Best Kept Secrets(56)

"Does she look like her mother?"

"Not much," he said shortly. "There's a resemblance,

that's all."

Her smile was slow, feline, crafty. "She bothers you,

doesn't she?"

"Hell, yes, she bothers me," he shouted. "She's trying

to send me to prison. Wouldn't that bother you?"

"Only if I was guilty."



Reede clenched his teeth. "All right, I've read your letter and given you my opinion. Why don't you haul your ass out

of my house?"

Unperturbed by his anger, she leisurely ground out her

cigarette in his tin ashtray and pulled her fur coat around her

as she stood up. She gathered up her cigarettes, lighter, and

the envelope addressed to Alex, and replaced them in her

handbag. "I know from experience, Mr. Reede Lambert, that

you think my ass is quite something."

Reede's temper abated. Laughing with chagrin, he

squeezed a handful of fanny through her clothing and snarled,

"You're right. It is."

"Friends?"

"Friends."

As they stood facing each other, she smoothed her hand

down his belly and cupped his sex. It was full and firm, but

unaroused. "It's a cold night, Reede," she said in a sultry

voice. "Want me to stay?"

He shook his head. "We agreed a long time ago that in

order to remain friends, I'd come to you to get laid."

She drew a pretty frown. "Why'd we agree to that?"

"Because I'm the sheriff and you run a whorehouse."

Her laugh was guttural and sexy. "Goddamn right, I do.

The best and most profitable one in the state. Anyway, I see

I took good care of you the other night." She'd been massaging

him through his jeans, with no results.

"Yeah, thanks."

Smiling, the madam dropped her hand and moved toward

the door. She addressed him over her shoulder. "What was

the urgency? I don't recall seeing you in such a dither since

you heard about a certain soldier boy in El Paso, name of

Gaither."

Reede's eyes turned a darker, more menacing green. "No

urgency. Just horny."

She smiled her knowing smile and patted his stubbled

cheek. "You'll have to lie better than that, Reede, honey,

to put one over on me. I've known you too long and too



well." Her voice drifted back to him as she stepped into the

darkness beyond his door. "Don't be a stranger, sugar, you

hear?"



Sixteen



It was no longer sleeting, but it was still very cold. Patches

of thin ice crunched beneath Alex's boots as she carefully

made her way from her parked car toward the practice track.

The brilliant sunshine, which had not deigned to appear for

the last several days, now blinded her. The sky was a vivid

blue. Jets, looking no larger than pinpoints, trailed puffy lines

that sometimes crisscrossed, matching the miles of white

fencing on the Minton ranch that divided the compound into

separate pens and paddocks.

The ground between the gravel road and the practice track

was uneven. Tire tracks had worn permanent ruts in it over

the years. It was muddy in spots where ice had already surrendered

to the sun's rays.

Alex had dressed appropriately in old boots and jeans. Even

though her hands were gloved in kid leather, she raised her

fists to her mouth and blew on them for additional warmth.

She took a pair of sunglasses out of her coat pocket and slid

them on to combat the sunlight. From behind their tinted

lenses, she watched Reede. He was standing at the rail clock-big

the horses between the timing poles placed every sixteenth

of a mile.

She held back a moment to study him unobserved. Instead

of the leather bomber jacket, he had on a long, light-colored

duster. One boot was propped on the lowest rail of the fence,



a stance that drew attention to his narrow buttocks and long

thighs.

The boot she could see was scuffed and well worn. His

jeans were clean, but the hems were frayed, their denim

threads bleached white. It occurred to her that the flies of all

his jeans were similarly worn, and she was shocked to realize

that she knew that.

His wrists were propped on the top fence rail, his hands

dangling over the other side. He was wearing leather gloves,

the same ones he'd had on when he'd pulled her against him

the other night and held her while she cried. It was odd, and

deliciously disturbing, to reflect on how his hands had moved

over her back with nothing except a terry-cloth robe separating

them from her nakedness. A stopwatch lay in the palm

of the hand that had cupped her head and pressed it against

his chest.

He had on the cowboy hat she'd first seen him in, pulled

down low over his brows. Dark blond hair brushed the collar