Mark motioned at the heron. "Are you aware that bird is a protected species?"
In the process of putting the big bird back in its cage, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Of course. Why?"
As she shut the cage door he pinned her with The Look. The one that made grown men quake and women cry. "Unless you have a license to care for protected species, I'm afraid I'll have to shut down your little operation here."
"Is that so?" Far from crying, or even looking scared, she crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head indulgently. "I suggest you talk to the Fish and Wildlife Service before you threaten me."
"Lady, I am the Fish and Wildlife Service."
Her eyebrows drew together and she frowned, drumming her fingers on a bare arm. A moment later her expression cleared. "Oh, I get it. You must be new."
He shook his head. "Nope. Now, where's the permit?"
"Forgive me," she said sarcastically, "but you're not exactly dressed for the part. "Where's your I.D.?" she countered.
He glanced down at his ripped T-shirt and cut-offs before he jerked his head toward his uncle's house. This wasn't going at all according to plan. He needed sleep or a big dose of caffeine, not to be arguing with Ms. Chirpy here. "Up there. You don't want to make me go get it." He didn't like to advertise his exact position within the FWS. A secret agent should be secret. Something he should have thought about before he shot off his big mouth.
"Don't I?" She arched an eyebrow. "Why not? What are you going to do? Arrest me?"
"If necessary. Let's see the permit," he repeated.
She huffed out a sigh and shoved her fingers, the ones that hadn't been holding a fish, through her hair. "Look, let's save time here. You can rant and rave all you want but it would be a lot easier if you simply called the local FWS and checked with them. They gave me this bird--" she waved a hand to encompass the whole passel of squawkers "--among others. Which means, as you ought to know if you're who you say you are, that I'm fully licensed. I rehabilitate the injured birds and release them back into the wild when possible."
Mark remained silent for a long moment, still nailing her with his glare. "And when it's not possible?"
She looked away, as if she didn't want to address the question. Maybe she didn't. In spite of his fatigue, his professional interest stirred.
Finally she said, "Different things. Sometimes they go to zoos, sometimes private owners. It depends. Now, are you through with the third degree?"
Her voice sounded vexed and she'd finally quit smiling. Mark looked then, at the other birds, several different species ranging from the heron, to an Amazon parrot to a scarlet macaw, to a seagull, all in varying stages of recovery.
He didn't like what he was hearing, and he wasn't sure he quite bought it. But she was right. Her story would be easy to check. Too easy to check. All he had to do was call the local FWS for corroboration. Since she didn't appear to be stupid, he figured she had to be on the up-and-up.
Which meant he was SOL.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.d them to see a seagull directly overhead, tail feathers twitching. He swore and jumped aside, hearing something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. Spinning around, he found her watching him. That smile was back, tugging at her mouth. A mighty attractive mouth.
"You're legit," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"Afraid so." She let that hang a moment. "I'm Cat Randolph. And we seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Truce?" She offered a hand and smiled at him, a remarkably friendly smile considering what had just passed between them. "How about a cup of coffee?"
Coffee. God, he'd kill for a cup of coffee. But if he took her up on it, then he'd feel obligated to apologize, and just then any thought of apology stuck in his craw. He glanced over her shoulder to see another woman bearing down on them. No way did he intend to eat crow, and sure as hell not in front of a witness. Instead of answering, he gave her his iciest glare, turned his back and left her to her feathered friends.
It looked like getting shot was only the start of his run of bad luck.
Excerpt from TROUBLE IN TEXAS, copyright 2001 by Eve Gaddy, Harlequin Superromance #1031, December 2001.
