Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(38)

“That doesn’t help. Trust me, I tried it. Maybe you should grab what you want instead. Would have saved me and Jasmine a ton of trouble if I’d done that. You know that as well as anyone.”

Ross couldn’t evade his friend’s gray eyes any longer. “So what do you think of her?”

“I think she belongs here; she just doesn’t know it yet. And I think you want her for more than a night or two. I’ve never known you to be swept away with passion like that on someone else’s doorstep.”

Jasmine looked between the two, unsure about that last part, but she only said, “She’s delightful, Ross. Are things . . . serious between the two of you?” Jasmine patted Trey’s back as he rested against her shoulder, his eyes fluttering drowsily.

“I . . . don’t know. Maybe.” Ross couldn’t lie to his two best friends. He’d wanted their opinion of Emm and he had to rush, knowing she’d be back any moment. “She’s a Rothschild, you know.”

“So?” Chad shrugged. “You’re a Sinclair. Seems like a good match to me.”

“She reminded me instantly of Elaine.”

“That’s your baggage, amigo, not hers.”

As usual, Chad cut to the chase, but Ross realized he was exactly right. He could hardly complain about being alone if he wasn’t willing to take a chance on the only woman to truly draw him in more years than he cared to recall. By the time Emm came back into the room, her face free of makeup, her cheeks pink, Ross realized she’d been so moved by little Trey that she’d had to scrub her face. Probably for the second time in an hour.

His mouth spread into a smile more sensual than he realized. Chad cradled Jasmine beneath his arm while he looked at his old friend with a what-are-you-waiting-for? challenge.

Ross watched Emm play with her shawl and realized she was having a hard time dealing with the feelings this visit had aroused in her. He took pity on her, rose, and expressed his profuse thanks to Jasmine for the delicious meal, then said they’d have to be going as he had a ton of things to catch up on at his ranch.

Emm expressed her own warm thanks. Jasmine and Chad walked them to the door, Ross carrying the paper bag of goodies she’d packed for them from the leftovers.

“We’ll be back in a few weeks,” Chad said as they approached the SUV. “We’d love to do this again. Maybe we could pull out some cards or dominoes.”

Emm looked at Ross. “That sounds lovely, but I may be . . . gone by then.”

Chad looked at his old boss. “We’ll see,” he only said, ushering his wife back inside.

Ross helped Emm into the car, wishing he felt as confident as Chad. He had his answers. . . . She’d make a wonderful mom. And Jasmine and Chad both really liked her.

Now what?





CHAPTER 8

That Sunday, in Mexico City, Yancy argued with the cook in voluble Spanish about the menu for the fiesta. Arturo had slowly given her more authority in the household over the past few months, especially when he saw her talent with flower arranging and managing the kitchen. After his attack in the living room, Yancy had bitten her tongue more than once, and whatever suspicions he might have of her seemed to have abated. He was in the middle of finalizing some big deal, she knew, because she’d seen Euro-type trash in expensive suits, covered in tattoos, coming and going at all hours, arriving and leaving in armored limousines. They spoke Spanish with heavy Eastern European accents, she guessed from Bosnia or Chechnya.

If she’d been less worried about Jennifer, she might have tried to eavesdrop to get details for her eventual escape, but she knew if she was caught it wouldn’t just be she who was punished. So she played the submissive mistress, planning the fiesta with the servants. As a reward, that morning in his bed Arturo offered her the hemophilia meds with a flourish. “Hard to get, so make them last.” Yancy kissed his cheek in thanks, watching him dress.

“I will be busy all day today. You have all the supplies you need to decorate for the fiesta?”

Yancy pulled the silk sheet around her naked torso and tucked it under her armpits. “I still need more lanterns to light the walkways, and shoes to finish my dress and Jennifer’s.”

He tossed a huge pile of pesos on the nightstand. “Take the car for half the day and get everything else you need. I’ll tell Gustav.”

Gustav was the head chauffeur.

Yancy nodded, yawning, for he’d kept her up late. She sometimes wondered if he took Viagra, or if he was naturally so virile. The more she submitted, the more gentleness he offered, even occasionally calling her querida at the height of passion. But she still hated him, hated him for making her into his personal sex slave, hated him even more for letting his son turn her lovely honor student daughter into an addict.

After tying his Hermès tie, he hauled her up in the bed, jerking the sheet away and running a possessive hand down the pleasing arc of her body. He lingered at the base of her spine, as he usually did, tracing the howling wolf tattoo she’d had imprinted at her tailbone. It had been this tattoo that had so intrigued him the first time he saw her naked, with the other victims in the sterile fluorescents of the warehouse where they’d been unloaded after making the trek over the border, drugged and quiescent, in the false bottom of a big rig.

With her blonde hair and green eyes, she was unique among the other girls, even though she was obviously older. She so resembled her daughter that he knew immediately she was related to Jennifer. But when he saw the tattoo, his eyes fired with an unquenchable lust that still, many months later, showed no signs of abating. She knew in his twisted logic that because he was the alpha male of the Los Lobos cartel, the tattoo marked her as his property. This rebellious symbol of her youth had saved her, along with her fluency in Spanish, from being shipped overseas and separated, probably forever, from her daughter.