Chapter Eleven
Out her front window, Carly watched the big black helicopter with the red and black Tex/Am logo, an image of the state, hover then set down in the vacant field next to the house. Since they were running a little late, Linc had phoned his pilot and changed the pickup spot.
“I’ve got a meeting I can’t miss,” he said to her. “We need to go.” Grabbing the handle of the overnight bag she had packed so they could go straight to the ranch when the chopper returned to Iron Springs, he headed for the door.
Carly slung the strap of her laptop over her shoulder and picked up the quilted beige Chanel bag she carried with the apricot skirt suit and patterned navy and apricot silk blouse she was wearing. Hurrying, she walked out the door in front of him.
She hadn’t lied about not needing clothes. She’d been a real fashion diva when she’d flown the JFK-Paris route. For the first time, the expenditures seemed worthwhile.
She stepped off the porch and kept going. It wasn’t easy running across the muddy, uneven ground in a pair of Gucci high heels. When she stumbled, Linc steadied her.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
He took the computer off her shoulder, carried it and her bag over to the chopper, then strode back and scooped her up against his chest—a big, powerful chest that she now knew was as gorgeous as Rowena had said.
Carrying her beneath the rotating blades, he set her down inside the helicopter, then climbed in behind her, settling his big body into the leather seat next to hers.
The pilot pulled off his headset. “You ready, Mr. C?”
“Dillon, this is Ms. Drake.” Linc strapped himself in and Carly did the same.
“Nice meetin’ ya, Ms. Drake,” Dillon drawled; he was an attractive dark-haired man somewhere in his late twenties.
She started to tell him she’d rather he just called her Carly, opened her mouth, shot a glance at Linc, and figured it was a bad idea.
Linc just smiled. “She’d rather you called her Carly,” he said.
Dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, Dillon touched the brim of his Tex/Am baseball cap, flashed her a grin, and went back to working the controls.
Linc pointed to the headset next to her seat and she put it over her ears as the helicopter lifted away. The swooping sensation had her stomach floating up, but she didn’t think the ride would bother her, not after all the flights she’d been on, some in pretty rough weather.
They made minor conversation on the way, but as Linc had said, the slightly over seventy-mile trip to his office didn’t take long. Below her, the fields made a quilted pattern along the roads. Dark green vegetation contrasted with rich black soil and clusters of houses.
“A lot less traffic this way,” Linc said as the chopper reached the city, hovered, then settled on the roof of a multistoried mirrored glass building on the north side of Dallas.
When they got out, one of the guys who was waiting on the roof took her computer while Linc grabbed her hand and tugged her toward a brushed chrome door that turned out to be an elevator. She noticed one just like it on the opposite side of the roof.
“One goes to my office. One goes to Beau’s.”
The elevator dropped down and opened into an impressive office with big glass windows. She didn’t have time to notice much more than the wide teakwood desk and tables and the caramel-colored leather chairs.
He tugged her toward a paneled door in the wall, hesitated an instant, then pulled it open and led her inside.
“Where are we?”
“Suite off my private office. Living room, bedroom, and bath. If I’m pressed for time, I can shower and dress right here, or catch a few hours’ sleep. Since we left directly from your house, I need to change. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right with you.”
She nodded and Linc disappeared into the bedroom, which gave her a chance to prowl the compact living area. A leather sofa and chairs matched the furniture in Linc’s office; the tables and built-in bookshelves were also made of teak.
Leather-bound books: Twain’s Huckleberry Finn pressed against Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, and a book of poems by Lord Byron. She wondered if he’d actually read them, had a hunch he had.
There were photos on the shelves, not many. A good-looking man with slightly longish black hair and high cheekbones wearing a driver’s racing suit stood next to Linc, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, both of them grinning.
Had to be Linc with his partner, Beau Reese.
Reese was broad-shouldered, but leaner than Linc, not as muscular, and a few inches shorter, still a very tall man, and extremely good-looking.
Her gaze wandered to a different photo, this one of a younger man wearing military camouflage. She had no idea who he was, but . . . She studied his amazingly handsome face, picked up on the small cleft in his chin.
She didn’t know who he was, but she was sure he and Linc were related.
“That’s my brother,” Linc said as he walked up beside her, smelling faintly of cologne. “Josh is a Marine serving in Afghanistan.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Half brother,” he said. In a navy Armani suit with very fine pinstripes and a snow-white, French-cuffed shirt, he looked amazing, and completely remote, no longer the biker or the virile half-naked man she’d seen in her living room that morning.
“I didn’t know it either until five years ago,” he said. “Josh dropped me a note. He said he’d known about me for a while, but he wasn’t sure how I’d feel about a younger brother showing up out of nowhere. I’m pretty sure Josh believed I’d think he was after my money.”
“Did you?”
“I had him thoroughly vetted, of course. Josh is one of the good guys. He’s a special operations sniper who’s been serving his country for years. Our old man was a drunk. He treated my mother like a punching bag until I got big enough to stop him. She got cancer and died and my old man took off. Apparently he conned some other woman into taking him in and got her pregnant. At least he had the balls to marry her before he took off again.”
“Oh, Linc.”
“Giving me a brother was the only good thing my old man ever did for me.”
Her heart went out to him. He had so much now, but he’d grown up with so little.
He glanced down at the heavy gold Rolex he was wearing on one thick wrist. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Millie knows you’re in here. She’s my assistant. She’ll set you up at one of the desks or you can work right here. I’ve got meetings for the next couple of hours. We’ll take a late lunch, work a little longer, then head back. If that’s okay with you.”
“That’s fine.” As he turned and walked away, disappearing back into his office space, a heavy weight settled on her chest. She was out of her depths here. As if she’d tumbled down a rabbit hole and couldn’t wake up.
It wasn’t the wealth that intimidated her. She’d met a lot of wealthy men while working in Delta first class, had gone out with more than a few.
It was Linc himself, the confident businessman she had only caught a glimpse of at the funeral. The man who ran a billion-dollar corporation. The man who was as comfortable in a two-thousand-dollar suit as he was in a pair of jeans.
She had never been more grateful to be wearing an expensive designer suit.
A soft knock sounded at a door she hadn’t noticed across the living room. When she walked over and opened it, a petite brunette stood outside.
“I’m Millie,” the woman said. “Welcome to Tex/Am Enterprises.”
“I’m Carly Drake. Nice to meet you.”
Millie smiled. “Linc doesn’t usually bring anyone into his private suite. You must be special.”
“Special circumstances, more like.”
“Okay. Let’s get you settled. Linc has meetings going on in his office. We set your laptop up at one of the desks, or you can work in here if you’d rather.”
She’d rather see what went on in a company this size. She might even learn something. “The desk is fine.”
It was actually a cubicle, large and fairly open. She could watch the comings and goings and still get some work done.
The place hummed with activity, nicely dressed men and women moving around, all walking briskly, relaying information, going in and out of the conference room. No one entered Linc’s domain.
An hour or so after she’d arrived, his office door opened and a man walked out. Carly blinked, focused, blinked again. Holy crap, it was the governor!
Apparently Lincoln Cain had some very powerful friends.
She went back to work, sent some e-mails to Donna at the office. Her office manager was getting together some of the info Linc had requested so that he would make the loan she so desperately needed.
The thought didn’t sit well. She didn’t like being obligated to him in any way. She also didn’t like the idea he might wind up owning the controlling half of Drake Trucking.
Since she desperately needed the loan, she had no choice. She pulled up Drake’s accounting records for the last five years and sent them as an attachment to the address she’d been given in Tex/Am’s accounting division, then went back to work.
She tried not to dwell on the problems she faced at Drake. She tried not to think of El Jefe and the threat looming over her head, but she was less successful at that.
At half past one, Linc came out of his office. A town car was waiting to drive them the short distance to a restaurant called Piero’s not far away.
A black-haired maître d’ beamed as Linc walked in. “Mr. Cain, it’s good to see you. We have your usual table ready. Please . . . if you will follow me.” He led them to a private booth near the back, where she found white tablecloths and a nice wine list. Neither of them ordered a glass.
The food was Italian and tasted delicious, but with so much on her mind, she wasn’t really hungry. Since she didn’t feel much like talking, Linc carried most of the conversation, telling her about his meeting with the governor, then a road construction project in New Mexico one of his companies was involved in.
“It’s a big job,” he said. “Rebuilding and widening the highway north of Santa Fe. Tex/Am Construction just broke ground last week. Of course we’re doing the whole project with mules and wagons, so it may take us a little longer.”
She nodded, forced a smile. “That’s interesting.”
“You know, I actually think building a freeway with mules and wagons would be interesting—if it was possible, which it isn’t. You aren’t listening. What going on?”
She flushed. She’d been thinking about the loan she needed, but it wasn’t the most important thing on her mind.
“I keep thinking about El Jefe, trying to figure out what I’m going to do.”
“I was hoping to have this conversation later, but Ross Townsend called. A deposit was made into Miguel Hernandez’s bank account the month before he was murdered. All cash, twenty thousand dollars. Looks like he was involved with El Jefe after all.”
Carly started shaking her head. “That can’t be right. He worked for Joe for years. My grandfather trusted him completely.”
“Then how do you account for the deposit? Surely the man didn’t earn that kind of money.”
“No, but . . . How did Townsend find out?”
“I didn’t ask. Finding things out is what I pay him to do.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Conchita. Maybe she can explain it.”
“We’ll both talk to her. In case you haven’t figured it out, we’re in this together.”
She hesitated. “All right.” But she could tell he was convinced Miguel was guilty. After her terrifying experience with El Jefe, Carly thought Miguel might have had no other choice.