LITMIR.BIZ

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Disapproval rang in her voice. “I thought you’d outgrown that kind of thing.” Annie had worked for his father before Trace had taken over. She had mothered Seth Rawlins, who had lost his wife when Trace was born, then mothered Trace, since he didn’t have one.

       “It wasn’t exactly a fight. More like a discussion with fists. Mostly mine.” Absently, he rubbed his bruised knuckles.

       “You know you’re getting way too old for that rough stuff.”

       “I’ll keep that in mind.” She was a small woman, but feisty. She didn’t take guff from anyone, including him, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. “What else have you got?”

       “The Special Olympics called looking for a donation. I phoned the bookkeeper, told her to send them a check.”

       “Good. What else?”

       “Marvin’s Boat Repair called. Joe says he’s finished working on your engine. Ranger’s Lady’s running like a top.”

       Trace nodded. “I think I’ll go down to Kemah for the weekend.” As often as he could manage, Trace made the forty-mile trip to where he docked his thirty-eight-foot sailboat. He loved being out on the water. There were times he wondered if being a SEAL wouldn’t have been a better fit than being a Ranger. But then he wouldn’t have met Dev Raines and Johnnie Riggs, two of his closest friends, and guys like Jake Cantrell.

       “Jake called,” Annie said as if she read his thoughts, which she seemed to have a knack for doing. “He’s taking a job down in Mexico for a while. He’ll be gone at least a couple of weeks, maybe more.”

       Jake had come to Houston with Trace after they’d finished a rescue mission with Dev and Johnnie that took them into Mexico. Cantrell, a former marine, mostly freelanced, hiring himself out as a bodyguard for executives who worked for big corporations. He had worked in the Middle East but specialized in South America. Jake did pretty much anything that wasn’t illegal and paid him plenty of money.

      “That it?”

       Annie handed over three more messages. “One’s a potential client. You’ll need to call him back. And Hewitt Sommerset called.” He was CEO of Sommerset Industries. “He wants to talk to you about that report you just finished.”

       Hewitt believed one of his employees was embezzling funds. The surveillance equipment Atlas installed had proved he was right.

       “I’ll call him right now.”

       “The third message is from Carly. If I were you, I’d lose that one.”

       He scowled, stared down at his ex-wife’s name scrolled on the paper. “Anything important?”

       “The usual. Said she just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”

       Trace crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can beside Annie’s desk. For some strange reason he was a magnet for needy women. It was no surprise he had married one. He’d been divorced from Carly nearly four years, something the petite redhead had a way of forgetting.

       Trace walked past Annie’s desk into the main office area. Sol Greenway was working away at one of his three computers. At twenty-two, Sol was Atlas’s youngest employee and a near genius when it came to electronics. Sol handled background security checks, security problems, information retrieval, online forensic services, and just about anything else that had to do with computers.

       In the middle of the office, Ben Slocum and Alex Justice, both freelance investigators, sat behind their desks. Ben had his cell phone pressed against his ear. Alex was cleaning his Glock 9 mm.

       “How’d it go with Arnold Peters?” Trace asked Alex.

       “I took him the photos. His wife was seeing some oversexed football player. Peters took one look, broke down and cried like a baby.”

       “Why the hell do they hire us? They say they want the truth, but what they really want is for us to tell them they’re wrong and everything at home is just peachy.”

       Alex’s grin cut a dimple into his cheek. “Far as I’m concerned, the best thing to do is stay single.”

       Trace thought of Carly and the trail of men she’d ushered in and out of his house while they were married. “You can say that again.”

       Continuing on, he went into his office and closed the door. He needed to return Hewitt’s call. The investigation was over, but Trace liked the guy and knew Hewitt was taking the information hard. The embezzler was his son-in-law.

       Trace had a few other calls to make, but he didn’t personally handle as many cases as he used to. These days, he could pick and choose, and since the weekend was coming up, he would probably give anything new to Ben or Alex.

       Trace imagined himself stretching out on the deck of the Ranger’s Lady in the warm Texas sun, hands behind his head and catching a few rays.

       He smiled.

       Sounded like the perfect plan.

      Two

      Maggie O’Connell walked out of her newly purchased town house and headed for her red Ford Escape hybrid parked in front. She loved the car, which got over thirty miles to the gallon, loved the room in the back for the cameras, tripods, meters, lights and miscellaneous equipment she used in her work.

       At twenty-eight, Maggie had achieved an amazing amount of success as a photographer. What had started as a hobby while she went to college as an art major on a partial scholarship had ended up a career.

       Part of it was luck, Maggie admitted. After graduation from the University of Houston, she had managed to snag a part-time job as an assistant to Roger Weller, a renowned Texas photographer—work that gave her an invaluable education in the field and also time to shoot the outdoor scenes that had become her trademark.

       Weller helped her get her first gallery exhibition, which was surprisingly well received. Several more shows followed and her clientele grew. Now her photos hung in some of the most prestigious galleries in Houston, Dallas and Austin.

       Her mind on her upcoming show at the Twin Oaks Gallery and the photos she intended to shoot that afternoon, Maggie had almost reached her car when she jerked to a shuddering halt. Setting her camera bag at her feet, she reached a shaking hand toward the scrap of paper pinned beneath the windshield wiper. Very carefully pulling it free, she began to read the message.

      My precious Maggie,

      How long before our destinies are fulfilled? When will you understand that your fate is entwined with mine and I am the only one who can give you the peace you need?

       Maggie glanced frantically around. Only two other cars were parked in front of the six recently completed town house units where she lived, a Toyota Camry and a Chevy Camaro. Both vehicles were empty. The breeze ruffled the leaves on the freshly planted shrubs in the flower beds out front, and a couple of teenagers rolled by on their bicycles. No one who looked like he might have left the note.

       She stared down at the torn slip of rough brown paper, which matched the two others she had already received. She had hoped, after moving into the condo two weeks ago, that whoever had been leaving the creepy messages would stop.

       She hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder, holding the note with just two fingers in case the man had left prints. She scanned the lot once more for anyone who seemed out of place, but no one was there.

       Maggie hurried back inside her town house, the paper fluttering in her hand, her stomach a little queasy. Easing her camera bag to the floor, she closed the front door and leaned against it. After couple of steadying breaths, she opened her purse and dug out her cell phone and pulled up her best friend’s name.

       She hit the send button, and with every unanswered ring, her anxiety grew.

       Roxanne finally picked up.

       “Roxy? Rox, it’s Maggie. I—I

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