Читать книгу Against the Storm - Kat Martin - Страница 11

Five

As soon as he got home, Trace stretched out on the overstuffed sofa in his living room still wearing his jeans and boots. Rowdy curled up on the beige carpet next to the sofa, and both of them fell asleep. Trace slept like a rock till six, then made himself some coffee, loaded his gear in the back of the Jeep and drove down to the office.

There was a fingerprint kit in the back room. He dusted the notes for prints, but as he had figured, the rough brown paper yielded nothing.

He held more hope for the little porcelain statuette, but after careful examination and dusting, it appeared the figurine had been wiped clean. Which in itself revealed something about Maggie’s stalker.

Whoever it was was careful. Very careful. No sign of forced entry. No footprints that Trace had seen. He would bet he could dust the whole condo and no prints would turn up. Since the town house had recently been for sale, it wouldn’t have been difficult for the intruder to get a key. Trace would talk to the Realtors who’d handled the listing and sale, see what might come up.

His Jeep was loaded and ready. The office wasn’t officially open on weekends, but Ben, Alex and Sol were usually in and out. Annie came in whenever she needed to play catch-up. The alarm system installers worked for JDT Security Systems, the company that handled all the Atlas jobs. Trace phoned Ed Wilcox and got the guys going on what would be an overtime job at Maggie’s.

By nine he was finished and heading back to the town house. He wanted to interview the residents in the other five units, see if anyone had heard or seen anything last night.

As he drove toward Broadmoor, he found himself smiling. He was working, sort of, providing a protection detail for his client—not that he planned to charge her for a trip to the shore. But the better part of the bargain was the day he would be spending at sea, sailing with the pretty little redhead on his boat in Galveston Bay.

Maggie was surprised she had agreed to the trip. But as Trace had said, the security people would be working in the town house all day, and she really needed to take some more pictures. She wanted to finish the coffee-table book and if she got lucky, she could get a few more shots for her show at the Twin Oaks Gallery in a couple weeks.

After Trace left in the wee hours of the morning, Maggie had returned upstairs and managed to get a couple hours of sleep. But it wasn’t nearly enough. As she dressed in a pair of cropped navy blue pants, a red-striped top and sandals, she yawned, feeling groggy and out of sorts. Coffee helped but not that much. At least the weather was good. Still cool, but no longer cold, the air not too humid.

Trace returned at ten, his Cherokee loaded with gear. “You ready?” he asked when she opened the door.

“Just about.” She looked down at the black-and-white dog standing next to him on her doorstep.

“That’s Rowdy,” he said. “Rowdy, this is Maggie.”

Her eyes widened when the animal barked.

“Hi, Rowdy,” she said, because he seemed to demand a greeting. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

He barked again.

She bit back a laugh. “I just need to load my camera gear.” She turned to collect the Nikon D3S sitting in its case in the entry. It was equipped with a fantastic Tamron 28-300 lens she had purchased a few weeks back. The new equipment had set her back nearly seven thousand dollars, but in her line of work, it was an essential investment.

Trace walked past her, gently elbowing her aside when she reached for the bag, and hoisted the strap over one of his wide shoulders.

“I’m used to carrying my own equipment,” she said.

“I’m sure you are.” But he kept on walking, hauling the stuff out to his Jeep and loading it into the backseat.

“I hope you aren’t charging me extra for that,” she grumbled as she carried her yellow canvas swim bag out to the car.

He grinned, a flash of white in a suntanned face so handsome it made her breath catch. An amazing face, she thought, with those hard, sculpted features and intense, whiskey-brown eyes, so warm and direct they sent a little quiver into her stomach.

“No extra charge,” he said, sliding her tripod onto the seat. “Not today.”

She watched the flex of those incredible biceps she had noticed at the Texas Café, and told herself there was nothing wrong with being physically attracted to a man. After all, she was a young, fully mature woman, though she rarely gave in to those sorts of urges.

“Oh, I almost forgot the sandwiches.”

He smiled. “Sandwiches, huh? I like the way you think. I’m hungry already.”

Maggie ran back inside and grabbed the small cooler she had filled with ham-and-cheese sandwiches on fresh rye bread, and a couple Diet Cokes. Mr. He-man probably drank the real thing, but today, diet would have to do.

Trace and Rowdy walked to the rear of the Jeep. “Load up,” he said, and the dog hopped onto the tailgate, went inside and lay down on his bed. Trace left the rear window rolled partway down to let in fresh air, and the little dog seemed pleased.

“Rowdy looks very much at home back there,” Maggie said as she climbed up in the passenger seat. “Do you always take him with you?”

“Most of the time. Rowdy loves to sail almost as much as I do.”

“Smart dog.”

“He’s a border collie. They’re bred to herd cattle and sheep, one of the smartest breeds.”

“Where did you get him?”

“Gabe Raines—the guy who took the photos in my office? His brother owns a ranch in Wyoming. Rowdy was a pup from one of the litters up there.”

Trace closed her door, then went around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. He wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat today, just a white ball cap with an anchor on the front, plus jeans and a yellow knit shirt. No boots, either, just a pair of white canvas deck shoes that were clean but had seen plenty of wear.

The lack of sleep didn’t seem to faze him. He looked every bit as good as he had the night before.

Not liking the train of her thoughts, Maggie sat up a little straighter. “I’d like to get a dog someday,” she said, just to make conversation. “I had a cocker spaniel when I was a kid, but my mom took it with her when she went back to Florida. I keep thinking someday I’ll get one, but right now I’m too busy.”

Trace cast her a glance. “You said you were four when your mom and dad divorced. It must have been tough on you.”

She felt the old familiar ache in her chest. “It was hard. My mother went on with her life and we barely stayed in touch. My dad did his best, but he had to make a living. He owned a small trucking company so he was gone from home a lot.”

“Mine, too. My mom died when I was born. My dad was in the army, so my grandparents pretty much raised me.”

“Out on the ranch,” she said, remembering what he had told her.

“That’s right.”

When he didn’t add more, she let the subject drop. Didn’t sound as if either of them had had a fantastic childhood.

The Jeep rolled along the shady streets. From her town house, they drove through the University District onto the 59 Freeway, then took the 45 south toward the ocean. Kemah was one of a string of seaside communities that fronted Galveston Bay.

At the edge of the water, small weekend retreats that had been there for years sat next to sprawling, newly constructed mansions. Fine white sand surrounded them, lush vegetation and lots of palm and live oak trees.

Trace kept his boat—a sleek, white, low-hulled thirty-eight-footer—at the Kemah Marina, she discovered.

“What kind of boat is it?” Maggie asked. He climbed aboard, then reached down to take her hand and guide her up the steps and onto the deck. “Hunter Legend. Been a great boat to own.”

It was immaculately clean inside, she saw as he gave her a quick tour, and nicely fitted out with blue canvas cushions and lots of teakwood kept highly polished. A dining area and a galley; two cabins and a head.

“So what do you think?”

“She’s beautiful.” Ranger’s Lady was the name painted on the stern. “Name fits, too. Lone Ranger, right? That’s the way I thought of you that day in the Texas Café.”

Trace chuckled. “Not that kind of Ranger. U.S. Army. Kind of a tradition in our family.”

“You were a Ranger?”

He nodded. “My dad, too. That was the reason he was gone so much.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“South America, mostly. We were there but we weren’t, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I can figure it out.” She cast him a glance. “I bet you’ve always been somewhat of a maverick.”

Trace grinned. “Somewhat.”

She looked away, not liking the flutter that grin caused in her stomach. “Mind if I take some shots?”

He glanced around. He had been doing that all day. Second nature, she imagined, for an investigator. And she was, after all, paying him to find a stalker.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get ready to cast off while you wander a little. Just don’t go too far.”

“No problem.”

Trace went to work, and she watched his easy, economical movements. No wasted effort, just do the job and get it done. There was a certain grace there, too. She wondered what he’d look like on the back of a horse, and thought he would probably look as if he’d been born there.

Leaving him to his work, she climbed onto the dock and took some photos of the yachts in the marina. She wandered a bit, snapping a shot here and there: an old lady in a huge straw hat walking her little rust-colored Pekinese; two old men playing cards at a table next to the water; a little kid licking the biggest yellow-and-white rock candy sucker she had ever seen.

She returned to the Ranger’s Lady, snapping photos along the way. When she reached the boat, she realized Trace must have been watching her the entire time she was gone. He was only doing his job, she reminded herself, nothing more. Which for reasons she couldn’t explain, she found mildly annoying.

He helped her aboard, then went back to examining one of the lines that hoisted the sail.

He had stripped off his cotton knit shirt and jeans, leaving him bare chested in a pair of navy blue swim trunks. With his back to her, she couldn’t help checking him out. His skin was a smooth golden-brown and rippling with muscle. His legs were long and corded. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere to be seen.

She couldn’t resist a couple of shots of such a gorgeous man at work on his boat, but at the rhythmical click of the shutter, Trace turned. Broad, solidly muscled shoulders, a chest banded with sinew and lightly furred with dark hair, and a six-pack stomach…

She felt that funny lift again, only a little embarrassed to be caught staring. “I guess you really were a Ranger.”

He just shrugged. “There were times being in condition meant the difference between life and death.”

“You’re not a Ranger now,” she reminded him.

“Old habits die hard.” He lowered a pair of wraparound sunglasses over those whiskey-brown eyes. “You ready?”

She looked at him standing there with his legs splayed, his gaze on the horizon, and had the oddest feeling he was as much a Ranger now as he ever had been. The breeze gusted just then, rattling the ship’s rigging. The Gulf stretched in front of them, blue and beckoning.

“You bet I’m ready.”

Trace tossed off the lines and Maggie settled herself on one of the blue canvas cushions. Rowdy took a place beside her. His ears perked up as the boat began to move, anticipation clear on his little doggy face. Trace manned the wheel and the boat eased away from the dock.

“You’ll have to earn your keep, you know.” He flicked her a glance. “I’ll need you to bring up the fenders and tend the dock lines, maybe take a turn at the wheel. You’ll have to remember to duck when we come about, and of course you’ll need to watch for pirates.”

She laughed, gave him a smart salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Trace grinned. They settled themselves for the trip, the hull slipping smoothly over the water until they reached the open ocean, then the wind picked up and the boat heeled over. The stiff breeze tugged at Maggie’s curls, blowing them across her face, so she dragged the heavy red mane into a ponytail held in place with a small hair elastic.

“I’ve been sailing only a couple of times,” she said. “I went out with a friend when I was in college.”

“Michael Irving?” It was a casual question, yet she thought Trace had just morphed back into a detective.

“A friend in my art history class. Her dad owned a forty-two-foot Catalina.”

“Nice boat.”

“Beautiful. So is yours. You really take good care of her.”

Trace seemed pleased. “I do my best.” He leaned back in the seat behind the wheel, his dark glasses hiding his thoughts.

The sun beat down so warmly she decided it was time to shed her own clothes. “I’m going to change. It’s just too nice a day not to get some sun.”

“Help yourself.”

She disappeared below and came up a few minutes later in a red-and-white-striped bikini. The suit wasn’t exactly modest, but it wasn’t over-the-top risqué, either. She wore a loose-fitting white gauze shirt over it, but that didn’t hide much. Though she couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, she could feel his very thorough inspection, burning like a laser.

“I guess you like to stay in shape, too,” he said a little gruffly.

She did. Very much so. And she was way too glad he noticed. “I ride my stationary bike in the mornings. I lift a few weights to build bone strength, and I play racquetball whenever I get the chance.”

“Is that so? We’ll have to have a match sometime.”

“You like to play?”

His gaze moved over her again. “Oh, yeah, I like to play.” But his drawl had deepened and she was no longer sure he was talking about raquetball.

They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the wind and the sea, and the gulls darting back and forth at the stern. When they approached a group of sportsmen fishing for tarpon, Maggie grabbed her camera and went to work. One of the men had hooked up to a real monster, and just as she focused, the fish jumped spectacularly into the air. She caught the shot, snapping a series of photos in milliseconds.

She laughed joyously as the tarpon plunged back into the sea. “My God, did you see that?”

Trace lifted his ball cap and settled it back on his head, a habit she had noticed when he was wearing his cowboy hat. “I sure did. Looks like you got a couple of great photos there.”

She replayed the digital images. “Oh, this makes my day.”

“Just being out here makes mine.”

Maggie agreed. It felt so good to be out on the water, the boat sliding over the surface. They ate the ham-and-cheese sandwiches she had brought, but ignored the Diet Cokes. Instead, Trace cracked open a bottle of chilled chardonnay, poured it into two stemmed glasses, and they toasted the perfect day.

Relaxed, Maggie removed her cover-up, put on some sunscreen, stretched out on the cushions and let the warmth of the sun seep through her. With so little sleep last night, she must have dozed off. The sun had moved toward the horizon and Trace was turning the boat when she awakened.

“Time to go home,” he said.

Maggie felt a twinge of disappointment. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“After last night, you needed the rest.”

She inhaled a deep breath of the salty air. “It’s been wonderful.”

Trace seemed to share her mood. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. We can spend the night if you want. Two staterooms down there. You wouldn’t have to worry about your virtue.”

She was surprised to discover she was tempted, but then sighed. She hardly knew Trace Rawlins, and it was never smart to get involved with someone who worked for you. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to get back.”

“Not a problem.” Wheeling the sailboat expertly through the opening into Clear Lake, he turned toward the marina and his slip at dock A. Easing the vessel neatly into its berth, he tossed a line over the side and pulled the boat in close, then tied it in place.

They’d been out of cell phone range when they were at sea, but now Trace’s iPhone started ringing down in the galley, where he had left it so it wouldn’t fall into the water.

He hit the ladder, reached out and grabbed the phone, pressing it against his ear as he returned to the deck.

“Rawlins.” The caller talked for a while and the lines of Trace’s face went hard. “How’d it happen?”

More conversation, then a muscle tightened in his jaw. “Neither do I. I’m on my way.” Trace hung up the phone and began to pull his jeans on over his swimsuit. “Looks like spending the night wouldn’t have worked for me, either.”

“What’s going on?”

“One of my clients turned up dead. The police think he killed himself. I don’t.”

Maggie slid her pants over her bikini bottoms and adjusted the gauzy cover-up, tying it up around her waist. “You’re saying it was murder?”

“Could be.”

She slipped on her sandals. “I guess finding a murderer tops catching a stalker.”

Trace shook his head. “One has nothing to do with the other. By the time we get home, your alarm system will be installed. As far as the creep goes who’s been bothering you, you hired me to do a job and that’s what I intend to do.”

“What about the murder?”

He gave her a hard-edged smile. “Ever heard of multitasking?”

Maggie didn’t doubt he could handle both cases. One glance at the dark look on his face and she felt sorry for the guy who had murdered his client.

“Besides,” Trace continued, “if Hewitt was murdered, I already know who did it.”