A Man of His Word (5 page)

“She wouldn't be caught dead in the same state as Cecil.”

It was interesting to watch him drift between hot and serious, chatty and silent. Dan didn't exactly wear his heart on his sleeve, but she got the feeling he didn't win a lot of poker games. “Sounds like a long story.”

“It's not so much long as it is old. Mom picked Dad instead of Cecil. Cecil never forgave either of them. He didn't even come to Dad's funeral.”

“And you work for him?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

Dan set a piece of cake in front of her, pulled up his stool and sat down. Only then did he turn to her, his eyes going right past serious and straight on over into dangerous. She wondered if other people made him look this dangerous, or if it was just her. “Let's get something straight,” he said, sounding very much like a man who would take all comers. “I don't work
for
Cecil. I inherited my father's stake in the family business. I own half of this house, the water rights and the dam project. This is my company just as much as it is his.”

That nerve she'd hit was
huge.
She wondered if Cecil had the same interpretation of the situation. “But you're helping him.”

He glared at her. All the charm was gone. “I'm
helping
my company.”

She had pushed this just about as far as she could, but she couldn't quit. This was her in—Dan didn't like his uncle, and he didn't like the job the old man was doing. The chance that she could convince Dan to abandon the whole thing was
small, but it was a chance she had to take. “Well,
your
company is going to flood
my
reservation.”

He looked away, like she'd won and he'd lost. But then he said, “Eminent domain.”

So he'd been doing his homework, and they both knew who the loser here was going to be. The government would give the reservation to Cecil because lower electricity rates were good for politicians and their reelections. It was a new twist on the old story—the white people needed the land more than the Indians did. And yet, she felt like she needed to comfort him. He actually looked miserable about the whole damn thing. Leaning over, she touched one of those forearms and said, “I won't go down without a fight.”

Moving slowly, he set his fork down and took her fingers in his hand. Calluses rubbed against the length of her index finger, then moved on to her palm. If she hadn't been sitting, her knees would have buckled. “I'm counting on that.” Oh, that wasn't a threat—that was a promise, pure and simple. “But the question is, what kind of fight?”

She couldn't help it. Three long years of loneliness threatened to swamp her altogether. She leaned into him, close enough that she could see a faint scar above his cheek, close enough that his short hair could tickle her nose. “You can check my briefcase. I don't have a gun.”

He turned to her as he pulled her hand into his rock-solid chest. “Not here, anyway,” he murmured as his lips brushed hers. “You're too smart for that.”

Huh?
She
was smart? She was the one sitting in Cecil Armstrong's kitchen, kissing Cecil Armstrong's nephew—a man she barely knew, a man she'd shot at, for God's sake!

But how was he being any smarter? He knew—or thought he knew—that she'd put a hole in his hat, less than two inches from his skull! What kind of man came on to a woman he believed to be armed and dangerous? What kind of man worked
for—with—Cecil Armstrong? What kind of man
was
Dan Armstrong?

Oh. My. God.
The kissing kind, that's what.

His touch wasn't an act of aggression or domination, but more like he was asking for permission. Not the kiss of an enemy, but of something…different. Even though his fingers tightened around hers, he hung back, waiting for a sign. His other hand came up and stroked her cheek with the lightest of touches. Tension—the good sort—hit her like a small jolt of electricity, pushing her into him. That must have been what he was waiting for, because his tongue brushed her lips, and she forgot all about being smart. Instead, she remembered being a woman, remembered the feeling of desire as it surged from her mouth, flamed to her breasts and scorched down farther until she wanted nothing more than to see exactly how far this kiss could go.

H
e really hadn't meant to kiss her—not before dessert, anyway. But she'd touched him, and promised that she'd fight him every single step of the way. The way she'd said it…. She'd said it not like she was about to serve him a subpoena, but like she was suggesting they continue their discussion in bed.

He was supposed to be getting to her, breaking down her defenses, finding her weak spots and exploiting them. But that wasn't what was happening.

What was happening was that she was getting to him.

He couldn't give less of a damn about whatever business pretense he'd used to get her here. What mattered was that she was here, now, kissing him. He wanted to taste more of her. Hell, he wanted to taste all of her. She had a honeyed sweetness that was tempered with a hint of tart lemonade. Her fingers tightened around his shirt, pulling him into her. She opened her lips for him, and he felt her jolt when his tongue touched hers. For a second, he knew he was about to get lucky. His body was aching for it, too.

Then, suddenly, he was puckering up to nothing but air. She jerked back, yanking her hand away from his chest so hard that she just about took his shirt with her—but not in the fun way.

What the hell? She went right past a pretty pink and straight on over to hit-with-a-tomato red, her eyes fastened on the forgotten cake in front of them. Just as much as her hands and her mouth had been telling him “yes” a second before, the rest of her was screaming “no,” loud and clear. The buzzy hard-on he'd been working on slammed right back up into his gut. Gritting his teeth, he tried to get his eyes to focus. It didn't help. She looked more miserable than a woman he'd been kissing ought to.

And that cold shoulder she was giving him said nothing but
mistake
and
regret.
It left a bad taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the lip-lock. “I shouldn't have done that,” he offered. It sounded weak, even to his own ears.

She jumped at the words and was off the stool before he knew what was happening. “I should go.” Her eyes cut back to him. The softness there was disappearing faster than a puddle in August. “Now.”

No use arguing with that. She'd made up her mind, that much was clear. “I'll walk you to your car.”

She didn't offer any resistance, but she made sure to keep her distance from him as she stomped down the hall, out the front door and into a deepening dusk. It was only when she got to the gate that she pulled up. “Thank you for dinner.” She put both hands behind her back. “Please tell Maria I enjoyed the food.”

Just the food? Ouch. The woman's claws were razor sharp. “I'm still coming by your office Monday at nine.” Even though the dusk was settling, he could see the flash of anger in her eyes. But she'd said it herself—he was a man of his
word, and he needed to know more about her brother before he started digging around. “If it's all right with you.”

She let the question hang for a long moment without so much as a blink. No wonder Cecil had already gone through three lawyers. A pissed Rosebud Donnelly was an intimidating Rosebud Donnelly. His eyes darted back to her ugly little car, but thankfully he saw no gun propped up against the window or anything.

“Of course,” she finally said, her chin jutting out in a way that said it was anything but okay with her. “You're just doing your job.”

Once she was in her car, the rear tires spun out on the gravel before she got enough traction to peel out, but her words hung around.
Just doing his job.

He felt lower than a rattler's belly in a wagon rut, all because he was
just doing his job.

As he turned to go back into the house, an orange light caught his eyes. Just a small dot of bright color that had no business being about six feet off the ground behind some bushes. As quick as he'd seen it, it was gone. He couldn't see anything else amiss.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.
“In fact,”
Thrasher's voice sneered in his ear,
“I doubt you'll ever see me again.”

His uncle was having him watched. A deep rage threatened to break free, the same rage he'd felt shortly after Dad had died, when his uncle had showed up and informed Mom that if she didn't marry him, he'd take the company away from her. Dan had only been sixteen at the time. He hadn't let Cecil call the shots then—he and Mom had gotten enough stock to keep the board firmly on their side—and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Cecil call the shots now.

Screw it,
Dan thought, forcing himself to walk calmly back into the house. No need to let Thrasher know Dan suspected anything.
Screw Cecil Armstrong. Screw this whole job.

Except for the kiss.

Dan had just one thing he
could
do. He spent the rest of his Saturday night taking the kitchen apart, looking for hidden cameras and microphones.

He knew whose side he was on.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Armstrong.”

Dan didn't even have one foot in the door, and already the receptionist was coming at him with a cup of coffee. Today, he was going to hold steady at two cups, max. “Ms. Donnelly is waiting for you.”

“Thank you…Judy.” Her friendly smile told him he'd gotten that right.

She led him back to the sorriest excuse for a conference room he'd ever been in. To his surprise, Rosebud was already settled in with a banker's box of files in front of her. “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong.” She didn't even look up. “You're on time.”

She sounded exactly like the receptionist and nothing like a woman he'd kissed two nights ago. “Rosebud.” To heck with this
mister
and
miz
stuff. “I thought you would appreciate punctuality.”

That got her to look up, and even earned him a small smile. Man, how did she manage to shine in a room this ugly? The walls were the color of overcooked oatmeal, and he thought he deserved a buckle for managing to make the eight seconds on that chair last time.

As quick as that smile had shown up, it disappeared again. He wondered if she had a gun in her briefcase. “Are these your files?”

“Not all of them.” He leaned over to try and see what she was writing, but she caught him and flipped the top sheet back over the one she'd made notes on. “But this is more than enough to keep you busy for today.”

Dan looked around and was surprised to see that the two extra chairs had disappeared. He'd have to sit in that craptastic chair again. He had to hand it to Rosebud. She didn't have a lot to work with, but she made the most of it. “Which files are these?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cecil files, dam files or police files?”

No reaction this time. He had his work cut out for him today. Right now, not only was Rosebud
not
a woman who invited a touch or a kiss, but she wasn't exactly leaving any of her weak spots out in the open. “Police files.” She turned her attention back to her own notes. “You are a man of your word, after all.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Moving cautiously, he lowered himself into the evil chair. It promptly let out a muffled squeak, like he'd sat on a squirrel—or worse. He glanced up to see the amusement on her face. “Enjoyin' yourself?”

“Immensely.”

So she was laughing at him. The difference between Rosebud scowling and Rosebud smiling was worth sounding like he'd eaten nothing but chili for the last month. He pulled the top file and started reading the first police report.

Tanner Donnelly, male, age twenty-eight when he was found by his aunt, Emily Mankiller, with a .22 in his hand and the matching slug in his temple four years ago. Survived by his aunt and his sister, Rosebud.
The file noted that the women claimed Donnelly's dog tags were missing, but the investigators could find no trace of them.

The FBI agent in charge had been Thomas Yellow Bird. Rosebud had a separate file on Yellow Bird—seemed he was an acquaintance of Tanner Donnelly and had pushed the investigation as far as his supervisors would let him. There was also a log of emails and phone calls with a James Carlson, who was a federal prosecutor in D.C.

Something didn't add up, Dan thought as he wrote the name down. A guy named Yellow Bird he could understand, but Rosebud had D.C. contacts? Well, maybe not. The last date she'd written down was over ten months ago. She must have hit a brick wall—which was why she was asking
him
for help, of all people.

In addition to police and FBI files, there was a thick file of notes and interviews, some typed and some handwritten in a delicate script. Handwritten? This whole thing just got odder and odder, but he pressed on, copying down every possibly relevant piece of information. His hand began to cramp. He didn't normally like those little computers—too easy to drop—but he was thinking maybe he'd pick one up the next time he was in town.

By the time he finished, Dan was pretty sure he knew everything about Tanner Donnelly, from what kind of cereal he ate for breakfast to the name of the first girl he'd ever kissed. Seemed like a decent guy. If Rosebud's notes were accurate—and he had no reason to doubt that—then he could see how she refused to accept the suicide ruling.

But he'd seen no red flags, nothing that said Cecil or even Thrasher. Not even a casual connection to Armstrong Holdings.

He had nothing.

When he leaned back to rub his eyes, he found Rosebud watching him. “Well?”

“You're nothing if not thorough.”

She cocked her head to one side and bounced the end of her pen on the table. Dan had the distinct feeling he was about to be cross-examined. “Is that what you told your uncle?”

“Beg pardon?”

“When you reported back about our evening. I'm sure he was…curious, shall we say, to know if you accomplished your assignment.”

He might be mistaken, but he thought he saw a little bit of that pink come back into her cheeks. “Are you asking me if I told him I kissed you?”

He wasn't mistaken. The pink got prettier as her eyes cut to the doorway, but it was empty. “That was your assignment, wasn't it? I'm not stupid, Mr. Armstrong.”

She had him dead to rights. He really hoped she didn't have a gun in that briefcase. “Only a fool would assume you were.” Because it sure would be nice to know she didn't think him a total idiot—or worse, Cecil's lapdog.

She smirked at the compliment, but didn't return the favor. “You're avoiding the question.”

He couldn't tell which part of her was doing damage control, the lawyer or the woman. “You act like my company kissed your tribe.”

For a second, he saw a little bit of doubt on her face. “Wasn't that the point?”

He knew the chair might kill him, but he took the chance and leaned forward—not close enough to touch her, but close enough that he could tell she was biting the inside of her lip. The chair whined pitifully, but at least it held. “Did it ever occur to you that
I
was kissin'
you?
”

Oh, she was tough. Aside from that lovely blush she was working on, she didn't react at all—not even to lean away from him. “Does your uncle see such a distinction?”

Which was a nice, polite way of saying “answer the damn question.” He shook his head, hoping his amusement didn't further piss her off. “You want to know what I told him?”

“Please.” She sat up a little straighter.

Dan looked at her for a few more seconds before he hazarded leaning back in his chair. If Cecil heard what he was about to say, he'd draw and quarter Dan for treason. But the search for bugs in the kitchen had turned up nothing, as had the search of his room. He was going on a hope and
a prayer that this room wasn't bugged. “I told him that you were tougher than I thought. I told him you couldn't be wined and dined. I told him I'd need more time.”

She was silent. Her pretty blush drained away, but that was the only sign she'd heard him. “I see. Did you give him an idea of how much time you'd need?”

Hell, he was in this far. “He told me the next court date is in five weeks.” Besides, she'd said so herself. She wasn't stupid.

“Let me guess. He wants me out of the picture before then.” Her voice had a new, pinched tone to it.

“That's what
he
wants.”

A stillness came over her. Her pen didn't bounce, her eyes didn't blink and he couldn't tell without staring, but he was reasonably confident that her chest didn't even rise. When she did speak, it came out as a whisper. A pained whisper. “What do
you
want?”

Which was a hell of a good question. But he wasn't going to come up with an answer sitting in this demon chair. He got up as smoothly as he could and went to the window. She needed a moment to get herself together, he rationalized. “You know Google? The company motto is ‘Don't be evil.'”

She snorted behind his back. “That's noble, but naive.”

“No, dinner was noble but naive,” he shot back.

“I'm
not
naive.”

“Not you. Me.” Because thinking he could walk the line between “interested lust” and “cold-blooded scheming” was obviously one of his dumber ideas. And to expect her to believe him? He turned back to her. “It was naive of me to think that me kissin' you could be a separate…thing from your tribe suing my company.” So much for being good at talking.

Even sitting in judgment of him, she was beautiful. What he wanted was to ask her out on a real date, to take her someplace far away from this crappy conference room and Cecil's
ranch house, someplace where it wasn't Armstrong Holdings talking to the Red Creek Tribe, but just Dan and Rosebud. He'd love to get her hair out of that braid, get her out of that… For the first time, he noticed her suit. It looked like the same one she'd worn to dinner—and the same one she'd had on last week.