Читать книгу True Blue & Carrera's Bride: True Blue / Carrera's Bride - Diana Palmer - Страница 13

Chapter 6

“I’ve read that book,” Rick said with a slow smile. “Insurgent Mexico. I couldn’t afford to buy it, unfortunately, so I got it on loan from the library. It was published in 1914. A rare book, indeed.”

She shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t meant to let that bit slip. She was still keeping secrets from him. She shouldn’t have been able to afford the book on her government salary. Her father had given it to her last Christmas. That was another secret she was keeping, too; her father’s identity.

“And would you know Pancho Villa’s real name?” he asked suddenly.

She grinned. “He was born Doroteo Arango,” she said. The smile faded a little. “He changed his name to Pancho Villa, according to one source, because he was hunted by the authorities for killing a man who raped his younger sister. It put him on a path of lawlessness, but he fought all his life for a Mexico that was free of foreign oppression and a government that worked for the poor.”

He smiled with pure delight. “You read Mexican history,” he mused, still surprised.

“Well, yes, but the best of it is in Spanish, so I studied very hard to learn to read it,” she confessed. She flushed. “I like the colonial histories, written by priests in the sixteenth century who sailed with the conquistadores.”

“Spanish colonial history,” he said.

She smiled. “I also like to read about Juan Belmonte and Manolete.”

His eyebrows arched. “Bullfighters?” he exclaimed.

“Well, yes,” she said. “Not the modern ones. I don’t know anything about those. I found this book on Juan Belmonte, his biography. I was so fascinated by it that I started reading about Joselito and the others who fought bulls in Spain at the beginning of the twentieth century. They were so brave. Nothing but a cape and courage, facing a bull that was twice their size, all muscle and with horns so sharp…” She cleared her throat. “It’s not PC to talk about it, I know.”

“Yes, we mustn’t mention blood sports,” he joked. “The old bullfighters were like soldiers who fought in the world wars—tough and courageous. I like World War II history, particularly the North African theater of war.”

Her eyes opened wide behind the lenses of her glasses. “Rommel. Patton. Montgomery. Alexander…”

His lips fell open. “Yes.”

She laughed with some embarrassment. “I’m a history major,” she said. “I took my degree in it.” She didn’t add that she came by her interest in military history quite naturally, nor that her grandfather had known General George S. Patton, Jr., personally.

“Well!”

“You have an associate’s degree in criminal justice and you’re going to night school working on your B.A.,” she blurted out.

He laughed. “What’s my shoe size?”

“Eleven.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I have a file on you, too.”

He leaned forward, his large dark eyes narrow. “I’ll have to compile one on you. Just to be fair.”

She didn’t want him to do that, but she just nodded. Maybe he couldn’t dig up too much, even if he tried. She kept her private life very private.

She stood up. “I need to get back to work. I just wanted to be honest with you, about my job,” she said. “I didn’t want you to think I was being deliberately deceitful.”

He stood up, too. “I never thought that.”

He walked with her to the door. “Uh, is the lieutenant still bringing you roses?” he asked, and could have slapped himself for even asking the question.

“Oh, certainly not,” she said primly. “That was just an apology, for using bad language in front of me.”

“He’s a widower,” he said as they reached the door.

She paused and looked up at him. He was very close all of a sudden and she felt the heat from his body as her nostrils caught the faint, exotic scent of the cologne he used. He smelled very masculine and her heart went wild at the proximity. Her head barely topped his shoulder. He was tall and powerfully built, and she had an almost overwhelming hunger to lay her head on that shoulder and press close and bury her lips in that smooth, tanned throat.

She caught her breath and stepped back quickly. She looked up into his searching eyes and stood very still, like a cat in the sights of a hunter. She couldn’t even think of anything to say.

Rick was feeling something similar. She smelled of wildflowers today. Her skin was almost translucent and he noticed that she wore little makeup. Her hair was caught up in a high ponytail, but he was certain that if she let it down, it would make a thick platinum curtain all the way to her waist. He wanted, badly, to loosen it and bury his mouth in it.

He stepped back, too. The feelings were uncomfortable. “Better get back to work,” he said curtly. He was breathing heavily. His voice didn’t sound natural.

“Yes. Uh, m-me, too,” she stammered, and flushed, making her skin look even prettier.

He started to open the door for her. But he paused. “Someone told me that you like The Firebird.”

She laughed nervously. “Yes. Very much.”

“The orchestra is doing a tribute to Stravinsky Friday night.” He moved one shoulder. He shouldn’t do this. But he couldn’t help himself. “I have two tickets. I was going to take Mom, but she’s going to have to cater some cattlemen’s meeting in Jacobsville and she can’t go.” He took a breath. “So I was wondering…”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, if you were going to ask me…?” she blurted, embarrassed.

Her nervousness lessened his. He smiled at her in a way he never had, his chiseled mouth sensuous, his eyes very dark and soft. “Yes. I was going to ask you.”

“Oh.” She laughed, self-consciously.

He tipped her chin up with his bent forefinger and looked into her soft, pale green eyes. “Six o’clock? We’ll have dinner first.”

Her breath caught. Her heartbeat shook her T-shirt. “Yes,” she whispered breathlessly.

His dark eyes were on her pretty bow of a mouth. It was slightly parted, showing her white teeth. He actually started bending toward it when his phone suddenly rang.

He jerked back, laughing deeply at his own helpless response to her. “Go to work,” he said, but he grinned.

“Yes, sir.” She started out the door. She looked back at him. “I live in the Oak Street apartments,” she said. “Number 92.”

He smiled back. “I’ll remember.”

She left, with obvious reluctance.

It took him a minute to realize that his phone was still ringing. He was going to date a colleague and the whole department would know. Well, what the hell, he muttered to himself. He was really tired of going to concerts and the ballet alone. She was a fed and she wouldn’t be here long. Why shouldn’t he have companionship?

Gwen got back to her own office and leaned back against the door with a long sigh. She was trembling from the encounter with Rick and so shocked at his invitation that she could barely get her breath back. He was going to date her. He wanted to take her out. She could barely believe it!

While she was savoring the invitation, her cell phone rang. She noted the number and opened it.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, smiling. “How’s it going?”

“Rough, or don’t you watch the news, pudding?” he asked with a laugh in his deep voice as he used his nickname for her.

“I do,” she said. “I’m really sorry. Politicians should let the military handle military matters.”

“Come up to D.C. and tell the POTUS that,” he murmured.

“Why can’t you just say President of the United States?” she teased.

“I’m in the military. We use abbreviations.”

“I noticed.”

“How’s it going with you?”

“I’m working on a sensitive matter.”

“I’ve been talking to your boss about it,” he replied. “And I told him that I don’t like having you put on the firing line like this.”

She winced. She could imagine that encounter. Her boss, while very nice, was also as bullheaded as her father. It would have been interesting to see how it ended.

“And he told you…?”

He sighed. “That I could mind my own damned business, basically,” he explained. “We’re a lot alike.”

“I noticed.”

“Anyway, I hope you’re packing, and that the detective you’re working with is, also.”

“We both are, but the general isn’t a bad man.”

“He’s wanted for kidnapping!”

“Yes, well, he’s desperate for money, but he didn’t really hurt anybody.”

“A man was killed in his camp,” he returned curtly.

“Yes, the general shot him for trying to assault Gracie Pendleton,” she replied. “He caught him in the act. Gracie was bruised and shaken, but he got to her just in time. The guy was one of the Fuentes organization.”

There was a long silence. “I didn’t hear that part.”

“Not many people have.”

He sighed. “Well, maybe he’s not as bad a man as I thought he was.”

“We want him on our side. He has a son that he didn’t know about. We’re trying to get an entrée into his camp, to make a contact with him. It isn’t easy.”

“I know about that, too.” He paused. “How’s your love life?” he teased.

She cleared her throat. “Actually, Sergeant Marquez just invited me to a symphony concert.”

There was a longer pause. “He likes classical music?”

“Yes, and the ballet.” Her eyes narrowed. “And no smart remarks, if you please.”

“I like classical music.”

“But you hate ballet,” she pointed out. “And you think anybody who does is nuts.”

“So I have a few interesting flaws,” he conceded.

“He’s also a military history buff,” she added quickly. “World War II and North Africa.”

“How ironic,” he chuckled.

She smiled to herself. “Yes, isn’t it?”

He drew in a long sigh. “You coming home for Christmas?”

“Of course,” she agreed. She smiled sadly. “Especially this year.”

“I’m glad.” He bit off the words. “It hasn’t been easy. Larry’s wife calls me every other night, crying.”

“Lindy will adjust,” she said softly. “It’s just going to take time. She and Larry were married for ten years and they didn’t have children. That will make it harder for her. But she’s strong. She’ll manage.”

“I hope so.” There was a scraping sound, as if he was getting up out of a chair. “His commanding officer got drunk and wrecked a bar up in Maryland, while he was on R&R,” he said.

“Larry’s death wasn’t his fault,” she replied tersely. “Any officer who goes into a covert situation knows the risks and has to be willing to take them.”