HORSES AND HEROIN (Romantic Mystery) (2 page)

“Couldn’t. The guy sneaked off when we shipped some horses to Mexico.”

“You sending horses to Mexico now? Dammit, Garrett.”

“Not for meat,” Garrett said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that. But there’s a training center that wants to restart racing in the Baja. Some of their students come up for schooling—grooms, exercise riders, jockeys. They’re scraping for racehorses. When I have a surplus of Thoroughbreds, I ship them down and everyone’s happy.”

“This dealer was never caught?” Scott asked. “He just disappeared?”

“Yeah. Guess he stayed in Mexico. His family has been a pain in the ass. Wanted him treated as a missing person. They insisted on an investigation which caused us all kinds of problems. Piece of shit really screwed the school. But with a PI and ex-cop as director—maybe I could even list you as teaching an addictions course—I’m sure our renewal would be rubber stamped.”

Scott rolled the pencil between his fingers. He wanted to help. Garrett was his oldest friend—the guy had been there for his first bike, his first beer—but Garrett never worried much about rules, and some of his deals simply made Scott shudder. “I can’t condone a class I have no intention of teaching,” he said mildly, “and I don’t want to come on as a director. Too many liability issues.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. You and your damn ethics.” Garret chuckled but his laugh carried a hint of desperation. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve already had my lawyer look into the liability aspect. They’ll make sure you’re protected. We can work out a different title too. I just need some pictures of you on the brochure. Maybe that shot of you with the governor.

“And even if you just set up the addictions course,” Garrett went on. “Spend five minutes in the classroom then turn it over to my instructor. That would work. When the government sees we have an expert on board, someone like you who’s made such a stand against drugs, and with that recent commendation… My God, man, you took a bullet for that kid.”

Scott closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting Garrett’s words drone against the pounding in his head. Garrett was on a roll now. Even as a kid he’d been a natural promoter. Yet his SoCal Jock School did sound worthwhile compared to many of his often sketchy ventures.

One of Garrett’s jockey grads had even made Scott some money, bringing in a longshot the first day of the Santa Anita meet. It was doubtful though that Thoroughbred racing could ever be re-established in the Mexican Baja. Those glory days were gone. Still, Scott gave them full marks for trying.

“Garrett.” He was finally able to slide in some words. “I’d like to help, but I don’t want any…misrepresentation. I need to be comfortable with this. But if you give the details to my assistant, maybe she can figure something out.” There was no way he’d trust Garrett’s lawyers, not when he had Belinda and his own legal team. “Hang on a sec,” he added, rising from his chair.

Belinda’s lips thinned as he summarized Garrett’s request. “Sure, I’ll talk to him,” she said, picking up a pen. “But I’ve always thought he was a bit of a schemer.”

“Yeah, but it’s for a good cause so take it easy on him,” Scott said. “It’d be nice to keep his jock school operating. Industry reports are excellent and he’s putting out decent riders.”

Belinda sniffed, and Scott walked back into his office, feeling a twinge of pity for Garrett.

Twenty minutes later, she appeared with a handful of papers and a satisfied expression.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ve agreed he can list you as school consultant and special lecturer but definitely not a director. He thinks that will be enough…since you’re going to live onsite for a month, teaching his new Addictions 101 class.”

Scott jerked in horror.

“It’s okay.” Grinning, she positioned a colored printout on the middle of the desk. “He has a vacant villa with a pool, Jacuzzi and fully stocked bar. You’ll teach no more than two hours a day, four days a week.”

“Absolutely not, Belinda!”

“Plus there are great trails and you can ride any horse you choose.”

Scott tilted forward, unable to hide a spike of interest. Garrett always had a good eye for a horse. “Thoroughbreds or Quarter Horses?” he asked.

“Both. There might even be some cattle on the grounds. They run an occasional stock management clinic.”

“And Garrett’s satisfied with that? It’s enough for government approval?”

“It’s fine, although it wasn’t quite what he wanted. I did agree he could use your picture on his brochure as well as the Taylor Agency’s name. The publicity will be great for business.” She gave a disapproving sniff. “The racetrack industry always needs our services.”

“Doubt there’ll be much need for investigative services at a jock school,” Scott said. “Expect it’ll be boring as hell.”

Belinda’s expression turned smug. “I expect it will.”

CHAPTER TWO

Megan took a final bite, savoring the delicious blend of caramel, chocolate and pecans. After eight days of tofu and carrot sticks, the chocolate bar was manna from heaven. She hadn’t intended to dip into the bag, not until she returned to her dorm, but the forbidden treats were impossible to resist.

She wiped her mouth then checked the truck’s cracked dashboard clock. Thirty-three minutes before her next class. Plenty of time. She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of her instructor’s ire. Only a week into the program and she’d already witnessed Lydia’s wrath when a student was caught sneaking a cookie. The model-slim Lydia wouldn’t consider a run to the store for chocolate any excuse for tardiness.

Fortunately, Megan was enrolled in the exercise rider program and didn’t have to watch her weight as obsessively as the jockeys. Unfortunately, the cafeteria’s menu was limited, and the closest store was ten miles down a winding country road.

She wondered if her brother had ever craved chocolate. Probably not. He’d been so eager to be a jockey, a real jockey with papers to prove it. Don’t think in past tense, she chided herself. It was ludicrous to believe Joey would run off to Mexico. He’d always kept in touch with his family, even during rehab. And his text messages had sounded so happy. Her mother had lived for those messages.

On impulse, Megan grabbed her phone.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, forcing a cheery note. “What’s new?”

“Not much. Nothing from the police. Myra dropped by with some of her cinnamon buns.”

Megan could barely hear her mom’s low voice. She switched off the radio, but the roar from her cracked muffler couldn’t be silenced as easily. “How’s Stephen?” she asked. “Did he get anywhere with Missing Persons?”

“No.” Her mother’s voice quavered. “Guess we just have to wait and pray Joey comes home. All they can tell us is that he went to Mexico five weeks ago. How’s your design course?”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Megan cringed at the lie but her mom and step-dad would freak if they knew what school she was really attending. “I haven’t been doing much over the last week. Studying, a little exercise. I even lost a few pounds.”

She forced a chuckle even though her aching muscles screamed. Jogging an extra mile every morning certainly hadn’t prepared her for the rigors of riding school. “Did Joey make any bank withdrawals yet?” she added. “Use his phone?”

“N-nothing.” Her mother’s quaver ripped at Megan’s heart. “And his credit card hasn’t been touched either. Maybe the police are right. Maybe he
is
back on drugs.”

“No! No, I really don’t think so.” Megan calmed her voice. “He would have needed money. I’m sure he was clean. And I don’t care what the school said. He made some mistakes before, but not recently. I’m positive.”

“Doesn’t matter what kind of trouble he’s in. Stephen and I just want him to call.”

“I know, Mom. Listen, I’ll check back on the weekend. Say hi to Stephen. I love you.”

She stiffened as a sleek gray car loomed aggressively in her rearview mirror. Please, not a cop. She didn’t want any trouble. Didn’t want anyone at the school to know she was Joey’s sister. She dropped her phone between the two seats—one of these days she’d get a hands-free device—and wrapped her fingers around the wheel.

She peeked again in the mirror and blew out a sigh of relief. Not a cop. A Mercedes emblem was conspicuous on the hood. Cops didn’t drive luxury cars.

She eased off the accelerator, pulling slightly to the side of the twisty road so the car could pass. Maybe if her truck were ten years younger, she’d have gunned it. Her rueful gaze met the driver’s, and he raised his hand in polite acknowledgement before cruising past.

Soon he was just a gray streak on the narrow road and once he rounded the next corner—

Oh, my God! A huge pickup careened around the bend, straddling the centerline, heading for the car that had just passed. She jammed on her brakes, certain she was about to witness a head-on collision. But the Mercedes swerved into the ditch, kicking up a flurry of gravel and dust as it bounced over the rough ground for what seemed like an eternity.

The pickup slowed. Two heads swiveled. Then holy shit, it sped up without even bothering to stop.

She bumped her truck to a stop on the rutted shoulder, pried her phone out from between the seats and stumbled toward the ditch, her heart pounding. Movement flashed. Clumsy with panic, she reached for the driver’s door, afraid of what she’d see. Her CPR was rusty. She should have taken that class offered in the fall, and not been such a recluse.

“Did they clip you? Are you okay?” a man asked, his voice a deep baritone as he calmly pushed open the door and stepped out.

“I’m fine,” she said, studying his face for signs of shock. “You can wait in my truck. I have chocolate.” Her fingers shook as she tried to press 911.

He pried the phone from her hands. “Don’t bother the police with this. They have enough to do.”

“But…that truck didn’t even stop.” She crossed her arms and realized she was shaking. “They didn’t care.”

“Typical punks.” His voice hardened as he leaned back into his car, emerging with a pencil and paper. “What do you think? Late model Dodge pickup. Two-door?”

“Don’t know. But it was cobalt blue,” she said.

He looked up from the paper, amusement flashing in his cool gray eyes. “Cobalt. Okay, thanks. With the color and plate, the police can track them down.”

“But I didn’t get the plate. It happened too fast. I’m almost sure it was two guys though.”

“That’s okay. I got it.” He scribbled something, head bent.

“You remembered their license plate? Even when you were ditching it?” She jammed her hands in her back pockets and stepped back, feeling rather useless. “You must have a good memory.”

“For some things. Not phone numbers.” His smile was slow and deep, crinkling corners of his eyes and my God, she couldn’t look away. Chiseled jaw, a hint of stubble and distractingly gorgeous.

“So,” he asked, “what’s your name and number?”

“Megan. Megan Spence,” she croaked, flustered. She didn’t usually give out her number but had to admit it was easy to give it to this guy. It wasn’t just his numbing good looks but something else, an easy confidence that made her feel safe. Important. “But I live in L.A.,” she added. “I’m only here for a little while.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, well, maybe I’ll see you in court or something?”

“Don’t worry about court.” His grin deepened. “I doubt the police will even call you. Is that your truck?”

She nodded, watching as he jotted down her license plate. Very efficient, she thought, studying him covertly. He was lean and handsome with short-cropped golden brown hair. Looked like an athlete or maybe a Special Forces type, except his skin was rather pale and there was a faint line on the side of his head.

“I think maybe you banged your head.” She edged forward, straining to see. “Looks like a mark—”

“Old injury,” he said, not looking up, but his voice turned crisp and clearly the subject was out of bounds. “I’ll report this, arrange for a tow and hopefully no one will bother you. I appreciate you stopping.”

“No problem.” She peeked at her watch. Lydia’s class would be starting in exactly seventeen minutes. However, it seemed cruel to leave him stranded on a lonely road waiting for a tow that might take hours. And she was quite certain he’d banged his head, despite his denial. He’d stiffened when he bent for the paper. Not exactly a wince, but something. Plus, he was damn good looking, and it had been a long time since anyone had roused her interest.

She jammed her hands in her back pockets, ignoring her ticking watch. “It might be a while before the tow truck comes. I have a rope in my truck. Want to give it a try?”

“Sure. I’d appreciate that, Megan.”

He wrapped her name in such a deep smile, her pulse tripped. She nodded and tried to walk gracefully toward her truck, aware of his very male scrutiny. Damn. She hadn’t changed since morning gallops. She probably had helmet hair, but at least her shirt and jeans were passably clean.

She did a quick frontal check, wiping off some stubborn horsehair, then stepped up on her back tire and pulled a rope and shovel from the truck bed. She turned, almost bumping into him. His approach had been so silent, her breath whooshed in surprise.

“I’ll carry it.” His voice had a calming effect. “A shovel too. Good. You must be a ranch girl.”

“Not anymore.” She passed him the heavy rope before jumping to the ground. “My mom and step-dad still live on the ranch, but I make jewelry now.” At least she did when she wasn’t trying to find her brother.

She paused, still holding the shovel, watching in concern when he abruptly splayed a hand against the side of her cab. His mouth tightened, as if in pain. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You went into the ditch pretty hard.”

“I’m fine.” He straightened with a curt nod. “I left the hospital recently.”

“Then I’ll fasten the rope.” She pulled it from his hands, ignoring his protest, and hurried to the ditch before he could stop her.

“I’m smaller anyway,” she added. Besides, he had the shoulders of a Greek god and she doubted they’d fit under any car. She dropped to the ground and quickly wiggled beneath the bumper. “I helped my brother tinker around with a lot of machinery. And German cars are always great. It’s never a problem finding a place to attach.”