Lone Stallion’s Lady

  “This isn’t easy, you see. Burying a child, no matter how difficult he was, is painful.” Garrett frowned and stared into the dark depths of his coffee. “When Larry died, it about killed me,” he admitted, acknowledging that black hole in his heart. “It hadn’t been long after Laura had passed away and I was just thankful that she wasn’t alive.” His lips folded over his teeth and he tamped down the pain that was always with him when he thought of his wife and firstborn. “Anyway, I went through all of Larry’s things after he died and I found a safe-deposit box key for a local bank. Larry had asked me to sign on the box years ago and I’d forgotten about it. When I opened it, I discovered a letter from Larry to me or Collin—”

  “Who is his legitimate son?” Trent guessed.

  “Right. Anyway, there was a smaller box inside the one in the bank and the most important document in that was a letter that explained about the other kids Larry had fathered.” He lifted one hand. “There were names, dates, and some addresses, pictures and canceled checks, notes, baby photos, birth certificates…even copies of old report cards. He must’ve kept everything he ever laid his hands on, and I guess he kept it in the safe-deposit box so when he died someone in the family would know about you and your brothers.”

  “Thoughtful of him,” Trent said sarcastically.

  “It was something. Not much, I’ll grant you that,” Garrett admitted, wishing there was some way he could defend his son. “But at least I found out about you.”

  “No one else knew about us?”

  “Just the mothers, near as I can figure, and they all kept their mouths shut.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Some of them were paid,” Gina said.

  “You’re trying to tell me they bribed him or they were given hush money? Is that it?”

  Gina lifted a shoulder.

  “Who knows,” Garrett said. “I didn’t figure I should bother them. It’s between them and their boys.”

  Trent let out a snort of disdain. “This family exceeds the limits of dysfunctional.” He tossed the rest of his coffee onto the parched grass.

  “Then I guess it’s time we fixed that.”

  “Or maybe it’s too late.”

  “Well, I guess we won’t know until we try, now, will we?” Garrett asked as Trent cast Gina one last look and strode inside.

  Gina attempted to act disinterested but Garrett had been around enough men and women in his life to recognize when two people were interested in each other. In Trent and Gina’s case, they were way beyond interested.

  Gina had admitted to meeting Trent in Dallas.

  Garrett wondered what had happened. But he didn’t ask. He figured he might just be better off not knowing.

  Four

  So much for the quiet of the country lulling her to sleep. Gina tossed off the covers in her tiny bed and padded barefoot across the room to grab her robe—a short cotton thing that worked better as a beach cover-up but was lightweight and easy to pack. Without making a sound, she walked downstairs and out the back door. The moon rode high in an inky sky littered with millions of stars—more stars than she’d ever seen.

  Wrapping her arms around her, she hurried along a well-worn path to the stables and there, leaning over the fence railing, she watched the dark shapes of the horses shifting in the night. The air was warm, a light breeze dancing across the fresh-mown hay and playing in the overhead branches of a pine tree.

  Peaceful. Serene. Panoramic. So different from the bustle of L.A., a city that was filled with the hum of traffic, beep of keyless locks and scream of sirens at all hours of the night. Here, the chirp of crickets, croak of frogs and occasional nicker from the horses were the only obstructions to a pure, almost ethereal silence.

  And Trent Remmington was sleeping in the room next to hers at the main house. Unbelievable! Her fingers tightened over the top rail. So much for tranquility or peace of mind. How had she been so stupid as to get involved with him—if that’s what you’d call it. Crueler tongues might dub what had happened between them as a one-night stand or a bar pickup.

  She flinched inwardly at the terms. She’d never been one to get involved easily, and, if any name had been fitting for her, it had been Ice Princess as she’d always had a hands-off attitude toward men. At least during the first few dates. She’d grown up watching her divorced mother struggle to make ends meet and eventually marry a man for financial security. Gina had decided then and there that it wasn’t a path she’d ever take. No way. No how. Not for her. She would never sacrifice her happiness nor her self esteem for a man—any man—and so, she’d never found one that had really interested her.

  Until Trent. Blast the man. She’d been intrigued with Trent Remmington from the first time she’d opened Larry Kincaid’s box of memorabilia. The “bad twin,” Trent had been as rebellious and wild as his brother Blake had been good and conscientious. Trent drank, smoked, rode motorcycles, boats and horses at breakneck speeds and had the citations, bruises, and scars to prove it.

  He’d gone through baby-sitters and governesses like water, even managed to get kicked out of more than one boarding school. When Gina had read his profile, she’d been instantly attracted to the sexy, irreverent rebel. At fifteen he’d “borrowed” an idling bus and tried to drive it through the drive-in window of a local burger hut. At sixteen he’d jumped on a boxcar and rode across the country. At seventeen he’d climbed the ivy-enshrouded halls of his exclusive boarding school to steal a test and been expelled. A few years later, after dropping out of college, he’d bluffed his way through a high-stakes poker game to win. He’d put up the title of his sports car and had come out not only still owning the car—he had still owed Blake the five thousand dollars he’d borrowed for it—but also with the deed to a scrap of property on which he’d eventually discovered oil.

  So the hellion who had come within a hair’s breadth of landing in jail had ended up a wildcat oilman who had struck it rich without benefit of a higher education or a grandfather or a father to grease the way for him. He’d made his millions by luck, grit and brains.

  Trent had not only been strapping, good-looking and blessed with a killer smile, he had also been a child lost, a hellion of a teenager, and a man who, against all odds, had made good.

  In retrospect, Gina decided on this starry night, she’d been well-primed, ready to fall victim to his very serious set of charms.

  It had been a night not much different from this one when she’d chanced to run into him. She’d had one last night in Dallas where she’d located Trent Remmington at a convention. Having already checked out his Houston-based corporation, Black Gold International, she’d come to Dallas and got a glimpse of the man himself. Gina had been ready to return to L.A. where Jack was waiting for her to wrap up this case, but, suddenly feeling in the mood for celebration she’d gone downstairs to the patio bar for a glass of wine.

  She’d drunk two glasses of wine in less than an hour. Which wasn’t so bad, except for the fact that having not eaten since breakfast, the Cabernet had immediately gone to her head. Seated at a table near a planter, she looked across the dance floor toward the bar and spied none other than the object of her most recent hunt: Trent Remmington.

  To him, she was a stranger, but from months of researching his life, she felt as if she already knew him. She’d spent weeks tracking him down and piecing together his life as the fifth illegitimate son of Larry Kincaid. She’d seen pictures of him, read every article ever written about him, been fascinated by him.

  On this spring night she couldn’t help but stare as he sipped what looked like a Scotch and water. When he’d glanced her way, she’d dropped her eyes and decided to leave before she did something stupid like introduce herself to him.

  She started to leave, but before she could sign off on her tab, the waiter appeared with another glass of wine. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar.”

  Her stomach dropped to the floor. She didn’t have to look to know
that he meant Trent, who, though not staring at her directly, was viewing her in a beveled mirror suspended above the bar.

  This is a mistake, she told herself, but managed to smile at the waiter and accept the drink. She glanced at Trent again and, heart knocking ridiculously, held the glass aloft and mouthed, “Thanks.”

  He nodded, but remained on his bar stool, nursing his drink. A live band tuned up in the corner and a few brave couples, some with incredible dance skills, took over the floor. Gina finished her wine, felt a little light-headed and was about to leave when another glass of Cabernet appeared.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head.

  “The gentleman insists.”

  “But—” She started to argue, but the waiter breezed away, taking an order at a nearby table, and Gina was left with the drink. She didn’t have to drive, only had to make it up to her room where she’d already asked for a wake-up call, but she didn’t need another glass of wine. Didn’t want one.

  She looked over to the bar and Trent was assessing her, his blue eyes bright in the reflection of the mirror. There was amusement in his gaze, the hint of a smile toying with his lips, and she felt an instant surge of anger.

  He was getting off watching her try to decline the stupid glass of wine. And what would happen if she downed it? Would he send over another? Spying the challenge in his silent gaze, she sat, drank the wine and rose again.

  Another appeared, just as she’d expected.

  “I really couldn’t,” she insisted, but the waiter wouldn’t take no for an answer and she was left with a glass of expensive wine on the table in front of her.

  Again the look in the mirror.

  Great.

  Though a part of her brain nagged at her that she was making an incredible, irreversible mistake, she felt bolder than she should have. Picking up the stemmed glass and carrying it carefully, she wove between the dancing couples and made her way to the bar.

  “I suppose I should thank you for the drink—no, drinks,” she said, unable to hide a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  “My pleasure.” A crooked grin slashed across his jaw.

  Damn the man but he was enjoying this. The twinkle in those blue eyes gave him away.

  “Have a seat.” He patted the vacant stool next to his.

  She knew she shouldn’t, but found it impossible to resist. “Trent Remmington,” he said. To her horror she found his boyish grin incredibly endearing.

  “Uh, Celia…” she said. Though tipsy, she realized she couldn’t admit her real name or true calling. Besides, she was just thanking the man for buying her a glass of wine. “Celia O’Hara.”

  “In town for the weekend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Just visiting my sister,” she lied, telling herself she was getting into this way too deep. “You?”

  “Convention here in town.”

  “Business, then?”

  “For the most part.”

  “You live around here?”

  “Houston, actually. As I said, just here for a convention.” He finished his drink. “Want to dance?”

  She hadn’t danced in ages. “Dance?” She was certain she shouldn’t. It wasn’t a good idea to be this close to Trent Remmington when she was sober, let alone when she was feeling a little giddy. However the wine seemed to control her tongue and actions and she angled her head up and flirted outrageously.

  “Why not?”

  A million reasons raced through her head. This is dangerous. He’s your client, for God’s sake, whether he knows it or not. He’s got a reputation for living on the edge. If he finds out you lied to him, it will be a disaster. A calamity! But she didn’t stop herself.

  The song was a slow country tune that she should have recognized but didn’t. Trent’s fingers touched her elbow, guiding her to the floor, and she felt her pulse leap. Oh, God, this was worse than she thought. He folded her into his arms and she realized she was in trouble. Big trouble. Kincaid-handsome, he was strong, smelled faintly of musk and he felt warm and, oh, so right. Her stupid heart began to race, and as his breath brushed her hair, she imagined kissing those blade-thin lips that she’d seen in so many of the photographs Larry had hidden away.

  Of all the Kincaid heirs, Trent was the one who had touched her, who had reached through the reams of paper to find her heart. She felt as if she already knew him intimately, had shared his most private secrets, his quiet pain.

  But that was crazy.

  Or was it?

  As the band’s lead singer crooned an old love song, it seemed so natural to be held close to him and imagine she could hear the beat of his heart over the music, the buzz of conversation and the clink of flatware. Hundreds of tiny white lights winked through the boughs of the potted trees placed strategically around the patio and a soft, warm breeze caressed her face.

  Though she wasn’t the greatest dancer around, Trent made the steps seem easy. He held her close without crushing her, twirled her through the other couples without any effort, and never once did she even step on his toes. All in all, it was a miracle. A blessing. A…catastrophe! She couldn’t be dancing with one of her clients, one who didn’t even know he was the object of her search, one to whom she’d already lied.

  When the song stopped, he held her a little too long and she could barely breathe. Her skin tingled and her heart was drumming in her ears. She wanted to sag against him, but fortunately he released her. She took one deep breath, then he took her hand and, after snagging their drinks from the bar, led her to a booth in a darkened corner where he settled onto a bench beside her. She tried to convince herself that she had to leave, that she couldn’t trust herself this close to him.

  “So tell me about yourself,” he suggested, his thigh pressing against hers. Deep inside she started to melt. Swallowing hard, she picked up her glass and took a sip of wine that she suddenly wanted to gulp. “Are you married?”

  “No.” She held up the bare fingers of her left hand as proof and told herself that she was getting into hot water.

  “Ever been?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not? And don’t give me some line about not meeting the right guy.”

  “Okay, I won’t. I’m just a wallflower by nature.”

  His eyes narrowed on her and she had to swallow a smile. She’d worn a tight black minidress, strappy high heels, and added gold earrings and a necklace. She’d even gone so far as to twist her hair onto her head, letting only a few soft wisps fall around her nape and face.

  “Wallflower,” he repeated, then shook his head. “Nice try, Celia. But I’m not buying.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “You asked. How about you?”

  “Been lucky so far. Never even gotten close.”

  She knew this, of course. He had a reputation of short-term relationships that never developed into anything serious.

  “So are there any exes lurking in your past?”

  “Not much of a past to lurk in, I’m afraid,” she admitted, and he seemed skeptical.

  “Got a job?”

  “Paralegal. Thinking about becoming a lawyer.” Jeez, how did these lies fly out of her mouth so quickly?

  He cocked a dark eyebrow and took a sip from his drink.

  She pretended she didn’t know a thing about him. “So you’re trying to convince me that you don’t have an ex-wife and a dozen kids stashed away somewhere.” Candlelight cast gold shadows across his bold features.

  “No, I was lying earlier. I’ve really got four ex-wives and, get it right, fifteen children. Not just a dozen.” He chuckled and his smile seemed more sincere, his interest obviously piqued.

  Careful, Gina, you’re treading in dangerous waters here, the sober, nose-to-the-grindstone private investigator part of her mind screamed. But the other part, the feminine, ludicrously romantic side, wanted to wade ever deeper and couldn’t resist stepping closer to the whirlpool that she sensed was so near.

/>   “So what do you do for a living that allows you to support all those kids and still leaves enough change left over to buy strange women glasses of expensive wine?” she asked innocently, wondering if he would tell the truth.

  “Well, I’m a millionaire several times over, have oil wells and real-estate ventures all over the state, and saw you sitting all by yourself and thought you looked interesting.”

  She smiled and sipped her wine. “Does this line of yours usually work?”

  “Usually.” He said it without a trace of arrogance.

  She wanted desperately to keep this game going, but she knew instinctively that she would only cause herself the kind of problems she didn’t want or need in her life. She leaned over as if to kiss him, but said instead, “Well, it’s not working with me. Not tonight.”

  “And you’re a lousy liar.”

  “No, I—” With one hand he reached up and cupped the back of her head, and held her face firmly close to his. His eyes were suddenly so close she noticed the different shades of blue fusing together. His lips were near enough that when he spoke they brushed against hers.

  “As I said, a lousy liar.”

  She gulped as she stared into those laser-bright orbs and tried to come up with some quick comeback. Was he going to kiss her? Oh, God, right here in the bar? With the dancers and the band and the other patrons? Pulse racing, she was suddenly and desperately out of breath. She licked her lips.

  “Thought so,” he said arrogantly. His hand dropped.

  So he’d been toying with her!

  Like a frightened colt, she bolted. As she stood suddenly, her elbow hit her glass, splashing wine on Trent’s shirt and suit, on his face, on the table.

  “Oh, I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, trying to swab up the spills and feeling her face turn as red as the wine. “Your suit…”

  “It’s all right.”

  She was mopping furiously with a napkin. “You’ve got to clean that before the stain sets. I’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill.”

  “It’s all right.”