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“But it means something. At least to him.”
Trace examined the dancing couple, carefully painted by hand. Using a paper towel, he lifted the piece to examine it more closely, noting that the bottom was uneven, as if it had been attached to something, and broken off.
He set the statuette back on the breakfast bar. “Does it mean anything to you?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks a little like one of those things you put on top of a wedding cake.”
“Yeah, but it isn’t. Check the bottom.” He showed her the uneven edges. “At one time, this was attached to something. Glued on, it looks like.”
“I have no idea why anyone would leave that here,” she said, her gaze still on the figurine. Her eyes were the same pale green as the woman’s dress, her hair the same fiery red. The porcelain figure meant something, all right, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Trace glanced around the town house. “Your locks are a joke. Tomorrow I’ll have my guys come over and install some decent ones, along with a security system.”
“They’re, uh, kind of expensive, aren’t they?”
For the first time, he smiled. “You’re a client. You get a special price. We’ll just do the basics—the windows and doors, a couple motion detectors.”
“I guess I don’t have much choice.”
He gently caught her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “We need to call the police, Maggie. Someone broke into your home. This isn’t the first problem you’ve had. You need to file a report, keep the cops in the loop.”
She looked away, studied her slender feet, showing beneath the hem of the robe, the pale peach polish on her toenails. Trace’s gaze followed hers and he found himself wondering how smooth her skin would feel, how responsive she would be if his hand moved up her thigh. He wondered what she was wearing beneath the robe, and felt himself harden inside his jeans.
Son of a bitch. He forced his attention back to her face, amazed that he had allowed his attraction to sidetrack his thoughts.
“What is it with you and the cops?” he asked. “You don’t have a record, do you?”
Her eyes widened. “No, I… No, of course not.”
But he thought that her face went a little pale. He pulled out his cell and dialed 911, and a few minutes later a white-and-blue patrol car rolled up. A Hispanic officer whose name tag read Gonzalez, and his slightly chubby, blond-haired partner, walked into the town house in response to the call.
The blond cop, Sandowski, searched the unit, while Gonzalez took Maggie’s statement, which briefly recapped the events of the night.
“So that’s it?” Gonzalez said, making a final note on his pad as she finished. “You heard a noise and found the statue on the counter?”
“That’s what happened, yes.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t noticed anything missing.”
He looked at Trace. “What about you? You got anything to add?”
Trace explained that he had come over after receiving Maggie’s call. “She was clearly upset. She’s been getting threatening messages left on her car, hang-up calls, that kind of thing.”
Sandowski returned from his search just then. “I checked the doors and windows. No sign of forced entry. Are you sure your cleaning lady or a friend didn’t leave the statue there? Maybe you just didn’t notice it before you went to bed.”
Maggie’s pretty lips thinned. “It wasn’t there.”
Gonzalez wrote something on his notepad. “We’ll take a look around outside before we leave. I suggest you check with friends, see if maybe one of them was playing a joke or something.”
“It wasn’t a joke,” Maggie said tightly.
The officers headed for the door. It was obvious they believed she had just overlooked the presence of the porcelain figurine.
Maggie had said the cops weren’t able to help her. Clearly, they weren’t convinced the threat against her was real. First thing in the morning, Trace would take the figurine down to his office, do a check for prints on it and the notes she’d received.
“Will you be able to sleep?” he asked once the police were gone.
“Probably not.” She raked soft red curls back from her face. Sleep-tousled, they teased her cheeks and shoulders. His fingers itched to touch them.
“You need to get some rest,” he said a little gruffly, thinking that under different circumstances he might have exactly the sleeping pill she needed. As it was, Maggie was his client, his responsibility. He had no intention of trying to seduce her.
He almost smiled. And he was pretty sure if he tried, his chances of success would be slim to none.
“I was planning to drive down to the shore tomorrow,” she said, “take some shots for my book. Now…I don’t know. …”
“That might not be a bad idea,” Trace said before he could stop himself. “Until you walked into my office, I was thinking of heading to Kemah for the weekend. I’ve got a boat docked there.”
One of her burnished eyebrows went up. “A cowboy who rides a boat instead of a horse?”
He smiled. “That’s me.”
“Kemah’s a charming little town. I’ve gotten some great pictures on the boardwalk.”
“Maybe we could drive down together. My men will be working here all day, installing the security system and changing the locks. You could get away from all that for a while and I could get in a little sailing.”
And he could take Rex’s place, keep an eye out, see if anyone followed them down.
Maggie looked at him with a combination of weariness and suspicion.
“I’ll drive,” he offered. “You can sleep on the way.”
“And you’ll bring me back tomorrow night?”
A cautious lady. In her situation that was good. “Unless you decide you’d rather stay and sleep aboard,” he couldn’t resist adding.
She sliced him a sideways glance. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Trace just smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, it is morning, Maggie.”
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?”
