Against the Storm. Kat Martin
sexy redhead raced along behind him. “Listen, whoever you are—that’s my camera! You can’t just—”
“I just did. And you can have it back as soon as they’re gone.” Trace tipped his hat to the redhead and her friend, a tall, svelte brunette a year or two older. “Have a nice afternoon, ladies.”
Turning, he strolled out of the café.
“Did you see that? Oh, my God!” The brunette’s attention followed the man who strode down the sidewalk outside the window. “Who was that gorgeous hunk?”
Maggie O’Connell’s gaze jerked toward the window just as the tall, lanky cowboy in the white straw hat disappeared from view. “What are you talking about? That bastard just ruined my pictures. Bobby Jordane and his estranged wife? You know how much photos like that are worth?”
Maggie turned at the sound of a groan, saw the guy with the kinky hair—Lenny the Sphinx, his fans called him—help Bobby to his feet. Clyde the Mountain swayed upward until he was standing. Wordlessly, the small group staggered toward the door.
Maggie looked longingly at the lady who held her camera, but the older woman just shook her head.
Maggie sighed. She wouldn’t be getting photos of Bobby Jordane sprawled on the old plank floor, beaten to a pulp. Not today.
“I hate to remind you, but you aren’t the tabloid type,” said her best friend, Roxanne De Mers. “You didn’t come here to take pictures. You came for a late lunch with a friend. It just turned out to be a little more exciting than we planned.”
Roxy swung back to the window, watching the rap stars as they made their way to the long white limo waiting out front. “I wonder who he was.”
Maggie didn’t have to ask who her friend was talking about. The cowboy was, at the very least, impressive. Tall and lean, with wide shoulders and slim hips, he had thick, dark hair neatly trimmed, golden-brown eyes and a set of biceps that were impossible to miss.
Still, she didn’t appreciate his interference in her business. As the limo door closed, shutting the three men inside, she walked over to the counter to collect her camera, which the broad-hipped woman readily handed back to her.
“So who was he?” Maggie asked, nodding toward the window. “The Lone Ranger out there…what was his name?”
“You a reporter?”
“I’m a photographer. Mostly I do outdoor shots. I just saw an opportunity and took it—or tried to.”
“Sorry it didn’t pan out.”
“Me, too. I can always use a little extra money.”
“Name’s Betty Sparks,” the woman said. “Me and my husband, Bill, own this place.”
“Nice to meet you, Betty. I’m Maggie O’Connell. You make a great burger.”
“Thanks.”
The woman, who was in her late fifties, with a cap of short, curly gray hair, tipped her head toward the door. “His name’s Trace Rawlins. Owns Atlas Security. He’s a private investigator.”
Walking up beside Maggie, Roxanne sighed dramatically, a hand over her heart. “I think I’m in love.”
“The redhead’s got a better chance,” Betty said. “Trace has a weakness for ’em.”
“No, thanks. I don’t do cowboys.”
Betty chuckled. “If I was twenty years younger, I’d dye my hair.”
Maggie laughed. “How much do we owe you?” She walked over to the purse hanging on the back of her wooden chair and started digging for her wallet.
“On the house,” Betty said. “It’s the least I can do.”
Maggie smiled. “Thanks.”
“You new in the neighborhood?”
She nodded. “I just bought one of those town houses they built a few blocks away. Vaulted ceiling upstairs. Good north light, great place to work, you know?”
“Welcome, then. Maybe we’ll see you again.”
“If it’s always this much fun in here,” Roxanne said, “I’m sure you will.”
Betty just laughed.
Maggie put her Nikon back in its case and slung the straps of the camera bag and her purse over her shoulder. Roxanne tossed a couple bills on the table for a tip, and the two walked out the door.
“You know that trouble you been having?” Roxy said.
Maggie paused. “What about it?”
“That cowboy…he’s in the security business and he’s an investigator. He might be able to help you.”
Maggie started to argue, to say she didn’t need any help. Then she thought of the way Trace Rawlins had handled those three men. “I hope it doesn’t come to something like that.”
But it might and both of them knew it. For more than a month, someone had been following her, phoning her and hanging up, leaving messages on the windshield of her car. So far it hadn’t been more than that, but it was frightening just the same.
When she got home, she was going to look up the number for Atlas Security.
And write it down beside Trace Rawlins’s name.
Trace returned to the Atlas Security office on Times Street. He lived in a house in the University District not far away, a place with a yard for Rowdy, his black-and-white border collie, with big shady trees and an old-fashioned, covered front porch. When his dad died, Trace had inherited the house along with the business, a company his father had started when he first got out of the army.
Seth Rawlins had been a Ranger, a tough son of a bitch. Following in his footsteps, Trace had also enlisted and become a Ranger, figuring on a career in the military. Then six years ago, his dad had been killed in a car accident and Trace had come home to take over the business as he knew his father would have wished.
He slowed his dark green Jeep Grand Cherokee, pulled into the parking area in front of his office and turned off the engine. Recently, he had purchased the two-story brick structure—or rather, he and the bank owned it together until he paid off the mortgage. Which, since his profits were up and he was making double payments, he hoped wouldn’t take too long.
In the years since he’d taken over his father’s business, he had doubled the size of the company and opened a branch in Dallas. As a kid, with his dad gone much of the time, he had been raised on his grandfather’s ranch, a place where hard work was expected of a man. Trace still owned the ranch, but it was leased out to a cattle company now. He only went out there once in a while, to check on the old house and the acreage he’d retained around it, but he always enjoyed the time he spent in the country.
He wiped his feet on the mat in front of the office door and stepped inside. The walls were painted dark green and the place was furnished simply, with oak desks for his staff and oak furniture in the waiting area. Framed photos of cattle grazing in the pastures on the ranch hung on the walls.
He looked over to the reception area. “Hey, Annie, what’s up?”
Seated behind her desk, his office manager, Annie Mayberry, glanced up from typing on her computer.
“You got a couple of calls, nothing too exciting.” Annie was in her sixties, with frizzy gray hair dyed blond, and a rounded figure from the doughnuts she loved to eat in the morning.
“Maybe you could give me a hint,” Trace drawled.
She pulled off her reading glasses. “You got a call from Evan Schofield. He says Bobby Jordane is threatening to sue you for assault. Evan says not to worry about it. Bobby couldn’t stand for anyone to find out he got his—I’m quoting here—‘ass