by Joanna Wayne
"This is her Turnaround Project where she brings a group of inner-city preteens out to get a feel for ranch life. They're kids who've been in trouble in school and sometimes with the law. Behaviorally something or other."
"Behaviorally challenged?"
"That's it. Or as Jeremiah says, undisciplined brats. They usually come in with huge chips on their shoulders, but by the time they leave, most are strutting around and grinning like rodeo champs."
"Sounds interesting."
"For the most part." The waitress returned with Mart's coffee and Shelly's tea. "Tell me about you," he said, once the waitress walked away.
"What do you want to know?"
"Guess we should start with the basics."
"Name, rank and serial number?"
"I was thinking more along the line of why a woman from the big city is looking to work in Colts Run Cross?"
"A thirst for adventure, though today's excitement wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
"Were you giving private, live-in care in Atlanta?"
"No, I worked for a rehab center." She told him something about the setting and the work, all verifiable if he checked.
"I take it you're not married," Matt said.
"No. I came close once. It didn't work out. What about you?" she asked, though she knew he was single.
"Never came close."
"That's hard to believe."
"Why?"
He stared at her with his steely gray, almost brooding eyes, and a tingle that felt far too much like anticipation zinged along her nerve endings. This was completely unlike her—and too dangerous and unprofessional for words.
She forced herself to picture Matt with huge warts on his nose and thick bushy eyebrows that jutted out like porcupine quills.
"It's just that most men have either been married or had a close call or two by the time they reach your age," she said, going for an easy nonchalance.
He smiled, and the warts vanished. "I have a few more years before Medicare kicks in."
She blushed in spite of herself. "I didn't mean that the way it came out."
"It's okay. The truth is, I'm not the marrying kind."
"Tell me about Jeremiah," Shelly said, hoping to get the conversation on safer ground. "Your mother indicated he can be a bit difficult at times."
"She said that, did she? Let's just say that dealing with my grandfather on a daily basis will make this afternoon's trouble seem like a bad dream."
She grimaced. "That bad, huh?"
Matt worried the handle of his mug. "Before the stroke, my grandfather was the CEO of Collingsworth Enterprises and went into his Houston office five days a week. The only concession he'd made to aging was that he'd hired a driver a few years back to fight the traffic for him while he read the morning paper and made phone calls.
"Now he refuses to set foot in the building. He claims he's not interested, but we all know that he just doesn't want to go back there and have his former employees see him hobbling around and relying on the cane."
Jeremiah's stroke had caused a few problems for the CIA, as well. As CEO and with a reputation for being a hard-edge and aggressive businessman, he'd been the focus of their initial investigation. They'd suspected that he might be totally responsible for the terrorist funding in exchange for favorable business deals and that the rest of the family might not even be aware of his illegal dealings.
But when he'd suffered the stroke and disappeared from the picture, the illegal and traitorous activities had actually surged, making it obvious that at least one other member of the family was in on the illegal scheme, perhaps even Lenora Collingsworth who'd replaced Jeremiah as CEO.
"So lots of luck with the old codger," Matt said.
"Thanks. I have a feeling I'll need it."
The waitress returned and placed the burger in front of Shelly. The mammoth toasted bun spilled over with leafy green lettuce and thick slices of the bright red, home-grown tomatoes Shelly had gotten used to since arriving in Colts Run Cross.
Not surprisingly, her appetite sprang to life. Halfway through the burger, she let her gaze scan the row of men and women seated at the bar. A tall, lanky man on the end was staring back at her.
He was in his late twenties, she'd guess, with light brown hair that crawled into his shirt collar. No visible tattoos, but his nose had a slight crook to it as if it had been broken and not reset properly. Still, he was cute enough in a rugged sort of way.
When their gazes locked, he tipped his beer in her direction as if they might have met before. He was probably just one of the locals she'd crossed paths with over the past few days. Still, a wary tremble of foreboding slithered up her spine. She couldn't afford to have someone from her distant past show up and recognize her as shy little Ann Clark from Biloxi, Mississippi.
But he'd seemingly forgotten her now and was flirting with a young woman who'd just sidled in beside him at the bar. Shelly pushed the rest of the burger away. "Do you mind if we go now, Matt? My arm is starting to throb a bit."
"No problem." He motioned to the waitress for their check.
"Do you know what time Lenora is picking me up tomorrow?" Shelly asked. "I'd like to be packed and ready to go when she arrives."
Matt propped his elbows on the table and leaned in closer. "I'm afraid there's been a slight change in plans."
Her guard went up. "What kind of change?"
"I'm going to give this to you straight, Shelly. My brothers and I aren't totally convinced you've been on the up and up with us."
Acid trickled and burned along the lining of her stomach. If she handled this wrong, the whole assignment could go up in smoke. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."
"Just that the kind of random violence we saw today has been previously unheard of in Colts Run Cross."
"So you think that he had to be targeting me?"
"That makes more sense."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Matt, but I don't have those kind of enemies. And if I did know who'd shot at me, why on earth would I lie about it?"
"You tell me."
She feigned an indignant expression and straightened her back and shoulders. "What difference does it make what I say if you think I'm a liar?"
"I'm not saying you're lying. Having you checked out by a private investigator is just a reasonable precaution. It's not personal."
"Really? It sounds extremely personal to me." But it was not a problem for her. You go for it, Matt Collingsworth. Check all you want. The CIA has me covered.
"In all likelihood, we're only talking a couple of days here," Matt said. "I'll cover your expenses at the motel or, if you'd prefer, I can drive you into Houston and book you a room in a more luxurious hotel."
Why not? Money was no object for the Collingsworths.
"The motel's fine. I can wait around there until you decide if I pass muster," she said, "as long as it doesn't take too long." She stood to go, grabbing her handbag from the back of her chair and slinging it over her shoulder.
"There is one more thing," Matt said.
"Let me guess. You want me to stay handcuffed to the bed in the motel until you're sure I'm not luring evil into your quaint little Texas town."
He smiled again, a kind of taunting, half smile that tightened her chest. Not attraction, she told herself. She had that totally under control.
"Handcuffs sound interesting," Matt said, "but I was thinking of something a little less dramatic."
"Such as?"
"Until we know why someone tried to kill you today, I don't think you should stay alone."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Yeah. I'm staying with you."
She couldn't have heard him right. A man like Matt Collingsworth didn't put himself out for a prospective employee whom he suspected might be a blatant liar. But then she wouldn't have expected one of the richest men in Texas to be sitting across from her tonight in a Texas roadhouse, either.
"What did you say?" she asked.
; "On the off chance that the guy who shot you today was looking to kill you specifically, you shouldn't be alone tonight."
"And you're planning to serve as my bodyguard?"
"Why not? I've never gone up against a killer before, but I've handled some bulls that were looking to leave my kidneys scattered over the rodeo ring."
"That isn't necessary."
"Actually, it is. Family tradition, the cowboy code and all that. A real man never walks away from a woman in danger, even one with a loaded Smith & Wesson in her possession."
He'd walk away fast enough if he knew she was CIA— here to put him and his family away for life. But he didn't know, and for now, it would apparently be only her and Matt in a slightly shady motel on the edge of town. Breathing the same stale air stirred by the whirring ceiling fan and overworked air conditioner. Perhaps close enough she'd hear the rustle of sheets when he shifted positions.
She should be thanking her lucky stars for this entree into the inner sanctum of the world she'd come to infiltrate. But only one word came to mind and it seemed to be shouting inside her head and echoing through every cell of her body.
Help!
Chapter Five
Shelly stepped onto the white mat and stared at herself in the foggy bathroom mirror. Water dripped from her hair and drops of moisture glistened on her freshly scrubbed skin. The bathroom in the motel was small, steamy now and barely big enough to accommodate her and her bag of toiletries.
Taking one of the fluffy white towels from the rack, she wound it around her head turban style, catching the short strands of hair so that the trickle of water no longer sluiced down the back of her neck. She reached for another towel to buff her naked body, but stopped as her fingers brushed the slightly damp bandage on her left arm. Wet, in spite of her efforts to keep that arm extended out of the water's reach.
She'd started her mission with a costly mistake, albeit one she'd had no control over. However, thinking back on the shooting incident now, she doubted Brady saw it that way. He hadn't chewed her out or removed her from the case yet, but when anything went wrong, he tended to blame the agent in charge. Screwups of any kind were not tolerated in his department.
But the plan was working. She was in control and even coming to terms with the sensual reactions Matt inspired. He possessed a masculine virility that personified the cowboy charm to perfection. She doubted there was a woman alive who wouldn't feel some sort of stirring in her soul when suddenly thrust up close and personal with him.
Add that to the fact that she'd been so busy learning the ropes at the agency, she hadn't been intimate with a man in months. She thought back. Make that a year and two months unless you counted those kisses with her senior-year boyfriend at her ten-year high school reunion last year. They'd been about as exciting as downing a spoonful of cough syrup.
Shelly finished drying and then slathered her skin with a slick coat of scented lotion. Moisturizer for her face came next, and there was no missing the paleness that made her skin look almost translucent in the glare of the overhead light. The wound and the loss of blood took a little more out of her than she'd wanted to admit, but a good night's sleep and she'd be just fine.
She pulled on the oversize nightshirt, turned out the light and padded to the bed. Fortunately, there had been lots of empty rooms at the motel and Matt had taken the one adjoining hers. The door that separated them was, at his insistence, open a crack. He'd double checked the locks on her door that opened directly to the parking lot and the ones on her small-paned window.
There was a soft tap on the adjoining door just as she slid beneath the covers. She yanked on the sheet, tucking the top folds of the smooth cotton beneath her armpits. "Come in."
Matt stepped inside, shirtless, his hair damp from the shower, his feet bare. His jeans rode his hips, the button at the waist was undone.
Her resolve to stay unmoved dissolved in a flash of heat. She turned to study the faded roses on the spread she'd pushed to the foot of the bed earlier.
Matt stepped even closer. "Are you too tired to talk a minute?"
"I'm exhausted, but I can probably stay awake for a sentence or two."
He leaned against the rough-hewn pine headboard. "I just had a call from Sheriff Guerra."
She let her hopes rise a little. "Have they apprehended the shooter?"
"Afraid not."
"Has he found out if anyone around here owns a car like the one my attacker was driving?"
"No. All they know is that a man in a black sedan bought gas in a local station less than a half hour before the attack on you. The owner was working at the station at the time and he took the man to be just passing through."
"When did you find that out?"
"Earlier this evening," he admitted.
"Why didn't you mention it before now?"
"Guess I forgot."
He hadn't forgotten. He didn't trust her. But he was here, protecting her though he owed her nothing. Could a man like that be guilty of selling out to the enemy? Or did he just have the misfortune to be born into a family that put money above moral decency and respect for innocent lives?
This was getting her nowhere. "What is it you wanted to talk about, Matt?"
"They haven't found the man who attacked you, but they may have found the car he was driving."
"When?"
"I'm not sure, but I just got the news. A wrangler from Gill Collin's ranch called in a report that he'd found a burning car. It was in a wooded area just past their south pasture. Ed Guerra called me as soon as he arrived on the scene and verified the report."
The name Gill Collin didn't register. She doubted it should have. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Was there anyone in the car? Was it deliberately set on fire?"
"No one was in the car, but the sheriff is assuming at this point that the fire was deliberately set. The good news is the car wasn't burned to the point they couldn't recognize the VIN or that it was a black Ford Fusion. The sheriff ran a check on it. The car was reported as stolen from a grocery store in Conroe about an hour before the attack on you."
"So we're no closer to identifying the man who tried to kill me."
"Not unless you can come up with someone who might want you dead."
The Collingsworths would be the obvious first guess, yet she didn't think they were behind it. There were others with reason to hate her, but they were all behind bars and had been for months. People like the Maitlin brothers whom she'd helped send to prison for arms dealing.
Then there was Arthur Cox. He'd been involved with smuggling illegal aliens into the country, including one responsible for a failed bomb attack on an overseas military base.
Both Cox and the Maitlin brothers had sworn revenge, but she'd merely assisted in the investigations leading to their arrest. If they'd gone after anyone, it would have been the senior investigator, and that hadn't happened.
More importantly, no one knew she was here. Shelly Lane was a physical therapist from Atlanta with viable credentials and a fake background that was beyond suspicion. All she had to do now was convince Matt she was authentic.
"If the man was trying to kill me, Matt, then he had me confused with someone else. No one has a reason to hate me that much. I lead a quiet life."
Matt shifted, moving so near that she felt the pressure of his thigh against her leg through the sheet. "I want to help you, Shelly, but I can't unless you level with me."
"I have leveled with you. I have no idea why anyone shot at me." She had to stay in control, had to think clearly and not let this get out of hand.
Matt's hand slid along the sheet until his fingertips touched hers. His touch was disconcerting, but nothing like the compelling heat of his eyes as he stared into hers. "You can trust me, you know. I have no stake in this, except to see that you don't get killed on my watch."
But she had a tremendous stake in this, and her job was all about digging into his secrets, not the other way around.
"If you need
me, I'm just steps away, Shelly. All you have to do is call my name."
"You're surely not planning to stay awake waiting on some deranged killer to show up," she said.
"I'm a light sleeper. Now get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."
She was exhausted, but when she closed her eyes and kicked back the covers, her knee settled in the warm spot left by Matt's body. She cringed and curled into a ball, hating that she found Matt attractive, but knowing that she'd do what she came to Texas to do—no matter what stunts her hormones pulled.
* * *
Matt woke from a restless sleep and stared at the shadows that crept about his walls and ceiling. If forced to explain his actions tonight, he'd be hard-pressed to come up with a good reason for assuming responsibility for the protection of a woman he'd just met and didn't totally trust.
Sure, there was an element of truth in his statement about family tradition and a real man always protecting a woman, but he could have called the sheriff and hired an off-duty deputy to stand guard over Shelly tonight. He'd considered doing just that, but when it came time to make the call, he couldn't turn the task over to anyone else. Far more disturbing were the urges that had rolled through him when he'd been sitting beside her on the bed.
He'd played it cool—at least he'd given it his best shot. For sure, he hadn't done anything irrevocably stupid like kissing her, but he'd come close. The possibility of danger and being with a woman in a dingy motel room was a lethal combination.
Giving up on sleep for the time being, he kicked out from under the bleached white sheet and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He took a bathroom break, then grabbed his jeans from the chair where he'd slung them and wiggled into them. He could use a breath of fresh air. Not that air ever seemed as fresh or as fragrant to him anywhere as it did on Jack's Bluff Ranch.
He was yanking up the zipper when he saw the shadow of a man move past his window. Maybe just a restless guest like himself, but caution kicked in and Matt grabbed the pistol from his beside table.
He eased the door open and stepped outside just in time to see a tall, thin man wearing a baseball cap lean over and start fiddling with the lock on Shelly's door.
