Every Move You Make

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 into gear then gathered together countless fast-food wrappers littering the floor at his feet. She didn’t appear to know what to do with them. She finally tossed them back behind the bench seat.

“I can see why.”

She glanced at him for a long moment, then seemed to come to some sort of decision as she smiled. “A guy with a sense of humor. I like that.” She gestured toward the door. “You may, um, want to buckle up. Nelly rides a little rough.”

Nelly. She’d named her truck. He fastened his safety belt and quickly found out just how bumpy the ride was going to be as the truck lurched forward.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said over the roar of the engine.

Zach grinned at her, wondering just how much of a ride he was in for….

ZACH LETTERMAN WAS definitely not your normal, run-of-the-mill thorn in the side. Mariah sneaked another glance at him and his cool, clean looks, and the admirable way he looked. He appeared relaxed as her truck bumped and rutted over the dirt road leading to Claude Ray’s place, which was little more than a shack tucked away on a corner of someone else’s land. It had been that someone else, namely Joe Carter, who had called to tip her off about Claude’s return.

“What’s the case about?” Zach Letterman asked.

Mariah pulled her gaze from where she’d been staring at his thick, long-fingered hands and looked into his face. The gleam of recognition in his moss-green eyes made her skin heat up. “Pardon me?”

“This case you have to close. What’s it regarding?”

She gripped the steering wheel tighter when she hit a particularly nasty pothole. “Horse thief.”

Zach’s eyebrows shot up high on his smooth forehead. “Horse thief?”

“Yeah.” She slowed down a bit so the engine didn’t roar too loudly. Claude wouldn’t be going anywhere without her seeing him anyway, seeing as this was the only road leading in or out of the place. “A nearby breeder had two of his prime studs come up missing day before yesterday. Maybe you recognize the names? Gentle As Rain won the Kentucky Derby last year and Black Thunderfoot won the Triple Crown three years ago.”

He slowly shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t follow racing.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, those are the studs that came up missing. Carter charges twenty-five grand a pop for stud fees.”

“That much?”

She smiled. “Yes. Funny, isn’t it? Kind of like male prostitution of the animal variety.” She waved her hand toward the west. “Anyway, when Carter called me to look into the matter, I knew immediately who was behind the theft. A guy by the name of Claude Ray. He’s a local of sorts who sweeps into town every now and again, leaving a trail of illegal activities in his wake. He usually shows up again when the fuss dies down and the local authorities have moved on to bigger and better things.” She hit a nasty bump and would have catapulted from the seat if not for her own safety belt. “I heard Claude showed up again about a week or so ago.”

“Is this something P.I.s usually handle around here?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard. “Isn’t this something for the authorities?”

“Usually, yes. But Carter’s spread borders my daddy’s ranch and our families go way back. My uncle Bubba—the P.I. business was his before he kicked, er, before he passed on last year—always saw to these kinds of favors for friends.”

Zach turned his head to look out the window at the passing landscape. Long stretches of open plains extended as far as the eye could see.

Mariah took a deep breath, finding a deep satisfaction being near the place where she’d grown up. There was something about the Texas plains that crawled right up under your skin and stayed there, much as the soil did when it got under your fingernails. She glanced at Zach to find him shrugging out of his suit jacket then tossing it over the back of the seat. His shirt was white and crisp and covered him to the wrists. Well, at least until he popped the buttons at the cuff and rolled the material up to the top of his forearms. Mariah swallowed. And what forearms they were, too. While his hands looked much softer than she was used to—hell, they looked softer than hers—his forearms were nothing but thick, corded muscles, his skin dotted with soft almost black hair. And he had the kind of wrists she doubted she could get the fingers of one hand around.

Oh, the man next to her might be a Northern city boy, but she suspected he was as strong as any man who had spent his life on the range.