He shrugged. "Groupies."
Mary rolled her eyes in disgust. No, she'd never pass for an adoring groupie. "Groupies?"
"Rodeo hos," Clint said with a wicked grin.
Special Agent Mary gave him a quick, censuring glance. "Wouldn't work," she said. "I need to get close to the people in the rodeo."
"Some of the fellas get real close to the groupies."
"Fellas like you?" she snapped.
"No way."
She huffed once, as if she didn't believe him for a minute.
Clint shook his head. "I can't tell you how bad I think this idea of yours is."
"I didn't ask for your opinion, Bozo." She sped up and Clint stayed close behind her.
Bozo? Yeah, she definitely had a bug up her butt.
* * *
"You want me to do what?" Mary asked, shading her eyes with one had. The sun shone bright overhead. It was just past noon and she was starving. Absolutely, positively, would-kill-for-an-Oreo starving.
Telling Sinclair that she was so hungry she felt hollow would be admitting that she should have taken him up on his offer of breakfast, and she wouldn't admit that she'd made a mistake. She never did.
They stood in the center of a corral that was empty but for the two of them, and Sinclair pointed to a rustic section of fence. "Over the fence," he said again. "As quickly as you can."
With a shake of her head, she ran to the fence and climbed over. Seemed pretty quick to her, but Sinclair was not satisfied.
"Again," he said.
Mary walked toward him, never hinting that she ached all over, never letting on that she was so hungry she'd snatch a cookie from a small child if she had the chance. "I thought that particular move was more than sufficient."
"Sufficient? Honey, when a bull is chasing you, sufficient doesn't cut it. Try again."
"Honey" now, as well as the occasional darlin'. The man was getting on her nerves in the worst way.
"Sure thing, Giggles." She turned and began to run again, toward the fence.
Clint flew past her when she was halfway to her target, and with no more than one hand on the top of the fence he vaulted over. The move was so quick, so damned graceful, she felt like an elephant in comparison, plodding toward the obstacle.
She made it over the fence but needed a boost from her foot on the bottom rung to accomplish the task.
That chore done again, Clint sat on the fence in question and shook his head. "I don't think two weeks is enough time to get you ready."
Mary was tired, hungry and forced to admit that this irritating man could do something she could not. "It'll do." It would have to.
Clint Sinclair was incredibly easygoing. It wasn't natural. After all, Shea was anything but laid-back, and the other two brothers … they both looked like they spent most of their lives wound pretty tight. But so far Clint was Mr. Agreeable. He hadn't said a word about her calling him Bozo and Giggles. In fact, he seemed to find her somehow amusing.
She didn't like it.
Sitting on the fence, pondering the situation, he didn't look quite as easygoing as he had earlier in the day. At least he had the good grace to sweat, almost as much as she did. He had great legs, muscled and lean, and for the first time today his neck was corded. Strained. He ignored the dog who danced at his feet.
"You want to know why Wes limps the way he does?" Sinclair asked in a tight voice. "The reason he will always limp when he walks? The reason why he's lucky to be walking at all?"
"No, but I imagine you're going to tell me anyway." Mary climbed onto the fence to perch beside Sinclair, taking care not to sit too close.
"He was too slow getting over the fence."
She glanced toward the house, which seemed so far away. She'd bet her life there were cookies there. A sandwich, maybe. Hell, a crumb! What about those pancakes Katie had offered to make? "Maybe you should just teach me a few jokes and let that be it."
Clint shook his head. "That's not what a rodeo clown does, dar… Mary."
Ah, maybe the Giggles bit had gotten to him, after all. "I know."
"We are in the arena to protect the cowboys, to draw the bull away from them after they're thrown. Yes, we entertain the crowd, too, but that's not why we're there."
She looked at him. Why couldn't Shea have had an ugly rodeo-clown brother? Clint Sinclair was too good-looking, too charming, too … too. Two weeks! Two weeks of getting into better shape, learning the tricks of the trade, keeping him at a distance. And after the two weeks were up, they'd be together every day until she found Elaine's killer. Maybe she could convince him to allow her to take his place, not join in as an extra.
There was no time or place in her life for a man, not anymore. She hadn't even thought about getting close to anyone since she'd lost Rick. It was too damned hard, to fall in love and think you had forever, and then find out, from a voice on the phone, that "forever" was a lie.
"Special Agent Paris," Sinclair said, his voice low, his expression darkly serious. "I've played along with you up to this point, for Shea's sake, mostly."
"I know that."
"At the end of your two weeks, if I don't think you're ready, if I think that there's even a remote possibility that by stepping into the arena you're putting your life or the life of a cowboy at risk, you won't have my cooperation. No introduction to Brisco. No more pretending. This is not fun and games. If you can't do the job as well or better than any other bullfighter, then you're going to have to find another way to get in."
"I'll be ready," she assured him.
"You'd better be."
* * *
Two weeks, and the rodeo would be under way. He could hardly wait.
But he would wait, no matter how anxious he became in the next few days. His fingers itched, and deep inside he felt a knot of pure excitement. The anticipation was always exhilarating, and with each passing year that anticipation grew more delicious.
He sat on a bench in the crowded shopping mall, watching women walk past. Some of them glanced his way, most did not. He was invisible here, one of the crowd.
His eyes were drawn to a woman walking his way. A blonde. Pretty, but not gorgeous. Nice full breasts. Gold earrings dangled from her delicate ears. As he watched her walk toward him, he felt his excitement grow.
But he knew this woman would be all wrong for him. She was too confident, her walk too sure. She came closer, and he saw the wedding ring on her left hand. No, she would never do.
Not that he would actually take a woman from the mall, he just liked to pretend. To plan. To imagine. And since this was just pretend, he might as well choose the woman who appealed to him most.
The woman walked past him, never so much as glancing his way. She had a nice back view, too.
He stood, checked his watch so anyone paying attention would think he had somewhere to be, someone to meet … and then he followed the woman, keeping her in his sight while maintaining a safe distance.
She was leaving the mall. Perfect. She walked through the main doors, shifted her shopping bags and walked quickly into the parking lot.
It was dark, the parking lot lit by bright streetlamps. There were people around, but no one close.
He could take her if he wanted to. He could walk up behind her, surprise her and before she knew what was happening he'd be in her car.
No. He stopped in the middle of the parking lot and watched her go. It wasn't time, and she wasn't right. And no matter how tempting the woman was, he couldn't afford to kill in the town where he lived. He was too smart to make such a blunder.
He smiled as the woman got into her car. Two weeks wasn't such a long time to wait.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Clint watched Mary vault over the fence with much greater ease than she had on Monday. Six days of running, lifting some light weights, jumping rope and practicing the pivot, and she was … better. Not there yet, but certainly well on her way. She was even getting pretty good with
a lasso.
He'd pushed Mary hard, asking more of her than he'd thought any woman would go for. They ran. They raced across his homemade obstacle course. They spent their days sweaty and dirty, and when it was done they were both exhausted.
And then they ran a little more.
Any other woman would have quit by now, but Mary Paris wasn't a quitter.
Too bad. He'd been so sure that first day, that by the end of the week she'd decide his rodeo-queen ploy might work just as well as her ridiculous idea. No way. He had a feeling Mary wouldn't ever admit she was wrong, not even if that meant she was headed for serious trouble.
It was all a waste of time. None of the men he worked with were capable of the kind of crimes she suspected them of. Yes, someone out there had committed these murders, but it wasn't a man he knew and worked with. You could look at a person who would do something like that and just … know. Couldn't you? A shudder rippled down his spine. That wasn't true and he knew it. Monsters like the one Mary was hunting didn't come with a neon sign that identified them as evil, they didn't have a look about them that might warn a potential victim or the police. He probably appeared and behaved perfectly normal … right up until the moment he grabbed some poor woman.
Dean and Boone had both been sending him frequent e-mails about the case, making sure he had the pertinent information about the crimes and generally giving him brotherly grief for getting into the middle of one of Shea's schemes. The information they provided gave him both sides of the story. He could see why no one had ever tied the crimes together; the method of death and jurisdictions were different. But Mary was right about there being something eerily similar about the victims and the murders. All blond. All attractive. And those missing earrings in at least four cases was creepy.
As for the other, he let the guys get away with ribbing him, because he knew if they'd been the ones singled out by their baby sister, they would have gone along with whatever cockeyed plan she cooked up, too. They had always been such pushovers for Shea.
"Again?" Mary asked as she walked toward him. She was covered with sweat, her hair had seen better days and her clothes were so baggy they disguised her killer figure. But there was something about the way she walked that made him feel her approach deep down. Something about her lips, perfectly shaped and full and rosy, even though she wore no makeup, that said, "Come and get it."
So, why did he know that if he tried to move in and get anything, he'd end up flat on his back with a gun pointed at his forehead? And why did that make him want her even more?
Her firearms were usually pretty well disguised, but Special Agent Mary was always armed. Always. Her baggy shirts often hid a revolver housed in a holster at her waist. There was an ankle holster, too, usually—but not always—hidden by her loose-fitting trousers.
What on earth was she afraid of?
"No," he said as she reached him. "We're done for the day."
She glanced up at the afternoon sun. "So soon?"
"It's Saturday."
"What difference does that make?"
He smiled at her. She was always so serious, but on occasion there was something almost endearingly childlike about her sober intensity. And she would clobber him if he dared to suggest that right now she was bordering on downright cute. "It's Saturday night. Time for a little dancing, a couple of beers, a few laughs…"
She rolled her eyes.
"Don't you ever go out and have a little fun? Or is that against FBI regulations?"
"Of course I … have fun," she said defensively. "But not usually when I'm working."
He had a feeling Mary Paris didn't take many days off, that every day was a workday. "All work and no play makes Mary a dull girl."
"Woman," she corrected.
"Sorry," he said. "Dull woman." He looked her up and down. Yep, Mary was fine, no matter what shape she might be in at the moment. "You're welcome to join us. Katie and Wes will be there. I know Katie would enjoy having another woman along."
"No, thanks," she said, her eyes on the house as they walked in that direction. "I really should stay in and work on my juggling."
"You're pretty good at that."
"I could be better."
With the sun on her face Mary looked golden warm and for a moment, just a moment, she looked not at all fearsome. He wouldn't tell her so, though. A man had to tread carefully around a woman like this one.
"We'll be at Dexler's Roadhouse, and we should get there about eight or so. In case you change your mind," he added quickly. He could offer to pick her up at her hotel, but that would sound too much like he was asking her for a date. No, she'd never go for that.
She didn't ask for directions to Dexler's Roadhouse, in case she really did change her mind. Clint suddenly had a heartbreaking picture of Mary Paris alone on a Saturday night once again. She'd practice her juggling, reaching for perfection as always, and maybe she'd spend a little time online. Not chatting with friends or playing games, but researching her case and filing flawless reports.
And when that was done she'd crawl into bed and try to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. Not easily, at least, and not quickly. She'd toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, wondering why she couldn't sleep when her body was so tired.
There were better ways to spend Saturday night. A beer or two, a slow dance or two, a few laughs. Did Mary laugh? Maybe. He really would like to see her laugh. Beers, dancing and laughing behind her, when Mary went to bed she still might not get any sleep … but what a night it could be.
Clint shook off the thought. Mary was Shea's friend, and a FBI agent searching for a serial killer. As far as he could tell she didn't like him at all. Again, he had that mental picture of making a move and finding himself flat on his back with a gun to his head.
* * *
Mary practiced her juggling for a while, after grabbing a quick bite at the hotel restaurant. Katie had tried to convince her to stay for dinner at the ranch and then go out with them tonight, but Mary had passed. Graciously, she hoped. Katie had really made an effort to be welcoming. In spite of Mary's initial resolve not to like Sinclair's housekeeper and friend—she did.
There were a million reasons why she should not socialize with Clint Sinclair. He was Shea's brother, for one thing. She had heard too many stories about the Sinclair men to be completely comfortable dancing with one. More important, he was a part of this case, and nothing and no one could be more important than finding the man who had killed Elaine and seven other women.
Mary had always been driven. Well, almost always. For a brief time with Rick she'd been happy. But after hearing that Elaine had been murdered she'd gone into overdrive. The self-recriminations had been agonizing, almost as painful as the grief. Why hadn't she gotten in touch with Elaine more often? Taken vacations to visit her old college friend? Made sure Elaine was safe and protected and … dammit, the man who had done this had to be caught, before he killed anyone else.
Shea didn't know that one of the victims had been Mary's friend. There hadn't been a reason to tell the reporter, who would probably be unable to pass up the chance to use the interesting tidbit on her show, now or later. Josh, her superior at the bureau, knew that Elaine was an old college friend, but he had no idea how close they'd been. And telling him she hadn't seen Elaine in seven years had not been a lie. They hadn't seen each other in that many years. But they had written, talked on the phone, e-mailed now and then. Mary was afraid Josh wouldn't let her anywhere near the case—officially or on her own time—if he knew how personal this case was.
Which was why she hadn't told him that the reason she'd pursued this case so doggedly was more than ambition.
Bored with juggling, Mary went to her computer. She had a few e-mails waiting for her; two from her sister, Janice, who lived in Colorado with her husband and little girl; one from her sometime-partner Lewis, who was on family leave since his wife had recently delivered baby boy number three; a quick note from Josh; and a long, rambling e-mail letter from her
father.
There was no news to speak of from any front. Nothing enlightening from Lewis or Josh, no family emergencies. Lots of "how are you" and "don't work too hard" and one dig from Lewis about getting too chummy with the rodeo clown.
She'd had nothing unprofessional to say about Sinclair in her unofficial reports to Josh or the occasional e-mails to Lewis. And of course Lewis had no way of knowing that Clint was sexy and sweet and annoyingly … perfect. So how did he know that dig about getting too chummy with the clown would hit too close to home? Lewis. He always knew!
Why didn't these messages cheer her up? Why did she now feel lonelier than she had before she'd checked her e-mail?
Mary glanced at the clock. Eight-fifteen. Right about now Clint and his friends were getting their evening started. A beer, he'd said. A little dancing. Some laughs. She shook her head. No, the last thing she needed was to get too friendly with Sinclair. This association was strictly business.
Since Rick had gone, there hadn't been any dancing. There had been no nights out, unless you counted the occasional quick beer with the guys after a successful job. Her job was her life now, the men she worked with were her family.
Mary loved her sister, but they had very little in common. They had taken different paths. Their father couldn't understand why his youngest daughter had dedicated her life to her job, instead of settling down with a nice man.
Settling down. Ha. That wasn't for her and never would be. It hadn't been for her mother either. When Mary had been twelve and her sister, Janice, fourteen, their mother had walked out. Though their father had tried to shield them from the truth, they'd heard things. There had been another man. Money taken from the checking account. Mary and Janice had gotten the occasional motherly Christmas card from various parts of the country, and in the beginning there had been belated birthday cards, as well.
These days, nothing. Mary couldn't remember when she'd last heard from her mother. When Rick had mentioned having kids, Mary had panicked. She wasn't ready, might never be ready! What if she was like her own mom? It had taken months, but her husband had convinced her, slowly and surely, that she would make a wonderful mother.
CLINT'S WILD RIDE Page 3
