Look, But Don't Touch. Sandra Chastain
She heard him pad to the kitchen. Then she grabbed her clothes out of the bathroom, and as she leaned down and pulled on her jeans, she caught the scent of him again—as if he’d just removed his shirt and handed it to her. With nervous energy she crossed her arms over her chest and hugged the fabric close. For a long moment she held her breath, then let it out, chastising herself for being bewitched—for that was the only excuse she could come up with for how she was feeling. Clasping the towel with both hands, she leaned her head forward and began rubbing her wet hair.
“Coffee’s ready. Sorry, it’s black.” Wearing a pair of worn jeans, riding low on his hips, and a University of Texas T-shirt, he was carrying two mugs.
He walked over to her chair, handed her one, then moved toward the television. “Hope you don’t mind, but I want to catch the news.” He turned on the television and collapsed in his easy chair as if nothing had happened between them. Flipping channels, he seemed to focus all his attention on the news reports as if she wasn’t there. Was he finding this as strange as she was? Was he going to ignore her reply about stripping?
Moments later he was totally involved in the story of the solving of a five-year-old case, an undertaker who’d killed his wife and buried her in the same casket as the elderly aunt of one of San Antonio’s leading citizens. At the time, the undertaker appeared to be grief stricken. With no body or evidence to support foul play, the police had been forced to release him. The mortician’s wife had disappeared. Only the determined efforts of a Texas Ranger had finally solved the case. The problem was, he’d neglected to get permission from the family whose plot he’d disturbed.
Cat stood and walked over to the fireplace. The rain had stopped. It was time she left. As she turned to tell him, she noticed a desk in the corner and the pictures under the glass top. They appeared to be his family. Boys playing football. A girl hugging a guy.
No, not just a guy, it was the man she’d just made love with. He was wearing a white Stetson and a badge.
The woman was Bettina Dane.
“Now, for a word with the officer,” the television reporter was saying. Cat turned to the TV and watched him walk toward a tall, dark man wearing the customary white shirt and white Stetson worn by the Texas Rangers. “He’s the newest member of the San Antonio unit and he’s setting a remarkable record. A champion of law and order, he’s being called San Antonio’s supercop. Excuse me, Ranger—”
Cat leaned forward. She recognized that silhouette.
“—Jesse James Dane. Could we have a word with you?”
“No comment,” was the icy reply as he turned away.
Jesse James Dane. Bettina’s brother. The very man she’d planned to avoid. Suddenly a click changed the station to the weather channel where the forecaster was informing the public that the possibility of flooding was not over.
Jesse turned and saw that she’d witnessed the news clip. “I think I’d better go,” she said.
She watched Jesse take a big swig from his mug, give an elaborate shrug of his shoulders and lean back. “Relax. You’re safe from arrest. I’m off duty. Besides, the storm may be past, but you never know about flooding. Until we’re sure, you’re welcome to stay.”
“No!” Cat handed Jesse her mug and babbled like an idiot. “I have to get into town. Mr. Szachon is expecting me. I’ll get your shirt back to you. I’ll be able to buy you a new bike if this job goes well.”
Jesse stared at her. Sterling Szachon. He should have known. Everything about her said high-priced. From the beginning she’d been honest—she was out of his league. She was also a woman who gave full value for her service. He could attest to that. But her announcement that she was meeting Sterling Szachon knocked him for a loop.
As rich as Donald Trump, as handsome as sin, Szachon had taken San Antonio by storm. Like Trump, he had a reputation for success with both business and the ladies. He had a new female companion at his side every six months. The gossip was that they were all informed they were temporary. When their time was up, he’d give them something very expensive and send them happily on their way. The gossip didn’t say the women were professionals, but this mystery woman with the El Camino had said he would be her employer. He couldn’t blame her for keeping her profession private with her quip that she did the hiring, but he couldn’t stop a pang of regret. He stood and took a step toward her.
“Keep the shirt. And you’re not responsible for my bike. I have insurance.”
“Thank you for the shirt,” she said formally.
“Thank you for driving me home,” he murmured just as stiffly, following her as she backed out the kitchen door, stepped into a puddle of water and skidded.
He caught her elbows and she was in his arms again. There was an odd moment where both were absolutely still. By the light in the kitchen, he could see the clear blue of her eyes fringed by brown-gold lashes. He felt her catch her breath and hold it.
He’d thought he was in control. Since the death of his mother, he’d spent ten years training himself to erase emotion. Love hurt once it was gone. And this was a love-’em-and-leave-’em woman. But as she slowly let out the air in her lungs, he leaned forward and kissed her again. Like a lover, not a stranger. He hadn’t known he was going to do it.
For a second Cat parted her lips, then moaned and pulled away, her eyes open wide in surprise.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice a throaty whisper.
“You’re in Texas,” he said. “people here kiss hello and goodbye.”
“I…h-have to go,” she stammered, pushing out of his arms and dashing to her truck.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t want to. It was better that way.
THE EL CAMINO’S ENGINE started, just as she’d said. From the way she sped away, it was clear that if she had to, she’d swim to get away from him. As a man, he knew he ought not to go after her. As a Texas Ranger who had caused her desperate need to run, he told himself he couldn’t not go. She didn’t have to know. He’d just tag along behind her to make certain that she made it into town.
He watched as her truck sputtered a bit. But she was a good driver and made it onto the bridge. His vehicle, a Dodge Ram, rode across the water like a big sleek boat. He kept his distance, allowing her the illusion of being alone—at least until they reached the hotel. He slowed his truck as she drove onto the mock drawbridge entrance to the Palace, unloaded her luggage, then handed the keys over to the valet. Szachon had built a place that rivaled the Taj Mahal. If there’d been a ten-star rating, this hotel would get an eleven. The high-priced call girls he’d known about couldn’t afford to operate out of the Palace unless they were invited. This woman had a personal invitation.
With her long, determined stride she headed for the revolving doors, then stopped and turned back, her eyes scanning the street as if she sensed his presence. For just a second they seemed to connect on some level and he felt an odd tingle, then she tilted her chin up and entered the hotel.
He drove across the ramp, lowered the passenger window so that he could see her pause briefly at the registration desk then be whisked away toward the elevators without registering. Obviously she was expected.
What the hell was wrong with him, following this woman? He already had an appointment with his captain in the morning for what was certain to be a dressing-down. Getting a judge’s permission to disturb a grave without knowledge of the family had solved the crime, but he hadn’t followed political protocol. In his mind, the end result justified the means since he’d managed to solve a case. But he’d put a question mark in his file.
A Texas Ranger often operated alone, but he was expected to use good judgment. Jesse knew the captain wouldn’t gloss over his actions, even though he’d found the murdered woman and made the arrest. All he could do was apologize to the grieving family of the woman whose grave