Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(10)
She tossed her two small bags on the chenille bedspread covering the brass bed. God, she was exhausted. She’d picked up a San Antonio newspaper in the lobby but was too tired to read it. She took a quick shower in the tiny shower cubicle with a plastic curtain instead of a glass door, dressed in her usual night attire of a teddy, and got into bed. For the first time in a long time she’d looked at herself in the mirror, wondering why she bothered with the sexy black lace teddy when she’d slept alone for a year, but she knew it was her own inner rebellion against propriety, like her speeding. She was a deeply sensual woman and most men hadn’t a clue, but her choice of night attire even on a business trip was a tell to anyone with acute observation skills.
Like a Texas Ranger . . .
She expected to fall asleep immediately, but Ross Sinclair’s handsome face kept creeping in behind her tightly closed eyelids, as if she could keep him out that way. Without his sunshades, he was every bit as handsome as she’d expected. His thick iron gray hair set off the deep cerulean of his eyes, which were a much darker blue than her own. She smiled a bit herself as she recalled his expression when she finally gave him her card. She was quite sure few people ever put him off balance, but she’d sensed unease in him several times. While she couldn’t account for the source, she knew it was probably a good thing as far as her historic investigation went. He couldn’t dismiss her easily now because he needed a report from her that stated she agreed the buildings were not appropriate for restoration. Only then could his family legally tear them down because the Texas Resource Commission had filed a stay with the parks department.
She couldn’t quite say she had the upper hand as she was still the interloper from the East Coast he obviously disdained, despite the very faint trace of an upper-crust Hamptons’ accent she sometimes detected. She knew his background. He knew little of hers, aside from his almost certain recognition of her famous name, though few people realized her father was not from the moneyed side of the family. That was the way she wanted to keep it. The thought occurred to her that if she gave a report recommending the buildings be saved and denied the Sinclairs their development, they could come back and claim she was retaliating for her arrest. But while she hadn’t known Ross Sinclair very long, she sensed he was far too honorable for a trick like that.
She fell asleep on the thought, but somehow his perfectly sculpted mouth as he leaned over her with the pashmina followed her into her dreams.
The next morning, when she arose, there was moisture between her thighs, but she only did a quick sponge bath and pretended not to recall her erotic dreams. As Yancy would say in her blunt way, she just needed to get laid.
Nevertheless, she dressed more carefully than she’d planned. She’d met the hodunk honcho now, so she could afford to be a bit more casual. She pulled on skinny pants that molded lovingly to her long legs and added a tunic. The tunic had a slightly military look, with brass buttons and gold braid. She’d paid a fortune for it at a Neiman Marcus Last Call outlet, and with the navy pants and low-heeled boots that came up to her knees, she was good to go even if she had to step over fallen beams and the like.
After a quick breakfast of eggs and toast in the tiny downstairs coffee shop, she walked outside. The changeable Texas weather had fully made the transformation to spring, and it was already in the seventies. She knew the buildings where she was meeting Sinclair were to the right, so she deliberately turned to the left, exploring Polk Street, the most historic area of downtown Amarillo. She consulted the map of structures she held in her hand. She saw some buildings fully restored, even a full-sized Marriott that had taken over what she knew to be an old office building because it was already listed on the National Register of Historic Places, a list compiled and supervised by the federal parks department. After a building met stringent historic criteria, the developer of each historic structure was allocated 20 percent of his construction budget in tax credits. In that way federal tax policy tried to help preserve the nation’s historic buildings, and it was one of the few federal programs Emm thought had been slam-dunk successful.
As she walked, she saw other buildings sitting forlorn with boarded-up broken windows. Throughout America, many cities were still struggling with the circular dynamics of reviving their cores. Renovating old buildings took craft, knowledge, commitment, and, most of all, money. Developers wouldn’t take on the task without the economic promise of profit. Profit required foot traffic and retail shoppers; foot traffic required fun outlets, restaurants, best of all, private housing. It was a classic demand-and-supply loop Emm figured builders had been facing since the Agora in Athens.
She stopped in front of a vacant building with broken front windows. Windows like that always reminded Emm of the ancient Greek habit of putting pennies on the eyes of the dead. They were empty, lifeless, and it was now both her passion and her calling to bring them back to life.
Her equilibrium restored, she browsed in a cute novelties shop, and then it was time to meet Sinclair. She found the door to Julienne’s and entered, the bell tinkling. It was a classic little take on a French café, a delight in a cow town, with checked tablecloths, tiny vases filled with wildflowers, and elegant cut velvet booths. She wondered if he’d selected this location to put her at ease or to accent the fact she didn’t belong here. She was a bit early, but he was already seated at a booth near the door. He rose when he saw her and extended his hand.