Kat Martin - Against the Storm

They drove away from the office, leaving the small business district behind, moving along Kirby Street through a neighborhood of stately older homes and smaller, even older residences like the one in which he lived. Big sycamore trees overhung the streets, shading the asphalt. Manicured lawns climbed from the curb to the front of each house.

Heading south at Maggie’s direction, they passed Holcomb Street, wound around a bit, eventually turned onto Broadmoor and into a six-unit town house development that looked very new. The units were nicely constructed, utilizing the land without destroying too many trees. The buildings, beige with redbrick trim, had a vaulted roofline, and each unit had its own brick chimney.

“That one’s mine. The one on the end, unit A.”

He pulled into a space Maggie indicated in front of a row of matching two-story dwellings. “This your usual parking spot?”

She nodded. “There’s a guest space on the right. I keep my car in the garage at night.”

They got out of the car and Maggie led him toward the door of her unit. He liked the way she moved, sexy and confident. He liked the way she looked, too, with that little spray of freckles across her forehead and the tip of her nose.

His groin tightened. His instincts were warning him to stay away from temptation, and Maggie O’Connell was certainly that. He would give the case to Alex or Ben, he told himself. As soon as he had a little more information.

She unlocked the door and Trace followed her in. “I’ll get the note,” Maggie said. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her climb the stairs in the entry, admiring the firmness of the muscles in her hips and thighs. The lady stayed in shape, it was clear. He liked that in a woman, since he believed in staying fit himself.

As she disappeared, he glanced around the condo, which was almost empty. Just a beige, floral-print sofa and matching chair in the living room, a maple coffee table and a couple brass lamps, one of them sitting on the floor. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere. There was a dining table in an area off the living room. She had a laptop set up there. Good to know she was computer literate.

Maggie returned with the note, carrying it gingerly but not as carefully. “I handled it when I first got it. Fingerprints never occurred to me until today.” She walked to the breakfast counter and laid the note on the gold-flecked white granite top. Trace moved it a little so he could read the words.

Precious Maggie,

Such a delight you are. Soon you will come to me. Soon you will understand we are meant to be together.

There it was again, that odd, eerie tone. Trace couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it meant, but he didn’t like it. He placed the second note beside the first, compared the hand-printed letters. Bold. Well formed. No misspelled words.

Maggie looked up at him. “Will you help me?”

Give the case to Alex, a little voice said.

A muscle tightened in Trace’s cheek. Alex Justice, with his good looks and dimples… Trace glanced down at Maggie and desire curled through him. Her eyes were on his, green and worried. A surge of protectiveness overrode his good sense.

So she was a redhead. So what? So what if he already felt a strong attraction to her? It didn’t mean a thing. She could be in serious trouble and she needed his help.

“You have any idea who might have written these?” he asked.

Maggie shook her head. “I’ve tried to think. It doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

“Educated. Forceful. Older, maybe. This is not some bum off the street.”

“No, I don’t think so, either.”

“If I’m going to find this guy, you’re going to have to help me. I’ll need to know things about you. Things about your past, about your work. Some of it fairly personal. If you’re willing to tell me what I need to know, I’ll help you.”

He watched the uncertainty move across her face. Unlike his ex-wife, talking about herself didn’t seem to be high on Maggie’s agenda.

“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” she said, which wasn’t the answer he wanted. He guessed for now it would have to do.

“All right, Maggie O’Connell. If we’re going to get this done, we might as well get to it.”

Three

“Before we get started,” Trace said, “I need to go out to my car. I’ll be right back.”

Maggie walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa in front of the empty brick hearth, waiting while he disappeared outside, then returned carrying a leather briefcase. He sat down in the floral-print chair at the end of the sofa, took off his cowboy hat and rested it on the padded arm. He was dressed in sharply creased jeans, a short-sleeved white Western shirt with pearl snaps, and a pair of freshly polished, plain brown cowboy boots.

His hair was a dark mink-brown, but in the sunlight streaming through the window, little streaks of gold wound through the ends. The man was broad-shouldered, lean and fit, but she had already discovered that during his run-in with Bobby Jordane in the Texas Café.

She had noticed the gold in Trace Rawlins’s brown eyes, his straight nose and white teeth. Now she noticed the sexy, sensual curve of his mouth, and found herself staring more than once. He was a good-looking man. But that and the fact he knew how to use his fists were all she really knew about him.

After the way he had bullied her in the café, she wasn’t even sure she liked him.

The brass latch on his briefcase clicked open and Trace took out a state-of-the-art recorder, a Montblanc pen and a yellow legal pad.

“Let’s start with the present and work backward,” he said, turning on the recorder. “You’re a photographer. Is that a hobby or what you do for a living?”

She smiled. “I’m lucky. I’m not rich, but I make a very good living doing the work I love.”

Trace glanced at the barren white walls of the town house.

“My pictures are all still in boxes,” Maggie explained in answer to his silent question. “I’m working on a photo project that’s been keeping me really busy. I’m unpacking a little at a time.”

“What kind of project?”

“A coffee-table book. It’s called The Sea. It’s set around the ocean and the different kinds of things people do that involve the sea—jobs, recreation, that kind of thing.”

His gaze sharpened with interest. When he looked at her with that direct way of his, her skin felt warm. “Why did you pick that subject?”

“I love the ocean. I do mostly outdoor photography. I love shooting any kind of landscapes, but the sea has my heart.”

His eyes gleamed and tiny lines appeared at the corners. She wondered if they were laugh lines or life lines, or just a reflection of the time he spent out-of-doors.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he said.

Maggie smiled. “I guess I’d better get busy and unpack those boxes.”

They talked about her business a little more, about the people she dealt with in the galleries where her photos were displayed, and people she might have encountered during her shows.

“Do you keep a list of your clients?”

“As much as I can. I enter them into a file on my computer.”

“Anyone in particular who’s bought an extraordinary amount of your work?”

“Not that I can think of. I have clients who’ve purchased three or four pieces. That’s not that uncommon.” Maggie sighed. “As I said, the notes don’t strike any sort of chord. I can’t imagine I know this person.”

“Maybe you don’t. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to put a tail on you for a couple of days. It’ll be me or a guy who works for me named Rex Westcott. I’ll show you his picture, so if you happen to spot him, you’ll know he’s not the guy we’re after. We’ll keep tabs on you, watch for anyone who might be following you.”