Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(14)

Sighing, he did the right if not the expedient thing and took the time to stack firewood in the grate, enough for a good-sized fire. She put her glass down to help, but he waved her back.

He had a gas log, so the kindling was already catching by the time he dusted off his hands and sat in the second chair to sip his own martini. He caught the sideways looks she kept sending him and finally asked, “Have I grown two heads, or do you just like keeping people off balance?”

She took another sip for courage and rushed out, “I was just wondering why you made the fire. It’s late, and I know you have to work tomorrow. This really isn’t a social visit, so I’m fine if we just get on with the plans—”

“I could see you wanted one.”

That really tilted her head sideways as she stared at him. “I’m in a tiny apartment in Baltimore and I miss having a fireplace, but you couldn’t know that.”

He shrugged. “It was in your face, and you shivered.” It was his turn to eye her speculatively. “I’d have thought you owned your own fancy townhome with lots of windows and an itty-bitty lawn.”

“So you’ve been to Baltimore?”

He nodded. He’d been to more than one fancy, power-elite party thrown by various family members.

She opened her mouth to say something obviously vehement, thought better of it, finished her martini in a gulp, and put her glass down with a snap. “No, I don’t live in a townhome. Anyway, thanks for the drink and the olives, but it’s getting late, so we need to get to the plans.”

Now what had he said to make her go evasive like that? Ross wondered. He could usually read people early and well, probably the main reason he’d risen in the Ranger ranks as quickly as he had, but she was an enigma. When she got up to open the old, yellowing plans he’d spread out on the sofa table, her face and form limned beautifully by the firelight, he thought she must fit Fibonacci’s famous golden ratio in the balance of her form and face: 1.618. The ideal of true beauty and symmetry . . . what would she look like naked?

She’d already flipped through the entire set of plans while he was drooling over her. “See this structural schematic?” She pointed at a structural blowup drawing of the area where they’d stood beneath the brown ceiling.

He had to physically grip the edge of the table to master his restive urges and force himself to listen. Dammit, why must she smell so good?

“See this structural red iron beam that supports all the floor joists? We can get a good read from a structural engineer and the soils analysis to discover whether it still meets these tolerances. Then we’ll know for sure if I’m right that the leak is cosmetic.” She let the plans roll back up again. “We’ll need to have these copied so we can give him a complete set. I have someone in mind who I’ve worked with before, but if you have your own firm, that’s fine. . . .” She trailed off to stare at him.

Only then did he realize that he was standing all too close but not looking at the plans where she pointed. Instead, he was staring fixedly at the hollow of her throat, at the pulsing beat of her heart. He felt like a vampire, so badly did he want to taste that vibrant rush of blood and life and test it with his tongue. He reddened at her expression and stumbled back a step, his own flush so bright it heated his face even in the warmth of the fire. What the hell was wrong with him? His booted foot brushed against one of the wing chairs and he stumbled slightly.

Automatically, she reached out to catch him, but by then he was a good six paces away. “Mr. Sinclair, is something wrong?”

Everything, he wanted to retort, but with this much distance he was able to master his out-of-control libido. “No, I’m just tired, stumbled a bit. You go ahead, contact whoever you think is best for the job. The structural inspection we had done was several years ago and was only a walk-through, so I can see we need something more thorough. Just have him send his scope of work and estimate to my home e-mail before he starts.” He scribbled his home e-mail on the back of one of his work cards and handed it to her, careful not to touch her fingers. “Would you like another drink before you go?”

She got the message. Shaking her head, she grabbed up her shawl and wrapped it close around her shoulders. Not quite a protective cocoon, but he also got the message: hands off. “Would you like me to have the plans copied, or do you want to do that?”

Her voice was very cool, and because he was all but rushing her to the door, he couldn’t blame her. Wordlessly, he wrapped the rolled plans back in their brown tube and handed them to her. She accepted them in one arm and slung her purse over her shawl on the other, turning for the door.

He drew a sigh of relief but followed her to courteously open it. She moved to cross the threshold but stopped and looked up at him. “Do you have . . . a public information officer on the task force for human trafficking?”

He blinked. What the hell? How did that have any bearing on the debate over his buildings?

She must have seen his confusion because she said primly, “I’m looking into the disappearance of . . . a friend. I was told in Baltimore that she was probably brought through Texas to Mexico, and that the Texas Rangers are heading the task force. I saw your name listed yesterday in the San Antonio paper—”

Ross pulled her back inside and slammed the door. “Is that what this has all been about?” Dammit, he knew she’d had some kind of hidden agenda beyond her job. “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t give you details of an ongoing investigation.” He read the words trembling on her tongue and said bluntly, “And even if you could help in some way, which you can’t, I wouldn’t be the one to question you—”