Sinclair Justice (15 page)

Wanted him to look.

He cupped her full breasts in his tough rancher hands, learning texture and weight. “I knew you’d look like this, peaches and cream, my favorite. How do you taste?” He put one hand behind her waist and lowered her down to his mouth, his free hand cupping the opposite breast, stroking her nipple with one delicate finger while his mouth learned the hardness of the other. Her heart felt like it exploded in her chest, but it only pounded beneath the suckling, as if even it knew this man was meant for her. Her nipples had always been very sensitive, and she had to pull most of her lovers back from being too harsh, but Ross, the first time, seemed to read her well. He suckled softly, releasing her just as pleasure became pain, only to cover her breast again with kisses and once, shockingly, the gentlest scrape of his teeth, heightening the sensations of the moment and the pleasure to come.

Then she was squirming, trying to reach for his pants while still leaving her breasts hanging free to his mesmerizing touch. His golden laughter was muffled against her bosom. “Need some help?”

“No. I’ll do it.” She slipped to his side so she could unzip his pants. While she worked at that taut front, he more skillfully unzipped her skirt, running both hands around the soft curve of her stomach to her back, which arched at his touch, bringing her breasts tight against the side of his chest. Only then did she realize his shirt was unbuttoned. She didn’t recall doing that . . . and when did he lose his boots?

The next thing she knew, her skirt was gone, leaving her in a skimpy pair of black lace panties, which she’d selected quite deliberately this morning. In fact, she’d planned this entire encounter, but not for the first time Ross had turned her assumptions and her world upside down. While she was still fumbling at his zipper, he lifted his hips, easing the strain at his crotch, unzipped his pants and kicked them down and off, simultaneously shrugging out of his shirt.

Then, both attired only in underwear, they paused, thoroughly appraising with their eyes the territory their hands itched to conquer. Emm was so busy reveling in the look of him that she barely noticed how thoroughly he absorbed her with his eyes, as if he’d been on the verge of starvation and only she was sustenance.

He was, quite simply, beautiful. His arms were lithe and muscled, his shoulders were as wide as they’d felt, and his chest was centered with a scattering of dark hair. His torso angled down to a lean waist and long, powerful legs that had been made, she saw now, to stride into her life and sweep her away to this moment.

She put one hand flat on his chest, feeling him flinch at her touch, but she knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want her to, but because he wanted so badly for her to touch him now, often, in any way she liked. She saw the need in his flared nostrils and midnight sky eyes. She accepted the wordless invitation. She scooted in front of him on her knees to put both hands on his shoulders and let them drift downward.

He was hers. She’d enjoy him.

This would be a long, slow, luxurious building up of memories for the alone time to come. “Be still,” she commanded, her voice hoarse. And she was woman enough to want to tease him back, a little. She saw sweat break out on his upper lip, but he kept his hands limp at his sides and let her palms skim over him.

He felt so good. Smooth skin sprinkled with a light dusting of hair, but everywhere she touched he was hard. She couldn’t resist teasing him by tickling his hard ribs. He spasmed, his nipples hardening. Laughing her own version of female triumph, she lowered her mouth and laved his nipples, one side, then the other. He tasted so good; she was so involved in her exploration, it took her a second to realize he was tugging at her underwear.

She lifted up and let him pull them off, lying back to let him look. It was his turn to learn her like a blind man, except he had the double pleasure of sight. His hand drifted over her, barely touching. When she squirmed to get closer, to deepen the contact, his lips quirked, but he only transferred the light caress to her other side, arm to waist to hip to ankle. A delicate caress that was more torment than pleasure.

She reached for the cock straining at his underwear, but to her shock he caught her hands, held them above her head and lay on top of her. He buried his face in the nook of her shoulder, breathing heavily, but his hips began to move of their own accord, thrusting against her. “You can’t touch me there, not yet,” he finally whispered.

She was moved, realizing he was trying to stop himself from going so fast. “How long has it been for you?” she asked.

“Months. Years since anyone I cared about. How long has it been for you?”

“Years since anyone I cared about.”

He lifted his head to delve into her eyes. Blue on blue, limitless horizon to boundless possibility. In that moment, in that mutual offering, she knew. She didn’t just want this highly complex, highly moral and totally unsuitable man. She loved him . . . Emm choked back a sob and pulled her hands away.

He let go as if scalded, and she realized he thought she’d changed her mind.

No, far too late for that.

She’d take this once and only as if it were forever and often.

When he released her, she thrust her fingers through his hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but he obediently lowered his head to hers to seal their bond with a kiss. And she tried, with all her overflowing heart, to tell him with the touch of her mouth the words she didn’t dare express. She sipped and nibbled and explored with an unfettered passion that was as much an invitation as an overture.

And he read it, and responded with the world’s most enthusiastic RSVP. He kicked off his underwear, grabbed a condom, and ripped the package open. But she caught his hand and shook her head. “I’m fine, and I know you are. I want to . . . feel all of you.” She tentatively but eagerly gloved him with her hand, or tried to. But she had small hands . . . and he was not.

He arched, perfect, hot, and heavy in her hand. He leaped to her touch, groaning, and then there was no time for tenderness or finesse. Only the passion that had almost come too late.

He parted her legs with one hand, adjusting his angle with the other, and in one slow, long stroke, he ended the separation between them forever. Her head fell back against the pillow, her mouth opening in wonder at the amazing feel of him reaching deep, and deeper still, until he reached the tip of her womb. Then he pushed deeper, as if he, too, couldn’t get close enough. Hard but soft, steel but silk, a perfect fit. They both stayed still, luxuriating in the warmth and closeness. Their eyes locked again.

For once she didn’t automatically react against the male arrogance in his gaze. He might as well have stated
you’re mine
. Her only reflex was instinctive—a tightening of her muscles upon him. He sucked in a harsh breath, and just like that, she brought the whirlwind into bed with them. Lifting her hips up as if he couldn’t get deep enough, he thrust in and out. She tried to push back, but he had her pinned, so she let her instincts take over again and flexed upon him as he entered, releasing as he exited, only to plunge back again hard enough to shake the bed. And soon, too soon, her mind didn’t prompt her body to flex upon him for her body took over. . . .

She was groaning, then, her eyes fluttering closed. As she felt the building pressure, she reveled in her own pulsations, knowing it brought them both closer to release. He went to the brink with her, his breathing harsh as he lifted her hips and held her wide to his invasion. That was all it took. She arched her back, crying out. He made a choked sound, half curse, half prayer, and stabbed deeply, arrowing home as if he belonged there, to bathe her in the fulfillment of their mutual climax. Simultaneously, she blew apart into a billion pieces. She cried out, for the spasms that gripped her had never been so hard or so pleasurable.

Only when he covered the sounds of her climax with his palm did she realize she was almost screaming. Then he replaced his hand with his mouth to claim the sweet gift of her surrender, his heart hammering against her.

He collapsed, letting her hips go, and she lay like a rag doll beneath him, gasping for breath. Slowly, slowly, they came down, but for a long moment, he stayed nestled inside her, as if loathe to break the intimacy. But finally she shifted a bit uncomfortably under his weight, and he levered himself to her side, pulling her head onto his chest.

She had to break the moment or burst into tears, so she teased him. “The girls must love it when you tase them. You don’t even need a stun gun. . . .” As he chuckled, she propped herself on an elbow, playing with the light whorl of hair around his nipples. The dark hair was speckled with gray, but that only made him more appealing to her. He was all man, yet sensitive enough to care about and empathize with who she was, both as a woman and as a person.

He caught her hand when she drifted lower in her exploration, brought it to his mouth and kissed it, whispering, “That’s nice to hear, but brevity is the soul of wit. I can give my opinion of you in one letter.”

Emm’s sense of the ridiculous was stimulated. She wrapped her fingers around his kiss, treasuring it for the long, lonely times. She rested her cheek on his wide chest. “Now you have me wondering. One letter? I’m that easy?”

“No, never easy.” He lifted her chin so he could kiss her mouth. “Here’s my opinion of you.” He murmured into her lips, “Mmmmm-mmmmmm.”

The humming of that drawn-out, delicious letter murmured against her sensitive mouth tingled in a delightful way that electrified her, scalp to toes. Just like she said, no Taser needed. At the same time, she melted, warmed by the nicest compliment she’d ever received.

But when he pulled her on top of him and ran his hands over her backside, molding it with his rancher palms, she tensed. “We can’t. Don’t you have to go back to work? It must be almost four . . .”

“Mmm, work.” And for the first time in twenty years, decorated Texas Ranger Captain Ross Sinclair missed a deadline.

 

After Ross left, Emm tried to work on her other cases, she really did, but she found herself staring into space with a foolish grin. She was a bit sore between the legs even after a long hot bath, but she welcomed that proof that she hadn’t dreamed the most fulfilling sexual experience of her life. She knew it had been too luminously enlightening for that feeling to be one-sided.

Which begged a larger question: Since neither just business nor just sex seemed to work between the two of them, what now?

 

In his office on the edge of downtown, Ross was wondering the same thing while he stared blindly at yet another open file. He should feel guilty for taking advantage of the sister of a victim, but the guilt would not come. She’d initiated things in a way that settled his few remaining doubts about her sexuality. Yet she’d also showed a certain shy wonder at the look and feel of a very aroused man, enough that he was also confident she didn’t sleep around much. She obviously loved holding little Trey, his closest confidantes liked her, and she had all the education, intelligence, and class he could wish for both as a Ranger and as a Sinclair.

But there was still a huge problem . . . He knew her desperation to find her sister and niece had increased. Their lovemaking would only complicate things because, consciously or not, she’d expect her lover to also be her champion of justice, an untenable situation for a Texas Ranger, and one reason he’d hesitated to pursue her.

But it was too late now for regrets, if he had any. Which he didn’t.

He would have to choose: Emm or the case.

Ross sighed heavily, then picked up the phone to make the call he’d been dreading. Being appointed the head of a multijurisdictional investigation that crossed international borders was a coup even for a decorated Ranger captain, and it would raise eyebrows throughout the agency when he asked to be removed. While Emm wasn’t a suspect—strictly speaking, she wasn’t even a victim—he was emotionally compromised, had been even before the unbelievable hours in her hotel room. He had no choice but to do this. He might as well have
conflict of interest
emblazoned on his forehead in scarlet letters.

Ross dialed the number he knew by heart. The head of the Texas Rangers was someone he’d met a few times but didn’t know well. He could try his own boss first, division chief for West Texas, but this decision would ultimately have to be made by the head of the Rangers, and Ross always believed in cutting red tape. Especially when his own head was on the line . . . not to mention his heart.

L
ater that day, over a thousand miles away on a secluded hilltop in Mexico City, in her room, which was attached to Arturo’s, Yancy carefully finished her makeup. She wore more than usual: heavy eyeliner, glittery silver eye shadow, and even sparkles glued to her fake eyelashes. She looked at the ethereal chiffon dress spread on the bed. It glittered from short hem to cap sleeves with diamantés. No cheap sequins for this event—each brilliant was sewn, not glued, in place, and the dress had been custom made. At the fitting, she’d thought she looked like the whore he’d been trying to make her, but when she slipped into the tight black gown and wriggled it up her hips, the dress fit perfectly. Her spike-heeled Jimmy Choos looked as if they were studded with diamonds. When she stood in front of the full-length mirror, she was stunned at the complete ensemble.

Somehow, she looked both wanton and elegant. The dress flared slightly at the knee, seeming to float around her when she walked, as if she carried the elements of stars and night with her like an exotic goddess. Arturo had insisted she wear only the best for this party, for she’d be meeting all his current business partners and two he hoped to sign a deal with in the next few days. Like most warlords of his ilk, he was taking increasing advantage of globalization and was in the process of setting up distribution channels for his wares stretching as far as Australia.

She knew that was one reason he favored her despite her age . . . how many women in Mexico could boast a partial Rothschild family connection? He expected her to be his best asset, for beautiful women, especially beautiful American women of aristocratic birth, were the prime possessions of crime lords everywhere. And she’d proved both astute and loyal, or so he thought.

His mistress was expected to dress the best, talk the best, even seduce the best when called for. And before this night was out, he’d warned her, she might be expected to do exactly that if either of his new potential partners asked nicely enough. Such sharing was not uncommon at gatherings like this, and he had a room set up for it, complete with champagne on ice, strawberries, and soft music.

When he’d laid out the rules, she’d nodded submissively, wishing she could tell him he could only whore her out if he could find her. Before the stroke of midnight, like some maladjusted Cinderella, she’d leave her exquisite diamanté shoes as her only legacy, taking with her the jewels she’d need to barter and the only other thing she valued—her daughter. However, Yancy was also savvy enough, after being a drug lord’s mistress for almost six months, to know she might need more than jewels to bargain with if she had to go to the Mexican police.

She had discreetly made notes in a tiny diary she kept hidden in her room, unable to use the only cell phone he allowed her because it was often searched at random. She’d recorded names when she had them, descriptions, dates of meetings, and any overheard conversation she gleaned as to routes and methods, which usually wasn’t much. But she’d heard enough to know that something new was in the works, with what she believed were Chechen connections. She suspected his new associates were offshoots of the Russian mob because of their accents and tattoos. And these men, even more than any of the Mexicans she’d met, scared her.

Arturo, as brutal and selfish as he was, still had his own peculiar set of values and family obligations. He was good, in his way, to anyone who was loyal to him.

These men, the way they looked at her, made her feel not just like a whore but like chattel. They’d use her sexually or gut her with the same finesse . . . if one of them asked for either her or Jennifer, she might have to move up her schedule. She broke off her reflections when Arturo entered the room, carrying a small black velvet box. He stopped cold at the sight of her. His eyes flared with lust and he kissed the tips of his fingers, even bowing his head slightly in homage.

She smiled, for he’d never been so deferential, and did a slow 360-degree turn just for him. “I was worried this was too tight, but it fits perfectly. I’ll have to compliment the seamstress when I see her.”

He walked into the room and indicated she face the mirror. She complied. He opened the velvet box and told her to bend her head. She felt him attach something around her neck, and when she stood straight again, her eyes widened. She whispered in English, “My God.”

The necklace he’d fastened had an enormous diamond in the middle, with more diamonds scalloped all the way around to the clasp in smaller, graduated sizes. She’d been to enough extravagant fêtes in Baltimore and DC to recognize platinum when she saw it. The jewels had been soldered on in such a way that they shimmered when she took a breath, as if she wore shooting stars around her neck. She felt the heavy weight and guessed the center stone must be at least ten carats by itself. She reached out to touch it. “Is this . . . rented?”

He shook his head. “It’s a deposit on my investment. Only the best for Los Lobos.”

Of course. Like any successful tycoon, he thought only in terms of assets and liabilities. She was literally wearing proof of his business prowess, her beauty offsetting the jewels, not vice versa.

He gave her dangly earrings that were also enormous flawless diamonds suspended on smaller diamond waterfalls, which she attached. With the diamanté pins holding up her hair and the shimmery bronzer she’d applied to her shoulders, legs, and arms, the only place she didn’t sparkle was her mouth, which was a deep, luscious red.

But as she looked at the glittering stranger in the mirror, the cold, rational part of her brain that had saved her thus far took over. This would simplify things. She wouldn’t have to try to slip out with her small jewel case after all. What she was wearing would bribe half of the corrupt cops in the city.

“But I will let you keep it if you help me close my deal tonight. I’ll make up the cost in a month if all goes as I plan.” He turned her into his arms and kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as far as he could reach.

She managed to stay still and even squeeze him back, as if she enjoyed this, but she wanted to bite down on the fleshy protuberance. It was all she could do not to kick him with her stiletto. He expected blind adoration from her in return for even being allowed to wear these probably million-dollar baubles. Because it was expected, when he released her, she managed a smile. “They’re beautiful. Thanks for letting me wear them. But after the party, you need to return everything. They would buy a lot of security. . . .”

He looked a bit gratified at her assurances, but then his gaze narrowed and his hands on her shoulders tightened enough to hurt. A harsh tone entered his voice. “I want you to stick close to Jesús and see what you can find out and observe. I think he’s selling me out.”

Yancy’s alarm was genuine. “Why do you say that?”

“We lost almost a thousand pounds of merchandise to the Knights Templar. He’s the only one other than me and Tomás who knew the entire route of the shipment.”

Yancy turned to him and straightened his bow tie, pretending deep concern. Her lush mouth even trembled a bit. “They’re the worst . . . If they’re trying to take over, aren’t you in danger?”

He smiled at her cynically. “You’d lose your meal ticket and your protector,
sí
?”

She backed away a step, pretending deep offense. “You’ve been good to us, and I’m grateful. I’m honestly trying to help.” She met his eyes steadily, and he relaxed a bit.

He hesitated, and then led her into his capacious bathroom, which was on the outside wall of the house. “No one else knows about this but Tomás. We are setting a show tonight for the Chechens, to impress them that here in Mexico, we know how to be elegantly continental.”

This certainly explained the elaborate party, Yancy reflected, complete with covered dishes and a planned cigar-and-brandy remove into the study while the women gossiped in the salon. Her attention snapped back to Arturo.

“But if something should happen, I want you and Jennifer to be able to get away. Go to the safe house I showed you.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and stabbed in a code. The red light on the digital whirlpool tub, which she’d thought was linked to temperature, turned green. He then pressed the whirlpool jet button on the big fiberglass tub three times, waited, then pressed it again three times. A click sounded, as if a lock were being opened. He stood aside.

To her amazement, the tub slowly rose sideways with a humming sound, and she realized it was on a hydraulic lift. He leaned down and flipped a switch. Dim lighting showed a small but navigable circular staircase winding down into darkness, with wooden studs on each side. She realized the staircase was inside the walls. She eyed the long mirror on the wall at the end of the tub. Ingenious. It wasn’t just for decoration. It hid a cavity that must have been built with the house. This staircase obviously wound down two complete floors.

“I’m seriously impressed,” she said sincerely. “Where does it end?”

“A tunnel beneath the compound wall that ends beneath the big tree across the road. This is one reason I bought the house.” He pressed the jet button again three times, and then again three times, and the cavity slowly closed as the tub took its normal position. The light turned red again.

He eyed her and spoke slowly and deliberately. “And there’s an alarm that hooks directly into the security panel. If I don’t deactivate it with my cell phone, it will go off, so no one else can use the tunnel without my authorization.”

Message received. Yancy nodded her understanding. “I won’t tell anyone or go near it unless something awful happens.”

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Help me catch Jesús and seal this alliance and I’ll enter the code into your phone.”

He was very good at the carrot-and-stick routine, she thought irritably, but she only smiled, as if gratified by his generosity, amazed by his arrogance, that he thought it was okay to abduct women and force them into sexual slavery and then expect their adoration . . . but now wasn’t the time for anger. The location of the staircase gave her another bargaining chip, but if all went well tonight, she’d never need that code. She appraised her image in the mirror, looking for flaws, but found none.

He nodded approvingly. Then he held out his arms for her to appraise him. “How do I look?” he asked.

Like a peasant trying to be a billionaire by wearing a Savile Row tuxedo,
she wanted to say, but she nodded, as if impressed. “Like a king.”

He nodded his satisfaction. “And your daughter? She is . . . ready?” He meant was she composed enough. Jennifer had been in tears more often than not lately, and Arturo knew this from his son, who was beginning to lose interest in her.

Yancy was well aware of his thoughts and said calmly, “The last time I saw her she was fine, but I should probably slip into her room and check before I go downstairs.” She touched up her lipstick again as he watched indulgently. She’d learned early on that the more valuable Arturo found her, the better he treated her and, by extension, her daughter. . . .

He used a Kleenex to wipe his reddened mouth. “Everything else is ready?”

“Yes. I checked with the kitchen and the housekeeper before I came up to dress, and they’re on schedule with the menu and the flowers. And the valets you’ve hired; will they be enough?”

“
Sí
. We may have to park some cars outside the compound, but I have men on guard.”

At the landing, they parted. He went downstairs and she turned toward Jennifer’s room. To her relief, the guard stood aside when she appeared and the door was unlocked.

Standing before her own mirror, struggling into a skintight royal blue silk gown that brought out her blue eyes, Jennifer still had the usual dazed look. Yancy’s concern mounted as she went to her daughter and softly kissed her cheek, careful not to muss her reapplied lipstick or Jennifer’s heavy rouge. “You remember tonight is the night, don’t you?” she whispered in her ear. “When the men go into the study for their cigars, we’re supposed to retire with the women for margaritas and mojitos in the salon, but I want you to act drunk and pretend to throw up so I have an excuse to take you to your room. I’ve paid someone to help us escape in the trunk of a limo—”

Jennifer nodded woodenly. “Yes, Mother. When do we get to go home? I’m bored here.”

Yancy whirled her daughter around and shook her slightly. “Listen to me, dammit! How many Xanax did that bastard give you? What else?”

Jennifer was so unsteady, even the slight shake almost made her fall. “Sleepy,” was all she said, yawning.

Tears added their brilliance to the diamantés in Yancy’s fake eyelashes. Jennifer had been either an emotional wreck or virtually comatose of late, and Yancy knew Tomás had upped her Xanax dosage. She suspected he was feeding her other drugs, anything to keep her quiet and quiescent. Obedient arm candy for this event.

Yancy bit her lip and then cursed herself; now she’d have to touch up her lipstick again. Her gaze lit on Jennifer’s jumbled dressing table and a stretch rhinestone bracelet that would look good with the small diamonds in which Tomás had bedecked Jennifer. Yancy grabbed it up and stretched it. It seemed pretty sturdy. Yancy slipped it on Jennifer’s bare arm and lifted her daughter’s chin to look deeply into her eyes. “Remember how I taught you to pop a rubber band against your wrist when you were sleepy or nervous or had to remember something?” She shook Jennifer again, once, hard. When that had little effect, Yancy pinched her, hard.

Jennifer’s head lolled back, then snapped erect, her eyes focused. “Yes, Mom.”

Yancy snapped the bracelet on Jennifer’s arm. “I want you to snap this every time you get the chance tonight. Every time it pinches your wrist I want you to remember, repeat after me, ‘Throw up with my first margarita in the salon after dinner.’ ” She made Jennifer say it six times until she was satisfied she would remember.