“See what you can find on the Laughlins. Thanks. Bye.”
She clicked off, irked, then made herself think about leaving Martinique and going back to LA. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Tucker, and how could she go now anyway, when West Laughlin constituted a threat to him?
She paced to the balcony, then back across the room. Was West out there somewhere, even now, waiting for her to show him the way to Tucker’s?
Maybe. Probably. If not yet, then he would be soon. He knew approximately where she lived.
Sitting down on the edge of a chair, she twisted the bracelet around her arm. Tucker had given it to her and wouldn’t take it back. Had he stolen it from Aimee or his mother? She needed to give it back. Pretty as it was, it was beginning to feel like a curse. She wanted to rid herself of it once and for all.
West waited, wondering if he should confront Callie. It was after six o’clock and he was hungry, tired, and frustrated.
The tea and croissants at noon weren’t hanging with him. Now that he knew where she lived, he could probably take a break in surveillance and grab something at one of the cafés that lined the streets down the hill. It kind of looked like she was in for the night, and he probably wouldn’t miss anything. Jesus. It was hell being a one-man team.
He thought about that last meeting with Victoria, who’d sat straight in her chair at the head of the long, carved mahogany table in the Laughlin dining room, her white hair and cobwebbed, papery skin belied by her sharp blue eyes. West had finally agreed to meet her at the Laughlin Ranch house, which he’d dubbed Laughlin Manor, which had pissed her off royally when he’d drawled the name upon entering the place. He hadn’t been invited to the house since he was a child, and he couldn’t help the desire to behave badly at this command performance.
Victoria had gotten right down to business. “Edmund Mikkels murdered your brother,” she’d said in her incisive way. “And Teresa set him up.”
“Stephen died in a hunting accident,” West had reminded her, but he had straightened in his chair and paid closer attention.
“I know what it looks like. But I’m just telling you, Teresa is behind it. God knows what she’s done with Stephen Tucker.”
“You can’t start an investigation on conjecture,” he had started to say, but she’d cut him off.
“Mikkels is crumbling. With the right amount of pressure, you could get to the truth. No one else around here’s interested. The sheriff ’s department . . .” She had flapped a hand in the air, dismissing them.
Laughlin Ranch was in the San Joaquin Valley, a little over two hours from Los Angeles. The family raised Angus cattle and sold beef across the nation. It was a huge operation and Victoria had handed over the reins first to Craig Laughlin, West’s father, who’d run the ranch until his sudden unexpected death in a hit-and-run accident, and then to Stephen, whom she’d expected to be as dedicated to the operation as Craig had been. But Stephen had only been lukewarm about taking over. He lacked the fervor and true enjoyment his father and grandfather had possessed. In the few times Stephen had met West in Los Angeles before his death, he’d clearly wished for a different life.
“I’m going to join you in LA,” he always promised, but it never happened, though it was Los Angeles where Stephen had met Teresa. Stephen had invited West to dinner with him and his fiancée when they were in town one evening, but West had already made other plans.
Victoria had done everything she could at that meeting, trying to get West to bring Teresa to justice and Stephen Tucker to her, but West had really only come to the ranch out of curiosity. He’d purposely slouched against the wall at the far end of the room, his jeans, boots, and two days’ growth of beard making the gulf between him and his starchy grandmother appear even wider. He hadn’t
She clicked off, irked, then made herself think about leaving Martinique and going back to LA. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Tucker, and how could she go now anyway, when West Laughlin constituted a threat to him?
She paced to the balcony, then back across the room. Was West out there somewhere, even now, waiting for her to show him the way to Tucker’s?
Maybe. Probably. If not yet, then he would be soon. He knew approximately where she lived.
Sitting down on the edge of a chair, she twisted the bracelet around her arm. Tucker had given it to her and wouldn’t take it back. Had he stolen it from Aimee or his mother? She needed to give it back. Pretty as it was, it was beginning to feel like a curse. She wanted to rid herself of it once and for all.
West waited, wondering if he should confront Callie. It was after six o’clock and he was hungry, tired, and frustrated.
The tea and croissants at noon weren’t hanging with him. Now that he knew where she lived, he could probably take a break in surveillance and grab something at one of the cafés that lined the streets down the hill. It kind of looked like she was in for the night, and he probably wouldn’t miss anything. Jesus. It was hell being a one-man team.
He thought about that last meeting with Victoria, who’d sat straight in her chair at the head of the long, carved mahogany table in the Laughlin dining room, her white hair and cobwebbed, papery skin belied by her sharp blue eyes. West had finally agreed to meet her at the Laughlin Ranch house, which he’d dubbed Laughlin Manor, which had pissed her off royally when he’d drawled the name upon entering the place. He hadn’t been invited to the house since he was a child, and he couldn’t help the desire to behave badly at this command performance.
Victoria had gotten right down to business. “Edmund Mikkels murdered your brother,” she’d said in her incisive way. “And Teresa set him up.”
“Stephen died in a hunting accident,” West had reminded her, but he had straightened in his chair and paid closer attention.
“I know what it looks like. But I’m just telling you, Teresa is behind it. God knows what she’s done with Stephen Tucker.”
“You can’t start an investigation on conjecture,” he had started to say, but she’d cut him off.
“Mikkels is crumbling. With the right amount of pressure, you could get to the truth. No one else around here’s interested. The sheriff ’s department . . .” She had flapped a hand in the air, dismissing them.
Laughlin Ranch was in the San Joaquin Valley, a little over two hours from Los Angeles. The family raised Angus cattle and sold beef across the nation. It was a huge operation and Victoria had handed over the reins first to Craig Laughlin, West’s father, who’d run the ranch until his sudden unexpected death in a hit-and-run accident, and then to Stephen, whom she’d expected to be as dedicated to the operation as Craig had been. But Stephen had only been lukewarm about taking over. He lacked the fervor and true enjoyment his father and grandfather had possessed. In the few times Stephen had met West in Los Angeles before his death, he’d clearly wished for a different life.
“I’m going to join you in LA,” he always promised, but it never happened, though it was Los Angeles where Stephen had met Teresa. Stephen had invited West to dinner with him and his fiancée when they were in town one evening, but West had already made other plans.
Victoria had done everything she could at that meeting, trying to get West to bring Teresa to justice and Stephen Tucker to her, but West had really only come to the ranch out of curiosity. He’d purposely slouched against the wall at the far end of the room, his jeans, boots, and two days’ growth of beard making the gulf between him and his starchy grandmother appear even wider. He hadn’t
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