his mind free of the memory, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and fought the urge to drive away. In his logical, cop’s brain, he could find no reasons not to stay at the Lone Star in the room Spence had reserved for him. Although there were reasons, they were all emotional and were way below the surface. That’s where he planned to leave them.
He climbed out into the warm March breeze, then slid the car keys into the pocket of his well-worn khakis. A high-pitched squeal from a far corner of the parking lot caught his attention. Two young girls—one with a blond ponytail, the other with waist-length dark hair—raced on bicycles. The dark-haired girl jammed on the brakes, sending her bike’s rear wheel skidding. She blazed a triumphant grin. Cute kid, Hart thought with a faint smile.
Raising the trunk lid, he hefted out his suitcase and field evidence kit. He headed up the pristine drive lined on both sides by shrubs heavy with purple and white peonies, some he and Spence had planted during their stint as groundskeepers.
The knots in Hart’s gut tightened the closer he got to the clubhouse. He would rather walk toward a madman’s ticking bomb than spend time at a place that held memories that were capable of snapping out at him like fangs. Still, he’d given Spence his word. He would do the job.
When he was halfway up the drive, the clubhouse came into full view.
The old and elegant wooden building, the original structure, sat beside the four-story brick addition that had been added years later. To Hart the combination of old and new seemed to exude power and wealth. As did the man and woman alighting from the sleek, black Jaguar parked beneath the covered portico. While the man handed his keys to the parking valet, the woman, clad in a trim white jumpsuit, glided through the front door. After the man followed her inside, a bellman began unloading a mountain of leather luggage from the Jaguar’s trunk.
During Hart’s phone conversation with Spence, the D.A. mentioned that the Lone Star was now more than just a private country club. It had evolved into a world-class resort. Very exclusive. Very private.
Heart-stoppingly expensive.
Hart shook his head. The place might ooze money out of its pores, but that hadn’t stopped some slime from setting a bomb that killed two people and caused significant structural damage.
“Take your bags, sir?” a bellman offered.
“Thanks, I can handle them,” Hart said, then stepped into the elegant lobby, its ceiling soaring two stories above his head. He paused, sweeping his gaze across what seemed to be the same intermittent groupings of leather chairs and sofas that formed private seating areas. As always, long, flowering stalks spilled color and scent out of slim stone vases positioned on sturdy pedestals. Attractive art in massive frames continued to line the walls at precise intervals. Yet changes had been made.
A fountain now sat in the lobby’s center, its water bubbling over the petals and stems of brass magnolias. Like the floor and nearby columns, the fountain had been built from the pink granite native to the area. The club’s transformation into a resort had no doubt necessitated the concierge’s desk and long, rose-toned registration counter located to Hart’s right. Behind the counter, clerks wearing starched white dress shirts and identical blue blazers conducted business. At one end of the counter stood the man and woman who’d arrived in the black Jag.
Hart strode to the counter, settled his suitcase and evidence kit on the floor. A young blond-headed male clerk with strong, clear-cut features stepped to help him.
“We’re expecting you, Sergeant O’Brien,” the clerk said after keying Hart’s name into the computer. “Your executive suite is ready.”
Hart looked up from the registration card the clerk had placed on the counter. “I don’t need a suite, executive or otherwise. A plain room will do.”
“Mrs. Brannigan chose the suite specifically for you.”
“Mrs. Brannigan?”
“Our general manager. She wants to welcome you personally.”
“Nice of her,” Hart murmured, turning his attention back to the card. He wondered what the Brannigan woman would say if she knew one of the club’s former presidents had accused him of stealing money from the golf shop’s till.
“I’ll call Mrs. Brannigan,” the clerk said, reaching for a phone. “She’ll be here by the time I finish your registration.”
“Fine.” Hart completed the card, dashed his signature on the bottom, then slid it across the counter.
“Mrs. Quinlin,” said a warm, soft voice to his left. “Welcome to the Lone Star. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Hart froze. That voice. He knew that voice. Had spent a couple of months lying awake at night, thinking he might go crazy if he never heard it again.
Throat tight, he forced himself to turn toward the end of the counter where the couple who owned the Jaguar stood. A hot ball of awareness settled in his gut as he took in the woman clad in a snug, icy-pink jacket and matching trim skirt that showed off her legs. Those endless, perfect legs.
Setting his jaw, Hart studied her. At eighteen Joan Cooper had been vividly pretty with an open, carefree spirit. Now, a man could take a glance at the woman and see a long, cool brunette with a throat-clenching body and touch-me-not look about her. But he’d touched. Throughout one long hot summer night, he’d touched her plenty.
“I’ve scheduled your itinerary for Body Perfect according to the instructions you faxed.” Joan’s glossed mouth curved as she handed a pink folder to the woman wearing the white jumpsuit. “Your stress recovery program with Hans starts at eight in the morning.”
While the couple moved toward the bank of elevators across the lobby, Joan stepped to the counter. “Karen, be sure Mrs. Quinlin gets a wake-up call at seven-thirty.”
“I’ll take care of it, Ms. Cooper.”
Cooper. Hart had heard she’d jumped immediately from him to a hotshot Dallas attorney. Although he’d never learned the lawyer’s name, odds were almost nil Joan had married a guy with the same last name as hers.
Flicking a look at her left hand, Hart noted her ring finger was bare. Divorced? he wondered, feeling a nasty little streak of satisfaction at the thought.
As he stepped behind her, Chanel No. 5, like a whiff of warm flowers, slid like a haunting memory into his lungs. Bitter satisfaction instantly transformed into the dull ache of regret.
“Hello, Texas,” he said quietly.
Joan went utterly still at the sound of the male voice, as deep and clear as brandy, coming from behind her. A voice from the past. At one time, she would have given everything—anything—to hear that voice again.
Now it put the fear of God inside her.
With blood roaring in her head, she forced herself to turn. And felt everything slip out of focus when her gaze locked with eyes as green as summer leaves. This isn’t happening, she told herself.
But it was. The realization of how very real Hart O’Brien was shot a shudder down the length of her spine and onward to bury itself behind her knees.
He stood so close she could have reached out and touched him. Touched the man whom she had once wanted more
