LITMIR.BIZ

      One

      Houston, Texas

      Snow Dogs. Trace Rawlins sat at a table in back of the Texas Café thinking of his client and her white rapper husband, Bobby Jordane, the lead singer of the wildly successful rap music group, the Snow Dogs.

       It seemed the perfect name for the mangy group, who sang about decadent society yet seemed to be the root of the problem. Only Bobby was married, his beautiful wife of the last three years was a creamy cocoa-skinned African American. Why she had ever married the guy, aside from his seven-figure bank account, Trace couldn’t imagine.

       Apparently, Shawna had come to the same conclusion, for she sat a few tables away next to her attorney, Evan Schofield, there for a meeting with Bobby.

       Bobby Jordane was a wife beater par excellence, and he was extremely unhappy that Shawna had filed for divorce. But Schofield had managed to set up a meeting at a neutral location kept secret from the media, in the hope something could actually be accomplished.

       The restaurant was old and narrow, with wooden floors and a long, varnished-wood lunch counter, a place for locals where a guy like Bobby wouldn’t even be recognized. This time of day, the lunch crowd was gone and it was too early for dinner patrons. Only two other tables were occupied, one by an older man and his wife drinking chocolate shakes, another by two young women eating hamburgers. One of them was a foxy redhead Trace tried not to notice, but his gaze wandered back to her again and again.

       Unfortunately, he seemed to have a penchant for trouble where redheads were concerned.

       He returned his thoughts to the meeting at hand, which was supposed to include only Bobby and his attorney, Shawna and Evan Schofield, Trace’s longtime friend.

       But Bobby was a hothead, and Evan was no fool. He didn’t trust Bobby, and neither did Trace. Everyone in Houston had read about the couple’s fiery clashes and Bobby’s out-of-control behavior, which recently had landed him in jail. Shawna had threatened to file a restraining order, and Evan had hired Trace, a private detective and the owner of Atlas Security, to keep a protective eye on his client.

       The bell above the café door rang, flipping the little ruffled curtain above the glass. True to form, Bobby sauntered in without his attorney, just the other two obnoxious members of the Snow Dogs.

       Clyde “The Mountain” Thibodaux hailed from New Orleans. Big, bald and tattooed, he was bare-chested beneath his leather vest. A small black goatee clung to his chin.

       Lenny Finks, known to his fans as Lenny the Sphinx, was the nerd of the group. Skinny and homely, with kinky auburn hair, he was the talent behind the act, the guy who wrote the music, though Trace refused to call it that. Lenny was harmless, except for the viperous tongue he used to lash at the group’s critics. He was a necessary component and the reason for the group’s unbelievable success.

       Bobby himself was as tall as Trace, about six-two, and as lean and solidly built. Having taken years of martial arts, Bobby thought he was a tough guy. Trace flicked a glance at the bruises on Shawna Jordane’s beautiful face, clamped down on a surge of anger and wished he could show him ex-Ranger tough.

       Instead, he tipped back his white straw cowboy hat, shifted in his chair and sipped his coffee, his gaze fixed on Bobby, who swaggered over to Shawna’s table, his friends close behind.

       “Hey, babe.”

       “Hello, Bobby.” Her voice held the faint edge of fear.

       Bobby turned a hard look on the man beside her. “So…Evan…you wanted me to come down here so we could have a little chat. Is that right?”

       The lawyer, a slender man with sandy brown hair and intelligent eyes, sat up a little straighter in his chair. “I was hoping we might be able to make some progress in the matter of your divorce,” he said.

       Bobby shifted, his legs splayed in a belligerent stance. “You get my wife to file for divorce and you want me to come here so we can talk?” Reaching out, he grabbed Evan by his red-striped power tie and hauled him to his feet. Shawna screamed and Trace went into action.

       Tossing Lenny out of the way like the skinny little runt he was, he reached out and grabbed hold of the back of Bobby’s black, silver dragon T-shirt. Trace spun him around, waited an instant for Bobby to throw the first punch, then ducked and nailed him solidly in the jaw. Bobby went down like a sack of wheat, his head hitting the wooden floor with a melonlike thump that had his eyes rolling back in his head.

       “You son of a bitch!” Clyde’s blunt, meaty hands balled into fists as he lumbered forward, swinging a roundhouse punch meant to send a man to his knees. Trace ducked, turned a little and threw a straight-from-the-shoulder blow that sank four inches into the big man’s stomach. Clyde grunted, doubled over, and Trace took him out with an uppercut to the chin.

       Blood gushed from his nose and Clyde flew backward, knocking over a table and sending the surprised older couple scrambling out of the way. It was exactly the kind of thing Evan Schofield had hoped to prevent when he had hired Trace.

       “Sorry, buddy.”

       Evan held up a hand. “Not your fault. I should have known this wouldn’t work.” He grinned. “Besides, it was worth it to see Bobby get what he had coming.”

       Shaking off the ache in his hand, Trace reached down and picked up his cowboy hat, settled it once more on his head. Lenny stood next to Bobby with his mouth gaping and his eyes wide. “Y-you shouldn’t have done that.”

       “You don’t think so?”

       “Bobby…Bobby’s gonna be really mad.”

       Trace chuckled softly. “If you’re smart, you’ll get him out of here before somebody calls the police. He doesn’t need any more trouble.”

       Evan pulled out Shawna’s chair. “Let’s go.”

       She rose shakily to her feet and turned to Trace. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlins. You have no idea how good that made me feel.”

       A corner of his mouth edged up. “Oh, I think I do.”

       Shawna turned and started walking, but before she had reached the door, a camera flashed, capturing her retreat. Then the photographer turned toward the man moaning softly on the floor. The camera flashed again and again, taking photos of Bobby Jordane that would be wildly embarrassing to a guy with an ego as massive as his.

       Trace inwardly cursed. The redhead. Just as he’d figured, they were nothing but trouble.

       Striding toward her, he reached out and jerked the camera from her hands, turned it around and deleted the last series of digital photos.

       “Hey!

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