Sinclair Justice (4 page)

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?

The top button of her silk blouse had come undone, exposing the slight edge of a lace bra, and he couldn’t help it; he fixated on it. She was shaped exactly as he liked, curvaceous instead of the model thinness so the rage in Hollywood.

She looked down. Even in the dim firelight he saw her blush as she quickly buttoned the blouse closed. Well, at least she didn’t use her sex appeal like the dangerous weapon so many beautiful women wielded. In fact, she’d tried to downplay her assets, no doubt because of the nature of her job. The fact that she was so sexy and appealing while trying not to be perplexed him, and, strangely, drew him more.

He rose. “I should have realized who you were. The way you were dressed, the East Coast plates. You knew me before you came here, didn’t you?”

“I only had to look at your name on the ticket. I knew your name, but you didn’t know mine. Shall we start over again?” She rose to face him and offered her hand. “Mercy Magdalena Rothschild. But please, call me Emm. As in Auntie Emm, except my nickname is because of the double Ms in my name.”

Reluctantly, he shook her hand. Immediately he released it because he’d felt that unwelcome warmth travel up his arm again, to his gut and below. Great. Just wonderful. He already had enough distractions just now, with the missing girls task force that was proving to be an interjurisdictional challenge and police departments nationwide were sending him new cases. Just today, the press was about to blow their cover. To say nothing of his entire family due to arrive momentarily for the annual gathering he’d barely had time to start planning. And now this.

When he didn’t speak, staring over her head moodily, she lifted her chin and said briskly, “Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but I came here with the best of intentions. Preserving old buildings is my calling, just as the law is obviously yours. We’re both well-educated professionals. Can’t we agree to disagree and not make snap judgments until we have all the facts?”

“I have all the facts, including a soil report and structural analysis—”

“I read them. They weren’t conclusive. With so many advances in structural materials, it’s quite possible a reasonable renovation could not only meet those tolerances, it could exceed them. I have to see the buildings themselves. Is it possible we could make an appointment for tomorrow?”

“In a hurry to get back to civilization?”

He wanted to call the words back the moment he’d said them, but it was too late.

Those cornflower eyes wilted to grayish blue as they went opaque. She pulled her jacket tighter about her shoulders and turned toward the door. “You have my cell number on the card. I’ll check into a hotel and wait for your call, but I cleared my schedule for a number of weeks, so I’ll be here until you have time to show me the buildings.” She marched toward the front door, where she turned to face him again. “I’m sorry for bothering you so late.”

Now he felt guilty. He followed in her wake, feeling both churlish and uneasy, two emotions so unusual for him, he could hardly give them names. He couldn’t quite say he was sorry, so he did the next best thing. “I can follow you back to town. It’s late and the turns can get confusing—”

“I have a good GPS, thank you.” At the door, she turned and offered her hand again.

This time when he reluctantly reached for it, her fingertips barely brushed his. She apparently didn’t want to touch him any more than he wanted to touch her. After the way he’d acted, he could scarcely blame her. He wasn’t clear on the consequences of a negative report from her, but he knew it would be one more hassle he wasn’t capable of handling right now, especially with the family bearing down on him, wanting to know why the development they’d insisted on funding couldn’t proceed.

As she reached for the huge front door lever, he said, “Look, I have a full schedule tomorrow, but I usually break for lunch. There’s a nice little café called Julienne’s half a block from our buildings. I’ll meet you there at noon sharp and give you a tour, if we can make it quick. Good enough?”

She gave a brisk nod. “I’ll be there. Thanks for the brandy. I hope you enjoy the cigars.”

He wanted to tell her no, he couldn’t, he was trying to quit, so she might as well have handed him a box of apples. He knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation, at least occasionally, but then everything about her was walking temptation, and the fact that she didn’t know it only accented her allure. But before he could say another word, the door had closed behind her. Firmly. Not quite a slam, but it was a heavy door.

Grinding his teeth and wondering why this strong attraction to someone totally inappropriate had to hit him at the worst time possible, he stirred down the fire and went up to bed. It was a while before his chaotic thoughts calmed sufficiently for him to get drowsy enough for sleep. The last thought on his mind was Emm. He said her name aloud, his lips stretching in a smile more wolfish than he realized.

No one had ever been named better, and he had to wonder if the nickname came from an old boyfriend. She didn’t resemble Auntie Em, or even Dorothy. Her name, when he drew out the taste of it on his lips, was “mmmmm.”

 

Back in town, after a two-hour circuitous route because her Maryland-based brand-new navigation system had trouble with Texas ranch roads, Emm finally opened her hotel room door. She’d chosen an historic boutique hotel downtown, not for convenience but because she’d much rather stay in an old building with character and questionable modern amenities than the steel monolith a few blocks away that no doubt had huge marble baths and steam showers.

She tossed her two small bags on the chenille bedspread covering the brass bed. God, she was exhausted. She’d picked up a San Antonio newspaper in the lobby but was too tired to read it. She took a quick shower in the tiny shower cubicle with a plastic curtain instead of a glass door, dressed in her usual night attire of a teddy, and got into bed. For the first time in a long time she’d looked at herself in the mirror, wondering why she bothered with the sexy black lace teddy when she’d slept alone for a year, but she knew it was her own inner rebellion against propriety, like her speeding. She was a deeply sensual woman and most men hadn’t a clue, but her choice of night attire even on a business trip was a tell to anyone with acute observation skills.

Like a Texas Ranger . . .

She expected to fall asleep immediately, but Ross Sinclair’s handsome face kept creeping in behind her tightly closed eyelids, as if she could keep him out that way. Without his sunshades, he was every bit as handsome as she’d expected. His thick iron gray hair set off the deep cerulean of his eyes, which were a much darker blue than her own. She smiled a bit herself as she recalled his expression when she finally gave him her card. She was quite sure few people ever put him off balance, but she’d sensed unease in him several times. While she couldn’t account for the source, she knew it was probably a good thing as far as her historic investigation went. He couldn’t dismiss her easily now because he needed a report from her that stated she agreed the buildings were not appropriate for restoration. Only then could his family legally tear them down because the Texas Resource Commission had filed a stay with the parks department.

She couldn’t quite say she had the upper hand as she was still the interloper from the East Coast he obviously disdained, despite the very faint trace of an upper-crust Hamptons’ accent she sometimes detected. She knew his background. He knew little of hers, aside from his almost certain recognition of her famous name, though few people realized her father was not from the moneyed side of the family. That was the way she wanted to keep it. The thought occurred to her that if she gave a report recommending the buildings be saved and denied the Sinclairs their development, they could come back and claim she was retaliating for her arrest. But while she hadn’t known Ross Sinclair very long, she sensed he was far too honorable for a trick like that.

She fell asleep on the thought, but somehow his perfectly sculpted mouth as he leaned over her with the pashmina followed her into her dreams.

 

The next morning, when she arose, there was moisture between her thighs, but she only did a quick sponge bath and pretended not to recall her erotic dreams. As Yancy would say in her blunt way, she just needed to get laid.

Nevertheless, she dressed more carefully than she’d planned. She’d met the hodunk honcho now, so she could afford to be a bit more casual. She pulled on skinny pants that molded lovingly to her long legs and added a tunic. The tunic had a slightly military look, with brass buttons and gold braid. She’d paid a fortune for it at a Neiman Marcus Last Call outlet, and with the navy pants and low-heeled boots that came up to her knees, she was good to go even if she had to step over fallen beams and the like.

After a quick breakfast of eggs and toast in the tiny downstairs coffee shop, she walked outside. The changeable Texas weather had fully made the transformation to spring, and it was already in the seventies. She knew the buildings where she was meeting Sinclair were to the right, so she deliberately turned to the left, exploring Polk Street, the most historic area of downtown Amarillo. She consulted the map of structures she held in her hand. She saw some buildings fully restored, even a full-sized Marriott that had taken over what she knew to be an old office building because it was already listed on the National Register of Historic Places, a list compiled and supervised by the federal parks department. After a building met stringent historic criteria, the developer of each historic structure was allocated 20 percent of his construction budget in tax credits. In that way federal tax policy tried to help preserve the nation’s historic buildings, and it was one of the few federal programs Emm thought had been slam-dunk successful.

As she walked, she saw other buildings sitting forlorn with boarded-up broken windows. Throughout America, many cities were still struggling with the circular dynamics of reviving their cores. Renovating old buildings took craft, knowledge, commitment, and, most of all, money. Developers wouldn’t take on the task without the economic promise of profit. Profit required foot traffic and retail shoppers; foot traffic required fun outlets, restaurants, best of all, private housing. It was a classic demand-and-supply loop Emm figured builders had been facing since the Agora in Athens.

She stopped in front of a vacant building with broken front windows. Windows like that always reminded Emm of the ancient Greek habit of putting pennies on the eyes of the dead. They were empty, lifeless, and it was now both her passion and her calling to bring them back to life.

Her equilibrium restored, she browsed in a cute novelties shop, and then it was time to meet Sinclair. She found the door to Julienne’s and entered, the bell tinkling. It was a classic little take on a French café, a delight in a cow town, with checked tablecloths, tiny vases filled with wildflowers, and elegant cut velvet booths. She wondered if he’d selected this location to put her at ease or to accent the fact she didn’t belong here. She was a bit early, but he was already seated at a booth near the door. He rose when he saw her and extended his hand.

“Good afternoon. My name is Ross Sinclair, and I’m head of the trust that owns the Draper and Hoover buildings. You must be Ms. Rothschild, historic trust preservation officer. It’s nice to meet you.”

Relieved he was taking her seriously despite the arrest, she shook his hand, playing along. He wanted a clean slate, and under the circumstances, that was best. “Wonderful to meet you at last, Mr. Sinclair.”