HORSES AND HEROIN (Romantic Mystery) Read online

  “And Garrett’s satisfied with that? It’s enough for government approval?”

  “It’s fine, although it wasn’t quite what he wanted. I did agree he could use your picture on his brochure as well as the Taylor Agency’s name. The publicity will be great for business.” She gave a disapproving sniff. “The racetrack industry always needs our services.”

  “Doubt there’ll be much need for investigative services at a jock school,” Scott said. “Expect it’ll be boring as hell.”

  Belinda’s expression turned smug. “I expect it will.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Megan took a final bite, savoring the delicious blend of caramel, chocolate and pecans. After eight days of tofu and carrot sticks, the chocolate bar was manna from heaven. She hadn’t intended to dip into the bag, not until she returned to her dorm, but the forbidden treats were impossible to resist.

  She wiped her mouth then checked the truck’s cracked dashboard clock. Thirty-three minutes before her next class. Plenty of time. She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of her instructor’s ire. Only a week into the program and she’d already witnessed Lydia’s wrath when a student was caught sneaking a cookie. The model-slim Lydia wouldn’t consider a run to the store for chocolate any excuse for tardiness.

  Fortunately, Megan was enrolled in the exercise rider program and didn’t have to watch her weight as obsessively as the jockeys. Unfortunately, the cafeteria’s menu was limited, and the closest store was ten miles down a winding country road.

  She wondered if her brother had ever craved chocolate. Probably not. He’d been so eager to be a jockey, a real jockey with papers to prove it. Don’t think in past tense, she chided herself. It was ludicrous to believe Joey would run off to Mexico. He’d always kept in touch with his family, even during rehab. And his text messages had sounded so happy. Her mother had lived for those messages.

  On impulse, Megan grabbed her phone.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said, forcing a cheery note. “What’s new?”

  “Not much. Nothing from the police. Myra dropped by with some of her cinnamon buns.”

  Megan could barely hear her mom’s low voice. She switched off the radio, but the roar from her cracked muffler couldn’t be silenced as easily. “How’s Stephen?” she asked. “Did he get anywhere with Missing Persons?”

  “No.” Her mother’s voice quavered. “Guess we just have to wait and pray Joey comes home. All they can tell us is that he went to Mexico five weeks ago. How’s your design course?”

  “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Megan cringed at the lie but her mom and step-dad would freak if they knew what school she was really attending. “I haven’t been doing much over the last week. Studying, a little exercise. I even lost a few pounds.”

  She forced a chuckle even though her aching muscles screamed. Jogging an extra mile every morning certainly hadn’t prepared her for the rigors of riding school. “Did Joey make any bank withdrawals yet?” she added. “Use his phone?”

  “N-nothing.” Her mother’s quaver ripped at Megan’s heart. “And his credit card hasn’t been touched either. Maybe the police are right. Maybe he is back on drugs.”

  “No! No, I really don’t think so.” Megan calmed her voice. “He would have needed money. I’m sure he was clean. And I don’t care what the school said. He made some mistakes before, but not recently. I’m positive.”

  “Doesn’t matter what kind of trouble he’s in. Stephen and I just want him to call.”

  “I know, Mom. Listen, I’ll check back on the weekend. Say hi to Stephen. I love you.”

  She stiffened as a sleek gray car loomed aggressively in her rearview mirror. Please, not a cop. She didn’t want any trouble. Didn’t want anyone at the school to know she was Joey’s sister. She dropped her phone between the two seats—one of these days she’d get a hands-free device—and wrapped her fingers around the wheel.

  She peeked again in the mirror and blew out a sigh of relief. Not a cop. A Mercedes emblem was conspicuous on the hood. Cops didn’t drive luxury cars.

  She eased off the accelerator, pulling slightly to the side of the twisty road so the car could pass. Maybe if her truck were ten years younger, she’d have gunned it. Her rueful gaze met the driver’s, and he raised his hand in polite acknowledgement before cruising past.

  Soon he was just a gray streak on the narrow road and once he rounded the next corner—

  Oh, my God! A huge pickup careened around the bend, straddling the centerline, heading for the car that had just passed. She jammed on her brakes, certain she was about to witness a head-on collision. But the Mercedes swerved into the ditch, kicking up a flurry of gravel and dust as it bounced over the rough ground for what seemed like an eternity.

  The pickup slowed. Two heads swiveled. Then holy shit, it sped up without even bothering to stop.

  She bumped her truck to a stop on the rutted shoulder, pried her phone out from between the seats and stumbled toward the ditch, her heart pounding. Movement flashed. Clumsy with panic, she reached for the driver’s door, afraid of what she’d see. Her CPR was rusty. She should have taken that class offered in the fall, and not been such a recluse.

  “Did they clip you? Are you okay?” a man asked, his voice a deep baritone as he calmly pushed open the door and stepped out.

  “I’m fine,” she said, studying his face for signs of shock. “You can wait in my truck. I have chocolate.” Her fingers shook as she tried to press 911.

  He pried the phone from her hands. “Don’t bother the police with this. They have enough to do.”

  “But…that truck didn’t even stop.” She crossed her arms and realized she was shaking. “They didn’t care.”

  “Typical punks.” His voice hardened as he leaned back into his car, emerging with a pencil and paper. “What do you think? Late model Dodge pickup. Two-door?”

  “Don’t know. But it was cobalt blue,” she said.

  He looked up from the paper, amusement flashing in his cool gray eyes. “Cobalt. Okay, thanks. With the color and plate, the police can track them down.”

  “But I didn’t get the plate. It happened too fast. I’m almost sure it was two guys though.”

  “That’s okay. I got it.” He scribbled something, head bent.

  “You remembered their license plate? Even when you were ditching it?” She jammed her hands in her back pockets and stepped back, feeling rather useless. “You must have a good memory.”

  “For some things. Not phone numbers.” His smile was slow and deep, crinkling corners of his eyes and my God, she couldn’t look away. Chiseled jaw, a hint of stubble and distractingly gorgeous.

  “So,” he asked, “what’s your name and number?”

  “Megan. Megan Spence,” she croaked, flustered. She didn’t usually give out her number but had to admit it was easy to give it to this guy. It wasn’t just his numbing good looks but something else, an easy confidence that made her feel safe. Important. “But I live in L.A.,” she added. “I’m only here for a little while.”

  “Me too.”

  “Oh, well, maybe I’ll see you in court or something?”

  “Don’t worry about court.” His grin deepened. “I doubt the police will even call you. Is that your truck?”

  She nodded, watching as he jotted down her license plate. Very efficient, she thought, studying him covertly. He was lean and handsome with short-cropped golden brown hair. Looked like an athlete or maybe a Special Forces type, except his skin was rather pale and there was a faint line on the side of his head.

  “I think maybe you banged your head.” She edged forward, straining to see. “Looks like a mark—”

  “Old injury,” he said, not looking up, but his voice turned crisp and clearly the subject was out of bounds. “I’ll report this, arrange for a tow and hopefully no one will bother you. I appreciate you stopping.”

  “No problem.” She peeked at her watch. Lydia’s class would be starting in exactly seventeen minutes. However, it seem
ed cruel to leave him stranded on a lonely road waiting for a tow that might take hours. And she was quite certain he’d banged his head, despite his denial. He’d stiffened when he bent for the paper. Not exactly a wince, but something. Plus, he was damn good looking, and it had been a long time since anyone had roused her interest.

  She jammed her hands in her back pockets, ignoring her ticking watch. “It might be a while before the tow truck comes. I have a rope in my truck. Want to give it a try?”

  “Sure. I’d appreciate that, Megan.”

  He wrapped her name in such a deep smile, her pulse tripped. She nodded and tried to walk gracefully toward her truck, aware of his very male scrutiny. Damn. She hadn’t changed since morning gallops. She probably had helmet hair, but at least her shirt and jeans were passably clean.

  She did a quick frontal check, wiping off some stubborn horsehair, then stepped up on her back tire and pulled a rope and shovel from the truck bed. She turned, almost bumping into him. His approach had been so silent, her breath whooshed in surprise.

  “I’ll carry it.” His voice had a calming effect. “A shovel too. Good. You must be a ranch girl.”

  “Not anymore.” She passed him the heavy rope before jumping to the ground. “My mom and step-dad still live on the ranch, but I make jewelry now.” At least she did when she wasn’t trying to find her brother.

  She paused, still holding the shovel, watching in concern when he abruptly splayed a hand against the side of her cab. His mouth tightened, as if in pain. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You went into the ditch pretty hard.”

  “I’m fine.” He straightened with a curt nod. “I left the hospital recently.”

  “Then I’ll fasten the rope.” She pulled it from his hands, ignoring his protest, and hurried to the ditch before he could stop her.

  “I’m smaller anyway,” she added. Besides, he had the shoulders of a Greek god and she doubted they’d fit under any car. She dropped to the ground and quickly wiggled beneath the bumper. “I helped my brother tinker around with a lot of machinery. And German cars are always great. It’s never a problem finding a place to attach.”

  She slid out, wiping her hands and swiping the gravel from her jeans. “There. I’ll just back up, hook on and see what happens.”

  He looked rather bemused but did have the presence of mind to check her knot, and she guessed it was a measure of his pain that she’d even been able to grab the rope. He didn’t look like a man who asked for help—more like someone who gave it.

  She maneuvered her old Ford into position, attached the rope to her hook, then stepped back into the cab. He gave a thumbs up from the tilted seat of his car. Slowly she pressed the accelerator. One jerk of protest and the Mercedes emerged from the disheveled ditch.

  Dented fender, broken headlight, cracked grill. Other than that, the car looked okay. By the time she’d stepped down from the cab and unhooked her end of the rope, he’d already replaced the unneeded shovel and was coiling the heavy rope.

  At least he wouldn’t be stuck waiting on the side of the road. And it was a lovely car, banged up but unmistakably elite, even beneath the clinging layer of dirt and grass. “First time my truck has ever rescued such a beautiful car,” she said wryly.

  “First time I’ve ever been rescued by such a beautiful lady.”

  She shot him a glance, searching for sarcasm, but his expression looked genuine. He really didn’t seem to mind her faded jeans, the messy braid in her hair.

  “I’ll be back in L.A. next month,” he said, his level gaze holding hers. “I’d like to take you for dinner. As a thank you.”

  She hesitated, uncertain how long she’d be at Joey’s school. This guy probably wouldn’t call anyway. And the prospect of dressing up and driving across the city to a boring restaurant wasn’t very appealing. There was no possibility of an early escape if conversation turned stilted.

  “Or just coffee, if you prefer,” he added, obviously a perceptive man.

  “It’s not that,” she said quickly. “Really, I’d like to meet you. I live near the San Gabriel Mountains and there’s a racetrack close by with great food. The horses are always fun to watch. April 30th is the last day of spring racing. Maybe we could meet there?”

  “Santa Anita. Perfect. One of my favorite spots.” His mouth curved revealing a dimple on the left side of his cheek. Or maybe it was a scar that was more noticeable when he grinned, but whatever he was doing definitely made her insides melt. Jesus. She was staring again, acting like a dork.

  She swallowed and slid into the cab, her skin hot and tingly. He closed the door and leaned against the open window of her truck. It was impossible not to notice the muscles rippling in his forearms.

  “My name’s Scott. I’ll see you in April, Megan.” He spoke with such assurance she could only nod, sensing he was the type who really would call.

  She fumbled with the shift and jerked the truck down the road, barely hearing its noisy muffler over the pounding of her heart. Wow. Her breathing was still in overdrive and despite the cool blast of air conditioning, her palms stuck to the steering wheel.

  He was gorgeous, sexy and nice and he was going to call. And although the last five weeks had left her in a wrenching hell, for now she was almost happy. She spent the rest of the drive humming along with the radio. And even smiling.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Megan, what is the percentage of silica commonly found in the synthetic track surfaces of California?”

  Megan tried not to groan but the sympathetic looks sent by her classmates only increased her frustration. Lydia had been targeting her for the last half hour, ever since she’d rushed in late after towing Scott. Usually she was good at making up answers, but this question was far outside her ranching background.

  She shot a look at her roommate, Tami, who only shrugged and gave her trademark eye roll.

  “I have no idea,” Megan finally admitted. “I do know Santa Anita switched back to traditional dirt so maybe there wasn’t enough silica?”

  Lydia’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. “The correct answer is in yesterday’s study handouts. In the real world, you’ll need to know these details. The reputation of our school depends on each and every one of you. Unfortunately the caliber of our students this year seems vastly inferior.”

  Megan bit back her reply, aware it was folly to argue. Lydia didn’t like questions, or debate. Yesterday Eve, the Latina girl with the pixie haircut, had challenged her on a point, and Lydia had summarily punished Eve by assigning extra barn chores.

  Megan couldn’t let that happen. She wanted as little schoolwork as possible, needed spare time to trace her brother’s tracks. If he’d slid back into drug use, someone here would know and, if not… She shivered, not wanting to entertain the horrible alternative.

  No. He was alive. He had to be. She nervously fingered her pencil, freezing when she realized the brittle teacher had just mentioned Joey’s name.

  “Our school has already taken a big hit because of traffickers like Joey Collins,” Lydia said, her upper lip curling. “Drugs and alcohol are insidious. You must be careful of unscrupulous people who might encourage you to experiment. It was criminal that he posed as an aspiring jockey when he really just wanted to set up dealers.”

  The pencil in Megan’s hands snapped. She glowered at Lydia. No one knew she and Joey were related—they had different surnames—but she wasn’t going to let anyone smear him like that. Nothing had been proven. He was missing, for God’s sake.

  “Joey didn’t do drugs,” Eve, the girl with the pixie haircut, said.

  Megan twisted in her seat. She’d only been here a week and didn’t know all the students yet, but this girl was definitely one she needed to meet. Eve was supposedly a top rider and clearly courageous enough to take on Lydia. Unfortunately Eve was also very reserved, almost haughty. So far, Megan hadn’t been able to engage her in any meaningful type of conversation.

  “Joey started school the same week I did. He didn
’t do drugs,” Eve repeated.

  “For your information, the police confirmed he’d been in rehab,” Lydia said smugly. “Several times, in fact. He’s a crackhead.”

  Eve’s chin turned mutinous and she squared her shoulders as though preparing to say more.

  Lydia’s eyes narrowed to ominous slits.

  “Who’s Joey?” Megan asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

  “The student who almost shut down our school,” Lydia snapped. “Dumped the horses in Mexico and deserted our driver.” She shot another dark look at Eve and continued. “But Mr. Baldwin is committed to success and is fighting the stigma. He’s added an addictions class, worth a full credit for university transfer. A famous instructor has been hired. Just don’t expect this man to be as flexible as me.”

  Someone in the back snickered, but Megan wasn’t sure if it was because of the flexible comment or because Lydia always flushed whenever she mentioned Garrett Baldwin. She seemed to idolize the school owner, primping and posing whenever he appeared.

  Lydia folded her arms. “No one will laugh next week. Mr. Taylor only has a forty percent pass rate. He’ll weed out inferior students. Of course, that’s assuming Mr. Baldwin doesn’t send you home first. He’s requested my candid assessments, and I’ve been very honest. Some new students—you know who you are—simply aren’t cut out to be riders. It’s a waste of time and money to let you stay.”

  Tami made a slashing gesture over her throat, but Megan shifted in her seat, fearing her cheeks had turned bright red. Only two students in the exercise rider program were still trotting in the field—doing baby circles with Lydia and the grooms.

  And she was one of them.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Peter, the other hapless rider. He seemed totally unconcerned, busy flirting with the slim redhead in the back. Of course, he’d already had his meeting with Garrett Baldwin. He’d been approved to stay.

  Megan sighed but the minute hand of the wall clock seemed to move slower than usual, dragging along with the afternoon lecture. So much to do. Finish class, pick out stalls, feed, shower, eat and then meet with Garrett. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be an exit interview.