LITMIR.BIZ

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either. She glanced down at his boots. Top-of-the-line alligator. They probably cost more than she took home before taxes last year. He wasn’t some office gopher, but a man who worked and made more than a nice living. Somehow, she knew he didn’t send anyone out to do his bidding. If this Dan Armstrong needed something done, he either asked the right person or he went and did it himself.

      If she wasn’t careful, she was going to be caught staring. She wondered what he’d been doing in the valley, and immediately, the guilt began to build. God, what a mess. She’d assumed he was one of Cecil Armstrong’s mercenary “security” guards. That had been her second mistake. She couldn’t be sure it had been her last one.

      Finally, as Aunt Emily began to wind up, she noticed that Armstrong was starting to fidget in his chair. All that coffee was finally getting to him. Normally, she’d take advantage of his discomfort to really rake him over the coals, but not today. She needed to get out of this room, far away from this unusual man, and figure out her next move.

      On Dan’s way out the door, Joe still didn’t shake Armstrong’s hand, but Aunt Emily did. Then Dan shook Rosebud’s hand. “I look forward to working with you,” he said as he put the slightest pressure on her fingers. The warmth was still there, but this time it moved up her arm with a greater urgency until she was afraid her face was going to flush.

      Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She was afraid she was looking forward to it, too.

      Three

      Rosebud was sure she’d thrown the files in her office and locked the door, but that part was a little hazy. The next thing she was really conscious of was the soft breeze and the warm sun on her face as she stood in the parking lot, facing south. The breeze still had a touch of cold spring in it, which was just enough to let her mind clear a little.

      The situation was far from out of control, she quickly decided. Dan Armstrong might be a different kind of danger to her, but he was still just a man, and a woman didn’t make it through law school without figuring out how to handle a man. She just needed to remember who he represented, not what he looked like or how he addressed her with all that “respect” and “compassion.”

      “You okay, Rosie?” Joe’s hand rested on her shoulder.

      “Oh, fine.” Not true, but she was a lawyer, after all. Never admit weakness, because weakness is defeat. She opened her eyes to see Aunt Emily standing before her, a serious look on her face. “What?”

      Aunt Emily looked to Joe and then sighed. “That man…”

      “I can handle him.”

      Aunt Emily regarded her for a painful second. Then she leaned forward and grasped the sticks holding Rosebud’s braided bun into place. The whole thing unfurled like a sail. “He is different. He is a handsome man, dear. And you are a handsome woman.”

      Something about the way she said it hit Rosebud funny. “What are you saying?”

      “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” Joe said, sounding surprisingly serious about it. The weight of his hand suddenly felt like a vise, pinning her in place.

      “You want me to—what? Sleep with him?” When Aunt Emily didn’t say anything, Rosebud tried to take a step back, but Joe held her in place. The breeze—colder now, so cold it chilled her to the bone—caught the straggling remains of her braid and unwound it for her. “You want me to sleep with him?” Shame ripped through her.

      Of all the things asked of her—leaving home for so many years to get that damned law degree when she really wanted to study art; giving up any semblance of a normal life to eat, drink and breathe legal proceedings against Armstrong Holdings; having dead animals show up around her house; losing her brother—sleeping with the enemy was the worst. Even if the enemy was as attractive as Dan Armstrong. That was irrelevant. It didn’t matter that she’d given her life to the tribe. Now it wanted her body, too.

      “No, no,” Joe finally protested, too late. “But a beautiful woman can muddle a man’s thinking.”

      “This may be the chance we’ve been waiting for, dear,” Emily added. Rosebud could hear how little her aunt really believed it, but she kept going. “He could let something… useful slip about his uncle. He might know something about Tanner.”

      The blow was low. For a second, Rosebud wanted to smack the woman for pouring salt in her wound, but it was a short second. Of course, they were right. Dan Armstrong was an opportunity to do a little domestic spying, that was all. And if she could link Tanner’s death to an Armstrong—any Armstrong—she’d be able to sleep at night. Hell, she might even find a new way to stop that dam.

      Aunt Emily gave her an artificial smile. “It’s what Tanner would do.” She pulled Rosebud’s glasses off her face and gently tucked them into the pocket of her one-and-only suit jacket. “Do it for Tanner.”

      Tears that she normally kept out of sight until the middle of the night, when no one would know she cried them, threatened to spill. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep them in. “All right,” she managed to get out.

      Aunt Emily kissed her cheek in painful blessing. “Find out what you can. Give away nothing.”

      “Do your best,” Joe added, finally removing his clamping hand from her shoulder.

      Her best. She’d been doing her best, fending off that dam for three years, but it hadn’t been good enough. She wondered if anything ever would be.

      She heard both car doors shut, heard both of them drive away, but still she couldn’t open her eyes. The breeze tickled her hair, and the sun tried to reassure her it would, in fact, be all right, but she couldn’t move. When Tanner had died, she’d sworn to do anything to find out who put that gun in his hand and pulled the trigger. She’d never thought it would come to seducing Cecil Armstrong’s nephew.

      “Ms. Donnelly?”

      Oh, hell.

      “Mr. Armstrong,” she said without turning around. How on God’s green earth was she supposed to muddle his thinking when her own mind was exactly as clear as the Dakota River during the spring floods? “Thank you for coming today.”

      He stood next to her. She didn’t know how she felt it, but one moment, she was alone, and the next, his solid warmth was close enough that she thought he was touching her arm. Moving slowly, she turned to meet his gaze.

      As she did, the breeze surged like a trickster, throwing her hair around. The look in his eyes went from curious regard to recognition—the wrong kind of recognition. His nostrils flared as his jaw clenched. She was no longer facing a compassionate man. Any fool could see that Dan Armstrong was fighting mad.

      “Tell me, Ms. Donnelly,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you ride?”

      He knew—or thought he knew. In a heartbeat, she realized she needed to play innocent. “Of course. Everyone out here does. Do you?”

      She couldn’t even see those lovely greenish eyes. They were narrowed into slits. He wasn’t buying it. “Sure do. What kind of horse do you ride?”

      “Scout is a paint.” She wanted to cower before that hard look, but she refused to break that easily. With everything she had, she met his stare. “Yours?”

      “Palomino.” He stepped around her so quickly that she couldn’t help but flinch. “In fact, I was riding him near the dam site in a pretty little valley the other day.”

      “Is that so?” That was the best she could do as he threw open the door of an enormous, shiny black truck and yanked out a brown cowboy hat.

      With a bullet hole through it.

      She’d gotten a lot closer than she meant to. She hadn’t actually been trying to hit him. She’d been trying to go right over his head, just close enough that he could hear the bullet. But she’d missed. She’d come within an inch of killing a man. For the first time in her life, she felt really and truly

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