Against the Storm. Kat Martin
Now she knew Trace Rawlins wasn’t always the calm, controlled, soft-spoken guy she had believed. He was a man of fierce conviction and strong emotions.
As she watched his long strides carry him toward the Jeep, something stirred inside her. Some primal instinct that found such a hard, determined man even more attractive than the gentleman he had once seemed.
He jerked open the door and slid behind the wheel, and desire slipped through her. She watched him start the engine, put the car in reverse, then drive away. In moments, he was gone.
Maggie’s insides felt heavy. It was ridiculous. She barely knew the man, and yet flickers of heat still tingled through her body, along with a need she had taught herself to ignore.
But she had always been a passionate woman. Passionate about life, about her work, about her family and friends. It shouldn’t come as a surprise she would respond to a passionate man.
Maggie sighed, wishing things could have been different, grateful the relationship hadn’t gone further than it had before it fell apart.
She turned to assess her surroundings. The town house had been left neat and tidy. Aside from a note and a business card belonging to JDT Security Systems lying on her breakfast bar, and a second set of keys, there was no evidence the installation crew had been there.
She walked over to the counter. The note read, “Installation complete. Trace can show you how to set the alarm.”
Except that Trace was gone.
He would send a man over, he had said, and she knew that he would. He was reliable, steady. But he had a temper she hadn’t expected. She would have liked to discover the man beneath his surface calm, test the fire he kept so carefully controlled and explore the attraction between them.
If things had worked out differently…
But things hadn’t worked out, and that was the end of it.
Trace sat in his office Monday morning reading the newspaper. Except for his Saturday trip to the shore, he’d had a shitty weekend. Hewitt Sommerset was dead. Parker Barrington had very likely killed him. And Maggie O’Connell had turned out to be just another deceitful woman.
He folded the paper and set it on his desk. The headline stared up at him. Missing Woman Found. The article told of a teenage boy finding a woman’s body washed up on a local beach. No positive identification had been made at the time the article was written, but the victim’s clothing and hair led authorities to believe it was the young woman who had recently disappeared. An autopsy was scheduled to determine the cause of death.
Unconsciously, Trace glanced toward the door, expecting Carly to appear any minute demanding his protection. He wasn’t in the mood for his ex-wife and her dramatics, or any other woman—at least not right now.
His thoughts returned to Maggie and the bitter disappointment he felt. She had lied about the false rape, about the police and probably about the stalker.
Worse yet, she had made Trace lose control.
It didn’t happen often. Like honor and honesty, in his family, control was a valued commodity. His daddy had lost his temper only once, when Trace had lied to him about sneaking out to meet his friend Willie Johnson and drinking the pint of whiskey Willie had stolen from his mama’s special medicinal supply. Trace had been ten years old and his father had used a hickory switch to show him the error of his ways.
Later, his dad had come to him and apologized, as if he were the one who had done something wrong.
“I lost my temper, son. A man can’t afford to let that happen. Not ever.”
And because Trace wanted to be the man his dad believed him to be, he made sure it never happened.
Well, almost never.
In the army, his nickname had been Ghost. It wasn’t just because he had a talent for appearing and disappearing without being seen, a skill that often came in handy. It was also because of the way he remained in control, the way he always stayed calm no matter the situation. Calm and controlled, out of sight and out of mind, as quiet as a ghost.
But Maggie O’Connell had broken through his well-honed defenses. He had begun to trust her, begun to let down his guard.
She’s one of those women, Mark Sayers had said. The kind who crave attention, the kind who’ll do anything to get it. But she hadn’t seemed that way. Which just proved what a piss-poor judge Trace was of women.
Worse yet, part of him worried that maybe Sayers was wrong. Maybe there was a stalker. Maybe—at least about that—Maggie had been telling the truth.
Trace leaned back in his chair, refusing to continue dwelling on his brief relationship with another woman he couldn’t trust. He glanced up at a knock at his office door, watched it swing open. Annie never waited for permission.
“Detective Sayers is here to see you. Wants to talk to you about the information you left for him.”
Trace sat up in his chair. “Send him in.”
Mark walked into the office and closed the door. As always, his light brown hair was neatly combed, while his J. C. Penney suit was slightly wrinkled.
“Parker’s got an alibi,” he said, cutting straight to the point. “His wife says he was home with her all evening.”
“Bullshit.” Trace came out of his chair. “She’s covering for him. Emily’s been a fool for Parker since the day she met him.”
“We’ve still got the embezzlement charges. The D.A.’s on it. He’s putting together a case. He doesn’t want to move until he’s got all his ducks in a row.”
“I’ll talk to Jason, tell him what’s going on. I’ll ask him to speak to his sister, see if he can get her to tell the truth.”
“He doesn’t know about the stolen money?”
“Not yet,” Trace said. “But he’s in line to take over the company. He’s going to need to be told.”
“Might not be a good idea,” Mark said. “Word is the kid’s pretty hotheaded. He might come to the same conclusion you did, and try to do something about it.”
Trace thought of the son who had worshipped his powerful father. “You might be right.”
“We’re on this thing, Trace. If Parker killed Sommerset, he’s going down for it.”
He nodded. “The funeral is on Wednesday. Once it’s over, things will settle down. I’ll talk to Emily myself, pay my respects. I’ll be sure not to mention that her no-good husband was stealing a fortune from her dad.”
Mark chuckled. “Sounds good. Let me know how it goes.”
Trace walked his friend through the office, out to the unmarked brown Chevy he was driving that perfectly matched his inexpensive brown suit.
“So what happened with the redhead?” Mark asked as he opened the car door.
“I wouldn’t know. She’s no longer my client.”
“Wise move. I can tell you that as far as I know, she hasn’t made any more 911 calls.”
“That’s good, I guess.” But Maggie had always been reluctant to call the police. She didn’t think they would help her, and pretty much, she was right.
Trace didn’t like the way that made him feel.
“Like I said, keep me in the loop.” Mark slid into the car and drove out of the lot, and Trace returned to his office. The kid, Sol Greenway, was working at his desk in the glass-windowed office next to Trace’s, partly hidden behind a couple of forty-inch monitors. Trace was good at digging up information, but the kid was better. He could find out anything, legally or illegally. Trace was careful not to encourage him.
Most of the time.