Texas Rose (6 page)

From beneath her pillow, she heard the doorknob turn. She knew Beth meant well, but she couldn't deal with her exuberance, either. Not this morning. Peeking out from beneath her pillow, she began to beg off whatever it was that Beth had in mind.

Her words froze.

Matt—not Beth—was standing in her doorway.

The pillow fell to the floor as she scrambled into a sitting position, dragging her blanket to her as if the man standing there hadn't already seen her nude, in the afterglow of lovemaking.

Why couldn't he leave her alone and just let her die in peace?

Damn it, even with sleep lacing her lids and her hair all disarrayed, Rose was still the most beautiful woman Matt had ever seen. He felt himself becoming aroused just looking at her.

If he wasn't the kind of man he was, he would break out of the restraints he'd imposed upon himself and slip into bed with her this instant. He was certain he could erase the protest from her lips with next to no effort at all.

The taste of her mouth from last night was still on his lips, the imprint burned into his soul as well as his memory.

No, he thought again, next to no effort at all.

He smiled at her, remembering Beth's pep talk. “Morning.”

Flustered, Rose blew out a breath. “Yes, it is. But
I would have figured that out without you.” She gestured toward the light streaming into her room through the windows. “Is there anything else earth-shattering you want to tell me?”

She was testy. He wasn't used to that. But he figured it was a hurdle he was going to have to overcome. Matt leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed at his broad chest. For now he was content to remain here, just looking at her and letting his thoughts drift.

But knowing it wasn't possible, he got down to business and answered her question. “I was just wondering when we could get started.”

“Get started?” she echoed dumbly. Just what the hell was he implying? What had Beth said to him? “Doing what?”

He looked at her innocently. “You're supposed to be my tour guide, remember? Your aunt went to the trouble to write up an itinerary for me.”

She scowled. Itinerary her foot. Beth was supposed to be on her side, not his.

“Are you still pretending you want to play tourist?” She'd thought they'd gotten beyond that ruse last night. He wasn't interested in seeing the city; he was interested in reclaiming his pride, which she'd wounded by leaving him.

He grinned at her and she tried her best not to succumb.

“It's my story and I'm sticking to it.” His eyes
locked with hers. Maybe Beth could read eyes, but he couldn't. When she wasn't being angry at him, he hadn't a clue what Rose was thinking. “This is supposed to be the most fascinating city in the country. So fascinate me.”

“I'm not the city.”

“But you know it better than I do,” he pointed out. “You wouldn't want me to get lost, would you? Suppose I did and something happened to me. You'd never forgive yourself.”

She sighed. This baby was absorbing all her tolerance, and right now whatever remained of it was being laid siege to by both Matt and her aunt. Being outnumbered didn't make her feel very friendly.

“Don't bet on it.”

But that was exactly what he was doing. Betting on it. Betting the farm, the ranch and the whole nine yards. He took a step into the room and saw the guarded expression that came over her face.

“I could bring you breakfast. There's some fruit salad left over from last night.”

Rose made a face. “Just apple juice.” It was all she could hold down in the morning lately, and at times not even that.

“No coffee?”

The mere mention made the walls of her stomach pucker and twist.

“No, no coffee.” She began to get out of bed, then
stopped. He was still standing there, watching her. “Do you mind? I have to get up and get ready.”

“You didn't mind me watching you get dressed the last time,” he reminded her, a hint of a wicked smile on his lips.

She remembered. Remembered slipping on her dress while wrapped in his warm gaze.

She struggled to keep back the thrust of desire before it could take hold.

“That was then, this is now.” When he made no move to leave, Rose picked up a shoe and threw it in his direction. “Go.”

“I'm going, I'm going.” He laughed, ducking, as he left the room. The shoe landed against the closed door and fell to the floor.

I
n the temporary housing of the Men's Grill, Spencer Harrison frowned as he flipped his cell phone closed. There'd been no answer. Again. This looked as if it was getting serious.

He liked to think that he wasn't given to needless worrying, although since entering his third decade and after becoming the local D.A., Spence had found himself doing a great many more worst-case scenarios than ever before. Including the period of time when he'd been a marine and he, Tyler, Ricky and Flynt had been held captive by the enemy.

Spence'd been the one who'd told the others to not give up hope, firmly believing that someone—most likely their commander, Phil Westin—would find them and help them fight their way out of the hell-hole. And they had. Westin had engineered a plan that had freed them. An ex-juvenile delinquent earmarked for an early end, Spence had been miraculously plucked out of the destructive path his life had been headed and given another chance. Optimism had been his hallmark ever since.

Even so, experience had begun to slowly sink in,
tempering his optimistic bent. He'd known early on that life had a nasty habit of rising up and hitting you right between the eyes when you least expected it.

Hell, just look at what was happening with the commander. Westin had been sent to Central America on a secret mission to thwart a drug lord whose long tentacles were insidiously reaching more and more people in Texas. If anyone could bring down this El Jefe character, Spence knew it would be Westin.

Had he still been a marine, Westin's current status would have been M.I.A. No one knew where he was.

And now, on top of that, Spence couldn't reach Luke.

As far as he knew, none of the others had seen Luke for several weeks, either. Granted Luke Callaghan was the original millionaire playboy who owed no explanations to anyone. At thirty-four Luke could certainly take flight at a moment's notice if he wanted to, and he usually did.

But this time…Spence mused thoughtfully, studying the way the amber liquid coated the sides of his glass as he tilted it. This time it felt different. Luke could always be reached before, either by the pager built into his Rolex, or via the cell phone he was literally never without.

But Spence'd been unable to successfully reach Luke using either device.

Then an uneasiness had taken hold of him and began to eat away at him.

Spence knew for a fact that the celllular server Luke used, a high-tech, state-of-the-art service that was utilized by the government, didn't experience downtime or out-of-calling-range regions. So what was going on?

Where the hell was Luke?

A slight commotion at the entrance had Spence raising his eyes and looking in that direction. Just in time to see Tyler Murdoch and Flynt Carson walking in. He'd called each of them, asking them to meet him here.

“So here we are, back at the old watering hole,” Flynt said, nodding a greeting at Spence as he took his seat.

Taking the chair on the other side of him, Tyler looked around.

From where he sat, the ex-demolitions expert looked a little uneasy. Curious, Flynt asked, “What is it?” as he looked at the man next to him.

Tyler would have never admitted this to another living soul, but he trusted Flynt and Spence beyond all reason. He'd trusted both with his life and if he were ever in any dire situation, he would have rested easier knowing that the man coming to his aid was either one of them, or Luke, Westin or even Ricky Mercado for that matter, despite the recent unpleasantness that had flared up between Ricky and the others.

“Ever since the bomb went off, I'm always a little
uneasy coming in here.” He looked around at the temporary quarters. “I keep expecting something else to blow up.”

Flynt dismissed the fear with a shrug of his shoulder. “Bombs never strike twice in the same place.”

“That's lightning,” Spence corrected him, “and it does.”

Picking up the new menu, Tyler opened it. “Well, that goes a long way in reassuring me.”

“It didn't have anything to do with you. It wasn't a random bombing,” Flynt reminded him. “We already found out that bomb was meant for Westin, to keep him from going to Central America on the mission. Sheriff Stone wanted to be sure that no one and nothing interfered with the sweet deal he and that band of henchmen of his had going with El Jefe, remember?”

Stone, along with the men who were part of a group known to one another as The Lion's Den, had since been arrested and were awaiting trial. At least one of El Jefe's tentacles had been lobbed off, but they all knew there were others. A great many others.

“Stone needn't have gone through all that trouble,” Tyler observed cynically, “seeing as how someone's obviously gotten to Westin down there.”

He tried not to worry about his former commander, but it wasn't easy. There were regions in Central America where a man could get lost and never be heard from again.

Trying not to dwell on what he couldn't do anything about, he turned to look at the honey-blond waitress who had approached their table. Just for a second, there was something vaguely familiar about the young woman, but he dismissed it.

“Scotch,” he ordered, then turned back to the group. “I take it Westin hasn't surfaced yet?”

Spence shook his head. “He's still missing.” He waited while Flynt ordered a drink and asked for a refill. “Speaking of missing, have either of you heard anything from Luke?”

“Why?” Tyler asked. “You think he's the father?”

The question came out of left field. Spence finished his drink, setting the chunky glass down just as the waitress returned with their orders. “Of who?”

“The baby Flynt found. Lena. Boy, I thought D.A.'s were supposed to be sharp,” Tyler quipped. “They must have really lowered the standards with you.” His smile faded a little as he looked at Spence more closely. “What's the matter, Harrison, you look as if you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Suspicion gave way to uneasiness. It wasn't like Spence to look so solemn. “Why did you ask us to meet you here today, anyway?”

Taking his glass from the waitress, Spence nodded his thanks and took a long sip before answering. He wanted to dull the edge of his concern, just for the moment.

“To look at your ugly mugs,” he retorted, and then he added more soberly, “and to ask if Luke's been in touch with either of you.”

“Not me,” Flynt testified, taking a long sip of his own drink.

“Me, either,” Tyler added. “I doubt he's talked to Ricky, either.”

They all knew that the fifth member of their group, the group that had gone through both the Virginia Military Institute and the Gulf War together, was estranged from them.

Ricky Mercado's family had ties to the Texas Mafia via his uncle, who was head of one of the mob families, and his own father, Johnny, who was an unwilling participant, blackmailed into remaining with the mob to protect his family and keep them out of harm's way. Johnny's efforts were largely unsuccessful. His wife had been eliminated by the mob as a warning. His son Ricky had apparently succumbed to the lure of the mob, forsaking his former friends because of an argument that had ensued over the death of his sister, Haley, who had drowned while in the company of Luke, Spence, Flynt and Tyler. She had fallen overboard while the four had been intoxicated. They hadn't even realized she was gone until it was too late. Ricky never forgave his former comrades-in-arms.

Tyler leaned forward, looking at Spence. “You worried about Luke?”

“A lot could happen to a man out there,” Spence said, defending his concern. “Look at Westin.”

It was obvious that they were all trying to maintain positive thoughts about the commander's situation. “Hey,” Flynt retorted, “despite the fact that the man is richer than God, Callaghan can take care of himself, remember?”

“That's what we all said about Westin, too,” Spence reminded them.

He took out his cell phone again.

 

Haley Mercado aka Daisy Parker, Lone Star Country Club waitress, felt her heartbeat as she heard the three men mention her brother Ricky when she served them drinks. They were the same men who had been brought up on negligent homicide charges involving her so-called accidental “death.” She'd only learned of the charges after the fact. By then, she had been in London and had already undergone plastic surgery.

Staying dead, the circumstances of which she had purposely staged herself, was the only way she had of ensuring that she would remain alive. She'd later discovered that Judge Carl Bridges had arranged for her escape, and had gotten the four men acquitted of all charges.

It was the judge who had told her about her mother and who had arranged to sneak her into her mother's hospital room disguised as a nun. It had been the last
meeting between mother and daughter. Haley's mother had passed away that evening. The official diagnosis differed with the truth.

Isadora Mercado had been smothered.

The four men at the table hadn't mentioned Ricky again. They were now talking about Luke. He was missing, according to Spence.

Fear gripped her heart.

She hurried away, afraid that one of them might suddenly recognize her, despite the great lengths she had gone to with her disguise. A small part of her felt empowered, to move among them this way without their knowing who she was. But linked to that was fear that one or the other might suddenly look into her eyes and see the young girl they used to know, the tag-along who had been more than half in love with Luke.

The woman they had almost gone to prison over.

 

Damn, but she looked good enough to eat.

Matt Carson smiled to himself.

That was the very same thought he'd had about Rose when he'd first walked into the library that day, looking for an old magazine article about horse ranching someone had recommended to him.

Rose had been behind the centrally placed information desk. When he'd approached feeling very lost, she'd primly asked if she could be of any service.

He'd kept to himself the answer that had instantly
popped up in his mind. She hadn't looked the type to indulge in risqué repartee. Instead he'd asked her if he could take anything out of the library he wanted. When she'd said yes, he'd asked if he could take her out.

She'd almost shown him the door, until he'd backtracked and told her about the article. She'd pointed him toward the computer. Faced with trying to use a device he'd religiously steered clear of, Matt had thrown himself on her mercy and asked for help. She'd had no choice but to give it.

By the time the article had been located and printed, Matt had been completely captivated by her smile, the supple body that moved so sweetly beneath the light-blue dress she'd been wearing, and the scent of jasmine that lingered around her like a seductive cloud, making him almost feel giddy.

He'd asked her out before ever knowing her name, or she his.

Discovering she was a Wainwright had momentarily taken him aback, but hadn't deterred him. After all, what he'd had in mind was to be something strictly casual, a good time for both, nothing more.

Apparently, discovering that he was Ford Carson's son had been a definite stumbling block for Rose. She turned down his invitation to dinner, and continued to turn him down each time he'd asked her out, though secretly taken, she later told him, with his determination. Matt began visiting the library on a reg
ular basis, to “browse” and to apply himself to breaking down her defenses.

Because Rose resisted him—something no other woman he'd encountered had ever done—Matt had been completely determined to wear her down.

Waging a never-ending campaign that lasted for several months had turned out to be worth it.

God, he thought now, was it ever worth it.

The first time he'd kissed her, it was to wipe a trickle of vanilla ice cream from the corner of her mouth. That was the excuse he'd given her and his own heart had raced like a young schoolboy's a moment before his lips met hers.

She'd tasted like heaven and he'd been completely hooked.

It wasn't long after that that they'd made love for the first time, he recalled, remembering everything about the sun-drenched afternoon in the open field. He'd gotten hooked on that, too. Alarmingly so, he now realized.

Right from the start, he just couldn't seem to get enough of her, but he'd consoled himself with the fact that this, as everything else, would lose its luster for him. It always had before, though he'd never experienced anything so intense. After all, Rose represented a conquest and when they'd made love, that meant she'd been conquered.

But something had happened to him during his campaign to set siege to her and storm her ramparts.
Matt had become so entrenched, so caught up in trying to win all the game pieces, that he'd lost his way back to his side of the board.

He'd completely lost himself.

He wanted to find himself again, to find the man who had loved his freedom more than anything else in the world. The trouble was, he'd ceased to remember what that man looked like.

Freedom, he was beginning to suspect, was just another term for rootlessness. And a part of him was getting tired of being rootless.

Matt got up from the dining room table where he'd been taking coffee with a sleepy-eyed Beth, his conversation with the woman halting in midword when Rose emerged from her bedroom.

He'd never seen Rose wear anything like this back home. She had on a short, wraparound skirt that showed her legs off to their full advantage and a cropped electric-blue blouse that barely covered her midsection.

The woman was making his mouth water.

Matt put his half-empty cup down as an afterthought. “You ready?”

Beth seemed to come to life just then. “Oh, but you can't leave without having breakfast, dear.” The protest was directed toward Rose. Ada, Beth's part-time housekeeper, was busy in the kitchen, so Beth leaned across the table to peer into the next room. “Ada, Rose'll have the eggs.”