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