Maybe it was the dry, hot air. Maybe the occasional lowing of cattle on the range, or coyotes howling in the foothills. Whatever the reason, this place stirred a need in him he’d never known. He wanted to belong to an environment as wide and clear as this place. Nights like this simply did not exist in one-bedroom apartments in the lower Bronx with car horns blaring, trains clanking and kids who yelled to each other from the sidewalks. He exhaled a long breath. He could get used to life in the desert.
His gut knotted at the realization. Inwardly, he shook himself. This place was haunting his good senses. He’d learned early on not to attach himself to anyone or anything. He’d chosen to be an undercover detective because his parents had been crack addicts. Unsupervised, with a lot of pent-up anger, he’d run with gangs until he was finally arrested in his early twenties and scared straight. Even then, working for the law, he found no sanctuary.
Tico was tough. Running with gangs had made him that way. But he was honorable and got the job done. Then, when he lost his partner in a gunfight with a gang, prejudice toward him spiked, and Tico’s defenses rose right along with his peers’ reactions. He’d learned as a kid and again as a cop that no place was home.
Yet, basking in the peaceful night on the most beautiful grounds he’d ever seen, Tico found himself wishing for the first time in a long time that he had roots—a home like this one. Maybe not so grand, but a place to belong. He hadn’t entertained thoughts like these since he was small. Now desires like these did him no good at all.
Yeah. Coming here was a bad idea.
He needed to get his job done and get out as fast as possible. He’d planned on cracking Meg’s defenses and winning her over, but he’d liked her and her team on sight. They looked like honest, straightforward folk with whom he’d like to be on good terms. Bill Mewith and he had the Judumi in common, but was his lost heritage something he wanted to explore further?
It didn’t matter. Tico had been perceived and received as the enemy. An uphill battle, one more time. It was ironic the way he’d been more accepted in gangs than in the world of law enforcement. The old adage of being judged by the friends one kept followed him everywhere he went.
Don Francisco had set the stage one more time for Tico to be the outsider. But what the hell. He’d do it. The pay was certainly worth it. He’d ignore the pull of the land, of his Judumi heritage, of Meg Flores’s soulful eyes. There was nothing here for him except a job to do.
He’d get it done.
His instincts were already giving him ideas for directions he should pursue. Only this time, for the first time in his career, he wouldn’t bulldoze the team leader. Again, unfamiliar territory. But he’d read the reports. Met Detective Flores and her team. No matter what Don Francisco wanted, he’d make sure Meg worked with him on this investigation. Somehow, he’d appease Don Francisco. Meg deserved the recognition. Tico could protect her. He had no goddamn idea why he was even remotely entertaining that thought, but he was.
Maybe it was the swirl of stars overhead. Maybe it was this excellent cigar. Whatever. At the moment he felt inclined to meet this challenge. Who knew how he’d feel tomorrow.
The pounding rhythm of hoofbeats rose from behind the ranch house. One horse. One rider. He’d watched Meg’s truck pull up to a cabin on the lake in the distance after she’d left her parents’ veranda this evening. Sounded as if the rider was coming from that direction.
A rush heated his blood. Damnation, he hoped so.
Standing perfectly still, he watched as Meg rode around the house, heading for his porch. She looked sexy and wild in the shadowed light, her hair flying behind her, the air pushing a white Mexican shirt against her body as she moved—and what a body she had. He moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth. A sweet sight in the saddle, Meg handled the horse as if they were one. The power of the gallop meant she was still fuming. That brought a grin to his face.
She reined in the horse in front of the railing, just a hair’s breadth from where Tico stood. In the small cloud of dust, the musky heat from the horse’s hide vibrated the air between them but did nothing to match the heat from Meg’s flinty stare. He didn’t move a muscle. She looked sweet as hell.
He took a draw on the cigar. “Nice night for a ride.”
Her voice thrummed with barely suppressed hostility. “As if you’d know.”
“Did you race all the way here to discuss my riding abilities?”
“You have none.”
He chuckled. “A little rusty. I’ll give you that.”
“We have to talk, Detective.”
She was still pissed. He would be, too. Time to get to the bottom of their first encounter. Tico gestured to the rocking chair next to the one he’d been sitting in. He’d like to know if his inclination to help Meg had been misplaced.
He flicked the ash of his cigar into the dirt. “You climb down off that thing, and I’ll be happy to listen.”
THE SMUG LOOK on Tico’s face had Meg questioning her reason for coming here. Needing to keep her anger, she refused to ignore his jest. Meg laid a propriety hand on the horse’s neck. “She’s not a thing. Her name is Whisper.”
“Sounded more like thunder to me.”
Okay. So maybe she’d ridden Whisper hard on the five-minute run over here. She didn’t want to have this conversation but had no other choice. “Very funny.”
He addressed the horse. “Okay, then, Whisper, why don’t you deposit your mistress so we can have an eye-level conversation.”
“She won’t answer. She knows better than to converse with a man who considered himself above the law for most of his life.”
He frowned. “Did you really just try to insult me?”
Of course she did. Tico looked like the same type of hard-edged criminal she’d busted dozens of times over the years. The worse ones to handle were the dudes with attitude because they had sex appeal. Those Romeos thought their shit didn’t stink. She was sure that Tico fell into that camp. But there was something compelling about him. Attitude had its allure.
The fact that Tico was one of the good guys now made him a curiosity. One she had no time or inclination to explore, though, dammit all, her curiosity egged her on. She felt stupid when her heart thumped as she watched him stand there all arrogant and hot in his tight black shirt and jeans.
She spotted the rattlesnake tattoo immediately and used all her cop training not to stare. Given the many run-ins she’d had with rattlers in the desert, Butler’s lifelike tat, which curled around his forearm with the head and forked tongue resting just above his wrist, unsettled her right down to her toes. She honored nature in all its forms, especially with what she’d learned living closely with the Judumi, but she wasn’t a fan of snakes. Even more, she wasn’t one for tattoos. But that lean, golden brown rattler circling Tico’s forearm downright suited him.
She gestured to his tat. “Didn’t know you had a pet.”
He took a drag on his cigar and exhaled the smoke while watching her, but said nothing. The ash on the cigar between his fingers burned orange in the dark.
If he thought he was intimidating her, he was dead wrong. Meg swung from the saddle and looped the horse’s reins around the porch rail. Why did this guy bring out the worst in her?
Tico pointed to the horse’s reins. “Do you really believe a single loop will keep her from bolting?”
“She’s my horse. She won’t go anywhere.”
“Like mine obeyed me so well this morning?”
Meg