Marilyn Pappano - The Bluest Eyes in Texas

He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t think or move or speak. Could only want.

She didn’t move or speak either, but just watched him warily. Some kind of hero, she’d called him in that scornful, disappointed tone. Neither his absence nor her shower had improved her opinion of him, if that look was anything to judge by.

But he could change it—if he touched her, if he kissed her, if he tried. He could make her forget he wasn’t the man she wanted him to be, at least for a few hours, but then she would go back to being disappointed and he—he would be tempted to try to be that man. That hero.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

brings impeccable credentials to her career—a lifelong habit of gazing out windows, not paying attention in class, daydreaming and spinning tales for her own entertainment. The sale of her first book brought great relief to her family, proving that she wasn’t crazy but was, instead, creative. Since then, she’s sold more than forty books to various publishers and even a film production company. You can write to her at P.O. Box 643, Sapulpa, OK, 74067-0643.

To Wanda Strain, my mother, who, like Lexy, understands the value of family.

I know you think a lot of what you tried to teach me went in one ear and out the other, but all the important stuff took. Thank you for that, and for the example you’ve shown us of love, grace and strength.

Whatever I’ve got, I got from you.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Bailey Madison. Three weeks ago Logan Marshall had never heard the name; now he was so damn tired of it that he’d prefer to never hear it again. Everywhere he went, people mentioned her—Bailey Madison’s looking for you. Did that Madison woman ever find you? What does Madison want with you?

He’d had no clue until he’d found out that she was a private investigator in Memphis, Tennessee. There were only three people in the world who might have any interest in finding him, and he wanted nothing to do with any of them. He just wanted to be left alone to carry out his work, but Bailey Madison was making that damned hard.

He was sitting on a stool at the bar in a shabby tavern outside Pineville, Texas. The place attracted a clientele so rough that Manny—the owner, bartender and bouncer—had never been able to keep a waitress for more than a week. Decent folks kept their distance; even the sheriff put in an appearance only for the occasional homicide.

But Bailey Madison had come wandering in the night before. He shook his head at the utter stupidity of it. Even an outsider could take one look around and know she didn’t belong. The only reason she’d escaped unharmed was because she’d mentioned his name and Manny had taken it on himself to escort her safely back to her car. But he was complaining about it now, not because he wanted thanks for what he’d done but because he wanted to be sure she wouldn’t come around again.

“I can’t be having no woman kidnapped, murdered or worse around here,” he was saying as he chewed the toothpick clenched between his teeth. “Especially no respectable woman from elsewhere.”

Logan’s first impulse was to ask what could be worse than murder, but he knew the regulars at the bar. He couldn’t imagine the woman who would willingly let any of them touch her. For any woman with standards, rape very well might be worse than death.

“You gotta talk to her,” Manny went on. “Make her understand she don’t come back here no more.”

Logan didn’t want to talk to her. Whatever she wanted, whether it was some misbegotten relative wanting to contact him or a lawyer for some recently passed misbegotten relative, he didn’t care. The only people he gave a damn about knew how to find him. The rest could go to hell and take Bailey Madison with them.

But he couldn’t leave her alone to fumble all over the place, blabbing his name and drawing attention to him wherever she went. He had a job to do, and the last thing he needed was attention.

So maybe it was time to make her acquaintance, to persuade her to forget all about him. If money couldn’t do it, threats probably could. He was very good at making threats and equally good at carrying them out. His promises carried weight because he’d never failed to deliver.

He swallowed the last of the beer in his bottle, then slid to his feet. “I’ll talk to her, Manny. Did she say where she’s staying?”

The bartender shook his head. “Prob’ly in town. She say she be back.”

Of course she would. “If she comes back, let her take her chances with Leon.” According to Manny, it was Leon who’d taken the strongest liking to her the night before. The guy was six and a half feet tall, over three hundred pounds, tattooed and pierced and believed wholeheartedly in taking what he wanted. One go-round with him and Bailey Madison would never go snooping where she didn’t belong again.

If she survived.

Manny must have had the same thought, because he scowled at him. “If she comes back, I’ll deliver you to her myself.”

“Gee, thanks for the loyalty.” After tossing a few bills on the bar, Logan walked outside into the bright sunshine. The bar, named Thelma’s, though no one could remember a Thelma ever connected to the place, wouldn’t open officially for another few hours, so if this newest problem did make good on her idiotic promise to return, it would be a while. He could drive into Pineville and take a look around or he could get some sleep to make up for last night’s late hours, then park himself at a table inside and wait for her to show.

He settled for town and slid behind the wheel of his 1968 Plymouth GTX. Pineville was small, with only one motel and a couple restaurants. If Bailey Madison was there, she wouldn’t be hard to find.

It was four miles along the two-lane highway into town, one for every year he’d lived there. He’d come back for only brief visits in the past fifteen years, but nothing had changed. The same businesses were still open, and the same old men still sat on the sidewalk in front of the feed store, rehashing the same old stories. The same sheriff who’d arrested him when he first arrived in town was still in office, still worthless and still hostile, and the same bars shared their Saturday-night customers with the same churches come Sunday morning. Nothing had changed.

Except that Sam and Ella were gone.

And it was his fault.

The motel was located on the opposite side of town, set off the road a few hundred feet, a run-down place whose only saving grace was the distance to the next motel. People too tired to drive another sixty miles stayed there, shelling out twenty-five bucks for a room that smelled like sixty years of travelers. The place was clean, but all the polish and air fresheners in the world couldn’t hide the fact that it was also worn and thread-bare, a last resort.

The only car in the parking lot belonged to the owner, the daughter of Ella’s cousin three times removed. She didn’t blame him for Ella’s death; she would tell him what he needed to know if he just went inside and asked.

He didn’t.

Another slow drive through town revealed only business as usual. There was no strange woman walking down the street—tall, pretty, nice body, according to Manny—and no Tennessee tag adorning any of the cars. Maybe Manny had guessed wrong and she’d taken a room in a nicer motel an hour away. Maybe her promise to come back had merely been idle talk. Maybe she’d moved on to create trouble someplace else.