Texas Heroes: Volume 1 (59 page)

H
ermann Park spread out before them in all its lush green glory. Lacey had chosen it over the grounds of the Menil Museum she’d originally planned to use for her auction contribution. She wanted lots of people around them. Intimacy with Devlin Marlowe was to be avoided at all costs.

The day was sunny and humid, but fall had at last decided to visit Houston. Temperatures had finally dropped into the seventies, thank goodness.

Dev parked the car. “This all right?”

She looked straight ahead and only nodded.

He muttered something under his breath and jerked his door handle open. The heavy door slammed behind him.

Lacey reached for her own door handle, feeling a shiver run through her. She couldn’t do this.

I’ll take care of it
. Her father’s worried gaze rose up before her.

It’s a simple picnic, Daddy
, she had said.
I can handle it
.

But she’d never handled Devlin Marlowe. She’d been too mesmerized by him, been putty in his hands.

He used you, Lacey. He didn’t love you. That was your foolish dream
. If her father hadn’t shown up that night, he’d have taken her virginity and he still would have left.

And now he was back to rub it in. To show her how successful he was, that he wasn’t her father’s gofer anymore. She’d never thought of Dev as cruel, but then she’d been so sick in love with him that she’d never dreamed he’d trade her for money, either. She’d begged him, for heaven’s sake. Begged him to be the first. Cherished all the dreams he’d whispered in the night, thought that love was all that was important.

She’d been so naïve. Such a romantic. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore.

Anger began to steady her. Lacey seldom allowed herself the luxury of temper, but right now she welcomed its heat, its ability to scorch away the scar tissue, reopen the wound of how badly Dev had hurt her.

I’ll show him that it didn’t matter. That I don’t care
.

And she thanked her mother for all the lessons on presenting a serene face to people she couldn’t abide.

Carefully, Lacey drew her own face into that mask. When her door flew open, she flinched but recovered quickly. With studied grace, she alighted from the car, her gaze skipping right past Dev’s.

“Would you like me to carry the quilt?” she asked.

Dev heard the polite tone, saw the elegant disdain. With great effort, he forced back the rage that swamped him.

So they were back to that. Princess to peasant.

Fine. Two could play this game. She thought he was a barbarian not fit to clean her dainty slippers. He would show her that the years had taken off the rough edges.

“I’ve got it,” he said evenly. “You pick the spot.”

She looked everywhere but at him, finally nodding toward a huge live oak spreading its deep shade on a slight rise about a hundred yards away.

“After you, Princess.” For a moment, he thought he saw her flinch from his tone and knew he’d have to work harder to cover how much she unsettled him.

He’d faced enraged husbands he’d caught cheating, boxing opponents out to tear off his head, vicious drunken fellow GIs out to prove who was more man. None of them had rattled him like this delicate creature crossing the grass on legs that could stop traffic.

That was the other challenge. Even if he could bury the sense of betrayal deeply enough to keep his head, what did he do about the hunger of his body for hers? It was as if all the years in between had never existed…only this time it was much worse. She wasn’t a young girl he needed to treat with kid gloves. She might be delicately made, but she was a full-grown woman who made his body burn. He wanted to get his hands on her worse than he wanted his next breath, and knowing how she’d betrayed him didn’t seem to mean a damn to the ache in his gut.

How could he want her more badly than ever, after all this time? After what he knew she was, how he knew she saw him?

Dev’s temper was barely in check by the time they reached the tree. Holding his jaw tight enough to crack a tooth, he set down the basket and busied himself spreading the quilt, refusing to look at her while he cursed the part of him that was ruling his brain.

Lacey knelt on the quilt, folding those godforsaken legs beneath her, and opened the basket, still not looking at him.

It made him madder than hell.

Boone and Maddie and Mitch
, he thought, chanting the names silently like a mantra.
They’re your friends. Don’t blow this
.

But he didn’t know what to say to her, how to move his thoughts up to that superficial, carefree level.

He might have known she would. Her tone careful, she spoke while gracefully setting out plates and silverware rolled in heavy, expensive napkins. “So what do you do for a living, Dev?”

I find out secrets. Like yours
. “I’m a private investigator.”

Her head lifted quickly, the surprise smoothing over so quickly he might have imagined it. “Like Sam Spade?”

Clever. She had a sense of humor.

“Yeah. Left my fedora at home, though. Hope it doesn’t ruin the image.”

Lacey laughed, and it flowed over his hearing like water in the desert, light and fresh and too delicious for his own good.

But it helped. It pulled him back from the anger.

She looked at him then, the silvery eyes bright. For just a second, he thought he saw regret slip across them like a shadow over the sun.

“I don’t mind. You don’t have the accent, though. You’d need to be more gruff.”

He pitched his voice to a growl. “You dames are all alike. A guy’s tough, you want him gentle like some damn poet. He’s a soft touch, you want him dangerous.”

Lacey’s hands stilled on the crackers she was carefully arranging around a half-wheel of Brie.

Memory and desire scorched the air around them.

Dangerous
, Lacey thought.
Then and now
. She’d loved his edge, loved the way he made her feel so alive. As though wild was something she could be, too. He’d swept into her life like a hurricane, like a dragon breathing fire and danger. He’d broken into her safe little world like a cat burglar, and she’d reveled in the delicious thrill.

Then like a good cat burglar, before she’d realized it, he’d stolen her heart and every last shred of her common sense. She’d taken risks with him that she’d never dreamed of before—or since.

She was careful now. Always so careful.

She busied herself again with the crackers, setting the plate closer to him. She forced her voice back to lightness. “So who do you work for?”

“No one.” His voice was hard. “I’ll never take orders from anyone again.”

It wouldn’t serve to dig deeper. Light was what they needed now. “So do you do things like sneak around in the dark and catch cheating husbands?”

“Not if I can help it.” The edge sharpened.

She hadn’t asked it right. “I’m sorry. I phrased that poorly. I wasn’t being snide. I only know what I read or see in the movies.” She forced her gaze up to him, her apology sincere. “What exactly does a private investigator do?”

His frame relaxed. Leaning back on one hand, he propped the other arm on his upraised knee. “Lots of them do exactly that. Divorce cases are a staple. Or working for lawyers, digging up background information for trials.”

“But not you?”

Dev shrugged. “I’ve done my share, but most of what my agency does is corporate background checks.”

“Other people work for you?”

He nodded, and she thought she saw the gleam of pride. “I went to work for the former owner part-time after I got out of the service, then wound up buying the business when he wanted to retire. It was small potatoes then, but I’ve got ten investigators working for me now.”

“Do you still investigate, too?”

A strange look crossed his face so quickly she might have imagined it. He nodded. “I’ve gained a reputation for being able to find people.”

“What kind of people?”

“Missing. Any kind. Vanished spouses, missing children…” He straightened abruptly, scanning the offerings. “So what do we have here?”

Lacey took the hint and didn’t press. It didn’t matter anyway—she wouldn’t see him again after today. “It’s only marginally healthy, but I hope you like it.
Foie gras
, Brie, water biscuits, fruit…” She reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle. “Chardonnay—would you like to check the vintage?”

Dev glanced up to see if she was testing him, but she seemed sincere. Torn between demonstrating that he did understand wines now and knowing that it shouldn’t matter, he merely shrugged. “I’ll trust your judgment. Want me to open it?”

She smiled. “Please.” Picking up a plate, she began to select food for him. “Tell me if there’s something here you don’t like.”

I don’t like having to be here and play nicey-nice with you, Lacey. I don’t like having to pretend I don’t want to touch you. Taste you
.

But he didn’t say that. He clamped down hard on the hunger and instead turned the tables, though he wasn’t sure she could tell him much that he didn’t already know.

“So who’s the overgrown frat boy?”

Her head jerked up. “What?”

“The blond pretty boy with you at the auction. He your boyfriend?”

“He’s…” She glanced away. “We date. He’s a doctor, a plastic surgeon named Philip Forrester.”

Dev laughed without mirth. “Well, if you marry him that should come in handy when you reach the right age.”

Her frame tensed, her eyes sparking, but her voice was smooth as glass. “I suppose you’re referring to a face lift, but I don’t plan to ever do that.”

“You’ll be drummed out of River Oaks, you know.” He softened the earlier insult with a teasing tone. “I think it’s in the deed restrictions.”

Her mouth quirked. “I saw an acquaintance when I took Christina to another plastic surgeon the other day. This woman is only twenty-nine, and she’s already making plans.”

Dev snorted. “That’s pathetic. Wrinkles show you’ve lived. Lines of character don’t make a woman ugly.”

Lacey’s eyes softened. “You really believe that?”

“You’ve lived in the glass bubble too long. In the real world, appearances aren’t everything, Lacey.”

To his surprise, she didn’t get offended. She merely shook her head sadly. “Sometimes they matter too much, even in the real world.”

Dev frowned. “Why do you say that?” He thought back to her earlier words. “Who’s Christina?”

Her whole face changed. He saw affection there, and sorrow.

“She’s an eight-year-old girl for whom I’m an advocate.”

“What kind of advocate?” He thought back to a family court cased he’d worked. “You mean a child advocate for abused kids?”

Lacey nodded. “It’s one of the projects of the Junior League. Volunteers represent the abused or neglected child’s best interest, monitoring them in either substitute care or foster care, coordinating with the caseworker, doing the background work to help the judge decide the best place for the child to wind up.”

Dev looked at her through new eyes. This wasn’t playing Lady Bountiful and donating canned goods at Christmas. “So why did you have Christina at the plastic surgeon’s?”

Anger warred with sorrow on her lovely face. “One of her mother’s boyfriends beat her badly when she was four. He broke bones in her face and she didn’t get proper care. The bones healed wrong, and her face is distorted. She’s been taken away from her mother and is in foster care, but once she’s available for adoption, her condition will greatly reduce her chances because the surgery she needs is very expensive.”

Her gaze lifted to his, pain stark in those lovely eyes. “Other children make fun of her, and she gets stared at on the street.” Her look was almost pleading, her hands gripping one another so tightly her knuckles were white. “She’s the sweetest child, and it’s so unfair. If only people could see past—” Her voice broke.

“So you’re going to get her the surgery.” It wasn’t a question, and once again, Dev frowned. She didn’t sound like the princess.

Her shoulders sank. “I want to, but it’s complicated by her legal position.” Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “But I’ve gotten the assessment that I needed. We’re not supposed to get personally involved, but what she needs can be done, and I’m going to find a way to make it happen.”

“So what do your parents think about this?”

Her mouth pursed. “It doesn’t matter.”

I doubt that
. But he wanted to cheer for the signs of a Lacey who might not be so docile.

“And the fiancé?”

She drew right inside her Margaret DeMille shell. “We’re not engaged.”

“Everyone else seems to think you are.”

“
What
everyone else?” Suddenly, the glass-calm surface rippled. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t know—” She blinked in shock. “Have you been investigating me, Devlin Marlowe?”

He’d always been one hell of a poker player. Sometimes half the truth would work. Lazily, he lifted an eyebrow. “I asked a few questions at the auction. The consensus seems to be that you’ll be Mrs. Doctor before long.”