by Ann Major
The other man lay where he’d fallen, soundless, still. The driver rolled away from the body to avoid the awful rush of blood that flowed from the back of his head and drenched the hard, dry earth.
Slowly the killer pulled himself to his feet. Funny, how the suffocating night smelled sweet and woodsy again. Funny, how the cicadas never let up. Summer bugs. How he loved summer bugs.
Suddenly he felt light-headed, dizzy. A strange weakness in his muscles made him fall to his knees again. Shock? Revulsion?
In the next moment his stomach heaved, and he threw up all over his expensive shirt and slacks. For a long moment he was too weak to stand.
Visions of the dead man when he’d been a boy bombarded his mind. He remembered the cool, bright day they’d learned to ride bikes together. He never would have gotten the hang of it if the dead man hadn’t encouraged him.
Don’t think about the past.
His mind raced. He had to get out of here.
But the body…
He couldn’t leave the body at the Double Crown Ranch. He had to dump it somewhere.
Where? Where? His mind raced in panic-stricken circles.
He grabbed his flask out of the car and drained the last of the vodka. He threw it down. Then he picked it up and tossed it into the car.
Lake Mondo, he thought dully. Water destroyed evidence. He’d wash himself off there, too, before any body saw him.
His heart was thundering in his chest and throat as he got up, still weaving drunkenly. When he caught his breath, he grabbed the body by the legs and began tugging it over the rocks toward the trunk of his car.
When a band of coyotes began to yelp, the driver laughed out loud along with them, and once he started hooting, he couldn’t stop, even after the coyotes did.
Suddenly he was aware of a listening, knowing presence. He stopped laughing and stared at the dark trees that surrounded him.
If there’d been a light in the trees, it had damn sure gone out now. Whoever or whatever had been there couldn’t have seen much.
He threw the body in the trunk, inspected the ground with a flashlight and then drove off in a hurry, little caring that his tires spun gravel. The stench of fresh vomit was so powerful he had to roll all the windows down to keep from gagging.
There was no one to stop him now. Now he could focus on his clever plan to topple that self-serving, arrogant bastard, Ryan Fortune, who saw himself as the king of Texas.
One
Austin, Texas
Why do people visit graves when there’s nobody here?
Amy Burke-Sinclair’s long, slim fingers involuntarily knotted around the steering wheel of her Toyota Camry.
Lush green lawns peppered with neat tombstones stretched into the hazy distance as Amy followed the familiar, narrow lane that wound through cedar and oak. At this early hour the sun that could be brutal by midday was no more than a soft orange ball peeping timidly above the horizon, sending long, purple shadows across this perfectly manicured, emerald patch of earth.
Not that its sleeping inhabitants knew or cared.
Not that Lexie cared.
Amy imagined Lexie’s gray face inside her casket and flinched. Again her hands tightened as she fought for some happier image.
She saw Lexie galloping beside her on her colt, Smoky, her red hair flying behind her as she leaned forward. She saw her slow dancing in skintight jeans with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other on the deck of her parents’ lake house that last night.
Amy swallowed a deep, ragged breath. As always, memories of Lexie alive brought even more guilt than thoughts of her in her grave.
Amy hadn’t seen any other cars or even pedestrians in the cemetery. Which was good. She couldn’t have endured another accidental meeting with Robert Vale, Lexie’s father.
Last year they’d come at the same time. He’d seen her and walked over to her car, stiffly handsome in a pressed black suit. He’d smiled, but his silver eyes hadn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, unable to look at him. “So sorry.”
“The hell you are. I’ll call and tell your mother I saw you here. Then you’ll be sorry.”
“Please…”
Robert Vale had given her a single, killing glance before he’d stridden over to his own car and started it. He’d called her mother, and her mother had called her.
“Why can’t you just do as you’re told?” she’d said. “Just stay away from that grave. How difficult is that?”
“I…I didn’t even get out of my car.”
“That’s something I suppose.”
Rebellion at her mother’s criticism had flared briefly inside Amy. Then her mother had said, “Dear, you’ve got to let this go.”
Eight years. Today all Amy felt was numbness and coldness. She was like a robot instead of grief-stricken as she should be. Never once since the accident had she shed a single tear.
She didn’t think she ever would. It was as if something in her had died that wild night eight years ago. And yet she hadn’t died. Lexie had.
She’d been the lucky one.
When Amy reached the gate to Lexie’s grave, she braked. Rolling down the windows, she gave a long, hollow sigh. Her heart ached. A minute passed before her shaky fingers managed to touch the icy keys. With an effort she forced herself to cut the engine.
Instantly the air felt dense and close. The car’s interior warmed up fast as the awful stillness of the cemetery wrapped around her.
Amy, who was an events planner, had back-to-back meetings all day. The powerful, demanding man whose account she was representing right now had an incredibly active personal life and career. Sometimes she felt as if she was his number-one gopher.
She twisted a strand of her long, blond hair around a fingertip. Being busy and keeping herself surrounded with people were her drugs of choice. Constant work and constant people kept the real demons at bay—at least, most of the time. Her number-one client called her night and day. That was a good thing.
On nights when she hadn’t pushed herself to the point of exhaustion, her demons attacked her full force. Sometimes she saw Lexie’s face in a deep pool of water with her red hair flowing all around her. Sometimes she heard Lexie’s laughter. Sometimes she dreamed she was riding endlessly over dark water, calling Lexie’s name.
As she had so many times in the past, Amy tried to pray. She squeezed her eyes shut, but her heart felt too numb. Instead of forming coherent thoughts, her mind went blank.
“God, please hear my silent cry,” she finally whispered in despair as her hopelessness consumed her.
Opening her eyes, Amy caught the funereal scent of roses. She sighed again and let go of her hair. Eight lush, velvety red blossoms wrapped in pink tissue lay on the leather seat beside her cell phone. The flowers had been expensive. She’d meant to give them to Lexie. This time she’d really meant to get out and walk up to her grave.
She still meant to, only when she leaned across the seat and lifted the bouquet, a thorn pricked her through the tissue paper. Then just as she touched the door handle, her cell phone rang. She picked it up.
She tensed when she read Carole Burke in vivid blue.
Mother.
Amy frowned and set the phone back down. When it finally stopped ringing, she touched the door handle. Again her hand froze, just as it always did, and her throat went tight and scratchy.
Folding her hands in her lap, she just sat there for several more minutes and endured the silence and the heat that intensified the sickly fragrance of the roses, until finally she tossed them onto the backseat. They would wilt and turn black before she noticed them again.
As she started the Camry, she was almost glad about the long, stressful day ahead of her, almost glad she was going out to dinner tonight with Betsy. At least she wouldn’t be home alone on this night of all nights, her thirtieth birthday.
Thirty. She was thirty.
Eight years ago Lexie had given her a wild birthday party on Lake Mo
ndo. Amy hadn’t had another birthday party since. She never even let her parents bake her a cake.
Even so, she had to go out tonight, not to celebrate, but to avoid her mother’s calls, to avoid the empty walls of her apartment and the awful silence, as well. And the dreams. She couldn’t face her dreams.
Thirty. She was thirty.
She was alive…and yet in some ways, she felt less alive than Lexie.
Damn! Steve Fortune knew he wasn’t much of a cook. Hell, he was supposed to be the owner of this establishment, not the cook. Try telling that to Amos, who hadn’t shown up on the busiest night of the week.
Steve’s left forefinger throbbed where he’d just burned it frying hamburger patties. He needed a beer—fast—to soothe his frayed nerves.
It was ladies’ night at the Shiny Pony Bar and Grill on Sixth Street in Austin, Texas, and so, as usual, his trendy bar was jammed with beautiful women seeking cheap booze and the admiration of urban cowboys who showed up to amuse them.
Men like me, he thought cynically. Steve was thirty-six, too old for this sort of mating game. Too smart, too. After all, he was the smart triplet. At least, that’s the story he tried to sell his brothers.
The girls with their long, satiny hair and their slim hips encased in skintight jeans looked young as they stood at the sturdy wooden bar beside all the liquor and fancy glasses that were stacked sky high. Hell, these girls looked way too young and naive for what he had in mind.
Madison.
Why the hell had Madison chosen to show up this morning on Cabot’s arm when they met to sign the formal papers? She’d had that wounded look in her eyes that carved out his heart and made Steve wonder if Cabot was taking care of her.
She’s not your responsibility anymore.
Sucking on his blistered finger, Steve sank into an out-of-the-way booth where he could watch the action in the shadow-filled room charged with an overload of testosterone and estrogen. The dark lighting, high ceilings, huge beams and scuffed, wood floors made for a cozy, casual atmosphere.
He should have fired Amos for being late again. It was the third time in thirty days. But Steve had been desperate to have a night off, so he’d merely nodded when Amos had finally shown up. He’d ripped off his grease-spattered apron and tossed it at the redheaded kid with too many piercings. Then Amos had mouthed the usual apologies for oversleeping again. Hell, Steve was a softie when it came to firing people.
“Don’t make it a habit,” Steve had warned, barely holding on to his temper before he’d slammed out of the swinging doors of his kitchen.
Steve hated calls on his cell at the end of a long day at his ranch to come pinch hit at the Shiny Pony Bar and Grill. He hated being dependent on irresponsible kids like Amos. He wanted out of the restaurant/bar business. The sooner, the better! Not that the Shiny Pony didn’t coin money, but it took management. Hell, he wouldn’t have a ranch if it weren’t for this place. There was big money in a trendy bar, but if Steve wasn’t here all the time, his help got creative. Real creative. Either they didn’t show or cash, booze and food evaporated into thin air.
A vision of Madison—blond, golden with pain-filled eyes—arose before him. God, she’d looked great this morning in that white silk suit with her golden hair swept sleekly back from her thin face.
Steve signaled Jeff, his number-one bartender, for a beer. After a beer, or maybe two, he wanted a woman, preferably a brainless, buxom brunette with a bad-girl body she knew what to do with. Next he wanted to take all his phones off the hook, read his book about ancient Greek wars and get a good night’s sleep, preferably alone, so he’d be fresh for his meeting with the governor tomorrow morning. If that was ruthless, he had his reasons—reason.
Madison.
Not that Steve was in a rush to pick up a bimbo. Truth to tell, such women bored the hell out of him. After all, he was supposed to be the intellectual in his family. The smart triplet. He dreaded the preliminary flirtations and idiotic maneuvers necessary to bed such a woman.
Hey, smart triplet, idiocy and boredom equal self-preservation.
Still wearing his jeans, work boots and sweat-stained Stetson, he leaned back in the tall, dark booth while he grimly eyed the pretty women clustered around little tables and booths. When a beautiful young brunette at the bar, who was braless in a tank top, smiled at him, he frowned until he saw Jeff flying toward his table with a frosty mug of Corona.
“Here you go, boss. Three slices of lime just the way you like it.”
“Thanks.”
Steve squeezed the limes and then took a slow swig of beer. The familiar knots in his muscles meant he was exhausted from a long day at his ranch, followed by his stint of playing stand-in cook after Jeff had called him. After signing papers at his lawyer’s office, where he’d seen Madison, Steve had spent the morning arguing with construction crews about the delays in the restoration of his historical ranch house. At noon his meeting with his architect and contractor had been tense, to say the least.
In less than six months he would be hosting the big, prestigious, annual Hensley-Robinson Awards Banquet because this year the governor had chosen to honor Ryan Fortune, who just happened to be Steve’s good friend, distant cousin and mentor.
His damn house had to be ready. What could he do to make James, his laid-back, good-ol’-boy contractor, who liked to hunt and fish at least once a week and every sunny weekend, understand that?
Then there was Dixon. Dixon was turning into a helluva pest. Steve had wasted the afternoon in the hot sun watching men survey the pastures of his legendary ranch, the Loma Vista, because Dixon, his neighbor to the east, was disputing the one-hundred-year-old fence line between the properties.
Dixon had wanted to buy the ranch himself. He’d given Steve trouble about the title ever since Steve had bought the place from old Mel Foster.
Not that Steve wanted to rehash his day. Hell, he wanted to forget it. He’d intended to celebrate an anniversary of sorts and a victory and then to party with the lady of his choice.
The Shiny Pony Bar and Grill was now his, all his. As of this morning, no more meetings with Larry Cabot, his former partner and former best friend. Betraying best friend, he reminded himself. No more Madison Beck, either. He was done once and for all with her, even if she was his ex-fiancée, whom he’d loved. Hell, she’d broken his heart exactly one year ago to the day.
Would he ever forget standing at the altar, waiting for her, all eyes drilling him while “Here Comes the Bride” was played for the fifth time?
Steve forced a deep breath. Finally he could close the book on the sorry chapter of his life in which Cabot and Madison had starred.
Steve had told everybody who would listen that he resented her for jilting him for Cabot, his former college buddy, who’d been born with more money than God, as had four generations of Cabots before him.
So why did he ache every time he even thought about Madison? Because she was lovely and so vulnerable, he still worried about her. Because she needed to be told and shown constantly that she was beautiful and loved. Cabot was too arrogant to tend to anyone’s needs other than his own.
Steve had wanted to take care of her for the rest of their lives. Her parents had died when she was eight, leaving her to grow up poor and abandoned. Underneath her glamorous facade, she’d been a scared little girl in need of love. He’d been determined to make her feel safe. As it had turned out, money represented real security to her.
Cabot and he had owned a couple of restaurants with bars downtown. Steve had bought out Cabot’s interest in this place while selling him his own interest in the Lonesome Saloon, which, unfortunately, was just across the street. From time to time, he would probably run into Cabot. Only, now they wouldn’t have to speak or work together. He probably wouldn’t see much of Madison anymore.
Even as his heart ached, Steve’s mouth twisted. “Cheers,” he growled in a low voice as his callused hand tightened on the handle of his mug.
“Goodbye, Madison.
” With a supreme effort he lifted his mug and willed her to stop haunting him.
One day at a time. One night at a time. That had been his mantra ever since his screwed-up wedding day. His triplet brothers, Miles and Clyde, who ribbed him about everything, still hadn’t dared to even breathe Madison’s name in his presence or mention the wedding. Jack, his older brother, whom Steve had idolized as a child, had suffered too much heartbreak himself to ever embarrass Steve about his.
Steve glanced toward the long-haired brunette at the bar in the tight red tank top. The skinny blond kid who was standing beside her kept edging his drink closer to hers. If Steve wanted her, he’d better get a move on.
To hell with her.
“No woman will ever turn me into a chump like that again,” he vowed aloud, addressing the brunette, who smiled at him and batted her lashes even as she leaned against the kid, nudging his bulging bicep with her breast.
To hell with her. The last thing Steve would ever do was pick a fight with a paying customer over a woman.
Steve glanced away—straight into the haunted eyes of a smoldering golden-haired, golden-skinned babe, who at first glance seemed an exact replica of Madison.
Run!
She stared straight into his eyes and held them and him perfectly still for an endless moment.
His pulse quickened.
No blondes, you fool.
He told himself that smart guys learned from their mistakes.
Smart or not, his blood coursed through him like a molten rush. Blondes, not to mention Madison clones, were no-no’s, and the little voices in his head began shouting all the familiar warnings.
The blonde crossed her long legs and then uncrossed them, very very slowly. Her black spandex skirt was so short, he got a glimpse of matching black lace panties.
Mesmerized, Steve let his gaze crawl up her legs. When she oozed forward on her bar stool, her glossy red smile widened. He could not stop staring at her—at her lips, at her body. He kept hoping against hope she’d shift her position on that damn stool and uncross and cross those gorgeous legs again. He wanted more of those thighs and black lace.