Against the Storm

Alex’s grin cut a dimple into his cheek. “Far as I’m concerned, the best thing to do is stay single.”

Trace thought of Carly and the trail of men she’d ushered in and out of his house while they were married. “You can say that again.”

Continuing on, he went into his office and closed the door. He needed to return Hewitt’s call. The investigation was over, but Trace liked the guy and knew Hewitt was taking the information hard. The embezzler was his son-in-law.

Trace had a few other calls to make, but he didn’t personally handle as many cases as he used to. These days, he could pick and choose, and since the weekend was coming up, he would probably give anything new to Ben or Alex.

Trace imagined himself stretching out on the deck of the Ranger’s Lady in the warm Texas sun, hands behind his head and catching a few rays.

He smiled.

Sounded like the perfect plan.

Two

Maggie O’Connell walked out of her newly purchased town house and headed for her red Ford Escape hybrid parked in front. She loved the car, which got over thirty miles to the gallon, loved the room in the back for the cameras, tripods, meters, lights and miscellaneous equipment she used in her work.

At twenty-eight, Maggie had achieved an amazing amount of success as a photographer. What had started as a hobby while she went to college as an art major on a partial scholarship had ended up a career.

Part of it was luck, Maggie admitted. After graduation from the University of Houston, she had managed to snag a part-time job as an assistant to Roger Weller, a renowned Texas photographer—work that gave her an invaluable education in the field and also time to shoot the outdoor scenes that had become her trademark.

Weller helped her get her first gallery exhibition, which was surprisingly well received. Several more shows followed and her clientele grew. Now her photos hung in some of the most prestigious galleries in Houston, Dallas and Austin.

Her mind on her upcoming show at the Twin Oaks Gallery and the photos she intended to shoot that afternoon, Maggie had almost reached her car when she jerked to a shuddering halt. Setting her camera bag at her feet, she reached a shaking hand toward the scrap of paper pinned beneath the windshield wiper. Very carefully pulling it free, she began to read the message.

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?

Maggie glanced frantically around. Only two other cars were parked in front of the six recently completed town house units where she lived, a Toyota Camry and a Chevy Camaro. Both vehicles were empty. The breeze ruffled the leaves on the freshly planted shrubs in the flower beds out front, and a couple of teenagers rolled by on their bicycles. No one who looked like he might have left the note.

She stared down at the torn slip of rough brown paper, which matched the two others she had already received. She had hoped, after moving into the condo two weeks ago, that whoever had been leaving the creepy messages would stop.

She hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder, holding the note with just two fingers in case the man had left prints. She scanned the lot once more for anyone who seemed out of place, but no one was there.

Maggie hurried back inside her town house, the paper fluttering in her hand, her stomach a little queasy. Easing her camera bag to the floor, she closed the front door and leaned against it. After couple of steadying breaths, she opened her purse and dug out her cell phone and pulled up her best friend’s name.

She hit the send button, and with every unanswered ring, her anxiety grew.

Roxanne finally picked up.

“Roxy? Rox, it’s Maggie. I—I got another note. It was under the wiper blade on my car.”

Her friend softly cursed. “Where are you?”

“I’m back inside my house. I looked around the parking lot. No one was there.”

“Listen to me, Maggie. You need to take that note to the police. What was the name of that police lieutenant you talked to before?”

“Bryson. But he isn’t going to help me. He doesn’t believe me. That isn’t going to change.”

“It might. You have this note and the two you got before.”

“I didn’t keep the first one. I thought it was just a prank.”

But it wasn’t really a matter of having the notes as proof. It wasn’t a matter of the police believing her. The cops were punishing her for a crime she had committed years ago.

A crime she was indeed guilty of committing.

“I won’t go back there,” she said. “I won’t be humiliated that way again.”

A long pause ensued. Roxanne was one of the few people who knew that as a teenager, Maggie had falsely accused the high school quarterback of rape.

At sixteen, she’d been stupid and irresponsible. The truth of it was she’d had sex that night with Josh Varner, though it certainly wasn’t rape. She had encouraged the handsome football player, not fought him, but she’d been frightened of her dad’s reaction when he found out.

“All right,” Roxanne finally said, “if you won’t go to the police, go see that private detective, the guy who runs Atlas Security.”

“Who, Rawlins?”

“You have to do something to protect yourself, Maggie. You don’t know how far this guy might be willing to go. Maybe Trace Rawlins can help.”

Maggie didn’t like it. The cowboy seemed cocky and far too self-assured. Worse yet, she didn’t like the jolt of attraction she’d felt when he looked at her.

But she didn’t like the snide remarks and sideways glances she had gotten at the police station, either.

Josh Varner was the son of a Houston police officer who was now a captain in the vice squad. Hoyt Varner had a score to settle for the unfair trouble she had caused his son years ago.

In a way Maggie didn’t blame him.

“If you won’t call him, I will,” Roxanne said from the other end of the phone, jarring her back to the moment.

“All right, all right, I’ll call.”

“You want me to come over?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I was just on my way to the grocery store, but I guess that can wait.”

“Yeah, I guess it can.”

Maggie ignored the sarcasm.

“Call me after you talk to him,” Roxanne said.

“I will.”

“Call him right now. Promise me.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

Roxanne signed off and Maggie hung up the phone. She glanced around the town house, which was still stacked with boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. Walking over to the breakfast bar separating the living room from the kitchen, she picked up the address book lying on the counter next to the phone and flipped it open.

On a yellow sticky note pressed inside the vinyl cover, she had printed the name Atlas Security. The address on Times Street was there, along with the company phone number and Trace Rawlins’s name.

She stared at the yellow square of paper, then snatched it out of the address book. The office was in the University District, not that far away. Picking up the People magazine she had been reading while she drank her coffee that morning, she very carefully laid the note from her windshield inside the cover and closed it. With the yellow sticky note in hand, she grabbed her purse and headed back to her car.

As she crossed the lot, she scanned the area for anyone who might be watching, but whoever had left the note was gone. Maggie climbed into her little SUV and cranked the engine. As it began to purr, she shifted into gear and drove out of the lot, searching to the right and left, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

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.

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.”

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.”