Against the Storm1 (31 page)

She came over to stand beside him. Her face was flushed from carrying the last few boxes up the stairs, her silky curls a little damp. “You really think so?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s gonna be great when you’re finished.”

She smiled, reached up and brushed a lock of his hair back from his face. He felt that light touch like an electric shock to the heart, and all of a sudden the words just tumbled out.

“I love you, Ashley. I can’t keep it bottled up inside anymore. I love you and I love Robbie and I want to marry you.” When she just stared up at him as if he had lost his mind, he added, “We can live right here if that’s what you want.”

Her big blue eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Jason…”

He reached for her, gathered her into his arms. “I mean it. I love you so much. Say you’ll marry me.”

She clung to his neck and he could feel the wetness tracking down her cheeks. He prayed he hadn’t rushed her too much, that in his haste to tell her how he felt, he hadn’t driven her away.

“Ashley…?”

She eased back a little to look at him. “I love you, too, Jason. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”

He started shaking his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t say ‘sweet.’ Nobody marries a man who’s sweet.”

She smiled, reached up and touched his cheek. “You are sweet, but you’re right, I won’t marry you. Not now. Not until I get my life together.”

A crushing weight seemed to settle on his chest.

“Besides,” she continued, her moist eyes still smiling up at him, making him want to pull her back into his arms, “we haven’t even made love.”

She glanced toward the bedroom. “Mrs. Epstein is watching the baby. We have the apartment all to ourselves. I think…if it’s what you want, too…now would be the perfect time.”

His spirits lifted at the same instant his body went hard. “I want to make love to you more than anything in the world. I just…I didn’t want to rush you.”

She reached over and caught his hand. “We’ve waited long enough.”

He let her lead him into the bedroom, his heart hammering away inside his chest. The queen-size bed he had told her came from a friend who was upsizing to a king had in fact come from Macy’s. He hadn’t dared buy her new sheets, so she was using some that Mrs. Sparks had loaned her.

He looked at the bed and then at her, saw that now she had made her decision, she was getting nervous.

“It’s okay,” he said, gently cupping her cheek. Leaning down, he very softly kissed her. “You don’t have to do anything more. I can take it from here.”

She smiled at him with such yearning his heart hurt. “I love you, Jason.”

“I love you, too.” And then he kissed her again and Ashley kissed him back, and everything seemed to fall exactly into place.

She was his, he knew. And no matter how long he had to wait, one day she was going to marry him.

T
race sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of thick black coffee. Unable to sleep, he had made the pot hours ago and now was brooding over the dregs.

He tried not to think about Maggie, but his mind kept going there. He kept wondering what would have happened if he had told her how he felt. He wondered if it would have made a difference. The problem was, until she was gone, he hadn’t really figured out that he was in love.

By then it was too late.

It was never going to happen between them; he had to accept that. But there was this last nagging worry that wouldn’t leave him.

He rubbed the bristles on his jaw as he walked into the living room and turned on the TV. The photo card with Maggie’s latest collection was still in place. The list with the names of the photos sold the night of the opening sat on the end table. He picked up the list, then used the tuner to pull up the photo next in line from where they’d left off.

He recognized the picture, but didn’t remember the title. He wished Maggie was there to help him.

Damn, he just wished Maggie was there, period.

He ran through the first few photos. Without knowing the names of the pieces, he couldn’t compare them to the ones on the sold list, but he didn’t notice anything incriminating. He went through a few more, not sure what he was looking for.

The police believed Phillip Coffman had set the fire. Coffman had admitted paying people to take photos of Maggie, to place the cameras in her house and the GPS on her car. But there wasn’t anything to connect him to the fire, nothing in his house or garage, and his attorney had been adamant that his client was innocent of arson.

And the nagging suspicion Trace had had all along refused to go away.

The morning was slipping by. He needed to shower and get down to the office. He brought up another photo, tried to compare it to the titles and buyers on the list, then looked up at the sound of the doorbell.

Trace was wearing only his jeans, no shirt, no shoes; and smiled to think he couldn’t get past the no-service sign on the door of the Texas Café. He looked through the peephole, saw Maggie standing on his porch, and his chest squeezed.

Dammit. He’d promised himself he would never let a woman make him feel this way again.

He opened the door.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. Too brightly, he thought. “I took a chance you’d still be home. I brought your laptop back. I figured you might need it.”

He stepped out of the way to let her pass, got a whiff
of her flowery perfume. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, raking a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

He took the laptop from her hand, but she made no move to leave, and he didn’t want her to. “Listen, if you’ve got a few minutes, I could use your help.” Damn, she looked pretty with her fiery hair loose. He tried not to think about how lonely he’d been without her. “I could make us a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Yes! I—I mean, coffee sounds great.” There was something in her eyes he had never seen there before. Something that made his pulse begin to hammer.

“So what kind of help do you need?” she asked, following him into the kitchen.

“I thought I’d finish going through those pictures you took. Just, you know, to satisfy my curiosity and tie up any loose ends.”

“I think that’s a good idea. What could it hurt, right?” She waited while he made the coffee, and he thought how good it felt to have her back in his house. How much more homey it seemed. Rowdy must have felt the same, because at the sound of her voice, he came trotting into the kitchen and made a beeline straight for her.

“Hello, boy.” She petted his thick, black-and-white fur. “I missed you.”

Trace wondered if there was any chance she had missed him, too. Wondered what would happen if he just blurted out that he was crazy about her. That he wanted her to move back in.

He didn’t, of course. Common sense prevailed. If she wanted to be there, she would have stayed.

While the coffee was dripping, he went back to the living room and put the next photo up on the screen.

“That’s called
Magnificent Storm,
” Maggie said, walking up beside him.

He tried not to think of kissing her, lifting her up in his arms and carrying her off to bed. He focused his attention on the list.

“It was one of those sold that night, but it’s a seascape. No people in it.”

“No.”

The next photo came up.
“Rising Tide,”
she said. People playing in the surf, some lying on beach towels in the sand. Most were too far away to see, but a young couple was kissing on a blanket closer to the camera, and there was such an innocence about them it made his chest ache.

“Plenty of people in that one but I don’t see anybody doing anything wrong.” He smiled. “Unless that couple has something to hide.”

“They were newlyweds.” Maggie returned the smile. “I talked to them, got them to sign a release, since they appeared so prominently in the photo.”

“Probably not about them then, and no one else stands out.” He clicked up another picture, the harbor shot he had liked the night of the show.

“I know this one.
Harbor Sunset.
I remember it made me want to go sailing.”

“It was taken down at the Blue Fin Marina just as the sun was setting.”

“That’s near Seabrook. Lots of boats and lots of people.”

“It was the end of a perfect day. Most of the boats were back in their slips and people were sitting out on their decks. You can see the names on the back of the yachts along the dock. The sun was coming in at just
the right angle. The lighting was perfect. It made a great shot.”

“Metadata says it was taken April 20 at 5:42 p.m.”

“That sounds about right.”

Trace looked down at the list. “Richard Meyers, Senator Logan’s aide, bought it.”

Maggie walked closer to the screen. “I wonder if Logan owns one of the yachts in the picture.”

“As I think back, Cassidy said once that her dad had a really nice boat.”

Maggie pointed to one of the expensive white yachts in the picture. “I bet that’s his—
Capitol Expense
.” It was big and flashy, something a guy like Logan would own.

She studied the photo, which was blown up to fifty-two inches, but in high-definition was relatively clear. “I think that’s him—the guy with the silver hair sitting on the deck.”

Trace moved nearer. “I think you’re right.” He studied the photo, beginning to get one of those niggling feelings at the back of his neck. “There’s a woman sitting across from him.”

“She’s got really dark hair, so she isn’t his wife.”

“Then it’s not his daughter, either. Both of them are blonde. Just for fun, let’s find out who she is.”

“How do we do that? Mainly, we just see her profile.”

“We can tell one thing. She’s wearing a bikini and she looks damned good in it.”

Maggie laughed. “She looks young.”

“Young and pretty. I don’t think this is one of the senator’s constituents.”

Maggie looked up at him. “He’s running for governor. It wouldn’t help him any for word to get out he’s having an affair.”

Trace studied the photo. The woman was definitely not Cassidy or Teresa Logan. “Hard to believe he’d be willing to burn down your house, though, to keep it quiet.”

“I guess it depends on how badly he wants to win.”

Trace walked over and touched the screen. “There’s something here, on the woman’s shoulder. Some kind of colored mark. I can’t quite make it out…”

Maggie leaned forward, close enough he could feel her warmth, breathe in that familiar perfume. His body tightened. Damn.

“Might be a tattoo,” she said. “She’s young. It’s kind of the thing to do.”

“Maybe.” He pulled the card out of the slot in the side of the screen. “I know someone who can help us. He can give us a better look at the woman’s face, and we’ll find out what the mark is on her shoulder.”

The coffee was done, the rich aroma filling the house, but Trace no longer cared. His instincts were screaming, telling him he had just hit the mother lode.

“Can I come with you?” Maggie asked, looking up at him with those pale green eyes that had drawn him in since he had seen her that day at the Texas Café. And though he knew he was being a fool, knew he would only feel worse when she left again, he opened his mouth and said, “Yes.”

Maggie waited as Trace made a phone call. When he hung up, he led her out to his Jeep.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“An old friend of my dad’s. Pete Wilkinson. He’s retired from NASA. Still does consulting work for them on occasion.”

She snapped her seat belt in place, then sat back as
Trace headed out of town, driving southeast, winding up in a subdivision in Pasadena. His father’s friend must have been watching for them. A man in his late fifties, with iron-gray hair and a paunch around his middle, opened the door and stepped out on the porch as they pulled up in front of his single-story brick house.

“Come on,” Trace said, leading Maggie up the walkway. The men shook hands. Introductions were made and Pete led them into his home.

“Thanks for seeing us, Pete. I have a feeling this may be important.”

“Well, then, I hope I can help.”

Maggie followed the men into Wilkinson’s study, which was surprisingly high-tech, considering the rest of the house was simply furnished, with a dark brown overstuffed sofa, newspapers stacked on the coffee table and a dog bowl on the floor next to the kitchen counter. She could tell Pete lived alone.

In comparison, the office looked very space-age, with big screens filling the walls, and banks of computers. Photos of the space shuttle, pictures of the moon landing and impressive colored images from the Hubble telescope hung on what few walls were not otherwise occupied, next to an impressive array of gilt-framed awards.

“Pete worked on the software NASA developed to study the photos sent back to earth from space. They’re still using a lot of it.” Trace’s mouth edged up. “Pete does consulting for the space center when they can’t figure things out by themselves.”

The older man just smiled. “Keeps me busy. I’m a widower, you see, and not the type to go out and play golf.”

“Pete helped my dad with some of his tougher surveillance cases.” Trace handed him the digital imaging card. “We’re trying to identify a girl in one of the photos.”

The photo expert stuck the card into one of his computers and used the keyboard to shoot forward through the pictures.

“There!” Trace stopped him. “That’s the one we’re interested in.”

Pete shoved on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and peered at the screen. “All right, let’s see what we can see.” He fiddled with the controls and the computer started enlarging then clarifying the image on the monitor. Enlarging, then clarifying. It didn’t take long before they could clearly see Senator Logan’s handsome, smiling face on the screen.

“That appears to be our illustrious senator,” Pete said.

“That’s right.”

He went to work on the girl’s profile, enlarging and clarifying until her image came sharply into view.

“Can’t really see enough of her face to recognize her,” Pete said.

Trace turned to Maggie. “Any idea who it might be?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Pete went back to work, using his equipment to bring up the patchy image on the young woman’s shoulder.

“It’s a tattoo, all right,” Trace said as the colored design came into focus. “Pretty fancy work.”

“Looks like a small, extremely detailed fairy,” Pete said, assessing the drawing, which was perfect in every way.

“Yeah. I don’t think it’s something you’d find in your
average tattoo parlor. Guy’s a real artist. This is extremely specialized work.” Trace looked at Pete. “Can you get us some prints?”

“You bet I can.”

A few minutes later, magnified photos of the senator and his lady friend buzzed out of the printer, followed by close-ups of her colorful tattoo. Pete plucked them out of the tray and handed them to Trace. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Let me know how it all turns out, will you?”

“You bet.”

“Too bad about your dad,” Pete said as he walked them back through the house. “Heart attack.” He shook his head. “I always thought he’d go down in a blaze of gunfire.”

Trace’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I’m sure there were times he thought so, too.”

Pete stopped at to the door. “Nice to meet you, Maggie.”

“You, too, Pete. We really appreciate your help.”

She and Trace left the house, enlargements in hand, and he headed the Jeep toward downtown Houston.

“Where to now?” Maggie asked.

“I’ve got a friend in the department. Danny Castillo. He’s head of the Houston gang division and knows tattoos backward and forward. With a design as intricate as this one, he should be able to tell us who did the work. With any luck, the artist will be able to give us his customer’s name.”

“You think Castillo will be in?”

“We’ll run him down sooner or later. My gut is telling me we’re onto something here.”

“Maybe the girl was just a friend of a friend.”

“Could be. I have a hunch we’re going to find out.”

As they pushed through the glass doors, Maggie’s nerves kicked in. She couldn’t help remembering the night she had gone to the police station hoping to get help with a stalker. Instead, she had garnered snide looks and knowing glances, and very little interest in her troubles. She told herself this time would be different.

“He’s here,” Trace said, returning from a visit to the front desk. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Maggie just nodded. Her stomach was in knots, though she told herself this had nothing to do with her, and was probably a waste of time. It didn’t take long before a tall, good-looking Hispanic with short black hair combed straight back, and very black eyes, walked toward them.

“Hey, man, good to see you.” Castillo shook hands with Trace.

“Danny, this is Maggie O’Connell. She’s been dealing with a stalker. We’re hoping you can help us run down a lead on something that might be pertinent to the case.”

“Sure, whatever I can do. Come on back.” Castillo led them down a long hall into a white-walled room that was worn and Spartan, the linoleum floors chipped in places, the baseboards scuffed with shoe marks. The wooden chairs around the battered table had seen plenty of wear. “You want some coffee or something?”