by Joanna Wayne
The wind caught Mart's open door, slamming it shut and alerting the would-be intruder that he was there. The man glanced his way for less than a heartbeat before he took off running across the parking lot. Matt raced after him, his bare feet digging painfully into the uneven gravel and sending pebbles skittering in all directions.
He'd almost caught up with him when he heard a motorbike sputter then roar to life. As he turned toward the sound, something hit him square in the forehead. The pain was blinding and slowed him down just long enough for the man to jump on the back of the now-speeding bike.
Matt took aim with the pistol but there was no way he could get off a clean shot at the back tire with the driver weaving from one side of the road to the other. In seconds, they'd disappeared beyond the tree line.
He could jump in his truck and try to follow, but with their head start and the acres of wooded land they could cut through on their motorbike, there would be little chance he could catch them. A couple of motel lights came on, the illumination slanting through as guests peeked from behind cracked blinds. One man stepped outside in his underwear.
"Is that you making that ruckus?"
"Nope, I was just out for a smoke when a couple of guys on a Harley sped through the parking lot."
"So what happened to your head?"
Matt reached to the spot that felt as if someone had cracked it open with a two-by-four. A sticky pool of blood squished between his fingertips. "Guess a rock flying off his tire caught me." A major lie. The rock had definitely been hurled by a man with muscle and great aim.
The man's next comment wasn't fit for mixed company, but it pretty much summed up Matt's feelings about the bikers as well. That was the least disturbing facet of all of this. The most distressing was that one of the men had been at Shelly's door and who knows what he might have done if Matt hadn't been here.
His insides felt scratchy and gritty, the way they had that time he'd been stuck in that West Texas sandstorm. He stopped at Shelly's room and tried the knob of her door. The lock still held and her room was still dark. The meds and her state of exhaustion had probably let her sleep through everything.
Once inside his own space, he took a deep breath only to be struck by the suffocating sensation that the walls were closing in around him. He tiptoed to the door that separated his room from Shelly's and opened it enough that he could assure himself she was still sleeping soundly and safely.
Moonlight splayed across her bed, caressing her delicate features and painting silver threads along the column of her neck. Her eyes were closed, her breath even and gentle, as if she were in the deep throes of a pleasant dream.
She wasn't his responsibility, he reminded himself. He was a rancher, not a sheriff. He liked life uncomplicated and stress-free.
Still, there was something about Shelly Lane that burrowed inside him and made him feel hungry for something he couldn't even name. He didn't like the feeling at all.
* * *
Matt explained the situation to Shelly over morning coffee he'd made in his motel room's pot. He'd probably had worse, but he couldn't remember when. She didn't complain about the coffee and seemed rather unfazed by his account of last night's adventure.
"I called the sheriff's department after I got back in my room," he continued after another gulp of the lukewarm brew. "The clerk took the information and said she'd pass it along to the deputies on duty in that area. Her inference was that they'd then be on the lookout for the two bikers. It was clear, however, that she didn't consider the incident emergency caliber."
"I can see her point," Shelly said. 'The man didn't break into my room. He was just standing by my door. And you didn't have a rock thrown at you, until you started chasing the guy's friend across the parking lot." She sipped her coffee. "No guns were fired. No crime was committed. Thus, not emergency status."
"Apparently the sheriff's clerk thinks like you do. So does the motel manager for that matter. He said the guy was probably looking for someone, most likely a girlfriend he thought was running around with some other guy. Claims it's happened before, which says a lot for the quality of guests he gets at the motel."
"Well, if you're the only bed for hire in town you're bound to get some by-the-hour customers."
He knew she was right. That didn't change his mind about what he'd decided in the sleepless hours just before sunrise. "I need you to go into Houston with me today."
She stared at him over the rim of her cup. "For what purpose?"
"I have an artist friend there who's got a real talent for drawing faces from a description."
"You mean a police sketch artist?"
"No, she's better at it than any sketch artist the police can afford. She doesn't like becoming involved with criminal cases, but if she's available, she'll do it as a favor to me."
"I don't see how my seeing her would help. I didn't get a good look at the shooter."
"No, but if the shooter and the unidentified jerk who bought gas from Emile Henley are the same man, Emile can describe him. I just need you to see if the resulting sketch reminds you of anyone you know or have seen before."
"Don't you have duties with the behaviorally challenged?"
"I'll find a replacement. So, are you up for the trip?"
"If it will help us identify the lunatic who fired at me and destroyed a stolen car, how can I refuse?"
His sentiments exactly. As soon as they had an arrest and a full report on Shelly, he could go back to his life. In the meantime he'd just have to work doubly hard to keep his libido under control.
* * *
Shelly was in the front seat of Matt's truck traveling toward the service station to pick up Emile for the drive into Houston. Nothing was going according to plan, including the biker incident, but she had to concentrate on the positive.
She might not be on the ranch yet, but she was definitely getting closer.
"Tell me more about this artist," she said as Matt turned onto another two-lane highway. "Is she anyone I might have heard of?"
"Possibly. Her name's Angelique Dubois. I'm not much of an art critic, but she's regarded highly by the local art community."
"Not the Angelique Dubois who does the charcoals of nudes."
"That's the one. You sound as if you're familiar with her work."
She caught herself before she admitted that she'd gone to a showing of Angelique's drawings in the D.C. area just a few months ago. It didn't fit her Atlanta physical therapist's image. "I read an article about her on the Internet. I can't believe you got someone of her professional stature to do a police sketch for a low-profile crime."
"I called in a favor."
"How do you know her?" she asked.
"I met her when Mom dragged me to a charity event at a gallery that was showing her work. Actually, it was probably one of Mom's setups. Her primary goal in life lately seems to be to marry me off. Well, that and getting Jeremiah steady on his feet and out of the house more."
"Did the setup work?"
"Better than most. Angelique and I dated a few times."
"But you're not dating now?" Just making conversation, she told herself, but she tensed involuntarily as she waited for his response.
"No. She didn't particularly warm up to ranch life and I took to her world even less. We stayed friends, though, and I sent a rich buyer her way last month, a ranching friend from Australia."
The Collingsworths had rich friends in every corner of the globe, and Shelly was about to make her first step into that world of wealth, influence, social contacts and even art.
She needed to apprise Brady of her current status at her first opportunity. He'd be wary when she told him about the unexplained bikers, but he'd have to see that she was making too much headway to pull her off the case now.
Matt turned on his CD player and a jazzy instrumental blared from the truck's speakers. She would have expected him to listen to country, though she wasn't sure why. He hadn't fallen into any of the other wealthy Texas ra
ncher stereotypical slots she might have assigned him.
Shelly shifted, so that she could study the angles and strong features of his profile as they talked. "Is ranching as romantic as it seems in books?"
"All depends on which books you read and which day you're on the ranch."
Matt nudged his white straw Stetson away from his forehead, and thick, dark locks of hair crept from beneath the brim, skimming the angry wound from last night's rock injury. Not his only scar, though. There was an almost invisible one running along his left temple.
His jaw was chiseled, his nose classic, his chest broad. Even his scent was masculine, a hint of spice and seductive musk. Her pulse quickened. Not what she needed to be thinking about.
"What's a typical day like for you?" she asked, hoping conversation would keep more sensual thoughts at bay.
Matt kept his left hand on the wheel, but snaked his arm across the space between them, resting his right hand near her shoulder. 'The day starts at sunrise when I step out on my porch and get that first invigorating whiff of fresh air. Birds serenade me from the trees around the house and there's a good chance I'll spy deer drinking from the pond. Might even see a fish jump and see a family of ducks out for a morning swim.
"After a few minutes, I'll amble back inside and start a pot of real coffee—not like what we drank this morning—while I go over the day's agenda in my mind."
"No calendar of activities or a secretary to keep you on task."
"I have a calendar. I seldom need to refer to it. We have a staff to handle reports and finances, but they work out of the headquarters building near the wranglers' bunkhouse. Bart and I both spend as little time in there as we can. Fortunately, we have people for the paperwork who need little supervision and don't mind being cooped up for several hours a day."
"Then what kind of duties are on your agenda?"
"A colt about to be born. Branding that needs to be done. Decisions to make about what types of cattle to increase and which to cut back on. Auctions to attend. New equipment to check out. Wranglers to oversee."
He retuned his right hand to the wheel. "I guess that sounds corny to a city girl."
"Not at all," she murmured. It sounded earthy and real, far removed from the world of crime and national security she dealt with every day. "Do you have much involvement with Collingsworth Oil?" she asked.
"Almost none."
"But it is a family business, isn't it?"
"It is, but we all do what makes us happy. We're lucky that way. My brother Bart and I run the ranch. My brother Langston is president of the oil company and my youngest brother Zach is going into law enforcement when he gets back from his honeymoon."
"How did Langston end up with so much control of the oil business?"
"He likes it. So did Jeremiah when he was on top of his mental game. The rest of us don't, although Mom is doing a bang-up job of CEO of Collingsworth Enterprises since Jeremiah had to step down from the position. I think she's growing tired of it though and is ready to return to her charities and grandmothering."
"But you must at least go to board meetings for the oil company?"
"The annual meeting, but only because Langston insists that we all know the financial status of the business." He turned toward her. "Why are you so interested in Collingsworth Oil?"
She pulled down the visor and checked her lipstick, giving her a reason to avoid eye contact with Matt. "This kind of life is all new to me. Besides, listening to you helps keep my mind off my wounded arm and battered car."
"I'll take care of the car. You'll have to rely on the doc for your arm. When do you need to get it checked again?"
"Today, but it can wait until after we visit with Angelique."
Matt nodded, then slowed the car and pulled into a three-pump service station accompanied by what looked to be a country mini-mart.
A man in faded jeans and a black T-shirt waved to them from the open doorway of the store.
"I need to use the facilities," she said, realizing that this might be her only opportunity to make a quick phone call to Brady.
"Okay, I'll wait here. Bathrooms are inside to your left, past the drink machines."
She threw her handbag over her shoulder and hopped down from the truck. Emile was giving last-minute instructions to the young man who was apparently going to watch the station while they made the trip into Houston. Once inside the bathroom, she used the CIA phone to make a call to Brady's private, non-traceable line, hoping for decent reception. He answered on the second ring.
"Good news and bad," she said.
"Hit me with it—the bad first."
She told him about the visit of the moonlight biker before explaining that Matt had taken on her protection as his personal responsibility. "He's concerned because he thinks someone is trying to kill me, proof positive that he has no clue that I'm with the CIA."
"There's no such thing as that kind of proof in this business. Don't take anything for granted, Shelly."
"Absolutely not." But Matt wouldn't be doing all this if he thought she was here to investigate his family. He'd just fire her, and that would be that.
"I'd feel better if I was certain the attack was random and the biker visit was unrelated."
"I'm Shelly Lane, a physical therapist from Atlanta. No one has a reason to kill me. If it wasn't random, the perp has me mixed up with someone else. He'll realize that soon enough. But most likely it's some weird gang-related activity."
"That's possible. Gang-related violence has been up in Houston ever since so many of the druggies fled New Orleans after Katrina."
"I'm already making headway with Matt Collingsworth, Brady. It would be a shame to get pulled off the case before I have a chance to try my skills with the rest of the family." "You don't have anything on Matt yet."
"That's the point. I don't think he's involved in the workings of the oil company. Indications are that he's all rancher, all the time."
"I hate to burst that bubble of self-confidence, but there's new evidence to the contrary."
She leaned against the stained sink, pretty sure she did not want to hear what was going to come next.
Scanned by Coral
Chapter Six
"Agents picked up a man last night in Brownsville, Texas, who is known to have ties with terrorist organizations in the Middle East. The CIA's been watching him for a while, but couldn't get the goods on him until he was caught smuggling illegal aliens across the Mexican border. At least two of the men he brought into the country were from Middle Eastern countries and had ties with the Taliban."
"How is that related to Matt Collingsworth?"
"When he was arrested, he had Matt's name and phone number on him. He claimed not to know any of the Collings-worths, but said he'd been given Matt's name as someone who hired illegals."
"That's possible, I guess, but Lenora Collingsworth certainly checked my credentials thoroughly and is having me further investigated now."
"More reason to suspect that Matt's dealings with the man involved more than he claimed. At this point, we have to assume that any family member might be involved in illegal activities and those who aren't might still have information that can lead us to arrests and convictions."
And there was even an outside chance—way outside at this point—that none of the evidence they had against any of the Collingsworth family would check out. Brady knew it, but would not want to hear that from her. She broke the connection and went to rejoin Matt.
He looked the same, but she saw him differently than she had mere minutes ago. Then, she'd let him slide into the role of protector, let herself start relaxing in his presence and experience twinges of attraction deep inside her psyche.
Now, Matt Collingsworth was just one more important piece of the criminal puzzle she had to solve. There was no room for mistakes in judgment. No room for mistakes of any kind.
* * *
Angelique Dubois met them at the door of her quaint turn-of-the-century house in Hou
ston's Heights district, wearing a pair of extremely skinny jeans and a flowing teal blouse. She was absolutely gorgeous. Take that back. The word didn't do her justice. She was positively ethereal, like a goddess floating on a sea of off-white carpet.
Her black hair was straight and sleek and hung nearly to her waist. Her olive complexion was flawless. Her skin was bronzed with a natural glow that required no makeup though there was a glimmer of gloss on her full lips and a smidgen of berry-colored liner at the base of her long, thick lashes.
Her eyes were the real kicker—intense, the color of polished onyx. And they were staring up at Matt with the kind of overt hunger that Shelly might have reserved for a pair of Manolo Blahniks about to go on the half-price sale rack.
Emile shuffled his feet and stared at his grease-stained hands and dirty nails, as if noticing them for the first time, as Matt took care of introductions. Finally, he offered his right hand to Angelique.
She shook his quickly and turned to Shelly. "I'm sorry that your welcome to Texas was so traumatic. Matt said you narrowly missed being killed yesterday."
"But luckily I got off with barely a scratch," she said, patting the bandage on her arm. "I really appreciate your willingness to lend your expertise in finding my attacker."
"Matt asked for my help," Angelique said as if that were explanation enough. "Can I get you something to drink? Hot tea or there's chilled champagne if you'd prefer a mimosa. And, yes, there's coffee, Matt. I knew you'd want that."
"Great. You know what I think of champagne."
"Lacks the proper kick and should be reserved for momentous occasions and boring toasts. I think that's how you put it," she said, laughing.
"Close enough. Who else wants coffee?"
Shelly and Emile put in their orders for black and unsweetened. Matt and Angelique went to fetch the brew while Shelly took in the ambiance. The furnishings were comfortable and reminiscent of the same period as the house, but accessorized with a mixture of jewel-toned colors that mimicked brilliant sunrises and Caribbean seas.
Shelves and tables were adorned with unique sculptures, books and small, framed photographs in black-and-white. An unframed charcoal canvas of a shapely young woman strategically draped in what appeared to be the folds of a curtain she'd pulled away from a window hung over the mantle.