Hart O’Brien

The rugged bomb tech with nerves of steel returns home to Mission Creek to help uncover the Lone Star Country Club bomber, only to discover that his old flame works at the club. Can Hart ever convince Joan to give him a second chance?

Joan Cooper

A night of passion transformed this spoiled society princess into a loving and responsible mother. But when she is confronted with her long-ago love, can Joan continue to ignore the passion she feels for Hart? Will she reveal the secret she’s kept from him for ten years?

Helena Cooper

Joan’s spunky preteen daughter takes an instant liking to the bomb tech from Chicago. He’s an old friend of her mom’s, so he’s gotta be “way cool.” So why does her mom turn white as a sheet every time Helena talks to Hart?

Chief Benjamin Stone

Hart’s arrival in Mission Creek screws up all the police chief’s plans for the future—Step One: Woo Joan and her daughter. Step 2: Do whatever it takes to clean up the Lone Star Country Club mess once and for all. NEW Step 3: Get rid of know-it-all bomb tech….

Dear Reader,

Once again, Intimate Moments invites you to experience the thrills and excitement of six wonderful romances, starting with Justine Davis’s Just Another Day in Paradise. This is the first in her new miniseries, REDSTONE, INCORPORATED, and you’ll be hooked from the first page to the last by this suspenseful tale of two meant-to-be lovers who have a few issues to work out on the way to a happy ending—like being taken hostage on what ought to be an island paradise.

ROMANCING THE CROWN continues with Secret-Agent Sheik, by Linda Winstead Jones. Hassan Kamal is one of those heroes no woman can resist—except for spirited Elena Rahman, and even she can’t hold out for long. Our introduction to the LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB winds up with Maggie Price’s Moment of Truth. Lovers are reunited and mysteries are solved—but not all of them, so be sure to look for our upcoming anthology, Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes, next month. RaeAnne Thayne completes her OUTLAW HARTES trilogy with Cassidy Harte and the Comeback Kid, featuring the return of the prodigal groom. Linda Castillo is back with Just a Little Bit Dangerous, about a romantic Rocky Mountain rescue. Finally, welcome new author Jenna Mills, whose Smoke and Mirrors will have you eagerly looking forward to her next book.

And, as always, be sure to come back next month for more of the best romantic reading around, right here in Intimate Moments.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Moment of Truth
Maggie Price

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MAGGIE PRICE

turned to crime at the age of twenty-two. That’s when she went to work at the Oklahoma City Police Department. As a civilian crime analyst, she evaluated suspects’ methods of operation during the commission of robberies and sex crimes, and developed profiles on those suspects. During her tenure at OCPD, Maggie stood in lineups, snagged special assignments to homicide task forces, established procedures for evidence submittal, even posed as the wife of an undercover officer in the investigation of a fortune teller.

While at OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. The first of those tales won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense.

Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317. Or on the Web at http://members.aol.com/magprice

To Marie Ferrarella and Beverly Bird, my fellow Lone Star Country Club cohorts in all things nefarious.

To Pam Newell, mother of five, for patiently providing awesome “daughter/mom” advice.

To Officer Kip Higby, certified bomb technician, Boise Police Department, for invaluable information on all things explosive.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

What the hell am I doing here?

The thought hit Hart O’Brien the instant he steered his rental car up the Lone Star Country Club’s drive, where long afternoon shadows slanted across shrubs laden with eye-popping yellow blossoms.

He knew his uneasiness wasn’t due to the fact his destination was the site of a bomb blast. An expert on explosive devices, he was accustomed to the Chicago PD sending him wherever his expertise was most needed. Yet, no way could Hart write off this trip to Mission Creek, Texas, as just another assignment. Not when the last time he’d laid eyes on the place, both he and his mother had been running from the law.

That’s why he’d been surprised when Spence Harrison called the CPD’s bomb squad. Ten years ago Spence had subsidized his law school tuition by working alongside Hart as a groundskeeper at the posh country club. When Hart fled town with barely the clothes on his back, he regretted not saying goodbye to one of the few friends his vagabond lifestyle had enabled him to make.

Spence was now Lone Star County’s District Attorney. A D.A. with big problems, from what Hart could tell from the few details Spence gave over the phone. Problems that required untangling by someone with an insider’s knowledge of police work and explosives.

Now, two days after agreeing to act as the D.A.’s liaison to the police task force investigating the Lone Star bombing, Hart was back in the city to which he’d sworn he would never return.

Ignoring the signs for valet parking, he pulled into the lot near one of the tennis courts. Against his will the image rose in his mind of a willowy dark-haired young woman with long, bronzed legs lobbing balls across that court.

Jerking his mind free of the memory, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and fought the urge to drive away. In his logical, cop’s brain, he could find no reasons not to stay at the Lone Star in the room Spence had reserved for him. Although there were reasons, they were all emotional and were way below the surface. That’s where he planned to leave them.

He climbed out into the warm March breeze, then slid the car keys into the pocket of his well-worn khakis. A high-pitched squeal from a far corner of the parking lot caught his attention. Two young girls—one with a blond ponytail, the other with waist-length dark hair—raced on bicycles. The dark-haired girl jammed on the brakes, sending her bike’s rear wheel skidding. She blazed a triumphant grin. Cute kid, Hart thought with a faint smile.

Raising the trunk lid, he hefted out his suitcase and field evidence kit. He headed up the pristine drive lined on both sides by shrubs heavy with purple and white peonies, some he and Spence had planted during their stint as groundskeepers.

The knots in Hart’s gut tightened the closer he got to the clubhouse. He would rather walk toward a madman’s ticking bomb than spend time at a place that held memories that were capable of snapping out at him like fangs. Still, he’d given Spence his word. He would do the job.

When he was halfway up the drive, the clubhouse came into full view.

The old and elegant wooden building, the original structure, sat beside the four-story brick addition that had been added years later. To Hart the combination of old and new seemed to exude power and wealth. As did the man and woman alighting from the sleek, black Jaguar parked beneath the covered portico. While the man handed his keys to the parking valet, the woman, clad in a trim white jumpsuit, glided through the front door. After the man followed her inside, a bellman began unloading a mountain of leather luggage from the Jaguar’s trunk.

During Hart’s phone conversation with Spence, the D.A. mentioned that the Lone Star was now more than just a private country club. It had evolved into a world-class resort. Very exclusive. Very private.

Heart-stoppingly expensive.

Hart shook his head. The place might ooze money out of its pores, but that hadn’t stopped some slime from setting a bomb that killed two people and caused significant structural damage.

“Take your bags, sir?” a bellman offered.

“Thanks, I can handle them,” Hart said, then stepped into the elegant lobby, its ceiling soaring two stories above his head. He paused, sweeping his gaze across what seemed to be the same intermittent groupings of leather chairs and sofas that formed private seating areas. As always, long, flowering stalks spilled color and scent out of slim stone vases positioned on sturdy pedestals. Attractive art in massive frames continued to line the walls at precise intervals. Yet changes had been made.

A fountain now sat in the lobby’s center, its water bubbling over the petals and stems of brass magnolias. Like the floor and nearby columns, the fountain had been built from the pink granite native to the area. The club’s transformation into a resort had no doubt necessitated the concierge’s desk and long, rose-toned registration counter located to Hart’s right. Behind the counter, clerks wearing starched white dress shirts and identical blue blazers conducted business. At one end of the counter stood the man and woman who’d arrived in the black Jag.

Hart strode to the counter, settled his suitcase and evidence kit on the floor. A young blond-headed male clerk with strong, clear-cut features stepped to help him.

“We’re expecting you, Sergeant O’Brien,” the clerk said after keying Hart’s name into the computer. “Your executive suite is ready.”

Hart looked up from the registration card the clerk had placed on the counter. “I don’t need a suite, executive or otherwise. A plain room will do.”

“Mrs. Brannigan chose the suite specifically for you.”

“Mrs. Brannigan?”

“Our general manager. She wants to welcome you personally.”

“Nice of her,” Hart murmured, turning his attention back to the card. He wondered what the Brannigan woman would say if she knew one of the club’s former presidents had accused him of stealing money from the golf shop’s till.

“I’ll call Mrs. Brannigan,” the clerk said, reaching for a phone. “She’ll be here by the time I finish your registration.”

“Fine.” Hart completed the card, dashed his signature on the bottom, then slid it across the counter.

“Mrs. Quinlin,” said a warm, soft voice to his left. “Welcome to the Lone Star. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Hart froze. That voice. He knew that voice. Had spent a couple of months lying awake at night, thinking he might go crazy if he never heard it again.

Throat tight, he forced himself to turn toward the end of the counter where the couple who owned the Jaguar stood. A hot ball of awareness settled in his gut as he took in the woman clad in a snug, icy-pink jacket and matching trim skirt that showed off her legs. Those endless, perfect legs.

Setting his jaw, Hart studied her. At eighteen Joan Cooper had been vividly pretty with an open, carefree spirit. Now, a man could take a glance at the woman and see a long, cool brunette with a throat-clenching body and touch-me-not look about her. But he’d touched. Throughout one long hot summer night, he’d touched her plenty.

“I’ve scheduled your itinerary for Body Perfect according to the instructions you faxed.” Joan’s glossed mouth curved as she handed a pink folder to the woman wearing the white jumpsuit. “Your stress recovery program with Hans starts at eight in the morning.”

While the couple moved toward the bank of elevators across the lobby, Joan stepped to the counter. “Karen, be sure Mrs. Quinlin gets a wake-up call at seven-thirty.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ms. Cooper.”

Cooper. Hart had heard she’d jumped immediately from him to a hotshot Dallas attorney. Although he’d never learned the lawyer’s name, odds were almost nil Joan had married a guy with the same last name as hers.

Flicking a look at her left hand, Hart noted her ring finger was bare. Divorced? he wondered, feeling a nasty little streak of satisfaction at the thought.

As he stepped behind her, Chanel No. 5, like a whiff of warm flowers, slid like a haunting memory into his lungs. Bitter satisfaction instantly transformed into the dull ache of regret.

“Hello, Texas,” he said quietly.

Joan went utterly still at the sound of the male voice, as deep and clear as brandy, coming from behind her. A voice from the past. At one time, she would have given everything—anything—to hear that voice again.

Now it put the fear of God inside her.

With blood roaring in her head, she forced herself to turn. And felt everything slip out of focus when her gaze locked with eyes as green as summer leaves. This isn’t happening, she told herself.

But it was. The realization of how very real Hart O’Brien was shot a shudder down the length of her spine and onward to bury itself behind her knees.

He stood so close she could have reached out and touched him. Touched the man whom she had once wanted more than she’d wanted air to breathe. The man she had loved above life. The man who had told her he loved her, then turned his back and walked away forever. Resentment bubbled up instantly. Just as quickly she shoved it back. She couldn’t afford the indulgence of resentment. Not when Hart’s presence threatened so much more than just her pride.

She stared back at him, struggling for words that wouldn’t come. His face was thinner than it had been ten years ago, the hollows of his cheeks deeper. His body was trim, muscled and looked hard as granite. A dark-green polo shirt, open at the neck, revealed curling auburn hair as rich in color as the hair he wore short and brushed back from a straight hairline. His casual shirt, well-washed khaki slacks and scuffed loafers would give most men a relaxed appearance. Hart looked anything but relaxed as he stood watching her, his eyes as sharp as a sword.

“Hello, Hart,” she said, finally finding her voice. This isn’t happening, she told herself again. Can’t happen.

“It’s been a long time, Texas.”

“Yes, it has.” Despite the blood pounding in her cheeks from his use of his private nickname for her, Joan kept her voice cool, devoid of emotion. Her gaze flicked to the counter where no customers lingered and two pieces of luggage sat unattended. Surely he wasn’t checking in. Surely not. Please, God, no.

“Are you a guest here?”

“Yeah.” One side of his mouth lifted in an insolent curve she remembered well. “You wondering how a guy who lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of town can swing a room here?”

“I…no. Of course not.” She stood perfectly still, her gaze locked with his. Around them the sounds of muted conversation, the click of heels against pink granite, the bubbling of the fountain all faded into nothingness. Nothing mattered, except the knowledge that Hart’s presence could destroy the secure world she’d so carefully built.

A cold fist of apprehension tightened her chest. Had he found out? Did he somehow know the secret she had guarded for so many years?

“What brings you back to Mission Creek?” she asked, thankful she managed to keep her voice businesslike, neutral.

“Work. I’m a cop. Spence Harrison called and asked me to join the bombing investigation.”

She blinked. “You’re the bomb tech?”

He slid a hand into one pocket of his khakis. “My official title is hazardous devices technician. But bomb tech will do.”

Joan forced her swirling thoughts to the information the general manager had given in the previous day’s staff meeting. “From Chicago? You’re with Chicago PD?”

“Yes to both questions.”

“I see.” Dread lodged in her stomach. The bombing had occurred ten weeks ago. Chief Ben Stone had told her in confidence that his officers on the task force had no firm suspects. No leads. Nothing. There was no way of knowing how many more weeks, or even months the investigation might drag out. “How long do you expect to stay here?”

“As long as it takes to figure out who set that bomb. And put them behind bars.”

On that terrible morning she had heard the bomb’s thunderous explosion. Felt it. Then watched in sheer horror while rescuers battled flames while pulling survivors—and victims—from the devastation. When she’d heard Spence had called in a bomb expert, relief had risen in her like a wave. Finally someone might find the killer still at large.

Hart angled his chin. “Do you have a problem with me being here?”

Her relief that the terror might soon end with the bomber’s arrest battled against the danger Hart’s presence held for her.

Regarding her steadily, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Since you seem to have suddenly lost your voice, it looks like you do have a problem.”

“On the contrary,” she countered, keeping her gaze locked with his. “I don’t think anyone in Mission Creek will get a good night’s sleep until whoever set that bomb is in custody.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“I’m just surprised to see you after so many years. To find out that you’re the Chicago bomb tech we’ve been expecting.” She needed to breathe, but she couldn’t quite remember how. “I had no idea you were a police officer.”

“And I didn’t know you were back in Mission Creek.” His gaze flicked to the small brass name tag above her left breast. “What do you do here?”

“I manage Body Perfect.”

His gaze did a slow skim down her, then up. “Body Perfect?”

Her nerves shimmered as if he’d touched her. “The ladies’ spa.” Lifting a hand to her throat, she settled her fingers against the point where her pulse hammered as if she’d spent hours lobbing balls across a tennis court. If she stood there much longer, her legs would buckle.

“Speaking of my job, you’ll have to excuse me. I have paperwork to deal with—”

“Joan, I see you’re already making our important guest feel at home.” Her blond hair teased to poofy heights, Bonnie Brannigan swooped in wearing a fire-engine-red suit that fitted her voluptuous curves like a dream. Widowed, and a grandmother several times over, the Lone Star Country Club’s exuberant general manager held equal favor with club members, guests and employees.

“Yes,” Joan said, giving silent thanks for Bonnie’s arrival. Realizing her hands were trembling, she curled her fingers into her sweating palms. Her knees were water. She had a great deal to think over, but her mind simply wouldn’t connect. She needed to go somewhere quiet. Someplace where she could wait for the sick feeling of dread churning in her stomach to settle. Someplace where she could figure out what in heaven’s name to do about this man who had stepped so suddenly from the past.

Joan slicked the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “Bonnie Brannigan, this is Hart O’Brien from the Chicago Police Department.”

Beaming, Bonnie shook his hand. “My goodness, Sergeant O’Brien, you’re a gorgeous one, aren’t you?”

Hart flashed a grin that closed Joan’s throat. How many times during that long-ago summer had she been dazzled by that grin?

“That label suits you, Mrs. Brannigan, not me,” Hart commented.

“And charming, too,” Bonnie added with a delightful laugh. “Police officers are as common around here as cattle tracks in a pasture, but I can’t say all the officers I know are charming. Can you, Joan?”

“No. Bonnie, I was just explaining to Sergeant O’Brien that I have paperwork to deal with. You’ll excuse me?”

“Sure thing. You run on, dear. I’ll take good care of one of Chicago’s finest.”

Joan shifted her gaze to Hart. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“See you around, Texas.”

Chapter 2

Hart kept his eyes on Joan’s retreating form while she moved across the lobby toward the bank of elevators. Despite her pink high heels, her walk was still the smooth, fluid glide of an athlete. Yet, he could tell by the stiffness of her shoulders she was as tense as wire.

Even after she stepped onto an elevator and the doors slid closed, he kept his gaze focused there while memories that still oozed blood stormed through him. He hadn’t known, hadn’t realized so much bitterness still simmered inside him, just below the surface.

He knew that Joan, too, had her own emotions to deal with.

The surprise he’d seen in her eyes that had quickly transformed into stunned incredulity was understandable. A logical reaction to someone suddenly appearing without warning from one’s past.

Hart narrowed his eyes. More was going on with her, though. As a cop he knew all about body language. Joan’s had been stiff, defensive. Serious stress, he thought. And he’d seen something more than mere surprise and stunned incredulity in those whiskey-dark eyes. Panic. Glints of panic.

Why, he wondered? They’d had no contact for a decade. What the hell did she have to feel panic about?

“‘Texas’?”

The curious lilt in Bonnie Brannigan’s voice had Hart switching his mental focus to the Lone Star’s general manager. “What?”

“You called her Texas.” Bonnie’s blue eyes glittered with a meaningful look. “Obviously, you and Joan know each other.”

“We ran into each other the summer I worked here.”

“That’s right.” Bonnie waved a slim hand that sent the small gold charms clattering on the thick-linked bracelet circling her left wrist. “Flynt Carson—this year’s club president—mentioned you’d been a groundskeeper here years ago.”

Hart didn’t know Flynt Carson personally, but anyone who spent any time in Mission Creek knew of the Carsons. The Wainwrights, too, for that matter. The families controlled two of the largest ranching empires in Texas. From what Hart remembered, sometime in the twenties Carson and Wainwright ancestors had deeded a thousand acres each of adjoining land to create the Lone Star Country Club. After that, a vicious feud split what most had considered an unbreakable bond between the families. As recently as ten years ago that feud still festered.

Bonnie nodded. “Flynt said you worked here the same summer as Spence. Imagine that. He’s now the district attorney and you’re a police officer. A bomb expert.”

“Mrs. Brannigan—”

“Bonnie.”

“Bonnie, I learned a long time ago that it’s best to clear the air with people. I left my job here because the man who was that year’s club president accused me of stealing money from the golf shop’s till. If you were around here then, you maybe heard about it.”

“I was a member then—my late husband played golf every day.” Bonnie tilted her head as if to gain a new perspective. “If he had heard about money stolen from the golf shop, he’d have mentioned it. So would a lot of other people. I never heard a thing about it.”

Hart stood silent while his anger built. He knew he hadn’t stolen money, but back then he’d been too young and green to realize Zane Cooper had lied about that to chase him out of town. Until this moment he hadn’t realized there had probably never been money missing from the golf shop’s till.

Bonnie pursed her mouth, painted the same traffic-stopping red as her suit. “So, if there actually was money stolen, did you take it, Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Hart. No. I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me.” He slicked his gaze toward the elevator in which Joan had disappeared. Except her, he conceded. She had never been his. Never intended to be his, past that one night.

“Well, Hart, I’ve got a real fondness for men who don’t beat around the bush. You’re obviously one of ’em.” Bonnie shifted her stance to give ample room to a bellman wheeling a brass cart piled with luggage. “I appreciate you getting that out in the open. Since you’ve worked here before, you probably know that old secrets have a long life around this place. If you don’t clear the air, you’re liable to find yourself knee-deep in some awkward situation before you realize it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hart’s thoughts flashed back to the scene that had played out between himself and Joan’s father. Awkward wasn’t the half of it. “That’s why I told you.”

“Now that you have, let’s put it to rest. What’s important is the reason you’re back in Mission Creek.”

“I agree,” Hart said, banking down any emotion. He had come here, intending to keep his mind on business. Now that he knew it wasn’t just memories of Joan he would have to deal with—but the woman herself—he was even more determined to control his thoughts. Since there was no more serious business than a bomb, he doubted he would have a problem. “I’d like to look at the crime scene now.”

“I thought you would,” Bonnie said, her eyes going somber. “That’s one reason I wanted to know when you arrived. I told the desk clerk to have your bags sent up to your suite. I also contacted Captain Ingram and asked him to join us at the site.”

“Captain Ingram?” Hart asked while Bonnie led the way across the lobby.

“Yance Ingram. He’s a retired Mission Creek PD captain.” As she spoke, Bonnie escorted Hart beneath a graceful arched entry into a wide hallway, its floor a long sweep of the same cool pink granite as in the lobby. “Yance now runs the club’s security operation. All the police officers report to him.”

“You have commissioned cops instead of civilians working security?”

“Yes. Our whole force is off-duty Mission Creek police officers.”

Hart’s thoughts went to the vague mention Spence had made about two MCPD cops who’d kidnapped a little boy who had survived the bombing. One of those cops had died during apprehension, the other committed suicide. In another case, two cops were charged with attempted murder. Hart planned to get the details about those incidents when he and Spence met that night.

Hart gave Bonnie a sideways glance as they made their way down the long hallway. “Does having all those cops around make you feel safe?”

“Before that bomb exploded it did.” She paused before a makeshift wall of plywood that stretched along the remaining length of the corridor. Nearby was a plywood door, secured by bright silver hinges, a hasp and padlock. “I’d feel a whole lot safer if one of ’em figured out who set the bomb,” she added, sliding a key from the pocket of her jacket. “It’s been over two months, and everybody around here is feeling more and more unsettled. Knowing that the bomber is still free has cost a lot of people to lose sleep. Including me.”

“I’ve tracked down my share of bombers. I’ll do all I can to find this one.”

She patted his arm. “You don’t know what a relief it is to have someone with your expertise here. When Spence called and asked me to book your room, he said you might need to spend a lot of time at this scene.” As she spoke, she handed the key to Hart. “Keep this for as long as you need it.”

“Thanks.” He glanced at the padlock. “Who else has access to this site?”

“Captain Ingram and I are the only Lone Star staff members. Yance mentioned that all the officers on the bombing task force also have a key.”

Hart slid the key into the padlock, twisted it, then pulled open the plywood door. The smell of doused ash, sour and acrid, instantly swept into the hallway.

“Oh, that smell.” Cringing backward, Bonnie rubbed a hand across her throat, tears brimming in her eyes. “Every time I get a whiff of that smoke everything about that horrible day hits me again.”

When he saw how her face had paled, Hart instantly swung the door closed and gripped her elbow. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No. No, I just need a minute to steady myself.”

“Bonnie, something like this can’t help but get to you. I can check the site, then ask you any questions I have later.”

Nodding, she pulled a lacy handkerchief from the pocket of her suit jacket. “By now I shouldn’t get so emotional. It’s just… The people who died—Daniel and Meg Anderson—were salt of the earth. Of the survivors, their son, Jake, was the most seriously injured. He’s only five. The sweetest little boy you’d ever want to know.”

Since color had settled back into her cheeks, Hart dropped his hand from her elbow. “How is Jake doing?”

“Fine. Better.” Dabbing at her eyes, Bonnie took a deep breath, then forced a watery smile. “Adam and Tracy Collins, a lovely couple, have given him a home. They’ve put the wheels in motion to adopt him.” Bonnie shifted her gaze down the hallway. “Here’s Yance Ingram now.”

Hart turned. The man striding toward them was medium height, toughly built and compact. He had a round face and a neatly cropped mustache the same dark brown as the hair that had receded halfway down his head. Midfifties, Hart judged when the retired cop got closer. Dressed in a starched white shirt, red tie, blue blazer and gray slacks, Ingram looked comfortable and competent.

“Yance, thanks for meeting us,” Bonnie said. “This is Sergeant Hart O’Brien from the Chicago PD bomb squad.”

“Pleasure, Sergeant,” Ingram said. When he extended his hand, light glinted off the small gold pin in the shape of a lion affixed to his right lapel. “Glad you’re here. Any help we can get on solving this bombing is welcome.”

Hart returned the man’s brisk, sure handshake. “I hope I can help.”

“I spent twenty years on the job, and I never saw anything as terrible as this,” Ingram said. “I’m not proud to know that some bastard managed to sneak a bomb in here on my watch. You can damn well bet I let my security people know that, too.”

Ingram turned to Bonnie, his eyes softening. “Why don’t I take over and give Sergeant O’Brien a rundown on things while he has a look at the scene? When we’re done, I’ll give you a call.”

“I appreciate that, Yance.” Turning back to Hart, Bonnie squeezed his arm. “I’ll just run up and make sure everything’s perfect in your suite.” Her mouth curved. “We’re going to take good care of you here at the Lone Star. So good you’ll be tempted to call your boss and tell him you’re staying forever.”

Hart gave a meaningful look at the huge diamond that glittered like the tail of a comet on Bonnie’s left ring finger. “If some man hadn’t already laid claim to you, I’d make that call right now.”

She chuckled. “Oh, you’re a devil, Hart O’Brien. A real devil.”

Hart waited until Bonnie disappeared down the hallway, then shifted his gaze to Ingram. “She could charm a dead man.”

“You’ve got that right. We’re going to miss Bonnie like hell when she leaves.”

Hart arched a brow. “Leaves for where?”

“She’s decided to quit her job when she marries C. J. Stuckey—he’s a rancher with a huge spread east of town. The Lone Star board offered C.J. a dues-free lifetime membership if he can talk Bonnie into staying on after they’re married.”

“Think he can?”

“Not so far,” Ingram said. “She claims she intends to stay home and tend to C.J. Lucky man, is all I can say.”

“I agree.”

Ingram nodded toward the plywood door. “You ready to have a look at the crime scene?”

“Ready.” Hart swung open the door and gestured for Ingram to step in before him.

“This room is…was the Men’s Grill,” the retired cop explained across his shoulder as Hart followed him in. “Part of the original structure. If what’s left of the walls could talk, they’d tell you about the hundreds of big-money land, cattle and oil deals they’d seen sealed over grilled Texas beef, whiskey and cigars. Sad to say, a lot of the Lone Star’s history went up in smoke the morning that bomb went off.”

The security chief flicked on a bank of portable lights sitting just inside the door. “The club brought these in to help the lab boys see what they were doing,” Ingram explained. “They’ll stay here until this investigation is wrapped. So feel free to use them. Move them around wherever you need them.”

“Thanks.”

With the stink of smoke hanging in the air, Hart took in his surroundings while particles of soot and dust danced in the bright beams. He saw immediately that the explosion had occurred somewhere near the rear of the restaurant, blowing outward toward where he stood. The chairs and tables nearest him had been toppled by the force of the blast, but left intact. Across the room, the furniture was reduced to splinters. Throughout the restaurant, pieces of charred ceiling, insulation and boards had rained down, crisscrossing on top of the furniture and floor.

Ingram shifted his stance. “Has the D.A. already briefed you on the specifics of what happened? Given you copies of the reports?”

“No. I told him I wanted a look at the scene first. Gather my own impressions.”

Usually at a fresh bomb scene, hot spots, jagged glass, nails and other debris made moving around treacherous. Those times Hart wouldn’t take a step before pulling on the pair of steel-soled boots he kept in his field kit. Here, though, the scene was ten weeks old. The lab techs who had worked it had cleared a narrow footpath as they dug through the rubble.

Hart followed that path, snaking around toppled tables and chairs and other charred debris toward where the damage visibly worsened. Getting closer, he thought.

A few inches from a gaping hole in a wall, he found the crater. The shallow depression measured about four feet across. Crouching, he narrowed his eyes. Although the illumination from the portable lights on the far side of the restaurant was dim, he could see that the blast had ripped through the wood flooring but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast.

The ache that began working its way up from the bottom of Hart’s skull told him volumes about the bomber’s explosive of choice. Frowning, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He rose, stepped back from the crater. “A dynamite headache, is all.”

“Dynamite headache?”

“There’s traces of nitroglycerine in the crater.”

Ingram’s eyebrows slid up his broad forehead. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Nitro gives some people, including me, a headache. Has to do with its instant ability to thin blood.”

“Okay, Spence Harrison hasn’t briefed you on what happened. You haven’t read any lab reports on the bomb. From what I hear, there’s a lot of explosives out there these days. Why do you automatically assume the bomber used dynamite?”

“I’m not assuming anything. First, when it comes to explosives, nitro is used almost exclusively in dynamite. Finding nitro in any other type of explosive would mean the bomber used something pretty far-fetched and exotic.” Hart gave his neck another rub. “Second, I get hit with a headache at a scene, I’m 99 percent sure I’m dealing with a dynamite bomb. Third, this bomb left a shallow crater, the type of blast commensurate with dynamite. The crater’s size confirms what the ache in my head is telling me.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ingram murmured. “You’re right, Sergeant. The bomber used a nitroglycerine-based dynamite.”

Turning, Hart glanced though the jagged teeth of a gaping hole in what was left of the restaurant’s rear wall. Beyond the hole was a dark, yawning expanse where the worst of the fire had raged. He knew the dynamite itself wouldn’t have sparked the flames unless an accelerant had been present.

He looked at Ingram, who had moved in and now stood a few yards away. “What started the fire?”

“Beyond that wall is the fried remains of the billiards room. Had big, megaexpensive pool tables, thick mahogany paneling on the walls, leather sofa and chairs, a lot of brass antiques. A real man’s room.”

“None of those things started the fire.”

“I’m getting to that.” Ingram pointed a finger. “A janitor’s closet was there, sandwiched between the Men’s Grill and the billiards room. At the time of the blast, it was filled with cleaning supplies, cans of paint and thinner.”

“Paint and thinner? I expect the fire marshal had something to say after his people found out about that.”

“Yeah. Everybody agrees—the stuff shouldn’t have been in there.”

“Why was it?”

“A paint crew was scheduled to start work on the kitchen the day after the bombing. When one of the crew members hauled in their supplies, he stuck everything in the closet where it’d be handy to the kitchen when they started the job the next day.”

Hart slid his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “So, when the bomb exploded behind the closet, the blast ignited everything flammable inside, blowing flames out into the billiards room.”

“You got it, Sergeant.” Ingram ran a hand over his balding head as if smoothing down hair that was no longer there. “Some of the club’s board members wanted the painter gone. His name’s Willie Pogue and he’s not exactly the most sterling employee around here. Bonnie talked the board out of firing him. He’s got a wife and new baby, and a case of guilt a pasture wide. Nobody had to tell Pogue his carelessness made things worse.”

“A lot worse,” Hart agreed.

“Even so, I sided with Bonnie. We don’t need to spend our time hammering some guy for an innocent screw-up. We need to find the sick scum who planted the bomb.”

Unless Pogue was that scum, Hart thought. And he stacked the accelerant in the closet to intensify the damage.

Adding Pogue to the list of items he planned to bring up with Spence, Hart looked back at Ingram. “Other than the two fatalities and their injured son, how many people were hurt?”

“Fifteen. That includes club members and wait staff. Thank the Lord none were hurt worse than little Jake Anderson.” Ingram checked his watch. “You going to spend a lot of time in here tonight? If so, I can give you a hand with whatever you need.”

“Thanks, I’m almost done for now.” Ingram had been nothing but congenial and cooperative. Eager. Still, Hart had worked hundreds of investigations; he knew that many things were not as they appeared on the surface. Things or people. When he worked this scene, he intended to do it alone.

He shifted his gaze back to the crater. Like all bomb investigators, he paid attention to details. He moved slowly and methodically, building puzzles often made of many small pieces over postblast investigations that lasted weeks, sometimes months. This investigation was no different. He would find out everything there was to know about the dynamite bomb that had exploded out a pressure wave with the capacity to kill in one-ten-thousandth of a second. Then, if luck and evidence were on his side, the remnants of that bomb would lead him to its maker.

That wasn’t the only puzzle he intended to piece together, Hart realized as the image of Joan slid uninvited from a dark corner of his aching brain. He thought again about the flash of panic he’d seen in her eyes as she faced him across an expanse of ten years. Why panic? he wondered again. Why the hell panic?

At one time his love for her felt as though it was killing him. He’d gotten over her long ago, and he had no intention of taking a ride on that same roller coaster again. Still, he was curious. So much so that he intended to find the reason for that panic before he left Mission Creek.

Hours later Joan tucked the last of her laundry into a dresser drawer. Tightening the belt of her silky white robe, she eased a hip onto the edge of her pillow-piled bed.

“It’s nine o’clock,” she said to her daughter, clad in leopard-spotted pajamas and sprawled on her stomach crosswise on the peach-colored comforter. Propped up on her elbows, the young girl leafed through the pages of a family photo album.

“I think I’ll use this one of you.” Helena pointed a red polished fingernail at a photograph in the center of a page. “It looks the most like me. Grandma Kathryn took this picture of you, right?”

“Yes.”

The photo showed a nine-year-old Joan, dressed in pink tights and tutu. Positioned in the center of the stage at the Mission Creek Grade School, she stood on the tips of her toes in pink satin pointe shoes, her arms twined exquisitely above her head. Her childhood dream of becoming a prima ballerina had faded the instant she took her first tennis lesson.

Joan’s mouth curved. “Your grandma had a new camera that night. I think she snapped two entire rolls of film during the three minutes I spent on stage. I wasn’t even the star.”

“I miss Grandma Kathryn.”

“I do, too, sweetheart,” Joan said softly. Her grandmother’s death a year ago had devastated Helena. Joan knew that her own father’s rapidly failing health also hung heavy on her child’s mind. Helena didn’t need any more emotional trauma in her life right now. Which would be exactly what she would get if Hart O’Brien learned the truth.

Dread clamped a vise on Joan’s chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. With an unsteady hand, she stroked her palm down Helena’s long dark hair that streamed to her waist. “I think the two pictures you’ve picked are good choices for your Brownie project,” she managed.

Helena plucked up a photo of herself dressed in similar ballet attire that she had already removed from a different photo album. “I’m standing in an arabesque position instead of en pointe, like you,” she said, studying the photo. “But that’s okay. Mrs. Rorke said to bring a picture of ourselves and a picture of one of our parents doing the same activity.”

“We’re both dancing ballet, so you’ve got it made,” Joan said, then closed her eyes. There was no way Helena could have chosen a photo of her father doing anything, because there were no photos. None. When Helena had first asked why, Joan told her that her father had been gone so soon after they’d fallen in love there hadn’t been time for pictures. That was basically the truth, except Joan had been the only one in love.

“Mom, can we take these albums with us the next time we visit Grandpa Zane?”

Blinking, Joan forced herself to concentrate on Helena’s question. “I’m not sure he would look at them, sweetheart.”

“Well, if he did look, maybe that would help him know who we are again. He’s in a lot of these pictures, too.” Flipping pages, she touched her red fingertip to several photographs of her and her grandfather smiling together. “Maybe seeing them would help him remember us. If he could do that, maybe he’d get well. I just want him to get better.”

Joan slid an arm around her daughter’s thin shoulders, grasping her in a tight hug. The Alzheimer’s that had slowly taken over Zane Cooper’s mind had robbed Helena of the only father figure she had ever known. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re one special kid?”

“Grandpa Zane did all the time before he forgot who I was,” Helena said wistfully.

“He was right. And the next time we visit him at Sunny Acres we’ll take one of the albums with us.”

“Girl Scout’s honor?”

“Girl Scout’s honor.” Joan dropped a kiss on Helena’s head, drawing in her child’s sweet, clean scent. “Now, it’s time to go to bed in your own room.”

“I’m not sleepy. Can’t I look at the pictures a little longer?”

“No.” Rising, Joan rearranged the throw pillows to one side of her bed. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” she continued as she nudged down the comforter and sheets. “And I have to get up early and meet a new client. In fact, I’ve got several new clients scheduled to begin programs at the spa, so I have to be there early every morning this week.”

Not for the first time Joan sent up silent thanks that, when the Lone Star Country Club evolved into a nationally known resort, the board of directors added living quarters for upper-management employees. Joan’s moving into one of those suites meant Helena could come home each day directly after school, instead of going to day care. Joan smiled at the thought of the checklist her nine-year-old daughter had made for herself. Each afternoon after her homework was done, Helena touched base with certain employees on her list to see if they needed her help. From assisting with swim classes to stuffing envelopes to folding napkins in the restaurants, Helena had her routine so perfected that Joan could pretty much check her watch and know Helena’s exact whereabouts any given afternoon.

“How early do you have to leave for the spa?” Helena asked.

“Even before your ride to school gets here.” Joan gathered the albums off the bed and slid them into the bookcase beside the tufted slipper chair that matched her comforter. “You’ll have to come up to my office each morning and tell me goodbye, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Chief Stone called and invited us to a cookout at his house tomorrow night.”

“Can I play Frisbee with Warrant?” Helena asked, referring to the chief’s golden retriever.

“I doubt I’d be able to stop you.” Two months ago Ben Stone had surprised Joan by asking her to dinner. He was forty-five to her twenty-eight; growing up, she had thought of him only as a police officer. Now she was cognizant of him as a handsome, attractive man. One whom she sensed would soon like their relationship to move into intimacy. That was a step Joan wasn’t sure she wanted to take.

She slid a finger down Helena’s nose. “Chief Stone said to tell you he’s making your favorite homemade ice cream.”

Helena grinned. “Chief Ben makes almost as good chocolate ice cream as Grandma Kathryn used to.”

“Off to bed, now,” Joan said, giving Helena a firm but loving tap on the bottom.

Reluctantly Helena crawled off the bed and made her way out the door.

Joan followed, saying, “I’ll turn off the lights in the living room, then come in and kiss you good-night. Be sure and brush your teeth before you climb into bed.”

“Okay, Mom.”

Fifteen minutes after kissing Helena good-night, Joan stood on the dark balcony that jutted off her living room, staring at the starry night sky. The cool little breeze that swirled the hem of her silky white robe around her ankles made her shiver.

The suite she and Helena lived in was on the club’s third level. Before dinner Joan had used the computer in her office to look up which suite Bonnie Brannigan had reserved for Hart. That suite was on the same level, three doors away.

Stepping to the waist-high railing, Joan leaned, counting each separate balcony where ivy and geraniums spilled over the wrought-iron railing. Her gaze settled on Hart’s suite. The drapes were closed in both the living room and bedroom. She could see no light seeping around the edges.

She eased out a breath. Ten years ago she’d been eighteen, broken-hearted and pregnant, and would have given anything to have him near. Anything to have just known where he was.

And what would she have done if she had known? she asked caustically. Gone after him and begged him to want her? Begged him to love her the way she did him? Begged him to want and love the child she was carrying?

Hart had walked out on her. All her going after him would have done was enhance the despair and mortification she had felt when she realized his claiming to want and love her was a lie.

She shoved at a wisp of hair the breeze batted against her cheek. Ten years ago she had made a vow not to let her unborn child down. To give her the best life possible. To protect her.

Joan had no idea what kind of man Hart O’Brien had become. She could not second-guess what he might do if he discovered Helena was his daughter. Ignore his child? Befriend her? Walk away as easily as he had done ten years ago, leaving Helena with a shattered heart?

No, Joan thought as the need to protect welled inside her. Hart O’Brien had made his bed a long time ago. He had stepped on her own heart, but he wasn’t getting a shot at Helena’s.

For the first time Joan gave thanks for her parents’ unending need to maintain appearances. That need had motivated them to send her to stay with her aunt in Dallas when they found out she was pregnant. When she brought Helena home to Mission Creek, Joan had learned her parents had told everybody she’d had a whirlwind romance with a Dallas attorney who had died weeks after they’d eloped. Everyone in Mission Creek had accepted the story. Joan had done nothing to change that. Why should she? Why not protect her child from the stigma of being illegitimate?

Everyone believed Helena’s father had died before she was born. There was no reason Hart shouldn’t believe that, too.

No reason to tell him Helena was his.

Chapter 3

Hart said goodbye to Yance Ingram outside the bomb crime scene, then rode an elevator, complete with a small, tinkling chandelier, to the third floor. There he unlocked the door to the executive suite Bonnie Brannigan had reserved for him. The sumptuous rooms were full of mahogany furnishings, Oriental rugs and silk drapes the color of burnt sugar. The suite sported two televisions, a stereo system and a full bar setup.

For Hart the opulent surroundings represented the height of irony. His previous living quarters in Mission Creek had been a cramped, going-to-rust trailer, which he and his mother shared on the outskirts of town. Then Vonda O’Brien had been a truck-stop waitress, existing in a hazy world of bourbon and country music. For years she had blocked Hart’s efforts to get her off the bottle, claiming she was happy the way things were. Content to drift from town to town just as she’d done years before when she’d been a vocalist for a country-western band. Growing up, Hart hadn’t had a choice but to accept his mother’s itinerant lifestyle.

Things had changed the day their car broke down in Mission Creek.

Tired of being on the move, sick of having nothing, he told Vonda they were settling down, and began a campaign of bullying her to go into rehab. He’d hired on at the Lone Star, determined to have some sort of normal life.

The day he first laid eyes on Joan Cooper dashing across a tennis court, he had forced himself to ignore the lust that punched through him. Forced himself to dismiss her sassy smile and the way she tossed back her dark hair. Told himself that a rich-girl, poor-boy romance had disaster written all over it. He had managed to keep most of his thoughts and his hands off Joan until that night she came to him. The curves that had driven him nuts for months had been covered only by skimpy shorts and a white halter top. Mad with desire, he had taken what she offered. And fallen in love in the process. He’d been fool enough to think that somehow, some way, he could keep her in his life.

Hours later he and Vonda had fled Mission Creek. If Zane Cooper’s phony accusation that Hart had stolen money had been the man’s sole threat, Hart would have dug in and defended himself. But Cooper had an ace in the hole—a hot check Vonda had written and a buddy on the sheriff’s department willing to haul her in. With his mother in trouble, Hart had to get her away from there. Later, after he got Vonda settled near her stepbrother in Chicago and attending AA meetings, he had tried to contact Joan. That’s when he found out she’d gotten married.

“Christ,” Hart muttered. Even after so long he felt a remnant of the anger and hurt pride that had burned away the last of his innocence. Knowing those events still had the power to reach out and grab him by the throat had his temper rumbling all over again. He had spent ten years making something of himself. He didn’t need reminders of a past that was best forgotten.

And he had to figure that was how Joan felt, too. After all, she’d heard her father’s claim that the man she’d given herself to was a no-good thief. The shame she’d probably felt back then would have been enough for one lifetime.

Shame, Hart thought, his eyes narrowing. Could he have been wrong about her reaction to him this afternoon? Was what he’d read as panic actually been shame? His cop’s instincts, honed over time, had always proved infallible. Still, emotion usually didn’t taint those instincts.

Biting back frustration, he unpacked, then stowed his field evidence kit in a walk-in closet the same size as the sparkling-tiled bathroom that boasted a round sunken tub. That done, he returned to his rental car and drove though the clear moonlit night to the address Spence Harrison had given him.

Ten minutes later Hart pulled up to the curb in front of a Victorian house with a wraparound porch.

“Nice digs,” he said as Spence headed into the kitchen for beer. Hart made himself comfortable on the leather couch that faced a dark fireplace with a burnished wood mantel and marble edging. On each side of the couch sat a matching leather wing chair. A thick-legged coffee table piled with neat stacks of file folders sat in front of the couch. The warmly lit room’s overall impression was of old polished oak and leather, a place of comfort to settle in and relax.

“Glad you like the place,” Spence commented when he strode back into view. Holding two long-necked beer bottles between the fingers of one hand, he loosened the knot on his crimson tie with the other. “The woman who owns this house is a widow. When I heard she wanted to rent out the entire top floor, I grabbed it.”

“Smart move,” Hart said, accepting the bottle Spence handed him.

“It’s a plus that this place is only a couple of blocks from the courthouse.” Spence set his bottle on the coffee table, stripped off his navy suit coat and draped it over the far arm of the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, Hart caught a glint of reflected light. He noted the small gold pin in the shape of a lion affixed to the coat’s lapel. Yance Ingram had worn an identical pin.

“Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the Lone Star when you got in,” Spence said.

“No problem.” While Spence settled into a chair, Hart sipped his beer, letting the ice-cold brew slide down his throat. “You said you had some sort of dinner event tonight.”

“At which I gave a speech. The minute I wound things up my pager went off. I had to stop by my office on the way here to take care of a problem with a search warrant one of my assistants authorized. I got here five minutes before you drove up.”

“That kind of schedule doesn’t make for much of a social life.”

“What the hell is a social life?”

Hart chuckled. “Good question. I wouldn’t know one if it jumped up and bit me on the butt.”

Spence took a draw on his beer. “Hard to believe it’s been ten years since we slaved as groundskeepers at the Lone Star.”

“Yeah.” Spence Harrison hadn’t changed much over those years, Hart decided. His friend still had the lean, powerful build that complemented his six-foot frame. He wore his thick brown hair in the same style, although now it was cropped close on the sides. It was his eyes that seemed different. More than just fatigue shone in their dark depths. Ingrained anxiety had settled there. Which, Hart supposed, was the reason Spence had asked him to come to Mission Creek.

Setting his beer on the table beside the couch, Hart leaned forward. “I took a look at the bomb site after I checked in.”

“And?”

“Someone built a nitroglycerine-based dynamite bomb which they planted behind a closet filled with various accelerants. Since that’s all I’m sure of at this point, why don’t you fill me in on what you know?”

“It isn’t much. Two days after the bombing the police chief—Ben Stone—organized a task force. Ten weeks later they still have nothing. No firm motive. Or solid suspect. Right now the cops are a million miles away from closing the case.”

Hart wasn’t a homicide detective, but he knew the first rule of any homicide investigation: look for a link between the victim and the killer. “Bonnie Brannigan said the people who died in the blast were salt of the earth. Have the cops come up with a reason anyone might want to kill them?”

“No. The police searched Dan and Meg Anderson’s house and found nothing suspicious. The task force combed through their bank records, checked their safe deposit box, talked with co-workers, friends, the IRS and the state tax people. No red flags popped up. Nothing to make anyone think something nefarious was going on. No indication that either of the Andersons was being blackmailed or had a gambling problem. The way it looks, they’d be the last people anyone would have a reason to kill.”

“Did they have a reservation that day at the Men’s Grill?”

“No. One of the club members chatted with Dan outside the restaurant. He said he and Meg had decided to eat there on the spur of the moment. Even they didn’t know they’d be there.”

“Who was supposed to be there?”

“I was, for one.”

Hart arched a brow. “Did you make a reservation?”

“No, but it wouldn’t have been hard to figure out I would be there.” As he spoke, Spence gave the back of his neck a long, slow rub. “During my stint in the marines I served under a lieutenant colonel named Phillip Westin. So did four other buddies of mine from Mission Creek. A couple of days before the bombing, Westin called me, Flynt Carson, Tyler Murdoch and Luke Callaghan to let us know he was flying in and staying overnight at the Lone Star. Westin had already scheduled a tee-time for all of us to play golf. He’d also made a reservation for us to eat in the Men’s Grill after the game.”

“Westin made those arrangements before he was even sure all of you would be available?”

“He didn’t have to ask first. During the Gulf War, Flynt, Tyler, Luke, myself and another man named Ricky Mercado were captured in enemy territory. If Westin hadn’t helped us escape, we’d have died. He knows all he has to do is ask and we’ll be there for him. Anytime. Anywhere.”

Hart narrowed his eyes. “Something tells me Westin wasn’t making a social call here.”

“Right. He stopped over on his way to Central America. Mezcaya specifically.”

“The unrest there has made a lot of headlines. Why was Westin headed there?”

“To join a joint mission between our government and the British to take down the terrorist group, El Jefe. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes.” Hart settled his elbows on his knees. “Terrorists are partial to using bombs, so my unit gets memos from the FBI, DEA and ATF on all known terrorist groups. From what I’ve picked up, El Jefe is Mezcaya’s answer to Columbia’s Cali cartel.”

“Right. Lately El Jefe has been flexing its muscle. The Brits want to take down the group because its thugs have started roaming across the border and terrorizing citizens of Belize. The U.S. wants El Jefe because of the increase in drugs coming from Mezcaya into Mexico, most of which get smuggled into the U.S.”

“So, El Jefe would have had ample reason to stop Westin from joining the mission,” Hart reasoned. “A bomb would have not only killed him, but sent a message to others that it’s not smart to screw with El Jefe.”

“Correct.”

Hart pictured again the devastation he’d seen at the crime scene. “The bomber planted the device near the rear wall of the Men’s Grill. Was that near Westin’s reserved table?”

“Yes. Right next to the table where a waitress seated Daniel and Meg Anderson.”

“What about timing? Where was your group when the bomb went off?”

“On the trellised walkway behind the club house. Our golf game took longer than expected so we would have gotten to the Men’s Grill about ten minutes after the time Westin scheduled the reservation.” Spence shook his head. “That’s the sticking point for me, Hart. There’s no way to exactly time a golf game. My gut tells me word of Westin’s mission leaked. The four of us whom he called knew a couple of days ahead of time he’d be at the Lone Star. So did everyone working at the front desk, the golf shop and in the Men’s Grill. That’s plenty of advance notice for one of El Jefe’s thugs to set up the bombing. But since the bomb went off so close to the time set for Westin’s reservation, I can’t say for sure he was the target. If he was, the bomber sure didn’t leave himself a very big window of opportunity.”

“You’re supposing the bomb went off when the bomber meant for it to.”

Spence frowned. “Of course.”

“It’s not rare for a bomb to explode before or after it’s intended to, so you have to take that into consideration,” Hart responded. “A lot depends on the skill of the person who builds the device. Luck, both good and bad, also comes into play. I’ve lost count of the calls I’ve answered where an unsuspecting bystander touched a bomb and caused it to detonate prematurely. Sometimes you don’t even have to touch an explosive device to set it off. Walk across a carpet or wear too much nylon and static electricity can detonate a certain type of bomb. Show me a female bomb tech and I’ll guarantee you she never wears pantyhose on the job.”

“Christ.” Spence sent him a long look. “How do you do it?”

“What?”

“Purposely walk toward a ticking bomb. You do that, knowing the thing could kill you if you touch it the wrong way, make the wrong decision or cut the wrong wire.”

“With my training, I’m not in any more danger than a patrol cop who responds to a domestic disturbance,” Hart replied. “Speaking of career choices, your being the D.A. guarantees you a few enemies. Have you put anyone with explosives experience in prison? Especially someone who got out recently?”

“My staff checked. Other than you, the only person I know with explosives experience is Tyler Murdoch. Since he was also in Westin’s party, I doubt Ty planted a bomb designed to blow himself up along with me.”

“Good point.” Hart sipped his beer, going over what Spence had told him so far. “What about Ricky Mercado?” he asked after a moment. “You said he served in the marines with you, but Westin didn’t include him in the golf game. I remember hearing talk about the Mercado branch of the Texas Mob. Is Ricky a part of that family?”

“Yes. Westin didn’t call Ricky because there’s bad blood now between him, Luke, Flynt, Tyler and me. Has to do with Ricky’s dead sister.”

Hart glimpsed the shadow of regret that passed over Spence’s eyes. “Do I need to know about that for this investigation?”

“No. I know Ricky as well as I know myself. He didn’t plant that bomb because of what happened among all of us in the past. It’s possible, though, that someone else in the Mercado family was behind the bombing.”

“For what reason?”

“Did Bonnie mention Meg and Daniel Anderson’s son to you?”

“Yes. Kid named Jake, right?”

Spence nodded. “Minutes before the bomb exploded, Jake walked out of the Men’s Grill to find the rest room. He took a wrong turn and wound up opening a door that leads outside. He saw two men dragging bags out of one of the clubhouse’s back doors and loading them into a car.”

“What kind of bags?”

“Some sort of green cloth or canvas bags.” Spence’s mouth hitched upward on one side. “Jake thought the bags looked like the one he’d seen Santa with. The kid thought the men were Santa’s helpers.”

“Did these so-called elves spot Jake?”

“Yes. They slammed the door in his face. Then the bomb went off.”

“I take it the police tried to find the bag men?”

“They interviewed employees and club members. If anybody knows who they are, they’re not saying.”

“Which leads us back to the Mercados. Do you think the bag men belong to the mob?”

“It’s possible. What if those bags were stuffed with money? Or drugs? That would point to illegal activity going on at the Lone Star. Maybe someone on the inside stopped cooperating in that activity, and the mob planted the bomb to either kill them or scare the hell out of them.”

“Hearing that makes me wonder about trusting anyone who works there.”

“That thought has crossed my mind several times.” Spence rose, walked to the fireplace and stared into its dark mouth. “The guys with bags could have also been cops.”

Hart sat back in his chair. “When you called, you said an MCPD cop had committed suicide, another is also dead, and two others are charged with the attempted murder of a fellow officer. What in God’s name is going on with the police?”

“Hell if I know. All I can say for sure is there’s a problem inside the MCPD. I just don’t know how big a problem.” Spence scowled. “After Jake got out of the hospital, a cop named Ed Bancroft snatched him and his adoptive mom. Bancroft’s partner, Kyle Malloy, was also in on the kidnap. Luckily, help got to Jake and his mom in time. Malloy got killed in a struggle and Bancroft was arrested. He clammed up, wouldn’t say a thing, then hanged himself in a holding cell.”

“Did Jake ID him or Malloy as one of the men he saw with the green bags?”

“Jake isn’t sure.” Spence paused. “There may be even more going on with the cops. The local rec center hired a basketball coach, an ex-con by the name of Danny Gates. He used to work for the Mercado mob.”

“Used to?”

“Used to,” Spence confirmed. “He’s gone straight. Gates and a cop named Molly French developed a rapport with a teen named Bobby Jansen—goes by the name Bobby J. After he figured out he could trust Danny and Molly he started opening up.”

“The kid gets close to an ex-con and a cop?”

“Strange combination,” Spence agreed. “A couple of weeks ago, Bobby got beaten and wound up in the E.R. Before he went into surgery he managed to tell Molly he’d been working for some bad guys. Because of Danny and Molly’s influence, Bobby decided to go straight. The bad guys got wind of that, beat him and left him for dead. Bobby told Molly the guys were cops who belong to a group called the Lion’s Den.”

“Damn.” Hart pulled at his lip, staring into space as his mind worked. “What happened after Bobby got out of surgery?” he asked after a moment. “Did he I.D. the two men who beat him?”

“Bobby went into a coma during surgery and hasn’t regained consciousness. When Molly French started digging into Bobby’s assault, someone took a shot at her. Later two of her fellow officers and a nurse involved with one of those cops, named Beau Maguire, tried to kill French. Maguire’s gone underground. His nurse girlfriend and his partner are in jail, keeping quiet.”

Snagging his beer, Hart rose and walked to the opposite side the fireplace from where Spence stood. “You a member of the Lion’s Den, too?”

Spence’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell do you ask?”

Hart gestured with his bottle toward the arm of the couch. “There’s a gold pin shaped like a lion on your suit coat’s lapel. Yance Ingram has one, too.”

“That pin, my friend, is an award conceived years ago by Mission Creek’s then mayor and city council.”

Hart gazed at the small gold lion pin, then looked back at Spence. “What did you do to earn yours?”

“Before I became D.A., I did pro bono work for the battered-women’s shelter.”

“What about Ingram? What good deed did he do?”

“You’ll have to ask him. Like I said, the award has been in existence for years. You’ll spot a lot of lion pins around Mission Creek.”

Hart nodded. “This Officer Molly French, is she on the up and up?”

“It’s Detective French now. You can trust her. I can’t say that about other cops because I don’t know what’s going on inside the P.D. If anything.”

“If?”

“I’ve lost count of the calls I’ve gotten from the public demanding the police make an arrest on the bombing. I know that’s one reason I’m feeling pressure. But that’s not the only problem here. Maybe the four cops were a rogue group operating inside the department. Or maybe they’re the tip of an iceberg that’s just surfacing.”

Rolling his shoulders, Spence walked to the nearest chair and sat. “That’s why I called you, Hart. You know about bombs. You know how a police department operates. I need you on the inside, telling me what’s going on.”

“Why isn’t Molly French doing that?”

“She is. Still, she can only dig so much. If there are more corrupt cops, it’s possible she’s being watched. Don’t forget someone took a shot at her. In my mind she’s in danger and needs to lie low.”

Hart leaned a shoulder against the mantel. “What about the department’s top cop? Do you think he’s righteous?”

“I don’t have a reason to think he isn’t. Ben Stone was born here, he’s been chief for years. Nothing like this has ever happened on the force. No evidence ties him to the Lion’s Den.”

“How did he take it when you told him you want to put your own representative on his task force?”

“Ben said they need all the help they can get.”

“That could be the PR spin. If I was a Mission Creek cop, I’d get my back up if I couldn’t solve a case and somebody came in from the outside to look over my shoulder. Some big-town guy.”

“Ben Stone’s in a tight spot, just like I am. He’s getting pressure from the mayor, city manager and the Lone Star’s board of directors to get the bombing solved and the crime scene released so the club can get on with remodeling. Ben’s people have had a ten-week shot at this and they’ve got nothing. Ben wants the case solved. Period. Who gets credit for that isn’t a prime consideration.”

“Stone understands I work for you? That I report only to you?”

“Yes. He’s agreed to give you access to all reports, crime scene and autopsy photos, everything. I told him you’d drop by his office sometime tomorrow to introduce yourself.”

“I’ll go there in the morning.” Hart settled back onto the couch. A question had nagged at him since he’d taken Spence’s phone call at the CPD’s bomb squad. That and his conversation with Bonnie Brannigan had him wanting to clear the air.

“Why me, Spence? Why did you call me?”

“I view it as pure luck, since we lost contact with each other.” He raised a shoulder. “I got a flyer for a criminal justice conference a few weeks ago and saw you named as a speaker on a bombing panel. I had no idea you lived in Chicago or were a cop, much less a bomb tech. But I figured there had to be only one O’Brien with the first name of Hart so I gave you a call.”

Hart shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. When I left Mission Creek, Zane Cooper accused me of stealing money from the golf shop. You and I worked together, I figured he must have told you I was thief. And I wondered if you believed I stole the money.”

“Cooper never said a word about stolen money. No one else did, either.” Spence’s eyes widened. “Is that why you took off the way you did? Because Cooper accused you of being a thief?”

“That had a lot to do with it,” Hart said through his teeth.

“Damn, Hart. That entire summer, whenever Zane Cooper looked at you all I saw was hate. Since Joan’s the one who flirted up a storm with you while you kept your hands to yourself, his attitude was far from fair.”

Hart drew in a slow breath. Spence didn’t know he and Joan had spent a night together. At this late date, it didn’t much matter.

“Think about it, Spence. I was the hired help from the trailer park. I don’t have to tell you that Cooper had a thing about maintaining appearances.”

“No, you don’t. Look, for what it’s worth, I felt lousy when you called a month or so after you left town and asked if I knew how you could contact Joan. Having to break the news that she’d run off to Dallas and married some lawyer didn’t sit well.”

“So, what happened?” Not that it mattered, Hart told himself. He didn’t care about the man Joan had married. Didn’t want to know any details of the life she shared with another man. He didn’t care.

“What happened with what?”

“The lawyer. I ran into Joan this afternoon when I checked in. Her name tag says Cooper. She’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

Spence winced. “I’ve had so much on my mind lately that it didn’t occur to me to tell you Joan manages the ladies’ spa at the Lone Star. I guess you were surprised to see her.”

“Yeah. I’m curious about her husband.”

“His name was Thomas Dean.”

“Was?”

“He died in a car wreck in Dallas not long after he and Joan got married.”

For the past decade whenever he thought about Joan, Hart had forced himself to think of her as a wife. The mate of another man. A young woman who had freely given him her innocence, yet never intended to stay with him for longer than one night. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man she had chosen over him. “You ever meet Dean?”

“No, just heard about him. Right after I set up my practice, Zane Cooper came to see me. He had decided to fund a trauma wing at the hospital in Dean’s name and hired me to take care of the necessary legal documents. I remember Cooper mentioning his son-in-law’s death happened so soon after he and Joan eloped that she hadn’t had a chance to change her name on all her I.D. That’s why she kept her maiden name.”

“That had to have been rough on her,” Hart murmured. “Her husband dying like that.”

“Yeah. And it’s a shame Dean’s daughter never got to know her father.”

Hart blinked. “Daughter?”

“Helena. You’ll probably run into her, since she and Joan live in one of the Lone Star’s employee suites. The kid’s a real doll.”

Joan was a widow, Hart thought. She had a daughter.

He sat in silence, wondering if there were other things about her life he didn’t know.

Chapter 4

Hart spent a sleepless night in his suite’s king-size bed, wrestling with ghosts of the past.

Around six-thirty he gave up and shoved back the vanilla-scented sheets he suspected had been ironed. The Lone Star had an outdoor jogging trail, and he was determined to run until he was too worn-out to think.

Why the hell had the few details Spence had told him about Joan clung like a burr in his head for the entire night? Why had he lost sleep thinking about her being a widow? A mother? Those facts meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him.

Dammit, he had let her go.

But he had never forgotten her, he conceded as he yanked on running shorts and a black T-shirt bearing CPD’s bomb squad logo. Not completely, anyway. Memories of her had lessened over time, but there were still instances when thoughts of her managed to slip uninvited into his mind.

Like every minute throughout the previous interminable night.

He grabbed a pair of white sport socks, then elbowed the drawer closed with more force than necessary. Fine, he thought. He had never forgotten her. It wasn’t much of a mystery why a man might carry around the memory of a woman who’d cut out his heart.

He blew out a disgusted breath. Instead of focusing on the past, he needed to think about the present. He and Joan were different people than they’d been ten years ago. He doubted she still spent her days lobbing balls across one of the Lone Star’s tennis courts. She was a business woman, the manager of a classy spa. A widow, raising a child. He no longer toiled as a country club groundskeeper, making sure everything looked presentable and ran smoothly for the cultured class. He was a cop, skilled in disarming explosive devices. All he and Joan had in common was the night they spent together. One night.

One night that had meant nothing to her.

“Dammit!” he muttered as he snagged his running shoes off the yawning expanse of closet floor. Before he’d met Joan Cooper he had never given away his heart. He damn sure hadn’t felt the least bit tempted to risk giving it away since. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to. Someday.

Lately he’d caught himself feeling a twinge of envy when he attended the bomb squad’s monthly cookouts and rubbed elbows with his co-workers’ families. With increasing frequency he found himself wanting a real home, a wife and kids. Hart gave a derisive shake of his head. He couldn’t exactly start down the path to getting those things when a casual conversation about a woman from his past had the power to make him toss and turn all night.

So, fine, that was an issue he needed to deal with.

Fate in the form of a bombing had brought him back to Mission Creek. He would consider that a sign, he decided while grabbing his watch and door card key off the nightstand. A sign that it was time to come to grips with all that had happened that long-ago summer. Time to put the past to rest so he could move on.

He was long overdue on letting Joan Cooper go.

He strode to the suite’s door, unbolted it, then stepped into the cool quiet of the long, carpeted hallway. Pausing, he let the door drift shut behind him while he strapped on his watch. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned his head in time to see Joan appear from a doorway three rooms down.

She pulled the door closed with a soft click while giving an idle glance down the hallway. The instant she saw him, her chin came up and her shoulders stiffened.

Hart’s eyes narrowed against an immediate stab of irritation. She had proven he meant nothing to her, so why did her nerves instantly go on alert each time she spotted him? Why the hell did she react to him at all?

When she reached behind her for the doorknob, he wondered if she might retreat back into the room until he disappeared down the carpeted hallway. Instead, she stood there, her fingers gripping the doorknob while they stared at each other across space. Across time.

He slicked his gaze down her trim, tidy turquoise suit, then on to those incredible legs that a blind man would have noticed. His eyes slowly resettled on her face. She looked elegant, classy with her dark hair pulled back in a smooth twist that emphasized the long, slender arch of her throat.

His hands fisted with the realization that after so long he still remembered the soft, warm taste of that flesh. Could again hear her raw, passionate moan when he took away her innocence and made her his.

Ten years ago, wanting her had been like a fever in his blood. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, he again felt something inside him stir. And realized it was the blood he’d let settle and cool over the years.

Don’t go there, he warned, and took a mental step back. Don’t go the hell near there.

The noise of the resort awakening around them slowly slid into his consciousness. A murmur of distant voices. The rattle of china on a room service cart. The far-off ding of an elevator. Finally Joan gave him a curt nod, turned and started down the hallway in the opposite direction, her long, wand-slim body flowing into the movement.

Hart hesitated. After the restless night he’d spent because of her—and the unsettling punch of lust he’d just experienced—it seemed wiser all the way around to keep his distance.

Hell, when it came to Joan Cooper he hadn’t ever been wise.

“Morning, Texas,” he said when he strolled up behind her at the bank of elevators.

She paused before turning, giving him an opportunity to skim his gaze down her back, over those long legs. “Good morning, Hart.”

Close up, he saw the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes that made him think she hadn’t slept any better than he had. Although his ego would have preferred to think she’d lost sleep over him, common sense told him better.

Her glossed lips lifted slightly at the corners. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Lone Star. Be sure to let us know if you need anything.”

The cool politeness in her voice had him raising a brow. “That the standard company line? Or did you just come up with it off the top of your head so we’d have something to chat about while we wait for the elevator?”

“You’re our guest.” Reaching, she pressed the elevator’s already lit call button. “It’s important to every employee that you have a pleasant stay.”

He thought back to the sleepless hours he’d spent on a certain employee’s account. “So far I wouldn’t call my stay at the Lone Star pleasant.”

The comment earned him a concerned look. “I hope that’s because of your business here. I can imagine how awful it must be having to view bombing scenes where people have died and been injured.”

He stared at her for a long moment. He wasn’t complacent about his job. He couldn’t be, not when he worked in a world where the unexpected always showed up and where the threat posed by each bomb builder changed as fast as technology advanced. Yet, what he did for a living had been the last thing on his mind this morning. He had thought of her. Only of her.

Now he forced his mind to the devastation he had seen the previous afternoon in the Men’s Grill and the billiards room. Since Joan worked and lived at the Lone Star, the makeshift plywood wall with its padlocked door would no doubt serve as a constant reminder of how irreparably an explosion could change a person’s world. “You’re right,” he said, softening his voice. “Working a bomb scene is one of the unpleasant aspects of my job.”

Nodding, she lifted a hand to her throat. “It’s hard knowing that the person who set the bomb is still free.” Looking across her shoulder, she shifted her gaze down the hallway in the direction they’d come. “I hope you find who did it, Hart.” The sudden vulnerability that slid into her dark eyes sounded in her voice. “I hope you find him soon before he has a chance to kill or injure someone else.”

Her child, he realized. Of course she wasn’t concerned just for her own safety but that of her daughter.

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure the person who made that bomb winds up behind bars.” Pausing, he inclined his head toward the hallway. “I take it the room I saw you walk out of is where you live? You and your daughter?”

Joan’s hand slowly dropped from her throat. The vulnerability disappeared from her eyes, and her face took on a closed, blank look. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering, is all. When I met with Spence last night he mentioned that you’re a widow. That you have a child and you live here.”

Her eyes were now as cool as her tone. “Why were you and the district attorney talking about me?”

“No real reason.” He lifted a shoulder. “Your name came up in the conversation.”

“What about you, Hart?”

“What about me?” he asked, aware that she had changed the subject before answering his question.

“Is there a Mrs. O’Brien waiting in Chicago for you to come home? Some little O’Briens?”

“No. Getting married and having kids is still on my to-do list.”

“I see.”

His gaze flicked to the small brass name tag above her left breast. He replayed Spence’s explanation of why she still used her maiden name. Which, now that Hart thought about it, was odd since old man Cooper had endowed a wing at the hospital in his dead son-in-law’s name. Wouldn’t she want to be linked to something like that?

“Does your daughter go by Cooper, too?” he asked, just as an elevator chimed its arrival.

Something flickered in Joan’s face, then was gone. “Yes.” Very deliberately she turned and reached for one side of the double doors that slid apart, braced it open with her palm, then turned to face him. “I take it by the way you’re dressed you’re going jogging?” A thin smile accompanied the question.

“You’ve got a good grasp of the obvious.”

She inclined her head in the opposite direction from the one they’d come. “If you take the flight of stairs at the end of the hallway to the ground level, the door you’ll come to leads right out to the jogging trail.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Her blatant desire not to share an elevator with him had him taking a perverse step past her into the cab. “I’ll ride down with you, if you don’t mind,” he said, trying to ignore the punch in the gut that came with a whiff of the warm, subtle scent of Chanel No. 5. He leaned against the wall opposite her, wishing to God she didn’t look so beautiful, that just her presence didn’t play so perfectly on his senses.

She hesitated before using a pink polished nail to press the button for the ground floor. “Of course I don’t mind. You’re a guest here, Hart. You can use whatever elevator you like.”

“I’m also a cop, Texas.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Using a polite tone doesn’t make it any easier to get a lie past me.”

She turned to face him. “I wouldn’t think for one minute that lying to a police officer would be easy.”

“It’s not. And it generally doesn’t get you anywhere but into trouble, so you can drop the polite act.” His mouth took on a sardonic curve as the door slid shut, closing them in. “The truth is, you mind like hell sharing this elevator with me.”

He saw a muscle tighten in her jaw. “All right, Hart, since you won’t let the matter alone, I’ll forget my customer service training for a moment. You’re right, I would rather not share this, or any other elevator with you. Does that make you happy?”

Her cool, even stare had the nasty mood he’d climbed out of bed with heat his temper all over again. “Yeah, it always makes me really happy when someone tells me the truth.”

Turning toward the control panel, she restabbed the button for the ground floor. “In fact, since we’re being honest with each other, why don’t we take this a step further? Let’s agree that we simply prefer to avoid each other.” Looking back at him, she raised her chin. “Perhaps your stay at the Lone Star will be more pleasant for both of us if we have as little contact as possible.”

With a faint hydraulic hum, the elevator reached the ground floor. The small chandelier that hung overhead tinkled with the movement.

Hart set his teeth. They had avoided each other for a decade, yet she still had the power to make him lose sleep. Make his blood stir while she stood only inches from him, looking as distant as the stars. She wanted space, he would give it to her. And while he was at it, he would somehow, some way sever those last connecting threads to her that had haunted him for so long.

Stepping toward the door, he halted inches from her, but didn’t touch her.

“Now that you mention it, Texas, our having no contact sounds damn good to me.”

Running into Hart that morning had, among other things, cut into Joan’s schedule, causing her to reach the spa only moments before the wife of a Texas state senator arrived. After introducing the client to Britta, the six-foot, blond Swedish therapist, Joan held a meeting with several senior staff members, took calls from two European wholesalers who supplied the exclusive beauty products the spa carried, then welcomed a second new client who had flown in that morning on her private Lear jet for a week-long herbal detoxifying program. Joan had sandwiched in a goodbye kiss for Helena who had dashed into the spa before leaving to catch her ride to school.

Now, three hours into her workday, Joan paused in Body Perfect’s opulent reception area, telling herself it was time to turn her attention to the paperwork in her office. A dozen pieces of correspondence sat on her desk awaiting her attention, as did several phone messages.

Still, she hesitated. She knew if she closed herself in her office that her mind would roam to Hart.

“Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Cooper?”

Joan turned toward the receptionist’s sleek console, with its top-grade computer and phone system. Sonji Dunaway, blond and buxom, gave Joan an expectant look while soft, soothing music played around them, harmonizing with a small splashing fountain.

Joan shifted her gaze to the small gold clock on the console beside a crystal vase of yellow roses, their light scent perfuming the air. “I was wondering if Mrs. Zink had arrived yet for her shiatsu massage.”

Sonji nodded. “She got here about ten minutes ago. I settled her into the therapy room with a cup of ginger-honey tea, then let Mariko know her client was waiting.”

“Good. Let me know when Mrs. Zink’s session is over. I have the information about the exercise regimen she asked me to put together.”

The receptionist sent Joan the bright smile that had endeared her to the staff and clients. “Will do, Ms. Cooper. Anything else?”

“No.” Joan gave the capable young woman an appreciative smile. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office dealing with paperwork before my meeting with Miss Delarue.”

Joan’s heels sank into the thick carpet as she headed down the central corridor with spacious offices and therapy rooms opening to either side. Her own office was roomy and elegant, decorated in the same soothing pale-pink and cream tones as the reception area. Sonji had left a thermal carafe of tea on the mahogany desk that sat in the center of an Oriental rug. To one side of the carafe was a stack of the spa’s signature-pink file folders. Documents awaiting Joan’s attention were set squarely in front of her chair, arranged in order of priority.

Joan had just pulled off the jacket of her turquoise suit and settled behind her desk when the intercom line rang. “Yes, Sonji?”

“Miss Delarue is here.”

Joan let out a breath. She and Maddie Delarue had scheduled the meeting to discuss the upcoming Pasta by the Pool dance. Yet, the Lone Star’s event coordinator was also Joan’s best friend and she knew the conversation she had put off having with Maddie would wind up squarely on Hart. “Send her in.”

“Tell me there’s more than one man in the world named Hart O’Brien,” Maddie stated when she swept through the office door. “Tell me that the Chicago bomb tech who arrived here yesterday isn’t the Hart O’Brien.”

Joan pursed her mouth. She had hoped they could get their business out of the way first. “I take it you don’t want to start out talking about Pasta by the Pool?”

“Hardly.”

Joan leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t think you would have heard yet about Hart being here.”

“So, it is him? Him?”

“Yes, it’s him.”

“I was afraid of that.” A few years Joan’s senior—red-haired where Joan was dark; petite where Joan was willowy—Maddie dropped into one of the visitor chairs in front of Joan’s desk. Dressed in a silk designer trouser suit in soft olive gray that complemented her voluptuous figure, Maddie looked her usual blue-blooded gorgeous. “I had breakfast this morning with Bonnie to get the ball rolling on the mystery night gala that the club’s sponsoring at the end of the summer. When she mentioned the bomb tech’s name I just about choked on my omelette. Why didn’t you call and tell me that the Hart O’Brien had shown up?”

“I planned to.” Maddie’s and Joan’s families had been lifelong members of the Lone Star and a close friendship had developed between the girls early on. Now with Joan’s mother dead and her father’s memory destroyed by Alzheimer’s, Maddie was the only other person who knew that Hart was Helena’s father.

“Maddie, I had no idea Hart was the bomb tech Bonnie told us about in the staff meeting until I ran into him in the lobby yesterday afternoon. When I saw him I felt like I’d fallen into a black hole. Maybe I thought if I didn’t call and tell you about seeing him that I would wake up this morning and discover it had all been a bad dream.”

“I guess that didn’t happen.”

“No. I ran into Hart again this morning, and he’s real. Very real.” She gnawed her lip, thinking about how as they’d stood inches apart in the elevator’s intimate confines her heart had pounded hard enough to rock her body. She had always responded that way toward him—and she knew from her reaction this morning that the chemistry hadn’t changed as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter how much time had passed or what else had gone on between them, she would always feel that thrumming, physical connection to Hart O’Brien.

Damn him.

Maddie ran a manicured hand up and down the thick gold links she wore around her neck. “If Bonnie’s description is accurate, the bomb tech is a real feast for the eyes.”

Joan pictured Hart as he’d looked a few hours ago, his mouth firm and unsmiling, his narrow, rawboned face made even more carelessly handsome by the dark stubble that shaded his jaw. And those inscrutable green eyes behind long, amber lashes. Just as they had ten years ago, his dark, go-to-hell looks had pulled at something deep inside her.

Feeling her throat go dry, Joan reached for the thermal carafe and poured two cups of steaming tea.

“For the record, Bonnie’s description hits the target. But Hart’s looks are the last thing on my mind.” Joan handed Maddie a tea cup. “Hart said he met with Spence last night, and for some reason, my name came up. Spence told Hart that I’m a widow and I live at the Lone Star with my daughter.” Joan clenched her fingers, flexed them. “I know it’s just a fluke, but Bonnie put him in the executive suite three doors away from ours. Maddie, you know how Helena has the run of the Lone Star. With Hart staying here, in a room so close to ours, he’s bound to at least catch a glimpse of her.”

Maddie’s perfectly plucked eyebrows slid together in thought. “His seeing her doesn’t mean a thing. Unless…”

Sipping her tea, Joan met her friend’s gaze over the rim of her cup. “Unless what?”

“I was at my cousin’s in California the entire time Hart worked here, so I’ve never seen so much as a glimpse of him. Does Helena resemble him? Can you look at the two of them and tell they’re father and daughter?”

“No, thank goodness. Hart’s hair is lighter than Helena’s and has a lot of auburn in it. Her eyes are brown, his are green.” And this morning, those eyes had looked as dangerous as his job, Joan thought. “Helena has my build, too,” she added. “Last night she and I went through some old photo albums for one of her Brownie projects. She looks exactly like I did when I was nine.”

“That’s something to be grateful for.”

“About the only thing. Maddie, Hart is a police officer. He asks questions for a living. Conducts investigations.” Joan sat her cup aside and rubbed at the headache building in her right temple. “He’s already had an occasion to tell me that lying to a cop generally doesn’t get you anywhere but into trouble. When he said that, I felt a premonition, like footsteps of the devil crawling up my spine.”

Maddie gave her a wary look. “Why the heck did the subject of lying come up?”

“Because I told him I didn’t mind sharing an elevator with him. He took exception to that. He was right, I did mind.” And her nerves were still scrambling from the experience. “My stomach knots at just the thought of being around him.”

“Considering your past, that’s understandable. But you should look at things this way. You haven’t lied to Hart about anything. In fact, you haven’t really lied to anyone,” Maddie pointed out. “The instant you told your parents you were pregnant they sent you packing to your aunt’s in Dallas. It wasn’t until you brought Helena back here to live two years later that you found out your parents made up the story about how you eloped with some fictional guy named Thomas Dean days before he died in a car wreck.”

“You’re right, I didn’t know. But when I found out about that story, I didn’t do anything to change it or stop it, either.”

“Why would you? Hart O’Brien whispered sweet nothings in your ear, then rolled out of town like a tumbleweed in a tornado. Your parents wanted to protect you and their grandchild. So, instead of everyone looking at you like you were a woman scorned and your daughter illegitimate, you became a widow and your child avoided being labeled. What were you supposed to do at that point? Tell everybody in Mission Creek that your parents lied? That they made up Thomas Dean because you spent a night with a man who did a ‘conceive and flee’ on you?”

Joan couldn’t help but smile at Maddie’s term. “You’re right, spreading the word that my parents had invented a combination husband for me and father for Helena wouldn’t have accomplished anything.” Even so, Joan had lost count of the nights she’d lain awake, smothering in guilt. Wondering if someday that lie might catch up to her and affect her relationship with Helena.

“And not only did your parents make up Thomas Dean,” Maddie continued, “they went to considerable effort breathing life into him. Endowing a wing at the hospital in his name. A couple of stained glass windows in the church in his memory. The children’s park. The artwork. They did all that to protect you and Helena.”

Joan knew those seemingly philanthropic acts were only part of her parents’ motivation. They believed that their only child had thrown away her future by spending what they viewed as a sordid night with a groundskeeper at the country club. The shame of that had been almost more than her class-conscious parents could bear. Still, no matter the reasons behind Zane and Kathryn Cooper’s subterfuge, in the end their actions had protected Helena.

Helena, who had changed everything. Nothing had prepared Joan for the love she felt for her daughter, something so deep and unfathomable it was undefinable. She would do anything for her child. Anything to shield Helena from harm. So, Joan had let her parents’ lie live and breathe for ten years.

She glanced down at the pink file folders on her desk, many of which contained schedules for clients who had contracted for Body Perfect’s services. People came to the spa to forget their responsibilities for a while. To forget the clock’s ticking, forget that they had a life they had to get back to. For however long they were there, the spa was a place without time.

For Joan, Body Perfect represented just the opposite. Her responsibility to Helena had brought her here. The need to make a secure life for her daughter had forced the pampered country club girl, who had once dreamed of a life that included daily tennis matches and society lunches, to mature and transform almost overnight into a responsible parent.

A parent realistic enough to acknowledge that someday the time would come to tell Helena the truth.

“Maddie, you know that I’ve always planned on telling Helena about Hart,” she reminded her friend quietly. “But not for years, not until she’s old enough to understand. Right now she’s just too young.”

“No matter when you tell her, it won’t be easy for her to figure out how her daddy gave you up.” Maddie sipped her tea. “I sure can’t.”

“Hart didn’t give me up. He never wanted me.” Joan picked up a gold pen off her desk blotter, laid it back down. “His being here is such a shock because I never thought I would see him again. Never thought he would walk back into my life.”

Maddie leaned forward, sat her teacup on the desk. “He hasn’t exactly walked back into your life, has he? He came to the Lone Star because the D.A. brought him here to do a job. Hart O’Brien is here solely on business. When the bombing gets solved, he’ll go back to Chicago. Maybe forever.”

Joan stared across the polished span of desk and saw compassion in her friend’s blue eyes. Maddie was right. Hart hadn’t come back for her. Motherhood and the passage of time had erased the yearning that he do so from Joan’s heart. Yet, even now, she wondered what her life would have been like if Hart had remained in Mission Creek. If the loving words he had whispered against her heated flesh on that long-ago night had been true. If he hadn’t chosen to stay away for nearly a third of her life.

Joan shoved away the thoughts that even now had the power to make her heart ache. What-ifs, might-have-beens, if-onlys—they had the power to drive a person crazy. Hart was, and could only ever be, a dream from her past. She needed to remember that, Joan thought, pulling her defenses more closely around her.

Now Helena was the only one who mattered. She was the one whose feelings had to be considered. If she knew Hart was her father, if he told her he wanted her, loved her, then turned his back on her, the safe, secure world she knew would shatter.

Because Joan intended to protect her child by holding tight to her own secrets, Hart would never know Helena was his daughter. He wouldn’t get a shot at hurting her, of wounding her so deeply that her heart lay ripped open and bleeding for years.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.