"Yes, well, don't sell yourself short," she added. "And don't think I'll give up. I get what I want, eventually."

"Do you?" he smiled. "Why don't you introduce me to your aunt?"

HE LEFT EARLY, despite Jaqui's protests. "Surely you don't work Sat.u.r.days?" she asked irritably.

"I run a ranch," he reminded her. "Weekends are the only time I can devote to it." He didn't add that his job required him to be on call seven days a week. He worked on the ranch in spurts, leaving the daily operation to his ranch foreman.

"As long as you aren't running after your little neighbor," she chided. "G.o.d, that frumpy woman! And you had her staying in your house, I hear!"

"Her grandmother died," he said tautly. "She's having a hard time."

"She's a loser, like most people around here," she said carelessly. "Pity has brought down many a man. Don't let it bring you down." She moved against him deliberately when they were on the front porch, alone. She reached up, dragged his head down and kissed him with her whole mouth.

He was vaguely aroused by her, but not enough to accept what was blatantly an invitation to ravish her in the shadows.

He pulled back. "I'll call you," he said.

"You'd better, lover," she purred. "Or I'll come looking for you! Good night."

"Good night."

He got back into his car, thinking that Grace's shy response was far more exciting than this wildcat's ardent aggression. He felt sorry for Jaqui's aunt. She was a sweet, kind-natured but shy little woman who seemed anxious to please people. Her niece's scandalous behavior had obviously cost her some friends. None of the local rich families had set foot in her house tonight. It was a visible snub, although Jaqui was too thick-skinned to notice. Well, it wasn't his problem.

HE WAS FILLING IN HERD records on the computer when Miss Turner came bursting into his study late on Sat.u.r.day evening.

"I have to be away for a few days," she said. "My father lives in Austin. He's had a heart attack and is in the hospital. I must go to him."

"Of course, you must," he said at once. "Take the Expedition."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You know where the key is. Do you need an advance on your salary?" he added.

She was pleasantly surprised. "No. But thank you."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No, nothing. Thanks, boss," she added. Her face was pinched with concern. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"If you need anything, call me," he said firmly.

"What about your breakfast?" she wailed.

"I'll fix my own," he returned. "Now, go. And drive carefully."

She managed a smile. "Okay."

"Call me when you get there, and tell me how things are going," he added.

She was touched by his concern. "I'll do that."

HE WENT TO BED LATE and was groggy when he woke up the next morning. He got dressed and went downstairs. The house felt emptier than usual with Miss Turner gone. He found a message on the answering machine. It was her, telling him she'd arrived safely in Austin and that her father was holding his own.

He made himself two pieces of b.u.t.tered toast and a pot of coffee and sat down to drink it. The weekend had gone by amazingly fast. He felt a little guilty that he hadn't phoned to see how Grace was doing. It had probably hurt her feelings that he'd dropped her off at her own house and not bothered to check on her, with her ankle hurting.

Guilt made him impatient with himself. He owed her nothing. But just the same, he drove past her house on his way to San Antonio. Odd, her car was gone. It was barely six o'clock in the morning. He wondered where she was. But everything looked fine, so he put it out of his mind and continued down the road.

GRACE DIDN'T SEE Wilbur when she got home. But she did see why. He'd managed to get out a slightly open window, ripping his way through the screen, while she was at Garon's ranch. She didn't have time to search for him the morning she'd come home because she was already overdue at the florist shop. Sat.u.r.day was one of their busiest days.

When she got home again, after a day of hobbling and mostly sitting to do flower arrangements, she got the cane Miss Turner had loaned her and hobbled around the property looking for Wilbur.

She found him in a terrible condition, already dead. It looked as if the coyote had gotten him after all. Raging at the top of her lungs, she promised the varmint that she'd even the score one day if it took the rest of her life. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she imagined the poor old cat's final moments. But tears wouldn't bring him back. They'd never brought anybody back.

She covered him with an old pillowcase and rolled him up in a tattered bedsheet. She put him in a box in the back seat of her car and drove him to the vet, where he was picked up by a man who ran a pet cemetery and offered cremation of beloved pets. He had a nice selection of urns that the departed could occupy. Grace picked out a simple, inexpensive one and was a.s.sured that Wilbur's ashes would arrive in due time at Grace's house. She wrote a check for the expense, gritting her teeth as she saw the pitiful amount of money she had left after paying bills. She'd have to see if she could get a few extra hours to work this next week, at her second job, to increase her bank balance.

She'd heard at work about Garon's attendance at Jaqui Jones's party. It had wounded her, to know he hadn't spared Grace a single thought after he'd spent time with the beautiful brunette. Grace looked at her drab image in her mirror and felt hopelessly tacky. The only good dress she had was one of her granny's, the black one she'd worn to the funeral. Most of her wardrobe consisted of jeans and sweatshirts and T-shirts with pictures or writing on them. She hardly owned any makeup, and she never took any time to do her hair.

On an impulse, she took her hair down and ran a brush through it. She was amazed at the change it made in her appearance, to have that thick, silky fall of blond hair draped around her shoulders. She put on just a touch of pale mauve lipstick and traded her sweatshirt for a long-sleeved black T-shirt with j.a.panese writing on it.

She did have a nice figure, she thought, even if her face fell short of beauty to go with it. Her mouth was too wide, her cheekbones too high and her nose had a crook in it. She wished she was prettier. The first time in her life that she wanted to be pretty for a man, and he was infatuated with Mata Hari.

She put down the brush and walked back out onto the porch. She hadn't quite finished pruning the roses, and it was pleasant out by the steps, in the sun.

She'd no sooner started clipping when she heard a vehicle drive up. To her surprise, it was Garon, the last person she'd expected to see. She stood up with the clippers cradled in her hands while he got out of the car and came up to the steps.

He stopped short. His dark gaze slid over her face and shoulders, and down her body, with odd intensity. They began to glitter.

She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong. Before she got the words out, he had her up in his arms, and he was kissing her as if there wouldn't be a tomorrow.

8.

GARON COULDN'T HELP himself. The sight of Grace's trim, pretty figure in those tight jeans and shirt, the delight of her long blond hair cascading down her back, robbed him of reason. He had a sudden, urgent arousal that he couldn't control. The feel of her in his arms, against his tall, powerful body, was like a potent narcotic.

"Open your mouth, Grace," he bit off against the taut line of her lips. He drew her even closer. "Come on, baby," he whispered seductively, teasing her lips with his own in a pa.s.sionate whisper of touch, "do it. Do it, Grace..."

She tried to speak, and ended up doing exactly what he'd asked her to. She gasped at the rush of feeling it provoked. He knew too much. He made her hungry. She'd never in her life wanted to belong to a man, until right now. She could feel the heat and power of his muscular chest crushing against her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she could hear his heartbeat, the rasp of his breathing. Or was it her own heartbeat?

Older, frightening memories rushed in on her as his ardor became less controlled. She pushed at his chest. He drew away from her. He looked as shocked as she did. He fought to breathe normally.

"I know," she said, holding up a hand and forcing a smile to her swollen lips. "It was a helpless reaction that you can't explain, but I can. I had Miss Lettie down the road make a doll of you and rub my photo over it, so now you can't resist me." She grinned.

He burst out laughing. "d.a.m.n!"

"Not that I normally resort to such measures," she added demurely. "My extreme good looks usually get me all the men I want."

He drew in a long breath. She had this uncanny way of defusing dangerous situations. He'd been in over his head, and he knew it. But she didn't seem to be angry at him, despite her past. He had to remember her background, so that he didn't frighten her. She was so very innocent, for a woman her age. Despite her bad experience, she seemed to like being in his arms. The thought excited him. "There goes my illusion of being the only man in your life."

"Your illusion left skid marks," she agreed. "Why are you here, if you don't mind saying?"

He blinked. "I don't know."

She gave him a wry look. "Short-term memory loss can't be good for your job..."

"h.e.l.l, I know what I'm doing when I'm at work!" he muttered.

"Well, that's a relief!"

"I have to drive over to Palo Verde to interview a man," he said. Marquez had located an ex-policeman from Palo Verde who remembered the cold case about the dead child from two years before. He said that a neighbor of the dead child claimed to have seen a man with the child earlier on the day she was abducted. The witness, Marquez said, had been acknowledged by police at the time, but the witness had been out of town when the detectives went back to speak to him. Apparently he'd gotten lost in the shuffle when publicity brought in hundreds of tips that had to be checked out. Garon wanted to see the witness, if he still lived in Palo Verde. Perhaps he might have remembered something else in the years since the crime occurred. He might be just the break they needed to find a suspect in two child murders. Like Marquez, Garon was certain they were dealing with a serial killer. The cases were much too similar to be coincidences.

"You working today?" he asked Grace.

"I only worked this morning. I get off this noon on Sat.u.r.day," she said.

"I wish I did," he signed. "Want to come with me?"

Her whole face radiated the delight the invitation caused. He wasn't infatuated with the Jaqui woman. He couldn't be, if he was taking Grace out for the day!

"I'll just change into something better," she began, worried that she didn't have many clothes to choose from.

"What's wrong with what you've got on?" he asked. "You might have noticed that I'm not wearing a suit."

She did notice. He was in tan slacks that emphasized the powerful muscles in his long legs, and a pale lemon designer shirt that outlined the muscles in his chest and arms. He was wearing a lightweight jacket with it. He looked very handsome.

"Don't you usually wear a suit?" she wondered.

"Only when I plan to arrest someone and the media might show up," he said amusedly. "The Bureau likes us to look professional at such times."

"Well!"

"But since I don't plan to arrest this man, I can be casual."

"In that case, I'll get my purse and a sweater."

He waited for her by the car, looking around curiously. "Where's the cat?" he asked when she rejoined him.

She bit her lower lip. "He got out of the house while I was gone. I found him..." She swallowed. "I buried him."

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. He knew she was fond of the old cat. "Our white cat had kittens. She lives in the barn, keeps down the rat population. When the kittens are old enough, you can come over and pick out one."

She blinked away tears. "That would be nice."

"For us, too. One less mouth to feed."

"How's Miss Turner?"

"She had to drive to Austin to see about her father," he said. "He had a heart attack."

"Poor thing! Her father is the only family she has left. Has she called to tell you how he's doing?"

"Not yet. But she will, I'm sure."

"What do you have to interview this witness about?" she asked, changing the subject.

"We think he might have seen the perpetrator in a cold case murder," he told her. "If he did, and he can remember anything about the abductor, that might give us a head start on a suspect for our current case, which has similar features. If he didn't, we're back to forensics evidence to search for a killer."

"That cold case-it's about that little girl who was killed there, isn't it?"

"You're sharp," he murmured.

"Palo Verde isn't big enough to get in the news unless there's something terrible going on," she said. "I thought when you mentioned this latest case that it was very similar to what they said happened to the girl up at Palo Verde."

"Marquez made the connection."

"You said you'd be looking for evidence at the autopsy. Did you find any?" she asked with deliberate carelessness.

"Plenty," he said flatly. "Including DNA evidence. If we can find the man who did it, we can hang him."

"If only it wasn't such a big state," she said quietly.

"Oh, we'll get lucky eventually." he glanced at her. "Have you ever heard of the Locard Exchange Principle?"

She frowned. "No."

"It's a theory of evidence that forms the basis of modern forensic investigation," he said. "Dr. Edmond Locard was a French policeman who noticed that criminals leave trace evidence behind them, and pick up trace evidence from any location they visit. It's an exchange of fibers, hair and other materials. a.n.a.lyzing this evidence can place the criminal at the scene of a crime, without any other proof of involvement."

"I love to watch those television shows about cold cases," she said. "It's fascinating to see how the smallest things can connect the dots in crimes."

He smiled. "I watch them, too." he glanced at her. "But a large part of police work is surveillance and interviewing witnesses or family members of victims. Boring stuff."

"To someone who works part-time jobs for a living," she pointed out, "it's not all that boring," She glanced at him. "How long have you been an FBI agent?"

"Since I was twenty-three," he said.

"And you're eighty now..." she began mischievously.

"I'm thirty-six," he reminded her.

"Did you always work murders?"

He shook his head. "I've only been a.s.signed to one serial murder case, back east. But I've worked violent crime for most of my career. I worked on the Hostage Rescue Team for six years, and on the FBI SWAT team in D.C. for four more. After that I worked out of Austin. Now I'm in the San Antonio Field Office. I head a squad that covers violent crime."