Tangled With A Texan

“What’s the matter, Detective? Don’t you trust me?”

She snorted. “I can handle you.”

He gave her a sharp look that made her draw in a hasty breath. It was clear his mind had gone straight below the waist. Come to think of it, so had hers. Instead of giving in to the sudden roar of heat that flamed from deep inside her, she narrowed her gaze at him.

“Well, where’s this chariot?”

He laughed, the sound a deep rumble that hit straight to her solar plexus. A delicious, lazy sound better suited to a bedroom than a parking lot beside a B-grade motel.

“Over here.”

He gestured toward a classic F-150, and as they drew nearer, he opened the passenger door for her. She eyed the antique surface of the truck. Clearly left to go to rack and ruin at some point, the vehicle had been restored, but the paintwork remained aged and patchy—almost as if the rust was a badge of honor.

“Ranching not going so well?” she asked, casting an obvious eye over the multicolored hood.

“Let’s just say I appreciate the patina of time. It’s been treated and clear coated. A testament to the age and longevity of the beast.”

Zoe cast him a sideways glance. A somewhat romantic statement from a man who made his living from the land and the animals upon it. Eschewing further comment, she climbed up onto the front seat and waited while he closed her door and stepped around to the driver’s side. The cab had seemed so spacious until he swung up beside her. Then his shoulders were suddenly too close to hers and the cologne he wore wove around her on subtle waves of body heat. She turned her head to the window, but it was no good. Her senses were powerfully attuned to him. She didn’t need to see him to know that his leather jacket was so soft and worn that it fitted his shoulders like a second skin, or that the crisp denim of his jeans pulled across his hips when he sat at the wheel.

She also knew that no matter where she was, she’d never again smell that scent and not think of him. Of the raw masculinity he exuded in his simple stance, or the latent power in his hands, the teasing in his eyes, the sardonic curl of his lip. She gave herself a mental shake. What the hell was she doing, thinking of him in these terms? Right now, he was someone of interest in her inquiries. Someone to question, not drool over. She was not that weak nor that vulnerable.

But it had been a while since she’d been intimate with anyone, and, she reminded herself bluntly, a woman had needs. Needs, it seemed, that were hell-bent on distracting her from her job. Well, she owed it to her victim to get to the bottom of who was behind his murder—and to bring them to justice.

They hadn’t driven long before Galicia pulled up the truck outside a small hotel.

“This is us,” he said, getting out of the truck and walking around to her side.

To preempt him opening her door, she did it herself and dropped down onto the pavement. She’d keep her distance from him, get whatever information she needed and then she’d be on her way. She didn’t want to stay here in Royal any longer than necessary. It might be a thriving town, it might even be civilized, but it wasn’t her city. These weren’t her people. Especially not the tall, commanding figure walking beside her as they entered the hotel and headed toward the bar.

If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a brief flare of approval in his eyes. Not that she cared. She wasn’t here to impress him. He gave her a brief nod and put a hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the bar. As they entered, he gestured to one side of the room.

“We’ll sit over there.”

She noted he made it a gentle order, not a suggestion. Okay, so he thought he was in charge. It was his turf. She’d play his game. For now.

“What’s your poison?” Galicia asked as they reached their seats. “No, wait, let me guess.”

She played along, watching as he stroked his chin and eyed her thoughtfully.

“Something frilly to counteract the tough-cop act.”

“I assure you, it’s no act—and you’d be wrong. I’ll have a beer.”

She couldn’t help but notice the attention paid to him by the waitress who hurried over to take their order, but aside from a polite “thanks,” he paid the woman no heed. Instead, he kept his searing focus very firmly on Zoe. The waitress was back in a moment, two chilled glasses and two ice-cold longneck lagers on her tray. She set the drinks onto the table in front of them.

“So, Cord, did you want these on your tab or—” the waitress started.

“I’ll take care of them,” Zoe said, flicking some bills from her pocket and dropping them onto the woman’s tray. “Keep the change.”

The waitress looked from Cord to Zoe and back again, Obviously she wasn’t used to Cord’s dates picking up the tab. She left as Cord picked up a beer, poured it into Zoe’s glass and did the same for himself.

“You’re quick,” Cord said with a quirk of his lips. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“I pay my way.”

“Gender equality and all that?”

“You drove, I bought the first round. Gender equality has nothing to do with it.” She arched a brow at him as he chuckled softly. “Are you deliberately trying to irritate me? Because if so, you’ll find I’m hard to put off.”

“I’m definitely not trying to put you off.”

He smiled again, the movement of his lips sending a sucker punch to her gut. How did he manage to have such a strong effect on her? This was crazy. She’d been out with plenty of men, had relationships with a few, but she’d never felt this intense, visceral response before. It made her feel vulnerable, as if she were cast slightly adrift, and she didn’t like it one bit. Determined to maintain the upper hand, she took charge of the conversation.

“So, how long have you lived around Royal?” she asked.

“Ah, the inquisition continues,” he drawled. He sat back in his chair, hooking one arm over the back, and gazed at her through narrowed eyes.

“Inquisition?”

“Yeah, it’s what you do, isn’t it? Grill people?”

“Like dressed in black leather with torture implements and stuff like that?”

His lips quirked again, sending a spiral of sensation curling through her lower body. Oh, that mouth. How would it feel against hers? How would he taste?

“I could see you in that getup.”

She snorted a laugh. “In your dreams, buster. So, back to my question. How long have you lived here?”

His nostrils flared on an indrawn breath. “Am I wet off the back of the truck, do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes. He was needling her, twisting her words to sound like a veiled insult. That might be the angle some of her colleagues would have taken, given there was no mistaking Galicia’s Mexican heritage. But she was not that kind of person. In fact, none of her family was.

“Look, I asked you a simple question. You’re being deliberately evasive again.” She lifted her glass and took a long sip of her beer, relishing the bite of hoppy flavor as it rolled over her tongue and down her throat. “I’m not sure what you call conversation in this neck of Texas, but where I come from, when we meet a person, we chat, ask questions. Y’know, get to know one another.”

He nodded slowly. “We have similar customs here.”

She fought back a laugh. “I wouldn’t have guessed it. Maybe it’d help if I went first? I’m Houston born and raised. Youngest of five. Third-generation cop. Your turn.”

“Royal born and raised. Only child. My grandparents came here, bought land, ranched it, expanded the ranch. My father took over, did more of the same.”

She nodded. “And you? Still expanding?”

He shrugged. “Not in land, more in better ways to use it.”

She sat back in her chair and felt herself relax as he began to open up and discuss a little of how he planned to diversify his business operations. She let his voice roll over her, enjoying the timbre and the slow, measured way in which he spoke. She gestured to the waitress for two more beers.

“Let me get those,” he said.