DESI'S RESCUE Page 14

  "Roger, I'm in trouble with this one."

  "Yeah, mate? Trouble how?"

  "She's too much for me, maybe too broken. A wounded dove. I don't do that anymore."

  "Huh," Roger said. "She's strong."

  "Is she?"

  "Don't be a bastard," Roger said in his mind. "Whatever else you do, be real with yourself and her."

  Real.

  Tam touched his chest. Real.

  He'd been thinking, when he met Desi, that they'd have a little fling. She'd thrown down the gauntlet that very first day, after all, with her comment that she couldn't be charmed. In his lexicon, that meant, "Do your best and I'll do my best to resist." He figured they'd each be the rebound person for the other—Tam rebounding from Elsa, Desi from her murdered—and unfaithful—husband. They'd have a hot, blue affair, then get down to the business of being friends.

  Friends. He should have noticed that before. He didn't think of ex-lovers as friends. It was too sticky most of the time, too complicated.

  But he liked Desi, that was the thing. Liked her company, her beautiful voice and quick intelligence. She was easy to be around. A mate.

  Mate.

  Friend in American.

  Wife in Kiwi.

  Damn.

  The thing was, it had been electric from the beginning. A man would have to have been blind not to notice her lovely body, the lush breasts and sturdy strength. Not to pay attention to those velvety brown eyes that seemed to offer a luxury of sinfulness to come.

  A promise, it turned out, that she'd kept. Had he ever, ever liked a woman's body so much? There was so much to her. The weighty breasts that were round and plush. A softness of lower belly to brace his hips against, a heat to her skin that warmed him all night as he curled around her and awakened to taste a shoulder, the edge of her ear or—

  Mate.

  He put his head into his waiting palms, thinking there was a foolish thing, that he'd gone and fallen in love with a prickly woman who had more trouble than she knew what to do with and hadn't been widowed six months yet.

  With a sense of panic, he picked up the phone and dialed the many numbers to reach his sister in Auckland. She answered on the first ring in her fluting, pinched accent. "Hello!"

  "Anna," he said. "It's Tamati. I think I've fallen in love. What do I do?"

  "Well, I'm fine, too, love. The weather's fair—we've not had a dark day in a week. You?"

  "I'm living in Colorado," he said with a grin. "It's never dark here."

  She chuckled. "So, who've you fallen in love with?"

  Tam sighed and settled at the table, picking up his cup. And he rambled the whole story out to her—how he'd found the wolf cub, then found Desi, then all the other things in between. He left out the wild sex, but she put it in. "Lust, then, is it?"

  Tam scowled. "No."

  "Good. You know, Tam, I always thought it would be this way for you, that you were wandering the world so you could find the woman who would be right for you. Will you have big strapping boys for rugby?"

  He grinned, thinking of Desdemona's sturdy thighs and big feet. "Absolutely." A sensation of terror went through his middle. "But Anna, I've only known her a few days. Maybe a week. How can I believe she's the one?"

  "Trust yourself, brother," she said. "You'll do the right thing."

  "Right." He turned the conversation to other things, to her work and her boyfriend and his wish that she should come visit him in Colorado, then he went downstairs to work, checked on the kitchen, the specials for the day and the bar, which was still closed. The containers for coins to support the wolves caught his eye and he suddenly remembered something Desi had said on the phone last night. Franz was the name of the art dealer out of Aspen, the pretty dark woman he'd always assumed had a Polish or eastern European accent.

  But Elsa's name was Franz, too. He'd never given it any thought. It could well be a coincidence—it was a common enough name—but it was enough of a coincidence it deserved a little more exploration.

  Were the two related? And if so, what was the connection to Claude?

  Taking his dishes to the sink, he noticed the time and wondered if Desi would call. Maybe he should call her—but it was still pretty early. He'd let her sleep.

  In the meantime, he had a pub to run. He tucked his cell phone in his pocket and, whistling, went downstairs.

  * * *

  Desi kept herself absorbed with animals through the day, and arranged to meet Juliet at her house for dinner. A good dodge, Desi thought, to keep Tamati Neville out of her mind.

  Except that nothing was really keeping him out of her head. At lunchtime, she checked her phone messages and was disappointed not to find any from him. At two, she saw that he was in her Caller ID, but he hadn't left a message.

  Maybe she should just call him. Like a grown-up.

  The thought gave her butterflies, and even when she genuinely intended to call, she couldn't seem to get her fingers to dial.

  And it was as if everything conspired to keep him front and center in her mind. It seemed she could smell him in a waft from her sleeve as she put on her coat; that she heard the echo of his flattened Kiwi accent in the drawl of a South African man who brought in his cat for shots; that a little echo of his breath had somehow lingered in her ear.

  Good grief Rousseau, she told herself, scrubbing her hands and arms at the end of the day. You've got it bad for this guy. Why don't you just admit it?

  But it was just sex, wasn't it? Agreeable, mutual sex between willing adults. And what sex! He was a master—knowing when to slow down, when to speed up, when to—

  Again she caught herself in a sensual thrall, staring off into space as ripples of delight moved down the back of her neck. Drying her hands on the paper towels she took from the hands-free dispenser, she then combed out her hair and rebraided it. In the reception area, the girls were putting away the magazines left scattered around the area. Overnight, a janitorial firm would come in and clean thoroughly, and the techs cleaned the animal areas, but the receptionist and secretary held sway here.

  "Wow, it's a disaster in here," Desi said with a chuckle.

  "It's always like this on Mondays," Sasha said. "Hang on, and I'll get you what I found on the Internet about geothermal stuff. It's pretty interesting."

  "Thank you." Desi accepted the folder of material and tucked it in her battered, soft leather bag. "I'm off now. If you see Alice Turner and her crew on the parking lot, make them move."

  "Got it, boss."

  At the door Desi paused. "Have you guys been approached by the news people?"

  They exchanged a look so guilty that Desi's heart sank. "You talked to them?"

  "He was nice," Ellen, the secretary said, but her stained red cheeks gave away the real reason she'd talked to him—he was gorgeous.

  "What kinds of things did you talk about?"

  Ellen shook her head, looked at Sasha. "Nothing, really. We just said you were a good vet and loved the animals and wouldn't hurt anybody."

  That sounded all right. "Uh-huh."

  "And he asked about Claude, of course. We said you guys were through a long time before he started messing around with that skier."

  Not as good. "Okay."

  "And—we told him you were seeing somebody new, anyway, that sexy rugby player at the Black Crown, so you wouldn't care anyway."

  "I'm not seeing him!"

  Sasha rolled her eyes. "Okay, boss, whatever you say."

  "I only met him for the first time like a week ago."

  "And I saw you in his truck, and he was looking at you like you were a Victoria's Secret girl he wanted to undress."

  Desi sighed. "Don't be so romantic, girls. It's not like that."

  "Oh, you deny it? C'mon, Dr. Rousseau—you know you like him. How could you not? He's exactly your type."

  That struck Desi like a cold trout. "My type? What do you mean?"

  Ellen giggled. "A big, sexy, kind of ethnic guy. Dark and charming."


  She must have looked as stricken as she felt because Sasha elbowed Ellen with a powerful arm. "Shut up!"

  Gathering up the shreds of her tattered dignity, Desi said, "Well, do me a favor—don't talk to the reporters. Remember I'm under investigation for murder, and they need to hang this on somebody, so you never know what might get me in more trouble. Get it?"

  A hand flew up to Ellen's mouth. "I'm sorry! I forgot about that part!"

  Desi waved a hand wearily. "Never mind. Just don't talk. See you in the morning, girls."

  As she headed out the door, she heard Sasha say to Ellen, "You doofus! You could have got us both in big trouble!"

  The door swung shut before she heard Ellen's answer. At least, she noted, the protesters were gone for the evening. Small blessings.

  * * *

  Juliet had cooked one of Desi's favorite meals, a beef stew thick with carrots and potatoes, with a side of biscuits so fluffy they nearly floated off the plate. Glory was home with her father, and Desi was glad—it gave them a chance to talk urgently and privately.

  And yet—

  "I've barely seen you and Josh together at all the past week or two, Juliet," Desi commented. "Is everything okay with you guys?"

  Juliet blinked and said, "Fine!" in a voice that was reassuring. "We've both just been trying to make sure the house is ready and we have our work done so we can have a guilt-free honeymoon."

  "Good." Desi buttered a biscuit and spread it with marmalade. "How is the house coming along, anyway?"

  Juliet had sold her Hollywood condo for a substantial profit, and they had invested it in a house not far from town, on the bus line. It needed some cosmetic work before they moved in, and Juliet was sticking to her old-fashioned desire to be married before they lived together. "Very well, honestly. The old kitchen is out, and the contractors are coming to put in the floors next week. Barring disaster, it looks like it should be finished far ahead of the wedding."

  They talked about the wedding, then, and the dresses—Juliet was letting the bridesmaids choose their own gowns, for which Desi would be eternally grateful—and fittings and flowers. When they'd finished their stew, Juliet collected their plates and poured fresh coffee and took out a thick folder. "I found out some very interesting things today, sister dear," she said.

  "I had my assistant do some research on geothermal features," Desi said, and she, too, pulled out a folder. "Not that I've had any time to look at it."

  "It's all right. I did have a chance this afternoon to sort through all the features—there are hot springs, fumaroles and geysers and mud pools, and this area has all of them, except geysers, which are relatively rare."

  Desi nodded. "I know there are a lot of hot springs around here, and obviously, there's a big stream on my land and running through the area."

  Juliet nodded, a frown on her smooth forehead. She pulled out a sheet of paper. "The thing is, I couldn't figure out why the hot springs alone would cause such interest in your land. And why would anyone hire extra geothermal studies to be done when the hot springs are already well-known?"

  Desi nodded. "Good questions."

  Juliet paused and scanned the papers in her hand. "I think I figured it out." She handed the sheaf to her sister. "Take a look."

  The document was an official-looking study, cloaked in geological terms and legalese that made no sense to Desi. "This is practically unreadable," she said with annoyance.

  "I think it was written that way deliberately, to knock people off the scent. But it seems to say, Desi, that beneath your land is a very deep, entirely enclosed lake. A hot lake."

  "Wow, that's kind of cool," Desi said, imagining a pristine pool in a deep cave, steaming and boiling beneath her land. "No wonder snow melts oddly there—and we get some funny growth, too."

  Juliet smiled with genuine amusement. "Yeah."

  "What?"

  "It is kind of cool," she said, "but you're not seeing the big picture and why it matters so much."

  Desi shrugged. "No, I guess I'm not."

  "It's an energy source, Dez. An endless, undepletable, continually renewable energy source."

  "How?"

  "It's a fairly rare phenomenon, but evidently the idea is to build a pipeline system that's entirely closed—the water or steam or whatever comes up through a system of pipes, and the heat itself is used to generate electricity, then the cool water is shipped right back to the lake, to be reheated. Never depleted in the slightest."

  The implications were astonishing. "That could be worth…" Desi widened her eyes. "Millions!"

  "Try billions, Desi. Trillions. It's incalculable."

  "And it's under my land."

  "Yes. Entirely dead center." She shrugged. "Which is interesting because the Mariposa Utes have been so protective of that land."

  A ripple of something moved through Desi's chest. Fear, honor, respect, humility, all washed over her in a tangle of colors and threads. She thought of Helene's comment that Desi had been chosen to help protect this land. She bowed her head and spread her hands in front of her, smoothing the lines in her palms. "What do I do?"

  "You don't have to do anything for now, but I thought you should know."

  "Right. Thank you. I do need to know this."

  "There's one more thing," Juliet said, and she looked apologetic. She passed her another sheet of paper. "The judge was in on it from the start. He ordered the studies to start with."

  The judge! "That rat," she said with a growl. "He's always acted like I was so sexy and he was so crazy about me." She rolled her eyes. "I should have known. A man with that much money and power could certainly do a lot better than me."

  "Desi!"

  She waved a hand wearily. "You know what I mean. I don't want to get into it, okay? I'm tired and I want to go home and think about all this."

  "I can understand that."

  As she stood, Desi said, "I heard from Miranda, too, incidentally. Claude's paintings have taken a big, big jump in value, so if you have any sitting around, you might want to put them someplace safe."

  Juliet made a sound like a horse snuffling, very ladylike. "As if." She rolled her eyes. "I'd like to dump his paintings in the river. He lied and cheated like a skunk. I hate the way he made you feel about yourself. You don't deserve it."

  "Skunks aren't cheaters," Desi said mildly.

  "You know what I mean," Juliet said.

  "I do." Desi bent down and hugged her sister. "Thanks, sweetie."

  "You know that you're beautiful, don't you, Dez?"

  "Sure. All five-ten of me."

  Juliet pulled back. "Go see Tam. He'll make you feel better."

  Tam. Her heart flickered, pinched. But that was her business, not anyone else's. Not even Juliet. "None of your business!" she said, grinning archly to take the sting out of the words, and grabbed her bag. "Thanks for your help and for supper, sister dear. I'll see you soon."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  Tam couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a hectic day. It was one emergency after another from the moment he came down the stairs from his apartment, starting with a leak in the ceiling over the staff room, for which a plumber had to be found immediately.

  The bartender for the night shift had the flu—and not just the tequila flu, either; she thought she'd be out for three or four days. Tam's attempts to find replacements were unsuccessful. The flu again. He was looking at filling in at least a shift or two until he could coax someone else into coming in.

  And it didn't stop there. One of his best cooks had a fight with a server and walked out. A crate of lettuces proved to be wormy, which meant throwing them out, along with everything they'd been in contact with.

  Which meant that the special of the day had to be changed and one of his cooks had to pay the catastrophic prices at the local grocery store for lettuces and other fresh produce.

  One thing after another. By late afternoon, he was knackered.

  And th
at wasn't even to mention the news crews lurking around, trying to conjure up a story to send back home so they could stay and ski a bit longer. They kept trying to tease out his connection to Desi, see if they could get an angle. A few liked the rugby angle, and one actually made the connection to the Hayman fire and the smoke jumper who'd been injured, but he didn't want to talk about that, either. He kept deflecting them, trying to protect Desi, his own privacy, Roger's memory.

  Too much.

  And that, of course, meant that Zara, Roger's widow, should show up. Today. He was startled by her appearance when she came through the door of the pub, wearing jeans and carrying a coat over her arm. She looked thin and frail enough to break at any second, all robin's-egg-blue eyes and wispy blond hair that made her look about twenty, when he knew very well she was close to his own age, thirty-five. There were hollows beneath her cheekbones.

  "Hi, Tam," she said sadly, and sat on a barstool. "You said to just come on over if things got bad. They got bad, so I did." She spread her hands. "Not that it seems like they're going that well for you."

  He kept his face still and put a rolled napkin with silver inside down on the bar for her. "You haven't been eating," he said. "I'll bring you something. Soup?"

  She shrugged shoulders as pointed as the edge of a scissors. "Okay."

  Damn. He headed for the kitchen, trying to shake off his annoyance. Saving Tam's arse had put Roger in the grave, it was true, but he was getting a little tired of playing nursemaid to Zara. It had been two years, after all. She needed to find a way through the tragedy and on to the rest of her life.

  This, he resolved, would be the last time he let her manipulate him this way. Ladling up the hearty chicken and wild rice soup, with carrots and celery and onion floating in a broth as golden as bullion, he set it on a tray and cut a hefty slice of bread, too.

  And if Zara weren't enough, when he returned to the bar, who should be sitting next to her but Elsa, who must have weighed all of fifty-five kilos, but looked as sturdy as a wolf next to the wispy Zara. "G'day, Elsa," he said. "What can I get you?"