Kat Martin - Against the Storm

She felt a trickle of relief. “All right.”

“Of course, that might not be the way he operates. Obviously, he knows where you live. He might know a whole lot more.”

Maggie didn’t like the sound of that. It was one of the reasons she stayed away from social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter.

Trace asked her more questions about roommates at school, old boyfriends, someone she might have jilted.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t date that often. I had a boyfriend when I went to college. We were pretty serious for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

“What was his name?”

“Michael Irving.”

“Anyone else?”

She hated to mention David, since she had been the one at fault for the breakup, and she didn’t want to cause him any more trouble.

“Maggie?”

She released a breath, determined to reveal as little as possible. “I went out with an attorney named David Lyons for a while. We lived together a couple of months.”

“Bad breakup?”

His eyes were on hers. The man didn’t miss a thing. “Pretty bad. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I did.”

“When did it end?”

“First of April, two years ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“I haven’t seen him. I heard he was dating someone.”

Trace stopped making notes and looked at her. There was something in those golden-brown eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted.

“What about now?” he asked. “Are you involved with anyone at the moment?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’ve been way too busy.” She wondered if there might be something personal in the question. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “And I really don’t like the dating scene. I suppose eventually I’d like to meet someone, but not right now. I’ve got my career to think about. I’m happy the way I am.”

He studied her as if he wasn’t sure he believed her. She wondered if he was one of those men who thought every woman was desperate to find a husband. Or maybe exactly the opposite. That she was just another faithless female concerned with only herself.

“It’ll take some time to check all this out,” he said. “The thing is, you might know this person and not realize it. He—or she—could be using this odd style of writing so you won’t figure out who it is.”

She frowned. “You don’t actually think this could be a woman?”

“Unless your sexual preferences go both ways, probably not.”

She smiled. “I’m boringly heterosexual.”

His eyes seemed to darken. Maggie felt a warm, unwelcome stirring in the pit of her stomach, and inwardly cursed her bad luck. An attraction to Trace Rawlins was the last thing she wanted.

“The handwriting looks masculine,” Trace continued, “but there definitely are women stalkers. Jealousy over a past relationship with a man, or your success as a photographer. That kind of thing.”

He kept asking questions, moving her backward in time. Thinking about the incident with Josh Varner, she began to grow more and more uneasy.

“Tell me about your family,” Trace said, making notes now and again.

“My mom and dad divorced when I was four. Mom moved back to Florida where she was raised, remarried not long after and had another kid. I stayed here and lived with my dad.”

“He still alive?”

“He passed away a couple of years ago.”

“I lost mine a while back. I still miss him.”

Maggie made no comment. Her dad had been demanding and a tough disciplinarian, but she had loved him and still missed him.

“How about high school? Anything stand out? Any old grudges that might blossom years later?”

She forced her gaze to remain on his face. No way was she telling him about Josh Varner. Josh didn’t even live in Texas anymore. He had gone to UCLA on a scholarship and then taken a job in Seattle with Microsoft. She’d heard he made barrels of money.

And if he wrote her a message, it wouldn’t sound anything like the words on the notes she had received.

“I, um, can’t think of anything. Besides, if it was something from high school, why would the person wait all these years?”

Trace’s pen stopped moving. “Usually something happens, an event of some kind. A stressor, it’s called. A trigger that digs up old memories, sometimes twists them around in a weird direction.”

She shook her head. “I really can’t think of anything.” At least nothing that had recently occurred. Still, she was glad he looked down just then to write another note. She had always been an unconvincing liar.

“It may well be that this guy has seen you somewhere but the two of you have never met. He could be fixated on you for no good reason other than the color of your hair, or that you look like someone he once knew.”

A little chill ran through her. “I see.”

Trace reached over and squeezed her hand. “Look, we’re going to catch this guy. There are very tough laws against stalking.”

She nodded. Just his light touch reassured her. Maybe this was a man she could count on, a man who could make things turn out all right.

They talked awhile longer, but he didn’t bring up her past again. If something happened that involved her Great Shame, as she thought of it, she would tell him. If she did, she knew the look she would see on his face. At the moment, she just couldn’t handle it.

Trace rose effortlessly from his chair, to tower over her on his long legs. “On the way back to the office, you can show me where you lived when you got the first note.” He packed up his stuff, closed the briefcase, clamped on his cowboy hat. “I’d like to take the notes,” he said, “check them for prints.”

“All right.”

Trace bagged the notes and she led him to the entry.

“You keep your doors and windows locked?”

“I’m pretty good about it.”

His glance was hard and direct. “You be better than pretty good. You be damned good.”

She didn’t like his attitude. On the other hand, he was probably right. Even in a good neighborhood, the crime rate in Houston was high.

“I’ll keep the doors locked.”

“Good girl. Let’s go.”

She felt his hand at the small of her back, big and warm as he guided her out of the house toward his Jeep, then opened the door and helped her climb in. They cruised by her old apartment. He stopped in front and made a thorough perusal of the area, then turned the Jeep around and headed back toward his office.

“Anyone in your old apartment building who might be interested in you in some way?”

“There’re only four units. A retired lady schoolteacher lives in one. There’s a single mother and her four-year-old son, and an older man in a wheelchair. The one I left is still vacant.”

“Looks like we can rule out the apartment residents.”

They reached his office and Trace walked her over to her car.

“Remember what I said about keeping your doors locked.”

“I will.”

As Maggie drove back to her town house, she couldn’t help thinking that in going to a private investigator she had done the right thing.

She didn’t like the attraction she felt, but it was only physical, nothing to really worry about. Trace was a handsome, incredibly masculine man, and she hadn’t been involved with anyone in years.

And she felt better knowing she had someone to help her.

Even if she had to pay for it.

Trace sat in front of his computer, staring at Maggie O’Connell’s webpage. The black background showed off a dozen photos of the Texas Hill Country, including the imported African game that roamed the grasslands, and a variety of magnificent sunsets that lured the viewer deeper into each scene.

On another page, there were shots of small towns and beaches along the coastline bordering the Gulf, and wonderful action photos of various power- and sailboats skimming over the water in Galveston Bay.