Page 36 of One in a Million
“My eyes have been on you since I got here. I’ve had enough experience with stressful situations to know when someone’s barely holding themself together. Maybe it’s time to let go and breathe.”
She turned and looked straight at him. “Is this your idea of a proposition, Sam?”
Heat flooded Sam’s face. For a moment, he was speechless. Had she misinterpreted his words? Or had he given away too much? He wanted her—that much was beyond doubt. But the situation was impossible.
“I may be stressed, but you can fix that in bed. Is that what you’re saying?” she demanded.
Sam collected his thoughts and spoke carefully, weighing every word.
“Jasmine, you’re a beautiful, desirable woman. Any red-blooded man would want you, and I’m only human. If things were different, I would ask you out on a date and take things from there. But I’m here on assignment to find your father’s killer. I have a job to do and a code of ethics to follow. The kind of involvement you’re talking about would compromise the investigation—and my entire career. If my concern gave you the wrong impression, I’m sorry.”
Jasmine had risen to her feet. She stood gazing down at him, a sardonic little half smile on her face. “So, you weren’t really propositioning me, Sam?”
“Of course not. I apologize if I gave you that impression.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “Because I would’ve said yes.”
With that, she turned away and vanished into the night.
CHAPTERTEN
Sam rolled out of bed at dawn after a restless night. He’d spent most of it either tangling and untangling the sheets or lost in a feverish dream of making love to Jasmine, her sweet, pliant body taking him in, giving him the heaven of release. After waking, damp and spent, he’d turned back the bedding and walked outside to a sky full of stars—a sky such as he’d never seen, growing up in an urban state where artificial light drowned the glory overhead.
He’d cursed his own weakness for wanting a forbidden woman. He might have cursed Jasmine, too, but he couldn’t fault her devastating honesty. The bomb she’d dropped at his feet had set off buried longings. But it had been like her to say what she’d said. Vicious tongues might call her shameless and worse. But she answered to herself and no one else. Even if he wasn’t allowed to touch her, Sam had to respect her for that.
But never mind last night. He needed to be alert to anything that could happen today. Mulling over realities he couldn’t change would only break his focus.
After a stinging cold shower, he shaved, dressed, and rounded the back of the house to the kitchen entrance to prepare his own simple breakfast of coffee and toast. He walked into a beehive of activity—extra help working at the counters, chopping, measuring, and mixing, with Mariah giving orders like a field commander. Slipping among them, Sam got what he needed and carried it back to the bungalow. There, perched on his porch steps, sipping coffee, was Jasmine.
“Hi, Sam.” She greeted him as if last night had never happened. “Mamá texted me this morning. She’s on her way and should be arriving shortly. I thought you might like me on hand to make introductions.”
“Thank you.” Sam’s gratitude was genuine. He’d been braced for the awkwardness of meeting Madeleine on his own. Jasmine’s presence could deflect some of that awkwardness—perhaps for herself, as well. Sam had sensed the estrangement between mother and daughter. This reunion couldn’t be easy for her.
Balancing his mug and plate, he sat down on the step beside her. The morning was still cool, the sun pleasantly warm. Their spot gave them a view of the main road from Abilene, still empty except for a white dot, which turned out to be a floral delivery van that parked in front of the main house long enough for the driver to carry in several lavish bouquets.
“So what do you think will happen when your mother gets here?” Sam asked Jasmine.
“Oh, it’ll be all kissy-kissy with Lila and everyone else until the memorial service is over. Then the gloves will come off. Mark my words, there’s going to be war. And it’s going to be bloody.”
“I’ve never asked you where you stand in this fight,” Sam said. “I heard what you said at the burial about putting things right. And I know firsthand that Darrin and Simone want the house for their family. But I can’t imagine your wanting to live in it with them.”
“You’re right about that last part,” Jasmine said, finishing her coffee. “I’d rather be tortured than play live-in auntie to the little spoiled brats they’re going to have. But I stand with my family. I believe that the person living in the house and running the ranch should be a Culhane by blood. Lila doesn’t belong here, and I’ll be in the fight until she’s out. After that, I’ll be free.” Her gaze scanned the still-empty road. “Free to go wherever I choose.”
* * *
Lila stepped out onto the front balcony, shading her eyes as she gazed to the west. A muttered curse escaped her lips. Still no sign of Madeleine. The woman was probably waiting around some hidden bend to make a grand entrance. That would be like her, always the drama queen, letting the tension build before the rising of the curtain.
Lila had prepared as best she could for the battle to come. Her own team of lawyers had examined Frank’s will, making sure it was authentic, witnessed, and filed under unquestionable conditions. They had scoured every line of text for double meanings and interpretations. They had found one gray area.
Frank had made the new will a few months into the marriage when he was still youthful, in love, and expecting to sire more children. The language stated that except in the case of a divorce, under which the conditions of the prenup would apply, the ranch was to pass to Lilaandany offspring the marriage might produce.
Andwas the critical word. Did it exclude her from the will without the children Frank had assumed they would have?
Heaven knows she’d tried—in fact, she’d never stopped trying. Lila remembered the fertility treatments, the hopes, the bitter disappointment each month when her period came. Their frustrated efforts had put a strain on the marriage. Maybe, she thought, looking back, that was when Frank’s interest had begun to stray.
She’d given birth to Jemma at eighteen. Frank had had children, too. But between them, nothing had worked. Lately she’d begun to wonder if he’d had a secret vasectomy to support his philandering—or even to cast doubt on her right to inherit the ranch. But there’d been nothing on the autopsy report, and now she would never know.
Her lawyers had also checked the title to the property. Only Frank was named as the title holder. No woman—not either of his wives, his mother, or his grandmother, back to Elias Culhane, had ever been an owner of the ranch. Elias’s wishes might have had something to do with that. From what she’d heard about him, the old man had never held a high opinion of women.