Crawford could retain it no longer. "What kind of horse you on?"
Huerta's face revealed some small surprise. "I thought you might like to have dinner with us. Jacinto will bring it in a few moments."
"No," said Crawford, moving his hand viciously. "Something else. What is it, Huerta? What are you doing here?"
One of Huerta's sardonic black brows lifted quizzically. "You are such a suspicious man, Crawford. I have known Otis Rockland for some time. He invited me to visit him. I arrived to find him murdered in San Antonio. It was quite a shock. Ah—" his glance had passed Crawford and was focused on the doorway—"Merida, Wallace, I'm glad you've come. We have a dinner guest."
Crawford turned around. Wallace Tarant had been Otis Rockland's lawyer a long time, and Crawford knew him well enough. But it was the woman who commanded his attention. Her beauty struck him with such an impact that he felt a distinct physical reaction pass through his body. Not many women could have worn their hair in such a severe coif without detracting from their allure. It was so black it looked blue, parted in the center and drawn back to a shimmering bun at the nape of her neck. It gave accent to the faintly exotic planes of her face. Her only jewelry was a large cabochon emerald in an onyx brooch that rode the mature swell of her breasts just below the low-cut top of her black silk dress.
Her slightly oblique eyes held a candid interest, meeting his. The blood thickened in his throat. A vague irritation swept Crawford that she should affect him so strongly.
"This is Merida Lopez, Crawford," said Huerta. "She came with me from Mexico City."
"Crawford." It escaped her on a throaty breath, and those large black eyes took in the tense line of his body, and a faint smile stirred her rich lips. "I imagined you, somewhat—like this."
Wallace Tarant took a step that placed him at the woman's side. He had a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame that looked good in his tailored town coat. His face, with its square brow and wide, thin-lipped mouth, should have held a palpable strength. But his eyes would not meet Crawford's. His voice was small for such a large man.
"What's the idea, Huerta?" he said.