Free Fire Brand by Diana Palmer Page A

she shouldn’t have felt at the remark. “Bowie’s here? But he’s supposed to be in Canada...”
    â€œNot anymore,” Montoya sighed. “He left the project in the hands of his foreman and caught a plane to Tucson. He says that he cannot stand by and let his mother make such a mistake. He is going to save her.”
    He said the last tongue in cheek, and Gaby smothered a laugh. “Oh, my.”
    â€œIf you laugh, niña, make sure the señor does not see you do it,” he said dryly. “Or you may have to join Tía Elena in the bathroom. He has the look of the coyote that tried to eat our cat last week.”
    â€œThat bad, huh?” She shook her head. “Well, I’ll go see what I can do. Poor Aggie.”
    â€œWe know nothing of this man,” Montoya reminded her. “He could be right, you know.”
    â€œHe could be wrong, too.”
    â€œThe señor?” Montoya put his hand over his heart. “I am shocked that you should say such a thing.”
    â€œI’ll bet,” she mused, grinning as she went past him. “Where is he?”
    â€œIn the house.”
    â€œWhere in the house?”
    Montoya shrugged. “¿Quíen sabe? I have better sense than to look for him.”
    She gave him a mock glare and went inside. Tía Elena, fifty, and severe as night in her black dress with her hair pulled back into a bun, peeked around the corner, her black eyes wary.
    â€œIt’s only me,” Gaby teased. She hugged the thin older woman and laughed. “Still hiding, I see.”
    â€œIs it any wonder?” Elena asked, shaking her head. “I do nothing right, you see. The bed is made with colored sheets, the señor wanted white ones. I have polished the floor too much and he does not like it that it is slippery. The bathroom smells of sandalwood, which he hates; the air conditioner is set too low, and he is roasting; and I am certain that before dark he will find a way to accuse me of having the clouds too low and the sand too deep in the backyard.”
    Gaby laughed softly. Bowie on a rampage could do this even to people who’d lived with him for years. She patted Tía Elena on the shoulder gently. “It will all blow over,” she promised. “It always does.”
    â€œI am too old for such storms.” Elena sighed. “I will make a salad and slice some meat for sandwiches. The señora and her friend will arrive soon.” She threw up her hands. “No doubt the señor will accuse me of trying to poison the meat...” she muttered as she went back into the kitchen.
    Gaby went down the long hall of the first floor, skirting the staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms, past the sweeping Western motif of Bowie’s study, past the elegant grandeur of the traditional living room, past the library with its wall-to-wall bookcases, pine paneling, and leather furniture, past the huge kitchen, and down the covered walkway to the pool house. And there was Bowie.
    He was cleaving the water with powerful strokes, easily covering the length of the Olympic-sized pool and turning with quiet strength to slice back through the water to where Gaby stood watching.
    His head came out of the pool, his blond hair darker wet than dry, his black eyes examined her curiously. She was wearing designer jeans, but they weren’t tight. The long, trendy, red-and-gray overblouse disguised her figure, except for its slenderness and the elegance of her long legs. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail with a red ribbon, and her dark glasses were still propped on her head.
    â€œTaking inventory?” she asked.
    â€œNot particularly. You’re late.”
    â€œI’m early, and what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Canada,” she reminded him.
    â€œI couldn’t stop worrying about Aggie,” he said simply.
    He put his big hands on the side of the pool, and with devastating ease,