She’d be livid if she found out why he’d invited her, but he certainly wouldn’t tell her. He only hoped Jasmine didn’t figure it out and let it slip. . . .
He was packing up his desk a number of hours later when his assistant buzzed and told him Abigail Doyle had arrived and asked for a brief meeting.
“Send her in.” He rose and offered a warm hand as she entered. As usual, she was dressed conservatively, this time in a brown pant suit with a white blouse. Her thick brown hair was pulled back from her severe face, but he wondered if she realized the hairstyle only emphasized her penetrating gray eyes and aquiline nose.
After they shook, she moved forward to the edge of her chair, hovering there, and his curiosity increased. Hesitation was unlike her, but whatever she had to say obviously wasn’t easy for her. He smiled slightly as encouragement. “I’ve been getting your updates in my secure in-box. I can see you’re being very systematic and thorough, but if there’s a smoking gun to lead us to the end of the pipeline, I haven’t seen it.”
“That’s why I asked for this meeting.” Abby took a deep breath. “There is no way to sugarcoat this, and I didn’t want to put it in an e-mail. How long have you known Curt Tupperman?”
What an odd way to open the conversation, but he played along. “Over ten years. With his national connections as an investigative reporter on various dailies, he’s one of our best sources when we need to leak news, though he can be a bit overzealous at times. . . .” He trailed off as the implication of her question hit home. “Are you telling me you think he’s somehow involved in the cartel’s human trafficking?”
She nodded. “He lives a very rich lifestyle for a reporter. Ms. Rothschild actually is the one who flagged him and asked me to investigate.”
“I thought they were friends. That they’d even dated.”
“Apparently, he dated her older sister Yancy for over a year, and their breakup was . . . difficult.”
Ross’s mouth dropped open. “Are you telling me you think he was instrumental in Yancy being kidnapped?”
She pulled a red file from her capacious bag and shoved it across the desk. It was stamped “Private and Confidential.” “I had to call a federal judge I know to subpoena his bank account and phone records because they cross international lines. I didn’t scan this. You’re holding the only copy. I found no calls to Mexico—he’s far too smart for that—but there are very large sums being transferred to his US account from one in Belize about every two months. All the records are here. I want another set of eyes on this before I dig deeper, as I understand he’s very well connected, and this could cause problems for your office if we move forward without substantial proof.”
Ross was still struggling with disbelief, but he pulled the folder forward and reviewed the bank account record. He saw that as much as one hundred thousand dollars was indeed being deposited into Curt’s San Antonio bank about every two months. Unless Curt had won the lottery and didn’t tell anyone, Ross had no idea where he’d be getting those kinds of funds. Book royalties, which were supposedly quite substantial on his latest expose of the finance industry, would come from New York City, not Belize. “And we can’t access the Belize account?”
She shook her head. “Despite an IRS crackdown on offshore accounts, some banks still evade reporting and keep most of their digital transfers interbank. Even the original deposit slip shows only a transfer by wire paid from ‘cash,’ with no depositor listed. But look at his phone record on the day before Yancy disappeared.” She flipped through the pages and showed him a highlighted telephone log of an outgoing call made from Curt’s phone to what Ross knew was Yancy’s cell phone number. They’d spoken—he counted—three times on the day before she disappeared.
Grimly, he stuck the phone log back and snapped the file shut, putting it in his own secure file drawer and locking it while he contemplated this new evidence. It was hard to believe Curt could be involved in anything so disgusting, but Ross had seen far too many otherwise upstanding citizens fall prey to greed to discount the evidence as coincidence. Like most law enforcement professionals, Texas Rangers didn’t believe in coincidence, anyway. “How far back did you go in your search?”
“The prior twelve months. Six deposits from Belize, totaling over a half million.”
“I authorize you to go back thirty-six months, because that’s about when we think this particular conduit started operating from Baltimore. I’ll call the judge and make the request myself for the rest of the records. If we can find when the deposits started, maybe we’ll be closer to the head of the snake. Did you access his credit card bills?”
“No, I wanted to start with banking and phone records, but it’s a good idea. Please include that in your request of the judge.” She smiled ruefully. “I try to keep a low profile, but females high in law enforcement seem to be particularly rare in West Texas. Much less forensic experts with decidedly marked British accents.”
“Shucks, ma’am, why do you think I worked on losing my Eastern nasal twang?”
They both laughed at that. But Abby’s smile faded soon enough. “This is not my place, but I’m worried about Emm Rothschild.”
Ross’s smile was wiped clean, too. “How so?”
“She’s the one who made the connection with Curt Tupperman, and if we don’t give her, ah, something productive to do in the investigation, I fear she may take matters into her own hands. With both the chain of evidence and her own safety at risk.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do about that? Arrest her?” He was irritated that she’d picked up on his own very strong and very reluctant attraction to Emm. Was he really so transparent?
Abby’s rueful smile returned. “By all accounts, you already tried that.” When Ross wouldn’t meet her eyes, she only added mildly, “I’d suggest you find another way to keep her occupied.”
“We’re having the survey of the Sinclair family buildings in a couple of days, and that should keep her busy for a week or so. After that . . . she may be going back East.” Ross couldn’t disguise his own desolation at that thought, at least not from those uncommonly perceptive gray eyes.
But Abby only nodded and stood, allowing him his privacy. “I’ll be off, then.”
“And the hemophilia drug? Have you had any luck tracking that?”
“I have several sources in Mexico searching for me but nothing conclusive as yet. You do realize all the women in this particular pipeline may have been funneled overseas by now . . .”
Ross sighed heavily. “Of course. The alliances between the cartels and other crime syndicates worldwide are always in flux, but the latest intel suggests the Los Lobos cartel is working closely with Italian Mafia and Chechen rebels. There’s even some talk they may be putting out feelers to ISIS. Any woman who disappears into that network is unlikely ever to be seen again, especially as human trafficking violations aren’t high on the list of priority cases with the intelligence agencies overseas. But they’re making millions every day, and anywhere there’s money like that, Los Lobos will be attracted.”
Abby looked revolted. “Surely even Mr. Tupperman wouldn’t do business with ISIS?”
“Unlikely he’d even know. Arturo Cervantes is by all accounts extremely tight-fisted both with his money and his authority. We think only he and his son, Tomás, know all the particulars of everyone they conspire with, which is one reason why they’ve been so hard to track.”
Abby nodded, understanding completely. “I’ll be back in a few days, after I’ve had time to examine the new evidence.”
Ross nodded and walked her the short distance to his door. “I’ll find a way to keep Emm occupied.” His smile suddenly grew sensual. “Who knows, it could be fun.”
Outside, Abigail Doyle carried the recollection of his sensual smile with her to her car. She’d immediately seen the strong attraction between the two Easterners and thought it would be a shame if Emm returned to Baltimore without admitting her own feelings. For a second, as she drove b
ack to her lonely hotel room, she toyed with the idea of playing matchmaker, but she dismissed the notion equally quickly. She’d done that once before and ended up not only losing a friendship she cherished but spoiling the nascent relationship she’d been forging with the only man she’d ever met who appealed to her on every level.
She unlocked her hotel room door and looked around at the neat, tidy little room that was such a perfect metaphor for her neat, tidy little life. Disarray upset her, and even when she traveled, she unpacked immediately, folding her clothes neatly into bureau drawers and hanging her suits with colors complementing the appropriate adjacent blouse, the sensible shoes matching each outfit centered exactly beneath on the closet floor.
For a moment, she lay back on the neatly made bed and closed her eyes, but seeing Sinclair’s Cheshire cat grin had hit her like a gut punch. She couldn’t squelch a dart of envy. Emm had no idea what she’d started; Abby had picked up immediately on the fact that her new friend was more of an egghead than a socialite. No doubt she’d had a number of boyfriends, but she would have few defenses against a man of the world, and a Ranger captain to boot, like Ross Sinclair. Abby had a feeling Emm’s life in Baltimore was about to take a big detour west.
Abby had moved to Texas from even farther away, and had few regrets despite the curiosity and sometimes outright prejudice she faced as an outsider. Even in England, her parents had been from Cornwall, the most southerly county in England and the most fiercely independent. When they passed about a year ago, she had been coming off a bad breakup with an Oxford don she’d met at a social event in London. He was the heir to a lower earldom but had long since lost his country house to taxes and the rising cost of upkeep. All that remained of his family’s wealth was a London townhome that needed a good polish, and his prickly pride, which made him extremely difficult to please. Had he not been absolutely brilliant, with a dozen best-selling tomes of British history under his belt, he’d have been let go from Oxford, too. He’d been twice divorced when she met him, and he’d had to court her to get a first date. Only when she quit MI6 to care for her parents in their last months had she really accepted his attentions.
Mentally, he was one of the only men she’d ever met with whom she was compatible, though even his analytical ability paled compared to hers. Physically, they were more than compatible; his creativity extended between the sheets. Even thinking about some of their role playing heated her in body parts she seldom thought about anymore. But emotionally? When she quit laughing at his sophisticated jokes and tried to open up a bit with the man she’d grown to love, he turned back to his books and froze her out. Even when her parents both passed within a week of each other, he didn’t come to the funerals. He was off to a new conquest, and only then, too late, had she realized he was a serial womanizer who got his self-worth as a man from the women he wooed and deserted.
In her quiet hotel room, Abby buried her face in her pillow and gave a frustrated grunt, which was as close as she came to an emotional outburst. Seeing Sinclair restless with a sensual need he could scarcely control made her realize it had been well over a year since her last partner. So what? Grimly, she moved the pillow away, tucked it back under the spread, and smoothed the fabric. Then she went to the mirror, combed back her disarranged hair, and tightened it even higher on her head, quelling her impulses with the same ruthless sense of order. Then she went to her evidence stash and opened a new box, sitting down with her checklist.
Saturday morning, Emm was more careful with her makeup than usual. She even penciled in a bit of eyeliner, wanting to look her best. For this couple she’d never met or for Ross? she asked her own flushed face in the mirror. “For myself,” she said firmly, turning away.
She’d dressed in the yellow sundress again as her wardrobe was too spare to allow for a new outfit every day, but she’d seen the appreciation in Ross’s eyes that night at his place when she last wore it. She slipped on low-heeled sandals and gold jewelry, spraying on a dab of her favorite rose-scented spritzer.
Lastly, just as the knock came at her hotel door promptly at eleven, she slipped the flowered shawl over her shoulders. Her smile stretched wider when she saw Ross. Usually he wore starched white shirts and black jeans. Today he was dressed in short sleeves that displayed his muscled, tanned arms and worn blue denim that clung to his thighs and other places she tried very hard not to notice but did.
” You look lovely,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I like that dress.”
“Ditto,” she said shyly.
He grinned. “You like my dress or I look lovely?”
He always looked lovely to her, and she suspected he was one of those men who would age so gracefully that he’d still be stunning at ninety. But she only shook her head at him and followed him out. “So tell me a bit about this couple.”
He helped her up into his big SUV. As he drove off, he said reflectively, “They met in a very strange way, almost as strange as the way you and I met. She was a suspect in Chad’s brother’s disappearance, and he went all the way to LA from Amarillo to grill her. Chad’s not much of a womanizer—he’s from a Ranger family turned ranchers from way back—and she led him quite a little dance, appropriately enough, as she was an exotic dancer. An exotic dancer working on her law degree at USC.” He smiled at obviously fond memories, but his smile faded as he said gravely, “She risked her life to help him catch the real perp, her onetime boss, but unfortunately they were too late to save Trey.”
“So Jasmine knew all along that they were a good fit?”
He shrugged. “Chad sure didn’t. He has brass cojones and an even harder skull, plus there was another redhead who confused the picture. But women are always better at that emotional stuff.” He sent her a sideways glance that made her so warm she had to slip the shawl off her shoulders. “Right?”
“So how does she like Texas?”
“Turned out she was from Houston until she ran away from home when she was eighteen. Chad contacted her father and helped reunite them, and that was all it took. They were married a few months later and within a year had little Trey. She’s almost finished with her law degree now. Her father is a judge.”
“How long have you and Chad been friends?”
“Oh hell, I’ve known him ten years at least, but now he’s stationed in Lubbock with a different company, we’ve become close because I’m not his supervisor anymore.”
“Interesting.” Emm was still a bit puzzled as to why he’d included her in an intimate luncheon with his best friends, but she was happy to be with him in the bright day, for once not worrying about Yancy and Jennifer.
When they arrived a few minutes later, the old clapboard house had a fresh coat of paint and new shutters, along with a big rocking chair on the wraparound porch. Ross helped her from the car. As she got out, her shawl slipped again. He caught it with automatic male courtesy, wrapping it back around her shoulders. His knuckles brushed her exposed flesh in the vee of the dress.
They both froze. The bright Texas sun seemed to melt and pour into her veins, and when she looked up at him, she saw only his head limned in the light. But he could obviously look into her eyes, brilliant blue in the sunshine, and she was wondering what she’d revealed when his head lowered and his mouth covered hers. His movements were jerky, and she realized he was as compelled as she.
And then she couldn’t think . . . she could only feel.
Though it was only the second time they’d kissed, their bodies melded together as easily as old home day. As if they’d done this hundreds of times before, as if they belonged this way. Emm tilted her head back, pulling his head down to slant her mouth even closer against his. His knee moved between her legs, winnowing her feet apart. She felt the hardness in his worn jeans, and a deep, irrepressible need made her move one foot between his spread legs and tilt her hips upward, answering that need, even as she slid the tip of her tongue into his mouth.
A strangled gasp rewarded her, and again, most unlike her, she took advan
tage, exploring his delicious mouth more deeply. He tasted of spearmint and passion. Their tongues dueled as their hands began to wander.
One of his hands had cupped her breast and she was unbuttoning his shirt when a discreet cough penetrated her sensual haze.
“Uh, welcome,” said an amused masculine voice.
Emm’s eyes blinked open, filled with sunlight and embarrassment. She jolted away, teetering unsteadily. Ross finally came out of his own sensual haze with a jerk. He still had presence of mind enough to steady her with a hand on her waist.
“Howdy, Chad.”
“Howdy, Ross.”
His own cheeks brick red, Ross led her forward to the bottom of the steps. “Sorry; we were a bit distracted.”
“I noticed.” Chad’s mouth was suspiciously straight.
Ross scowled, daring him to go on, but Chad only offered his hand to Emm. “You must be Ms. Rothschild. Pleasure. Welcome to my ranch.”
Emm had to clear her voice twice before she could calm herself enough to answer, and even then she sounded squeaky because she could not recall ever being so mortified. “Thanks for inviting me. Ah, may I borrow your restroom?”
He showed her where it was, down the hall. She splashed water on her face, not surprised to see she was as scarlet as the flowers on her shawl. What had possessed her to act like that in a stranger’s yard? She glared at her own dilated, deeply blue eyes in the mirror.
She took a deep breath and touched up her makeup. One thing was certain: She couldn’t leave here without giving herself the gift of Ross Sinclair. Afterward, she’d miss him even more, but it would be worse to wonder for the rest of her life what it would have been like. And based on the incendiary way he responded to her, he wanted her almost as badly, so she doubted she’d have to seduce him. Still, she’d never made such blatant overtures to a man before, so she was in uncharted territory.
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