh, great.
Tory Flynn watched the big, broad-shouldered man envelop the laughing woman in a bear hug. Just what I need, she thought, a guy who can’t keep his hands to himself even in the office. A guy who is so busy with his office squeeze that he doesn’t even notice a prospective client standing in the doorway.
Not, she observed wryly, that the woman seemed to mind. Most wouldn’t, Tory admitted grudgingly. That six-foot-four inches of prime, dark-haired, steel-blue-eyed male on the hoof—or in this case, oddly scarred snakeskin boots—would have most women wishing for the kind of treatment that woman was getting. But most women decidedly did not include Tory Flynn. And unfortunately, it was Tory Flynn who needed Cole Bannister’s help.
With Hobie’s letter and the piece of paper she’d written the Sanders Protection address on both crinkling in her jacket pocket, she leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms, determined to wait out Bannister’s heavy-handed flirtation. She wasn’t above hoping he’d be embarrassed when he realized he was being watched by a total stranger and potential client. She couldn’t believe this galoot was really a friend of Uncle Hobie’s. She’d driven all the way to L.A. for this?
He released the woman at last, only to plant a loud, smacking kiss on her forehead.
Forehead? Tory’s brow creased. That didn’t seem particularly romantic. Not that she was an expert, by any means. But then, she had learned long ago that romantic gestures weren’t worth a flyspeck. All the window dressing in the world didn’t change the view.
“Damn, that’s great news, Kyra!”
Lord, his voice sounded like two miles of gravel road. Rough and low and rumbling, sending a shiver down Tory’s spine. She shook off the odd sensation.
Kyra, he’d said. Pretty name. But she wasn’t a pretty woman. Unexpected combination, Tory thought, the gorgeous man and the not-so-gorgeous woman. She would have thought a man who looked like this would have been surrounded with nothing less than twelves on the proverbial ten scale.
But this woman was striking, Tory amended silently. Very striking. And tall. She looked nearly six feet. She carried it well, with a grace and style that made her rather ordinary looks unimportant. And she had beautiful eyes, Tory realized, a lovely blue-gray, and right now, they were glowing with so much happiness it nearly made Tory smile, even as it filled her with an odd emptiness she couldn’t explain, and so ignored.
“When?” That voice again. “Do you know what it is yet? Are you all right? What does—”
“Whoa,” the woman said, laughing. “In reverse order, I’m fine, we decided we don’t want to know, and February.”
The man grinned, widely. It was genuine, there was no doubting that, Tory thought, but the grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a darkness there in the steel blue, a shadow. As if, she thought suddenly, he felt that same odd, nameless emptiness she had.
“Damn,” he repeated with a wondering shake of his head. “A baby. How about that.”
Tory backed up a step, hastily revising all her estimations. She felt suddenly like the worst kind of eavesdropper, the judgmental kind. The man had the right to hug his wife didn’t he, especially if she’s just told him she’s pregnant? If there had been a way to exit without being caught, she would have done it immediately.
“What does Cash think?” Bannister asked.
“He’s torn between being elated and terrified.”
“Have you gone public, yet?”
Kyra wrinkled her nose, making Bannister grin. “Not yet,” she said.
“Can’t hide it forever, darlin’,” he said, grinning again. The hint of a Texas drawl that crept into his voice only added to his considerable charm. Except to Tory. “The first Riordan baby—you guys are headline news.”
Riordan. Tory blinked. My God, this was Kyra Riordan. Even as out of touch as she was most of the time, Tory had heard of the fairy-tale romance of Cash Riordan and his lady bodyguard. But she hadn’t realized this was the same agency the woman had worked for.
“Oops.” The woman had spotted Tory. The tall, lanky brunette gave Tory a rather shy smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know Cole had a client waiting.”
“Neither did Cole,” the man said.
God, that gravel voice did crazy things to her nerve endings. It’s not fair, Tory grumbled silently, that he has the voice to go with those looks.
“Excuse us,” Kyra said, blushing. And suddenly Tory thought she’d been totally wrong in her assessment of the woman’s looks; she was beautiful. “I just had...some good news for Cole.”
“I’m afraid I heard. Congratulations.” Surprisingly, she found that she meant it. It was hard not to, when faced with the kind of joy that was glowing in Kyra’s eyes. “And I promise not to run to the tabloids.”
A trace of pained annoyance flashed in the brunette’s eyes, and Tory knew she’d struck a nerve.
“I promise,” she repeated. “I don’t even wrap my trash in them.”
Kyra smiled at her then, a sweet, genuine smile. “Thanks. I’m a bit touchy about that.”
“I can imagine,” Tory said fervently.
Kyra smiled again, and Tory wondered that she’d ever thought her plain.
“I’ll leave you two to your business,” Kyra said. As she left, Tory thought, unexpectedly and rather wistfully, that this was a woman she could grow to like. But she had no time now for friendships of any kind in her life. If it weren’t for Hobie she’d have no one to talk to at all, except the horses.
The horses. They were the reason she was here, and she’d best remember that. She turned back to Cole Bannister, who was looking at her and frowning. And frowning, the big man was an intimidating sight. But Tory refused to be cowed. If a sixteen-and-a-half hand, green-broke stallion couldn’t do it, this man certainly couldn’t, either. Even if she found herself thinking there were probably more similarities between them than differences.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked after a moment.
“If you’re Cole Bannister.”
“Since you seem to have eavesdropped on everything else, I’m sure you heard that, as well.”
Tory’s chin came up. The charm he’d shown the tall brunette obviously did not extend to her, not that she wanted it to. But she would not let this man intimidate her, even if he was a foot taller than she was.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was standing right here in the doorway, all you had to do was look. Besides, the receptionist told you I was coming back here.”
He stared at her, then let out a long, slow breath. He lifted a hand and shoved his thick, dark hair back with spread fingers. Another breath, short and compressed this time, and then, at last, he spoke.
“My apologies, Ms....Flynn, was it? That was uncalled for, and rude. Usually I know better than to take out my moods on innocent bystanders.”
As an apology, it was utterly disarming. Tory nodded shortly, accepting. But she didn’t speak. She couldn’t. A stunning realization had just come to her, a gut instinct she guessed was in reaction to some flickering look of resignation in his eyes.
He mig
ht have sincerely congratulated the woman, but inside he was quietly mourning. He loved her, Tory thought, the realization denting her assessment of him slightly. She would never have guessed a man who looked like this could care for a woman less perfect than he. But he loved Kyra Riordan. Or had. Because she saw that as well, that he was resigned to the fact that it would never be returned, not that way.
For a moment she almost felt sorry for him. As sorry as she could, that is, for a man who so blatantly had all the tools necessary to fly through life without a care; looks, charm, and a smile that could light up Houston—if it ever reached his eyes.
“Will you sit down?”
He gestured toward a chair in front of the huge desk. She took it, sinking down onto cushions more comfortable than she would have expected in an office chair. Hobie’s letter rustled in her pocket, and she reached in to smooth it, wondering if she should give it to him now, or wait.
From a seated position, the desk before her seemed even larger—a broad, high expanse of heavy, dark wood. It and the huge leather chair behind it were the only truly expensive-looking pieces in the Spartan office, except for the computer that took up a corner of the desk top.
She realized as he sat down that the desk and chair were not an affectation; with his long legs he needed the size of both. Still, the heavy wood and the dark leather seemed more in keeping with the other offices she’d glimpsed on her way down the hall to this high-tech corner of the Sanders Protection offices. This part of the business was ultramodern, cluttered with computers, printers, faxes and other pieces of equipment whose purpose she could only guess at, but assumed were necessary to fulfill the promise made by the plaque on the outer door that said simply Research.
But then, this man seemed out of place here, too. She supposed she was succumbing to a stereotype to have expected a more studious-looking person to be in charge of all this high-tech equipment, but indeed, this tall, powerful man didn’t look at all the type to spend his day at the keyboard that sat at his right elbow. He did, however, look like the rodeo rider Hobie had told her he once was. And determined—or stubborn, as Hobie put it—enough to insist on riding bulls when he was far bigger than most bull riders.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Flynn?”
Those words, in that voice, sent racing through her brain a couple of suggestions that shocked her. Where had those come from, those sudden startling images, images of strong, broad hands touching her, of steel blue eyes looking at her with warmth? Forgetting the letter, she blurted out the first words she could coherently form.
“My horses are dying.”
He blinked. “What?”
Taking a deep breath, she shoved those disturbing images into the never-never land where they belonged. She’d been out on the ranch too long, she thought ruefully. When she spoke again, she was her usual businesslike self.
“I train horses, Mr. Bannister. Stock horses. And roping and cutting horses. With my uncle. We have a small ranch in the eastern foothills of the coastal range, near Summer Springs, inland from Santa Barbara. We’ve had three good horses die in the last two months. In this business, a good reputation is everything. We’ll lose ours if this keeps up.”
“Die of what?”
He’d leaned forward, dark brows furrowed, more than ever looking like he belonged in the other end of this office instead of this maze of electronic equipment. That stereotype again, she told herself.
“Two of colic.” The old fury rose in her again. Her words became clipped, short. “Contaminated feed, they said. But that’s impossible.”
“Who’s ‘they’? The police?”
“No.” She grimaced. “We’re trying to keep them out of this. The last thing we need is this splashed through the headlines. There are rumors flying already, and that’s bad enough.” Her mouth twisted. “Besides, right now there’s no evidence that would bring them in.”
“Expensive horses?”
“Two,” she said grimly. “One not so expensive, but still insured.”
He looked thoughtful. “Insurance investigators, then?”
She nodded. “One from each company.” She frowned. “They’ve been over the ranch with tweezers.”
“I imagine so. They probably get a cut of whatever they save for the company. Each horse had a different owner?”
She nodded. “And a different insurer.”
“They’ve collected?”
She nodded again. “John Lennox and Harry Crain have.” She had to stop to steady her voice. “They owned the two they said were colic. The insurance people had autopsies done. They said they found evidence of bad feed in one horse’s stomach.” Her chin came up. “If they did, the feed wasn’t from us,” she repeated adamantly. “Every ounce of hay and grain is checked top to bottom. Regularly and personally, by either my uncle or me.”
“What about the other colic case?”
“There was nothing unusual in his stomach, but the signs were similar, they said.”
“And the third?”
She clenched her jaw, trying to rein in the rage that still threatened to overwhelm her every time she thought about it. She felt her hands curl into fists. She shoved them into her jacket pockets to hide the betraying evidence of her anger; the letter crinkled again. Hobie’s letter. She took a deep breath. For Hobie’s sake, she had to stay calm and convince this man to help them.
“A third had to be put down. Just last week,” she said, her voice flat with her effort to keep it even. “He broke a leg. Shattered it. He was a gelding, and the owner didn’t feel it was worth the cost to try and save him.”
“How?”
“They—the third insurance company—said he slipped in a puddle left after a waterline running to the main pasture broke.”
“And your version?”
She stiffened. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at his face, searching for the sarcasm she was sure had been intended in his words, if not his tone. She found only an expression to match the unreadable look in his eyes. And she thought inanely that her earlier characterization of those eyes as steel blue had been more appropriate than she’d realized at the time.
“That waterline was new. It had just been laid last year.” Her voice was tight, strained.
“So you think...what? Somebody broke his leg, then broke the waterline to cover it up?”
“That horse didn’t have a speck of mud on him, except his feet.” She knew she sounded defensive, but when he stated what had been her theory, it sounded awfully farfetched.
“And their explanation for that?”
God, she couldn’t read this man. Was he buying any of her story, or laughing at her behind that cool gaze? She sighed and went on.
“They said he slipped and hit the bottom fence rail, but never went completely down.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“That horse,” she said flatly, “hated water. He wouldn’t even cross the tiny creek we have running along the north boundary. Freaked if you even pointed him at it. If it wasn’t in a waterer or a trough, you couldn’t get him near it. He would never have gone near that puddle, let alone run through it fast enough to slip.”
“And they didn’t believe that?”
She shrugged. “They’re insurance people, not horse people.”
“And that explains it all.”
There wasn’t a trace of laughter in his voice, but Tory felt herself bristling anyway.
“Look, I came here for help. I need someone to come to the ranch, to find out what’s going on. That is what you do, isn’t it?”
He leaned back in his chair. His expression never changed, but Tory thought she saw the shadow in his eyes darken.
“No.”
She blinked. “What?”
“No, that’s not what I do.”
Instinctively she glanced around once more, at the office that suited him, and the rest of the outer room that didn’t.
“Yes, Ms. Flynn. What I do is research, just like the sign on the door s
ays. Not fieldwork. Not ever.”
The tone of his voice left no room for argument. Whatever this man had once been, this was what he was now. There was no help for them here.
“I’m sorry,” he persisted, “but Sheila must have made a mistake. She shouldn’t have sent you to see me.”
“She didn’t—” Tory stopped herself from admitting that she’d asked for him by name. She didn’t trust this—or any other—too-handsome man, even if he was Hobie’s friend. And if he was, and she brought Hobie into this now, she might not be able to get out gracefully.
“She didn’t what?”
“Er, know what I wanted.” That much was true, she hadn’t told the receptionist what it was about, but Bannister’s eyes narrowed as if he knew she was being evasive. Hastily, she went on. “Maybe I should talk to someone else.”
He seemed about to ask something, then shrugged. “I’ll be happy to find out who’s available, Ms. Flynn.”
Maybe that would be the best thing, she thought. Hobie must have been mistaken; he’d told her Cole Bannister was one of the best investigators around. Obviously Hobie hadn’t talked to his old friend lately. Or maybe he had, and the ex-rodeo rider hadn’t told him he was a desk jockey now. She wondered what had made Bannister change. He’d certainly seemed vehement about it.
“Someone who knows horses,” she said when she realized he was waiting for a response.
He lifted one dark brow. “Now that could be a little tricky. Not a lot of call for that here in metropolitan L.A. Kyra did some work for a racing stable a couple of years ago, but that’s about it.”
That would be nice, Tory thought suddenly. Another woman around to talk to. Heck, anyone else to talk to. Not that she didn’t love Hobie dearly, but she’d been working so hard to keep things going with just the two of them and some part-time help, she felt totally isolated from the world. She liked the idea of a woman. She liked even more the idea of not having to deal with this too-charming cowboy.
“Ms. Flynn?”
Reality shattered the pleasant if farfetched notion of finding a friend in Kyra Riordan. “I...er, how much does she charge?”
“She gets the going rate here. Three hundred dollars a day plus expenses for routine investigative work. But now that she’s pregnant...”
Out of the Dark Page 1