Книга - Questioning the Heiress

Questioning the Heiress
Delores Fossen








Questioning the Heiress

Delores Fossen







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#ub9b3c96f-12bd-532d-9f8c-b057dda3f4b0)

Title Page (#ua01b23bd-badb-55e8-b80c-53f3985bdd54)

About the Author (#u07683e88-7a08-5237-a166-27793df76c48)

Dedication (#uc3f07a89-f1d2-52ad-a0e1-5065ddc1c6b7)

Chapter One (#ulink_00260725-88ea-5396-bd91-0ddc0657fbaa)

Chapter Two (#ulink_77557905-a044-5087-83af-e738612be5ca)

Chapter Three (#ulink_79af028d-1755-519d-9981-19ba3c96add1)

Chapter Four (#ulink_5f6626f7-277f-562b-bb79-c83fdd71fde8)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why Texas author and former Air Force captain Delores Fossen feels as if she was genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an Air Force Top Gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.


To Mallory Kane and Rita Herron. Thanks so much for this wonderful experience.




Chapter One (#ulink_f37dde98-f378-53c4-8a51-d147cfe98089)


San Antonio, Texas

Sgt. Egan Caldwell already had four dead bodies on his hands. He sure as hell didn’t want a fifth.

“I need a guard in place by the entrance gate. Now!” he ordered into the thumb-size communicator clipped to his collar. And by God, the two rent-a-cops had better be listening and reacting. “Secure the area and await orders. Do not fire. Repeat. Do not fire. If this is our killer, he might have a hostage.”

And in this case the hostage would be none other than Caroline Stallings, the Cantara Hills socialite who’d made a frantic call to Egan six minutes earlier. He’d been a Texas Ranger for over four years, and that was more than enough time on the job to have learned that six minutes could be five minutes and fifty-nine seconds too late to save someone from a killer.

With his Sig Sauer Blackwater pistol gripped in his right hand, Egan blinked away the sticky summer rain that was spitting at him, and he zigzagged through the manicured shrubs and trees that lined the eighth of a mile-long cobblestone driveway. He’d parked on the street so the sound of his car engine wouldn’t alert anyone that he was there. He tried not to make too much noise, listening for anything to indicate the killer was inside the twostory Victorian house. Or worse.

Escaping.

Egan couldn’t let this guy get away again.

Things had sure gone to hell in a handbasket tonight. Less than ten minutes ago, Egan had been eating a jalapeño burger, chili fries and going over forensic reports in his makeshift office at the country club. Less than ten minutes ago, the two-hundred-and-eighty-six residents of Cantara Hills had been safe with a Texas Ranger and two civilian guards they’d hired to stop anyone suspicious from getting into the exclusive community.

And then that phone call had come.

“This is Caroline Stallings,” she’d said, her voice more breath than sound. Egan had felt her fear from the other end of the line. “There’s an intruder in my home.”

Then, nothing.

Everything had gone dead.

Well, everything except Egan’s concerns. They were sky-high because two of the three previous murders in Cantara Hills and an attempted murder had been preceded by break-ins.

Just like this one.

And even though the person responsible, Vincent Montoya, had been murdered as well, there was obviously someone else. Montoya’s boss, maybe. Or someone with a different agenda. Maybe that someone was now right there in Caroline Stallings’s house.

Egan slapped aside some soggy weeping willow branches and raced toward the back of the house. He didn’t stop. Running, he checked the windows for any sign of the killer or Caroline Stallings. Enough lights were on to illuminate the place, but no one was in sight in the large solarium that he passed.

“I’m at the entry gate,” one of the guards said through the communicator. “My partner’s by the west fence. That covers both of the most likely exit routes, and San Antonio PD backup should be here soon to cover the others.”

Soon wasn’t soon enough. He needed backup now.

“I’m going in the house,” he told the guard. Egan had to make sure Caroline Stallings was alive and that she stayed that way. “If the intruder comes running out of there alone, try to make an arrest. If he doesn’t cooperate, if you have to shoot, then aim low for the knees. I want this SOB alive.”

Because this particular SOB might be able to answer some hard questions about the four deaths that’d happened in or around Cantara Hills in the past nine months.

Egan glanced around to make sure the intruder hadn’t escaped into the back or east yards. If he had, then it was a long drop down since the house was literally perched on the lip of a jagged limestone bluff. An escape over that particular wrought-iron fence could be suicide. But Egan did spot someone.

The brunette with a butcher knife.

She was standing just a few feet away on the porch near double stained-glass doors, and she had a white-knuckled grip on the gleaming ten-inch blade. Her bluegreen eyes were wide, her chest pumping with jolts of breath that strained her sleeveless turquoise top.

It was Caroline Stallings.

Alive, thank God. And she seemed unharmed.

Egan had seen her around Cantara Hills a couple of times in the past week since the Texas Rangers had been called in to solve three cold-case murders and then a hot one that’d happened only forty-eight hours earlier. During those other sightings, Ms. Stallings had always appeared so cool, rich and collected. She wasn’t so cool or collected now with her shaky composure and windswept dark brown hair.

But the rich part still applied.

Despite the fear and that god-awful big knife, she looked high priced, high rent and high maintenance.

She jumped when she saw him. And gasped. That caused her chest to pump even harder.

“Where’s the intruder?” Egan mouthed.

She used the knife blade to point in the direction of the left side of the house. The opposite location from where he’d come. “My bedroom,” she mouthed back. “I ran out here when I heard the noise.”

Wise move. From her vantage point, she could see a lot through that beveled glass, including an intruder if he was about to come after her.

She reached over, eased open the door, and Egan slipped inside through the kitchen. The floor was gray slate. Potentially noisy. So he lightened his steps.

There were yards of slick black granite countertops, stainless appliances that reflected like mirrors, and in the open front cabinets, precise rows of crystal glasses, all shimmering and cool. He lifted an eyebrow at the halfempty bag of Oreo cookies on the kitchen island.

The A/C spilled over him, chilling the rain that snaked down his face and back. “Has the intruder come out of your bedroom or moved past you to get to another part of the house?” he asked.

“No one’s come out of that room,” she insisted.

So Egan turned his ear in that direction and listened.

Well, that’s what he tried to do, anyway, but he couldn’t hear much, other than Caroline Stallings’s frantic breathing and her silk clothes rustling against her skin. She was obviously trembling from head to toe.

“When I came home from work, I noticed my security system wasn’t working. Then I heard someone moving around in my bedroom,” she muttered. “I dialed 9-1-1, they dispatched my call to you, and something or someone cut the line.”

Yes. The line had indeed gone dead. Egan had hoped it was because of the rain, but his gut told him otherwise. It wasn’t difficult to cut a phone line or disarm a security system, and perps usually did that when they wanted to sever their victim’s means of communication. Murder or something equally nasty usually followed. Hopefully, he’d prevented the “equally nasty” part from happening.

“And I found this thing in my car,” she added a moment later.

The vague thing got his attention. That wasn’t good, either. Egan didn’t want his attention on anything other than the intruder.

He glanced over his shoulder at Ms. Stallings and scowled at her so she’d hush. The scowl was still on his face when he heard the sound. Not breathing or rustlings on silk. It came from the direction of her bedroom, and it sounded as if someone had opened a door.

“What’s the status of SAPD?” Egan whispered into the communicator.

“Not here yet,” was the guard’s response.

Egan silently cursed. It was decision time. He could stand there and continue to protect Ms. Stallings, or he could do something to catch a possible killer.

It didn’t take him but a second to decide.

“Follow me,” he instructed Caroline. “Stay low and don’t make a sound.”

She nodded and kept a firm grip on the butcher knife.

“And don’t accidentally stab me with that thing,” he snarled.

She tossed him a scowl of her own.

Egan took his first steps toward the bedroom, moving from the slate floor of the kitchen to some kind of exotic hardwood in the dining room and the foyer. He stopped. Listened. But he didn’t hear any indication that the intruder was coming their way. So he took another step. Then, another. Caroline Stallings followed right behind him.

From the massive foyer, it was well over twenty feet to her bedroom. The door was open, and he paused in the entryway to get a look around. It, too, was massive. At least four hundred square feet. He wasn’t surprised by all the space.

There were more dark hardwood floors and an equally dark four-poster bed frame, but nearly everything else was virginal white. The walls, the rugs, the high-end dresser and chest that were glossy white wood. It smelled like linen, starch and the rain.

No visible intruder.

However, there was movement.

Egan spun in that direction, re-aiming his weapon, but he realized the movement had come from the gauzy white curtains that were stirring in the breeze. He quickly spotted the breeze’s source. Another set of French doors.

And these were wide open.

The doors shifted a little with each new brush of wind. That was obviously the sound he’d heard when he’d thought the intruder was escaping.

Mentally cursing again, Egan stepped just inside the room so he could get a better look at the floor. It didn’t take any Ranger training or skill to see the wet footprints on the hardwood. The prints didn’t just lead into the room. There were also some going out.

Hell. The intruder had likely left before Egan had even arrived.

“The cops are here,” the guard informed Egan through the communicator.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. “Have them check the grounds, but it looks as if our guy got away.”

“He got away?” Caroline repeated with more than a bit of anger in her voice.

She went forward until she was right at his back and came up on her tiptoes so she could peer over his shoulder. She touched him in the process. Specifically, her silkcovered right breast swished against his back. That didn’t stop her from looking and obviously seeing those tracks.

“He’s gone,” she mumbled, moving back slightly. She cursed, too, and it wasn’t exactly mild. But it was justified. Judging from what the Rangers had learned about the murders, Caroline Stallings just might be on the killer’s list.

The problem was—who was the killer?

And why exactly would he want Caroline dead?

So far, all the victims had been connected to a fatal hit-and-run that’d happened nine months earlier on the night of a high-society Christmas party at Cantara Hills. The now-dead Vincent Montoya was responsible for that incident, in which a young woman had died. In fact, everyone directly connected to the hit-and-run was dead.

Except for Caroline.

She’d been driving the vintage sports car that Vincent Montoya had slammed into.

Caroline had been injured, too, and supposedly lost her memory of not only the accident but that entire fateful night. The so-called amnesia bothered the hell out of Egan. Was she faking it to save one of her rich friends who might have caused the hit-and-run? Or was she covering for herself because she’d been negligent in some way? Egan didn’t know which, but he was almost positive she was covering something.

Almost.

“The police will come inside any minute,” Egan told her. He moved her back into the doorway so that she’d be away from the windows. “Then, I can question you and have them check for trace and prints. We might be able to get something off those shoe impressions and the doorknobs.”

He didn’t want to get too engrossed in processing the crime scene just in case the cops flushed out the intruder and the SOB came running back into the house. That’s the reason Egan kept his service pistol aimed and ready.

“You’re sure you had your security system turned on?” he asked her.

“Of course. Since the murders, I always make sure it’s set. But as I said, it wasn’t working when I came home.” She looked around. “At least nothing appears to have been ransacked. And besides, there wasn’t much to steal since I don’t keep money or expensive jewelry in the house.”

“This person might not have been after stuff,” Egan grumbled.

She touched the highly polished dresser, which was dotted with perfectly aligned silver-framed photos of what appeared to be family members. “Do you think the intruder could have been the person who murdered Vincent Montoya?”

“It’s possible.” More than possible. Likely. Especially since the ritzy neighborhood of Cantara Hills had been virtually crime-free prior to the hit-and-run. But afterward…Well, that was a whole different story.

“Why isn’t Lt. McQuade here?” she asked a moment later. “I figured he’d be the one to come.”

Brody McQuade, the Ranger lieutenant in charge of the Cantara Hills murders. “He’s in California trying to track down a person of interest.”

“Oh. Then what about the other Ranger—Sgt. Keller?” She spoke in a regular voice. Not whispers. And Egan didn’t have to listen hard to that shiny accent to know that she didn’t seem to care for his presence. “He was at the country club earlier. Why didn’t he come?”

“Hayes is in Austin at the crime lab. And before you ask, I’m in charge of this investigation right now, and you’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck with the surly one,” she mumbled. Her chin came up when he glared back at her. “That’s what people around here call you. Brody’s the intense one. Hayes is the chip-on-the-shoulder one.”

Egan’s glare morphed into a frown. “And I got named ‘the surly one’? That’s the best you people could do?”

She nodded as if his you-people insult didn’t bother her in the least. “It suits you.”

Yeah. It did. But for some reason it riled him, coming from her. “You’re the richer one.”

“Excuse me?” She blinked.

Egan tried not to smile at her obvious indignation. “There are three young Cantara Hills socialites involved in this investigation. The ‘rich’ one is your lawyer friend, Victoria Kirkland. You’re the ‘richer’ one. And Taylor Landis, the third socialite, who hosted that infamous Christmas party, is the ‘richest of them all.’”

She gave him a flat look. “How original. That must have required lots of time and mental energy to come up with those.”

“About as much time and energy as it took you and your pals to come up with surly.”

They stared at each other.

There was a sharp rap at the front door, causing both Egan and her to jump a little. But even a little jump for Egan was an embarrassing annoyance and more proof that Caroline Stallings was a distraction he didn’t need or want.

“SAPD,” the man said from outside the door. “We can’t find anyone on the grounds.”

Egan didn’t even bother with profanity—he was past that point. He went to the door and let the two uniformed officers in. Both were drenched from the rain, as were the two security guards behind them. That same drenching rain would likely wash away any tracks or evidence that the intruder had left in the yard.

“There are shoe prints in the bedroom,” Egan informed them, and he hitched his thumb in that direction. “It looks as if that’s the point of entry and escape. I want that entire area processed.”

The taller Hispanic cop nodded. “I’ll get our CSI guys out here right away.” He paused and looked at Caroline. “What about her? Does she need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

Egan slipped his pistol back into his leather shoulder holster. “Secure the crime scene,” he instructed the officer. “Check for signs of forcible entry and a cut phone line. Someone probably tampered with the security system, too. And let me know the minute the CSI guys arrive. Ms. Stallings has to show me a thing she found in her car, and I’ll question her about the intruder while I’m doing that.”

“Oh, yes. The thing,” Caroline said as if she’d forgotten all about it. “My car’s in the garage. This way.” She led him through the foyer and back into the kitchen—all thirty to forty feet of it. She slid the knife back into the empty slot of a granite butcher’s block.

“You’re sure you didn’t see this person in your house?” Egan proceeded.

“No. Not even a shadow.”

Egan kept at it. “But you heard a sound. Footsteps, maybe?”

“I’m not sure what I heard. Movement, yes. But not footsteps per se.”

Too bad. The sound of footsteps could have given him possible information about the size of the intruder. Since they were nearing the solarium and the garage, Egan shifted his focus a little. “What exactly is this thing you found in your car?”

“A little black plastic box about the size of a man’s wallet. It fell out from beneath my dash while I was driving home tonight.”

That didn’t immediately alarm him. “And you don’t think it’s part of the car?” Though he couldn’t imagine what part of the car that would be, exactly.

She lifted her shoulder. “I guess it could be. But it’d been secured with duct tape.”

Now, the alarms came. She wasn’t the sort of woman to buy anything that required the use of duct tape. “Did you open this box?”

“No. It fell as I was pulling into my garage so I let it stay put and went inside. I’d left my cell phone at the restaurant in the country club, and I was going to use my house phone to call someone about the box, but then I heard the intruder.”

So, she’d had two surprises in one night. Were they connected? “What do you think this box could be?”

“Maybe some kind of eavesdropping equipment,” she readily supplied. “My family and I are in the antiques business. Competition is a lot more aggressive than you’d think, and I’m within days of closing a multimilliondollar deal.”

That silenced some of those alarms in Egan’s head. “So you think your competition could have planted a listening device to get insider information?”

“It’s possible.”

Egan followed her through the massive solarium. More lights flared on as they walked through, and those lights gave him a too-good view of his hostess’s backside. In that short black skirt, it was hard not to notice that particular part of her anatomy. Ditto for her long legs, which looked even longer because of the three-inch heels she was wearing. She was no waif, that was for sure. Caroline Stallings had a woman’s body with plenty of curves.

“The garage is through here,” she explained, and she reached for a door.

Egan caught on to her arm and pulled her behind him.

There was renewed alarm in her eyes. “You think the intruder could still be around?”

“No. But I don’t want you to take any unnecessary chances. I want you alive and well because if you ever get your memory back, we might finally be able to figure out who’s behind these killings.”

She made a noncommittal sound. “And that’s why you set up the appointment for the day after tomorrow for me to see the psychiatrist. The one who specializes in recovering lost memories from traumatic incidents. She wants to try some new drug on me.”

Egan didn’t think it was his imagination that Caroline was upset about that. Probably because it threw off her daily massage schedule or something. But he didn’t care one bit about inconveniencing her. He only wanted the truth about what’d really happened the night of that hit-and-run.

“The psychiatrist also wants me to keep a journal of my dreams,” she added. “I was up at three in the morning writing down things that I’m sure won’t make a bit of sense to her. I just don’t think this’ll do any good.”

“You never know,” he mumbled. “It might be the key to the truth.” But even a long shot like this was a move in the right direction.

He preceded her into the garage. The lights were still on, and there were two cars parked inside. A vintage white Mercedes convertible, top up, beaded with rainwater, and a 1966 candy-apple-red Mustang with a coat of dust on it. What Egan didn’t see were any signs of the person who’d left those tracks in her bedroom.

“The box thing is in the Mercedes,” she volunteered, stepping ahead of Egan. She, too, made vigilant glances all around them. But the vigilance didn’t seem necessary because no one jumped out at them, and no one was lurking between the vehicles.

She opened the passenger’s door and pointed to the object on the floor. Yep. It was a small black box all right, and it had strips of black duct tape dangling off the sides.

“Like I said, I think it’s an eavesdropping device,” she commented.

And she reached for it.

Her fingers were less than an inch away when Egan practically tackled her so he could snag her wrist. In theory, it was a good idea because he didn’t want her to smear any prints that might be on the box. But that snagged wrist and his forward momentum sent them sprawling onto the passenger’s seat.

Caroline landed face-first. He landed with his face in her peach-scented, shoulder-length hair. And another part of him, a brainless part of him, hit against her firm butt. Egan grunted from the contact.

Her body nearly distracted him from hearing the tiny, soft sounds.

Clicks.

But Egan shook his head, mentally amending that. Not clicks.

Ticks.

The sounds were synchronized. One right behind the other. Marking off time.

Or rather counting it down.

Hell.

“Get out of here!” he shouted, dragging Caroline from the seat. “It’s a bomb.”




Chapter Two (#ulink_1082ee88-f282-5843-b21e-98f14135bee2)


Before Egan Caldwell’s words even registered in Caroline’s head, he already had hold of her and was running toward the door with her in tow.

Mercy, was that black box really a bomb?

She’d heard the ticking sound, of course. Not while she’d been in the car earlier when the engine was running. But now—when Egan and she had tumbled onto the seat. She seriously doubted that an eavesdropping device would have a timer on it.

The adrenaline jolted through her, and Caroline somehow managed to run in her unsensible business heels. Probably thanks to Egan. He had a death grip on her left wrist and practically plowed them through the door that led to a narrow mudroom and then the solarium on the back of her house.

“Evacuate now—there’s a bomb in the garage!” he shouted. Which, in turn, caused more shouts from the cops and the security guards.

All of them began to run. Egan didn’t stop, either. He hauled her through the kitchen, then the living room, and they exited through the front door, on the opposite side of the house from the garage. The cops were ahead of them. The two civilian guards, behind.

The rain was coming down harder now and lashed at them like razors. So did the blinding blue strobe lights from the police cruiser parked at the end of her cobblestone drive. It didn’t hinder Egan. He barreled down the front porch steps with her and made a beeline to the driveway, getting her even farther away from the garage.

“Call the bomb squad,” Egan shouted over his shoulder to one of the guards who was sprinting along behind them. He glanced around through the rain and the night until his attention landed on the other guard. “Keep everyone away from the house.”

Because the place might blow up.

That “bottom line” realization sent Caroline’s heart to her knees. Someone might get hurt. Also, her house might soon be destroyed, and there was apparently nothing she could do to stop it.

But who had done this?

A car bomb certainly seemed like overkill for an overly zealous competitor in the antiques business. Sweet heaven. Had the intruder also been the one to plant that bomb? And if so, why?

Of course, she couldn’t discount the four previous murders. All people she’d known. All of them involved in some way with the City Board, of which she was a member.

Was she now the killer’s next target?

Her legs and thighs began to cramp from the exertion. She wasn’t much of a runner, and the heels didn’t help. Caroline was wheezing for breath and her heart was hammering in her chest by the time they made it to the end of her drive.

Egan stopped, finally, and pulled her in front of him. Actually, he put her against the wet stone pylon that held the open wrought-iron gate in place. He got right behind her, pushing her face-first against the stones.

“Don’t look back,” he warned. “And shelter your eyes just in case that damn thing goes off.”

That’s when she realized he was sheltering her. It wasn’t personal; Caroline was sure of that. She’d seen the disdain in his eyes. Sgt. Egan Caldwell was merely doing his job, and right now, she was the job.

“You really think the bomb’s about to explode?” Caroline asked.

“It’s a possibility, but I don’t believe the device is large enough to create a blast that’ll reach us here. At least, I hope not,” he added in a mumble.

But the officers apparently didn’t believe that because one of them began to sprint in the direction of her nearest neighbor. “I’ll have them evacuate,” the Hispanic cop relayed to Egan.

Mercy. Now her neighbor and best friend, Taylor Landis, was perhaps in danger.

Caroline wiped her hand over her face to sling off some of the rainwater. She wished she could do the same to the adrenaline and fear because it was starting to overwhelm her. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“If we have a vigilante killer on our hands, it doesn’t have to make sense,” he reminded her.

Yes. She’d heard that theory. Or rather the gossip. That Vincent Montoya might have been murdered by a vigilante who maybe wanted to tie up all loose ends of the hit-and-run.

“I can understand why a vigilante would go after Montoya,” she mumbled. “But why try to kill me?”

“You got an answer for that?” Egan asked.

Since that sounded like some kind of challenge, she looked back at him. She didn’t have to look far. He was there. Right over her soaking wet shoulder, and the overhead security light clearly showed his rain-streaked face.

Surly, beyond doubt.

Caroline tried not to let the next thought enter her mind, but she couldn’t stop it. Egan Caldwell was a goodlooking man. Okay, he wasn’t just good-looking.

He was hot.

Dark blond hair, partially hidden beneath that creamywhite Stetson. Eyes that were a brilliant, burning blue. He had just enough ruggedness to stop him from being a pretty boy and just enough pretty boy to smooth out some of that ruggedness.

And Caroline hated she’d noticed that about him.

“What are you waiting for me to say?” she snapped. “That this guy wants me dead because I saw or heard something the night of the hit-and-run?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to confirm it because Caroline could see the confirmation in those eyes. “Well, if that were true, why didn’t he come after me nine months ago? If this is truly some vigilante killer, then I should have been one of the first on his list.”

Egan stood there, staring at her, with the summer rain assaulting them and the sounds of chaos going on all around. The cruiser’s lights pulsed blue flashes over him. Flashes that were the same color as his eyes. “Maybe the killer hasn’t come after you before because you supposedly have no memories of the hit-and-run.”

Again, that wasn’t new information, either. “Nothing has changed about that. It’s not supposedly.” Caroline froze and then eased around so that she was facing him. “But I have an appointment the day after tomorrow to see that psychiatrist to help me remember what happened.”

He nodded and snorted slightly as if annoyed that it’d taken her so long to figure it out. “Did you tell anyone about that appointment?”

Oh, mercy. “Yes. I was talking about it today when I had lunch at the Cantara Hills Country Club.” Actually, Caroline had verbally blasted the Rangers, Egan and Brody, for demanding the appointment. She’d already been through hours of therapy and had zero recollection of the time immediately before, during and following the accident. The dream log and the appointment seemed not only unnecessary but intrusive and a total waste of time—and hope.

“Who was there at this country club lunch?” Egan asked. He used his snarly Texas Rangers’ tone that was only marginally softened by his easy drawl. Words slid right off that drawl.

“My parents. They were leaving on vacation this afternoon, a second honeymoon they’ve been planning for months, and I wanted to see them before they left.” In the distance, she could hear the sirens. Probably the bomb squad. Maybe they’d get there in time to disarm it before it could hurt anyone. “And Kenneth Sutton and his wife, Tammy, joined us.”

His mouth tightened. “Kenneth, who’s chairman of the City Board. He’s also a suspect.”

“Only because the hit-and-run driver, Vincent Montoya, worked for him. But Kenneth told me he had no idea what Montoya had done.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Egan grumbled. “Because according to Kenneth, Vincent Montoya killed Kimberly McQuade in that crash because he was jealous she’d rebuffed him and had had an affair with another man. An affair she’d never mentioned to anyone. Funny that the guy’s never surfaced, either, and there’s not a lick of proof that Montoya had had any sexual interest in Kimberly. Or vice versa. According to people who knew her well, Vincent Montoya wasn’t her type.”

“Because he was a lowly driver?” Caroline instantly regretted her question. It sounded snobby, especially since Egan’s own father was a chauffeur. And not just any old chauffeur but the one who worked for her father’s close friend who lived in Cantara Hills.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Talking about that night isn’t easy for me.” Caroline was still grieving. Always would. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t regret what had happened. Yes, Montoya had caused the fatal crash, but Caroline couldn’t help but wonder if there was something she could have done to stop it.

“Murder is rarely easy to talk about,” he countered.

When Caroline continued, she softened her voice. “I’m just having a hard time believing that Kenneth Sutton, a man I work with on the City Board, a man I’ve known my entire life, is capable of ordering his driver to murder someone. Yet the Rangers seem to think that might have happened.”

“You might think that, too, once I’ve had a chance to question Kenneth further and have more information.” He shrugged. “But the point right now is Kenneth was there today at lunch with you. He heard you say that you had an appointment with the shrink. Who else heard?”

She started to shake her head but stopped. Oh, this was not good. “My parents, Kenneth and his wife were the only people at the table with me, but some of my other neighbors were there. They could have heard.”

“Give me names,” he demanded, while he made a visual check of the area around them.

“Your father’s boss, Link Hathaway, and his daughter, Margaret. Miles Landis was there, too. He’s my best friend’s brother. Half brother,” she corrected. Miles had dropped by to hit her up for a loan, again. Caroline had turned him down, again. “Your father even came into the restaurant for a couple of minutes to talk to Link.”

Egan mumbled some profanity under his breath. “So, what you’re saying is that everyone in Cantara Hills knows about your appointment?”

She silently repeated the same profanity as Egan. “Yes. But I didn’t think I had to keep it a secret. My parents and I were discussing it because my mom’s upset about me being sedated with this drug and then interrogated. She wanted to cancel her trip, and I had to talk her out of it.”

Egan jumped right on that. “Why is she upset?”

Caroline groaned. The adrenaline and bomb scare had obviously made her chatty. “Long story.”

“I’m listening.”

Of course he was. And he was scowling again. He apparently thought she was concerned about revealing something incriminating.

Which she was.

In a way.

But Caroline couldn’t think about that now, and she didn’t dare voice any of it to Egan. She’d already blabbed enough tonight.

She chose her words carefully. “My mother’s afraid I’ll say something about a personal incident, and that the information will get around to everyone,” she admitted. “The incident isn’t pertinent to this case.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Caroline was sure her scowl matched his, and she had to speak through nearly clenched teeth. “All right. Three years ago I was involved with a jerk. Everybody knows about the broken engagement, but no one else knows that the jerk stole money from my parents. I want to keep it that way, understand?”

Egan responded with a noncommittal grunt. “I’ll keep it that way if I decide it’s not vital information that can help me catch a killer. You’re not my priority, Ms. Stallings. And neither is your parents’ need to keep their skeletons shut away in their walk-in closet.”

“Oh, God,” she mumbled, ignoring his last zinger. She checked her watch. “My parents. They’ll be in Cancun by now, and one of the neighbors might have called them at their hotel. They’ll be worried.” She glanced in the direction of her parents’ house. Just up the street. And even though she knew her parents weren’t home, her concerns were verified.

The cruiser’s lights had attracted the neighbors. All of them. One of the officers was guarding the street in front of her house and preventing anyone from getting too close. Including her parents’ nearest neighbors, the Jenkins. She spotted them, a perky yellow umbrella perched over their heads. They were frantically waving at her, and Mrs. Jenkins had a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“They say they have your parents on the line. They want to know if you’re all right,” the officer relayed to her. Because of the sirens and the rain, he had to practically shout.

“Tell them I’m fine,” Caroline shouted back. “And that I love them. I’ll call them later.”

If Egan had any response to her message, he didn’t show it. He looked at the approaching trio of bomb squad vehicles before turning his attention back to her. “Other than you, who had access to your car today?”

It was something that hadn’t occurred to Caroline. Yet. But it would have once she’d caught her breath. “I was the only person in the car. My family’s business office is on San Pedro Avenue, and I parked there in my space in the building garage. I came back here to Cantara Hills for lunch around noon, and then I met with a client at his office just off Highway 281 before returning to work.”

He glanced around them again. “I noticed your car doors were unlocked in the garage. Were they locked when you were at any of these other places?”

Caroline really hated to admit this, but, hey, she hadn’t known that her every movement might have been watched by a killer. “I had the top down most of the day so it wouldn’t have been hard for anyone to get inside. And since it’s a vintage car and I don’t keep anything valuable inside, it doesn’t have a security alarm.”

The bomb squad vehicles braked to a stop by the gate.

Egan stared at her. “So anyone could have overheard your conversation at lunch, and those same anyones could have gained access to your car and planted a bomb.”

Because he made her sound like a careless idiot, Caroline frowned. “That about sums it up.”

But Egan was right. She hadn’t been cautious, driving with the car top down with a killer on the loose, and it could have cost others their lives. She already blamed herself for Kimberly McQuade’s death.

She didn’t want this on her conscience as well.

The bomb squad personnel barreled out of their vehicles, and Egan stepped away from her to speak to a burly blond man wearing dark blue-gray body armor. Caroline listened as Egan briefed the man, describing the location of the device and the size.

The man tipped his head toward her. “Go ahead and get her out of here. I want those guards and uniforms out, too. I don’t want anyone near the place until my guys have checked out this thing.”

Egan turned back to her. There was more displeasure in his body language and expression, probably because he had to babysit her.

“Let’s go,” he grumbled.

But the grumble had barely left Egan’s mouth when the sound of the blast rocketed behind them.




Chapter Three (#ulink_e68fcc6d-2484-57f0-9d3d-038b135d6522)


Well, at least no one was dead.

That was the only good thing Egan could say about the events of the night.

First, an intruder. The intruder’s escape. Then, an explosion. Egan was waiting for a call from the bomb squad so he’d know the extent of the damage, but he didn’t have to hear a situation report to confirm that the killer had a new target.

Caroline Stallings.

She was in the corner of his temporary office. Soaked to the bone. She’d gotten even wetter when they had run from his car and into the country club. Her clothes were clinging to her body, and there were drops of rain still sliding down her bare legs and into those pricey, uncomfortable-looking heels. She was shivering. And using his phone to call her parents in Cancun, Mexico. Her calm, practically lively tone didn’t go with her slumped shoulders and shellshocked expression. The rain, and possibly even a tear or two, had streaked through what was left of her makeup.

“No. I’m fine, really,” she assured her parents. “There’s nothing you can do, and I have everything under control.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, probably to stop it from trembling. “I’m with one of the Rangers,” she went on. “We’re at his office at the Cantara Hills Country Club.” She paused. “No. I’m with Sgt. Egan Caldwell.” Another pause. “No.” She glanced at him and turned away. “He’s the surly one,” she whispered.

Egan was just punchy enough that he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He didn’t let Caroline see it, of course.

While she continued her call, Egan went to the closet behind his desk and took out one of the four freshly laundered shirts hanging inside. His jeans were soaked, too, but changing them would require leaving Caroline alone. Because they had a killer on the loose, that wasn’t a good idea. So he settled for a fresh blue button-up. Either that or a white shirt and jeans were his standard “uniform” when he was on duty, which lately was 24/7. He changed and put back on his shoulder holster. Later, he’d have to give his gun a good cleaning to dry it out as well.

“Please don’t come home,” he heard Caroline say. She’d repeated a variation of that at least a half-dozen times since the call began. “Yes, I’ll have the locks changed on all the doors and windows at the house. I’ll make sure the security system is checked. And I won’t stay there alone. I promise.” She shivered again. “I love you, too.”

She’d said that at least a half-dozen times as well. I love you. The words were heartfelt. It was hard to fake that level of emotion. Even though he was thirty years old and had been in his share of relationships, it still amazed Egan that some people could say those words so easily.

Not him.

But then, he’d never tried, figuring he was more likely to choke on them than say them aloud.

He finished transferring his badge to the dry shirt, turned, and Caroline was there holding out his phone for him to take. “Thank you,” she said. No more fake cheerfulness. The shock was setting in, and she was shaking harder now.

Egan hung up the phone, extracted another of his shirts from the closet and handed it to her. “Put this on. As soon as the bomb squad clears the area, you can go to your friend’s house and get some dry clothes.” That might not happen soon, though, and her friends wouldn’t be able to get to her since no one could use the road to drive to the country club. The bomb squad had sectioned it off.

She made a small throaty sound of agreement and slipped on his shirt. “Thank you again.”

Caroline wearily sank down into the studded burgundy leather chair next to his desk and closed her fingers over the delicate gold heart necklace that had settled in her cleavage. Like the words to her parents, she’d done that a lot tonight as well.

Egan anticipated what she’d do next. She was wearing two dainty gemstone gold rings on her left hand. Opals on one. Aquamarines on the other. Another opal ring was on her right hand. She began to twist and adjust them. She was obviously trying to settle her nerves. But Egan was betting that settled nerves weren’t in her immediate future no matter how many rings she twisted.

“I suppose the bomb squad will call when they know anything,” she said. Not really a question. He’d already explained that.

Still, Egan nodded and started a fresh pot of coffee. Thank God for the little premeasured packets because that was the only chance he had of making it drinkable, and right now, he needed massive quantities of caffeine that he could consume in a hurry so he could stay alert and fight off the inevitable adrenaline crash.

“You didn’t get to finish your dinner.” Caroline pushed her damp hair from her face and tipped her head to the now-cold burger and fries on the center of his desk. He’d managed only a few bites.

“It’s not the first time.” And he hoped that wasn’t concern for him in her voice.

Wait.

What was he thinking?

It couldn’t be concern. He was the surly one, and she was the richer one. She was an heiress. He, the chauffeur’s son. Concern on her part wasn’t in this particular equation, and the only thing she cared about was getting through this. The only thing he cared about was keeping her alive and catching a killer.

The silence came like the soggy downpour that was occurring simultaneously outside. They weren’t comfortable with each other, and they weren’t comfortable being in the same confined space. Hopefully, that confinement would end when the bomb squad finished, and he could pawn this “richer” leggy brunette off on someone else.

Anyone else.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help more with the investigation of the hit-and-run,” Caroline whispered.

That comment/apology came out of the blue, and Egan certainly hadn’t expected it. More ring twisting, yes. Ditto for touching that gold heart pendant. But he hadn’t anticipated a sincere-sounding apology. “And you’re probably sorry that you were driving the car that night.”

“That, too.” She nodded. “But my memory loss is only of that night. I remember Kimberly.”

So did Egan. Kimberly had grown up on the same street that he had. And her brother, Brody, was now Egan’s boss.

“She was a kind, generous woman who worked hard as an intern for the City Board,” Caroline continued. “I’m glad her killer is dead.”

And yet her killer was also someone whom Caroline had known. Vincent Montoya, who’d rammed his vehicle into the passenger’s side of Caroline’s vintage sports car. The impact had thrown Kimberly from her seat, and she’d sustained a broken neck. Death had come instantly.

But not for the two other men Montoya had murdered.

Two men, Trent Briggs and Gary Zelke, who Montoya likely believed had seen him ram into Caroline’s car, had been killed months later. Montoya had murdered them to eliminate witnesses and probably would have done the same to Victoria Kirkland, a third possible witness, if someone—the vigilante maybe—hadn’t killed Montoya first. Since it was possible that Victoria was now in danger from this vigilante, she was out of state in Brody’s protective custody.

Unlike Caroline.

She was here at Cantara Hills. Right in the line of fire.

“We still need to find out if Montoya was working alone, or if someone hired him to commit those murders,” Egan reminded her. He stood and poured them both some coffee. “And if he was working alone, then who’s this new intruder who came into your house tonight?”

She took the mug of coffee from him, gripping it in both of her shaky hands, and she sipped some even though it was steaming hot. “And you think that intruder might be Kenneth Sutton, the chairman of the City Board?” Despite all the other emotions, skepticism oozed from her voice.

Egan shrugged and sank down in his chair. “Stating the obvious here, but Montoya was Kenneth Sutton’s driver, personal assistant and jack-of-all trades.”

“That doesn’t mean Kenneth ordered Montoya to kill anyone. Kenneth’s a career politician and is running for the governor’s office. He can be ambitious when it comes to politics, but I don’t think he has murder on his mind.”

Egan was about to remind her that rich politicians hid behind their facades just like everybody else, but his cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Sgt. Caldwell.”

“This is Detective Mark Willows from the bomb squad. We’ve done a preliminary assessment. No injuries. Property damage is minimal. Definitely nothing structural. A few holes and dents in the garage wall. For the most part, the impact was confined to the Mercedes.”

Well, that was better news than he’d expected. That blast had been damn loud. “There was enough damage to destroy the car?” Egan asked.

“It’s banged up pretty bad, but we’ll tow it to the crime lab and look for prints and other evidence. The explosion happened at 8:10 p.m. You’ll probably want to question the owner to see if there’s anything significant about that time. We’ll question her, too, but it can wait until tomorrow. We’ll be here most of the night collecting the bits and pieces so we can reassemble the device and try to figure out who made it.”

“Thanks. Call me if you have anything else.” Egan clicked the end-call button and looked at Caroline. Who was looking at him, obviously waiting. “Good news,” he let her know. “No one was hurt. Your car is totaled, but the house is okay.”

The breath swooshed out of her, and her hand was suddenly shaking so hard that she sloshed some coffee on her fingers when she set the cup on his desk.

“Good. That’s good.” A moment later, she repeated it.

He debated if he should check her fingers, to make sure she hadn’t scalded them. She certainly wasn’t doing anything about it. Egan finally reached over and caught on to her wrist so he could have a look. Yep. Definitely red fingers. He rolled his chair across the floor to get to the small fridge, retrieved a cold can of soda and rolled back toward her. He pressed the can to her fingers.

She didn’t resist. Caroline just sat there. Her head hung low. Probably numb. Maybe even in shock. “I didn’t want anyone else’s death or injuries on my hands,” she said under her breath. “I couldn’t live with that.”

Since she seemed on the verge of tears, or even a total meltdown, Egan decided to get her mind back on business. His mind, too. He didn’t like seeing her like this.

Vulnerable.

Fragile.

Tormented.

He preferred when she had that aristocratic chin lifted high and the ritzy sass was in her eyes. Because there was no way he could ever be interested in someone with a snobby, rich, stubborn chin. But the vulnerability and the genuine ache he heard in her whisper, that could draw him in.

Oh, yeah.

It could make him see her as an imperfect, desirable woman and not the next victim on a killer’s list.

And that wouldn’t be good for either Caroline or him.

He needed to focus.

That was the best way to keep her alive and catch a killer.

He wrapped her fingers around the soda and leaned back to put some distance between them. No more touching. No more thinking about personal stuff. “The timer on the explosive was set for 8:10 p.m. Where would you normally have been at that time?”

Her head came up, and she met his gaze. “Since it’s Monday, I should have been in the car, driving home from work.”

He was afraid she was going to say that. “That’s your usual routine?”

She nodded. “I always work late on Mondays. The security guard walks me out to my car at eight p.m., because that’s when his shift is over. I leave at exactly that time so he won’t have to stay any longer, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to drive home.” She put the soft drink can aside so she could touch the necklace. “But the security guard wasn’t feeling well tonight. He wouldn’t go home until I did so I left about forty-five minutes earlier than I usually do.”

That insistent sick guard had saved her life. Egan didn’t need to spell that out for her.

“Who knows your work routine?” he asked.

The color drained from her cheeks. “Anyone who knows me.”

Well, that didn’t narrow it down much, and it certainly didn’t exclude Kenneth Sutton. There was just something about Kenneth that reminded Egan of a snake oil salesman. Egan only hoped that his feelings weren’t skewed that way because the guy was stinkin’ rich.

“So did the same person plant that bomb and then break into my house?” Caroline asked.

“Possibly. Maybe he set the explosive to make sure you didn’t come home when he was there.”

She shook her head. “Why? If that explosive had killed me, why bother to break into my house?” She waited a moment, her gaze still connected with Egan’s. “Unless he was there to make sure I hadn’t survived.”

It was Egan’s turn to shake his head. Egan had already played around with that theory, and it had a major flaw. “Then the intruder would have been lying in wait and would have attacked the moment you walked in. You wouldn’t have had time to make that 9-1-1 call or grab a knife.”

She closed her eyes a moment, and her breath shuddered. “So, this intruder perhaps not only wanted me dead but also wanted something from my house?”

“Bingo.” That was the conclusion he’d reached as well. “He probably thought you’d died in the car bomb, but when you came driving up, he’d perhaps already gotten what he came for or, rather, had tried to do that, and he fled because a person who sets a delayed explosive isn’t someone who wants a face-to-face meeting with their victim. Now, the question is—what did he take? The usual is either money or jewelry. Something lightweight enough to carry away.”

“I already told you I don’t keep large sums of money in the house, or on me. I use plastic for almost everything I buy. And I don’t own a lot of jewelry.” Caroline held up her hands. “These pieces are all from family members. Aunts and my mother. My grandmother,” she added, pointing to the gold heart necklace.

Family stuff. Something else he knew little about. “What about any small valuable antique that the intruder could have taken from your house?”

Another head shake. “I run an antiques business and love vintage cars, but I prefer modern decor.” She paused. “Or rather, no decor. I’m not much for fuss or clutter.”

He thought of her virginal white bedroom and glistening black kitchen and agreed. Modern, uncluttered and maybe even a little anal. Everything perfectly aligned and in its place, like the cool crystal.

Everything in place but those cookies.

Store-bought. Not the gourmet kind from some chichi bakery. Normal ones. Egan had a hard time imagining her standing in her kitchen. Surrounded by all that expensive glitter. Wearing silk designer clothes. And eating Oreos.

“Wait. There is something,” she said a moment later. “I have a small clock that was a Christmas gift from my mother. It’s portable and probably worth a lot. It’s on the nightstand, next to the dream journal I’ve been keeping for the psychiatrist.”

Egan didn’t remember seeing a clock or a journal, but then his attention had been on those open French doors, not the nightstand. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number to the SAPD dispatch, who in turn connected him with Detective Mark Willows.

“This is Sgt. Caldwell,” he said when Willows answered.

“Glad you called,” Willows interrupted before Egan could explain. “I just got an update from the CSI guys. They took Ms. Stallings’s lock from her bedroom door so they can test it to see if it was picked. They’ll replace it with a temp so we can secure the house.”

“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

“Well, we don’t want another break-in. This is just preliminary, but those shoe prints left on her bedroom floor are about a size eleven. Some kind of athletic shoes. So, we’re probably looking for a male.”

Egan made a note to check Kenneth Sutton’s shoe size. “I need you to check on the nightstand in the master bedroom and tell me what’s there,” Egan said to the detective.

“Give me a minute. I’m walking that way.” Egan heard the sound of the man’s movement. And waited. “There’s a phone and a clock,” Willows reported. “The phone is white, and the clock is about the size of baseball. It’s gold, and it’s got pearls and what looks like emeralds all around the dial. Heck, the friggin’ hands look like they’re made of diamonds. Caldwell, this is some clock.”

Yes, and the intruder didn’t take it. “Is there anything else on the nightstand?”

“Just a pen. Common, ordinary variety.”

Oh, man. “There’s no paper or notepad?”

“Nada.”

“Thanks. Make sure CSI checks that nightstand for prints.” Egan hung up, ready to relay that to Caroline, but he could tell from her expression that she already knew.

“My dream journal is missing,” she mumbled.

“Yeah. The expensive clock is still there, though. So, let me guess—everyone at that lunch today heard that you’d been keeping a journal.”

The color crept back into her face, and she looked as if she wanted to curse. She nodded.

Hell.

Egan leaned in and looked straight into her eyes. “Caroline, what exactly did you write in that journal?”




Chapter Four (#ulink_146e39b7-04b7-5936-ba38-b58d486778ef)


“It’s gibberish,” Caroline concluded as she glanced over the notes that she’d spent most of the previous night and that morning making. Or, rather, the notes that Egan had insisted she make so she could try to re-create her stolen dream journal.

She’d told him the night before that it was futile, that the dreams hadn’t revealed anything important. Caroline still believed that. But Egan had persisted anyway, right before the bomb squad had given her the all-clear to leave his office and go to the house of her best friend, Taylor Landis.

Taylor had welcomed Caroline with open arms. Literally. And her friend had hardly let her out of her sight since. They’d chatted, drunk some wine, and then Taylor had called her security expert to go over to Caroline’s house to change all the locks on the windows and doors and to repair the security system. It wouldn’t give Caroline peace of mind exactly, but it was a start.

“Okay, let me have a look at those notes,” Taylor insisted. She had her long blond hair gathered into a ponytail, she gave it an adjustment and then waggled her fingers. “Maybe they won’t be gibberish to me.”

Caroline handed her the notes and proceeded with her so-called walk-through of her own house. Yet something else Egan had insisted that she do. With an armed security guard shadowing hers and Taylor’s every move, Caroline checked her office to make sure everything was in place.

It was.

A PC, laptop and several thousand dollars worth of computer accessories. All still there.

She checked off another room from her list and went to the guest suite off the main corridor. She’d decorated this one all in blue. Pale, barely there blue, for the most part, with the exception of the glossy navy paint on the floor and a fiery abstract oil painting that hung over the natural white stone mantel. She no longer liked that particular bold shade of blue in the painting because it instantly reminded her of Egan’s eyes.

Caroline made a mental note to replace it.

“You dreamed about clocks chasing you?” Taylor commented, reading from the reconstructed journal.

“Yes.” Caroline frowned. “And don’t you dare say anything about ticking biological clocks. I get enough of that from my parents.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” However, Taylor’s pun indicated she’d thought it. Caroline’s frown deepened at her friend’s grin.

Caroline checked the white marble guest bathroom. Nothing missing there. And she went into a storage room crammed with carefully stacked, unopened cardboard boxes. Things she’d bought to redecorate when she’d moved from her condo to the house five months earlier. The house had been a thirtieth birthday gift from her parents, and even though she had plenty of space—fourteen rooms—Caroline just hadn’t gotten around to making the place hers.

She glanced inside the storage room, saw nothing undisturbed and then headed to the one area that she did indeed want to check out.

Her garage.

With her attention nailed to the notes, Taylor followed her. So did the guard, but he kept some distance from them.

“In the dream you had, a man saved you from the attacking clocks,” Taylor concluded. “Looks like your rescuer was Egan Caldwell.”

Caroline stopped so abruptly that Taylor nearly plowed right into her. “How did you come up with that?”

“Easily. In your notes, you said you were running through the woods with the clocks in pursuit. A man stepped out. He had blond hair, a blue shirt and a silver star embedded in his hand. He shot arrows at the clocks to stop them. Sounds like Egan to me. He has a star badge. He often wears a blue shirt, and he has blondish hair. And if you ask me, those arrows are phallic symbols.”

Stunned, Caroline snatched the notes and read over them again. Oh, God. She was certain she hadn’t dreamed about Egan and his phallic symbol, but if Taylor believed she had, then Egan might think that as well. She’d have to change the notes before he arrived. Except that she couldn’t.

Could she?

No. If he found out, he’d view that as the equivalent of tampering with evidence.

A better solution was just to keep the journal from him and not let him read a single word. She’d wait and show the notes to the psychiatrist, especially since she was meeting with the doctor the following day. Maybe she could convince the psychiatrist to keep them private. After all, it was obvious to her that the dream wasn’t connected to the murders or the hit-and-run.

Caroline tucked her journal beneath her arm and stepped into the garage. The doors were open, allowing in the humid breeze and plenty of light so she could see the damage. It was indeed minimal. A few small holes in the wall and some smoke stains—that was it.

Unfortunately, the minimal damage didn’t extend to her.

Someone had violated her space, and Caroline wondered how long it would be before she could walk into her house and not think about being killed.

Maybe she never would.

The white Mercedes was gone, of course, towed away in the early hours of the morning by the CSI agents, who were probably now looking for clues about the person who had left that explosive for her. She prayed they’d have answers soon.

Caroline continued to look around the garage, and her gaze landed on the workshop door. It was wide open. And it shouldn’t have been. Good grief. She hurried to close it. Except it wouldn’t shut. The CSI had apparently busted the lock, probably to check for evidence, and she glanced inside the workshop at what they’d no doubt seen.

Her old secret.

Something she didn’t exactly want to announce to the world, including Taylor, who likely knew about it but was too much of a friend to say anything. Caroline would have to do something about getting that door fixed.

Taylor ran her fingers over the remaining vehicle, the 1967 candy-apple-red Mustang. “You used to drive this car all the time,” she reminded Caroline.

“Yes. But I gave up on hot, fast things.” And for reasons she didn’t want to explore, she immediately thought of Egan again.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to think of him for long because she heard the voices in her backyard. Obviously, the guard heard them as well because he reached for his gun. Caroline waved him off, however, when she saw her visitors approach the garage.

Kenneth and Tammy Sutton.

She didn’t want a gun drawn on her neighbors. Of course, Kenneth was also Egan’s prime suspect, but Caroline didn’t believe that. Except she hated the uncomfortable feeling that crept through her now. Egan was responsible for those doubts.

But the question was—were his doubts founded?

Twelve hours ago, Caroline would have replied with an emphatic no, but that was before someone had tried to blow her to smithereens.

“Are you all right?” Tammy asked, hurrying to her. She latched on to Caroline, hugging her, and engulfing her in a cloud of Chanel number-something. The woman’s layers of thick gold chains dug into Caroline’s breasts and her bloodred acrylic nails were like little daggers.

Caroline untangled herself from the hug and stepped back. “I’m fine,” she said, realizing she’d been repeating that lie all night and all morning. To her parents. To Taylor. Even to the security guard lurking in the mudroom doorway. And now to Tammy Sutton.

Kenneth strolled closer. No hug. He had his hands in the pockets of his expertly tailored gray suit. With his dark hair combed to perfection, he looked ready for work. And probably was. Being chairman of the City Board often required a sixty-hour-plus week, and it was already past the normal start of his workday.

“You look tired,” Kenneth observed.

“Caroline and I sat up chatting all night,” Taylor volunteered. Covering for her. So that she wouldn’t have to discuss the stress of the explosion and lack of sleep. “She’s doing great, just like Caroline always does. Of course, she’s anxious to catch the monster who did this.”

Kenneth and Tammy nodded sympathetically. “So did the intruder take anything?” Kenneth asked.

Caroline inadvertently glanced down at the new dream journal squished between her arm and side. “Not really.”

Tammy must have noticed that glance and the uncertainty in Caroline’s voice. “Are you taking inventory?”

“Something like that.”

Tammy opened her mouth, probably to ask more, but Caroline heard the movement just a split-second before Egan rounded the corner. Wearing a blue shirt again. And those butt-hugging jeans. No Stetson today. It was probably still drying out from the rain. But he did have his badge and that shoulder holster with the gun tucked inside.

He took one look at Kenneth, and Egan put on his best surly scowl. “Is there a problem?” Egan wanted to know.

“No,” Kenneth answered just as quickly. “My wife and I were checking on Caroline. Last I heard, there was no law against that.”

Egan’s expression didn’t change. He went closer to Kenneth and met the man’s gaze head-on. “But there are laws against attempted murder, breaking and entering and interfering with an investigation. This is still a crime scene, and you shouldn’t be here.”

Tammy indignantly pressed her hand to her chest. “And you don’t think we know that this is a crime scene? We’re not idiots, Ranger…whatever-your-name-is.”

“Caldwell. Remember it, Mrs. Sutton, because you’ll see me a lot in the next few days while I interrogate your husband and you.” Egan looked down at Kenneth’s feet. “What size shoes do you wear?”

“Why?” But it was Tammy who asked, not Kenneth.

“Because I want to know.” His attention landed on her shoes as well. “And while you’re at it, you can tell me your size, too.”

“A perfect six,” Tammy said, overly enunciating the words. “And my husband wears a size ten. Satisfied?”

“Not really. I’ll have one of the CSI guys drop by to check your closet, just to make sure everything is as perfect as you say.”

Taylor cleared her throat, obviously sensing that something even more impolite was about to be said, and she went to Kenneth and Tammy. She hooked her arms around both their waists. “Why don’t you come on over to my house for some coffee? Egan and Caroline have to finish up this investigation, and we’d just be in the way.”

Tammy looked back at Caroline. “Are you sure you don’t need us here? Your mother will never forgive me if I don’t try to help you at a time like this.”

“I’m okay.” Caroline hoped. “Please tell Mom that if you talk to her.”

Egan looked at the security guard once Kenneth, Tammy and Taylor were out of sight. “Make sure Kenneth Sutton and his wife leave the premises. I don’t want them back here, either.”

The guard nodded and went after them.

“Tammy’s a suspect now?” Caroline asked.

Egan shrugged. “Just about everyone around here is. Guilt by association.”

Caroline had the eerie feeling that he wasn’t exaggerating. “And her motive?”

“Well, if her husband did order Vincent Montoya to kill those people, then maybe Tammy wants to keep that their own little family secret. Of course, Kenneth has the same motive, so I’d prefer neither of them comes around here.”

She huffed. “They’re my neighbors. And Kenneth is my boss at the City Board. Any suggestions how to stop them from visiting?”

His gaze eased to hers. “I think my presence will deter them.” She stared at him, but he didn’t say more. Instead, he shifted his focus to the Mustang. “Nice car.”

Yes. It was. “It’s from my wild-child days. I guess I’ll have to use it for transportation until I can replace the Mercedes.” Of course, she was using the Mercedes because her other vehicle had been totaled in the hit-and-run.

His eyebrow lifted. “You were a wild child?” he said in the same tone as if he’d asked if she were a convicted felon.

“Afraid so. Six speeding tickets my senior year in college.”

That earned her a hmmph. “Speeding tickets don’t make you a wild child.”

She didn’t like that he dismissed it with that hmmph and raised eyebrow. Those tickets had really upset her parents and had caused her insurance to skyrocket. “Remember, I do have an ex-fiancé thief.”

Egan shook his head. “That doesn’t make you a wild child, either.”

“My parents would disagree with you,” she mumbled. And Caroline instantly regretted it. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about how she felt she owed it to her parents to be a dutiful daughter.

“Your father had a pretty serious heart attack about the time your fiancé stole that money from him.” Egan said it so nonchalantly that it took her a moment to realize the comment meant he’d had her investigated.

“Yes,” Caroline admitted. “He nearly died. And please, spare me any psychoanalytical remarks about a guilty conscience.”

“No comments.” Egan tipped his head to the notebook still tucked beneath her arm. “That’s your reconstructed dream journal?”

Oh, mercy. Another can of worms that she didn’t want opened. “Yes. I’ll give it to the psychiatrist tomorrow when I meet with her.”

“We’ll give it to her,” Egan corrected, walking closer. He stopped just inches away.

“You’re going to the appointment with me?” she asked.

“Actually, the appointment will be here at your house.” He paused, studying her expression. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that someone tried to kill you last night. I don’t want you going out anywhere alone.” He held out his hand. “Now, let me take a look at the journal.”

Caroline had made up her mind to refuse, but she rethought that. Because Egan would want to know why. She’d stall him, of course. Then he’d demand to know why she was stalling and refusing.

He’d see right through her.

Because he could.

And in the end, Egan would be suspicious, very suspicious, which would only make him examine every word of gibberish she’d written.

Since she had already lost the hypothetical argument she’d had with him, Caroline handed him the journal as calmly as she could and then went to take a closer look at one of the holes in her garage wall. She waited. While he read the single page.

“Killer clocks, huh?” he commented.

“It was a dream,” she snapped. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

She heard his footsteps, turned around, and he was there. Practically looming over her. He smelled…manly, with his woodsy, musky aftershave. Looked manly, too, with just the hint of bad-boy stubble on his strong chin.

“You think time’s running out?” he asked, handing her back the journal.

“For what?” She sounded cautious. And was.

“For catching a killer,” he answered as if that were the only possible answer.

“Yes. That’s it.” Good. No mention of phallic symbols or blond, blue-shirt-wearing Rangers, which meant Taylor had obviously been wrong.

“Holy moly,” Egan mumbled.

Caroline was startled and then realized he wasn’t looking at her or the journal, but rather he was looking past her. She followed his gaze to the open door of the workshop. From his angle he could no doubt see her old secret.

And he made a beeline for it.

Mercy! She tried to step in front of him. For all the good it did. He merely stepped around her. Caroline maneuvered again. Not very well. She finally gave up the maneuvering and latched onto Egan with both hands.

It wasn’t a good idea.

The journal dropped to the floor, and her hands were suddenly filled with his left arm and right shoulder. But her attempts were useless, anyway. He saw her old secret.

“That’s a mint condition vintage 1952 Harley-Davidson Panhead Chopper,” he announced, studying the motorcycle. His mouth opened slightly, and she thought she saw the pulse in his neck rev up a little.

“So?” she challenged. “I bought it, as an investment. And it’s a 1951, not a ‘52.”

He didn’t react to the correction. “Not a dent, not one rust spot, not even a paint chip. So, you’ve obviously taken good care of it. You actually ride it?”

Caroline clutched her heart necklace. “Sometimes.” But only at night. When her parents were out of town. They considered anything with two wheels to be dangerous.

“When’s the last time you took it out?” he asked, still mesmerized by the motorcycle.

She cleared her throat. “A week ago.”

Egan shifted those scorching blue eyes in her direction, and the corner of his mouth hitched into a smile. “Now, owning that beauty makes you a wild child.”

For some reason, a stupid one, that sounded, well, hot coming from him. That smile helped. Heck, who was she kidding? That smile alone had no doubt seduced countless women because that smile created a too-familiar tug in her belly.

Something stirred between them.

It was followed by a long smoldering look. Oh, the things those eyes were conveying. The Chopper had obviously revved up more than just his pulse and his admiration for her wild-child label.

Thankfully, he must have remembered their too-close situation because the smile faded until all that was left was the surliness.

He stepped back.

She let go of him and stepped back, too.

“This is not going to be a problem between us,” Egan said like a general issuing an order to one of his lieutenants.

Caroline bypassed a clarification of this mainly because she didn’t want it spelled out. “It won’t be a problem. Because I’ll stay with my friend, Taylor, until you have this killer behind bars. We won’t have to be around each other, if at all.”





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