Sinclair Justice

by Colleen Shannon

She reached for the cock straining at his underwear, but to her shock he caught her hands, held them above her head and lay on top of her. He buried his face in the nook of her shoulder, breathing heavily, but his hips began to move of their own accord, thrusting against her. “You can’t touch me there, not yet,” he finally whispered.

  She was moved, realizing he was trying to stop himself from going so fast. “How long has it been for you?” she asked.

  “Months. Years since anyone I cared about. How long has it been for you?”

  “Years since anyone I cared about.”

  He lifted his head to delve into her eyes. Blue on blue, limitless horizon to boundless possibility. In that moment, in that mutual offering, she knew. She didn’t just want this highly complex, highly moral and totally unsuitable man. She loved him . . . Emm choked back a sob and pulled her hands away.

  He let go as if scalded, and she realized he thought she’d changed her mind.

  No, far too late for that.

  She’d take this once and only as if it were forever and often.

  When he released her, she thrust her fingers through his hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but he obediently lowered his head to hers to seal their bond with a kiss. And she tried, with all her overflowing heart, to tell him with the touch of her mouth the words she didn’t dare express. She sipped and nibbled and explored with an unfettered passion that was as much an invitation as an overture.

  And he read it, and responded with the world’s most enthusiastic RSVP. He kicked off his underwear, grabbed a condom, and ripped the package open. But she caught his hand and shook her head. “I’m fine, and I know you are. I want to . . . feel all of you.” She tentatively but eagerly gloved him with her hand, or tried to. But she had small hands . . . and he was not.

  He arched, perfect, hot, and heavy in her hand. He leaped to her touch, groaning, and then there was no time for tenderness or finesse. Only the passion that had almost come too late.

  He parted her legs with one hand, adjusting his angle with the other, and in one slow, long stroke, he ended the separation between them forever. Her head fell back against the pillow, her mouth opening in wonder at the amazing feel of him reaching deep, and deeper still, until he reached the tip of her womb. Then he pushed deeper, as if he, too, couldn’t get close enough. Hard but soft, steel but silk, a perfect fit. They both stayed still, luxuriating in the warmth and closeness. Their eyes locked again.

  For once she didn’t automatically react against the male arrogance in his gaze. He might as well have stated you’re mine. Her only reflex was instinctive—a tightening of her muscles upon him. He sucked in a harsh breath, and just like that, she brought the whirlwind into bed with them. Lifting her hips up as if he couldn’t get deep enough, he thrust in and out. She tried to push back, but he had her pinned, so she let her instincts take over again and flexed upon him as he entered, releasing as he exited, only to plunge back again hard enough to shake the bed. And soon, too soon, her mind didn’t prompt her body to flex upon him for her body took over. . . .

  She was groaning, then, her eyes fluttering closed. As she felt the building pressure, she reveled in her own pulsations, knowing it brought them both closer to release. He went to the brink with her, his breathing harsh as he lifted her hips and held her wide to his invasion. That was all it took. She arched her back, crying out. He made a choked sound, half curse, half prayer, and stabbed deeply, arrowing home as if he belonged there, to bathe her in the fulfillment of their mutual climax. Simultaneously, she blew apart into a billion pieces. She cried out, for the spasms that gripped her had never been so hard or so pleasurable.

  Only when he covered the sounds of her climax with his palm did she realize she was almost screaming. Then he replaced his hand with his mouth to claim the sweet gift of her surrender, his heart hammering against her.

  He collapsed, letting her hips go, and she lay like a rag doll beneath him, gasping for breath. Slowly, slowly, they came down, but for a long moment, he stayed nestled inside her, as if loathe to break the intimacy. But finally she shifted a bit uncomfortably under his weight, and he levered himself to her side, pulling her head onto his chest.

  She had to break the moment or burst into tears, so she teased him. “The girls must love it when you tase them. You don’t even need a stun gun. . . .” As he chuckled, she propped herself on an elbow, playing with the light whorl of hair around his nipples. The dark hair was speckled with gray, but that only made him more appealing to her. He was all man, yet sensitive enough to care about and empathize with who she was, both as a woman and as a person.

  He caught her hand when she drifted lower in her exploration, brought it to his mouth and kissed it, whispering, “That’s nice to hear, but brevity is the soul of wit. I can give my opinion of you in one letter.”

  Emm’s sense of the ridiculous was stimulated. She wrapped her fingers around his kiss, treasuring it for the long, lonely times. She rested her cheek on his wide chest. “Now you have me wondering. One letter? I’m that easy?”

  “No, never easy.” He lifted her chin so he could kiss her mouth. “Here’s my opinion of you.” He murmured into her lips, “Mmmmm-mmmmmm.”

  The humming of that drawn-out, delicious letter murmured against her sensitive mouth tingled in a delightful way that electrified her, scalp to toes. Just like she said, no Taser needed. At the same time, she melted, warmed by the nicest compliment she’d ever received.

  But when he pulled her on top of him and ran his hands over her backside, molding it with his rancher palms, she tensed. “We can’t. Don’t you have to go back to work? It must be almost four . . .”

  “Mmm, work.” And for the first time in twenty years, decorated Texas Ranger Captain Ross Sinclair missed a deadline.

  After Ross left, Emm tried to work on her other cases, she really did, but she found herself staring into space with a foolish grin. She was a bit sore between the legs even after a long hot bath, but she welcomed that proof that she hadn’t dreamed the most fulfilling sexual experience of her life. She knew it had been too luminously enlightening for that feeling to be one-sided.

  Which begged a larger question: Since neither just business nor just sex seemed to work between the two of them, what now?

  In his office on the edge of downtown, Ross was wondering the same thing while he stared blindly at yet another open file. He should feel guilty for taking advantage of the sister of a victim, but the guilt would not come. She’d initiated things in a way that settled his few remaining doubts about her sexuality. Yet she’d also showed a certain shy wonder at the look and feel of a very aroused man, enough that he was also confident she didn’t sleep around much. She obviously loved holding little Trey, his closest confidantes liked her, and she had all the education, intelligence, and class he could wish for both as a Ranger and as a Sinclair.

  But there was still a huge problem . . . He knew her desperation to find her sister and niece had increased. Their lovemaking would only complicate things because, consciously or not, she’d expect her lover to also be her champion of justice, an untenable situation for a Texas Ranger, and one reason he’d hesitated to pursue her.

  But it was too late now for regrets, if he had any. Which he didn’t.

  He would have to choose: Emm or the case.

  Ross sighed heavily, then picked up the phone to make the call he’d been dreading. Being appointed the head of a multijurisdictional investigation that crossed international borders was a coup even for a decorated Ranger captain, and it would raise eyebrows throughout the agency when he asked to be removed. While Emm wasn’t a suspect—strictly speaking, she wasn’t even a victim—he was emotionally compromised, had been even before the unbelievable hours in her hotel room. He had no choice but to do this. He might as well have conflict of interest emblazoned on his forehead in scarlet letters.

  Ross dialed the number he knew by heart. The head of the Texas Rangers was someone he’d met a few times but didn’t know well.
He could try his own boss first, division chief for West Texas, but this decision would ultimately have to be made by the head of the Rangers, and Ross always believed in cutting red tape. Especially when his own head was on the line . . . not to mention his heart.

  CHAPTER 10

  Later that day, over a thousand miles away on a secluded hilltop in Mexico City, in her room, which was attached to Arturo’s, Yancy carefully finished her makeup. She wore more than usual: heavy eyeliner, glittery silver eye shadow, and even sparkles glued to her fake eyelashes. She looked at the ethereal chiffon dress spread on the bed. It glittered from short hem to cap sleeves with diamantés. No cheap sequins for this event—each brilliant was sewn, not glued, in place, and the dress had been custom made. At the fitting, she’d thought she looked like the whore he’d been trying to make her, but when she slipped into the tight black gown and wriggled it up her hips, the dress fit perfectly. Her spike-heeled Jimmy Choos looked as if they were studded with diamonds. When she stood in front of the full-length mirror, she was stunned at the complete ensemble.

  Somehow, she looked both wanton and elegant. The dress flared slightly at the knee, seeming to float around her when she walked, as if she carried the elements of stars and night with her like an exotic goddess. Arturo had insisted she wear only the best for this party, for she’d be meeting all his current business partners and two he hoped to sign a deal with in the next few days. Like most warlords of his ilk, he was taking increasing advantage of globalization and was in the process of setting up distribution channels for his wares stretching as far as Australia.

  She knew that was one reason he favored her despite her age . . . how many women in Mexico could boast a partial Rothschild family connection? He expected her to be his best asset, for beautiful women, especially beautiful American women of aristocratic birth, were the prime possessions of crime lords everywhere. And she’d proved both astute and loyal, or so he thought.

  His mistress was expected to dress the best, talk the best, even seduce the best when called for. And before this night was out, he’d warned her, she might be expected to do exactly that if either of his new potential partners asked nicely enough. Such sharing was not uncommon at gatherings like this, and he had a room set up for it, complete with champagne on ice, strawberries, and soft music.

  When he’d laid out the rules, she’d nodded submissively, wishing she could tell him he could only whore her out if he could find her. Before the stroke of midnight, like some maladjusted Cinderella, she’d leave her exquisite diamanté shoes as her only legacy, taking with her the jewels she’d need to barter and the only other thing she valued—her daughter. However, Yancy was also savvy enough, after being a drug lord’s mistress for almost six months, to know she might need more than jewels to bargain with if she had to go to the Mexican police.

  She had discreetly made notes in a tiny diary she kept hidden in her room, unable to use the only cell phone he allowed her because it was often searched at random. She’d recorded names when she had them, descriptions, dates of meetings, and any overheard conversation she gleaned as to routes and methods, which usually wasn’t much. But she’d heard enough to know that something new was in the works, with what she believed were Chechen connections. She suspected his new associates were offshoots of the Russian mob because of their accents and tattoos. And these men, even more than any of the Mexicans she’d met, scared her.

  Arturo, as brutal and selfish as he was, still had his own peculiar set of values and family obligations. He was good, in his way, to anyone who was loyal to him.

  These men, the way they looked at her, made her feel not just like a whore but like chattel. They’d use her sexually or gut her with the same finesse . . . if one of them asked for either her or Jennifer, she might have to move up her schedule. She broke off her reflections when Arturo entered the room, carrying a small black velvet box. He stopped cold at the sight of her. His eyes flared with lust and he kissed the tips of his fingers, even bowing his head slightly in homage.

  She smiled, for he’d never been so deferential, and did a slow 360-degree turn just for him. “I was worried this was too tight, but it fits perfectly. I’ll have to compliment the seamstress when I see her.”

  He walked into the room and indicated she face the mirror. She complied. He opened the velvet box and told her to bend her head. She felt him attach something around her neck, and when she stood straight again, her eyes widened. She whispered in English, “My God.”

  The necklace he’d fastened had an enormous diamond in the middle, with more diamonds scalloped all the way around to the clasp in smaller, graduated sizes. She’d been to enough extravagant fêtes in Baltimore and DC to recognize platinum when she saw it. The jewels had been soldered on in such a way that they shimmered when she took a breath, as if she wore shooting stars around her neck. She felt the heavy weight and guessed the center stone must be at least ten carats by itself. She reached out to touch it. “Is this . . . rented?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a deposit on my investment. Only the best for Los Lobos.”

  Of course. Like any successful tycoon, he thought only in terms of assets and liabilities. She was literally wearing proof of his business prowess, her beauty offsetting the jewels, not vice versa.

  He gave her dangly earrings that were also enormous flawless diamonds suspended on smaller diamond waterfalls, which she attached. With the diamanté pins holding up her hair and the shimmery bronzer she’d applied to her shoulders, legs, and arms, the only place she didn’t sparkle was her mouth, which was a deep, luscious red.

  But as she looked at the glittering stranger in the mirror, the cold, rational part of her brain that had saved her thus far took over. This would simplify things. She wouldn’t have to try to slip out with her small jewel case after all. What she was wearing would bribe half of the corrupt cops in the city.

  “But I will let you keep it if you help me close my deal tonight. I’ll make up the cost in a month if all goes as I plan.” He turned her into his arms and kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as far as he could reach.

  She managed to stay still and even squeeze him back, as if she enjoyed this, but she wanted to bite down on the fleshy protuberance. It was all she could do not to kick him with her stiletto. He expected blind adoration from her in return for even being allowed to wear these probably million-dollar baubles. Because it was expected, when he released her, she managed a smile. “They’re beautiful. Thanks for letting me wear them. But after the party, you need to return everything. They would buy a lot of security. . . .”

  He looked a bit gratified at her assurances, but then his gaze narrowed and his hands on her shoulders tightened enough to hurt. A harsh tone entered his voice. “I want you to stick close to Jesús and see what you can find out and observe. I think he’s selling me out.”

  Yancy’s alarm was genuine. “Why do you say that?”

  “We lost almost a thousand pounds of merchandise to the Knights Templar. He’s the only one other than me and Tomás who knew the entire route of the shipment.”

  Yancy turned to him and straightened his bow tie, pretending deep concern. Her lush mouth even trembled a bit. “They’re the worst . . . If they’re trying to take over, aren’t you in danger?”

  He smiled at her cynically. “You’d lose your meal ticket and your protector, sí?”

  She backed away a step, pretending deep offense. “You’ve been good to us, and I’m grateful. I’m honestly trying to help.” She met his eyes steadily, and he relaxed a bit.

  He hesitated, and then led her into his capacious bathroom, which was on the outside wall of the house. “No one else knows about this but Tomás. We are setting a show tonight for the Chechens, to impress them that here in Mexico, we know how to be elegantly continental.”

  This certainly explained the elaborate party, Yancy reflected, complete with covered dishes and a planned cigar-and-brandy remove into the study while the women gossiped in t
he salon. Her attention snapped back to Arturo.

  “But if something should happen, I want you and Jennifer to be able to get away. Go to the safe house I showed you.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and stabbed in a code. The red light on the digital whirlpool tub, which she’d thought was linked to temperature, turned green. He then pressed the whirlpool jet button on the big fiberglass tub three times, waited, then pressed it again three times. A click sounded, as if a lock were being opened. He stood aside.

  To her amazement, the tub slowly rose sideways with a humming sound, and she realized it was on a hydraulic lift. He leaned down and flipped a switch. Dim lighting showed a small but navigable circular staircase winding down into darkness, with wooden studs on each side. She realized the staircase was inside the walls. She eyed the long mirror on the wall at the end of the tub. Ingenious. It wasn’t just for decoration. It hid a cavity that must have been built with the house. This staircase obviously wound down two complete floors.

  “I’m seriously impressed,” she said sincerely. “Where does it end?”

  “A tunnel beneath the compound wall that ends beneath the big tree across the road. This is one reason I bought the house.” He pressed the jet button again three times, and then again three times, and the cavity slowly closed as the tub took its normal position. The light turned red again.

  He eyed her and spoke slowly and deliberately. “And there’s an alarm that hooks directly into the security panel. If I don’t deactivate it with my cell phone, it will go off, so no one else can use the tunnel without my authorization.”

  Message received. Yancy nodded her understanding. “I won’t tell anyone or go near it unless something awful happens.”

  He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Help me catch Jesús and seal this alliance and I’ll enter the code into your phone.”

  He was very good at the carrot-and-stick routine, she thought irritably, but she only smiled, as if gratified by his generosity, amazed by his arrogance, that he thought it was okay to abduct women and force them into sexual slavery and then expect their adoration . . . but now wasn’t the time for anger. The location of the staircase gave her another bargaining chip, but if all went well tonight, she’d never need that code. She appraised her image in the mirror, looking for flaws, but found none.