The Detective's Undoing

Now, looking over the land they’d worked so hard on, Delia felt a fierce surge of pride for what they’d accomplished.

It was all thanks to Constance Freeman, a woman she hadn’t gotten the chance to meet, but who could have been her paternal grandmother. Family.

In a shocking move, Cade came close and cupped her jaw in his leather-gloved hand, gently but firmly bringing up her chin so that she was forced to look at him. “You’re a million miles away and you don’t want to talk about it, right?”

“Right.”

To soothe her, or maybe to combat the glare she knew she’d shot him, his thumb slid over the skin of her cheek once, then again. Her skin rippled in reaction to the touch that should have been impersonal, but wasn’t.

Not even close.

With his hand on her, his eyes hot and intense, it became difficult to think, much less speak. His big body sat in the saddle as if he were born to it, his long, loose limbs at rest, but as the master of control, Delia wasn’t fooled.

The darkly handsome man was battle-ready.

For her.

For some reason, that shot a pure undeniable thrill through her. Control, she reminded herself. She had it. Or she had, until Scott Felton, Jacob’s caseworker, had informed her of the possible trouble she was in for, since the courts were happy with Jacob’s current custody situation. Jacob’s father had originally had custody, but then he’d died and custody had gone to Delia’s mother. When she’d died as well, years later, with no will, Jacob had had to move again. He’d nearly gone into the welfare system when they’d finally located a distantly related aunt. No judge wanted to uproot the boy yet again, especially for someone Jacob didn’t even know.

But Delia wanted her brother safe and sound, and with her. She thought she might know how he felt, for she’d been five years old when she’d been left in a group home. Those first years had been spent dreaming of a family taking her and making her theirs.

It hadn’t happened.

Most people didn’t want a little kid, they wanted a baby.

Back then, Delia had decided she didn’t care. She had Zoe and Maddie, and they were more than enough.

All their lives, they’d had nothing but each other. They’d survived. Zoe had done it by being unruly and defensive, and tough when she had to be. Maddie had done it by being quiet and reserved. Accepting.

Delia had survived by masking her emotions so thoroughly that no one could see what she was feeling or thinking. She donned this protective mask every day, just as she did her makeup and clothes. It was a part of her. She needed no one, and no one needed her.

But now she had a brother—eight-year-old Jacob. He was alone, too, or had been. That gave them a kinship she couldn’t ignore. Yet it went deeper than that, far deeper.

For the first time in Delia’s life, she faced the truth…she needed to be needed by someone. Yes, she had her sisters, and yes, they loved one another with all their hearts.

But they were independent.

Jacob was too young for that. He was just a child, and needing was part of his life.

Yet whenever she called him, which had been daily, he’d been distant, reserved. She understood.

Still, protective feelings welled up. So did frustration and, yes, a good amount of bitterness and humiliation, for her mother hadn’t left a will. She’d left no information about her other child—Delia.

She’d meant that little to her own mother.

As a result, she was last in line for Jacob now. And because of his sizable inheritance from his deceased father, the court was doubly leery of Delia’s request. It didn’t help that she didn’t have a penny to her name. She worked sixty hours a week trying to make a success of their guest ranch, but the fact remained—she was a poor nobody.

It was natural to think of Constance’s inheritance, the one Delia hadn’t cared about until now. If she was owner of the Triple M…well, that would be different, right? She’d have collateral, a real job. Importance.

The court would have to consider her seriously then. As much as she hadn’t wanted to believe it, money did make the world go around.

The wind blew, making her shiver. Reminding her that she was all too mortal. Reminding her that she was nearly twenty-six years old and still wishing for her prince to save her. He’d sure come in handy now, because no one could laugh at her if she was married to royalty. He’d be mature and kind. He’d love her above all else.

He would not be big and broody and tough and rugged.

He would not be rowdy and mischievous.

He would not be anything like Cade McKnight.

“I’m done riding,” she said.

“You mean you’re done with me.”

“Nothing personal,” she muttered.

Which had him letting out a grim laugh. “Like hell.” But he turned his horse away without another word, almost as if he was just as eager as she to be alone.

They made it halfway back to the ranch in silence. She watched the landscape, and Cade watched her. She felt his gaze on her hair, her face. Her body.

She was used to men staring at her. Men had always stared at her since she’d hit maturity—it was a fact of life. She was five foot eight, willowy yet curvy, and blond. And yes, she supposed, beautiful.

To her, it was a curse.

But Cade’s gaze was different, she had to admit. It made her feel funny, rubbery in her limbs, liquidy in parts of her anatomy she didn’t usually pay attention to. And if a portion of her, a deep private portion, tingled with a strange anticipation, she could ignore it.

She was not attracted to him.

“I’m your friend, Delia,” Cade said into their awkward silence. “Or I could be.”

It was just a word—friends. There was no reason for her heart to tip on its side.

No reason at all.

“We’re not. You usually ignore me, and if you don’t, we can hardly stand in the same room without shooting sparks off each other.”

The expression on his face made her toes curl.

“You going to deny it?” she pressed.

He let out a short almost baffled laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell, no. Maybe I used to be able to ignore you. But then I found you crying in the kitchen. It’s the funniest damn thing, but now I can’t get that out of my mind. And yeah, we shoot sparks off each other, enough to light up the city of Boise with electricity for a year, and it only seems to get worse.”

She nodded, satisfied.

Then he shattered that satisfaction. “But lust tends to do that.”

“Who said anything about…”

“Lust?” His crooked grin was appealing enough to coax one out of a saint. “Because you do realize that’s what those sparks are, right?”