Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(8)
He obliged, seeing what he’d expected: a wooden box filled with his favorite cigars. This time he didn’t bother asking how she knew, because he’d been chewing on one when he arrested her. The fact that she recognized the brand, could afford an entire box shipped the same day, and had gumption enough to approach him to make peace, told him volumes about her character. She had class, she was extremely intelligent, she had her PhD, or so she’d claimed when he arrested her, but she was also courageous and didn’t shirk from making tough decisions. All qualities he admired in a woman, but he wanted to keep disliking her. Had to keep disliking her. She wasn’t the rural Texas type, to put it mildly.
“Thanks,” he said, “but it wasn’t necessary.”
“I promised the judge I’d apologize in person to you, so it was necessary. I’m very sorry I was so difficult. It had been a long trip, but that’s no excuse.”
When he only shrugged, she added more forcefully, “Besides, this is West Texas, right? Land of hospitality? Can’t we smoke a symbolic peace pipe and bury the hatchet?”
At the image she evoked, he finally had to crack a smile. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. “Are you saying you smoke cigars or that you want to bury a hatchet between my shoulder blades?”
She laughed. “A little of both, maybe, but we can start with the smoke.”
She had a sense of humor, too. But since he was refusing to like her, he merely opened the box, took out two cigars, fetched his clip from the bar and a crystal ashtray, and went back to her side. He started to snip the ends of the cigars, but she gently covered his hand. “Let me. I used to do this for my grandfather.”
The touch of her soft hand flowed through him, more warming than the brandy, but he told himself it was the fire, which was roaring now. Still, he put the ashtray on the table between the two chairs and handed her the clipper, the lighter, and two cigars.
She went through the ritual, rolling a cigar between her fingers and then smelling it discreetly, a distance from her nostrils. Finally she clipped the end, rose from her chair, and leaned over him to put the flavorful tube between his lips. With an adept, practiced motion, she lit the clipped end. It fired quickly. He took a deep draw, the warm smoke immediately soothing some of his nerves. He made a mental apology to Jasmine, but this woman had brought him an entire box of the cigars he pined for, and he couldn’t be rude enough to ignore her peace offering, even if she was a law breaker who put every defense he had on high alert. As a man, and even, for some reason, as a lawman. He sensed a second agenda in her she wasn’t admitting to. No matter how she couched it, this extravagant gift was a bit of a ruse.
He caught a whiff of something as she leaned over him. He wasn’t sure what it was; it was too pungent for perfume or moisturizer or any of those other female things. When she straightened, her wrinkled jacket coat, already open, fell off her shoulders, and before she shrugged it back on, he saw the slight sweat stains under the armpits on her silk blouse. They were dry now, but had obviously happened when she was bombing along the road in that convertible under the bright sunshine.
Every male instinct in his body went on full alert.
He was smelling a very slight whiff of sweat under her deodorant, but it wasn’t disagreeable; in fact, it reminded him of another female part, fresh out of the shower and in his bed. A familiar tingling began in his groin, and he was so discomfited at who’d aroused it that he took a deeper puff, blowing the smoke out forcefully until he couldn’t smell her anymore. Pheromones, he told himself, and he was only susceptible because it had been months since he’d visited his local friend with benefits.
Then the woman moved away and lit her own cigar. He didn’t miss her slight cough, or the fact that she didn’t inhale, but he let it slide. He had a good memory, too, and he recalled her saying speeding was her only vice, so she was going through this ritual to smooth his ruffled feathers and was obviously not a smoker.
The question was—why?
His cigar was half gone when she finally ventured a tentative, “Is there anything else I can do to make amends?”
He bit down on the cigar and the remark he wanted to make—yeah, follow me upstairs. Instead, he put the cigar in the ashtray and gently rotated the gleaming bud out so he didn’t crinkle the rest of the tobacco. His physical reaction to her was neither welcome nor acceptable, so he decided to fight it the only way he knew. Besides, she owed him an explanation after invading his private space. “Yes. Tell me the reason for this elaborate ruse.”
She stiffened slightly. “No ruse. I really am sorry.”
“No doubt, especially when you wrote the check for the fine.” He slicked back his sleeve to peek at his watch. “Look, it’s after midnight and I have to work tomorrow—” A card appeared in front of his nose. He was too embarrassed to put on his specs, so he held it as far away as he could, as if he needed the firelight to read the plain but elegant embossed card. Her name, followed by PhD, above National Preservation Trust Officer and, below that, the address for the National Parks Service in D.C.
Ah, so that was it. He looked from the card to her very still face. Lovely, oval shaped, with a sensual mouth. Waiting, not exactly serene, but as if to say the next move was up to him. She was lovely in the firelight. She had that fair smooth skin, clear cornflower blue eyes, perfect white teeth, and the long, thick, healthy hair of the privileged. Good nutrition, good vitamins, excellent breeding. What else could one expect of a Rothschild?