Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(13)
Seven thirty rolled around all too quickly for Ross. After another long, tedious day of paperwork and phone calls coordinating resources between the six different agencies he was managing in the human trafficking task force, Ross was in no mood for company. He’d only been home for a few minutes, and he had to drag his carcass up the stairs to his bedroom to freshen up. He brushed his unruly hair, trying to quell its tendency to curl a lock into his eyes, then his teeth, checked his deodorant, and put on a fresh shirt, resolving to get the damn woman out of there as quickly as possible. He cursed himself for not taking time to have the plans copied so he could give her a set and solve the problem, but it was too late now.
He was barely at the top of the stairs when the doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch. Eight exactly. She was punctual, at least. He liked that in a woman. Especially in a beautiful woman. He waved José away. “I’ll get it. See you in the morning, amigo.”
José gave the bottom of the stairs a curious glance, then looked back expectantly at his boss.
Ross hadn’t said a word to him about his late-night guest, but José had the hearing of a bat and the olfactory capability of a blood hound. Plus Ross knew he wanted his boss to have a se?ora to help run the ranch. Ross needed to work less and socialize more, or as José, who was as much a friend as a retainer, put it with a sly wink, “Dancing with se?oritas bonitas is better for hombre looking por una esposa than—” and José mimed pushing papers around and stapling a pile, making up in acting ability what he lacked in English vocabulary.
Ross had always given José a lot of latitude, but he wasn’t in the mood for another one of their fruitless debates on the subject. José recognized his narrow-eyed glare and wisely closed the door to his small suite of rooms as Ross started down the stairs. Yes, maybe I need a woman, but this isn’t the right se?ora, he said to himself as he opened the door. But when he saw her, his critical thoughts scattered, and he froze at his own entrance.
Emm had obviously dressed and showered away the dust of the building tour. This time she wore a buttercup yellow sundress. Over her shoulders she’d draped a yellow Mexican shawl embroidered with enormous silk flowers and ending in a multicolored fringe. Again, he was nonplussed, trying to read her, for at first she’d looked more like a Vera Wang devotee than an earthy hippie type who loved huge flowers and fringe.
She extended her arms, showing off the shawl. “You like it? I found it downtown at a souvenir shop. They told me it was hecho en Mexico.”
Her unexpectedly perfect pronunciation of the Spanish broke the spell. Wasn’t there anything the damned woman couldn’t do? And must she always look luscious while doing it? When she tilted her head, looking at him curiously, he gathered his wits and swung the door open. “Mi casa es su casa, se?orita.”
She playfully bobbed a curtsy and entered. He had the plans spread on a long console table behind the sofa, but he hadn’t had time to lay a fire, and now that the sun was down, the air was growing chilly. His mouth was literally watering at the sight of her, so he walked to the bar. “Can I get you something to cut the chill in the air?”
She put her fingertip to her chin, tilting her head. “Let me see . . . how about a Lemon Drop martini?”
He glared at her over the bar. “I might be able to scrounge up an extra dirty one because I have olives, vodka, and vermouth, but that fancy stuff you can order in town.”
She had to grab the shawl as it slipped off her arm, so her response was somewhat hurried. “I just thought you must have already juiced some lemons. Because of the look around your mouth.”
Sourpuss. She was calling him a sourpuss. He wanted to stay remote and rocky as Gibraltar, but a laugh slipped out. “I deserved that one. But it’s not you. It’s . . . the day I had.” He nodded at the chair by the fireplace. “Please, sit. Tell me what you saw in town today.”
While she described the retail stores she’d visited and what she could see doing with some of the old buildings still vacant, he expertly mixed up two martinis in the shaker. He poured one for her, one for him, and added two premium garlic-stuffed olives to both.
She’d been using her hands to describe a building she particularly liked and seemed not to have noticed the slipping shawl. He noticed. The sundress wasn’t low cut, but it had a lace-up ribbon bodice that emphasized her curves. This time, when he leaned over her, she smelled of roses. Not Chanel, or any of those other, even fancier names that ended in vowels. Just roses. Again, it was unexpected that this complicated, wealthy, well-educated woman would scent herself with smells of the earth instead of an expensive perfume.
When she accepted the glass, their fingertips brushed. Fire tingled up his hand. He jerked away so fast, the liquid sloshed in the martini glass, dribbling on her dress. He flushed. “I’m so sorry. Let me get a towel.”
She brushed at the dribbles. “No problem; the garlic will cover the scent of the vodka and the hotel has laundry service.” She took the olive out of the glass and ate it with gusto in two bites. “Do you have some more olives?”
Glad for the escape from the scent and sight of her, he went behind the bar and dumped half the contents of the olive jar into a small glass dish. When he took it back, she was nursing the martini and staring into the cold fireplace. She opened her mouth, closed it, and used the toothpick he’d given her to spear another martini olive, but he caught her slight shiver.