Against the Storm1 (2 page)

“It wasn’t exactly a fight. More like a discussion with fists. Mostly mine.” Absently, he rubbed his bruised knuckles.

“You know you’re getting way too old for that rough stuff.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She was a small woman, but feisty. She didn’t take guff from anyone, including him, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. “What else have you got?”

“The Special Olympics called looking for a donation. I phoned the bookkeeper, told her to send them a check.”

“Good. What else?”

“Marvin’s Boat Repair called. Joe says he’s finished working on your engine.
Ranger’s Lady’
s running like a top.”

Trace nodded. “I think I’ll go down to Kemah for the weekend.” As often as he could manage, Trace made the forty-mile trip to where he docked his thirty-eight-foot sailboat. He loved being out on the water. There were times he wondered if being a SEAL wouldn’t have been
a better fit than being a Ranger. But then he wouldn’t have met Dev Raines and Johnnie Riggs, two of his closest friends, and guys like Jake Cantrell.

“Jake called,” Annie said as if she read his thoughts, which she seemed to have a knack for doing. “He’s taking a job down in Mexico for a while. He’ll be gone at least a couple of weeks, maybe more.”

Jake had come to Houston with Trace after they’d finished a rescue mission with Dev and Johnnie that took them into Mexico. Cantrell, a former marine, mostly freelanced, hiring himself out as a bodyguard for executives who worked for big corporations. He had worked in the Middle East but specialized in South America. Jake did pretty much anything that wasn’t illegal and paid him plenty of money. “That it?”

Annie handed over three more messages. “One’s a potential client. You’ll need to call him back. And Hewitt Sommerset called.” He was CEO of Sommerset Industries. “He wants to talk to you about that report you just finished.”

Hewitt believed one of his employees was embezzling funds. The surveillance equipment Atlas installed had proved he was right.

“I’ll call him right now.”

“The third message is from Carly. If I were you, I’d lose that one.”

He scowled, stared down at his ex-wife’s name scrolled on the paper. “Anything important?”

“The usual. Said she just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”

Trace crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can beside Annie’s desk. For some strange reason he was a magnet for needy women. It was no surprise he
had married one. He’d been divorced from Carly nearly four years, something the petite redhead had a way of forgetting.

Trace walked past Annie’s desk into the main office area. Sol Greenway was working away at one of his three computers. At twenty-two, Sol was Atlas’s youngest employee and a near genius when it came to electronics. Sol handled background security checks, security problems, information retrieval, online forensic services, and just about anything else that had to do with computers.

In the middle of the office, Ben Slocum and Alex Justice, both freelance investigators, sat behind their desks. Ben had his cell phone pressed against his ear. Alex was cleaning his Glock 9 mm.

“How’d it go with Arnold Peters?” Trace asked Alex.

“I took him the photos. His wife was seeing some oversexed football player. Peters took one look, broke down and cried like a baby.”

“Why the hell do they hire us? They say they want the truth, but what they really want is for us to tell them they’re wrong and everything at home is just peachy.”

Alex’s grin cut a dimple into his cheek. “Far as I’m concerned, the best thing to do is stay single.”

Trace thought of Carly and the trail of men she’d ushered in and out of his house while they were married. “You can say that again.”

Continuing on, he went into his office and closed the door. He needed to return Hewitt’s call. The investigation was over, but Trace liked the guy and knew Hewitt was taking the information hard. The embezzler was his son-in-law.

Trace had a few other calls to make, but he didn’t personally handle as many cases as he used to. These
days, he could pick and choose, and since the weekend was coming up, he would probably give anything new to Ben or Alex.

Trace imagined himself stretching out on the deck of the
Ranger’s Lady
in the warm Texas sun, hands behind his head and catching a few rays.

He smiled.

Sounded like the perfect plan.

M
aggie O’Connell walked out of her newly purchased town house and headed for her red Ford Escape hybrid parked in front. She loved the car, which got over thirty miles to the gallon, loved the room in the back for the cameras, tripods, meters, lights and miscellaneous equipment she used in her work.

At twenty-eight, Maggie had achieved an amazing amount of success as a photographer. What had started as a hobby while she went to college as an art major on a partial scholarship had ended up a career.

Part of it was luck, Maggie admitted. After graduation from the University of Houston, she had managed to snag a part-time job as an assistant to Roger Weller, a renowned Texas photographer—work that gave her an invaluable education in the field and also time to shoot the outdoor scenes that had become her trademark.

Weller helped her get her first gallery exhibition, which was surprisingly well received. Several more shows followed and her clientele grew. Now her photos hung in some of the most prestigious galleries in Houston, Dallas and Austin.

Her mind on her upcoming show at the Twin Oaks Gallery and the photos she intended to shoot that afternoon, Maggie had almost reached her car when she jerked to a shuddering halt. Setting her camera bag at her feet, she reached a shaking hand toward the scrap of paper pinned beneath the windshield wiper. Very carefully pulling it free, she began to read the message.

Maggie glanced frantically around. Only two other cars were parked in front of the six recently completed town house units where she lived, a Toyota Camry and a Chevy Camaro. Both vehicles were empty. The breeze ruffled the leaves on the freshly planted shrubs in the flower beds out front, and a couple of teenagers rolled by on their bicycles. No one who looked like he might have left the note.

She stared down at the torn slip of rough brown paper, which matched the two others she had already received. She had hoped, after moving into the condo two weeks ago, that whoever had been leaving the creepy messages would stop.

She hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder, holding the note with just two fingers in case the man had left prints. She scanned the lot once more for anyone who seemed out of place, but no one was there.

Maggie hurried back inside her town house, the paper fluttering in her hand, her stomach a little queasy. Easing her camera bag to the floor, she closed the front
door and leaned against it. After couple of steadying breaths, she opened her purse and dug out her cell phone and pulled up her best friend’s name.

She hit the send button, and with every unanswered ring, her anxiety grew.

Roxanne finally picked up.

“Roxy? Rox, it’s Maggie. I—I got another note. It was under the wiper blade on my car.”

Her friend softly cursed. “Where are you?”

“I’m back inside my house. I looked around the parking lot. No one was there.”

“Listen to me, Maggie. You need to take that note to the police. What was the name of that police lieutenant you talked to before?”

“Bryson. But he isn’t going to help me. He doesn’t believe me. That isn’t going to change.”

“It might. You have this note and the two you got before.”

“I didn’t keep the first one. I thought it was just a prank.”

But it wasn’t really a matter of having the notes as proof. It wasn’t a matter of the police believing her. The cops were punishing her for a crime she had committed years ago.

A crime she was indeed guilty of committing.

“I won’t go back there,” she said. “I won’t be humiliated that way again.”

A long pause ensued. Roxanne was one of the few people who knew that as a teenager, Maggie had falsely accused the high school quarterback of rape.

At sixteen, she’d been stupid and irresponsible. The truth of it was she’d had sex that night with Josh Varner, though it certainly wasn’t rape. She had encouraged the handsome football player, not fought him, but she’d been frightened of her dad’s reaction when he found out.

“All right,” Roxanne finally said, “if you won’t go to the police, go see that private detective, the guy who runs Atlas Security.”

“Who, Rawlins?”

“You have to do something to protect yourself, Maggie. You don’t know how far this guy might be willing to go. Maybe Trace Rawlins can help.”

Maggie didn’t like it. The cowboy seemed cocky and far too self-assured. Worse yet, she didn’t like the jolt of attraction she’d felt when he looked at her.

But she didn’t like the snide remarks and sideways glances she had gotten at the police station, either.

Josh Varner was the son of a Houston police officer who was now a captain in the vice squad. Hoyt Varner had a score to settle for the unfair trouble she had caused his son years ago.

In a way Maggie didn’t blame him.

“If you won’t call him, I will,” Roxanne said from the other end of the phone, jarring her back to the moment.

“All right, all right, I’ll call.”

“You want me to come over?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I was just on my way to the grocery store, but I guess that can wait.”

“Yeah, I guess it can.”

Maggie ignored the sarcasm.

“Call me after you talk to him,” Roxanne said.

“I will.”

“Call him right now. Promise me.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

Roxanne signed off and Maggie hung up the phone. She glanced around the town house, which was still stacked with boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. Walking over to the breakfast bar separating the living room
from the kitchen, she picked up the address book lying on the counter next to the phone and flipped it open.

On a yellow sticky note pressed inside the vinyl cover, she had printed the name Atlas Security. The address on Times Street was there, along with the company phone number and Trace Rawlins’s name.

She stared at the yellow square of paper, then snatched it out of the address book. The office was in the University District, not that far away. Picking up the
People
magazine she had been reading while she drank her coffee that morning, she very carefully laid the note from her windshield inside the cover and closed it. With the yellow sticky note in hand, she grabbed her purse and headed back to her car.

As she crossed the lot, she scanned the area for anyone who might be watching, but whoever had left the note was gone. Maggie climbed into her little SUV and cranked the engine. As it began to purr, she shifted into gear and drove out of the lot, searching to the right and left, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

It didn’t take long to find the brick building with the neatly printed Atlas Security sign on the front. Maggie parked the Escape, picked the magazine up off the passenger seat and got out of the car. She paused when she reached the front door.

Maybe Trace Rawlins wouldn’t help her. Maybe just like everything else she had done in her life, she would have to find a way to handle this alone.

She drew in a shaky breath, thinking maybe this time money would solve the problem. Maybe—for a price—she could find someone willing to help.

Trace reached for his coffee mug and realized his coffee had grown cold. Seated in the chair behind his
desk, he’d been going over some upgrades he wanted to install in the alarm system in the library at Rice University, one of the company’s longtime clients. He looked up at the sound of Annie’s voice.

“Someone here to see you,” the older woman said. She tucked the yellow pencil in her hand above an ear. “Her name’s Maggie O’Connell.”

“O’Connell. Doesn’t sound familiar. She say what she wanted?” He had been hoping to leave for home within the hour, pack up his gear and his dog and head for the shore.

“She didn’t say, but you’d better watch out.” Annie didn’t bother to hide her grin. “She’s a redhead.”

He ignored a trickle of irritation. Annie knew his penchant for fiery-haired women and the trouble more than one of them had caused him over the years. And she didn’t hesitate to goad him about it.

On the other hand… “Send her on in.”

He stood up as the lady walked through the door. Five-four at most, slender yet curvy in all the right places. Once he got past the great body in snug jeans and a T-shirt with a Kodak ad on the front that read A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words, he recognized her in a heartbeat.

The photographer he had clashed with three days ago in the Texas Café.

“Well, we meet again,” he drawled. “I hope you aren’t here because Betty wouldn’t give you back your camera.”

“Betty gave it back. She seemed like a very nice woman.”

He thought of the scene at the café, the sizzling temper the redhead had unleashed when he had deleted her photos, and amusement touched his lips. “What can I do for you, Ms…. O’Connell, was it?”

“That’s right. After our little…disagreement, Betty mentioned you were a private investigator.”

“That I am. You need something investigated?”

“Actually, I do.”

He motioned for her to take a seat in one of the two dark brown leather chairs opposite his big oak desk, and sat back down himself. “Why don’t you tell me how I can help you?”

She opened the
People
magazine he hadn’t noticed she carried, being distracted by her nicely rounded breasts and shapely little behind. And there was all that glorious red hair.

With the magazine nestled in her lap, she opened the first page, then used the tips of her fingers to pick up a piece of brown paper that looked as if it had been torn from a grocery sack. Reaching over, she set it on his desk.

“Someone’s been leaving notes like this on my car. This is the third one I’ve found. Whoever is doing it is beginning to scare me. I thought maybe I could hire you to find out who it is and make him stop.”

Trace rose from his chair, leaned over and turned the paper around to face him, being as careful as she had been. If there were fingerprints on the note, he didn’t want to smudge them.

He didn’t like the tone. He could understand why the lady might find the notes upsetting.

He sat back down in his chair. “You need to call the
police, Ms. O’Connell. They’ll make a report of the incidents and keep an eye out in your neighborhood for whoever may be leaving these.”

“I’ve been to the police. It hasn’t done any good. I want to know who this is and I want him to stop.”

“And you think I can do that for you?”

“I saw the way you handled those three men. I imagine you could take care of this guy if you wanted to.”

“I don’t assault people for a living. That isn’t my job. On the other hand, if my client is in danger, sometimes steps have to be taken.”

She seemed to mull that over. “I guess what I’m saying is I’d like to hire you. Your receptionist told me what you charge, and that would be fine. If I’m your client and something happens, you would be obliged to protect me.”

His gaze ran over her, the smooth skin and stubborn jaw, the big green, troubled eyes, the red hair curling softly around her shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll need to see the other notes before I decide.”

She bit her bottom lip. She wore peach-colored lipstick and her mouth was full and perfectly curved. He wasn’t generally this taken with a woman, at least not at first glance. But there was something about her… He told himself it was just that damned red hair.

“Actually, I only have one.”

“One?” he repeated, having lost track of the conversation.

“One of the other two notes. I threw the first one away. I thought it was a joke. I should have brought the second note with me. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get here, to talk to you, see if you could help.”

She was worried, he could tell, maybe even a little
frightened. She set her purse in her lap, then unconsciously twisted the strap one way and then another.

“As I said, I’d like to see the other note.”

She rose from her chair. “I’ll get it for you right now. My condo isn’t that far away.”

Trace stood as well. “I’d rather come with you. I can see where you live, take a look at the neighborhood, see where your car was parked when the notes were left.”

“The first one was left on my car before I moved out of my apartment. It’s about a mile or so away from where I live now. But I think that’s a good idea.”

She started for the door, but he caught her arm. “I’ll drive. My car’s right out front.” He grabbed the white straw hat he had exchanged for his usual brown felt Stetson as the weather began to warm, and led her through the reception area. Opening the door, he waited while she walked outside.

“The Jeep Cherokee,” he said, and one of her burnished eyebrows went up. “What? You were expecting a pickup?”

She shrugged, smiled. “You’re a cowboy. I thought all you guys were pickup men.”

He chuckled, thinking of the Joe Diffie song and wishing at the moment he owned one. “’Fraid I only drive one when I’m out at the ranch.” He helped her into the vehicle and closed the door, rounded the hood and slid in behind the wheel.

She settled back and snapped her seat belt. “You have a ranch?”

“Technically, yes. The place belonged to my grandfather. My dad sold half when Granddad died and used the money to go into the security business. The land that’s left is leased to a company that raises Black Angus
beef. I kept the old ranch house and fifty acres around it. I pretty much grew up there as a kid. I stop by every once in a while just to keep an eye on things.”

“The photos in your office…the rolling fields with the grazing cattle. Those were taken on the ranch?”

“Not by me, but yes. Gabe Raines, a friend of mine from Dallas, took them when we were out there together. I liked them so had them blown up and framed.”