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