The Heart of Brody McQuade. Mallory Kane
Texas Ranger badge and the in-charge attitude only upped his sex appeal.
At that very instant, his hand slid to her shoulder. His touch was warm and reassuring, until she realized all he was doing was turning her so that her back was to him.
“Hand me the sheets and pull back the neck of her robe please.”
So that was why he’d called for the officer. Victoria should have known. He hadn’t needed any help, and he wasn’t going to let the female officer do the fingerprinting. He was insuring himself against any chance of a later accusation of impropriety. The thought made her ears burn. As if she’d stoop to lying.
“He turned her onto her stomach and wrapped both hands around her neck. Do I have that right, Ms. Kirkland?”
Victoria shuddered. His words brought back the terror, the helplessness, the dreadful certainty that she was going to die. Was he doing that on purpose? Taunting her? Forcing her to relive those awful seconds that she’d thought were her last?
She heard the sound of paper being peeled off its backing. She was expecting him to press the sticky film against her neck, but she still jumped when he did.
“Try to stand still,” he said, his voice kinder than it had been so far, “and keep your hair out of the way.”
He gently wrapped his fingers around the right side of her neck, pressing the paper firmly against her skin. Chills skittered down her spine. She stiffened. There was a vast difference between his firm hands and her attacker’s thick, punishing fingers, yet the fear was still there.
He peeled the tape off, and after a couple of seconds he pressed a second strip onto the left side of her neck, against the worst bruise. She jerked away and bit off a gasp of pain.
The pressure eased immediately. “Sorry. It won’t be much longer.” He cradled the right side of her head in his right hand as he pressed the tape down with his left.
The warmth of his palm cradling her head sent a surprising tingle of awareness through her. She must be more rattled than she’d thought if she was reacting to this overbearing Texas Ranger who’d made it clear how much he detested her.
And she understood why. She’d believed in Gary Zelke’s innocence or she wouldn’t have given in to his plea to represent him. And although the expert she’d hired had found evidence the police had missed—evidence that proved another car had rammed Caroline’s Corvette prior to Gary’s—Brody McQuade still resented her.
He peeled the tape off her neck. “Okay. You can let your hair down.”
She let go of her hair and massaged her cramped shoulder.
“Label those if you would,” Brody said to Officer Martin. “Left side, right side. You know the drill. And take them upstairs to Sergeant Caldwell.”
Victoria turned around and her kimono slipped down one arm. She grabbed it and pulled it back up, but not before Brody’s dark, intense eyes zeroed in on her bare shoulder and nearly exposed breast.
She stared at him, daring him to look her in the eye.
He did.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
His brows lowered and his gaze flickered briefly downward. “Do what?” he said harshly.
“Fingerprint my neck. Why didn’t you have Officer Martin do it?” As antsy as she still was, she couldn’t completely hide a smile at his reaction. Had he really thought she would ask why he’d looked at her nearly naked breast?
She did like the idea that he was enough of a guy to look.
“Oh…”
Well, what do you know? He was cute when he was flustered. She’d seen him angry, cold, devastated by grief and disgusted. And she’d seen him calm, efficient and stiffly official. But although she’d noticed his even features, the cleft in his chin and his strong jaw, the word cute had never occurred to her in relation to him. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate the description.
“I didn’t want to depend on secondhand information. I wanted to see for myself.”
Apprehension pooled at the base of her spine. “See what?”
He studied her for a moment, a small frown wrinkling his brow. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.
Then he took a couple of steps backward, away from her, and looked at the floor. She was a good attorney, a good judge of people and an excellent reader of body language. He’d distanced himself from her because he was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.
“There have been seven break-ins in the past eight months. Four occurred while the people weren’t home.” He walked over to the windows.
“Right. Everyone here has talked about how lucky they were.”
“Were they?”
Brody was looking out over the Cantara Hills Golf Course. But she knew his eyes weren’t on the spectacular view. He was turned inward, struggling with something.
“What are you saying?”
He didn’t answer, nor did he move. He stood outlined by the darkness beyond the windows, his arms crossed and his feet planted shoulder-distance apart, his back at once strong-and vulnerable-looking in his white dress shirt.
She walked over and put herself between him and the window. “What are you saying?” she repeated.
He looked down at her. “Why do you think Zelke and Briggs and you were the only ones attacked?”
She shook her head. “That’s what I asked you.”
“Do you know what was stolen from each apartment?”
Victoria was having trouble following his logic. “Not much.”
“That’s right. Not much. The guy barely took enough to call it a burglary. And not one thing that can be traced. No custom jewelry, nothing large. Insignificant stuff.”
“But he took an antique humidor from Byron Dalloway and about five thousand in cash from Mrs. Winger and a diamond-and-emerald bracelet from Jane Majorsky—”
“Insignificant.”
She frowned. “But if burglary wasn’t the motive, then…”
His intense gaze taunted her, dared her to say what she was thinking.
“You do think the break-ins were a cover. You think…”
“You three were the real targets. And if I’m right, he’ll be back for you.”
Chapter Two
Two hours later, back in the conference suite, their temporary headquarters at the Cantara Hills Country Club, Brody looked up from his laptop at the sound of plastic sliding against metal, and then the soft whirr of a computer-driven lock release. The hall door swung open. Egan came in, wiping a hand down his face.
“Where’s the evidence?” Brody asked.
“It’s in the car,” Egan said on a yawn. “Could you give me time to get my tail in the door before you chew on it?”
Brody didn’t bother to answer him. He finished typing in his impressions of the crime scene and Victoria Kirkland’s condition.
Caucasian female, thirty years old, five foot nine inches—He stopped, picturing her standing in front of him with one shoulder of that black-and-red kimono sliding down her delicately muscled arm. She was slender but not skinny. He went back to typing—130 pounds, blond hair, green eyes.
“Hot and cool at the same time.” Egan’s voice came from behind him. “Like a hot fudge sundae.”
Brody kicked his chair back and whirled in