Sinclair Justice (7 page)

Emm badly wanted to put his hands-off attitude to the test, but she knew she might as well play with dynamite. Safely, she backed away another step. Her hip brushed the small round table, knocking a folder and a card to the floor. He bent to pick them up for her before she could, a lock of hair flopping across his forehead.

This time, the temptation was too great. Before she could stop herself, she tenderly brushed his hair back into place. His eyes widened, delving deeply into hers. She jerked her hand back, or tried to, but it was too late. Catching her wrist to pull her close, he dropped the folder and card, papers flying, and jerked her into his arms. Then that finely shaped, stern mouth lowered over hers. Right before contact, the lines softened to the same rampant sensuality he incited in her.

All protest died at the first brush of his lips. The feel of his mouth was soft in a way she hadn’t expected, but the kiss itself was not. It was hard, needful and arrogant. It dared her to keep things businesslike, but subterfuge was beyond her. Instead of pulling away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to slant her mouth over his. To give to the nth degree as he demanded, but also to incite him to give back even more. This tempest had been building between them since he’d cuffed her on a desolate stretch of Texas road, and whether it buffeted her into a lonely place or not, she had to yield to the storm. She not only brushed her lips from side to side over his, she also took tiny nibbles from the corners of his mouth on each slide, caving in at last to all the forbidden emotions he made her feel.

She was rewarded with a tortured male groan and a tongue pushing past her teeth to learn her taste and texture. Normally, she didn’t like French kissing early on, but her reaction to this man had been anything but normal. She opened her mouth to his invasion, sighing her pleasure against his lips. He took the sweet sound like the gift it was, the kiss gentling to a deep, thorough caress. The very tip of his tongue explored the inside shape of her lips, the caress so gentle but so arousing that her heart literally skipped a beat. When he opened the robe that had loosened in their embrace, she was too far gone to care.

His own breathing ragged, he drew back to look at her. His eyes were closed at half mast, and they were so blue they looked incandescent as he traced a hand down across her silk teddy from the deep vee of her bosom to the beginning of the vee on her lower stomach. She did something else she’d never done with a man on the first kiss: She lay back against his other arm and let him look. No, she reveled in the passion flaring his nostrils, his quickened breathing, and the hard lump in his black jeans. If he’d lowered her to the bed, she wouldn’t have resisted him.

He took a deep, raggedy breath. For an instant, as if by sheer strength of will, he forced his hand to drop away before he touched her where she most needed it, but then he froze, his hand on the curve of her hip, staring down between her legs. And then he brushed between her thighs, spread to help support her weight as she leaned against him. One finger touched between her legs, high up. She went rigid, firecrackers where her nerve endings used to be; only when she saw a drip of pearly moisture on his fingertip did she realize how wet she really was. Holding her gaze, he brought the pearl to his nose, his nostrils flaring as he absorbed her scent. Then he licked it away, as if it were a delicacy to sustain him, body and soul.

The shocking intimacy of this moment with a man totally inappropriate for her finally galvanized her into motion. With a strangled gasp, she fled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. She looked at the sensual woman in the mirror, knowing that even after five lovers, she’d never seen this person before. Lips swollen, pupils so dilated her irises looked black, nipples erect against the torture of the silk she longed to rip away so she could know that skillful mouth there, too.
Am I easy or do I just need to get laid?
she silently asked. There was no answer.

Shamed, she turned the faucet on cold and splashed water over her heated face, using a washrag to roughly bathe between her legs. Then, her senses still incredibly alive, she listened, hoping to hear the hotel room door open and close. Instead, she heard outside his heavy breathing, gradually slowing, but his presence was still so vital she could feel it even through the door.

Dear Lord, she could barely face herself, how could she face him? And why was he the only man she’d ever met who incited this degree of physical chemistry so quickly? There could be no future for them . . . After they concluded their business, she’d move back to the Northeast, and he was a confirmed Texan. He didn’t even like her, not really. He thought she was a spoiled heiress out to prove herself in her first case by denying his family the property rights to develop their land as they deemed suitable.

She had to clear her throat, her voice was so husky. Finally, she managed through the door, “Is there anything else? I . . . need some sleep and it’s getting late.”

“That’s not all you need. For that matter, I need it, too.” The words were guttural, as if he ground them out against his will. She didn’t answer because any denial would be a bald-faced lie and they both knew it. She was still afraid to open the door.

Then a note of laughter softened his tone. “Are you ever coming out?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of staying awhile. If I stare into this mirror long enough, eventually I’ll see someone I recognize.”

Silence on the other side of the door, and then it opened. She’d dropped the robe onto the floor to wash, so she stood before him bare in body and soul, or at least that’s the way she felt. “Hey,” she protested, “maybe we shared a kiss, but that doesn’t give you the right to invade my privacy.”

“You’re right. I just want to be sure you’re okay and then I’ll leave.” This time, he studiously kept his dark blue gaze on her face. “If you want me to . . .”

Stay
—the word leaped to her lips, but she didn’t give it freedom. She was still too shaken by their passionate embrace. If she followed her instincts, yet more complications would result. “I can’t.”

The incandescent blue died down to a simmer. “I understand.” And then, like the gentleman he was, he picked up the robe, wrapped it around her shoulders, holding it while she stuck her arms in each side, and belted it tightly. “You need a new robe and slippers,” he said lightly, backing out of the door to give her room to exit.

“I know; this one is just so comfortable. And . . . Yancy gave it to me for my birthday a long time ago.”

“A very long time ago . . .” he teased. He bent to pick up the scattered papers. He stuck them back in the file, then flicked the business card against his thumb. “Where did you get Doyle’s card? She’s a consultant for the Rangers.”

“I met her at the library today. We were both researching trafficking, though I think she said she’d been hired to look into the drug trade more than kidnappings.”

“The two are intertwined.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Did she say who hired her?”

Emm shook her head.

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. The last of the lambent flames had died away and the stern Ranger captain was back as he growled, “This is not an association I approve of. She knows what she’s doing, but you don’t, and if you spend much time with her, I could see you trying to trail after her like a puppy—”

“At least give me the dignity of a bloodhound analogy instead of a puppy—”

“And as it happens, I received the okay just today to hire her to help look for your sister . . . and the other missing women, too, of course.”

Arguments died on her lips. “Thank you.”

“So you found her competent?”

“Beyond competent, though I shared more details with her than she did with me.”

He nodded approval at that. “By the way, do you recall if your niece speaks fluent Spanish?”

Emm tilted her head as she did when confused. “Yes, and so does Yancy. They both spent a summer and several holidays in Spain.”

“I see.” With a last look between her and the bed, a look that made her blush again, he went to the door. “Okay, well, let me know when the structural engineer will be in town. I want to be present for at least part of the survey.”

She nodded, holding her robe closed, and walked him the short distance to the door. “Thanks for stopping by.” The banality should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. She stuck her hands deep into her frayed pockets to avoid the urge to catch him around the neck and pull his head down. And then . . .

They both studiously avoided looking at the bed.

His wide shoulders blocking the hallway light, he turned back to look at her in that thorough, head-to-toe way again. “No—thank
you
.” He waited, and only when her flush deepened did he give that lazy smile. “It’s only a matter of time, you know.”

She pretended to misunderstand. “I know, I should be out of your hair in a month or so—”

“Until
you
sweep
me
off to bed. You’re a very passionate woman. You need it almost as much as I do. Why not save us both a lot of time and frustration and admit it?”

“Oooh!” She slammed the door on the kiss he blew her.

But as his footsteps retreated, she stared into space. He was right, damn him, as he’d been right about almost everything else. “Just business,” she repeated to herself as she flung off her robe and slippers and climbed into bed.

But as sleep claimed her, the mantra had changed to,
Just once, what can it hurt? Just once . . .

T
wo days later, Ross tossed the last file into a large box and taped it shut himself. He’d spent most of his working hours compiling every piece of evidence they had on the Los Lobos cartel, including both drug and human trafficking leads. The day after Emm had told him Doyle had already been retained by the West Texas district of the DEA, Ross had called the head of the division and suggested they split the cost and share the information. He’d readily agreed.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Come in.”

Dr. Hermione Abigail Doyle was as imposing in person as she was on paper. She stood almost six feet tall, and her conservative black pant suit didn’t disguise a lithe, fit form. Ross glanced at his watch. Plus, she was punctual, almost to the second. He stood and offered his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“My pleasure, Captain Sinclair.” She sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

“Call me Ross. I have a feeling we’ll be working together closely. You executed all the agreements and waivers I e-mailed you?”

“Indeed. I appreciate your confidence in my services.” She pulled a thick envelope out of her briefcase. “I’ve attached a card with my address while I’m in town so you can mail the countersigned documents to me.”

“Excellent.” He put the envelope on his desk and nodded at the large cardboard file boxes stacked next to her feet. “I’ve spent the last two days compiling all the information we have to date on the Los Lobos cartel, including both drug and human trafficking intel. You have a few burned CDs as well. Our servers are, of course, encrypted, but I thought it best if you received the most sensitive information the old-fashioned way.”

“It will take me a few days to come up to speed. I know time is of the essence.”

“Always, but thoroughness rules the day here, so follow whatever protocol you find most effective. I compiled an evidence list, and it’s at the top of the box, with a very tentative ranking of the information that seems most promising, at least to me. You might start with tracing the drug one of the victims uses to control her hemophilia. It’s fairly new, and rare in Mexico. We began tracing it using the accounts we subpoenaed from the US manufacturer, but we lost it across the border. Hopefully you’ll have better luck.”

A glimmer of humor softened the severe lines of her face. “As they say in Texas, this isn’t your first rodeo.”

He laughed. “Somehow that cliché sounds better with a British accent.” His smile faded, and he gave her the same square, dead-on look he gave his Rangers. “Your reputation precedes you, but know this: I expect results.”

She nodded coolly and rose. He shook her proffered hand. “I’ll have someone follow you to your car with the boxes.”

She’d turned toward the door when he added reluctantly, “Ms. Doyle?”

She turned with an inquiring look.

“I heard you met a certain Emm Rothschild a couple of days ago?”

She nodded.

“I’m sure you’re aware of this, but sharing information with private citizens, especially those with an agenda, is frowned upon. Everything in the boxes is need to know.”

That erect back grew ramrod straight. “I read in full the nondisclosure clause, and it is no more limiting than the others I’ve signed.”

His cheeks flushed a dull red because he knew she was right. “I’m sorry, it’s not you I doubt; it’s my knowledge of Ms. Rothschild’s proclivities that concerns me. To be blunt, don’t let her near the files.”

The straight back relaxed a bit. “You fear she’s like Pandora?”

“No, I fear she’ll stick her nose where it doesn’t belong and become victim number ninety-two.”

She nodded, this time thoughtfully. “A valid concern, based on my short acquaintance with the lady.” She turned in the doorway after she opened the door. “You have my word she shan’t see a thing. And Captain Sinclair . . .”

“Yes?”

“I won’t tell her you’re so concerned for her welfare.” A smile flickered at the corners of her long mouth before she mastered it. “Unless you wish me to.”

All he could come up with was, “Good. Don’t.” Then he rested his head in his palms, elbows on the desk, and groused, “Why do things have to be so damn complicated? Why can’t we just be two lonely people who find something they need in someone of the opposite gender? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”

“Perhaps, but it’s seldom that easy. I promise to keep your secret.” A soft laugh trailed her as her heels tapped across the linoleum, her footsteps as precise and measured as her character. Ross went to the door and called an office assistant to take the boxes out. Then he closed the door, staring into space, a bit unsettled now he’d met the legendary Ms. Doyle. He found her even more imposing and astute than he’d expected, which was good as far as the case went. Not so good as she obviously used the same eagle eye on her clients as she did her perps. She’d seen through his concern for Emm in an instant. He could only hope she kept quiet, as she’d promised, because Emm didn’t need any more weapons to wield over him . . . They’d both agreed on the parameters of their relationship: “just business.”

Righto . . . Disgruntled, he powered on his computer again and sorted through his umpteen e-mails.

 

Outside in the parking lot, Emm saw Abigail getting into her car after a young man had put several bulky file boxes in her trunk. She could just make out the word “Evidence” in big block letters. She hurried over, releasing the arm of the man who had escorted her out of her own vehicle. “Dr. Doyle!”

Abigail powered down her window. “Abby, remember?”

“Abby, I’m glad you’re here; I was just going to call you. Would you care to have dinner with me and Curt Tupperman? He’s a freelance investigative reporter based in San Antonio, but he’s writing a book on human trafficking in Texas. He has information he wants to share with us.”

Abby opened her door and got out, offering her hand to the tall, fair-haired man who towered over her own considerable height. “Good afternoon.”

He nodded, pumping her hand, his blue eyes twinkling. “Is this Abigail Doyle? Dr. Hermione Abigail Doyle?”

Abby nodded. She pulled away from his tight clasp.

“I’ve been following your exploits since your days at MI6. I’m thrilled to meet you.”

Emm looked sharply at Abby. “MI6?”

“Long ago. Before I emigrated to the US. And I was never a field agent, just an analyst.”

“An analyst so well respected she was assigned to a joint CIA/MI6 task force investigating terrorism after 9/11,” Curt clarified. Abby looked away from his sharp gaze.

Emm clasped his arm lightly before he could say anything else as the subject obviously made Abby uncomfortable. “Anyhoo, will you join us for dinner tonight at my hotel? My treat.”

Abby looked at her hand, comfortable on Curt’s arm.

It was Emm’s turn to be flustered. “I’m sorry, I should have mentioned I met Curt several years ago in Baltimore, while I was working on my doctorate. We ran into one another downtown near my hotel and have a mutual interest in the human trafficking case.”

“MA, Criminal Justice,” Curt offered. “So see? I’m harmless and something of a professional, too. And anything you share will be strictly off the record.”

“I cannot promise the same, Mr. Tupperman.”

He nodded quickly. “I understand. Please, join us. And call me Curt.”

“Very well.” After they arranged a time and location to meet, Abby waved briskly, got back in her car, and drove off.

Comically, Curt shuddered. “Wow, that’s one fearsomely intelligent woman.”

“Is there such a thing as being too intelligent?” Emm walked up the steps and reached out to open the door, but he bolted up and beat her to it. At her jaundiced look, he shrugged sheepishly.

“Guess not.” When they entered the foyer of the Ranger offices, he took a deep breath.

She sensed his unease. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m bracing myself. Sinclair and I are acquaintances. We’ve even played golf together. But my last message from him was, well, rather . . . curt.”

Emm was still digesting that when Sinclair exited his office. She recognized that starched spine and cool gaze, but she wasn’t sure whether his disapproval was aimed at her or Curt. After she explained her connection with Curt, she added, “We thought we might shanghai you for an early glass of wine. Curt has information to share about some evidence he’s collected from South Texas.”

“Not exactly collected,” Curt said hastily when that cool gaze turned on him. “I was included in a press briefing on the Valley papers, but it’s all public knowledge.”

“Then I’ll be informed as well,” Sinclair pointed out.

“Eventually. It might help to have the information now, especially if Dr. Doyle is collating all the data.”

Sinclair frowned. “How do you know that? I literally just retained her.”

“You can blame that on me,” Emm inserted. “We ran across one another outside, and when we saw the boxes, well, they were marked evidence. . . .”

Now that glare turned back on her. “Which you are to stay away from, correct?”

Emm intended to count to ten, but she only made it to five. She lowered her voice to be sure only Sinclair and Curt could hear her, but her tone was no less severe. “Look, Mr. Sinclair, we’ll get much further if we work together. Surely you’ve figured out by now I’m not the type to stand around and do nothing when someone I love has been kidnapped and probably forced into a despicable trade. I am excellent at research.” She rummaged in her capacious bag and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, holding it up for Sinclair to see. “This is the Texas Human Trafficking Prevention Task Force report from December 2012. The final recommendations are summed up in the words of Attorney General Eric Holder.”

Clearing her throat, Emm read from the first page of the report’s conclusion: “‘Human Trafficking is not just a global problem. It’s a national crisis—one that every parent, every teacher, every policymaker, and every law enforcement official must work to understand—and must help to address.’”

She crammed the report back into her purse and stabbed a thumb into her chest. “Policy maker, that’s me. While protecting historic resources is not strictly speaking being a first responder, we have had cases where we’ve dealt with immigrant and human trafficking victims in abandoned buildings and had to coordinate with other federal agencies.” When she saw the disagreement trembling on Sinclair’s tongue, she took an aggressive step forward and raised her voice. “And the attorney general of the United States, while not my direct superviser, is certainly somewhere in my chain of command . . . and yours.”

Sinclair looked at Curt as if pleading for support, but he seemed to have a strong interest in the plaques on the wall.

With a rueful laugh, Sinclair held up both hands in surrender. “Shall we agree to a mutual information sharing? With the understanding that whatever intel we exchange not leave our little trio.”

Emm frowned. “I have to let the Baltimore detectives know what’s going on. I promised them I would.”

“Can you at least trust me with that much?” Sinclair groused. “It’s part of my job to keep other agencies in the loop . . . My God, what a control freak.”

This last was muttered, but Emm heard it. She had to bite back her response that he was the one who’d taken total control of her in her own hotel room last night, but the memory colored her cheeks. When his eyes narrowed a bit, she turned toward the door. “Very well, then, shall we find a quiet spot for a glass of wine?”

“Let me get my hat,” Sinclair muttered, marching back to his office.

Curt eyed that starched spine, then lifted an interested eyebrow at Emm.

“None of your business,” she preempted the very reporterlike question she saw him about to utter about the sparks flying between her and Sinclair. “I’ll see you at the bar.”

On the short drive back downtown, Emm gripped the wheel tightly, hoping that among the three of them they could stumble across something, anything, that would lead to Yancy and Jennifer. For the umpteenth time, she uttered a silent prayer for the safety of her sister and niece.

 

On the outskirts of Mexico City, Yancy Russell patted the heads of the three Rottweilers she’d long ago befriended, tossing them the dog biscuits she’d filched from the kitchen. This secluded estate, on the hills outside Mexico City, was such a fortress that it had taken her months to learn how to circumvent its defenses. The corner of the vast gardens was the only place invisible to the electronic eyes surveying the entire compound. She only knew this because she’d saved her pocket change, doled out to her every week by her “benefactor,” Arturo, to bribe one of the security techs who periodically came in to maintain and tweak the equipment. One of them, an aging expat American hippie with a guitar tattooed on his forearm, had been susceptible to her smiles and wiles. When she could duck her own constant companion, aka jailer, several times she’d joined him in the kitchen for fajitas and mojitos.

The kitchen staff had long ago turned a blind eye to her little rebellions against Arturo, for in that way she was no different from the innumerable beauty queens, models, and barrio girls who became the mistresses of various cartel leaders. Their careers were short, dictated by their youth and beauty, and to a woman they utilized every female guile at their disposal to milk jewels, designer clothes, cars, apartments, and even trust funds from their benefactors.

Yancy, the servants of the vast mansion agreed, was older and smarter, though still very lovely. If she wanted to share a drink with the other help, it was a small transgression in a kingdom where food tasters and armies with advanced tactical training were the favored vassals of the patron. She was just a Yanqui cast out from her own wealthy family who was lucky the patron had been at the merchandise drop when she came in and had taken a fancy to her. It was said he’d noted her resemblance to the pretty blonde his son had snatched for himself months earlier, and he’d been titillated to think of the fun he and Tomas could have with a gorgeous American mother-daughter combo.