The Black Sheep and the Hidden Beauty (25 page)

He used their joined hands to stroke his knuckles down the side of her face, and his voice softened further. “You provoke me,
mijita
, you make me wonder about things I've never wondered about. You make me think about you every damn second of the day. You've only just come into my life, and yet I find myself wondering what you'd think about this or that. I'll want to get your feedback on something I'm mulling over, because I know you won't bullshit me and I know you'll give a thoughtful, well-reasoned response without caring if it's what I want to hear or not. I've never met anyone like you.”

“You need to get out more.”

He barked a laugh, then his gaze grew quite serious. Which was quite terrifying, because she knew there was no hiding from him. He saw through all of her bullshit. It was like being naked at all times, vulnerable at all times. It should unnerve her, and it did. But, as he'd more or less just said about her, it was also comforting. To know there was one person who got her. Who would always get her. No matter what.

He kissed her knuckles again, then leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose. Something about that simple gesture, so sweetly innocent in its promise, so at odds with the man she was coming to know, made tears spring to her eyes. “Rafe,” she whispered shakily, “I don't know what to do.”

“Tell me the rest of the story, Elena. Let's get this thing resolved so we can get on with this.”

“This?”

He squeezed her hands. “Yeah. This.”

She swallowed hard, but his steady gaze helped. “There is something I kind of omitted yesterday. About Springer.”

“She's pregnant with Geronimo's baby, isn't she?”

Elena's mouth dropped open, but no words came out. She finally closed it, swallowed hard, but still didn't know what to say. So she just nodded.

“Planned or unplanned?”

“Un,” she said, shaking. “Very un.”

“No one saw?”

She shook her head. “I didn't know what to do, so I went home, went to bed, thinking I had time to figure it out since it might not have taken. Then—then the fire, and Geronimo dying and…” She didn't know what else to say. “Everything I've said is the truth. I was already planning to leave. I waited to see if she was pregnant, still not sure what I was going to do, or who I was going to tell, if she was. But the media glare was insane, the investigation was going all over the place, speculation was pretty rampant, and I didn't have anyone I knew I could trust…so—so I left.”

“I talked to Mac this morning.”

“And?”

“He's digging, I'm researching. I'm trying to find out what the legal ramifications are of you having a horse carrying a baby after unauthorized, unpaid-for stud service—not to mention who provided that service. I want to know the strict legal aspects. Mac is digging to find out more about what's happening with the insurance investigation so we're better prepared when whoever it is shows up to talk to you.” He looked at her. “A conversation I'm going to sit in on, so don't buck me on that. Two sets of ears and an outside observation can only help.”

“I was going to ask you if you would, so thank you.” That obviously surprised him, which made her smile. It felt good to smile. “I'm not a complete hard-ass.”

He grinned and nudged her with his hips. “I happen to think your ass is damn near perfect.”

She bumped him back. “You should know.” Then her smile grew. “Are you blushing?”

“I never blush. I'm pretty sure it goes against the guy code.”

“I don't know,” she said, tilting her head to see his face in better light.

He'd just caught her in a fast kiss when a knock came on the door.

“Elena?” came a slightly raised whisper. It was Tracey.

It was a measure of how far she had sunk into this burgeoning relationship that, even with the sudden intrusion of the real world, it took her a few more lingering moments to end the kiss and surface. “Yes—” The word had come out like more of a croak. She cleared her throat, even as she caught Rafe's glinting smile. “Yes?”

“Sorry, but there's someone here to see you. Says it's urgent.”

They both tensed. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Same jerk who came by in that truck and spooked Bonder. I guess he went up to the main house first. Now he's down here. He didn't give his name.”

“Where is he now?” Rafe asked.

Any other time she'd have been mortified to have been caught—again—in such an unprofessional, compromising situation. But the real world had returned with a vengeance, and she wasn't prepared yet.

“Out at the barn office. Kate's there.”

“Good,” Rafe responded. “Have her keep him there for a few, will you?”

“Do my best.”

“Tracey?” Elena called out, but there was no answer. She turned to Rafe. “What do we do?”

“Do you have a laptop in your loft? One with Internet access?”

“Yes, I have a computer—no, I don't have access. I use the office computer when I need that, which is rare-to-never.”

He tucked her hand in his and turned to the door. “Then we'll just have to be a bit stealthier.”

“And do what?”

“We're going to head out through the rear paddock, circle the ring till we get to the grove of trees that runs all the way up the hill to the house, and use that for cover.”

“What, we're suddenly
Mission: Impossible
?”

“I want to know more about this guy before we talk to him.”

She was following him without realizing it, but paused then, tugging on his hand. “How are you going to get any more information on him than you already have without talking to him? Why don't I talk to him while you run whatever checks you want?”

“You don't go in there alone.”

“Kate is in there alone.”

“He doesn't want Kate.”

She tried not to shiver a little at the thought, but she still felt hunted. “I can handle it.”

He tugged her against him and kissed her. “I know. So just imagine how amazing it's going to be when you add me to the mix.”

“Relentless.”

“I believe I mentioned that.”

She smiled. “I know. It makes me a little nervous.”

“What, you don't think I can handle this?”

“No, because I believe you can. And worse, I like it.”

R
afe opened the door leading to the side entrance of the suite of offices he shared with Finn and Mac.

“I still don't understand why we're in stealth mode here. Why not just confront the guy and find out what he wants?” Elena asked.

“Always better to go into any battle with more information than your opponent. As of now, all you know is that he's an insurance investigator—or says he is—and he's hot on your tail because of some renewed interest supposedly spurred by our contacting your employer to ask a few questions. Something isn't adding up here.”

“What do you mean?” She closed the door behind her and looked around. “Wow. Very nice.”

Rafe absently looked around the room, trying to see it as she did, recalling how he'd felt about it several years earlier when he, Finn, and Mac decided to join ranks and form Trinity. Finn had revamped his father's expansive home office and library into one main deliberating room surrounded by three smaller satellite offices. They rarely closed the doors, however, and they all wandered freely in and out of each other's space all the time. Hell, most of the time one or all of them weren't even around.

The offices had once been a stultifying fortress of mahogany, wainscoting, and rare Persian rugs. The floor-to-ceiling custom bookshelves had been filled with specially bound leather volumes, dotted with rare and expensive collectibles and artifacts that Finn's father had prided himself on collecting. At times through less than humanitarian means. But then, no one would ever call Harrison Dalton anything so benevolent as a humanitarian, despite the number of charities that had borne his name.

Finn had deconstructed the space immediately and turned it into something more befitting their individual tastes. The central area was a study in warm tones, soft fabrics, and leathers, with low tables and subtle lighting, intended to put the occasional client at ease, though it was far more common for them to travel to see their clients than to bring them in. The idea had been to make it warm, inviting, and not intimidating. Dalton Downs was that all by itself.

“Mac?” he called out, but there was no response. “He was just here. He was supposed to be digging up whatever he could find out on the insurance companies that covered Geronimo.”

Elena had wandered over to an end table next to the couch. “I think he left a note.”

Rafe crossed the room. “Why didn't he call down to the barn?” He picked up the note and scanned it quickly. “Looks like he got called away on that Peterson deal. Took off to the airport about twenty minutes ago.” He picked up the stack of papers that had been left underneath the note. “This was all he could dig up, but the note says there is nothing new there in terms of any late-breaking news in their investigation. He also didn't find any trail leading anyone to you, or out here.”

“That's good news, right?”

“Yes, and no. It doesn't explain who the guy is in Kate's office.”

Elena wandered to the open door of the first office to the right. “This is…interesting.”

“Mac's office.”

“I take it he decorated it himself?”

Rafe smiled. “You know he was a former cop, right?”

“Which explains why it looks like a precinct.”

“He's not too big on frills.”

“I see that.” She peered in at the standard-issue desk, the huge dry-erase board that filled most of one wall, the giant magnet board that filled the other. The remaining wall was lined with several metal file cabinets and a tall bookcase crammed with every manner of book, binder, or pamphlet that Mac had ever used. Shelved in no particular order and looking like a librarian's worst nightmare, Rafe knew Mac could put his hand on any specific title blindfolded.

Elena walked to the next door and laughed. “Let me guess. Finn.”

“He had a stunted childhood—what can I say?”

Finn's space was more amusement park than office, but then Finn was anything but traditional in his approach to business.

“That's the biggest foosball table I've ever seen.”

“He had it specially made. Actually, one of our clients constructed it for him, as payment. He was a game developer whose ideas were ripped off and we helped him regain control of his patent.”

She poked her head further in. “Oh my God, is that—”

“Ms. PacMan? Sadly, yes. When he first got that one in, he played it until all hours. The sound effects haunt me to this day.”

He watched as she took in the mini basketball court, the massive flat-screen television, specially built-in xBox 360 gaming console and seating area, and the vintage Las Vegas blackjack table—reputed to have been used by the Rat Pack themselves back in the day—before turning back to him. “So…he plays games all day?”

“Says it helps him think through things. And considering he's about twice as productive as Mac and me, who slave twice as hard, we can't really call him out on it.”

“Whatever works, right?”

“Right.”

She took a step closer and peered around him. “Which leads us to your space.”

Rafe stepped aside, more curious about her reaction than he'd thought he'd be. In fact, he'd never once cared what anyone thought about the way he chose to live, or dress, or the environment he worked in.

“This is definitely you.” She walked all the way in, and turned to take in the whole room.

Bemused by the certainty in her tone, he followed her inside.

“You designed this yourself, didn't you?”

“None of us is the hired-decorator type.”

“But yours could have been done professionally—no one would think otherwise.” She turned once again. “You have as good an eye for interior design as you do for clothing.”

“Thank you. It was an acquired skill, I can assure you.”

She smiled, as if surprised that he'd so readily accepted the compliment.

“It means something to you, doesn't it? Comfort, casual elegance. I mean, it's not contrived or overdone, and it totally suits you. But you don't take this for granted.”

“No,” he said, quietly. “Not one square inch of it.”

“So, if I were to play armchair psychologist, I would say that you probably weren't raised around pretty things. Maybe
pretty
isn't the right word, but—”

“Beauty. And you're right. There was a distinct lack of beauty in my world. I vowed to make up for that. I wanted to create a space that was pleasing to the senses—soothing, I guess. I don't apologize for that. I still see plenty of ugliness.”

“I'm sure you do. And who would ask you to apologize for working to change something so fundamental?”

He didn't respond. He'd never felt defensive about his choices. In the past, with other women, he hadn't cared much one way or the other what they thought. He didn't seek to impress, but was simply comfortable in the knowledge that whoever was in his company would always feel comfortable in his surroundings.

He'd had women in his pool house home, but she was the first woman he'd brought into his office. Oddly, he felt more exposed here than he did in his personal space. He spent a moment wondering what that said about him and his priorities.

Elena ran a hand over the backs of the soft leather side chairs that fronted a low table, all arranged facing a small, slate fireplace. His desk was on the other side of the room. It was constructed from warm cherry, an average size, with a functional computer center set up to one side. Bookcases lined one of the walls, and while not the wild chaos of Mac's, neither were they filled with the pretentious leather collections of the elder Dalton.

“Who painted that? Anyone I should know and am shamefully undereducated about?”

She was looking at a landscape that hung over the fireplace.

“No, no one most people know. It was payment from a client. My first for Trinity, actually. She's showing in several West Coast galleries now and doing okay—for a starving artist, anyway.”

“She?” Elena turned and pretended to study the sculpture next to the lamp on the end table.

Rafe smiled. “Yes, she. No, we weren't involved.”

Elena looked up, her widened eyes claiming total innocence, but the blush in her cheeks saying otherwise. “I wasn't intimating. Besides, it's certainly none of my business.”

“It is if you think I make a habit of mixing business with pleasure.”

“Do you?”

Rafe didn't take offense. It was a fair question. He crossed the room to stand next to her as they both studied the oil painting. “What do you think? I'm asking sincerely.”

She favored him with an assessing side glance, then looked back at the painting. “I think you don't see women as conquests, but rather as temporary companions. It's not a game to you, but you don't strike me as someone looking to put down roots with anyone, either. Which makes it easier not to have too many rules or boundaries.” She looked at him again, and found his gaze already on her. She held his easily. “I think you're with who you want, when you want, and it doesn't much matter why she crossed your path or how long she remains in your orbit.” She smiled. “But I do bet they're always stunningly beautiful. In keeping with your new world aesthetic.”

It should have disconcerted him, how easily she'd summed him up. And how correctly. But, frankly, he'd have been more surprised if she'd missed the mark. Her intuitive skills were one of the things he most admired about her.

She smiled. “So, do I still get you?”

He was reaching for her before even being aware of his intent. It just seemed both natural and necessary for him to have her close, where he could touch her, taste her, take in her scent. But she smoothly sidestepped him and wandered over to the bookcase, seemingly oblivious. Somehow he doubted she missed much.

“So,” she said at length, reaching out to touch the spine of a book, then thinking better of it and rubbing her hands off on her overalls first. Tilting her head to read the title, she went on. “How do you explain me?” She lifted her head and pinned him with a bemused look. “I'm all kinds of wrong for this world of beauty you've created.”

“Why would you say that?” Although he knew perfectly well why. She was exactly correct. She wasn't anything like the women who typically caught his attention. But he wanted to hear her put it into words, see what her view of herself was.

To that end, she just laughed and gestured to the stable hand clothes she had on. “I wouldn't know a designer label if it was stamped on my forehead. Thread-count means nothing to me. I don't have the faintest clue about what makes great art or literature. I'm perfectly happy with some fried chicken or barbeque. Five-star cooking would be lost on me.” She swung her braid around to the front and tugged on it. “Hell, I use the same shampoo as my horse.”

Rafe smiled and walked over to her. “Lucky horse.”

“My idea of beauty is watching a young thoroughbred pound around a mile-and-a-quarter practice track just as the sun tops the trees and starts to burn off the morning fog. Smelling the sweat flying off his neck, seeing the fierce will in his eyes, hearing one set of hooves pounding into the soft track.”

“Sounds like a sight worth seeing.” He stopped in front of her. “As are you.” He reached up, stroked a finger down the side of her cheek.

“Rafe,” she said quietly, “who are you kidding here?”

“I'm not kidding anyone. Least of all myself.”

She sighed a little. “I wish I had your conviction.”

“You've got enough on your plate. Don't overanalyze this.”

“It's because I do that I have to closely consider every step I take. Professionally and personally.” She held his gaze. “I guess what keeps tripping me up is…why me?” She held up a hand to stall his response. “I mean, I know there is chemistry.”

He grinned. “Hard to ignore that part.”

“But chemistry isn't everything. We're so different.” She gestured to the room. “And if I needed more proof of that, I'm currently surrounded by it.”

“Are you really that uncomfortable here?”

“It's a little intimidating. I spend my days around horse-stall muck. This…” She looked around. “It's lovely, and inviting. And I can't help but feel that I shouldn't touch anything for fear of mussing it up.”

Rafe followed her gaze, and, through her eyes, began to see what she saw. His gaze came back to her, and as the matter became more necessary with each passing moment, he reached for her again. She resisted when he took hold of her arms and gently tugged her closer, but not enough for him to reconsider. She kept her eyes studiously focused on his chin, so he dipped his head down to catch her gaze with his. “Maybe I need a little mussing up,” he said.

She snorted. “You spent your life building this world for yourself, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's gorgeous, and you deserve every comfort you've worked for. It's just…it's not the world I'm accustomed to.”