The Texas Ranger

“No,” Marc said, deadpan. “You’re corrupt.”

Bib laughed with pure delight. “We’re all corrupt,” he agreed. He studied the other man curiously. “This must be painful for you,” he added perceptively. “You and the Langley girl were an item back then.”

Marc didn’t say a word.

Bib shrugged. “Okay. I’ll let it drop. We’ll be heading up to our place in San Antonio this weekend. Drop by for a drink if you have time.” He leaned closer. “Sil’s going to Dallas to shop on Saturday morning. We can sneak down to the corner coffee shop and eat doughnuts while she’s gone!”

“Won’t she let you have them?” Marc asked, surprised.

Bib patted his flat stomach. “I have to have a nice, lean figure for the publicity shots,” he confided. “I can’t have anything sweet if she’s within smelling distance.” He shook his head. “Dear, dear, the things we give up for public office.”

“You’re a good politician,” Marc replied. “You have a conscience. And a heart.”

“Liabilities, old friend, nothing but liabilities. I lack the killer instinct in campaigns. Fortunately, Silvia has it. You have a safe trip back to San Antonio.”

“Sure. You take care, yourself,” he added quietly. “There may be more to this case than meets the eye. Do you have a bodyguard?”

He nodded. “T. M. Smith. He was army intelligence in Operation Desert Storm. He can deck most men in hand-to-hand, and he’s a crack shot.”

“Keep him close. Just in case,” Marc added, and smiled to soften what sounded like an order.

Bib shook hands with him. “Do you ever miss the old days, when we hung around the record shop hoping to meet women?”

“I miss sleeping a whole night,” Marc said enigmatically, and grinned. “See you.”

He got into his black sports utility vehicle and drove away, the smile fading from his lips as he pulled out onto the highway. Silvia’s attitude bothered him. She was a strong-willed woman, and most of the time she was an asset to Bib. But he couldn’t help recalling her violent outburst when he mentioned that he was investigating Dale Jennings’s murder—or that it had been Silvia’s testimony that had resulted in Dale’s conviction for Henry Garner’s murder.

Marc had been so upset over Josette’s accusation about Webb and the revelation about the truth of her rape charges at the age of fifteen, that much of the murder trial had escaped his notice. He’d misjudged her and caused her untold misery and shame about that long-ago rape trial. Despite his anger at her allegations against Bib Webb, he’d been devastated at having misjudged her so badly. But any idea he’d had about apologizing had gone by the board. She’d looked at him in that courtroom at Jennings’s trial as if she hated him. Probably she did. He’d just walked out on her, with no explanation at all.

Worse, he’d been more than a little in love with her just before the Jennings trial got underway. He hadn’t been as angry about her allegations as he had been angry at himself, for being such a poor judge of character. He’d gone through the trial in a fog and, afterward, he’d quit his job and left town, to spend two miserable years with the FBI.

Now he was home again and the whole damned mess was being resurrected. Josette had no time for him. He could see the contempt in her eyes when she looked at him, feel her anger. He didn’t blame her. She had every right to consider him the enemy. She would do her best to put Bib Webb under investigation, and he would do his best to stop her. After all that time, they were still on opposite sides.

He stopped at a traffic light and a passing glance at a young girl in a long, flowered dress reminded him of his last date with Josette. She’d just graduated from college and he’d been there, along with her parents, for the ceremony. That night, he’d taken her out to a very fancy restaurant. She’d worn a long black silk dress with exotic flowers hand-painted on the fabric. Her long blond hair had been in a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. She’d looked absolutely exquisite.

After dinner, he’d taken her back to his apartment. Up until then, there had been brief, clinging kisses and love play that neither of them carried to the inevitable conclusion. He still hadn’t believed her rape story, although the woman he was getting to know didn’t seem the sort to tell lies. He’d reminded himself that plenty of women who looked innocent, weren’t.

His suspicions increased when she went with him to his apartment. She hadn’t protested being alone with him. He’d put on some slow dance music and shed his dinner jacket, moving her close to his crisp, white cotton shirt. Against it, he could feel the soft press of her breasts under the thin fabric. He hadn’t felt a bra, and that had aroused him, quickly and uncomfortably.

But instead of backing away, to keep her ignorant of the effect she had on him, he’d let her feel it. He could still remember being surprised at the faint shock in her wide, dark eyes, the tremor that ran through her. She’d started to speak, but he bent and took the husky words right inside his hungry mouth.

He was slow, and deliberate, and thorough in his ardor. Her innocence was no match for his years of experience with women. He had her on his couch in no time, bare to the waist. While his mouth fed hungrily on her small, firm breasts, his hand had been under that silky fabric and the soft cotton briefs she wore under them.

She’d been fascinated by what he was doing to her. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the nervous hands that clung to him as he undressed her. His shirt had been off, drawing her fingers to his broad, hair-roughened chest while he suckled her.

He’d wanted her for months. During that time, he hadn’t seen any other woman. He was aching, and he’d abstained while they were dating. It was inevitable that he was going to lose control.

She’d protested, once, weakly, when his hand went between them to the fastening of his slacks and undid it, so that he could push them away. But his knee had edged between her soft thighs and his mouth had moved back to cover hers, tenderly. When she felt him at the veil of her innocence, she stiffened a little, but her body was hot with desire, her hands were biting into his back, her mouth was moaning under the devouring pressure of his hard lips.

“Oh God, I need you,” he ground out as his lean hips began to push down. “I need you so much. Don’t…fight me, honey. Don’t fight!”

But his huskily whispered plea fell on deaf ears when he pushed again. She cried out, frightened and in pain.

“Too fast? I’ll be careful,” he said at her lips. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Marc…I haven’t ever been with anyone!” she sobbed.

He only laughed softly. She’d been with the boy she accused of raping her when she was fifteen. She was no innocent. But he was careful with her just the same. He didn’t want to turn her off, not when his own body was racked with desire.

He wrenched off the trousers and his boots while his mouth worked on her soft belly. He aroused her all over again, determined to make her want him as much as he wanted her, to stop her feeble protests, her lies.

She was shivering, begging him, when he finally slid between her long, trembling legs and positioned himself against her. He looked into her wide, dazed eyes.

“I’m going inside you,” he whispered blatantly. “I’m going deep inside you, Josie. Now. Now…now!”

His body was shuddering with each quick, hard motion of his hips, and he felt the pleasure rising in him. But he couldn’t penetrate her. She was sobbing, shivering, her voice at his ear whispering ardent encouragement, her hands on his buttocks, pulling, pleading.