Page 15 of One in a Million
“You’re an adult, Jasmine. Stop fantasizing. Anyway, we’ve nothing to fear from the FBI. We didn’t hurt Dad, and we never would. My money’s on Lila. She had everything to gain by this.”
“Let’s hope. Who else would it be? I can’t wait to see her out of the ranch and behind bars. She would do it, Darrin. She’s spent enough time around the stables to be able to give the shot, and she’s so cold. She’s not even crying over Dad. Not even pretending to grieve.”
“Wait till Mom shows up,” Darrin said. “She’ll kick butt.”
“I can imagine.” Madeleine Carlyle Culhane was a force of nature. With her on their side, Lila would be up against the three of them.
“Well, the sooner that FBI agent gets here, the sooner it’s going to happen. So get in your car and get looking.”
Jasmine had always hated being bossed by her brother, who was four years older. But this time he was right. Somebody needed to find the FBI agent. She climbed into the sleek red Corvette her dad had bought her for her birthday and roared off down the road toward Willow Bend.
Would the agent be attractive and single? But that didn’t matter. He had a job to do—put Lila Smith Culhane behind bars for life.
Anyway, after last night, Jasmine had sworn off men, especially cowboys. Fighting to keep the reality of her father’s death at bay, she’d met Quirt Holdaway in a Willow Bend bar. He was a rising rodeo star, hotter than blazes, and a rendezvous in that run-down motel had sounded funky. They’d drunk a little, bumped around, and had some laughs. But he’d turned out to be a jerk. When he’d demanded to get kinky and threatened to slap her if she didn’t cooperate, Jasmine had stalked out to her car and left. Unless he’d passed out drunk and spent the night, she was guessing he must have left soon after.
Now, as she drove, the memory couldn’t be ignored—her all-powerful father lying facedown at the feet of his stallion, hands raised like a sleeping baby’s. She steeled herself against a surge of tears. It was too soon to cry.
She had adored Frank Culhane. But there’d been times when he’d hurt her, put her down, withheld his approval. He’d wanted another son, a strong boy to follow him with the horses as a trainer, breeder, and rider—something in which Darrin had no interest. He’d regarded her acting ambitions as fluff and her as a useless toy, to be patted and indulged.
But that had been no excuse to drown her emotions with a strange man—especially a jackass like Quirt.
Thinking back, she burned with shame. No more bad decisions, she swore. She’d made her last mistake with a man.
Gleaming through dust motes, she could see something a half mile down the road. It looked like a small car, with a lanky figure standing nearby, as if watching her approach. Maybe he was the agent, but she couldn’t be certain. He could be anybody. He might even be dangerous. But as she drove closer, she could see the tilt of the car on the roadside. The man, whoever he was, appeared to need help.
Jasmine kept a Ruger Max .380 pistol locked in her glove compartment. Slowing the car, she lifted it out, dropped it into the center console, where she could reach it, and started up again.
The man had stepped into the road, clearly meaning to flag her down. Jasmine could see him clearly now. Tall—about six-foot-one. Neatly dressed in well-fitting jeans and a denim jacket.
As she pulled to a stop, she saw that he already had his credentials out. And her sharp eyes didn’t miss the holstered service pistol clipped to his belt. He had to be their lost FBI agent.
He walked up to the car, flashed his badge, and stood looking down at her—lines of weariness framing his striking cobalt eyes. He was older than the wild cowboys she was usually attracted to—yet Jasmine did find him attractive. He looked a little vulnerable, a lock of dark brown hair hanging down his forehead in a way that made her itch to reach up and smooth it back.
She checked the urge firmly. This guy was all business. Flirting with an FBI agent would only rouse his suspicion. And hadn’t she just sworn off men?
He cleared his throat and spoke in a gravelly voice. “Excuse me, Miss, but does your car have a jack I could borrow to change this flat tire? I’ll try not to delay you long.”
The woman in the open-topped red Corvette was no longer a girl. But there was a fawnlike delicacy about her that Sam found pleasing to look at. The fine-drawn features with a sprinkle of freckles across the nose. The cloud of curly auburn hair. The sleekly proportioned body, clad in tight jeans and a white linen shirt worn with a dazzling native turquoise ring that would probably cost him a week’s salary. But he wasn’t here to ogle a woman. For all he knew, he was looking at Frank Culhane’s killer.
She frowned up at him, her sharp, husky voice breaking the fragile spell that had spun between them.
“There’s no time for the tire,” she said, popping the passenger door. “Get in. The folks at the ranch are waiting for you to show up and get started with your interviews. We’ll send somebody out to bring your car in.” She offered her right hand as he collected his bags and slid onto the leather seat. Her palm was satiny, the nails manicured and painted a bright, electric blue. “Jasmine Culhane,” she said. “You’ll meet the rest of us down the road. All except for my mother. She’ll be coming later, before the funeral.”
Sam introduced himself. “You’re Frank Culhane’s daughter?”
She nodded and started the Corvette.
Probably the actress Nick had mentioned. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Culhane. I never met your father, but I’ve been told some impressive things about him.”
She made a sharp U-turn and gunned the Corvette back in the direction she’d come. She was a confident driver, her hair fluttering behind her as the vermilion car flew down the road like a comet, leaving a faint trail of dust behind.
“Daddy was a monument of a man,” she said. “He was everything to this ranch, this family, to the performance horse sport, and to me. I adored my father. In case you’re wondering, I would never have harmed a hair on his head.”
Sam knew better than to take her at her word, despite the barely perceptible choke of tears in her voice. His first interview was already here, beside him.
“I understand you were the one to find your father,” he said.
“That’s right. It was morning. I had something to ask him. I saw One in a Million’s stall door partway open. I stepped to the door and there was Daddy, lying facedown in the straw, almost at the stallion’s feet, not a mark on him.” The low sob in her throat sounded genuine. But she was an actress, Sam reminded himself.