Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(7)
He wadded up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace for kindling. Being a Ranger captain just wasn’t fun anymore. It was bureaucracy, paperwork, soothing the big egos of all the VIPs in various federal departments. Every time he turned around, a new task force was being formed. Turf wars had always been rampant, but just keeping abreast of all the frickin’ laws the Texas legislature loved to pass was a challenge.
And technology.
Everywhere, every day, technology was a curse and a blessing. Like all great advancements, it could be used both for good and for evil. Drones, for example. They’d just received their first one, but he wasn’t sure he trusted either the guy operating it—he still had pimples and looked like a kid using a very fancy video game—much less the legality of the data collected.
Bottom line: He couldn’t keep up even working fourteen-hour days and most weekends.
Glad he’d taken this Saturday off, Ross rubbed his temples, wishing for a cigar, but he’d finally managed to quit smoking totally when Jasmine informed him he couldn’t visit the baby very often if he still smoked. Most people didn’t dictate to Ross Sinclair, but he adored Jasmine, saw how happy she made Chad, and the baby was so much fun, he’d accepted her decree. He’d been meaning to quit anyway. Still, he was about to get up and see where he’d left that last Gurkha Centurion he sometimes still gnawed on, an elite Honduran tobacco that was one of his few vanities, when the doorbell rang.
He knew José had retired for the evening, and he didn’t expect him to come all the way from the top floor just to answer a door twenty feet away from his boss. Still, as a precaution, given all the drug lords he’d pissed off, Ross stuck a Glock in the back of his pants before he opened the door.
He seldom got unannounced visitors, especially this late on a weekend, but when he saw his guest, he was shocked literally speechless.
That Rothschild woman stood there, her hair tangled, her makeup long gone, still dressed in the same, now wrinkled, conservative suit. She was biting her lip nervously and held a small box wrapped in blue paper with a bow. She gave him a tentative smile that stretched her sensual mouth and hit him below the belt. That really pissed him off . . .
“How the hell did you get out of jail so soon?” he finally managed. “Judge Trent wasn’t supposed to see you until Monday morning.”
“I know how to pull a few strings, and the Texas attorney general is a friend of my grandfather’s. I’ve paid the fine and pleaded no contest, so they let me keep my license. For now. But I told them I’d personally apologize to you for my reckless behavior.” Her smile widened hopefully. “So here I am. Sorry to show up so late, but I think we’re both people of action.”
He swallowed a groan and still glared at her, leaving her standing on the threshold. “How the hell did you figure out where I live? I know the department wouldn’t divulge that.”
“You told me.”
He blinked.
She elaborated. “Remember, you said I almost ran over you when you were coming out of your driveway. My car was towed from just up the road, and the towing company gave me the GPS location.”
His ire faded a bit, but she still made him feel . . . funny. He didn’t like it; it was a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, so he still stood there, blocking her. Texas hospitality be damned. Neither one of them were of Texas birth anyway. A trace of New York came back into his tone as he snapped, “Fine, what the hell do you want?” She tendered the box she held. “I’d have been here sooner, but I had to have these shipped same day FedEx because I couldn’t find them anywhere in Amarillo.”
He took the wrapped box, and even without removing the paper, he knew instantly what it was from the heft and shape. He stepped aside, waving her in, but he’d get her the hell out as soon as possible without being any ruder than he already had been.
When she stepped inside, he realized she was shivering. The Texas spring was as unpredictable as usual, warm during the day, but now a chilly breeze was howling. “Come inside. I’ll warm you a brandy.”
He swept a hand before him, and when she entered the great hall, he nodded at one of the leather wing chairs by the fire and tossed the package on the adjacent table. He added a bit more kindling to the dried oak wood fire and went to the wet bar in a corner of the room to pour her brandy into an expensive Waterford snifter. He took time to put the Glock out of sight behind the counter, not wanting to scare her. She was from the Northeast and had probably never even seen a pistol.
When he returned with her drink, she was leaning back against the wing chair, holding her hands to the fire, which was just now beginning to roar, her eyes closed, and for the first time he realized she was very tired. All the more puzzled at why she’d tracked him down so late, he poked the fire up a bit and held her snifter close enough to warm the brandy slightly.
He handed it to her. She accepted it gratefully, warming her hands before taking a sip. She coughed slightly, then took a deeper, more appreciative sip. “Is this Courvoisier Reserve?”
He nodded, not surprised she recognized the expensive taste. Her shivering stopped when he put the pashmina coverlet over her legs. Partly so he didn’t have to look at them, but she didn’t need to know that.
Her voice slightly husky, probably both with tiredness and the brandy, she asked, “Aren’t you going to open your present? It’s more than an apology, actually. It’s a peace offering.”