LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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