She blew a kiss to his picture and headed for her old pickup. After a week's duty as the new wildlife vet at Hill Country Raptor Center, now she'd attend the regular monthly open house and do her best to charm the sponsors whose money kept the center open. It would probably be much like trying to coax money out of alumni at college.
Grania parked her truck in the side lot at the raptor center, with all the other employees' vehicles. The center occupied the side of a steep hill, with its main parking lot next to the narrow rural highway below. Its main building was rectangular, built of adobe with a tiled roof. It was starkly modern, efficient, and full of windows.
Large cages for convalescing and resident birds clustered among the trees in back. A huge flight cage, suitable for exercising the largest raptors prior to release, stood slightly isolated just below a knoll. Smaller flight cages were scattered along the path to it.
Even after a week's employment there, the center still looked like heaven on earth to Grania. Its unofficial overseer, a slender older woman with improbably red hair, glanced up from the reception desk as she approached. "Hi, Linda."
" 'Evening, doc." Linda smiled at Grania. "Go look at your door. There's a surprise there for you."
"Oh, yeah? Thanks!"
On her door? It was too soon for her nameplate, wasn't it? Grania hastened off with a quick wave, Linda's chuckle burning in her ears.
The raptor center's interior was laid out in two parallel rows. The front row, facing the road and the main parking lot, contained the public spaces, such as the lobby, the conference room, the director's office, and so on. The back column, facing the birds' pens, contained the working spaces: the library, the lab, the operating rooms, the ICU, and the kitchen, with the door opening to the hillside beyond. The indoor ward, or ICU, was actually a soundproofed closet with a locked door, lined floor to ceiling with cages. Its silence and darkness were vital for calming and healing distressed birds and completely off-limits to casual visitors.
A dogleg built into the hill, on the lower level below the kitchen, held the rodent room, where mice, rats, rabbits, and chicks were raised to feed the birds.
Grania's office, in the back column, was smaller than Beth's walk-in closet, with its bare white walls and clean, albeit battered, metal furniture. But it had a door with a nameplate: Grania O'Malley, M.S., D.V.M., Ph.D.
She grinned as she traced the letters. It was the first time she'd seen all her degrees spelled out, where she could touch them. "Cool!"
Tom would be so damn proud of her for pulling it off. Or Sister Mary Catherine, who'd named her for the Irish pirate queen. The old nun would be so thrilled to see that one of her chicks had made it all the way through school and earned a doctorate.
A soft cough interrupted her reverie and Grania looked around. "Hello, Bob." She held out her hand and the lean Texan took it with a smile. He was slightly taller than Grania with a hawk nose, strong jaw, and weather-beaten face, above the Texas uniform of starched white cowboy shirt, jeans, and boots.
"Ready for the crowd?"
Grania shrugged. "Of course. Though I've got to admit, sometimes I'd rather watch over the convalescents in ICU than deal with a fund-raising event."
Bob threw back his head and laughed. "Wouldn't we all, darlin', wouldn't we all!"
Bob proudly introduced Grania as the new vet to the first arrival. From then on, the open house was a whirlwind of people and conversations as dozens of guests and staff toured the center or strolled the paths outside, under the guidance of trained educators. A very placid merlin or a burrowing owl, and their favorite educators, taught enthralled children about raptors in the library.
Most of the guests were former, or current, volunteers at the center. Others were local animal wardens or cops who'd brought patients, plus scientists from nearby colleges and universities eager to talk shop at the world-renowned raptor center. A handful of guests were local leaders strutting with pride over the center's success. All were eager to talk to the latest addition to the staff, while hordes of children asked endless questions in between mouthfuls of soda and cake. All in all, it was very similar to receptions for donors at the group homes Grania had grown up in, except for the intense interest in her personally.
Twilight was softening the hills' outline when she finally had a chance to take a deep breath and finish her watery lemonade. The children were gone, while a few adults chatted with some of the most experienced rehabilitators in the kitchen.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Grania returned to the library to refill her glass. Rounding a corner too quickly, she ran into a man stirring his lemonade to dissolve the sugar. Liquid erupted but he deftly managed not to spill on anything.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she apologized. "Did I spill any on you?"
"No, ma'am," he drawled, blue eyes alert under hair as bright as any carrot. "Everything's fine with me. But you sure look like you could use some more lemonade." He smoothly plucked the glass out of her hand and filled it.
"Thank you. I'm Grania O'Malley, the new vet here."
"Caleb Jones, geologist working for the Santiago Trust."
Was Santiago Oil & Gas a subsidiary of the enigmatic Santiago Trust? When she'd researched the center and its neighborhood—standard practice when a scientist hoped to spend the rest of their life at a job—she'd heard rumors that the trust was older than Texas, richer than Fort Knox, harder to figure out than the Pentagon, and more dangerous to its enemies than a nuclear bomb.
"Glad to meet you." Shrugging off her clumsiness, Grania started to satisfy her curiosity. "Where'd you go to school?"
"Yale."
An Ivy League boy with that Texas drawl? Grania promptly began to ask him questions about Yale's program, comparing it to her experiences at the University of California.
They chatted for a few minutes about their degrees, their specialties, and their observations of the local ecosystem. He had some interesting theories on how the underlying geology affected the local plants and thus, the animal life, and hoped to do some research to support his ideas.
He pointed out a rock formation on the hill, his denim jacket stretching across his shoulder and outlining a shoulder rig with two guns. Why on earth was he armed?
Grania topped off her lemonade again to give herself some time to think. He wouldn't need guns to rob this place, even if there was anything easily stolen. Maybe a policeman, given how his eyes constantly surveyed the room. But why would a geologist become a cop?
She sipped the sweet, watery drink, while watching him. A puzzle like Caleb was far more interesting than lemonade.
When Grania looked up to continue the conversation, her breath stopped at the reflection in the window. Dear God in heaven, Bob was talking to the big man from her dreams at the other end of the library.
Impossible. How the hell could he be here, in the flesh?
Their eyes met in the reflection on the window pane, hers wide with surprise, his eyes turning hungry.
Grania flushed, her gold cross's chain chafing her throat. Her sensible cotton bra suddenly seemed coarse and tight. Her gut clenched and she coughed, trying to get some air into her lungs.
"You okay, ma'am?" Caleb questioned. "Would you like a cup of water?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine." Or I will be, as soon as I stop looking at that man. She saw Linda speak softly to Bob, who excused himself and stepped away. The stranger glanced around the nearly empty space and strolled over to the coffee urn. Two other men followed him, both wearing denim jackets identical to Caleb's. One had almost a familial likeness to the stranger, with similar hawk-like features in an ageless, tanned face.
If Grania'd had a breathing problem before, it was ten times worse now.
The stranger was taller than she'd imagined, two meters, making him six feet six in comparison to her five feet ten. Thick black hair that reached his collar, with a heavy wave in it. Dark, dark eyes—not black, maybe chocolate brown, and very old eyes in that young face. Olive skin. His haw
k nose was a little crooked from an old break. A deep, almost brutal scar cut across his forehead. White shirt and dark jeans outlined the magnificent muscles of a very strong, fit man.
Lucchese boots, alligator skin no less, and well broken in. Damn, he must be stinking rich.
The tall stranger didn't walk like ordinary men: No, he glided across the floor, as elegant and powerful as a Utah mountain lion she'd once studied for hours. Predator and dangerous, insisted her instincts, but her feet didn't move. Her knees were too weak to carry her away, especially when heat spiraled down her spine and into her core. She knew, with the inarguable clarity of shock, that she was hot and bothered and wet between her legs.
"Caleb?" a deep rumble questioned. He exuded competence and the quiet aura of danger, a man who didn't give a damn what the world thought of him because he could remake it to suit himself.
Hell and damnation, she only came up to the man's shoulders. She wouldn't even have the usual confidence builder of looking him in the eyes.
"Don Rafael, may I introduce you to Grania O'Malley, the center's new vet?" Caleb offered.
Grania held out her hand helplessly. The only phrase that ran through her head was, "Want a ride, cowboy?" Somehow she managed not to say it, by saying nothing at all.
First talking owls and now this.
"Grania, this is Don Rafael Perez, the Santiago Trust's administrator," Caleb finished.
"Your servant, señorita." Don Rafael bent and kissed her hand, his lips warm and intimate against her skin. Did he linger a bit longer than necessary? No, that was impossible.
"Señor Perez," Grania stammered. Dammit, now she even sounded like an adolescent girl.
"San Leandro is honored to have a doctor of your skill join us. If there is anything I, or the Santiago Trust, can do for you, you have only to ask."
"Thank you for the offer. I'll remember that," she managed, startled at his generosity. He'd just pledged the Santiago Trust to help her?
Oh hell, she'd been making small talk with donors since she was five years old. Why couldn't she say something interesting now, when it mattered?
"Please excuse us, doctora, but Caleb and I must return to the ranch. Buenas noches." Don Rafael bowed politely, lifting his hand in a brief salute.
Grania nodded formally, cursing her inability to get past clichés. She drifted to the front window so she could catch a last glimpse of him.
Two identical, big, new Mercedes sedans waited for him, not pickups or SUVs; classy and expensive, to match those well-worn Lucchese alligator boots he was wearing.
Three men, all with the thick chests denoting Kevlar vests hidden under their cowboy shirts, were lounging beside the cars. As deceptively innocent as a pride of lions by a water hole—and as ready to spring into action. They looked as if they could stop an armed attack in a matter of seconds, without turning a hair.
They came to attention when Caleb left the center and quickly pulled one big sedan up to the entrance. Rafael got into the backseat, Caleb took the wheel, while the previous driver—a particularly deadly-looking fellow—moved to the other car. And as the two cars turned down the long driveway to the highway, both vehicles displayed the slightly too solid handling of armored vehicles.
Why on earth was he being protected so heavily? Were the rumors about the Santiago Trust true? A chill ran down her spine.
Grania barely refrained from pressing her nose to the glass when the two sedans pulled out onto the highway. She told herself firmly to walk away while she still could. He might look like the man of her dreams, but how many people had she ever been able to trust?
Bob called her from the lobby. "The open house is over now, Grania. Did you still want to come for barbecue with us?"
She plastered a smile on her face. "Yes, of course. Just give me a minute to grab my purse."
It'd be good to join the others for barbecue and shop talk, do some bonding with the raptor center's team. And if she hadn't calmed down enough to sleep after that, maybe she'd do a little birding tonight before turning in.
And with any luck at all, she wouldn't dream of Don Rafael.
The armored Mercedes Guard sedan headed west on the narrow dirt road, its luxury and Caleb's skill making a comfortable retreat for Rafael on the journey home. The chase car followed closely, keeping watch even here within Compostela Ranch.
Rafael stretched out his legs and considered the evening's events, idly humming an old Castilian cantiga.
He'd known Caleb for almost seven decades, first as an excellent oil exploration geologist and later as Gray Wolf's beloved compañero. When Caleb had suggested this reception, he'd promptly accepted, glad for a change of scenery after weeks of constant protection at Compostela. It had been days since Ethan's men had last disposed of an enemy vampiro, or one of Madame Celeste's few compañeros, and the ranch's charms had grown thin.
The excursion had been quite pleasant. He'd enjoyed spending the time in the modern recreation of a falconer's mews and being around the great hawks: Hell, Rafael had even enjoyed fencing with the director, Bob Harrison, about the possibility of conducting ecological surveys of neighboring Santiago Trust lands.
Then he'd seen the new vet, Grania O'Malley, and a relaxing evening had turned into a frustrating one.
She reminded him of someone but he couldn't think of whom. Certainly not his late wife, who'd been short of frame with dark hair, creamy skin, and rich curves. Grania was entirely different, with her long legs and hair the deep rich red of an autumn forest. She had blue eyes like the Bay of Biscay, skin touched with gold from the sun, and teeth white as pearls. Fearghus had always praised that coloring above all others.
Por Dios, she was lovely with her oval face, straight nose, high cheekbones, and mobile mouth made to welcome a man. He was suddenly hungry to see her blue eyes dark and dazed with passion, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her hair tumbled from his caresses. And once she was his lover, he'd see her clothed in silks as soft as her skin. Then he could explore her ripe breasts and narrow waist, crooning endearments before he drifted lower to learn her woman's secrets. Would she moan softly or cry out when rapture shook her from a man's intimate kiss?
Grania. He said the name out loud in the Gaelic fashion, as Donal O'Malley had taught him two centuries ago. Grawnya. The name suited her, especially its English translation as Grace. She was strong and elegant, well made for hours of delight in bed.
He'd studied her like a hunting cat at the reception, watching for signs of her current relationships, since he never seduced someone who was committed elsewhere.
But he couldn't read her thoughts. He hadn't probed, of course; that would be discourteous—and a boring practice, when one lived as long as he had. But every other prosaico he'd ever met all but shouted their thoughts aloud. It always became so easy to insinuate oneself into their life or their bed.
But not la doctora. She was a pool of silence, except for the movements of her lithe body and the glances from her beautiful eyes. The only hints she gave of friendship to any man were to Caleb—Caleb, who had never had a carnal thought about a woman! True, Rafael had scented her musk but her smiles had only been for Caleb.
Rafael ground his teeth in jealous frustration yet again.
There were hundreds, even thousands, of other women who would welcome him to their beds. A snap of his finger, a quirk of his eyebrow, or a word on the telephone—and they would run to him.
But it was this woman, this highly educated doctora, who uttered inelegant words like "Cretaceous" and "Pleistocene" to Caleb, who locked his mind in carnal paths. How her red lips would open under his mouth, how her sweet channel would pulse around him as she moaned her pleasure. Or how her white neck would arch for his bite as they flew together into ecstasy…
How could he seduce her and see his fantasies come to life? Should he whisper sweet words about rocks born millions of years ago, while offering roses? Bring Caleb along on a date to assist him? Assist him!
He thumped the l
eather seat angrily. No, he had no need of assistance. He had seduced women before and he would find a path to this one, even if her thoughts were locked behind a wall as stout as a Santiaguista fortress. Tonight, he would enjoy himself and plot her conquest tomorrow.
Rafael keyed the intercom, satisfied with his decision. He ignored the nervous side of himself, the stomach that hadn't knotted so strongly over meeting a girl since he was sixteen. "Emilio? Do you approve of the new Mercedes?"
"St, Don Rafael," Emilio answered promptly. As leader of Rafael's daylight guards during this crisis, he wore body armor which thickened his appearance, plus a small headset to talk to the other companions in the chase car. A CAR-15, duplicate of the assault rifle he used as a Navy SEAL, rested on his lap while his head continuously swiveled to scan their surroundings. "The car's armor is barely noticeable, even close up, and both cars are still remarkably fast."
Caleb took a corner neatly and accelerated gently into the setting sun. He enjoyed driving and took as many classes as possible, including stunt driving. Less than fifteen minutes remained until darkness when Rafael's vampiros would take over patrol duties from the compañeros.
"Should we buy more?" Rafael asked, idly rubbing the rich chestnut wood trim. Mercedes had done a remarkable job of concealing the gun locker in the passenger compartment.
"No, two should be fine," Emilio answered. "Your biggest protection is how you continuously vary your schedule. You don't need caravans of identical Mercedes to play shell games with, as Saddam did."
"More armored Suburbans then?"
"No, sir. Eight should be enough. But you might want to consider another helicopter."
"You've been talking to Ethan." A few longhorns lifted their heads as the cars approached, only to go back to drinking from the spring-fed pond. The landscape was quiet, settling into a summer night's lassitude.
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