Against the Storm

He flicked a glance her way, caught a glimpse of soft lips and gorgeous red hair, and his groin tightened. He wanted to take her to bed, taste those pretty lips and lose himself in all those sweet curves.

It was a bad idea, he knew. Every time he got involved with a woman disaster struck.

This is different, he told himself. Nothing more than a physical attraction. He wouldn’t let himself get in too deep.

Trace took a last glance at Maggie, told himself that time would settle the matter one way or the other and forced his thoughts back to the more immediate problem at hand.

The death of his former client, Hewitt Sommerset.

Trace’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. The Saturday traffic along Route 45 had turned brutal. Maybe there was a wreck up ahead, roadwork, something. Whatever it was, his frustration was making him edgy and restless. He stepped on the brake for the hundredth time, bringing the Jeep to a halt behind the white Toyota pickup ahead of him.

He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Dammit! I need to talk to the police.”

Maggie turned in her seat. “You’re going to the crime scene?”

He nodded. “As soon as I drop you off, I’m heading for the Sommerset house.”

Her gaze went to the dense trail of cars rolling slowly along the pavement ahead of them. “Where is it?”

“The Woodlands.” Thirty miles north of Houston. “At this rate it’ll be dark by the time I get there.”

She studied the slow-moving traffic. “You’re probably right. It’ll be even later if you have to drop me off. Why don’t you just take me with you? I’ve got a good book. I can wait in the car until you’re finished. I can see this is important to you, and I really don’t mind.”

He started to say no, then paused. It wasn’t as if there was a shoot-out in progress. The questions he wanted answered and the information he had to deliver wouldn’t take that long. And with traffic the way it was, it would save him at least forty minutes.

“You sure?”

“Thanks to you I got some terrific material today. It’s the least I can do.”

Trace smiled, feeling a wave of relief. “Great.” He wanted to be there for Jason and Emily. Hewitt’s son and daughter were both good kids. It was his son-in-law, Parker Barrington, Emily’s husband, who was the problem.

“So what’s the story?” Maggie asked. “The police think it’s suicide but you think it’s murder. Why is that?”

He rarely talked about a case, but most of this would be in the news in a couple of days, anyway.

“A few weeks ago, the victim—Hewitt Sommerset—came to see me. He wanted to find out if his son-in-law was stealing money from the company.”

“And you found out he was.”

“Parker Barrington is chief financial officer of Sommerset Industries. At Hewitt’s request, we installed a couple hidden cameras, put a live feed in his computer. We caught him doctoring the books, siphoning money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

One of Maggie’s wing-shaped eyebrows went up. “So his hands were definitely sticky.”

“Definitely.”

“You think Hewitt Sommerset confronted his son-in-law, who killed him to keep from being caught?”

“It’s possible. Depending on what Hewitt told him, Parker may not have realized other people already knew.”

The heavy traffic continued until they got a ways north of Houston, then the cars began to thin out. The Woodlands was a huge development of homes, shopping centers and offices, even a prestigious golf course. What made the area such a desirable place to live was that all those things were hidden among dense grooves of trees and beautifully cared-for landscaping.

Trace wound his way along the curving roadways lined with trees and shrubs, and turned onto a street with massive homes tucked away among the foliage on oversize lots. The Sommerset mansion sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two patrol cars were parked in front, along with Jason Sommerset’s flashy silver Porsche. Emily drove a Mercedes, but it wasn’t there. Trace wondered where her husband was.

He felt a jolt of hot, dark anger. Parker Barrington was in for a little surprise when he found out all the evidence condemning him was well documented. Hewitt was a decent, hardworking man who had built an empire though years of dedicated work. He didn’t deserve to be killed by an ungrateful, thieving son-in-law.

“You look like you’re going to explode.”

Trace shoved the car into Park and turned off the engine. Under different circumstances he would have smiled at Maggie’s words. Instead, he took a deep breath and reined in his temper.

“You’re right. Hewitt was more than a client. He was a friend. Until I’m completely sure what happened, I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” He cracked open his door. “You all right here?”

“I’ll be just fine.”

“With any luck, I won’t be gone long.”

Maggie watched Trace stop to speak to one of the policemen, who let him into the house. It was quite a place, at least ten thousand square feet, and painted a pale, dusky rose. Done in the French style, it sported a mansard roof and arched doors and windows.

The mansion was grand and imposing, and she wondered if Hewitt Sommerset had been happy there. She knew a little about him, what she had seen on TV. He was a well-known figure in the Houston area, a self-made billionaire, a philanthropist who donated millions to charity. He’d been a dedicated husband and father, a man who had greatly mourned the death of his wife two years ago.

In the time since then, Hewitt had returned to work, immersing himself more deeply in the company than he had for a number of years. Maybe that was the reason he had uncovered his son-in-law’s nefarious activities.

Maggie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the daughter who had married such a dirtball. She smiled, thinking she would love to be a fly on the wall when Trace confronted him.

Hearing a soft whine from the back of the Jeep, Maggie got out of the car, went around to the rear and let Rowdy out for a quick pit stop. Several patrol cars were parked at the curb, and a number of officers wandered in and out of the house. Rowdy sniffed the base of a nearby tree, took care of business and returned to the Jeep.

“Load up,” Maggie commanded, as Trace had done, and the dog jumped back up. Making himself comfortable in his bed, he rested his black-and-white muzzle against the cushion.

“Good boy.” Maggie reached in to pet him, then shut the tailgate.

The light was fading but still good. The days were getting longer, the weather warmer. She glanced around, her photographer’s eye kicking in. The sun was beginning to set, but at this time of day, the soft golden rays filtering down through branches of the gnarled old oaks brought out interesting details: the uneven texture of the bark, the faint curl of a newly budded leaf.

Maggie reached into the backseat and grabbed her camera. While she was waiting for Trace, maybe she could catch a few good shots.

Trace crossed the black-and-white marble-floored entry reminiscent of a French château, heading straight to Hewitt’s study. He had been there in the late afternoon just a few days ago, bringing his employer the damning evidence that had been collected against Parker Barrington.

The study, a huge, walnut-paneled room with two-story ceilings and heavy brass chandeliers, swarmed with people now, the forensics squad hard at work poring over the scene. Hewitt’s desk was in disarray and a large bloodstain remained where his body had been found slumped over the top.

“Trace!”

He recognized the youthful voice, turned to see Jason Sommerset walking toward him. He was twenty-four years old, golden-haired, handsome as sin and spoiled rotten. It was amazing he’d turned out to be such a nice kid.

“Jason. I’m so sorry. I liked your father very much.”

His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. But he wasn’t crying now, he was angry. “Dad didn’t do it, Trace. He didn’t kill himself.”

“Take it easy—I don’t think so, either. We talked just last week. He was looking forward to the trip the two of you were taking to the Bahamas.”

“Someone killed him. They made it look like he pulled the trigger, but I know he didn’t.”

Trace settled a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. To find out the truth one way or another.”

Jason took a steadying breath. “I knew you’d come. Dad trusted you and so do I.”

Trace just nodded. Clearly, Hewitt hadn’t told his son what they had found out about Emily’s husband. Jason was smart and he seemed to have inherited his father’s gift for sizing people up. Trace wondered if the boy would be all that surprised to discover his brother-in-law was a thief.

Someone called Jason’s name, and with a nod of his head that indicated they would talk again, he walked off down the hall, leaving Trace to the task he had come for. Returning his attention to the study, he scanned the room for anything out of place, and spotted the familiar features of Detective Mark Sayers, a classmate of his at community college and a longtime friend.

Trace walked toward him. “Got a minute?”

His head came up and surprise lit his face. “Hey, Trace.” A little shorter, a little beefier, Mark had light brown hair and hazel eyes. Except for the cheap suits he wore and his overall rumpled appearance, he was a good-looking guy.

“Under different circumstances I’d say it’s good to see you,” Mark said. “But your timing’s not great. I guess you must have heard—Hewitt Sommerset is dead. Looks like he killed himself.”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

One of Sayers’s light brown eyebrows went up. “That right? I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

“Business acquaintances, mostly. Grew into a little more than that over the years. You and I need to talk.”

The detective’s interest sharpened. “Okay.” Turning, he led Trace down a hall lined with expensive paintings in heavy gilded frames, and turned into one of the numerous parlors in the house, this one elegantly furnished with peach brocade sofas and dark green velvet drapes. There wasn’t so much as a piece of fringe out of place on the Persian rugs that covered the polished oak floors.

“I guess you’ve talked to Hewitt’s son, Jason,” Trace said as Mark closed the door.

“We talked to him. His reaction isn’t unexpected. No son wants to believe his father killed himself.”

“When did it happen?”

“Last night. Hewitt was supposed to be out of town, but something must have come up. Apparently he keeps his study door closed when he’s away. The body wasn’t found until this afternoon.”

“How was it done?”

“Thirty-eight caliber gunshot to the side of the head. The pistol is registered to Sommerset, who allegedly kept it in a drawer in his desk.”

“But someone else could have pulled the trigger.”

“There were no signs of a struggle.”

“Maybe he was unconscious.”

Sayers pondered that. “I suppose it’s possible. There weren’t any obvious wounds to suggest that.”

“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done some other way.”

Sayers looked unconvinced. “Hewitt left a suicide note, Trace. We found it on his computer.”

“Typed, then. Not handwritten.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, my friend. Nobody writes notes by hand anymore.”

It was a good point, one Trace silently conceded. Not that he believed for a minute that Hewitt had actually written it.

“You need to find out where Parker Barrington was last night.”

Sayers’s gaze narrowed. “Why is that?”

“Parker was embezzling funds from the company. And not small change, either. Millions, Mark. Siphoning the money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Jesus. You got any proof?”

“All you need. Hewitt came to me with his suspicions. We set up surveillance in Parker’s office. I took him the cold, hard evidence two days ago.”

The detective’s eyes widened. “Two days ago? You’re not thinking Parker Barrington killed Sommerset to cover up the theft?”

“Unless you can convince me otherwise, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

Sayers glanced away, as if he wished he could look back to the time of the murder. “I’ll need to see what you’ve got.”

“I’ll have it in your office first thing in the morning.”

“And I thought this one was going to be easy.”

Trace’s mouth edged up. “When are they ever easy?”

Mark friend laid a hand on his shoulder, walked him out of the parlor and back down the hall. Trace flicked a last glance into the study as they passed, and continued toward the foyer, lit by a huge chandelier.

“Have you talked to the daughter?” Trace asked.

“She and Parker were here earlier. She was really shaken up. We let him take her home.”

Trace made a mental note to go see her. Once the dirt on Parker was uncovered, Emily was going to need all the support she could get.

Sayers stepped out on the wide front porch and Trace followed.

“Besides murder and mayhem,” his friend said, “anything new and exciting going on in your life?”

Trace thought of Maggie, spotted her at the edge of the yard, snapping photos of beautiful flame-colored tulips growing around the base of a huge oak tree. They were almost the color of her hair. He watched the way she moved, with a confidence and ease that marked her as a professional. Why that turned him on, he couldn’t say.

“Not much,” he answered, but as he looked at Maggie, he was thinking maybe that would change.

Sayers’s gaze followed his toward the tree and he started to frown. “That isn’t… Jesus, Trace, tell me the redhead isn’t with you.”

Trace dragged his gaze away, finding it harder than it should have been. “She’s a client. A photographer. Name’s Maggie O’Connell. Matter of fact, I was planning to talk to you about her.”

“I know who the hell she is.”

Trace didn’t like the sound of that. “Want to tell me why?”

Sayers drew him away from the hum of officers and people walking in and out of the mansion. “I shouldn’t say this. I could get in a shitload of trouble, but…”

“What is it?”

“She came to us claiming she had a stalker. Said she’d been getting hang-up phone calls, that kind of thing.”

“That’s right. Go on.”

“Captain Varner got wind of it. Turns out Maggie O’Connell brought rape charges against his son, Josh, when she was in high school. Josh was arrested. He claimed he was innocent, claimed Maggie was a willing partner. They were both underage or it would have been far worse. As it was, Josh got kicked off the football team and everyone in his school basically shunned him. They called him a rapist and a pervert, stuff like that. It went on for more than a week—until the O’Connell girl admitted she had lied about the rape.”

“Maybe she was telling the truth and she just got scared.”

“The boy was completely cleared. They’d been seeing each other for weeks.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“She’s one of those women, Trace. She wanted attention and she got it. The charges were dropped and the records were sealed because of their ages, but it still caused Josh and his family all kinds of trouble. And believe me, Maggie O’Connell is still on Varner’s hit list.”

“Which is why the police aren’t willing to do much more than show up if she calls them.”

Mark shot Maggie a hard glare. “It’s no secret in the department what happened. Captain Varner doesn’t believe any of that bullshit about a stalker, and neither does anyone else.”

Trace clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Mark was the kind of guy who would check the facts, find out the truth. The story about the phony rape accusation was undoubtedly true.

“She’s a good-looking woman, Trace, but I wouldn’t trust her. Don’t let her get under your skin.”

Trace reined in his temper, which was beginning to build. “Thanks for the heads-up, buddy.”

“Hey, man, we’re friends. And you’ve already had more than your share of trouble with women.”

Trace thought of Carly, remembered the sick feeling in his stomach when he’d found out she was sleeping with half the men in Houston. She was a liar and a cheat. He hated a liar, no matter how beautiful she was.

He just nodded as he walked away.

Seven

Maggie was smiling as she stuffed her camera back in its case, nestled it in the backseat and closed the door, then climbed into the Jeep. “How did it go?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“Did you tell them about the embezzling?”

“I told them.” Trace didn’t say more, and the way his jaw was clenched, Maggie didn’t press him. He started the car, slammed it into gear and roared away, slinging her back against the seat. His hands gripped the wheel as if he wanted to tear it out of the vehicle. Whatever had happened, things hadn’t gone well.

Maggie kept her mouth shut. Better to give him a little space. As they raced toward Houston, far faster than the speed limit, she considered trying again to start a conversation, but one look at Trace’s hard profile and she changed her mind.

They rode back in silence, neither of them speaking all the way to her town house. By the time they arrived and Trace turned off the engine, Maggie couldn’t take another minute.

“All right, what is it?” she asked. “If it’s the murder, I’ll understand. If it’s something else, something I’ve said or done wrong…”

He turned in the seat. “You’re a liar, Maggie. In my book, that’s as wrong as it gets.”

Her stomach twisted at the look on his face. “What are you talking about?”

Trace climbed out of the car, rounded the hood and jerked open her door. “As of right now, I no longer work for you. Find some other sucker to buy into your bullshit.”

Her eyes widened. Her own anger surfaced. “What the hell is going on? The least you can do is explain.”

Instead of a reply, he caught hold of her arm and hauled her out of the Jeep. He pulled a key from a pocket of his jeans and held it out to her.

“Your new locks are in. The installers left a key with me this morning. You’ll find another inside. I’ll get your bag and your camera gear.”

She planted herself directly in front of him, jammed her hands on her hips. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened back there that turned you into a maniac.”

He ground his teeth, looking as if he wanted to throttle her. “I told you what happened. You lied to me. If you try real hard, I imagine you can figure out which particular lie I might have found a little disturbing.”

An icy chill ran through her. He’d been talking to the police. They must have seen her, must have said something. They must have told him about her Great Shame.

Her hands dropped to her sides. She realized she was trembling. “Josh Varner, right?”

“That’s right. Your old boyfriend. Now go unlock the door so I can carry your gear inside and be on my way.”

Her heart was beating too fast, slamming against her ribs. She felt sick to her stomach. Not wanting to make a scene in front of the neighbors, she led him to the door of the town house, used the key he’d given her to open the door and stepped aside so he could carry her gear inside.

Wordlessly, he stalked past her into the hall, set her camera case and yellow swim bag on the floor. The muscles in his shoulders seemed to vibrate with tension. He was angry. Furious. And he had every right to be.

She took a deep breath. “Okay, I probably should have told you.”

Trace whirled to face her, his dark eyes burning into her like twin laser beams. “Probably?”

“All right, I should have told you. I didn’t because I was afraid you would act exactly the way you’re acting now.”

“I said I’d help you if you told me what I needed to know. You didn’t think I needed to know you had an enemy in the police department? That you’d accused some poor kid of rape when he didn’t do a goddamn thing but take what you offered?”

She hated the way Trace made it sound, though every word was true. In the past she would have cried, but those days were over.

Instead, she steeled herself, forced up her chin. “I was sixteen years old. My dad caught me coming in at two in the morning and I was scared to death. I was terrified of what he’d do if he knew the truth.”

“Beat you?”

“No, but—”

“I’m done, Maggie. You lied to me before. There’s no reason to believe you’re telling me the truth right now.”

She steadied herself, fought for control. “I was ashamed to tell you, all right? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

His hard look didn’t soften. No more Mr. Nice Guy, she thought. The charming Southern gentleman was gone. In his place was the fierce Army Ranger he had been and clearly still was. Gold flecks glittered in his dark eyes, and the muscles tightened in his jaw.

“Goodbye, Maggie.” He started to turn away, but she caught his arm.

“Trace, please. At least give me a chance to explain.”

“You’ve already explained. We had a deal. You didn’t keep your end of it. Now the deal is off.”

“But…what about the stalker?”

His jaw tightened even more. “Call the police.”

“They won’t help and you know it.”

“The locks are changed. Your alarm is in. I’ll send over one of the guys from JDT to show you how to use it.” His smile was harsh. “Though odds are you won’t need it.”

He no longer believed her. By his standards, she wasn’t worthy of his trust.

“Thank you for that.”

Trace made no reply. Without a backward glance, he turned and stormed out the door. Maggie forced herself not to run after him. She had her pride, didn’t she? Sure, she should have told him about Josh, should have known he would find out sooner or later. But she had wrongly believed that if he did discover her secret, she could simply explain and Mr. Nice Guy Rawlins would understand.

Now she knew Trace Rawlins wasn’t always the calm, controlled, soft-spoken guy she had believed. He was a man of fierce conviction and strong emotions.

As she watched his long strides carry him toward the Jeep, something stirred inside her. Some primal instinct that found such a hard, determined man even more attractive than the gentleman he had once seemed.

He jerked open the door and slid behind the wheel, and desire slipped through her. She watched him start the engine, put the car in reverse, then drive away. In moments, he was gone.

Maggie’s insides felt heavy. It was ridiculous. She barely knew the man, and yet flickers of heat still tingled through her body, along with a need she had taught herself to ignore.

But she had always been a passionate woman. Passionate about life, about her work, about her family and friends. It shouldn’t come as a surprise she would respond to a passionate man.

Maggie sighed, wishing things could have been different, grateful the relationship hadn’t gone further than it had before it fell apart.

She turned to assess her surroundings. The town house had been left neat and tidy. Aside from a note and a business card belonging to JDT Security Systems lying on her breakfast bar, and a second set of keys, there was no evidence the installation crew had been there.

She walked over to the counter. The note read, “Installation complete. Trace can show you how to set the alarm.”

Except that Trace was gone.

He would send a man over, he had said, and she knew that he would. He was reliable, steady. But he had a temper she hadn’t expected. She would have liked to discover the man beneath his surface calm, test the fire he kept so carefully controlled and explore the attraction between them.

If things had worked out differently…

But things hadn’t worked out, and that was the end of it.

Trace sat in his office Monday morning reading the newspaper. Except for his Saturday trip to the shore, he’d had a shitty weekend. Hewitt Sommerset was dead. Parker Barrington had very likely killed him. And Maggie O’Connell had turned out to be just another deceitful woman.