didn’t coddle her fears or back away from the truth.
It was a thrill watching her mind work. He could actually see her mental cogs whirling. It was in the tilt of her jaw, the furrow of her brow, the tightening of her facial muscles. The way she focused on whatever task lay at hand was a thing of beauty.
And being with her was strangely exhilarating. As if by proxy her fervor would rub off on him. He wondered if she realized how the intensity came over her. The way her green eyes changed colors and took on a lively ferocity when she was on the hunt.
She was a woman warrior, proud and strong. He thought of the way she’d looked at Maybelline’s house, gun in hand, a determined set to her chin. Suddenly his senses were as full of her as they had been at the moment the gunman fired.
The womanly aroma of her hung in his nose, the imprint of her firm body lingered against his back, the sound of her rich, smoldering voice haunted his ears. She stirred his imagination and aroused a dormant passion he never realized he possessed.
He liked her long, lean limbs and the bronzy glow of her skin. He liked the straightforward scent of her—honeysuckle soap and crisp spray starch. Not frilly or overdone. Just clean and honest and free.
And her luscious tresses. Masses of straight black hair hanging down her back in a curtain of sheer delight or bouncing provocatively when pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Too bad…
Too bad what, Gentry?
Too damned bad he was stewing in his hormones. Charlee Champagne was strictly off-limits for so many reasons he couldn’t begin to count. Groaning, Mason stuffed a pillow over his head and willed his mind empty.
He must have finally dozed off, because he woke with a jerk when the telephone rang. Blindly, he fumbled for the receiver in the dark and brought it to his ear.
“Lo,” he mumbled.
“Gentry, it’s Charlee.”
As if he didn’t recognize her sexy, smoky voice. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Go away for a couple of hours, will you?”
“Can’t. Got some hot news.” He could tell from the thrill in her tone she was jazzed up. A cougar on the prowl.
Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of aborted sleep, Mason propped himself against the headboard. “I’m listening.”
“I did some digging and I found out Nolan and Maybelline booked a red-eye flight to L.A. last night.”
“They’re in L.A.?”
“No, they never got on the plane.”
“So they’re still in Vegas?”
“That’s what I aim to find out. I’m headed over to the airport to interview the gate agent and figured you might wanna come along.”
“Sure. Sure.” Mason yawned and ran a hand through his hair.
“See you there in twenty minutes,” she said and hung up the phone.
Twenty minutes later, Mason parked his Bentley in the infield parking garage, then walked over to wait on the curb outside the terminal.
Charlee screeched her Corvette to a stop in a passenger loading zone and leaped from the car. She wore a straw white Stetson cocked back on her head and twin braids streamed down her back. She looked absolutely adorable; although he had the impression she was shooting for badass. Daphne would proclaim her a fashion disaster, but Mason appreciated that she dressed the way she pleased, in-vogue styles be damned.
He pointed at the NO LONG-TERM PARKING sign. “You’re not going to leave your car here.”
“Nobody’s gonna tow me away at this time of the morning.” Her fast-talking disregard for the posted sign told him she was wired on adrenaline and so eager to leap into the investigation she couldn’t be bothered looking for a parking space.
“Don’t count on it.”
“I’m on the hunt. I need my vehicle at the ready in case I need to make a quick exit.”
“Parking in a passenger loading zone and risking being towed is not the way to achieve your goal.”
“Oh, hush. How are they going to know I’m not
It was a thrill watching her mind work. He could actually see her mental cogs whirling. It was in the tilt of her jaw, the furrow of her brow, the tightening of her facial muscles. The way she focused on whatever task lay at hand was a thing of beauty.
And being with her was strangely exhilarating. As if by proxy her fervor would rub off on him. He wondered if she realized how the intensity came over her. The way her green eyes changed colors and took on a lively ferocity when she was on the hunt.
She was a woman warrior, proud and strong. He thought of the way she’d looked at Maybelline’s house, gun in hand, a determined set to her chin. Suddenly his senses were as full of her as they had been at the moment the gunman fired.
The womanly aroma of her hung in his nose, the imprint of her firm body lingered against his back, the sound of her rich, smoldering voice haunted his ears. She stirred his imagination and aroused a dormant passion he never realized he possessed.
He liked her long, lean limbs and the bronzy glow of her skin. He liked the straightforward scent of her—honeysuckle soap and crisp spray starch. Not frilly or overdone. Just clean and honest and free.
And her luscious tresses. Masses of straight black hair hanging down her back in a curtain of sheer delight or bouncing provocatively when pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Too bad…
Too bad what, Gentry?
Too damned bad he was stewing in his hormones. Charlee Champagne was strictly off-limits for so many reasons he couldn’t begin to count. Groaning, Mason stuffed a pillow over his head and willed his mind empty.
He must have finally dozed off, because he woke with a jerk when the telephone rang. Blindly, he fumbled for the receiver in the dark and brought it to his ear.
“Lo,” he mumbled.
“Gentry, it’s Charlee.”
As if he didn’t recognize her sexy, smoky voice. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Go away for a couple of hours, will you?”
“Can’t. Got some hot news.” He could tell from the thrill in her tone she was jazzed up. A cougar on the prowl.
Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of aborted sleep, Mason propped himself against the headboard. “I’m listening.”
“I did some digging and I found out Nolan and Maybelline booked a red-eye flight to L.A. last night.”
“They’re in L.A.?”
“No, they never got on the plane.”
“So they’re still in Vegas?”
“That’s what I aim to find out. I’m headed over to the airport to interview the gate agent and figured you might wanna come along.”
“Sure. Sure.” Mason yawned and ran a hand through his hair.
“See you there in twenty minutes,” she said and hung up the phone.
Twenty minutes later, Mason parked his Bentley in the infield parking garage, then walked over to wait on the curb outside the terminal.
Charlee screeched her Corvette to a stop in a passenger loading zone and leaped from the car. She wore a straw white Stetson cocked back on her head and twin braids streamed down her back. She looked absolutely adorable; although he had the impression she was shooting for badass. Daphne would proclaim her a fashion disaster, but Mason appreciated that she dressed the way she pleased, in-vogue styles be damned.
He pointed at the NO LONG-TERM PARKING sign. “You’re not going to leave your car here.”
“Nobody’s gonna tow me away at this time of the morning.” Her fast-talking disregard for the posted sign told him she was wired on adrenaline and so eager to leap into the investigation she couldn’t be bothered looking for a parking space.
“Don’t count on it.”
“I’m on the hunt. I need my vehicle at the ready in case I need to make a quick exit.”
“Parking in a passenger loading zone and risking being towed is not the way to achieve your goal.”
“Oh, hush. How are they going to know I’m not
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