Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(3)
She looked around again. Clear. What was the harm in letting her hair down a bit? She was properly dressed in a sensible gray suit, sensible shoes, with her hair sensibly tied back, her usual camouflage for fieldwork. She was a female in a world of men, and she’d learned long ago to downplay her considerable good looks. Especially in a place as conservative as Texas. West Texas was the most conservative part of the state, the last bastion of the rugged individualist.
Badly needing her usual stress reliever, Emm gave up her battle. Speed was her only vice. Not the oral stimulant, but the automotive version, which was almost as addictive. She had twelve speeding tickets to prove it and had already lost her license twice, getting it back at great cost. Her insurance was astronomical, but nothing invigorated her as much as the wind howling through her hair and the roar of a powerful exhaust cheering her on.
Besides, she reasoned to herself, this car was meant for speed and she only had about thirty miles left to her destination.... She’d earned her favorite high after twelve years of tough academic work.
The needle hovered at a mere eighty-five now, ten over the limit. She took a last careful look around, but this section of road was too open for a speed trap. The needle on her M4 convertible didn’t bobble when she pressed on the gas—in one gentle arc it went from eighty to one hundred in about two seconds. The engine was so smooth, the throaty growl entirely too civilized. The sleek German machine wasn’t even challenged. Feeling one of her hairpins fly free and not caring, Emm pressed harder on the accelerator.
Finally the engine roared back, as if to say, That all you got?
Laughing, having the best time since graduation, Emm pressed harder still: 110, 120, man, this baby could fly. . . .
The wail of the siren was faint at first.
She’d glimpsed something black and big and shiny out of the corner of her eye as she streaked past a gate in a long row of white fencing, but she’d discounted it as a rancher’s truck. She looked in her rearview mirror and stifled a groan, immediately taking her foot off the gas pedal. A siren wailed and she saw a blue and white light flash from a side of the SUV’s roof. The light had obviously been attached only when the driver saw her zip past, so this cop was not a typical highway patrolman.
The neat little speech about how big Texas was, and no, she really didn’t know she was going that fast, her Beamer was a new graduation present, went out the window with her deep breath. “Good going, Emm,” she said to herself. “No one’s more hard-nosed than an undercover cop.” She pulled to the side of the road, got the registration from the glove box, and took her insurance card and her Maryland driver’s license from her purse.
In her side mirror, she watched the man approach. He was tall, over six feet, with iron gray hair she could just glimpse under his expensive Stetson. Black, of course, to match his black jeans. His shirt was white, a dress shirt crisp with starch, sort of like his spine. His eyes were covered in mirrored shades, but there was no mistaking his glacial tone. “If you want to race that fancy little import, I can give you the address of a racetrack in Lubbock. Do you have any idea how fast you were going and all the lives you endangered, including mine, as I was about to pull out of my driveway, by driving like that?”
“I’m sorry, Officer, I was just in a hurry to get to Amarillo. You know, I’m like that bumper sticker: ‘I’m not from Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.’ ” He’d stopped at her open window now and perused her documents, glancing between her driver’s license photo and her flushed face. Her hairpins had long ago lost the battle, and her brown mane, shot through with blonde and red highlights, was tangled. She took off her sunshades so he could see her eyes. She blinked. “See, blue? Just like it says. I promise I’m not here to commit murder or fraud. . . .” So far her attempt at charm had been an abysmal failure, so she tried her original approach. “This car was a graduation present after I got my PhD. I’m still learning all the bells and whistles. I truly didn’t know how fast I was going.”
He didn’t buy it, obviously. His mouth was beautifully shaped, meant for laughing, but she couldn’t get it to even twitch. She’d been out of the dating scene too long.
With a curt, “Don’t move,” he stalked back to his SUV to run her ID. She stifled another groan. It had almost taken an Act of Congress to get her license back last time, not to mention thousands in fees and a good traffic attorney. Once he saw how many tickets she had. . . . Nevertheless, she was stunned when he returned to her side of the car with a pair of handcuffs.
“Get out of the car, please.” He stepped back slightly, appraising her with eyes she knew were arctic behind the shades.
She looked at the Start button on her dashboard. She had one of the new ignitions, the kind that started only when the key was in the car. Her foot was on the brake, so she only had to punch that Start button and she could quite literally leave him in the dust.
Be sensible, Mercy Magdalena, she could hear her Irish grandmother pleading from the grave. This was not a good beginning to her first field investigation, and fleeing an officer of the law would not endear her to her federal employers. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. Besides, she might need some help from the local constabulary in looking for Yancy.
He’d stiffened alertly, as if he’d read her mind. His icy politeness softened to a Texas drawl that was somehow more menacing. “Please, do it. Resisting arrest carries a much longer sentence than speeding, and I’d purely love to buy your car at the police auction.”