by Joanna Wayne
"And I take it you graduated from UT."
"Yep. And proud of it."
"How many types of cattle do you raise?"
"Six, though our main beef-producing stock is Santa Ger-trudis. They do well in hot, humid environments. But we're constantly researching genetic improvements within our herds."
Matt swerved to miss a turtle that was lumbering across the road.
"He's huge," she said.
Matt grinned. "Haven't you noticed? Everything's bigger and better in Texas."
Whether he meant it to or not, the comment concocted a sensual image that sent a traitorous tingle of responsiveness dancing along her nerve endings. "So I've heard," she said, hating that she could feel the heat settling in her cheeks.
They drove in silence, as the road meandered away from fenced pasture land into a wooded area where towering pines intermingled with sweet gum, oak and birch.
A baby deer with a smooth spotted coat and long spindly legs stepped into a clearing near the edge of the road. Matt slowed to a stop a few yards away. Amazingly, the fawn stood still, head high, looking right at them. Shelly stared
back until the fawn turned away and disappeared back into the cover of trees and brush.
"He was beautiful," Shelly said. "And he didn't even seem wary of us."
"Because we don't allow hunting on the ranch. Does make regular visits to the pond behind my house. They're so tame, they'll wonder right up to me. But then I spoil them a bit by putting out corn for them during the winter."
Ranch life was becoming more enticing by the moment. So was the rancher sitting next to Shelly—and therein lay the problem. Matt might seem too good to be true, but he was a suspect in her investigation.
She held on to that thought, until he rounded yet another curve in the road and a massive, rambling house came into view. The wooden structure was painted white with dark green shutters. Huge clay pots of blooming begonias and hanging baskets of bougainvillea provided a riot of summer color to the wide front porch.
The whole effect was picture-book Southern ranch right down to the swing that was currently occupied by a beautiful dark-haired woman who looked as if she might be ready to deliver a baby at any moment.
"That's the big house," Matt said.
"It's incredibly..." She struggled for a word to describe the sensations the house stirred.
"It's home," Matt said, putting it into the one word that said it all. "My brothers and I all have our own places, but the big house is still the center of all the family activities. You'll see that for yourself tomorrow morning. Family Sunday brunch is a long-standing tradition."
The woman in the porch swing looked up and waved as they passed. Matt waved back.
"Is that one of your sisters-in-law?"
"That's Langston's wife, Trish. You'll love her. Everyone does. She's expecting a baby boy within the next few weeks."
Trish was having a baby with a man Shelly was here to help send to jail. The information that helped seal the deal might even come from Trish during a casual conversation with the new physical therapist. It could just be a comment in passing that Shelly would gather for the CIA—a piece to the complex puzzle that would lead to conviction.
The irony of it bothered Shelly, but she couldn't let herself get caught up in guilt when she was only doing her job. Her gaze moved away from the house, to the stables off to the left. A half dozen magnificent horses lazed in a fenced area just beyond that.
"Do you ride?" Matt asked.
"A little." But only because she'd had lessons in preparation for this assignment. "I've never been around horses much and I find them a bit intimidating."
"We have some gentle mares that will break you in easy— if you stay."
It was clear he had not fully accepted that possibility yet. They reached open pastureland again and the ranch seemed to stretch for miles, mostly flat. "Where is the bluff?"
"Bluff?"
"Jack's Bluff."
"Oh, that." A smile claimed his mouth. "Different kind of bluff. My great, great grandfather who'd arrived in America penniless, won the original ranch in a game of poker. His winning hand was a pair of jacks, hence Jack's Bluff."
"He won all of this in a card game?"
"No, he won a patch of land that for the most part hadn't been cleared. He and succeeding generations of Collings-worths made the ranch and the oil company what it is today. You'll have to get Mom to tell you the story of how it all came about. It always sounds a lot more romantic when she explains it."
A tale of rags to riches. A family determined to forge ahead and find wealth in the rough and tumble world of Texas. That would take courage, ambition and possibly a willingness to bend all the rules. Maybe that was also a part of the Collingsworth heritage.
The truck bumped along, the woods growing deeper, the road to Matt's cabin more narrow and not as smoothly paved as the road to the big house had been. "That's it," Matt said, as his cabin came into view.
Shelly loved it at once. Where the big house had been large and rambling, Matt's cabin put her in mind of Goldilocks and the three bears. The house was stone and wood, interesting but non-assuming. It fit so well in its environment that it almost seemed an extension of nature's beauty.
Matt stopped and killed the truck's engine. "Welcome to my little corner of the ranch."
His private space. And he was about to usher her inside. A traitorous anticipation danced along her nerve endings and she feared it had nothing to do with the real reason she was here. She couldn't let herself start thinking of Matt as a man. He was a suspect. And she was here to find evidence that could send him to prison for a long, long time.
* * *
Everything was perfect. Nothing was right.
Matt knew who he was and where he belonged. It was as clear as the shine on his boots. Shelly had been in the same boat, just as sure, just as confident—until he'd stepped into her life. Now she vacillated between resolute dedication to her job and feeling as if she were setting up the pope for a prison term.
The CIA had valid evidence, collected over a period of months, all of it pointing to the Collingsworths—Matt included—as being guilty of funding terrorism. The latest evidence suggested that they might even be actively involved in smuggling dangerous illegals into the country.
So why was it that Shelly was finding it so difficult to believe Matt could be guilty? Surely she wasn't swayed by the singular fact that she found him attractive. She wasn't that shallow or nearly that unprofessional. Yet he did get to her on a sensual level.
She walked to the window of Matt's guest room and watched the setting sun. The room was comfortable, the queen-size iron bed covered in a beautiful quilt that looked as if it might have been handed down for generations.
A rustic, antique desk topped with a brass lamp and supplied with writing essentials sat against one wall. A forty-five inch television hung on the opposite wall, in dramatic contrast with the pine boot bench that sat below it. A mixture of old and new, of ranch tradition and modern technology. The same kind of contrast that personified Matt's personality.
He not only looked the part, but played the role of simple cowboy to perfection while talking of genetic improvements and socializing with seductive, esteemed artists.
But neither his self-assurance nor his complexity were what had her cocooning in the guest room for the last two hours. Nor was it the need for rest as she'd told Matt. The quandary was that the attraction she felt toward him had magnified since arriving on the ranch.
If she couldn't work her way past it soon, she'd have no ethical choice except to walk away from the assignment. Brady would view that as failure of the worst kind. The other agents would agree. And the last thing Shelly needed in her life was failure. She was a solid career woman. The CIA was her life.
She turned at a light knock at her door, then crossed the room and opened it.
Matt had changed into a short-sleeve knit shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. No boots. In fact
, no shoes. But even without the western attire, he reeked of virility.
"Are you hungry? Potatoes are baking, the salad's made and steaks are ready for the grill."
"I could have helped."
"You can have kitchen cleanup duty."
"Deal. I'll be with you in a minute."
"Take your time. I'll decant the wine. My selection's not that great but I have a couple of cabernets or a pinot noir that I bought on a trip to Napa. I've been saving it for a special occasion."
"Then you shouldn't waste it."
"I wouldn't be. Cooking dinner for a woman happens rarely enough with me for it to classify as an occasion."
"Then I vote for the pinot." And for a night where nothing heated up but the grill, a significant breakthrough in the case would be nice, too.
She brushed some gloss on her lips, bronzed her cheeks and checked her reflection in the mirror one last time. She'd slipped into a pair of white shorts that did nice things for her tanned legs, and an azure cotton shirt that was gathered at the neckline, skimming her breasts before falling loose to her waist. Her white, strappy sandals buckled at the ankle.
Not too sexy. Not too dowdy. Low-key worked best for an undercover agent.
Satisfied with her appearance, she joined Matt in the kitchen where he was pouring wine into glasses. He handed her one and lifted his for a toast. "To a quick arrest of the suspect," he said, "and a fast recovery for you."
She touched her glass to his, then sipped the wine before settling on a leather and wood barstool.
"The potatoes need another thirty minutes. What do you say we take our wine down to the pond until it's time to grill the filets?"
She nodded, then turned to a collection of snapshots that were clustered on the wall of the breakfast nook.
"Angelique helped me put that display together," Matt said. "She's big into black-and-white pictures and she thought I had too many bare walls."
Cooking dinner for women might be a rare occurrence, but she'd bet he'd cooked for Angelique. But somehow she couldn't see the sultry artist settling for the guest room.
Jealousy reared its ugly head. Shelly pulled her lips taut and ignored it, turning her attention back to the snapshots. They were mostly of Matt and his brothers; all were faces she recognized from her research.
"Is that you in the football uniform?"
"Yep. Quarterback for the Colts Run Cross Cougars, circa twenty years in the past. I was in the seventh grade."
Even then he'd been cute. The man with his arm around Matt wasn't half bad, either. "Who's that with you?"
"My dad. That was taken in the fall. He was killed the next spring. It was the last picture the two of us were in together."
"How was he killed?"
"He was a helicopter pilot with the Air National Guard. His chopper went down during routine training maneuvers. The only explanation we ever got was that there was an equipment failure. One day he was the center of all our lives. The next day he was dead."
"That must have been hard on all of you."
"Yeah, but especially on Mom, I think. She had six kids to take care of. My youngest brother and sister are twins and they hadn't even started first grade."
"She must have been furious with the government when he died so needlessly."
"Mom? Furious with the government? I don't think that ever entered her mind. As far as she's concerned, Dad is a hero who died serving his country."
"Do you think that way, too?"
"Yeah." He answered quickly, as if he'd given this a lot of thought before tonight. "I don't agree with every politician who runs his mouth off to get a few votes, but I believe in America. I believe in freedom and in doing whatever it takes to preserve it. I know that may sound corny."
"It doesn't sound corny at all."
Nor did it sound like a man who'd sell out to the enemy. Dichotomous thoughts flooded her mind, hitting with such intensity they left her dizzy. Couldn't Matt just once do or say something to make her job easier?
"Are you sure you feel like walking down to the pond?"
"I feel fine."
"You just looked a little pale there for a minute."
"Must be the wine on an empty stomach."
They both knew she was lying since she'd only had a sip, but he let the subject drop. He held the back door open for her, then walked beside her down a worn path that trailed from his back door to a pond bordered by towering pines.
"Mornings and dusk are the best times of day on the ranch," he said. "It's when the daytime, dusk and nocturnal creatures cross paths. The clearings around the pond come alive with activity."
Somehow the thought of being surrounded by wild animals, even small ones, didn't seem as appealing to her as it apparently did to Matt. "We're not taking snakes, I hope."
"You can't live in Texas without seeing an occasional snake."
"Then make sure they know I'm just visiting."
A tree frog chorus began a high-pitched serenade. A bull frog filled in with alto chords. And a couple of jays squawked at them from a distance. They had almost reached the pond, when she spotted the heron. It swooped to the bank and balanced perfectly on one strawlike leg.
She was still staring at it in awe when the first of Mart's nightly parade of deer appeared at the edge of a shadowed clearing. This time it was a magnificent buck with impressive antlers and soulful eyes.
Shelly held her breath so long it burned in her lungs. She didn't want to make any move that would frighten him away. She needn't have worried. The buck looked right at her, then walked to the edge of the pond and drank from the clear blue water. Three graceful does joined him a few moments later.
"No wonder you love it here, cowboy."
Matt responded with an arm around her shoulder. She turned and met his gaze. A bad move. The moment of awe she'd been experiencing was swallowed up by an ache that seemed to hit every cell of her being at once.
Matt was too alive, too masculine, too near. His lips touched hers—just a brush, as if he were testing the waters.
She sank into his kiss and the sweet, salty taste of his lips was like an elixir for the soul. She wanted to drown in his kiss, to hold him so tight she could feel every twinge of his muscles and sink her fingertips in smooth flesh of his broad shoulders.
She'd never wanted anything more, but—
It was all wrong. Very, very wrong. She yanked away so fast she stumbled backward.
Matt caught and steadied her. "I'm sorry, Shelly. I didn't mean for that to happen. It..."
He was fumbling for words. She was struggling just to keep from throwing herself back into his arms. "It's okay, Matt," she said, her voice strained from the breath-stealing kiss. "You just surprised me. That's all."
He nodded, but his gaze stayed locked with hers. Whatever she was feeling, she had to get over it fast. She positively could not let him kiss her again. Not because Brady would care as long as it got useful information. But because she refused to want Matt in that way.
Matt pushed his hands into the front pockets of his shorts. "I overstepped the boundaries," he said. "You can relax. I promise I won't touch you again."
Good, because she wasn't crazy about having her willpower put to the test again.
Chapter Eight
"Grandma, Derrick kicked me under the table."
"Did not." The boy's denial was accompanied by a mischievous smirk.
"Did, too."
"Don't kick your brother, Derrick."
"Pass that sausage gravy down this way before you set it down, Bart."
"This bisque is absolutely to die for, Lenora. You'll have to teach me to make it."
"I'll be happy to, but I warn you—it doesn't always turn out this well. It all depends on the quality of the shrimp."
"And thanks for putting the seafood crepes on the menu. I've been craving them all week."
"Langston told me, and we have to keep our mom-to-be happy."
"Are there more biscuits in the warmer?"
>
"Yes, I'll get them," Lenora said.
"Let me," Matt said, already pushing back from the table.
Matt had promised that Shelly's first Collingsworth Sunday brunch would be a treat, but she hadn't been prepared for anything quite so elaborate or delicious. Nor had she expected to be so totally welcomed into the family. It wasn't that they'd made a production over having her join them at the massive dining room table. Quite the contrary.
Once the introductions had been made, they'd just accepted her as one of their family. Their large, boisterous, hungry family. The only surprise was Jeremiah. From all the talk she'd expected him to react negatively to her. Instead he'd given a sly wink as they'd bowed their heads for the blessing. Almost as if they were coconspirators in a private scam.
That had been the end of their bonding, though. Before the amen had cleared Langston's mouth, Jeremiah had dived into his meal with gusto. All else was forgotten for him. The rest of the family spent as much time chatting as eating.
Matt's sister Becky complained that her estranged husband wanted to keep the boys an extra week that summer. His unmarried sister Jaime raved over a dress she'd found on sale at the Galleria.
Langston's pregnant wife, Trish, described the newest addition to the nursery—a musical mobile of prancing horses that Langston's office staff had given them. Bart's wife Jaclyn, hung on Trish's every word. Shelly suspected she was eager to have a child of her own.
Shelly made herself the designated listener. It was her job. She reminded herself of that with every breath.
Just because the Collingsworths exuded bountiful love and warmth within their family circle didn't mean that they hadn't crossed the lines of morality and legality when it came to their business dealings.
Just because Matt could send desire zinging though her didn't mean he wasn't guilty of treacherous acts in the name of greed. Just because his kiss had haunted her dreams last night didn't mean she couldn't keep him at a distance and see this assignment through.
And why was she even thinking about him now?