He didn’t. With a jerk of his head, he let her hair slip through his fingers and took an all-important step away from her. A sense of irrational rejection immediately took up battle with relief.
She wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. He was still watching her every movement, her every twitch. Her footing became more familiar. She could do this, whatever this was. “I do not take kindly to being a target,” he finally said into the wind.
“I don’t know of anyone who does.” She watched his face as she flipped her hair back over her shoulder. His eyes followed the movement. Why hadn’t he kissed her? “If I find out anything about it, I’ll let you know.”
He licked his lower lip. Yes, it did appear that a beautiful woman could muddle a man’s thinking. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and fished out a business card. “If you find out anything,” he said, the sarcasm dripping off every syllable, “give me a call. I’d like to press charges. That address is wrong, but the cell number is still good.”
Armstrong Holdings, the card said. Wichita Falls, Texas. Daniel Armstrong, Chief Operating Officer. Damn. He wasn’t just some errand boy, he operated the whole company. Did that include the part that wanted to build the dam? “Of course,” she tried to say smoothly as she tucked the card into her pocket behind her glasses. She had the feeling that pressing charges was the least of her worries. But a cell phone number wasn’t exactly an in. She needed something more. “Where are you staying now?”
The steel left his eyes a little. Yes, maybe they were both back on familiar footing now, because a smaller version of that arrogant smile was back. “At my uncle’s house.” He slouched back against the side of his truck, one thumb caught in a belt loop, the other holding the apparently forgotten hat. Now that the anger had left his face—or at least gone deeper under cover—he was right back into handsome territory. “You should come to dinner.”
“Excuse me?” Of all the things she thought he might say at that exact moment, dinner wasn’t even on the list.
“Look, I can appreciate you not—” he shrugged his shoulders in defeat “—liking my uncle very much. But he’s not such a bad guy. You should see for yourself.”
The spawn of Satan wasn’t such a bad guy? Even Dan didn’t sound like he believed it. With her last bit of self-control, she managed to keep her snort to herself. Besides, a dinner invitation was exactly the sort of in she’d been angling for. Aunt Emily would be thrilled that Rosebud had managed to get invited to that creepy ranch house. God only knew what sort of dirt she could dig up from the inside.
He was falling into her trap—or, she suddenly realized, she was falling into his. After all, two could play at this game.
He notched an eyebrow at her. Oh, yes, play was the operative word. She mustered up her best sly grin as she pretended to think about it. “Quite the peacemaker, aren’t you, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Mr. Armstrong is my uncle.” His smile broadened. “Please call me Dan, Ms. Donnelly.”
Suddenly, she decided she might not mind playing this game. After all, she could string him along with a wink and maybe a kiss—okay, definitely a kiss—without giving away anything, including her body. Just so long as she was the one doing the stringing. “Rosebud,” she corrected him as she batted her eyes and managed a faint blush.
His smile grew warmer—she thought. “Saturday night? Around seven?”
Two days? He wasted no time. She wouldn’t have the chance to find out anything about him before then. She’d be walking into the devil’s lair with nothing but her wits and her looks to keep her safe. Sometimes, she thought as she carefully considered his offer, that was all a girl needed. “All right. Saturday at seven.”
If she wasn’t careful, that smile was going to be her undoing. “Would you like me to pick you up?”
Chivalry had apparently not died. But there was no way in hell she wanted this man in this truck to be seen picking her up on the rez. The wrong people would get the wrong idea, and she had enough to deal with right now. “I know where it is.”
He nodded his head in acknowledgment, and she felt the heat from three paces. Definitely a kiss. At least one. One kiss to hold her for the next three years—was that too much to ask? “Good. I’ll see you then.”
She couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a promise.
Four
Dan sat in his truck, fighting the urge to head straight for the barn, saddle up Smokey and head for the valley. The expectation of bad days were the whole reason he’d driven himself and his horse up here from Texas. He wasn’t going to leave Smokey, his champion palomino stallion, at home—being around Cecil practically guaranteed he’d need to ride.
A bad day at the office was always made better by taking Smokey out to check on the Armstrong oil derricks. Dan paid people to make sure the derricks ran properly, but there was something about getting his own hands dirty that made him feel like the company was all his. Usually, by the time he rode back in, whatever problem that had been bugging him had either ceased to be important or a solution had presented itself. Sometimes both.
He could sure use a solution to his long list of current problems, starting with who’d fired on him. He had a feeling that if he camped out in that valley long enough, his Lakota princess would come back to the scene of the crime. He’d rather take his chances there than go in and see his uncle. Going in would mean reporting back, and reporting back would mean having to say something about Rosebud Donnelly, and saying something about Rosebud was… tricky.
He couldn’t be sure, but damned if that woman hadn’t looked just like his Indian princess, minus the horse. She had the nerve to do it, too. The cold-eyed determination he’d seen when he called her on it told him she had nothing but ice water running through her veins. No doubt about it, that was the bearcat Cecil wanted dealt with. She was why Dan was here. Regular lawyers couldn’t budge her. He was supposed to woo her, for God’s sake, with all his “talking.” He was supposed to talk his way into her panties, compromise her position and report back.
He was no lapdog.
His princess. Somehow, he knew there was more to her than just that. Underneath all that cold determination, he’d seen something in her eyes, something that had spoken of a deep sorrow, a deep regret. Something that made him think that if she had taken that shot, she hadn’t shot to kill.
He couldn’t be sure. But he had a hunch, and he hadn’t had one lead him astray in a long time.
But what was he supposed to do with it? Make wild accusations—the kind Rosebud was making? What the hell was that about—”Men have died”? Cecil was an ass—that much he knew—but he wasn’t a killer. He didn’t need to be one—it was just a dam.
Most every person has a reason, his mother’s voice whispered in his ear. If ever there was a situation where his mother’s sensibilities would come in handy, this was it. He turned his phone over in his hand, debating whether or not he should check in with Mom. On one hand, her opinion on these sorts of matters was worth its weight in oil. On the other hand, he’d have to tell her about the gunshot, and once he did that, she’d go all Mom on him, and she was plenty busy keeping the day-to-day operations going while he was up here dealing with the Cecil “situation.” She was the reason he had time to spend days taking notes
