Dangerous Refuge Read online

  She glanced at her watch. Too soon. She simply couldn’t leave until the hastily knocked-together “memorial” speech in Lorne’s honor was over.

  “Smile, darling. It’s a party, not a funeral.”

  Shaye bit back a sigh. If there was one thing that grated on her, it was her boss in full happy-happy mode. Reminded her way too much of her mother.

  “Kimberli, you look wonderful as always,” Shaye said, proving that childhood lessons in social manners and maneuvers hadn’t been a waste of time after all.

  The older woman brushed the words aside. She knew she looked good. It was what she did best. That and vacuuming money from checking accounts for the Conservancy. She was dedicated to her job the way some people were dedicated to religion. The hours she routinely worked should have been illegal. Not to mention after-hours visits to families and properties to keep the relationship going.

  Shaye wondered if Kimberli knew about Lorne’s rude nephew, but didn’t bring it up. Shaye was in no hurry to have her boss sweetly and passive-aggressively chew her out when the situation was Kimberli’s fault in the first place.

  God, I should never have let her anywhere near the closing of that deal. My bad. Her bad.

  A mess.

  “Lovely to see you in something other than old jeans,” Kimberli continued. “Now smile and look like you’re having fun. I don’t want this night to be a downer just because Lorne Davis isn’t here.”

  “You make it sound like he was called away on a short trip,” Shaye said, then wished she hadn’t.

  “Our cause is bigger than any one person.”

  “Of course.” Shaye smiled her social smile, the one that didn’t touch her eyes. “It looks like everyone is having a great time.”

  “I did what I could,” Kimberli said absently, checking out the bunting and cheerful, fresh flowers.

  Framed in mascara and touched by glitter, Kimberli’s pale blue eyes searched the room endlessly, ready to pounce if anyone wasn’t having a good time. Again, Shaye was reminded of her mother. Shaye knew how necessary—and relentless—raising money was, but she didn’t enjoy the process.

  “If only Lorne—” Kimberli stopped abruptly. Her smile got even brighter. “I do hope that Harold Hill gets back in time to be here. He’s such a dear. So handsome, too.” She gave the man hanging on to her arm like a purse an air kiss. “Not that you aren’t, Peter. You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

  Shaye glanced at Kimberli’s escort and live-in lover. Peter Mann was half Kimberli’s age and fond of marijuana, which did nothing for his already mediocre IQ. He was apparently content to be a boy toy. Without complaint he stayed by her side through the tangled wilderness of cosmetic surgery and all-night parties. He had the tan skin, streaked blond hair, and toned body of a tennis, ski, or surf pro willing to give lessons on the side. Quite good-looking, if you liked the sort.

  Kimberli did.

  Shaye didn’t. She’d had a handsome athlete for a husband. It hadn’t worked out well. But then again, nothing after that had seemed to work, either. Men figured Shaye was supposed to be arm candy or a mommy.

  Maybe Kimberli has the right idea. Screw them and lose them.

  Kimberli had invested a lot of time, money, and energy in being forever twenty-one. At fifty, it was hard to do, but her boss pulled it off beautifully. That wasn’t what grated on Shaye. What made her teeth clench was the Marilyn Monroe act that went along with it. Kimberli wasn’t as breathless and stupid as she sounded.

  Unless it involved paperwork.

  But Kimberli was brilliant at fund-raising, which was all that mattered to the big bosses in the Conservancy. Paper pushers could be picked up at minimum wage.

  “Peter, don’t you be staring at our pretty little rancher liaison,” Kimberli teased. “Shaye won’t be able to think straight for blushing.”

  “Peter has the most beautiful woman in the room on his arm and he knows it,” Shaye said matter-of-factly. It was the truth.

  At the reminder, Peter shifted his focus from Shaye’s body to Kimberli. “I sure do, you sweet thing.”

  Thanks to hard schooling by her parents, Shaye’s thoughts didn’t show on her face.

  Kimberli rolled her eyes. “Please don’t ruin the image by talking, Peter. Especially if Hill comes.”

  “Did he actually say he would be here?” Shaye asked. “I thought he was out beating the sagebrush for votes.”

  “He promised,” Kimberli said, ruffling her fingers through Peter’s well-styled hair. “Took time out from the campaign and everything.”

  “He’s never not campaigning,” Shaye said. “I’ll bet he shakes hands in his sleep.”

  “Of course. You won’t get elected to govern Nevada unless you eat, sleep, and breathe the job. He should be able to coax some campaign money out of the party tonight.”

  “Which you pointed out to him,” Shaye said.

  “Of course. He’s very qualified for the job.” As Kimberli spoke, she searched the room like the practiced hostess she was.

  Qualified? Shaye thought. He’d float away if his staff hadn’t carefully nailed his Bruno Maglis to the ground.

  Other than being telegenic, charismatic, and descended from old money, Hill didn’t have much to offer. He had made an art out of leading from the rearview mirror. His opinions were shaped by focus groups. He was always camera-ready, outwardly friendly, and socially polished.

  “We could use a governor helping the Conservancy,” Shaye said neutrally.

  “Then in Washington, D.C. Of course, that would be a few years from now,” Kimberli said, still scanning the crowd.

  Shaye made a doubtful sound.

  “You can’t rain on my dreams, sweet Shaye,” her boss said. “I have Teflon umbrellas to spare. I carry sunshine in my pockets. Have some.”

  “You don’t have any room for pockets,” Shaye said, looking at the fiery, fitted dress Kimberli wore.

  “Then you don’t want to know where I keep that sunshine.” Kimberli hugged Shaye. “Smile like you mean it. Please. I’ve worked so hard to . . .”

  Make up for one mistake, Shaye silently finished for her boss. Then she shook herself mentally. It’s not like I’ve never made mistakes. Big ones. Supporting a man-child until he broke into the major leagues being at the top of that list.

  L.A. can have Marcus. At least I won’t be paying for his training anymore.

  Shaye put more wattage in her smile.

  Kimberli looked relieved. “Much better. This is a celebration of a fine and generous man’s life.” She pointed out the display at the head of the room, where a black-and-white picture of a cleaned-up, much younger Lorne Davis stood between two outrageous fountains of ruby and gold petals.

  “Lorne’s land passes to the Conservancy and becomes part of living history. Everyone’s happy,” Kimberli said. “In fact, I . . . I feel a tear coming on. There it is.”

  Peter passed her a clean white handkerchief before her mascara could run into a raccoon mask. She dabbed at the corner of a black-rimmed eye.

  “You’re horrible,” Shaye said, laughing in spite of herself. This was the Kimberli who made the wide-eyed act bearable, the Kimberli who acknowledged that she was fake and damned good at it.

  Her boss smiled her first real smile of the evening.

  “I might be a bitch, but I’m our bitch,” she said, winking at Shaye. “And as our bitch, I say that we go work this crowd and remind them that giving generously to the Conservancy is exactly what Lorne would have wanted.”

  Really? But Shaye held her tongue. She didn’t want her boss to have to pull sunshine from a handy body cavity in order to dazzle all the sadness away.

  There was a stir in the crowd. Sheriff Conrad’s trademark white Stetson appeared in the doorway above the throng. Conrad was what Lorne would have called a long drink of water. Tall, lean, almost as telegenic as would-be governor Hill. But unlike Hill, Conrad had a high, almost girly voice, and no charisma worth mentioning—which limited his
political future to appearing in stern photographs in local papers. The position of sheriff of Refuge County was about as far as he would get with voters.

  Like most of the people at the gala, Conrad was here to do business and get his picture in the news and on local TV screens.

  “Go find Jonathan Campbell,” Kimberli said. “He can afford more than his recent donation. Or maybe Ace. Ace likes you. And on him, bald looks sexy. Stop drooping around. Make people feel welcome.”

  Before Shaye could point out that people like casino owner Wilson “Ace” Desmond hardly lacked company, Kimberli was gone.

  The sorrow Shaye had felt since yesterday wasn’t helped by all the chattering voices and fancy dresses. Her eyes kept burning and her throat felt squeezed dry. Blinking against tears that wouldn’t come and wouldn’t go away, she dutifully scanned the room for a male or female who was alone and didn’t like it—and she prayed she wouldn’t find anyone. She felt too raw to make nice with people who had money to spare for the Conservancy.

  Her glance caught on a man in a dark suit that was too tight across his shoulders and too loose everywhere else. He stood with confidence, not at all intimidated by people who were accustomed to handmade clothes and a house for every day of the week.

  He was doing the same thing she was, searching the room. Probably part of someone’s security detail.

  Wonder what he hopes to find, she thought. He’s good-looking in a hard sort of way. Dark and rangy, solid, not overly muscled like a gym rat. Not a perfectly dressed escort like Peter. Come to think of it, the guy looks familiar. Maybe I should do what Kimberli said and—

  The stranger was staring at her. She suddenly had an eerie feeling she was watching a much younger Lorne. Same long bones, stark jaw, and—

  Oh God, it’s him. Lorne’s nephew. What the hell is he doing here?

  Despite his lack of fine clothing, as he walked toward Shaye, people gave way to him like a covey of quail avoiding a hawk.

  Six

  The sound of silverware tapping a crystal glass vibrated through the PA and the room itself, leaving a quivering kind of silence in its wake.

  Automatically Shaye turned toward the head table, where Kimberli burned like a carmine flame beneath a spotlight. The tousled, flaxen fall of her hair gleamed in silent testimony to the best shade of blond ever made in a chemistry lab.

  She lowered her glass and the knife she’d used to make the crystal ring. “Good evening. For those who don’t know me, I’m Kimberli Stevens of the Nevada branch of the National Ranch Conservancy. I won’t keep you long, just enough for a few words of appreciation. First, I want to thank Wilson ‘Ace’ Desmond for providing the ballroom and such lovely catering.”

  A spotlight picked out Ace as she spoke. His head gleamed as he smiled and nodded to the scattered applause. “What good is having a casino if you can’t throw a party for your friends and an excellent cause?” he asked clearly.

  “Just one casino?” called someone from the back of the room.

  “I hear you out there, Campbell,” Ace said, laughing. “Don’t worry, when it comes time to build another one, Campbell Construction is first on my list.”

  The crowd laughed and clapped. Casinos were good for business, and this was a gathering of businessmen.

  “Thank you, Ace,” Kimberli said, recapturing attention with a beautiful smile and just enough of a bow to emphasize her cleavage. “Your generosity is legend.”

  More scattered laughter.

  Kimberli’s smile faded and she drew a deep breath. “This is a bittersweet night. We should have been standing here with our dear friend Lorne Davis, in honor of his gift of more than a thousand glorious acres of ranch land to the Conservancy.”

  A low murmuring passed through the crowd. Smiles and small conversations faded.

  “Just last month, Lorne verbally agreed to have his will amended. Tonight he would have formalized the eventual transfer of his ranch to the Conservancy by signing a contract. Instead . . .” She trailed off and touched just beneath her right eye as if to stop a tear. Then she straightened and said, “Instead, we raise a glass in his memory. To Lorne Davis, taken away from us too soon.” She lifted her champagne glass.

  Tanner was still half a room from his destination—the slender honey blonde in the simple, heart-stopping dress—and was doing his best to ignore the speaker’s breathy words. He knew he’d seen the honey blonde before, but was having a tough time remembering where.

  Last night? Was she the one I was so abrupt with?

  He’d been blocking most of the light last night and cross-eyed tired, but still . . .

  I was just mad that her voice made me hot. Actually, I was just mad, period.

  God, he really didn’t want to be in Refuge, Nevada. Not last night, not now. Not ever.

  And here he was.

  “Lorne was a vibrant gentleman,” continued the Hollywood blonde in the siren dress.

  What? Tanner thought, not believing his ears. The uncle that Tanner remembered shared very little with the Lorne Davis being celebrated at this party. Either his uncle’s grip on reality had slipped, or these party people hadn’t known the living man.

  “He loved the land above all else.”

  Well, she got that right, Tanner thought. The old bastard loved dirt more than he loved kin.

  Mentally he dismissed the speaker as one of those L.A. or Vegas females he couldn’t stand—showstoppers at thirty feet, and too thin and anxious up close. He’d take the real blonde he was heading for. Hopefully tonight.

  He heard his own thought echoed in the elevation of his pulse.

  Dude, you’re crazy. You all but kicked Shaye’s lovely ass off the ranch.

  My bad. Temporary insanity.

  And this isn’t? his rational self shot back.

  He dropped the mental argument. He couldn’t remember the last time his pulse had kicked this hard outside of sex. Shaye had wide dark eyes, sunny hair piled loosely on her head, and a smile that kept wanting to slip into sadness.

  Her simple dress made his mouth dry.

  The cloth wasn’t spray-painted on and it wasn’t loose. It was a dark silk shadow flowing over a body made for a man’s hands. Her shoulders and neck were exposed, showing fine bones and sleek skin. Nothing was cut too low or too high, nothing demanded attention.

  Unbelievable. Last night she was dark circles, working clothes, and temper.

  And I was an idiot.

  Good thing I have something she wants. It’s the only way I’m going to get within spitting distance of her.

  With a cop’s eye, Tanner measured the man who had beaten him to Shaye. Ace Desmond had a shaved head and a dark blue suit tailored for his solid body—money, power, and plenty of intelligence to use both to his advantage. Gold flashed at Ace’s white cuff as he put his hand on her mostly bare shoulder.

  She flinched, then caught herself and smiled.

  Dutiful and polite, not spontaneous and happy-to-see-you, Tanner thought, more satisfied than he should be. She might be taken, but not by him. She reacts like a woman who isn’t into kissing everyone.

  Ace chucked Shaye lightly under the chin, brushed a kiss to her cheek, and allowed himself to be drawn back into the crowd by someone who probably had something to sell him.

  Tanner made himself look away from the woman who had caught him off balance. Twice.

  I should be checking out the rest of the crowd. Somebody here might have actually known Lorne. Played poker with him, anyway.

  Yet for all that Lorne’s name was hanging from a ceiling banner, none of the conversations Tanner had overheard had told him any more about his uncle than he already knew.

  Maybe that was why Tanner kept looking back at the natural blonde in the unnatural setting. She was real. The rest of the people were onstage.

  He walked close enough to see that her eyes were clear brown, probably deep amber in daylight and dark crystal in artificial light. Her tight smiles didn’t hide the aura of sadness that
clung to her. She didn’t wear enough makeup to conceal the dusting of freckles across her high cheekbones. Her mouth was wide, full, and not painted on. Either she had nibbled off her lip dye or wore only a pale gloss. She brought her glass up to her lips with her left hand, but didn’t actually drink.

  So much that he’d missed last night in his anger at being summoned back to a place he wanted to forget. And couldn’t.

  No rings. No trophy jewelry. What is a single woman like her doing in this plastic party set?

  There were several ways to answer that question, but only one of them appealed to Tanner. He moved closer to her, close enough to smell her light perfume.

  “I think you’re the only person here who is genuinely sad at Lorne’s death,” Tanner said. “And I owe you an apology.”

  Shaye took a quick half breath and turned fully toward the man she had watched across the room. He was standing within easy reach now, as close as he had been last night.

  But tonight he didn’t look and act like a grizzly bear.

  “A lot of people are sad,” she said carefully. “I’m just not as good as they are at hiding it. Don’t tell me you came here to mourn. I won’t believe you, even if you do have his eyes.”

  “My dad turned red every time he heard that,” Tanner said. “I’m sorry I was such a dick last night.”

  “Really?” she said, surprised.

  “Let’s start over,” he said, holding out his hand. “My name is Tanner Davis.”

  “Shaye Townsend,” she said automatically, shaking his hand.

  Her touch was cool, polite. Hesitant. Like her eyes.

  He wanted to replace hesitation with heat.

  Should have been polite last night, stupid.

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors last night,” he said, holding her hand. “Hell, I wasn’t expecting to be in the state.”

  “I’m sorry. Your uncle’s death must have been a shock.”

  “Yes,” he said, meaning it for the first time. “For you, too.”