Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(11)

“Good afternoon. My name is Ross Sinclair, and I’m head of the trust that owns the Draper and Hoover buildings. You must be Ms. Rothschild, historic trust preservation officer. It’s nice to meet you.”

Relieved he was taking her seriously despite the arrest, she shook his hand, playing along. He wanted a clean slate, and under the circumstances, that was best. “Wonderful to meet you at last, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Call me Ross.”

“Please call me Emm.”

“Emmmm.” His lips quirked as he drew out her name, and she flushed as something very male flashed in his eyes when he surveyed her brass button–bedecked chest. But then he handed her a menu with a flourish and told her about the specials.

“You come here often?” she asked as she perused the menu.

“Just about every other day. It’s the best food downtown. It reminds me of Paris.”

She digested that, ordering the quiche and salad of the day. It didn’t escape her he ordered sirloin, rare. They made small talk while they waited, both of them storing up energy for the imminent battle. Despite the truce, Emm was acutely aware of every move he made, from the precise way he folded the linen napkin over his lap to the way he placed his water glass. When the food came, his manners were more a legacy of cotillions than a Texas ranch. Finally she couldn’t stand it.

During a lull in the conversation about how Amarillo’s booming economy was due, at least in part, to oil and gas, she blurted, “Why have you stayed in Amarillo?”

He blinked, obviously off balance, but only for a moment. He toyed with his napkin, finally admitting, “Because I feel free here.”

She paused with her water glass halfway to her mouth. From the way he clamped his mouth shut, she had a feeling he’d been more honest than he’d intended. But she only took a sip, put her glass down just so, and asked the logical question. “Don’t you miss your family?”

“Yes, but I see them at least twice a year. I host our annual reunion   at the ranch, and they’ll all be here for it in a few weeks. And you? Do you live near your family?”

“My parents both live in Baltimore, so I see them weekly. My . . . sister is . . . gone.”

His eyes sharpened at her tone and the way she looked away quickly. “Gone? As in traveling?”

She took a deep, steadying breath, wondering if now was the time to explain about Yancy and Jennifer. After all, the cops had told her the Texas Rangers were spearheading the task force, so she figured Ross must be involved. But she had a feeling he’d only clam up and be obstructive to her, what with his obviously overdeveloped sense of duty. Plus, she was the classic outsider. Best to wait until they’d come to some type of compromise, if one were possible, over the buildings.

“Yes. Kinda. I’m trying to reach her, actually.” When he opened his mouth for another question, she folded her napkin over her plate and glanced at her watch. “It’s almost one and I have some work to catch up on, too. Are you ready to show me your buildings?” She lifted her hand for the check, but he grabbed the bill the waiter brought and tossed down three twenties. Big tipper. She liked that in a man, especially as her first job in high school had been waiting tables.

He stood aside for her to scoot out of the booth, offering his arm with old-fashioned courtliness. Trying to remember the last time any man had offered her his arm, she rested her fingertips on what felt like a camel-hair sleeve. He was dressed as before, in black jeans and starched shirt, though this time he wore a tan jacket. She had a feeling he’d look elegant even in overalls. The walk to his buildings was short, and they made a detour into the hardware store she’d seen earlier. He raised an eyebrow at her sole purchase, a level, but only escorted her back outside.

She stopped outside the Draper and carefully circled the small four-story red brick building. It was constructed in the spare style of pre-World War I, with the plain red brick rectangle accented by arched limestone quoins and an ornate Art Deco–style door that was badly scratched but seemed sound. He followed on her heels, watching the careful way she eyed the foundation. Once she knelt to put the level horizontally against a long flat side of the building. The bubble was very slightly off center. She picked at some crumbling cement near the bottom. The cement had been originally constructed in such a way, built up with a trowel, that it resembled stone. All the way around the building, the stone effect was crumbling.

“See the problem? This entire foundation is crumbling.”

She straightened. “That’s not part of the foundation. It’s a curtain wall, purely decorative, and repairable.” She tested with the level again on the opposite side of the building, where the curtain wall was intact. “See? Almost perfect after nearly a century. If the foundation was bad, the wall would be leaning slightly on each side. It isn’t.”

He scowled.

“Shall we go inside?”

Once inside, she eyed the long sweeping staircase and iron railing and banisters that led to the second floor. “Nice.” She tested everywhere: support walls, a decorative pilaster accenting a half wall, door frames. On the third floor there was a slight crumpling in the old linoleum where she pushed the level flat against the wall, perpendicular to the floor. At this point, the level’s bubble teetered far to the side.

He jumped on the opportunity. “How can you expect us to conserve something that isn’t structurally sound?” he demanded.