Against the Storm1 (13 page)

“So what do we do?” Jason asked, forcing Trace’s thoughts in a safer direction.

“We’ve done our homework. The police are all over this. They want Parker nearly as much as you do.”

“Not even close.”

“Maybe not, but the result is the same. Parker winds up in prison for the rest of his life.”

Jason gritted his teeth. “He deserves to fry.”

“Yes, he does, but maybe this is better.” Trace’s smile
was grim. “You ever think what a nice little play toy Parker will be for some big roughneck bastard inside those walls? Parker’s cushy days are over.”

Jason’s smile looked equally grim. “I guess maybe I could live with that.”

“That’s better. That’s the attitude your dad would expect from you.” Trace took a sip of his tea, tasted the sweetness, felt the chill slide through him. He flicked a glance toward the door, wishing the drink could cool his blood.

Jason’s gaze followed his. “The redhead…she your girlfriend?”

“My client,” Trace said.

“She’s hot.”

Trace took another cooling sip. “Yeah.”

“What’s the, um, story on the blonde?”

He’d been waiting for the question. The attraction between Jason and Ashley had hummed clear across the room. “I don’t know too much about her. She’s Maggie’s half sister. Had it rough, I guess. But seems to have gotten herself pretty well squared away now. She has a baby.”

Jason’s head came up. “A baby? She’s just a kid.”

“She’s old enough, only a few years younger than you. Maggie says she recently turned twenty-one.”

Jason took a drink of his tea. “So she’s married.”

Trace shook his head. “Nope.”

“Where’s the kid’s dad?”

“Blew her off, I guess. Or maybe she blew him off. He was kind of a no-good, I think. Makes you appreciate the father you had.”

Jason looked back at the house, to where Ashley stood near the sliding glass door. She was as beautiful as Jason was handsome, Trace noted.

“When all this is over, maybe… Would you mind if I asked her out?”

“Up to you. Just be careful. Ashley doesn’t deserve to be hurt any more than she has been already.”

The younger man nodded.

Sensing their conversation had come to an end, Maggie appeared at the door, slid it open and stepped out on the patio. She turned and smiled, and Trace felt as if he’d been sucker punched. He cast a glance at Jason, wondered if the kid’s momentary loss of speech when he’d met Ashley meant he’d felt the same thing.

Whatever it was that the two women shared seemed to run in the family.

Trace found no prints on the bug or the video cameras. He hadn’t expected he would. On Tuesday, a crew installed surveillance cameras at the front and back of Maggie’s town house.

Trace also called Mark Sayers to tell him about the cameras hidden in Maggie’s condo and the GPS tracking device on her car.

“She’s not making this stuff up,” Trace told the detective. “Whatever she might have done as a kid, this is no joke. Maggie’s got a serious problem.”

“Yeah, well, sounds like you might have one, too. You’d better be careful, buddy. You don’t exactly have a sterling record where women are concerned—especially redheads.”

Trace clenched his jaw. “Just do your job, Sayers. Make sure the department knows what the hell is going on.”

“She needs to file a report.”

“She’s already filed a report. I’ll be happy to file another one if that’s what it takes.”

“Okay, okay, take it easy. I’ll put out the word.”

“Thanks.” Trace hung up the phone and sat there thinking about the department and Hoyt Varner, wondering how far the captain was willing to go to get revenge for his son after all these years. Far enough to put Maggie’s life in danger? The guy was a police officer. Trace had trouble convincing himself he would go that far.

At least the trap was up and working. He didn’t have much faith in it, especially not after seeing the sophisticated equipment the stalker had installed in the house and car. Still, maybe the guy would call, and they would get lucky and be able to trace it back to the point of origin.

The week slid past. There weren’t any new incidents and nothing showed up on the outside video cams. Trace’s biggest worry was Maggie’s upcoming gallery show.

The Friday night opening, which was also a benefit for a local children’s shelter, had been featured in the newspapers and on TV, a very exclusive, invitation-only preview of Maggie’s latest work. That much publicity could mean trouble.

It also gave them the best opportunity they’d had so far of catching the stalker.

Surveillance equipment didn’t come cheap, especially not the quality that had been used on Maggie’s car and in the apartment. That meant the guy had money. At five hundred dollars a ticket, the average Joe wouldn’t be at the gallery opening. But the stalker could likely afford it.

The only possible description of the stalker they had came from the Realtor, Jim Brewer: big, in his forties,
distinguished-looking, with silver-streaked dark hair. Unfortunately, that description fit a lot of men.

Trace would be watching, ready for any sort of trouble. But the guy was smart and he wouldn’t want to give himself away. There was a good chance he wouldn’t show up and the evening would go off as smoothly as planned.

If that was the case…

Trace thought of the weekend ahead. He wanted Maggie O’Connell. He was tired of playing the gentleman.

Unless work interfered, on Friday night he intended to do a helluva lot more than just be her escort.

T
he weather changed later in the week, turning over-cast and cloudy. By Friday evening, big black thunderclouds hung over the city, the harbinger of a heavy spring storm.

Maggie thought there might be fewer people at the opening, but maybe not. Since the ticket proceeds were going to the Weyman’s Children’s Shelter, publicity for the show had been overwhelming. It had become a who’s-who-in-society event.

Wearing a long, slender, emerald-sequined gown with narrow rhinestone straps, Maggie paced from the living room to the front door and back.

Ashley sat on the sofa watching the Food Network, to which she seemed addicted. Nestled in her lap, the baby made soft little sucking noises as his mama gave him his bottle.

Ashley grinned at the show on TV. “Isn’t she great?”

“Who?” Distracted as she waited for Trace, Maggie looked over at the screen.

“Giada De Laurentiis. Not only is she beautiful, but she’s a really terrific cook.” Her dream, Ashley had
confessed, was to work in one of the nicer restaurants in town. Eventually, she hoped to attend one of the exclusive culinary schools in Houston and become a chef.

“She certainly has a following,” Maggie said, thinking that Ashley had chosen a fine ambition. And since she loved to experiment with new recipes, Maggie was reaping the reward. Which meant she needed to get out on the racquetball court and burn a few calories.

She checked her watch, made another quick trip to the powder room to check her lipstick, then returned to the living room and began to pace again.

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to keep a man waiting?” Ashley said from the sofa. “You’re at least fifteen minutes early.”

“I know, I know. I’m a little nervous about the show.”

“Oh, and here I thought it was because that hot cowboy of yours was going to be your date.”

Maggie cast her a glare. “He’s not my cowboy, he’s my bodyguard. That was made perfectly clear.”

“Okay, but if you don’t come home tonight, I’m not going to panic, okay? I’ll set the security alarm when you leave, and if the creep calls, I’ll write down the time and date.”

Maggie thought of the night she had found the porcelain figurine on the counter, and worry filtered through her. “You’ve got my cell number. If something happens—”

“I’ve got it. Stop worrying.”

Maggie walked into the kitchen. She didn’t feel quite right about leaving Ashley and the baby alone. But the alarm was working, and half of Houston knew she would be at the opening. If the guy was truly obsessed with her, surely he would show up there.

Maggie hoped so. She hoped she would be able to
figure out who he was, get him to stop his harassment and get her life back in order.

She looked out the window over the kitchen sink. “Oh, my God, he’s here.” But she wasn’t exactly sure the long white stretch limo that pulled up in front of the condo wasn’t there for someone else. Not until the driver opened the rear door, and Trace set a hand on the crown of his hat, ducked his head and stepped out.

A gold box glittered in his hand as he walked toward the town house, and Maggie hurried to let him in. Her heart was pounding. It was ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop a little thrill of anticipation.

“Don’t act so eager,” Ashley called out from the living room. “You’re supposed to play hard to get.”

Maggie grinned. “I am hard to get, but thanks for the advice.” She took a deep breath and pulled open the door the instant Trace knocked, stepping back as he walked in.

Except for his crisp white shirt, he was dressed all in black: black Western tuxedo, black ostrich cowboy boots, black felt hat with a silver concho band. He looked like the Marlboro man on the way to a White House dinner, and he looked delicious.

A little curl of heat settled low in her stomach. “A limo? You didn’t have to do that.” But she loved that he had been so thoughtful.

“You’re the star tonight. You ought to get star treatment.” He handed her the gold box. When she lifted the lid, a gorgeous purple-throated, white-ruffled orchid nestled in gold-flecked tissue.

“It’s beautiful,” she said a little breathlessly.

“So are you.” Those whiskey-brown eyes slid over her, moving from the loose red curls on her shoulders, pulled up on one side to show off her diamond earrings,
to the soft cleavage the dress exposed, all the way to the rhinestones on her strappy high heels. “You’re gonna knock ’em dead tonight, darlin’.”

A rush of pleasure poured through her. Trace took out the corsage and slipped it on her wrist, and unexpected moisture stung her eyes.

“I never got to go to the prom,” she said. After the incident with Josh, she’d been forced to hide out at home. Then she had moved to another school and none of the boys had asked the new girl to go. She smiled softly. “I feel like a prom queen tonight.”

Something moved across his features, something hot and fierce. He understood, she realized, and her heart squeezed a little.

“Night’s just gettin’ started, darlin’.” The words and the smoldering look in his hot, dark eyes made her breath catch.

“Have a good time, kiddies,” Ashley called out from the living room. “I promise I won’t wait up.”

“Smart-ass,” Maggie called back with a smile, and Trace laughed.

“You remembered to put my cell number in your phone, didn’t you?” Trace asked Ashley.

“I’ve got both your numbers in my phone. Just go!”

His hand settled at Maggie’s waist, guiding her toward the door, then outside to the car. Dressed in full chauffeur apparel including a jaunty little short-brimmed cap, the tall, slim, very efficient looking driver held open the door.

Maggie slid into the car, sinking into the deep red leather seat, and Trace slid in beside her. Tiny white lights lit the interior, which was partitioned off from the front. A silver ice bucket in the mahogany bar on one side held a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“You thought of everything,” she said, properly impressed.

“I guess we’ll see.” Trace’s eyes touched hers as the car eased out of the parking lot. Reaching for the bottle, he unwired and popped the cork, poured the bubbling liquid into a crystal flute and handed it over, then poured one for himself. “I’m on duty, so this is all I’ll have for now.”

“Same here. I need to be at my best tonight.”

“Honey, there’s no doubt of that.” He lifted his glass. “To the most successful opening you’ve ever had.”

Raising hers, she silently added,
and to catching the maniac who is destroying my life.
She clinked her glass against Trace’s, praying her stalker would be there. Hoping he would say or do something that would give him away.

“Your sister seems to be settling in okay,” Trace said, resting his broad shoulders back against the seat.

“She wants to be a chef.” Maggie smiled. “She’s already a darned good cook.”

“Sounds promising.”

“I really like her. She’s funny and smart. She’s a great mother. She really loves that baby.”

“How about you?” He took a sip of his champagne. “You like kids?”

Maggie shrugged, felt the slight friction of the rhinestone straps against her bare shoulders. “I’ve never had time to really consider having a family. Being a successful photographer meant everything to me. Making that happen took up most of my time.”

“And now?”

“Now I have time to consider what’s really important to me.” She studied him from beneath her lashes. “How about you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just took another sip of champagne. “I got married, planned to have kids. It didn’t work out.”

She could tell it was a touchy subject, but she was curious. “That was then. How about now?”

Beneath the brim of his dressy, black felt hat, his eyes cut toward the window. “I’ve still got a bad taste in my mouth.”

Maggie didn’t press for more. She wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. Apparently neither was he. She told herself a no-strings affair was exactly what she wanted. That things might just work out. It could be good for both of them. Couldn’t it?

It didn’t take nearly long enough for the limo to turn onto Westheimer Road and pull into the line of cars arriving at the Twin Oaks Gallery. A red carpet stretched from the curb to the etched-glass front door, and valets parked the vehicles that pulled up to the curb.

A slew of reporters, both newspaper and local TV, took photos of the glamorous attendees making their way up the velvet-roped walkway.

Not exactly the Academy Awards, but an event like this was a first for Maggie and she was excited, and more than a little nervous. It occurred to her that she was glad Trace was with her, bodyguard or not. He had a way of steadying her, keeping her calm.

Well, at least until she looked at him. Then her mind shot off in the direction of sex, and she had to rein in her thoughts.

“We’re almost there,” he said, sitting forward in the seat to peer outside. Just ahead of them, a shiny red Ferrari and two big black SUVs with dark tinted windows pulled up to the curb.

“The Ferrari…that’s Matthew Bergman,” she said.
“His father’s a big patron of the arts and a well-known philanthropist. Matthew’s a photography buff.”

“I’ve done some work for the father,” Trace said, causing Maggie to speculate on the endless number of business contacts he seemed to have. It occurred to her that Trace was a very well respected man.

The first SUV pulled up to the curb. “That’s Senator Logan and his wife.” Maggie watched as a man with silver hair stepped out of the car, followed by an attractive woman in a long, beaded, burgundy gown. “The second car is probably his aide, Richard Meyers, and his publicity spokesman, Duncan Ross. Now that Logan’s running for governor, he rarely travels without an entourage.”

It was their turn next. The limo rolled to a stop and one of a swarm of red-vested valets opened the door. “Welcome to the Twin Oaks Gallery,” the young man said.

“Here we go,” said Trace, and Maggie took a steadying breath. As she slid out of the limo, camera lights came on and several microphones appeared in front of her.

“This is quite an event, Ms. O’Connell.” A short, slightly overweight reporter leaned toward her. “The proceeds from the tickets go to charity. Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“I’ve donated photos to help raise money for various nonprofit organizations, but nothing like this. The Weyman’s Children’s Shelter is a very good cause. When they approached me with the idea of combining the benefit with the gallery opening, I was happy to agree.”

“Who’s your escort?” one of the female reporters asked. Her gaze swept over Trace as if he were a juicy
piece of meat, and her red lips curved in a smile of female awareness.

“Just a friend,” Trace replied, before Maggie could answer. Not that it would stay secret for long.

They walked up the red carpet and went into the gallery, which was beginning to fill with guests. Soft music played in the background while waiters in short white jackets hurried by with flutes of champagne on silver trays.

Standing just inside the door, Faye Langston, the owner of the gallery, spotted Maggie and approached, a glass of champagne in her hand. She was tall and svelt, with heavy dark hair cut in a straight style that framed her face. Her nose was too long, which made her striking instead of beautiful.

Faye bent and kissed Maggie’s cheek. “We sold every ticket,” she said proudly. “The shelter will come out with a nice bit of money. Now all we have to do is sell some of your work.”

Maggie hoped they would. Faye and Maggie were both donating a percentage of their profits to the shelter, which they hoped would help increase sales.

“Faye, this is Trace Rawlins. He owns Atlas Security. Trace, this is Faye Langston, the owner of the gallery.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Langston,” Trace said, removing his black felt hat. One of the waiters appeared out of nowhere to take it, and Trace ran a hand through his thick dark hair, which settled neatly in place. Maggie felt an urge to reach over and do the same.

Faye smiled up at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Trace, and I hope you’ll call me Faye.” A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of our guest of honor tonight.”

Trace’s dark gaze drifted over Maggie. “That’s my
plan,” he drawled, with such an undercurrent of heat, Maggie’s stomach contracted.

“Oh, look, there’s Senator Logan….” Faye waved and smiled. “If you two will excuse me…” With a wink at Maggie, she silently slipped away.

Now that Maggie was actually there, she was beginning to relax. Dozens of her photos hung on the walls around her, each framed in a way that best displayed the work. Color and light, background and subject matter all came into play.

She had chosen the frames herself, and Faye had hired a calligrapher to make the delicate signs below each picture that included the title Maggie had selected, the date and place the photo had been taken. Each shot was limited to a certain number of prints that could be made and sold—an edition of twenty-five for this particular show—and each framed photo was personally signed. Looking at them now, she felt pleased and proud of the job she had done.

“You take beautiful pictures, Maggie,” Trace said, his gaze fixed on a shot of the harbor during an approaching storm, a piece she had titled
Ferocity.
The shadowy light of day was fading as a seething wall of vicious black clouds rolled ominously toward shore. In the distance, a tiny sailboat raced frantically against time and weather to reach the safety of the harbor before the storm swept it away. “There’s something special about each one, something that makes it unique.”

Maggie smiled, appreciating the compliment a little more because it came from him. “I remember that day very well. The scene was so compelling I had to stop and take the shot, but at the same time it was frightening. I was afraid for the little boat. I stayed to watch until I was sure it reached the harbor.”

Trace cast her an assessing glance, but made no comment. People began to approach her, the crowd growing, surrounding her, wanting a piece of her time.

“I’m gonna wander a little,” Trace said, giving her room to do what she was there for. Be the celebrity of the evening. And help Faye sell her work.