“You got your man, Mariah.”
She instantly sprang up and out of her chair. She didn’t need any more explanation than that. “Thanks, Joe.” She hung up the receiver, slid her revolver into her hip holster, then pocketed her cell phone.
George didn’t even look up from his magazine. “Word on Claude Ray?”
Mariah found cause for her first smile of the day. “Oh, yeah.”
“Need some help roping him in?”
“Oh, no.”
He turned a page. “Didn’t think so.”
Mariah headed for the door, her mood instantly lightening. She liked this part of the job. This is where she excelled. No matter what else was happening in her life, she always managed to get her man.
Her smile slipped.
Well, she always managed to get her man on the job, anyway. In her personal life…
She wasn’t going to go there now.
She opened the door and darted outside—and ran straight into someone. A tall someone, who made her feel absolutely puny. A hard, nice-smelling someone who instantly grabbed her arms to steady her, sending a jolt of warmth over her skin.
“Excuse me,” she said, finding her feet and stepping backward.
The man grinned, nearly sending her off balance all over again.
Whoa, cowboy.
“I think I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
Okay, he wasn’t a cowboy. His accent identified him as a Yankee. Mariah found herself tucking her hair behind her ears. And she never tucked her hair behind her ears.
She quickly fluffed her hair back out as if the move alone could erase the nervous gesture. Instead she probably came off looking even more nervous.
“So long as neither of us is seriously injured,” she said. “Pardon me again.”
She began to skirt around him, surprised she was capable of any movement at all.
“Mariah?”
Her blood sizzled through her veins at the sound of her name rolling off the stranger’s tongue. How did he know her name?
She turned slightly to face him.
“Are you Mariah Clayborn?” he asked.
“Um, yes. I am.”
He grinned that grin again. “I’m Zach Letterman. I believe you’re expecting me?”
Expecting him? In her dreams, maybe. Then his name sank in. Zach Letterman, Zach Letterman….
This was Zach Letterman? The P.I. Jennifer Madison had sent down to work with her? No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t look anything like a P.I. He looked more like he’d stepped straight from the pages of GQ. Not that she had ever read Gentlemen’s Quarterly, but she was familiar with the comparison. And if anyone looked like he deserved to be on the cover of a gentlemen’s magazine, it was this guy.
Whoa.
2
A PRIZE BULL UP FOR AUCTION, that’s what Zach felt like. He stood stock-still under the blazing Texas sun and waited while Mariah Clayborn examined him as if she were considering making a bid. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing. Her large brown, almost black, eyes widened and she stared at him as if caught doing something she shouldn’t. Zach grinned, suppressing the desire to ask her if he made the grade.
They stood outside a modest one-story building with Clayborn Investigations written in large block letters on the window. The four-lane boulevard behind him buzzed with traffic, and just over the rooftops of the other one-story buildings across the street lay the Houston skyline. But Zach paid attention to none of it as he gave the woman standing in front of him the same once-over she’d given him. He thought it fair that he not be the only one up on the auctioning block.
He absently rubbed his chin as he took her in. Her clothing of old jeans and T-shirt screamed tomboy through and through. He didn’t think she had on a sweep of makeup, and her hair was naturally wavy, shining a warm cinnamon in the bright midday sunlight. But there was something…very appealing that struck him straight off. An energy. Vitality. Freshness. An out-and-out sexiness that made him come away from his perusal feeling attracted to her in a way that puzzled him. A sleek, polished woman like Jennifer Madison was more his type. Still, he couldn’t ignore the zing of attraction that sizzled along his nerve endings as he looked at Mariah Clayborn.
“Sorry,” she finally said as she squared her feet and steadied herself under his gaze when other women might have fidgeted or struck a coy pose. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” She glanced at her watch—a simple Timex. “I only just talked to Jennifer an hour ago.”
He remembered how busy the P.I. had been before he left. “It was probably the first chance she had to contact you.”
“Mmm.” Mariah licked her lips then glanced through the windows into the office. She appeared not to know whether to bid on him or pass and wait for the next lot up for auction. “The case of the missing wedding dress, right?”
He chuckled, mildly amused that she referred to the case the same way he had. “That would be it. Have you made any progress on it?”
“Not yet. I was waiting for you to arrive.”
“Good.”
“Yes. But unfortunately I have to see to the closure of another case first.” She motioned toward the door. “If you’d like you could, um, wait in there. My cousin George will keep you company until I get back.”
“And how long would that be?”
“About an hour or two.”
“Would you mind if I accompany you?”
“You want to come with me?”
Her frown was so complete it was almost comical. “If you don’t mind. I’ve been on planes for the better part of the morning and would just as soon not do much sitting right now.”
“You’d be sitting in the truck.”
“Yes, but the truck would be moving.” He glanced around. “Besides, I haven’t had much of a chance to see Houston yet.”
“My destination is about a half hour west of here. Outside the city.”
He grinned. “Better yet.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear again, appeared agitated that she had, then released a long sigh. “Okay. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to bring you along.” She started in the direction of the street.
Zach picked up his single suitcase and followed her, his gaze drawn to the back of her faded jeans. The old denim fit just so across her lush, rounded bottom. While Mariah Clayborn’s clothes shouted tomboy, the body that lay underneath murmured one hundred percent woman.
“You can put that in the bed.”
“Pardon me?” he asked, blinking at where she was opening the door of a beat-up old blue Ford.
“Your suitcase. You can put it in the back.”
He eyed the truck bed, which held a rusty gas container, a partial bale of hay and an old gray-and-red wool blanket. He put the suitcase on top of the blanket then climbed into the truck cab, the door protesting against the movement and letting rip a loud squeak.
“Sorry,” she said, starting the ignition. “I don’t usually have much company in the truck.”
She put the truck