Kat Martin - Against the Storm

It didn’t take long to find the brick building with the neatly printed Atlas Security sign on the front. Maggie parked the Escape, picked the magazine up off the passenger seat and got out of the car. She paused when she reached the front door.

Maybe Trace Rawlins wouldn’t help her. Maybe just like everything else she had done in her life, she would have to find a way to handle this alone.

She drew in a shaky breath, thinking maybe this time money would solve the problem. Maybe—for a price—she could find someone willing to help.

Trace reached for his coffee mug and realized his coffee had grown cold. Seated in the chair behind his desk, he’d been going over some upgrades he wanted to install in the alarm system in the library at Rice University, one of the company’s longtime clients. He looked up at the sound of Annie’s voice.

“Someone here to see you,” the older woman said. She tucked the yellow pencil in her hand above an ear. “Her name’s Maggie O’Connell.”

“O’Connell. Doesn’t sound familiar. She say what she wanted?” He had been hoping to leave for home within the hour, pack up his gear and his dog and head for the shore.

“She didn’t say, but you’d better watch out.” Annie didn’t bother to hide her grin. “She’s a redhead.”

He ignored a trickle of irritation. Annie knew his penchant for fiery-haired women and the trouble more than one of them had caused him over the years. And she didn’t hesitate to goad him about it.

On the other hand… “Send her on in.”

He stood up as the lady walked through the door. Five-four at most, slender yet curvy in all the right places. Once he got past the great body in snug jeans and a T-shirt with a Kodak ad on the front that read A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words, he recognized her in a heartbeat.

The photographer he had clashed with three days ago in the Texas Café.

“Well, we meet again,” he drawled. “I hope you aren’t here because Betty wouldn’t give you back your camera.”

“Betty gave it back. She seemed like a very nice woman.”

He thought of the scene at the café, the sizzling temper the redhead had unleashed when he had deleted her photos, and amusement touched his lips. “What can I do for you, Ms. …O’Connell, was it?”

“That’s right. After our little…disagreement, Betty mentioned you were a private investigator.”

“That I am. You need something investigated?”

“Actually, I do.”

He motioned for her to take a seat in one of the two dark brown leather chairs opposite his big oak desk, and sat back down himself. “Why don’t you tell me how I can help you?”

She opened the People magazine he hadn’t noticed she carried, being distracted by her nicely rounded breasts and shapely little behind. And there was all that glorious red hair.

With the magazine nestled in her lap, she opened the first page, then used the tips of her fingers to pick up a piece of brown paper that looked as if it had been torn from a grocery sack. Reaching over, she set it on his desk.

“Someone’s been leaving notes like this on my car. This is the third one I’ve found. Whoever is doing it is beginning to scare me. I thought maybe I could hire you to find out who it is and make him stop.”

Trace rose from his chair, leaned over and turned the paper around to face him, being as careful as she had been. If there were fingerprints on the note, he didn’t want to smudge them.

My precious Maggie,

How long before our destinies are fulfilled? When will you understand that your fate is entwined with mine and I am the only one who can give you the peace you need?

He didn’t like the tone. He could understand why the lady might find the notes upsetting.

He sat back down in his chair. “You need to call the police, Ms. O’Connell. They’ll make a report of the incidents and keep an eye out in your neighborhood for whoever may be leaving these.”

“I’ve been to the police. It hasn’t done any good. I want to know who this is and I want him to stop.”

“And you think I can do that for you?”

“I saw the way you handled those three men. I imagine you could take care of this guy if you wanted to.”

“I don’t assault people for a living. That isn’t my job. On the other hand, if my client is in danger, sometimes steps have to be taken.”

She seemed to mull that over. “I guess what I’m saying is I’d like to hire you. Your receptionist told me what you charge, and that would be fine. If I’m your client and something happens, you would be obliged to protect me.”

His gaze ran over her, the smooth skin and stubborn jaw, the big green, troubled eyes, the red hair curling softly around her shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll need to see the other notes before I decide.”

She bit her bottom lip. She wore peach-colored lipstick and her mouth was full and perfectly curved. He wasn’t generally this taken with a woman, at least not at first glance. But there was something about her… He told himself it was just that damned red hair.

“Actually, I only have one.”

“One?” he repeated, having lost track of the conversation.

“One of the other two notes. I threw the first one away. I thought it was a joke. I should have brought the second note with me. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get here, to talk to you, see if you could help.”

She was worried, he could tell, maybe even a little frightened. She set her purse in her lap, then unconsciously twisted the strap one way and then another.

“As I said, I’d like to see the other note.”

She rose from her chair. “I’ll get it for you right now. My condo isn’t that far away.”

Trace stood as well. “I’d rather come with you. I can see where you live, take a look at the neighborhood, see where your car was parked when the notes were left.”

“The first one was left on my car before I moved out of my apartment. It’s about a mile or so away from where I live now. But I think that’s a good idea.”

She started for the door, but he caught her arm. “I’ll drive. My car’s right out front.” He grabbed the white straw hat he had exchanged for his usual brown felt Stetson as the weather began to warm, and led her through the reception area. Opening the door, he waited while she walked outside.

“The Jeep Cherokee,” he said, and one of her burnished eyebrows went up. “What? You were expecting a pickup?”

She shrugged, smiled. “You’re a cowboy. I thought all you guys were pickup men.”

He chuckled, thinking of the Joe Diffie song and wishing at the moment he owned one. “’Fraid I only drive one when I’m out at the ranch.” He helped her into the vehicle and closed the door, rounded the hood and slid in behind the wheel.

She settled back and snapped her seat belt. “You have a ranch?”

“Technically, yes. The place belonged to my grandfather. My dad sold half when Granddad died and used the money to go into the security business. The land that’s left is leased to a company that raises Black Angus beef. I kept the old ranch house and fifty acres around it. I pretty much grew up there as a kid. I stop by every once in a while just to keep an eye on things.”

“The photos in your office…the rolling fields with the grazing cattle. Those were taken on the ranch?”

“Not by me, but yes. Gabe Raines, a friend of mine from Dallas, took them when we were out there together. I liked them so had them blown up and framed.”

“They’re very good.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.” Gabriel Raines was Dev Raines’s brother, one of his closest friends. They had worked together last year when Gabe was having trouble with an arsonist. Gabe was in construction. Taking pictures was just a hobby, but Gabe seemed to have a good eye.