don’t think so, either.”
“If I’m going to find this guy, you’re going to have to help me. I’ll need to know things about you. Things about your past, about your work. Some of it fairly personal. If you’re willing to tell me what I need to know, I’ll help you.”
He watched the uncertainty move across her face. Unlike his ex-wife, talking about herself didn’t seem to be high on Maggie’s agenda.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” she said, which wasn’t the answer he wanted. He guessed for now it would have to do.
“All right, Maggie O’Connell. If we’re going to get this done, we might as well get to it.”
Three
“Before we get started,” Trace said, “I need to go out to my car. I’ll be right back.”
Maggie walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa in front of the empty brick hearth, waiting while he disappeared outside, then returned carrying a leather briefcase. He sat down in the floral-print chair at the end of the sofa, took off his cowboy hat and rested it on the padded arm. He was dressed in sharply creased jeans, a short-sleeved white Western shirt with pearl snaps, and a pair of freshly polished, plain brown cowboy boots.
His hair was a dark mink-brown, but in the sunlight streaming through the window, little streaks of gold wound through the ends. The man was broad-shouldered, lean and fit, but she had already discovered that during his run-in with Bobby Jordane in the Texas Café.
She had noticed the gold in Trace Rawlins’s brown eyes, his straight nose and white teeth. Now she noticed the sexy, sensual curve of his mouth, and found herself staring more than once. He was a good-looking man. But that and the fact he knew how to use his fists were all she really knew about him.
After the way he had bullied her in the café, she wasn’t even sure she liked him.
The brass latch on his briefcase clicked open and Trace took out a state-of-the-art recorder, a Montblanc pen and a yellow legal pad.
“Let’s start with the present and work backward,” he said, turning on the recorder. “You’re a photographer. Is that a hobby or what you do for a living?”
She smiled. “I’m lucky. I’m not rich, but I make a very good living doing the work I love.”
Trace glanced at the barren white walls of the town house.
“My pictures are all still in boxes,” Maggie explained in answer to his silent question. “I’m working on a photo project that’s been keeping me really busy. I’m unpacking a little at a time.”
“What kind of project?”
“A coffee-table book. It’s called The Sea. It’s set around the ocean and the different kinds of things people do that involve the sea—jobs, recreation, that kind of thing.”
His gaze sharpened with interest. When he looked at her with that direct way of his, her skin felt warm. “Why did you pick that subject?”
“I love the ocean. I do mostly outdoor photography. I love shooting any kind of landscapes, but the sea has my heart.”
His eyes gleamed and tiny lines appeared at the corners. She wondered if they were laugh lines or life lines, or just a reflection of the time he spent out-of-doors.
“I’d love to see some of your work,” he said.
Maggie smiled. “I guess I’d better get busy and unpack those boxes.”
They talked about her business a little more, about the people she dealt with in the galleries where her photos were displayed, and people she might have encountered during her shows.
“Do you keep a list of your clients?”
“As much as I can. I enter them into a file on my computer.”
“Anyone in particular who’s bought an extraordinary amount of your work?”
“Not that I can think of. I have clients who’ve purchased three or four pieces. That’s not that uncommon.” Maggie sighed. “As I said, the notes don’t strike any sort of chord. I can’t imagine I know this person.”
“Maybe you don’t. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to put a tail on you for a couple of days. It’ll be me or a guy who works for me named Rex Westcott. I’ll show you his picture, so if you happen to spot him, you’ll know he’s not the guy we’re after. We’ll keep tabs on you, watch for anyone who might be following you.”
She felt a trickle of relief. “All right.”
“Of course, that might not be the way he operates. Obviously, he knows where you live. He might know a whole lot more.”
Maggie didn’t like the sound of that. It was one of the reasons she stayed away from social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter.
Trace asked her more questions about roommates at school, old boyfriends, someone she might have jilted.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t date that often. I had a boyfriend when I went to college. We were pretty serious for a while, but it didn’t work out.”
“What was his name?”
“Michael Irving.”
“Anyone else?”
She hated to mention David, since she had been the one at fault for the breakup, and she didn’t want to cause him any more trouble.
“Maggie?”
She released a breath, determined to reveal as little as possible. “I went out with an attorney named David Lyons for a while. We lived together a couple of months.”
“Bad breakup?”
His eyes were on hers. The man didn’t miss a thing. “Pretty bad. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I did.”
“When did it end?”
“First of April, two years ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“I haven’t seen him. I heard he was dating someone.”
Trace stopped making notes and looked at her. There was something in those golden-brown eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted.
“What about now?” he asked. “Are you involved with anyone at the moment?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’ve been way too busy.” She wondered if there might be something personal in the question. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “And I really don’t like the dating scene. I suppose eventually I’d like to meet someone, but not right now. I’ve got my career to think about. I’m happy the way I am.”
He studied her as if he wasn’t sure he believed her. She wondered if he was one of those men who thought every woman was desperate to find a husband. Or maybe exactly the opposite. That she was just another faithless female concerned with only herself.
“It’ll take some time to check all this out,” he said. “The thing is, you might know this person and not realize it. He—or she—could be using this odd style of writing so you won’t figure out who it is.”
She frowned. “You don’t actually think this could be a woman?”
“Unless your sexual preferences go both ways, probably not.”
She smiled. “I’m boringly heterosexual.”
His eyes seemed to darken. Maggie felt a warm, unwelcome stirring in the pit of her stomach, and inwardly cursed her bad luck. An attraction to Trace Rawlins was the last thing she wanted.
“The handwriting looks masculine,” Trace continued, “but there definitely are women stalkers. Jealousy