Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(60)
“Thanks, Chad.”
On the door sill, Chad paused to look at his mentor and friend. “You know, Jasmine and I probably wouldn’t be together now if I hadn’t kidnapped her and asked you to arrest her.”
This startled a smile from Ross. “Are you suggesting I follow suit?”
“I’m suggesting you don’t let her get away even if you have to hog-tie her to your bed.” With that plain speaking, Chad nodded and closed the door behind him.
The sound of Chad’s words echoed more loudly to Ross as he climbed the stairs to his room than all his fears put together.
So what would he do if Emm refused his proposal? Ross smiled grimly, reaching for the handcuffs he kept handy next to his bed. Not for the obvious reason; merely so he could grab them quickly with his badge and gun. He’d had no likely candidates to take to his room. Until now . . .
CHAPTER 12
The next morning, Emm’s eyes were bloodshot from a restless night as she prepared for her first official presentation as a historical trust officer. She knew the entire Sinclair family, probably including Ross, would not like what she had to say, but he’d seen the survey results by now, so he couldn’t quibble with her original analysis. They’d been too busy with . . . other things to discuss the buildings, but the Sinclair trust members needed to be aware that she was recommending to her bosses that the buildings be preserved. While their renovation would potentially be more challenging and less lucrative than a ground-up multistory building, the community and tax credit benefits were huge. More importantly from the perspective of Amarillo’s downtown revitalization, the preservation of one building often led to the restoration of others.
When she’d run through her PowerPoint for the third time and was secure in her ability to convey her passion without notes, she turned her laptop off and eyed her messy room. Inside her still slumbered somewhere—under the just-business professional—the idealistic little girl who’d adored Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella. She wanted to believe Sinclair was her prince who’d come, perhaps almost too late, to rescue her from her dreary existence, but she was also a modern woman who knew that one toss of the bedsheets did not a long-term relationship make. Especially with a man in his early fifties who’d never been married and was obviously skittish about women.
Reluctantly, she did as she ought, not as she wanted, and packed most of her stuff. Whether Sinclair asked her to stay or not, she had to be ready to leave for Mexico City because nothing, not even her own hope of future happiness, could get in the way of finding Yancy and Jennifer.
Telling herself the tears in her eyes were from determination, not despair, she left her room key and a generous tip for the maid on the bed, lugged her bags into the hallway, and wheeled them to the elevator.
She got a complete copy of her lengthy bill so she could be reimbursed for her expenses by her employer and then nodded at the bellhop’s offer of assistance. “Can you store them for me for a few hours until I can get my plans settled?” she asked.
He did so, leaving her free to walk out carrying only her purse and briefcase. She’d already set up a luncheon appointment with Curt following her presentation. She intended to wheedle, beg, and, if that didn’t work, threaten Curt into flying to Mexico City with her. She knew Ross and Abby would be on high alert the minute they found her gone, and they had the connections to trace her reservations on a commercial airline.
But a private jet listed only under Curt’s name? They’d never find her in time to stop her from going to Mexico City. As to what she did next, she’d stayed up half the night as she used Google Earth to pinpoint several potential candidates for the mansion she’d glimpsed in the photo. The wrought iron was custom and very distinctive, and after spending hours searching, she’d only found three structures on the outskirts of the city that had the same style of fencing.
She had a plan, at least the beginning of one. Its execution would depend on whether Curt was with her or not . . . which was another reason he had to go with her. She spoke some Spanish, but he was fluent, and if he truly had nothing to hide and still cared for Yancy, once she told him about the bloodied fabric samples and the photos, he should be willing to help.
Her conscience pinged her as she recalled her promise to Abby and Ross not to share that information, but Yancy and Jennifer’s lives were at stake . . . Besides, feeding him enough information to hang himself would aid, not block, the investigation. If he was really a money launderer for one of the wealthiest, most ruthless crime lords on the face of the planet, she could be in danger, too, just as Ross had feared, but it was a risk she had to take.
When she arrived at Ross’s ranch a bit before nine a.m., expensive cars of all types, even a Rolls or two, crowded the circular drive in front of the house. She had to very carefully parallel park between a Mercedes and another BMW even to find room for her car. Taking her laptop and file full of handouts with her, she climbed the stairs. She was reaching for the bell when the door burst open and two teenagers in new jeans and spotless boots almost knocked her down the steps as they ran outside.
Laughing a “Sorry, miss,” they hurried down to the outbuildings, where she now saw tables set up with white-and-red-checked tablecloths. Saddled horses were tended by several cowboys in traditional chaps and hats.
The roundup, it seemed, was about to begin. Emm gingerly stepped inside Ross’s vast foyer. It, too, looked different, with red, white, and blue bunting strung from beam to beam and wrapped around the balustrade leading to the upper floors. A huge cowhide rug was centered on the flagstones.