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“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.”
Six
They were headed back to Houston. The perfect day at sea had ended far too quickly.
As he dodged in and out of the heavy traffic on Highway 45, Trace mentally replayed the phone conversation he’d had on the boat.
“Trace, it’s Annie. You need to get back to town. That Sommerset case you just finished? Hewitt Sommerset turned up dead half an hour ago in his study. The police are calling it a suicide.”
Trace’s stomach had knotted. “How’d he die?”
“Gunshot wound to the head. His son doesn’t believe he pulled the trigger.”
He clenched his jaw. “Neither do I.” Hewitt was a good man. Trace needed answers and he was determined to get them.
The car in front of him slowed and he slowed as well, his mind drifting from Hewitt to the pretty redhead in the seat beside him. At least for a while, he had been able to keep Maggie’s mind off her stalker. He wasn’t sure how the man who had left the notes was keeping tabs on her, but there had been no sign of him on their way to the shore or at any time while they were there.
The figurine was another matter. Someone had broken into Maggie’s house. There were no visible signs of entry, but the locks were paltry and there were ways to get in without leaving evidence. By now, the security alarm would be operational and the locks all replaced. Even so, the guy was a threat that had to be dealt with.
Trace had spoken to Rex Westcott and put him on notice to be ready for the stakeout tonight. Maggie was safe for the moment.
Trace thought of the day he had spent with her. He didn’t have a problem mixing business with pleasure, not when it was a good way to do his job. He had let down his guard and relaxed more than he’d meant to, something he rarely did with a woman, but he liked Maggie O’Connell. She was smart and talented and vibrant. Along with that, she was sexy as hell.
He flicked a glance her way, caught a glimpse of soft lips and gorgeous red hair, and his groin tightened. He wanted to take her to bed, taste those pretty lips and lose himself in all those sweet curves.
It was a bad idea, he knew. Every time he got involved with a woman disaster struck.
This is different, he told himself. Nothing more than a physical attraction. He wouldn’t let himself get in too deep.
Trace took a last glance at Maggie, told himself that time would settle the matter one way or the other and forced his thoughts back to the more immediate problem at hand.
The death of his former client, Hewitt Sommerset.
Trace’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. The Saturday traffic along Route 45 had turned brutal. Maybe there was a wreck up ahead, roadwork, something. Whatever it was, his frustration was making him edgy and restless. He stepped on the brake for the hundredth time, bringing the Jeep to a halt behind the white Toyota pickup ahead of him.
He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Dammit! I need to talk to the police.”
Maggie turned in her seat. “You’re going to the crime scene?”
He nodded. “As soon as I drop you off, I’m heading for the Sommerset house.”
Her gaze went to the dense trail of cars rolling slowly along the pavement ahead of them. “Where is it?”
“The Woodlands.” Thirty miles north of Houston. “At this rate it’ll be dark by the time I get there.”
She studied the slow-moving traffic. “You’re probably right. It’ll be even later if you have to drop me off. Why don’t you just take me with you? I’ve got a good book. I can wait in the car until you’re finished. I can see this is important to you, and I really don’t mind.”
He started to say no, then paused. It wasn’t as if there was a shoot-out in progress. The questions he wanted answered and the information he had to deliver wouldn’t take that long. And with traffic the way it was, it would save him at least forty minutes.
“You sure?”
“Thanks to you I got some terrific material today. It’s the least I can do.”
Trace smiled, feeling a wave of relief. “Great.” He wanted to be there for Jason and Emily. Hewitt’s son and daughter were both good kids. It was his son-in-law, Parker Barrington, Emily’s husband, who was the problem.
“So what’s the story?” Maggie asked. “The police think it’s suicide but you think it’s murder. Why is that?”
He rarely talked about a case, but most of this would be in the news in a couple of days, anyway.
“A few weeks ago, the victim—Hewitt Sommerset—came to see me. He wanted to find out if his son-in-law was stealing money from the company.”
“And you found out he was.”
“Parker Barrington is chief financial officer of Sommerset Industries. At Hewitt’s request, we installed a couple hidden cameras, put a live feed in his computer. We caught him doctoring the books, siphoning money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”
One of Maggie’s wing-shaped eyebrows went up. “So his hands were definitely sticky.”
“Definitely.”
“You think Hewitt Sommerset confronted his son-in-law, who killed him to keep from being caught?”
