Loaded

by Joanna Wayne

  She turned her attention to Melvin Rogers. He'd been introduced as a family friend, but she knew from the conversation that he worked for Langston. He was young, early thirties, Shelly guessed. His sandy-blond hair was cut stylishly short. He was nice-looking, but lacked that enigmatic cowboy appeal the Collingsworth men wore so well. He was more West Coast suave, though even that didn't quite ring true.

  Too bad she wasn't sitting close enough to him to question him about his duties with Collingsworth Oil; that would have to wait for a more opportune time. Showing too much interest in the business at this point could work against her.

  "Looks as if you're going to be in good hands, Jeremiah. I'd hire me a physical therapist just to improve the scenery around my place if I could get one as pretty as Shelly."

  Billy Mack, the outspoken, slightly past middle-age man they'd introduced as a neighbor, made the statement. Eerily everyone grew quiet. The gazes moved from her to Jeremiah as if they were watching a tennis match.

  "What the hell are you talking about? Physical therapist. I'm through with all that."

  "I told you I'd hired a physical therapist," Lenora said. "I thought you realized that it was Shelly."

  "And I told you I don't need some woman haranguing me about exercise. I'm too damn old for that. Now pass me the salsa so I can liven up these eggs." He banged his cane on the floor to emphasize his point. Derrick nudged his twin brother and they both snickered, appreciating that there was some excitement at the table.

  Lenora wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "I'm sorry, Shelly. But just ignore Jeremiah's outburst and enjoy your brunch. And don't worry. He'll come around. He just doesn't take to change very easily these days."

  "I understand. I'll take it slow with him, give him time to get to know me and vice versa."

  Thank God for Jeremiah. Thank god for any lifeline to keep her from totally drowning in the warm, loving dynamics of this family.

  Right now, her real past was no longer her past. The mother who'd never had time to fit Shelly in between her constant stream of relationships was no longer her mother. Shelly had a new reality—one created for her by the agency.

  Fake name, fake past, fake memories. Unfortunately, her emotions still belonged to her real past. Matt and his family were playing havoc with those.

  The rest of the meal passed with no more outbursts from Jeremiah, and the adults, were lingering over coffee when Mart's cell phone rang. He excused himself to take the call and returned a few minutes later, all smiles.

  "That was Ed Guerra," he said. "A cop from New Orleans recognized the shooter from the sketch that was sent out to all the law-enforcement personnel in Louisiana and Texas. The guy's got an arrest record thicker than a bound volume of all the Harry Potter novels, and he's been spending a lot of time in Houston of late."

  "Like we need more criminals in Texas," Langston said. "Did the sheriff give you a name?"

  "Frankie Dawson. He deals drugs and makes explosives. I'm not sure how the two go together, but the cop from New Orleans says he's got a reputation for planting bombs under the houses of people he considers his enemies."

  "Sounds like a real charmer." Bart set his cup on the table. "Has there been an arrest?"

  "No, but the sheriff is convinced this was a case of mistaken identity."

  "What makes him so sure?"

  "It's the guy's modis operandi. He has a temper and when someone crosses him, he goes after them. Usually it's about drugs, but not always."

  A muscle tightened in Langston's jaw as he leaned over and put an arm around the back of his wife's chair. "Aidan deals with that sort of senseless violence all the time in the drug-infested areas of Houston, but I didn't think something like that could happen in Colts Run Cross."

  "It's sick," Lenora said. "Shelly could have been killed by this thug. Any of us could have been, if we'd been in his path."

  "Let's just hope he's arrested soon," Trish said, "and that he stays in jail."

  Lenora placed her hands flat on the table and straightened her back as if taking a stand. "That settles it, Shelly. You did nothing to provoke the shooter and there's no reason for you not to move into Zack's old suite in the big house. Now who's got an argument with that?"

  No one spoke up.

  "You'll have privacy and the full run of the ranch," Lenora continued. "Unless you've changed your mind about wanting to live and work here. I wouldn't blame you if you have, but I'm hoping you'll stay."

  "I wouldn't dream of running out on you before my job is done." Finally she could say something that was true.

  * * *

  After three days and nights of living in the big house, surrounded by Collingsworths, Shelly felt as if she'd known them all her life. Odd as that may seem, since her life had been nothing like this.

  They were relaxed and easy, yet never dull. Everyone was totally involved in their jobs or their passions—apparently even Matt. She'd only seen him once since he'd dropped off her and her luggage on Sunday night.

  Shelly was certain he was still upset that she'd jerked away from his kiss. Not that she blamed him. And not that she could react differently, if she had it to do all over again. She was on solid ground now, fitting in with the family, chatting with whoever happened to be around. She could do nothing to jeopardize that progress.

  The only first-week goal she hadn't accomplished was to gather some grain of information the agency could use. No luck there. But she had finally gotten Jeremiah to agree to talking to her about therapy. One small step toward her getting to keep both feet firmly planted inside the Collingsworth compound.

  The sun was barely over the horizon, and the house was quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway as she started down the staircase. She'd tossed and turned all night, never able to fall into a deep sleep and finally deciding to give it up and go for a brisk walk.

  Her CIA phone vibrated in her pocket before she hit the bottom step. She hadn't talked to anyone in her office since she'd reported her status early Monday morning and a call this early in the morning could mean trouble. She ducked out the back door and took a worn path to a spreading oak tree near the riding arena. She climbed up and perched on top of the fence, locking her heels on the second rung before returning the call.

  It was Brady who answered, and even though it was an hour later in D.C., she knew he seldom started work this early.

  "Quick response," he said, always a man of few words. "Are you still on the ranch?"

  "I am, but I'm outside and apparently am the only one stirring at this ungodly hour."

  "Can't sleep, huh?"

  "You got it," she answered, yawning into the words.

  "How's it going?"

  "Nothing to report. I've met all the family except the younger brother Zach who's honeymooning in Hawaii, but I'm not getting any guilty vibes and little talk of business."

  "I told you they'd project a good image."

  "It's a little more than that. They're patriotism seems to be a lot more than lip service. They talk about duty and honor openly. They don't just practice philanthropy, either. They live it."

  "It can still be an act."

  "Sure, but why go out of their way to impress a lowly physical therapist?"

  "You make a good point. But they're filthy rich. They had to step on a few toes to get where they are. You stamp enough toes and cross enough lines, the morals issues get blurry. And you've seen the evidence we have on them. There's way too much smoke for there not be a raging fire somewhere."

  "I concede that someone in the organization may be guilty, maybe even one of the Collingsworths, but not all of them. Take Becky Ridgely."

  "That's the daughter married to the pro football player?"

  "Right. She's a full-time mother with almost no connection to the business end of things. And there's Jaime. She works at the oil company, but only three days week. And she hadn't worked there long. And Matt's into ranching—not oil."

  "
It was his name that was found on an illegal alien a few nights ago."

  "Anyone could have given the man Matt's name. Finding it on him doesn't automatically make Matt guilty."

  "Doesn't make him innocent, either. That's the second time you've mentioned him. You're not falling for Matt Collingsworth, are you?"

  "Of course not. I barely know him. I'm telling you my gut instincts. That's all I have to go on as yet. But I did meet someone I think you should check out."

  "Who's that?"

  "Melvin Rogers. He works with Langston Collingsworth at the oil company."

  "Will do, but Ben hasn't mentioned him and Ben's getting in pretty tight with some of the management team. That gets me to the real reason I called. Ben thinks another large transfer of funds is about to occur."

  Brady had the utmost faith in Ben and had been ecstatic when he'd landed a position inside the Houston office of Collingsworth Oil. Shelly saw him as an arrogant blowhard, but then so were more than a few of their most successful agents.

  "Is this speculation or does Ben have proof?"

  "He intercepted correspondence from a foreign bank verifying that they are ready to make the requested transfer at a moment's notice. The money will be paid in cash to someone in Saudi Arabia who was identified only by a series of numbers."

  A one-time code name that would be almost impossible to trace. Her stomach rolled sickeningly, the fact that the news bothered her made her sicker yet. Why couldn't she fully accept that at least one of the Collingsworths was likely padding the pocketbooks of some of the world's most evil men?

  "Keep your eyes and ears open every second, Shelly. There's not a lot of time to work your way into their confidence before this goes down. Don't miss an opportunity to get close and personal with any of the family members. If we get the chance to turn this into an arrest, we'll want every scrap of evidence we can lay our hands on."

  "Right."

  "Keep me posted."

  "You, too, sir."

  "Busy day. Gotta cut and run."

  And he did. She dropped the compact-shaped phone back in the velvet pouch with her lipstick and pushed it deep into the front pocket of her jeans. As long no one saw her talking on it, it was doubtful anyone would take it for a phone.

  "Hi, there."

  She jumped at the sound of Mart's voice. She hadn't heard him approach. She'd have to be more careful in the future, keep a closer vigil when she was on the phone with headquarters. She took a deep breath to still her nerves.

  "Good morning, Matt."

  "How's the arm?"

  "Pain's gone, except for a twinge every now and then, when I bump it or move it the wrong way."

  "Good, and how's it going with my teddy bear of a grandpa?"

  "Not as well, but we're meeting after lunch to talk about the possibility of his giving me and my methods a try."

  "That's progress."

  "You're up and out early, or is this the typical ranching starting hour?"

  "Actually I've been up most of the night. One of our mares foaled during the wee hours of the morning and there were complications."

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Both mother and baby are doing fine. The equine vet just left. I don't have to call him often, but this birth had me worried."

  "It must be a valuable horse if you had to miss sleep yourself with all the wranglers you have."

  "It's not a matter of monetary value. I'm the rancher. When there's trouble with my animals, I take responsibility. I like it that way and think it's probably why I never got into the oil business. Nursing cold, black crude doesn't offer the same type of gratification as watching a calf or foal take that first wobbly step."

  Shelly studied Matt in the soft glimmer of the sun's early-morning rays. She could see fatigue in the slight stoop to his shoulders and in the wrinkles at the corners of his gunmetal gray eyes. Mostly she saw his strength. Taut muscles. Sun-bronzed skin. Tough as steel, yet caring enough to be there for a horse in need of care.

  He'd be a fantastic lover.

  The thought ambushed her, then took over her senses so fast, it left her reeling. Vivid images pressed into her mind. His arms around her, his hands and fingers imprinting into her back, his legs tangling with hers.

  "Would you like to see the new foal?"

  "Yes," she answered quickly, thankful that if he'd noticed her flushed state, he hadn't mentioned it.

  He put a hand on the small of her back and walked beside her until they'd cleared the stable doors and entered the soft filtered light inside.

  He spoke to the horses as they made their way to the rear of the building, calling each by name and stopping occasionally to scratch a nose poked in his direction.

  "You're good with them," she said.

  "Not nearly as good as my sister-in-law Kali, but I like to think I connect with them."

  "So you're not just a cowman?"

  "I'm a man of many talents."

  There was no mistaking the sensual teasing tone of the comment. So maybe he had noticed how flustered she'd become and sensed it had to do with him.

  "There he is," Matt said. "Sakima."

  "He's so little."

  "Probably didn't feel that tiny to his mother when she was pushing him out."

  "Is Sakima an Indian word?"

  "Yes, it means king, or so I've heard. I don't know which tribe the word stems from, though."

  "Sakima, I like it. And it fits him. He already looks regal."

  "Lying in the hay by his mother's feet?"

  "Well, he's just a prince now."

  She leaned against the door of the stall as Matt checked out the newborn. The mother stared at him nonchalantly as if she knew her baby was in good hands.

  Shelly felt as if she'd entered another world, galaxies removed from the world where she normally lived on the vicious edge between crime and punishment.

  The sun was higher in the sky when they left the stable and the heat dug in between her shoulder blades and stroked her cheeks. She didn't see how a person could ever get used to South Texas summers. "I should get back to the house and let you get to work," she said.

  "Yeah." But he didn't turn to walk away. And neither did she.

  "I hope you're not still upset with me about the other night."

  "I thought you were upset with me."

  "No. I was wrong," he said. "It won't happen again. Scout's honor. The next time we kiss—if there is a next time—you'll have to ask for it."

  If he didn't move his hand and step away soon, she'd start begging now. But only because her mind refused to believe he could be guilty of aiding the enemy. She couldn't possibly have this kind of attraction for someone who would fund cruel, heartless killers.

  "C'mon," he said. "I'll walk you back to the house. Juanita's likely got coffee brewed and breakfast cooking by now."

  Matt wanted her to go with him. He'd made that clear, but he wouldn't want her around for a second if he realized she was here to help rip his family apart and send one or more of them to prison.

  She'd wanted this assignment so badly she'd practically begged for it. Now she wished anyone was here but her. Still, she'd do her job. This was a battle the good guys had to win.

  * * *

  As Matt had suspected, Juanita was already busy in the kitchen when he and Shelly made it back to the big house. He and his brothers had a hell of a time talking his mom into hiring a cook. But she'd quit complaining and started singing Juanita's praises long ago.

  Shelly had taken her coffee back to her room instead of having it with him. Just as well. Matt had too much to do before the morning got away from him; he couldn't dawdle over breakfast. He'd grabbed coffee and a hot tortilla that Juanita had stuffed with bacon, eggs and a dash of salsa before heading out.

  He was pumped, though after the night he'd had he should be dragging. He had been before he'd spotted Shelly—with her cute little bottom perched on top of the fence.

  Running into her had affected him like a d
ouble shot of espresso. Every part of him had come instantly to life—especially parts that had no business springing into action with a woman who'd pulled away from his kiss the other night.

  The kiss was his mistake, but he hadn't had a woman get to him like this since his first year in college when Betty Estes had taught him the kind of tricks he'd never learned in Boy Scouts. Then, it had been mostly physical. Hell, it had probably been all physical, but at eighteen, what else was there?

  He wasn't eighteen now. He was pushing thirty-four, had dated lots of women, made love to his share and had managed to walk away from all of them without losing a night's sleep. He wasn't proud of the fact that he never became emotionally involved. It was just the way it was— or the way it had been up until last Friday.

  He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since he'd met Shelly, and his appetite was none too great, either. Worse part was that she wouldn't clear out of his mind. He'd try to think of feed production; she'd dance all over the numbers. Even last night, when he should have had nothing but foaling on his mind, he'd thought about how close she'd come to losing her life.

  She got to him on a dozen different levels and in ways he hadn't began to comprehend. Part of it was probably the whole woman-in-jeopardy scenario. He felt compelled to protect her, whether she wanted to be protected or not. Her mix of vulnerability and spunk was a more powerful aphrodisiac than any perfume on the market.

  Not that Shelly didn't smell great. Normally he was pretty much desensitized to odors. A steady dose of manure and cow droppings could do that for you. But Shelly smelled like spring. Fresh. Clean.

  And he was letting this get out of hand. Shelly was temporary. He barely knew her. And he didn't have time for a lot of mushy relationship business.

  Still, there was something about her. And regardless of what the sheriff had said, he couldn't quite push past the suspicion that she might still be in danger. Reason enough to keep his eye on her for a while even if she didn't seem to want his company. "It was a simple task. You screwed up. And you know how I feel about mistakes."

  'The random violence angle was your idea. I carried it off just like you said. The car has more holes in it than a rapper's jeans. There's no way she should have walked away from it alive."