The Detective's Undoing. Jill Shalvis

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СКАЧАТЬ He’d never broken one before, and he didn’t intend to start now.

      But with all his heart and soul he wanted to be free of the promise.

      It was past midnight, but he’d been unable to sleep. A long hard ride in the saddle hadn’t helped.

      It took only a second to let himself in the huge ranch-style house that would serve as the main lodge when there were guests at the Triple M. There were no guests yet, but four people—three of them his friends and one a complete baffling mystery—owned and operated the place, and lived here.

      They were sleeping now. Grateful for the silence and the time to think and yearn, Cade stood just inside the front door.

      A sound drifted from the sleeping house, from the kitchen. Not a normal sound, but a choked nearly silent whisper.

      Tense, Cade moved lithely through the large living room, coming to a stop just outside the double swinging doors to the kitchen.

      No light was on.

      The Triple M Guest Ranch was a fairly secure place, located in the vast wilds of western Idaho hundreds of miles from the nearest big city. But Cade, who was not a country boy but rather a certified city rat, never took chances.

      Especially when he had friends sleeping upstairs. He cared about those three friends, Zoe, Maddie and Ty—and that one baffling mystery, too—far more than he wanted to.

      Which reminded him of how much he wished he was clutching a one-way ticket out of here. He was chomping at the bit to get moving once more.

      The sound came again.

      Cade shoved his way through the double wooden doors and turned on the overhead light all in one movement.

      Blinking in the sudden light was that one mystery—the cool calm Delia Scanlon.

      She was stunningly, shockingly beautiful. Alabaster skin. Long thick luxurious pale blond hair that fell in waves past her shoulders. Full sensuous lips guaranteed to drive a man wild.

      She stood in front of the opened refrigerator, bathed in the white light of the refrigerator bulb, her lush curves not entirely concealed by her surprisingly plain terry-cloth bathrobe.

      Her eyes, the color of a brilliant mountain sky, seared through him.

      They were tear-ravaged.

      He swore, hating the way his heart twisted from just looking at her. He hated having his heart do anything, but to have it feel, and feel so passionately, suitably terrified him so that he stood rock still and offered no comfort. “What are you doing?”

      “Me? Oh, just dancing with the moon.” Turning away, she wiped at the tears he had pretended not to see and she had pretended not to have shed.

      The hunch of her usually ramrod-straight shoulders tore at him and, furious with himself, he turned his back on her. “Dammit, next time flip the light on or something. I thought you were—”

      “What? A burglar out in the middle of nowhere? Get a grip, McKnight.” Her voice, with its low grainy sexy tone of a 1930s movie siren, sounded full of temper.

      That was good, he told himself. Temper was far preferable to tears.

      “Go away,” she said.

      She still hadn’t looked at him, but then again, he wasn’t looking at her, either. He couldn’t.

      If he did, he’d feel that strange inexplicable absolutely unacceptable tug. He didn’t want to believe it was attraction, didn’t want to believe it was anything, so he ignored it.

      So did she.

      It suited them both. Delia was no more country than he was, raised as she’d been in the Los Angeles child-welfare system. He knew this, not because they talked much—by tacit agreement they avoided each other—but because he was the private investigator who’d promised Constance Freeman he’d find her long-lost granddaughter, heir to the Triple M.

      It should have been an easy open-and-shut case. But of course, given his luck of the past few years, it hadn’t been. He’d found an heir all right, three of them. Delia, Maddie and Zoe, all foster sisters, dumped into the system at approximately the same time and age.

      It was his job to narrow the choices down to the correct woman, a feat that had so far escaped him.

      “Stop staring at me,” Delia said.

      He glanced over his shoulder to find her still glaring into the refrigerator. “I’m not even looking at you.”

      “You are so.”

      He smiled then, because they were both obviously tired, cranky and…well, he didn’t want to think about what else they were. Because whatever it was, they were it together and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

      “Why don’t you just leave?” She was again looking into the refrigerator, scowling hard, as if she could find the answers to world peace and hunger, but it was her voice that reached him. She sounded confused and hurt, and he had an insane urge to soothe her.

      “You know I can’t,” he said, wishing yet again that he could.

      She pushed at a jar of mayonnaise and peered behind it, searching. “You’ve proven Zoe isn’t the heir.”

      “Which still leaves you and Maddie.”

      She pulled out an apple and examined it, then rejected it. “Not me. You know it’s not me.”

      “I know no such thing.”

      “My father was a cop.” Her fingers turned white with their death grip on a bottle of soda. “An undercover cop who never knew of my existence, remember? You yourself found this out just last week when you tracked down my so-called birth mother and found out that she was dead.”

      Because he sensed the fragile hold she had on her emotions, he stayed where he was and said quietly, “Yes, I remember.” He also remembered how she’d looked when he’d told her, the shattered emotions that had swum in her expressive eyes when she’d realized her mother was gone forever, the mother who’d left her in a foster home.

      She didn’t look shattered now, but with the tears wiped away, she looked strong. Fiercely independent. And despite himself, admiration filled him for her ability to roll with the punches life had thrown her.

      He, more than anyone, knew exactly how painful those punches could be.

      “And Constance’s no-good jerk of a son was a drifter,” she continued. “Not a cop. So really, I couldn’t be her granddaughter.”

      “I don’t think your mother was real good at truths, Delia,” he said gently.

      That had her snapping her gaze back to his, but when she spoke, it was not with the heat of temper, but with the slow precision that only pain and sorrow could bring. “I’d like to be able to deny that.”

      It was a surprising admission from a woman who’d been very careful to keep herself hidden from him. He understood perfectly, as the attempt СКАЧАТЬ