where did she get the baby?”
“I’d think you’d know the answer to that if the baby’s a Randolph.”
“I said your sister claimed the baby was a Randolph. There’s a big difference.”
Lacy twisted from the waist, and the skirt slipped lower still. Branson’s breath grew so hot it burned his lungs. He’d seen nearly naked women before, but never one like this. Actually, he hadn’t seen all that many, when you got right down to it, and none in many a Texas moon. Still, he would have doubted this type of perfection existed in real life.
“Sorry, cowboy. The show’s over.” Lacy took him by the shoulders and spun him around to face the door. “You can wait in the hall while I change into something of Kate’s.”
Branson walked away, thinking Charles Castile had to be one of the luckiest men alive, but wondering why in the world the man wasn’t here to undress his own wife on her wedding day. He paced the hall while he waited, forcing his thoughts from Lacy to the newest fact in the case at hand.
If the baby wasn’t Kate Gilbraith’s, whose child was she? Had Kate kidnapped the infant, left some new mother fearing for her baby’s life? Only, if that were the case, why hadn’t Kate demanded money? Why had she just placed little Betsy in their hands and fallen at their feet, a bullet firmly embedded in her shoulder?
The best clues as to what happened probably resided with Kate or with the person who’d tried to kill her. And in spite of Lacy’s protestations of ignorance, Branson had an idea she knew a lot more about what had happened than she was admitting.
After all, she was here in Kate’s apartment when she should be cavorting in some luxurious honeymoon suite.
Branson jerked as the sound of breaking glass ordered him to full attention. He peered over the railing as a tightly wound contraption of glass and metal crashed through the living-room window. It careened across the carpeted floor and slid under the sofa.
Adrenaline rushed through him. “Under the bed,” he ordered, racing back into the bedroom. He grabbed Lacy and shoved her resistant body in that direction. A second later, the room rocked with the explosion of a homemade bomb.
Chapter Three
Lacy shifted beside Branson and then dissolved into a spasm of ragged coughing. He turned toward her, the muscles in his arms straining as he pushed against the mattress that had collapsed on top of them. “Are you all right?”
“Probably not.” She sucked in a gulp of air and raised her knee, giving herself a little leverage with the mattress. “But I’m alive.”
“Good. If you want to stay that way, we should get out of here. Fast.” He scooted toward the edge of the bed, holding up the mattress so that she could follow.
He watched while she stood. She was a little unsteady, but he didn’t see any blood or signs of bruising. And fortunately, she’d traded the yards of satin for jeans and a sweater, and the nosebleed heels for a pair of loafers.
Grabbing one of her hands, he pulled her through the door and into the open hallway. His eyes stung from the haze of black smoke that hit him in the face. He squinted, making a quick assessment of possible escape routes.
Flames licked and sputtered around the sofa and were racing in a jagged line toward the front door. That left the back door, a path through thick smoke, broken glass and who knew what else. A gas leak from any appliance could send the kitchen portion of the house, including the back door, orbiting into space at any second.
Lacy muttered a word she hadn’t learned in Sunday school. “I say we run for it.”
She tried to wrestle her hand from his grasp. He held on and turned back to the French doors that led off the bedroom. “How are you at leaping from second-storey balconies?”
“I’ll leave that to you and superheroes. I’ll take the patio door.”
“Too dangerous.”
She fell into another bout of coughing. He took that opportunity to drag her back into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. She stumbled after him, tripping once on the dress she’d shed just in the nick of time. He pushed the French doors open and gulped in a lungful of semiclean air. She grabbed the doorknob and held on, resisting his attempts to coax her onto the balcony.
“You’re not going to go coward on me now, are you?” Branson pried her hand loose. Manhandling women was not his style, and he got no enjoyment from it. But there was no time to argue when she had no choice.
She shook her head doubtfully. “If we jump from here, we’re going to break something, possibly my skull.”
“Break or burn. It’s your choice.” It was a rhetorical option, and he didn’t wait for her answer. He let go of her hand and leaned over the railing. It was a fairly long drop, but all they really had to do was crawl over the guardrail, hold on to one of the pickets and dangle until they could wrap their legs around the main support column. From there it was just a fireman’s slide to the ground.
He described the procedure to Lacy. She grasped the handrail with both hands.
“Ladies first,” he said, not trusting her to follow if he left her up here by herself.
“Always the gentleman.” Her voice was hoarse, the effects of the smoke and her recent bout of coughing.
But he could read the resolve in her eyes and the serious jut of her jaw. She’d do what she had to do. He climbed over the railing and then helped her do the same.
“Wrap your hands around my forearm,” he said, holding on to the railing with his left hand and extending his right arm.
A shock wave rumbled through the house. The flames had found something they liked. Probably aerosol cans or paint. The result wasn’t nearly as strong as the original explosion but enough of a shudder that Lacy dropped her hesitancy.
She grabbed his arm. Her grip was sure, stronger than he’d expected. A second later she was dangling, swinging her long legs until they hugged the post. She let go of him, and by the time she hit the ground he was riding the same stick horse to safety.
She looked around as his feet pounded the earth. “I suppose you have a car around here somewhere.”
“My truck is out back.” Not stopping for further explanations, he pulled her along, loping over the grass and rounding the back side of the house. The frightening crackle and pungent odor of burning wood dogged their movements.
Branson stood by the truck, checking out the situation. So far, the flames were contained in the one town house, but if the fire wasn’t extinguished quickly, the blaze could spread to neighboring residences.
“Who lives next door to your sister? Invalids? Kids? Anyone who would be home during the day?”
“It’s vacant. It’s been for sale ever since she moved in.”
He breathed a little easier. At least no one else was in danger. He ran to the front of his truck, jumped into his seat and reached for his cell phone. But someone had beat him to the 911 call. By
