Darlene Graham - Lone Star Diary

“He doesn’t approve of Justin’s work,” Frankie confirmed. “He didn’t even come to their wedding.”

“Funny how the congressman keeps cropping up in this deal.”

“He’s not one to be messed with.” Frankie’s voice grew quiet.

“Neither am I.” Luke’s was quieter.

Frankie’s eyes widened. Was this guy really willing to go after Kurt Kilgore? The congressman had a reputation. A mean one.

“I like to get to the bottom of things.” Luke was still looking at her levelly. “There’s a little more about you.”

“Me?” Frankie quailed at the idea that this investigator had looked into her background. Although there was nothing to hide, unless you counted Kyle’s indiscretions, damn him.

Kyle was no longer her problem, she reminded herself. And because he’d broken their covenant, she felt free to be with the man sitting before her. A Texas Ranger. One who’d checked her out. She should have known.

Somehow she’d imagined they’d get acquainted in the normal way. That is, a little at a time, with each of them conveniently hiding the parts of their lives that were less than flattering.

“I assume you and the successful surgeon are splitting up on account of he’s a sneaky creep who’s been boinking his little nurse.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. And a few other useless details. You happen to be a nurse, too, but you haven’t practiced in a clinical setting in years now. You buy a new Mercedes every three years. You spend more money on your poodle than most people do on their kids.”

Frankie’s cheeks, inexplicably, burned. Maybe it was the way he’d just thrown out Kyle’s affair so casually. Or maybe it was the implication that she lived the life of a spoiled rich woman. What business was it of his how much money she spent on her pet? But she supposed it would sound really lame to explain that little Charm had health issues, that the steroids to treat the poodle’s grass allergy alone cost a fortune. What was she supposed to do? Let the poor little thing scratch her hide off? “Do go on,” Frankie allowed herself a haughty tone. Or was it defensive?

“You hire an illegal alien as a housekeeper, another to cook, another as a gardener. And you always pay them in cash.”

Now Frankie’s cheeks really burned. “How did you find out such a thing?” She hoped her tone still sounded haughty. Surely he couldn’t have delved into her medical records, the miscarriages, the counseling.

“I can find out where you go to church, the name of your country club, where—and when—you drop your dry cleaning, how many long-distance calls you make, and how you spend your nights. But relax. You are boring, lady. Nothing in your background is germane to this case.”

“Well, that’s a disappointment.” Now Frankie’s tone was sarcastic.

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