car pulled ahead, leaving horse and rider behind. A brief flare of triumph brightened the heat-laden August afternoon. It was short-lived.
Frowning, he wondered what the hell he thought he was doing, racing a kid on a horse at fifty miles per hour. If the horse had stumbled, if the girl had fallen…
Ryan Fortune would have his hide if anyone on the Double Crown Ranch was hurt because of him and a momentary foolishness left over from a childhood that had forced him to fight back or die trying.
He glanced into the rearview mirror but the horse and rider had vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Maybe he ought to tell Fortune that some ranch hand’s kid was playing games with cars, probably on a prize stallion with a mile-long pedigree. On the other hand, a kid and her pranks weren’t his main concern at present.
The baby kidnapping was.
With this somber thought, Devin parked under a tree a short distance from the ranch house, an adobe hacienda of both awesome dignity and inviting warmth. As he walked up the sidewalk along the green sweep of lawn shaded by the oaks native to the Texas hill country, he heard the pounding of hooves on gravel and turned to face the road.
The huge red beast bore down on him. He gauged the distance between him and the rapidly approaching animal. Energy poured into him as he prepared to dive out of harm’s way. Six feet away, the rider pulled up.
The beast pivoted, then rose majestically on his hind legs, front hooves pawing the air. Backlit by the afternoon sun, horse and rider blended into one dazzling portrait of fiery splendor, so bright he had to shade his eyes, so alive and fierce and powerful, he felt an answering force within himself.
The rider studied him intently, and Devin felt a visceral thrill of recognition, as if he and the unknown young woman—she was definitely a woman, not a kid—had already met, as if this turbulent moment spoke of latent passions that had once flared between them…and would do so again.
She nodded once, as if acknowledging the mysterious connection. Then the great red horse seemed to gather himself on his powerful haunches before lunging forward into a ground-eating stride of unbelievable strength and speed.
Devin watched until horse and rider disappeared around the corner of the hacienda. At that moment, he realized his body was rock-hard and he was filled with an unquenchable hunger to follow wherever she led—
“You the FBI agent?”
He took a deep breath and fixed his attention on the man who stood at the edge of the lawn, looking him over with a critical eye. Ryan Fortune, patriarch of the Fortune clan, net worth one and a half cool billion, give or take a million or two, crossed the yard. He was dressed in typical cowboy work clothes—boots, jeans, long-sleeved shirt. A sweat-stained Stetson hat shaded his eyes.
Devin walked forward. “Yes, sir. Devin Kincaid.” He shook hands with the rancher and sized him up.
The older man was muscular and tall, standing about an inch less than Devin’s own six feet, two inches. Dark brown hair with gray sprinkled through it. Brown eyes. Laugh lines evident yet subdued by a deep frown that cut two creases across his tanned forehead. He looked as tough as whit leather, more the working cowboy than the rich man.
“It took you long enough,” Fortune said in a low, harsh tone, the anger controlled but urgent.
Devin had dealt with families locked in despair. He understood the agony and the fear, the anger that tried to hide both but never quite succeeded.
“I checked in with Sheriff Grayhawk before driving out.”
Devin knew more about the Fortune clan than the tight-lipped sheriff had revealed in his briefing that morning. Thanks only to lots of newspaper and magazine articles on the famous Fortune spread—the second largest ranch in the state—and to Sam Waterman, a long-time acquaintance who had a detective agency in San Antonio.
At the mention of the sheriff, Fortune nodded. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he squinted against the sun and surveyed the area as if looking for the cavalry to ride up any moment, bringing his baby grandson back.
Seeing the man’s expression soften slightly, Devin followed the dark gaze to the object of his attention. A young woman, dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, approached them. Devin recognized the rider of the red horse. The tightening in his gut said he knew her. Logic said they had never met.
Her eyes were as green as the grass he stood on. Her hair was tousled and as fiery as a Texas sunset. She was the promise of everything he’d ever wanted from life. Longing and lust raced through him in equal parts.
“My daughter, Vanessa,” Fortune said. “This is the FBI agent we’ve been expecting.”
“Devin Kincaid,” Dev added. He held out his hand.
Her grip was firm, her fingers slender and warm in his. Though he couldn’t see it, he was certain an arc traveled from the point where their palms connected all the way up his arm and down his chest to join forces with the primitive hunger she aroused.
Her eyes locked with his as an emotion flitted over her face too fast for him to read. She smiled briefly—as if in acknowledgment of the attraction, lust, whatever, between them?—her eyes never leaving his.
Devin dropped her hand as if it were the proverbial hot potato. He had studied pictures of the Fortune clan, but nothing had done justice to the vibrant life he sensed in this slender, shapely young woman. Her entire aura was one of subtle intelligence and willful spirit.
The youngest child—along with her identical twin Victoria—of a very rich man, Vanessa Fortune was twenty-five years old, a dabbler in psychology who had once helped the local police nab a serial killer. One lucky break, Dev mused, and she probably considered herself an expert on the criminal mind.
She was also twelve years younger than he was and as bright and shiny as a new penny. And as tempting to pick up and slip into his pocket. Ha. The Fortune heiress would be a pretty penny, indeed, for someone like him.
“It’s a hundred and two degrees in the shade,” the daughter informed them. “Let’s go inside.”
Dev followed her into the hacienda when her father gestured politely for him to precede him. He was aware of the other man’s eyes on his back and had a feeling the father had correctly read his reaction to the daughter.
He wasn’t here to get involved with a redheaded siren, he reminded himself sternly. Getting seriously entangled with any woman wasn’t part of his future. Period.
The wrought-iron gate, wide-open in a friendly welcome, and tan adobe walls that had once protected the family from intruders gave way to a small courtyard that had been transformed into a garden of paloverdes and native plants. Various-size stones had been used to effect a dry creek. A curving walk led to the steps to a massive wooden door with black iron hinges of conquistador design.
Inside was a typical great room and, beyond, an inner courtyard where the family would have entertained friends and often taken their evening meal in days of old. The courtyard, too, was an inviting expanse of trees and flowers, as well as a fountain and an overhead trellis covered with flowering vines. Under the trellis sat a cozy arrangement of chairs and an old-fashioned yard swing.
Crossing the great room, a dining room was visible to the left through a tall archway. Its glass-paned doors were closed. He surveyed
