Carla Neggers - Stonebrook Cottage

Kara blamed her own shock for her subsequent behavior that night at the gallery. She’d turned off her cell phone after Allyson’s call and slipped it into her handbag so she wouldn’t have to hear more, know more, and when she swept up a glass of champagne off a passing tray, Sam Temple was there. He was not unfamiliar to her. They’d met a few times at her brother’s house in San Antonio—she was not as oblivious to Sergeant Temple’s black-eyed charm as Lieutenant Jack Galway no doubt would have hoped.

But she never thought she was crazy enough to go to bed with him. He was so dark and sexy and irresistible, and when he suggested they sneak out for coffee, she’d seized the moment.

They ended up at her house a few blocks away. He stayed all night and all the next morning, and never once did Kara mention Big Mike’s death.

She’d had no contact with Sam since. She left that afternoon for Mike Parisi’s funeral in Connecticut. She talked to the state detectives about his death and how she’d come to know he couldn’t swim, that she’d never told anyone his secret. Although not specifically assigned to the case, Zoe West, Bluefield’s sole detective, asked Kara about Big Mike’s interest in bluebirds and exactly who knew he couldn’t swim. When she questioned Kara on her whereabouts the night of Mike’s death, Kara ended up giving her Sam’s name and number. It had seemed like the thing to do at the time. She thought Zoe West would be satisfied once Kara offered up a Texas Ranger to corroborate her story.

“It was an accidental drowning,” she said half to herself. “Big Mike’s death.”

“You really called him that?” George’s voice was unexpectedly soft, and he tapped the far edge of her desk, not looking at her. “Take tomorrow off,” he said abruptly.

Kara was instantly suspicious. “Why? It’s been two weeks. I can do my job.”

George headed for the door. “You’ve been putting in ridiculous hours, even for an attorney. You’re going to crack.” He glanced back at her, none of his usual doubts about her apparent now. “Trust me on this, Kara. I know from experience. Take a day or two off, all right?”

“I’ll look over my workload and see what I can do.”

He didn’t push—at least not yet. After he left, Kara took out the compact mirror she kept in her tote bag and checked her reflection. Pale, definitely on the green side. No wonder George was concerned about her. She looked awful.

It had to be the seafood tacos. A touch of food poisoning—she’d be fine tomorrow.

Morning sickness…

She snapped the mirror shut and shoved it back in her tote bag, but she noticed the white opaque bag she’d stuck in there after an impulsive side trip to the pharmacy at lunch. She’d bought two different home pregnancy test kits. Pure drama. She wasn’t pregnant. It had only been two weeks since her craziness with Sam. Surely she wouldn’t have morning sickness this early.

She’d throw the pregnancy test kits in a garbage can on her way home tonight. Get rid of the evidence of her hysteria. She was thirty-four years old and had never had a pregnancy scare.

Of course, there were commonsense, biological reasons for that, one being that she’d have had to have sex once in a while. She didn’t have blazing, short-lived affairs like her weekend with Sam—she didn’t have affairs, period.

Big Mike had often teased her about her love life, or lack thereof. “Kara, a tough-minded attorney like you—what’s the matter, are you deliberately practicing abstinence? Or do you just not like Yankee men? Jesus, go home. Take yourself a Texas lover. I know you’re not afraid of men.”

If she should have been afraid of anyone, it was dark, handsome, black-eyed Sam Temple. There wasn’t a woman in Texas who didn’t feel sparks flying when he was around. Her brother had told her as much, to the point that Kara had felt compelled to assure him she had no intention of falling for any Texas Ranger, never mind Sam.

“Good,” Jack had said. “Don’t.”

At least Sam didn’t know she had limited experience, sex and romance the one area in her life that always made her want to run.

For damn good reason, it turned out. She hadn’t run two weeks ago, and she’d ended up in bed with Sam Temple.

Better she should have run.

Sam Temple was driving back to San Antonio after nearly two grueling weeks working on the Mexican border when he checked his voice mail and discovered that a detective from Bluefield, Connecticut, was trying to reach him. “Call me back as soon as possible,” she said, then left her name and number.

He pulled into a filling station and dialed Zoe West on his cell phone. He’d heard about the death of the governor of Connecticut not long after he’d left Kara Galway’s house—and bed—in Austin. Not one thing about it sat well with him, starting with why she hadn’t mentioned the governor’s death to him before they’d slept together. She’d known. It was in the papers. The first call Allyson Lourdes Stockwell made after learning of Parisi’s death was to her law school classmate and friend, Kara Galway, in Austin, Texas.

Sam had checked the times and decided Allyson Stockwell must have called just before Kara had grabbed her glass of champagne at the Dunning Gallery.

At least that explained why she’d slept with him. She’d been distraught. Out of her head with shock and grief at the news and looking to put it out of her mind.

Sam had no such excuse. He’d made love to a woman—his friend’s sister—without even realizing she was damn near a virgin. He remembered his shock at her tightness when he entered her. He’d seen her wince and bite down on her lower lip. He’d asked if she was okay, and she told him oh, yes, fine, don’t stop, as if she regularly met men for coffee and took them back to her house for sex.

He knew she was lying, but he hadn’t stopped.

No excuses.

Even with the air-conditioning blasting, he could feel the August heat, see it rising off the pavement. A half-dozen eighteen-wheelers idled in the parking lot. He’d had less than eight hours’ sleep in three days. He needed a long shower, a dark room and cool sheets.

He didn’t need Kara Galway. She was a complication. A mistake. Making love to her had been damn stupid, even if he couldn’t bring himself to regret it—not for one second, no matter how hard he tried.

Zoe West answered on the first ring. “West.”

“Detective West, it’s Sam Temple. I’m returning your call.”

“Oh, right—thanks. Just a couple questions. Kara Galway said you were with her at a gallery opening in Austin when she heard about Governor Parisi’s death. I’m just following up.”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“Briefly.”

Sam frowned. “Why are you following up?”

“Routine.”

He doubted it. There was nothing routine about the death of a governor or Zoe West’s call. “Isn’t this a state investigation?”

“Big Mike died in my town. I’m assisting.”

In other words, she was sticking her nose in the investigation, whether the state cops wanted it there or not. Sam said nothing. He had his white Stetson on the seat beside him, his tie loosened, his badge still pinned to his shirt pocket. Two weeks on a serial murder investigation in an impoverished area in near-hundred-degree heat, and here he was on the phone talking about a rich man who’d drowned trying to save a damn bird.

“When did Ms. Galway arrive at the gallery?” Zoe West asked. “Did you see her?”

“She was already there when I arrived around seven o’clock.”

“That’s eight in the east. We figure Parisi drowned sometime around seven.”

Sam could see Kara now in her little black dress, her dark hair pulled back with a turquoise comb that he’d tugged out later, threading his fingers into her thick waves of hair even as he warned himself to leave while he still could.