Читать книгу Moment Of Truth - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 8

What the hell am I doing here?

The thought hit Hart O’Brien the instant he steered his rental car up the Lone Star Country Club’s drive, where long afternoon shadows slanted across shrubs laden with eye-popping yellow blossoms.

He knew his uneasiness wasn’t due to the fact his destination was the site of a bomb blast. An expert on explosive devices, he was accustomed to the Chicago PD sending him wherever his expertise was most needed. Yet, no way could Hart write off this trip to Mission Creek, Texas, as just another assignment. Not when the last time he’d laid eyes on the place, both he and his mother had been running from the law.

That’s why he’d been surprised when Spence Harrison called the CPD’s bomb squad. Ten years ago Spence had subsidized his law school tuition by working alongside Hart as a groundskeeper at the posh country club. When Hart fled town with barely the clothes on his back, he regretted not saying goodbye to one of the few friends his vagabond lifestyle had enabled him to make.

Spence was now Lone Star County’s District Attorney. A D.A. with big problems, from what Hart could tell from the few details Spence gave over the phone. Problems that required untangling by someone with an insider’s knowledge of police work and explosives.

Now, two days after agreeing to act as the D.A.’s liaison to the police task force investigating the Lone Star bombing, Hart was back in the city to which he’d sworn he would never return.

Ignoring the signs for valet parking, he pulled into the lot near one of the tennis courts. Against his will the image rose in his mind of a willowy dark-haired young woman with long, bronzed legs lobbing balls across that court.

Jerking 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 than she’d wanted air to breathe. The man she had loved above life. The man who had told her he loved her, then turned his back and walked away forever. Resentment bubbled up instantly. Just as quickly she shoved it back. She couldn’t afford the indulgence of resentment. Not when Hart’s presence threatened so much more than just her pride.

She stared back at him, struggling for words that wouldn’t come. His face was thinner than it had been ten years ago, the hollows of his cheeks deeper. His body was trim, muscled and looked hard as granite. A dark-green polo shirt, open at the neck, revealed curling auburn hair as rich in color as the hair he wore short and brushed back from a straight hairline. His casual shirt, well-washed khaki slacks and scuffed loafers would give most men a relaxed appearance. Hart looked anything but relaxed as he stood watching her, his eyes as sharp as a sword.

“Hello, Hart,” she said, finally finding her voice. This isn’t happening, she told herself again. Can’t happen.

“It’s been a long time, Texas.”

“Yes, it has.” Despite the blood pounding in her cheeks from his use of his private nickname for her, Joan kept her voice cool, devoid of emotion. Her gaze flicked to the counter where no customers lingered and two pieces of luggage sat unattended. Surely he wasn’t checking in. Surely not. Please, God, no.

“Are you a guest here?”

“Yeah.” One side of his mouth lifted in an insolent curve she remembered well. “You wondering how a guy who lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of town can swing a room here?”

“I…no. Of course not.” She stood perfectly still, her gaze locked with his. Around them the sounds of muted conversation, the click of heels against pink granite, the bubbling of the fountain all faded into nothingness. Nothing mattered, except the knowledge that Hart’s presence could destroy the secure world she’d so carefully built.

A cold fist of apprehension tightened her chest. Had he found out? Did he somehow know the secret she had guarded for so many years?

“What brings you back to Mission Creek?” she asked, thankful she managed to keep her voice businesslike, neutral.

“Work. I’m a cop. Spence Harrison called and asked me to join the bombing investigation.”

She blinked. “You’re the bomb tech?”

He slid a hand into one pocket of his khakis. “My official title is hazardous devices technician. But bomb tech will do.”

Joan forced her swirling thoughts to the information the general manager had given in the previous day’s staff meeting. “From Chicago? You’re with Chicago PD?”

“Yes to both questions.”

“I see.” Dread lodged in her stomach. The bombing had occurred ten weeks ago. Chief Ben Stone had told her in confidence that his officers on the task force had no firm suspects. No leads. Nothing. There was no way of knowing how many more weeks, or even months the investigation might drag out. “How long do you expect to stay here?”

“As long as it takes to figure out who set that bomb. And put them behind bars.”

On that terrible morning she had heard the bomb’s thunderous explosion. Felt it. Then watched in sheer horror while rescuers battled flames while pulling survivors—and victims—from the devastation. When she’d heard Spence had called in a bomb expert, relief had risen in her like a wave. Finally someone might find the killer still at large.

Hart angled his chin. “Do you have a problem with me being here?”

Her relief that the terror might soon end with the bomber’s arrest battled against the danger Hart’s presence held for her.

Regarding her steadily, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Since you seem to have suddenly lost your voice, it looks like you do have a problem.”

“On the contrary,” she countered, keeping her gaze locked with his. “I don’t think anyone in Mission Creek will get a good night’s sleep until whoever set that bomb is in custody.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“I’m just surprised to see you after so many years. To find out that you’re the Chicago bomb tech we’ve been expecting.” She needed to breathe, but she couldn’t quite remember how. “I had no idea you were a police officer.”

“And I didn’t know you were back in Mission Creek.” His gaze flicked to the small brass name tag above her left breast. “What do you do here?”

“I manage Body Perfect.”

His gaze did a slow skim down her, then up. “Body Perfect?”

Her nerves shimmered as if he’d touched her. “The ladies’ spa.” Lifting a hand to her throat, she settled her fingers against the point where her pulse hammered as if she’d spent hours lobbing balls across a tennis court. If she stood there much longer, her legs would buckle.

“Speaking of my job, you’ll have to excuse me. I have paperwork to deal with—”

“Joan, I see you’re already making our important guest feel at home.” Her blond hair teased to poofy heights, Bonnie Brannigan swooped in wearing a fire-engine-red suit that fitted her voluptuous curves like a dream. Widowed, and a grandmother several times over, the Lone Star Country Club’s exuberant general manager held equal favor with club members, guests and employees.

“Yes,” Joan said, giving silent thanks for Bonnie’s arrival. Realizing her hands were trembling, she curled her fingers into her sweating palms. Her knees were water. She had a great deal to think over, but her mind simply wouldn’t connect. She needed to go somewhere quiet. Someplace where she could wait for the sick feeling of dread churning in her stomach to settle. Someplace where she could figure out what in heaven’s name to do about this man who had stepped so suddenly from the past.

Joan slicked the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “Bonnie Brannigan, this is Hart O’Brien from the Chicago Police Department.”

Beaming, Bonnie shook his hand. “My goodness, Sergeant O’Brien, you’re a gorgeous one, aren’t you?”

Hart flashed a grin that closed Joan’s throat. How many times during that long-ago summer had she been dazzled by that grin?

“That label suits you, Mrs. Brannigan, not me,” Hart commented.

“And charming, too,” Bonnie added with a delightful laugh. “Police officers are as common around here as cattle tracks in a pasture, but I can’t say all the officers I know are charming. Can you, Joan?”

“No. Bonnie, I was just explaining to Sergeant O’Brien that I have paperwork to deal with. You’ll excuse me?”

“Sure thing. You run on, dear. I’ll take good care of one of Chicago’s finest.”

Joan shifted her gaze to Hart. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“See you around, Texas.”