suits and manner—but Kara didn’t believe for a second he was cold. He had on a coat and tie. She just had on slacks and a simple top, and she wasn’t cold.
She felt her stomach roll over. Maybe she’d developed an allergy to seafood.
She thought again of Sam Temple. She was accustomed to men who preferred to love her from afar. Romantics. Nothing about Sam Temple was from afar—it was up close and personal, immediate. And crazy, inexplicable, totally unforgettable. She pushed him out of her mind because thinking about him was insanity. Having a Texas Ranger for a brother was one thing—sleeping with one was another. George would hold that against her.
He shook his head. “A born-and-bred Texan like you, fussing about the heat.”
“When I first went up to New England, I was always complaining about the cold. I thought I’d never get used to it, but I did. It’s like that now with the heat.”
“There’s no end in sight to this heat wave, you know.”
She’d seen the long-range forecast on the news that morning. It was August in south-central Texas. What did she expect? She pushed back her chair slightly from her desk. Her office was small, with standard furnishings. She hadn’t bothered adding pictures and her own artwork, the lack of personal touches giving it a temporary feel, as if she was stuck between the kid she’d been here and the woman she’d become up north.
She smiled at George. “You didn’t come here to listen to me complain about the heat.”
“No, I didn’t. Kara—” He sighed, obviously not thrilled with what he had to say. “You’ve had a rough couple of weeks. I can see they’re taking their toll on you.”
She knew what he was talking about. “Mike Parisi was a good friend.”
His warm, dark eyes settled on her. “Nothing more?”
“No.”
But Big Mike had wanted more. He admitted as much after she’d decided to move back to Texas. He was half in love with her, he’d said, and had been since his wife had died, but didn’t want to ruin their friendship by saying anything. Now that she was leaving, he wanted her to know. When she met a man in Texas, he’d told her, don’t hold back. Go for it. Life was too short, his own missed opportunities too numerous, too bitter, to contemplate.
Would it have made any difference if he’d told her sooner?
No, she thought. She’d never been in love with Big Mike. Nor had he been in love with her—not really. He knew it that day in Connecticut and so did she.
Kara smiled, picturing him in his cluttered office, a fat cigar stuck in his mouth. “He liked to tell me bad Texas jokes,” she told George Carter. “He thinks—he thought we were all hard-asses down here.”
“The new governor, Allyson Stockwell, is a friend of yours, as well?”
Kara nodded. Allyson’s husband, Lawrence Stockwell, had died ten years ago, now Big Mike. Two strong, powerful men in her life. Lawrence’s half brother, Hatch Corrigan, didn’t have that kind of magnetism or influence, but he was all Allyson had left.
Allyson had insisted for months Hatch was another one who loved Kara from afar. Kara, who never noticed such things, refused to believe it until Hatch decided to tell her at Big Mike’s funeral. We were both in love with you, Kara. Stupid as hell, huh?
No wonder she had a sick stomach.
“Worried about her?” George asked.
“I don’t know. Allyson’s only thirty-seven—she let Big Mike talk her into running as his lieutenant governor. But she’s devoted to public service…”
Kara trailed off, remembering her friend’s panicked voice the night of Big Mike’s death, not long after she was sworn in as governor. I’m not ready, Kara. I’m just not. She’d called on her cell phone to give Kara the terrible news. Kara had just arrived at the Dunning Gallery in Austin for the opening of the Gordon Temple exhibit. Temple was a prominent Cherokee artist, raised in Oklahoma, a former teacher in Texas who was now based in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Getting him for their gallery was a coup for Kevin and Eva Dunning, whose daughter Susanna was married to Kara’s brother Jack.
That Gordon Temple and Sam Temple, a Texas Ranger, shared the same last name was, Sam said, just one of those things. Kara didn’t believe it.
Every second of that surreal evening was etched in her mind.
“Big Mike was a larger-than-life kind of guy,” she went on, aware of George’s scrutiny. “He won’t be an easy act to follow, but people shouldn’t underestimate Allyson. Once she gets over the shock of his death, she’ll do fine.”
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.
