Sinclair Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  When she came back out, her cheeks were still pink. Ross was sitting on the couch, both arms stretched along the back. He had a fixed smile on his face. Chad was grinning. Emm glanced between them, but a beautiful, voluptuous redhead exited a room down the hall, carrying a blue-wrapped bundle.

  She smiled warmly at Emm. “I’m so glad you were able to come. I’m Jasmine. And this is Trey.”

  Emm looked at the sleeping face. Her throat closed up even more. All she could do was smile like an idiot.

  “You can touch him. He won’t break. Babies are much tougher than people realize.”

  Emm gently stroked the soft head with one finger. Trey didn’t even stir.

  She felt an intense focus on her and looked up. Ross was frozen in place, staring at her.

  She tilted her head slightly, wondering at his expression. Jasmine handed the baby to her husband. “Have to get back to the kitchen. Do you want to come with me?”

  Emm was relieved to be able to escape the living room and its strange undercurrents. “Sure. What can I do to help?”

  A few minutes later, after she’d dusted the last of the chicken in a paper bag full of flour, Jasmine had a streak of flour on her chin and her cheeks were heat flushed in the old kitchen where she’d obviously been cooking for hours. The cabinets looked recently painted and there was an old, scarred oak table in the middle. The stove was ancient but obviously cooked well as several dishes sat covered and ready to be dispensed. A huge cast-iron skillet held sizzling fried chicken that filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma.

  “Do you mind setting the table?” Jasmine asked as she turned back to the skillet. “Use the good dishes in the hutch.”

  Emm carefully pulled out gold-rimmed bone china. It looked old. “Are you sure you want to use this?”

  “Yes. It makes me think of Chad’s mama. I wish I’d known her, but she passed before Chad and I met. But the two of us wouldn’t be together without her.”

  Emm paused in setting out the plates. “How so? If you don’t mind me asking . . .”

  “Not at all.” Jasmine pulled the last piece of fried chicken from the skillet, critically eyeing a few dark spots. “Texas Rangers are a different breed, and women tend to gravitate to them. Chad’s not conventionally handsome, like Ross, and the first time I met him I thought he was an asshole. But after I got to know him . . . he has a tender side he lets few people see, and that all came from his mom. Family means even more to him than his job, and I know if I ever need him, he’ll be there through tornado, pestilence, or famine.” She looked at the piled-high golden brown chicken. “Of course the latter isn’t likely to happen around here.”

  Emm laughed with her. “So you met him while you were in law school?”

  “Sorta in spite of it.” Jasmine smiled, her pale green eyes dancing with mischief. “He wanted to arrest me first thing because I was a no-’count stripper who tempted his brother Trey to LA after suckering him out of his land. Dancing was the only way I could afford law school, but Chad softened toward me when I helped him gather evidence against my old boss that proved he was behind Trey’s kidnapping.”

  Emm vacillated between shock and laughter. “Must be a Texas Ranger motto; instead of ‘one riot, one ranger,’ ‘see a woman you like, arrest her.’”

  The men came back into the kitchen to gales of female laughter. Ross looked suspiciously between them and then at Chad. “Why do I get the feeling they’re laughing at our expense?”

  Chad only grinned. He dabbed a paper towel in water and wiped the flour off his wife’s face, kissing the same spot. “We’ll get our own back, but after we eat. She finally used my mama’s fried chicken recipe I’ve been offering her for over a year and I’m afraid if we don’t eat now it may disappear like a phoenix.”

  “Keep it up and I’ll brown your share extra well,” Jasmine threatened.

  Chad poked at a leg suspiciously. “Looks like you already did that.”

  “Hey, I never made any promises. You should have known I can’t cook when the best meal I ever made you at my place was a grilled cheese.” Jasmine sat down in the chair he pulled out for her.

  Ross did the same for Emm. He was smiling indulgently as he listened to their banter. He caught her eye and winked, his hand caressing the top of her head before he sat down next to her. She wondered what he’d said to Chad about their embrace. It was obvious Chad had been teasing him.

  Blushing, she unfolded her napkin into her lap. She had to squelch a sharp pang of envy along with an even more powerful wave of curiosity as to why Ross had invited her into this scene of domestic bliss. If only such scenes were part of her own life. Ducking her head, she wiped her mouth to hide the sudden tremor, but then Jasmine and Chad’s ribbing about prior cooking disasters made her laugh. She bit into a juicy piece of chicken. Delicious; a bit crispy, true, but tasting of home and the many generations of women who had used this exact recipe. Tradition on a plate.

  After dinner, Chad and Ross insisted on washing up. Emm offered to help, but other than letting her clear the table, they wouldn’t allow it, so she went back into the living room to find Jasmine feeding little Trey. Earlier, Emm had been afraid to hold the boy, but this time, when Jasmine burped him, she offered him up to Emm. Sitting next to her on the couch, Emm carefully held Trey as his mother indicated. Jasmine put her breast back into her bra and had just buttoned her shirt when Chad and Ross came back from the kitchen, laughing at some male joke the women were not privy to.

  Chad sat down in the battered recliner, but Ross had stopped so abruptly the swinging kitchen door hit him in the rear. He watched Emm and the baby exchange a long look.

  Chad and Jasmine both looked between Emm and Ross, but for once he seemed oblivious. On the edge of her consciousness, Emm knew they were all watching, but she was so enchanted she didn’t care. She whispered to the baby, “You’re going to wow the girls someday with those big blue eyes.” She moved the blanket back from his face and he latched onto her finger, bringing it to his mouth and sucking it. She froze, thinking of nothing to say but an inane, “My hands are clean.”

  Jasmine chuckled. “He likes you. Usually he only sucks my finger, and Chad’s occasionally. I’m not sure he likes where it’s been.”

  Chad’s eyes fired up as he looked at her partially unbuttoned shirt.

  Jasmine fastened the last button. “Don’t say it.”

  Emm scarcely heard them. Tired of suckling her finger, Trey reached a chubby hand to her necklace, wrapping it around his fingers. He gurgled up at her, liking the shiny gold, and laughed.

  Emm was so entranced tears came to her eyes. “Precious,” she said, and kissed his cheek. Then she offered him back to Jasmine, rose, and ran for the bathroom to collect herself. Lord, they’d think she had female problems, but she was dealing with emotions she’d never known before and they felt so private she wasn’t sure how to handle them.

  Inside the living room, a pregnant silence ensued. Ross sat down on the edge of the furniture arrangement in the only hard chair in the room and tried to calm himself. Emm had exquisite manners, but the tears in her eyes were too genuine to have been inspired by politesse. He stuck his hands in his pockets to hide their slight tremor, but Chad wasn’t fooled.

  “That doesn’t help. Trust me, I tried it. Maybe you should grab what you want instead. Would have saved me and Jasmine a ton of trouble if I’d done that. You know that as well as anyone.”

  Ross couldn’t evade his friend’s gray eyes any longer. “So what do you think of her?”

  “I think she belongs here; she just doesn’t know it yet. And I think you want her for more than a night or two. I’ve never known you to be swept away with passion like that on someone else’s doorstep.”

  Jasmine looked between the two, unsure about that last part, but she only said, “She’s delightful, Ross. Are things . . . serious between the two of you?” Jasmine patted Trey’s back as he rested against her shoulder, his eyes fluttering drowsily.

&
nbsp; “I . . . don’t know. Maybe.” Ross couldn’t lie to his two best friends. He’d wanted their opinion of Emm and he had to rush, knowing she’d be back any moment. “She’s a Rothschild, you know.”

  “So?” Chad shrugged. “You’re a Sinclair. Seems like a good match to me.”

  “She reminded me instantly of Elaine.”

  “That’s your baggage, amigo, not hers.”

  As usual, Chad cut to the chase, but Ross realized he was exactly right. He could hardly complain about being alone if he wasn’t willing to take a chance on the only woman to truly draw him in more years than he cared to recall. By the time Emm came back into the room, her face free of makeup, her cheeks pink, Ross realized she’d been so moved by little Trey that she’d had to scrub her face. Probably for the second time in an hour.

  His mouth spread into a smile more sensual than he realized. Chad cradled Jasmine beneath his arm while he looked at his old friend with a what-are-you-waiting-for? challenge.

  Ross watched Emm play with her shawl and realized she was having a hard time dealing with the feelings this visit had aroused in her. He took pity on her, rose, and expressed his profuse thanks to Jasmine for the delicious meal, then said they’d have to be going as he had a ton of things to catch up on at his ranch.

  Emm expressed her own warm thanks. Jasmine and Chad walked them to the door, Ross carrying the paper bag of goodies she’d packed for them from the leftovers.

  “We’ll be back in a few weeks,” Chad said as they approached the SUV. “We’d love to do this again. Maybe we could pull out some cards or dominoes.”

  Emm looked at Ross. “That sounds lovely, but I may be . . . gone by then.”

  Chad looked at his old boss. “We’ll see,” he only said, ushering his wife back inside.

  Ross helped Emm into the car, wishing he felt as confident as Chad. He had his answers. . . . She’d make a wonderful mom. And Jasmine and Chad both really liked her.

  Now what?

  CHAPTER 8

  That Sunday, in Mexico City, Yancy argued with the cook in voluble Spanish about the menu for the fiesta. Arturo had slowly given her more authority in the household over the past few months, especially when he saw her talent with flower arranging and managing the kitchen. After his attack in the living room, Yancy had bitten her tongue more than once, and whatever suspicions he might have of her seemed to have abated. He was in the middle of finalizing some big deal, she knew, because she’d seen Euro-type trash in expensive suits, covered in tattoos, coming and going at all hours, arriving and leaving in armored limousines. They spoke Spanish with heavy Eastern European accents, she guessed from Bosnia or Chechnya.

  If she’d been less worried about Jennifer, she might have tried to eavesdrop to get details for her eventual escape, but she knew if she was caught it wouldn’t just be she who was punished. So she played the submissive mistress, planning the fiesta with the servants. As a reward, that morning in his bed Arturo offered her the hemophilia meds with a flourish. “Hard to get, so make them last.” Yancy kissed his cheek in thanks, watching him dress.

  “I will be busy all day today. You have all the supplies you need to decorate for the fiesta?”

  Yancy pulled the silk sheet around her naked torso and tucked it under her armpits. “I still need more lanterns to light the walkways, and shoes to finish my dress and Jennifer’s.”

  He tossed a huge pile of pesos on the nightstand. “Take the car for half the day and get everything else you need. I’ll tell Gustav.”

  Gustav was the head chauffeur.

  Yancy nodded, yawning, for he’d kept her up late. She sometimes wondered if he took Viagra, or if he was naturally so virile. The more she submitted, the more gentleness he offered, even occasionally calling her querida at the height of passion. But she still hated him, hated him for making her into his personal sex slave, hated him even more for letting his son turn her lovely honor student daughter into an addict.

  After tying his Hermès tie, he hauled her up in the bed, jerking the sheet away and running a possessive hand down the pleasing arc of her body. He lingered at the base of her spine, as he usually did, tracing the howling wolf tattoo she’d had imprinted at her tailbone. It had been this tattoo that had so intrigued him the first time he saw her naked, with the other victims in the sterile fluorescents of the warehouse where they’d been unloaded after making the trek over the border, drugged and quiescent, in the false bottom of a big rig.

  With her blonde hair and green eyes, she was unique among the other girls, even though she was obviously older. She so resembled her daughter that he knew immediately she was related to Jennifer. But when he saw the tattoo, his eyes fired with an unquenchable lust that still, many months later, showed no signs of abating. She knew in his twisted logic that because he was the alpha male of the Los Lobos cartel, the tattoo marked her as his property. This rebellious symbol of her youth had saved her, along with her fluency in Spanish, from being shipped overseas and separated, probably forever, from her daughter.

  He slapped her rear hard enough to leave an imprint. “Until tonight, mujer.” And with a drug lord’s version of tenderness lingering in the room, filling Yancy’s nose with his expensive cologne, he left, whistling a popular Mexican pop tune.

  All was right with his world, the bastard.

  The minute he was gone, Yancy took the pillow he’d slept on and used it for a punching bag. She beat it repeatedly, wishing it were his face. Then, exhausted, she resolved to use this trip into the city to set up a route for their escape. She’d have to be very careful because Gustav was a suspicious man, and the armed guards always sent to escort her were very difficult to ditch. But she didn’t have much choice; the fiesta was in five days.

  The house would be full of guests and everyone would be occupied. It was their best, perhaps their only, chance to escape. As she drifted off to sleep, she remembered Jesús was supposed to come by later today to drop off the money from his last shipment. Arturo had asked her to meet him, apparently trusting her to take the huge greenback bag. He knew she wouldn’t dare take any of the money because he also knew the exact amount he was due.

  Still, as her eyes fluttered closed, a small smile stretched her lovely mouth. Arturo didn’t know everything. Or that of late, Jesús’s loyalty was suspect and centered more on Arturo’s mistress than Los Lobos . . .

  Then, exhausted from lack of sleep and her spent emotions, she slept.

  While Yancy was plotting an escape, Emm was trying to figure out how she could sneak into Abigail’s hotel room. The survey was scheduled for tomorrow morning, a Monday, and she figured within a week or so she’d be finished and on her way back to Baltimore. If she was going to find out anything that might help break open the case, she didn’t have much time left. She knew what she was contemplating was potentially a felony, but Sinclair clammed up any time she brought up Yancy and Jennifer, and Abigail had also grown evasive when she met her for drinks or for lunch.

  She also intended to invite Curt to dinner tomorrow after the survey. He was staying around Amarillo for now, ostensibly to research his next book, coincidentally or not on modern human slavery in Texas. Abigail had been evasive when she’d asked point-blank if she’d pursued an investigation of his finances, and Emm was resolved to pump him for information herself. She’d always trusted her instincts and they were clamoring an alarm right now. Curt Tupperman was somehow involved in all of this. He was the only clear Baltimore/Amarillo connection, and even for a reporter, he knew a lot about what was going on.

  She left a message on Curt’s cell phone voice mail and then, her expression grim, powered on her laptop and went to YouTube, Googling “how to pick locks.” Abigail had told her she was spending all day today in the library, so time was a’wastin’, as they said here.

  In his home office, Ross Sinclair was also having trouble concentrating. All the logistical details of the reunion had come together, and the bills were even more astronomical than usual. He eyed the
three-page RSVP list, wondering who some of these people were, but he’d never complained when various family members brought guests. He’d had sprawling guesthouses built just down the hill behind his home for this very purpose, and normally, he was glad of the company. Still, the list grew every year, and Ross wasn’t sure he even enjoyed the events anymore. But he eyed the schedule he’d compiled in an Excel spread sheet and typed “historic analysis of our buildings by Emm” in one of the only blank slots lined up for next weekend, shortly after everyone arrived. He’d run the time past Emm to be sure, but he was confident she’d want to state her case and save the buildings.

  A perfunctory knock came at the door, and José entered with his dinner tray. Ross sighed and pushed back from his desk. “I need a break—why don’t you join me in the kitchen?”

  Nodding, José carried the tray back out.

  He arranged the dishes in the middle of the granite island with bar stools, Ross’s preferred place to eat. His movements were quick, efficient, for they shared meals together often. In the right time and place, Ross had little use for social restrictions.

  He ate a couple of bites of the huge sub sandwich José had made, but his stomach was tied in knots. He shoved the plate back, despite its appetizing array of fresh veggies and homemade ranch dip along with a pasta salad. José had spent years learning to cook yanqui, as he called it, and everything he turned out was delicious. Ross just wasn’t hungry. Feeling antsy, he stood to pace.

  José systematically demolished his own food. Very little ever put him off his feed, and he had the rotund form to prove it. With his lugubrious countenance, which incongruously stretched often into humor, he was also a walking contradiction of many parts that Ross cherished, jumbled as they were.

  Uneducated but wise.