The Man from Texas

by Rebecca York

  “No.” His face contorted and his voice became higher, more rural South. “Mama isn’t here. She’s gone away. When I asked about her, Daddy hit me.” He raised his hand to his cheek, wincing in pain, and Hannah felt as if she’d been struck.

  “Daddy says she’s a little wetback slut, and she’s not coming home again, so I should stop sniveling.” His voice had changed so that he sounded like a hurt, bewildered little boy. The illusion was so strong that Hannah felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. His mama had left him, and he was in anguish. And his daddy was only making things worse.

  “Everything’s okay,” Kathryn murmured again, in an obvious bid for damage control. Apparently this wasn’t what she’d expected when she’d suggested going back into his childhood.

  Moisture beaded on Luke’s forehead, and he reached to swipe it away. His face took on the pallor of gray stone.

  When he half rose from his seat, Kathryn leaned forward. “Just relax. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Let’s go to another time. You’re an adult now. Let’s come forward to this month. April. Two days ago. Can you see yourself on the TV screen?”

  “No.” His voice was raw. When his dark eyes snapped open, they zeroed in on Kathryn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hannah watched Luke push himself out of the chair. Making for the door, he yanked it open and strode into the outer office where he stood with his back to them, breathing hard.

  Hannah sat frozen in her seat.

  It was several minutes before Luke returned, his angry gaze pinning Kathryn.

  “What the hell were you doing?”

  “You remember the session?” she asked.

  “Yeah. And I didn’t like it much. I didn’t come here for you to go pokin’ in my childhood.”

  She spread her hands. “I couldn’t get you to remember anything more recent. I thought that perhaps a childhood memory would unlock your past. Do you recall anything besides the incident?”

  “The incident,” he repeated, his voice not quite steady. “No, that’s all. And that’s going to be all.”

  Turning, he stalked out again, then out of the waiting room.

  Kathryn gave Hannah an apologetic look. “I’ve never had results like this. I’m sorry. I tried to—”

  Hannah cut her off. “It isn’t your fault. It was my idea.”

  “Apparently his problem is more complicated than any of us realized. It sounds like he had a pretty traumatic childhood.”

  “Yes.” Hannah stood. “I’d better go see where he went.”

  Hurrying after Luke, she caught up with him at the elevator. Her eyes focused on the slump of his shoulders, the tightness of his hands.

  He was hurting.

  How long had she known him? Less than twenty-four hours if you didn’t count the time they’d spent eyeing each other across the Last Chance Bar. Yet her sense of connection with him might have spanned decades.

  He had no past. And her recent past was a mangled mess. Perhaps that was what drew her to him, helped her understand what he was going through.

  He didn’t turn, and she was forced to step around him to see his face. As she took in the lost, wounded look in his eyes, words of apology sprang to her lips. “I’m sorry.”

  When he didn’t respond, she felt another stab of remorse. Desperate to communicate with him at all cost, she took a step forward and clasped her arms around him.

  He stood rigid for several seconds, then slowly let his head drift to her shoulder, his face turned away from her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered again. “One incident from your past comes back to you—and it’s something… ugly.”

  He gave a shuddering sigh. “You didn’t know.”

  He was absolving her of blame, yet she couldn’t suppress a small sound of distress as one of her hands rubbed small circles over the rigid muscles of his back and the other stroked his thick, dark hair.

  He lifted his head and looked down at her. As she stared into the bleakness that filled his eyes, she longed to wipe away that look of despair, wanted it more than anything she had craved in a long, long time.

  Some part of her waited tensely for him to pull away, to deny the awareness that had been building between them since before they’d spoken—since those long evenings in the Last Chance Bar.

  He stood unmoving, neither withdrawing nor giving his consent, making her feel as if she were poised on the edge of a dull blade. She had been dead inside for months. Now she felt more than she had any right to feel.

  He could hurt her. She was giving him that power. If he pulled away from her, the wound would be butchery, not a clean thrust.

  When she couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer, she raised her face toward his. There was a charged moment when she waited for him to back away. But he didn’t move. Without giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her actions, she brushed her lips against his. It was only the barest contact, but she felt her body heat, felt the heat coming off of him as well.

  Slowly she experimented with the sensations, rubbing her mouth back and forth against his, increasing the pressure, nibbling, taking his lip between her teeth, then easing up.

  It was when she’d pulled back a little that she heard a sound well from deep in his throat, felt his mouth take command as his arms tightened around her.

  The kiss went from tentative to flash point in the space of heartbeats. He angled his head, his mouth hungry and demanding, so that she needed to anchor her hands against his shoulders and press her body to his to keep from swaying on her feet.

  It was like being caught in a hot desert storm, she thought with the last shreds of coherence her brain possessed, the wind swirling around them so that the only hope of survival lay in clinging together. At the same time she knew that cleaving to him gave her only an illusion of safety. It wasn’t the storm that had the power to sweep her away. It was the man.

  Still, when he silently asked her to open her lips, she did his bidding, then shivered as his tongue swept into her mouth, taking possession as though she were a captive of war and he had every right to seize and plunder.

  She gave him that right, her tongue sliding against his, tasting him with the same eagerness that he tasted her.

  There was no space between his body and hers, yet she inched closer, overwhelmed by the feel of his chest and hips pressed to hers.

  She forgot they were in a public hallway, forgot everything but the man who held her in his arms—until something hard and thin slapped her leg.

  “Oh!” She jumped, feeling Luke’s muscles go rigid even as her head snapped around to discover a young woman in the hallway staring in their direction.

  Hannah felt her face heat at having been discovered in such an intimate position—until she realized that she was facing Jenny Brisco, the wife of one of her fellow cops. No, make that former colleagues, she corrected her muddled thoughts. Jenny, who worked at the Light Street Foundation, was blind, and the hard object that had slapped against Hannah’s leg was the cane she used to guide herself around.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were there,” she said.

  “That’s okay, Jenny. It’s Hannah.” She stole a look at Luke, who appeared to be as abashed as she felt. “We were just getting ready to press the elevator button. Uh, Jenny Brisco, this is one of my clients, Luke Pritchard.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he drawled, his voice several tones huskier than usual.

  Jenny was a fairly perceptive woman. When a smile flickered on her face, Hannah suspected that her friend had a pretty good idea what they’d been doing, even if she hadn’t seen the action.

  “We were on our way down to my office so I can take Luke’s fingerprints,” she said.

  He tipped his head to one side, his eyes telling her that was the first he’d heard of her plans.

  The elevator arrived, and they all got inside, riding to the next floor in awkward silence.

  “See you,” Hannah said to Jenny as the other p
assenger got out.

  “Fingerprints?” he asked when the door had closed.

  “It’s the next logical step,” she said, watching his reaction.

  “Yeah.” He stood facing her, unmoving, and she didn’t like the look in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “If you want me to find another P.I., just say so.”

  She felt a giant fist grab her chest and squeeze. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know damn well I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. Or at all, for that matter.”

  The car stopped at her floor, and they stepped out. Unable to meet Luke’s gaze, Hannah focused on a spot on the wall several feet to the side of him. “I think I’m the one who…initiated the contact.”

  Before he could answer, another one of her colleagues came out of a nearby office. This time it was Marissa Prentiss, from Adventures in Travel.

  Usually Hannah loved the way she ran into her friends in the building. Today she was starting to wish she’d moved her office to an abandoned warehouse.

  “Perhaps we could have this conversation somewhere more private,” Hannah muttered, relieved when Marissa only waved and turned the other way down the hall toward the stairs.

  Hoping Luke was going to follow her, she headed toward the brand-new suite of offices occupied by the Light Street Detective Agency.

  It was a far cry from the grubby squad room where she’d worked until a few months ago. The plushly carpeted waiting area was furnished with a couple of comfortable leather couches facing a desk where Bonnie Brennan usually sat. She’d come on board about the same time as Hannah herself, and the two of them had gotten to be friends. Today she was glad that the receptionist was temporarily out of the room.

  Leading Luke into her private office, Hannah closed the door.

  There was nothing personal about the space. Jo O’Malley, the agency’s senior partner, had outfitted it with an oak L-shaped desk and bookcases, a bank of vertical files and four comfortable chairs—three in front of the desk and one behind it.

  Hannah stood looking around, suddenly conscious that there were no pictures on the walls or the desk, no knickknacks on the shelves, nothing that made the room anything but a generic work space. The only clue to her personality was what Luke had said about her apartment—she was a neatnik, with nothing out of place and folders stacked in squared-off piles on the credenza.

  Luke said nothing as he looked around, but she was sure he was taking in the barren environment.

  In order to put some space between them, she rounded the desk and dropped into the high-backed swivel chair. After several seconds’ hesitation, he took one of the barrel-shaped visitors’ chairs.

  The red message light was blinking on her answering machine. She tried to ignore it, since she didn’t need a client listening in on whoever had left a message. But the red light flashing at the edge of her vision only added to her tension.

  Then Luke asked a question, and the focus of her attention shifted abruptly. “This morning you ordered me out of your apartment. This afternoon you kissed me. Why? Were you feeling sorry for me?”

  “Of course not! And I didn’t order you out.”

  “It sounded like an order to me. But let’s get back to what just happened in the hallway.”

  She made a frustrated gesture with her hand. She wanted to ask if the kiss had seemed as if it came from a woman feeling sorry for a man. Instead she answered, “It was an impulse. Maybe I was looking for a way to get closer to you. It won’t happen—”

  Before she could finish the sentence, a large male form filled the doorway of her office. Over Luke’s shoulder, she found herself staring at her friend Cal Rollins. They’d gone to the police academy together, worked on the street together, made detective within months of each other. About the time she’d left the Baltimore P.D., he had, too. He’d taken a job with the Howard County Police Department and moved out there so he could be closer to his ailing father.

  Now he had come to her office in the city in the middle of the day. That alone was significant, never mind the look on his face.

  “Hannah, where have you been? I left you a message. When you didn’t get back to me, I came to find out why.”

  “Cal, what’s wrong?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “Ron Wexler is dead.”

  “Ron is dead?” she repeated stupidly, aware that Luke’s eyes had focused on her with laser intensity.

  Cal moved several steps into the room. “He didn’t show up for work this morning or answer the phone, so a couple of uniforms checked out his house. He was lying beside his car in the garage, with a bullet in the brain.”

  “No,” she gasped.

  Cal moved to her chair and hunkered down beside her. Luke was on the other side, with a glass of water in his hand.

  She didn’t know where it had come from, but she automatically wrapped her fingers around the cold glass and drank.

  When she’d handed him back the glass, he asked, “Who was Ron Wexler and what happened to him?”

  Before she could speak, Cal answered the question. “He was one of the other detectives assigned to the Turner investigation with Hannah.”

  “The drug case? Where the kid got shot?” he asked.

  Hannah nodded, unable to dredge up any words.

  Luke’s voice was gritty as he continued. “Last night somebody came after you, and from the way it went down, I thought it was personal—not just a random attack on the street at night. Today another one of the detectives involved in the case is found dead.”

  “What?” Cal demanded, his gaze shooting from Luke to Hannah and back again. “Hannah was attacked?”

  “Yeah. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

  The two men stared at each other. “Mind telling me who you are and how you’re connected with this?” Cal asked.

  Hannah’s gaze swung to her former colleague. “He’s a client of mine.”

  “And who are you?” Luke demanded.

  “Calvin Rollins, detective, Howard County Police Department.”

  “Well, thanks for giving Hannah the information.”

  The two men continued to glare at each other across her chair like dogs staking their territory.

  “Cal,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “I appreciate your coming to tell me. But I think I can take it from here.”

  “I came to warn you to watch your back.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m already taking care of that,” Luke added.

  “I thought she said you were a client,” Cal answered, his tone pointed.

  “I am. But I have the…right instincts to keep her safe.”

  Cal gave Luke a long appraising look.

  “I appreciate your coming by,” Hannah said again.

  “Yeah. I’ll keep you informed of any more developments.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Cal stood where he was for several more seconds, then turned and left.

  When he’d closed the door to the outer office, Hannah breathed a little sigh. “You weren’t exactly friendly to him. He came all the way down here to warn me.”

  “I appreciate that. But I was letting him know that I can take care of you.”

  She nodded, thinking in the back of her mind that it should have been Gary who’d come to give her the bad news. He was still with the Baltimore P.D. and would have gotten the same information—only sooner. Moreover, he was the one who had recommended her for the Turner task force. For a moment, her mind was far away, stuck in her recent past.

  “You don’t think what happened to you and what happened to Ron are connected?” Luke pressed.

  “No. It was a coincidence,” she said, because that was what she wanted to believe.

  “Bull!”

  She glared at him. “Are you telling me you’ve got some inside information?”

  “No. It’s just a logical deduction. Or a gut feeling. Either way, you’re in danger u
ntil they catch the bastard. Rollins thinks so. That’s why he came here to warn you.”

  She refused to believe it. “Whoever attacked me tried to strangle me. Then Ron was shot. That’s hardly the same M.O.”

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t succeed with the first method, did he? Maybe he came back to shoot you and saw I was in your apartment, so he went after one of the other cops. Waited for him to open his garage door and blasted him.”

  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, trying to ignore his logic. But it made a kind of horrible sense.

  “So you’re not goin’ home to your apartment. You’re coming to my place.”

  Her eyes widened. “I certainly am not.”

  “I’ve hired you to do a job for me. And until you call it quits, I’m going to keep you safe.”

  “You’re sure you can do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I told your cop friend, I have the right instincts. Otherwise, the guys looking for their money would have caught up with me.”

  “A few minutes ago I got the feeling you were close to firing me,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing him look uncomfortable.

  “That was the wrong reaction.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “Do you mind elaborating on that?”

  “I reckon I was feeling sorry for myself, and I started speaking before my brain caught up with my mouth.”

  When she didn’t comment, he went on. “I told you, I need you. I think you need me, too.”

  “If you’re offering your services as a bodyguard, maybe I should be paying you a fee,” she said in a dry voice.

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m not going to let you dictate how I live my life.”

  He sighed. “I’m not dictating. I’m trying to keep you alive. You’re a sitting duck in your apartment. You’d be a fool to stay there and wait for the guy to come after you again.”

  She thought about that for a moment, silently acknowledging that he was right—at least until she had more information about Ron. But she wasn’t willing to let the Outlaw make all the decisions for her. “If I go with you, we’re stopping off to get some of my things.”