Against the Storm. Kat Martin
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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