The Detective's Undoing

If he did, he’d feel that strange inexplicable absolutely unacceptable tug. He didn’t want to believe it was attraction, didn’t want to believe it was anything, so he ignored it.

So did she.

It suited them both. Delia was no more country than he was, raised as she’d been in the Los Angeles child-welfare system. He knew this, not because they talked much—by tacit agreement they avoided each other—but because he was the private investigator who’d promised Constance Freeman he’d find her long-lost granddaughter, heir to the Triple M.

It should have been an easy open-and-shut case. But of course, given his luck of the past few years, it hadn’t been. He’d found an heir all right, three of them. Delia, Maddie and Zoe, all foster sisters, dumped into the system at approximately the same time and age.

It was his job to narrow the choices down to the correct woman, a feat that had so far escaped him.

“Stop staring at me,” Delia said.

He glanced over his shoulder to find her still glaring into the refrigerator. “I’m not even looking at you.”

“You are so.”

He smiled then, because they were both obviously tired, cranky and…well, he didn’t want to think about what else they were. Because whatever it was, they were it together and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

“Why don’t you just leave?” She was again looking into the refrigerator, scowling hard, as if she could find the answers to world peace and hunger, but it was her voice that reached him. She sounded confused and hurt, and he had an insane urge to soothe her.

“You know I can’t,” he said, wishing yet again that he could.

She pushed at a jar of mayonnaise and peered behind it, searching. “You’ve proven Zoe isn’t the heir.”

“Which still leaves you and Maddie.”

She pulled out an apple and examined it, then rejected it. “Not me. You know it’s not me.”

“I know no such thing.”

“My father was a cop.” Her fingers turned white with their death grip on a bottle of soda. “An undercover cop who never knew of my existence, remember? You yourself found this out just last week when you tracked down my so-called birth mother and found out that she was dead.”

Because he sensed the fragile hold she had on her emotions, he stayed where he was and said quietly, “Yes, I remember.” He also remembered how she’d looked when he’d told her, the shattered emotions that had swum in her expressive eyes when she’d realized her mother was gone forever, the mother who’d left her in a foster home.

She didn’t look shattered now, but with the tears wiped away, she looked strong. Fiercely independent. And despite himself, admiration filled him for her ability to roll with the punches life had thrown her.

He, more than anyone, knew exactly how painful those punches could be.

“And Constance’s no-good jerk of a son was a drifter,” she continued. “Not a cop. So really, I couldn’t be her granddaughter.”

“I don’t think your mother was real good at truths, Delia,” he said gently.

That had her snapping her gaze back to his, but when she spoke, it was not with the heat of temper, but with the slow precision that only pain and sorrow could bring. “I’d like to be able to deny that.”

It was a surprising admission from a woman who’d been very careful to keep herself hidden from him. He understood perfectly, as the attempt was mutual. “I’m on the case until I have answers.”

She muttered something, but he missed it. When he raised a brow in question, she sighed with exasperation.

“I said thank you for finding my half brother.”

Given how she’d ground out each word, especially the “thank you” part, Cade knew how difficult the words had been. For some reason, this lightened his mood, made him want to grin. “I’m sorry…what was that?” He ignored her growl of frustration and cupped a hand to his ear, giving her an innocent smile.

“Thank you,” she said again through her teeth. Then she swallowed, hard, and all traces of resentment vanished. Her voice and expression softened. “I didn’t even know Jacob existed and I owe you for that. I’m going next week to Los Angeles to meet him for the first time and…”

“And…?”

“And I’m grateful, okay?”

She looked close to tears again, which he couldn’t take. Cocking his head, he ran his gaze over the body that could make a grown man beg and gave a wicked smile designed to claw at her temper. “How grateful?” he asked.

For a second she gaped at him before her composure returned. It was fascinating to watch.

She was fascinating to watch.

Without a word, she sauntered past him, chin high, walking regally from the kitchen into the recesses of the dark house.

Which left him alone.

That was nothing new. He was always alone.

* * *

Learning to ride. Oh, the joy of it. Not.

The day stretched out before Delia, glorious and cloud-free. Good thing, too, because though it was only October, they’d been battered by a series of storms, and she was already a little tired of the bone-numbing cold.

She was also tired of worrying.

There was so much, she didn’t know where to start. She worried about Maddie and Zoe and how hard they had to work. She worried about her newly found little brother, living far away in Los Angeles with a distant aunt, because no one had known to contact her. She worried about this big bad wilderness she was living in, when all she knew were shopping malls and Thai takeout. She worried about—

“Hey.”

Him. She worried about him.

Silently cursing her sisters’ good humor—which had included this so-called riding lesson, courtesy of one Cade McKnight—she shifted in her saddle and looked into Cade’s mischievous eyes. As always, her heart skipped a beat, which annoyed her since her heart never skipped a beat over something as simple as a male.

“You’re not paying attention,” he said. “You’re letting that horse have her way.”

“I am not.” But good old Betsy betrayed her, bending her long neck down to graze. Delia turned away from Cade’s laughing gaze, trying to no avail to pull on Betsy’s reins.

The horse continued to graze peacefully.

“Try harder. With authority.”

Delia did…and broke a nail. She gritted her teeth and pulled harder.

Chewing complacently, Betsy twisted her neck and gazed balefully at Delia, but when she finished her mouthful, she didn’t go for more. Instead, she shifted, as if considering taking off for a nice long run.

Delia’s eyes widened slightly, her only concession to alarm. “Stop,” she demanded of the suddenly restless Betsy, the gentlest horse on the Triple M.