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
