the kind of thing Evan Schofield had hoped to prevent when he had hired Trace.
“Sorry, buddy.”
Evan held up a hand. “Not your fault. I should have known this wouldn’t work.” He grinned. “Besides, it was worth it to see Bobby get what he had coming.”
Shaking off the ache in his hand, Trace reached down and picked up his cowboy hat, settled it once more on his head. Lenny stood next to Bobby with his mouth gaping and his eyes wide. “Y-you shouldn’t have done that.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Bobby…Bobby’s gonna be really mad.”
Trace chuckled softly. “If you’re smart, you’ll get him out of here before somebody calls the police. He doesn’t need any more trouble.”
Evan pulled out Shawna’s chair. “Let’s go.”
She rose shakily to her feet and turned to Trace. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlins. You have no idea how good that made me feel.”
A corner of his mouth edged up. “Oh, I think I do.”
Shawna turned and started walking, but before she had reached the door, a camera flashed, capturing her retreat. Then the photographer turned toward the man moaning softly on the floor. The camera flashed again and again, taking photos of Bobby Jordane that would be wildly embarrassing to a guy with an ego as massive as his.
Trace inwardly cursed. The redhead. Just as he’d figured, they were nothing but trouble.
Striding toward her, he reached out and jerked the camera from her hands, turned it around and deleted the last series of digital photos.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that!”
“Nice camera,” Trace said. Walking over to the lunch counter, he handed it to Betty Sparks, the owner of the café.
The sexy redhead raced along behind him. “Listen, whoever you are—that’s my camera! You can’t just—”
“I just did. And you can have it back as soon as they’re gone.” Trace tipped his hat to the redhead and her friend, a tall, svelte brunette a year or two older. “Have a nice afternoon, ladies.”
Turning, he strolled out of the café.
“Did you see that? Oh, my God!” The brunette’s attention followed the man who strode down the sidewalk outside the window. “Who was that gorgeous hunk?”
Maggie O’Connell’s gaze jerked toward the window just as the tall, lanky cowboy in the white straw hat disappeared from view. “What are you talking about? That bastard just ruined my pictures. Bobby Jordane and his estranged wife? You know how much photos like that are worth?”
Maggie turned at the sound of a groan, saw the guy with the kinky hair—Lenny the Sphinx, his fans called him—help Bobby to his feet. Clyde the Mountain swayed upward until he was standing. Wordlessly, the small group staggered toward the door.
Maggie looked longingly at the lady who held her camera, but the older woman just shook her head.
Maggie sighed. She wouldn’t be getting photos of Bobby Jordane sprawled on the old plank floor, beaten to a pulp. Not today.
“I hate to remind you, but you aren’t the tabloid type,” said her best friend, Roxanne De Mers. “You didn’t come here to take pictures. You came for a late lunch with a friend. It just turned out to be a little more exciting than we planned.”
Roxy swung back to the window, watching the rap stars as they made their way to the long white limo waiting out front. “I wonder who he was.”
Maggie didn’t have to ask who her friend was talking about. The cowboy was, at the very least, impressive. Tall and lean, with wide shoulders and slim hips, he had thick, dark hair neatly trimmed, golden-brown eyes and a set of biceps that were impossible to miss.
Still, she didn’t appreciate his interference in her business. As the limo door closed, shutting the three men inside, she walked over to the counter to collect her camera, which the broad-hipped woman readily handed back to her.
“So who was he?” Maggie asked, nodding toward the window. “The Lone Ranger out there…what was his name?”
“You a reporter?”
“I’m a photographer. Mostly I do outdoor shots. I just saw an opportunity and took it—or tried to.”
“Sorry it didn’t pan out.”
“Me, too. I can always use a little extra money.”
“Name’s Betty Sparks,” the woman said. “Me and my husband, Bill, own this place.”
“Nice to meet you, Betty. I’m Maggie O’Connell. You make a great burger.”
“Thanks.”
The woman, who was in her late fifties, with a cap of short, curly gray hair, tipped her head toward the door. “His name’s Trace Rawlins. Owns Atlas Security. He’s a private investigator.”
Walking up beside Maggie, Roxanne sighed dramatically, a hand over her heart. “I think I’m in love.”
“The redhead’s got a better chance,” Betty said. “Trace has a weakness for ’em.”
“No, thanks. I don’t do cowboys.”
Betty chuckled. “If I was twenty years younger, I’d dye my hair.”
Maggie laughed. “How much do we owe you?” She walked over to the purse hanging on the back of her wooden chair and started digging for her wallet.
“On the house,” Betty said. “It’s the least I can do.”
Maggie smiled. “Thanks.”
“You new in the neighborhood?”
She nodded. “I just bought one of those town houses they built a few blocks away. Vaulted ceiling upstairs. Good north light, great place to work, you know?”
“Welcome, then. Maybe we’ll see you again.”
“If it’s always this much fun in here,” Roxanne said, “I’m sure you will.”
Betty just laughed.
Maggie put her Nikon back in its case and slung the straps of the camera bag and her purse over her shoulder. Roxanne tossed a couple bills on the table for a tip, and the two walked out the door.
“You know that trouble you been having?” Roxy said.
Maggie paused. “What about it?”
“That cowboy…he’s in the security business and he’s an investigator. He might be able to help you.”
Maggie started to argue, to say she didn’t need any help. Then
