The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

“I could use a soda,” he said. “I came straight from work.”

“There’s luncheon meat and bread in there if you’re hungry. Help yourself.” Her smile fell short of warm.

She vanished into the bedroom, and he made his way past several black-and-white photo images hanging on the dining room wall. It didn’t take a practiced eye to know they were worth money. The kitchen, glittering stainless steel and granite, looked as if it had just been cleaned. Hell, if a surprise visitor showed up at his apartment ... well, it sure as hell wouldn’t be this nice. He grabbed a cola from the fridge and popped the top. As the cool liquid rolled down his parched throat, he wondered how the hell he’d landed in his ex’s house.

Jo turned on the shower, kicked off her shoes and socks, and then leaned on the sink staring into the fogging mirror. She was grateful her expression looked calm and her cheeks had not flushed with shock. Brody Winchester. She’d heard he’d moved back to town but had hoped Austin was big enough for her to avoid him.

For several seconds she stared until the steam misted over all traces of her.

“Holy shit,” she whispered as she turned and pulled off her hoodie, workout shirt and pants.

She stepped into the shower and ducked her head under the hot spray barely noticing as it streamed over her body and rinsed the salty sweat from her skin.

Brody f-ing Winchester was in her house. Getting a soda out of her fridge. Brody f-ing Winchester was sitting on her sofa like it was old home week.

Brody f-ing Winchester.

Her ex-husband.

It had been fourteen years since they’d last seen each other. For several years after their divorce she’d dreamed of facing him again and demanding an apology. She’d imagined him seeing the error of his ways and offering sincere regret. The dream had sustained her for a time but after several years, she’d simply grown tired of being angry. And so she’d let Winchester go, truly believing he was out of her system.

And then she’d seen him standing in the gym, staring at her as if she were an odd curiosity. She’d been taken aback, lost her hold, and practiced speeches recited too many times after the divorce were forgotten.

She groaned. She’d invited him into her home. Offered him a soda. And a sandwich. “You were always a pushover around him.”

She willed the water to wash away her thoughts and disappointments. Let go. Let go. The familiar mantra lapped over her taking with it some of the emotion.

Brody’s arrival wasn’t personal. It was business. And he was acting like an adult, a professional. He wasn’t the newly enlisted twenty-two-year-old marine who had all the answers, and he wasn’t looking at her as if she owed him. Nor was she an awkward eighteen-year-old grateful for any kind of love and attention. She didn’t need him, not as she thought she had all those years ago.

The hot water beaded on her forehead. She was thirty-two. He was thirty-six. If they couldn’t act like grown-ups now when would they ever? The past was the past. Let it go and move on.

This time tomorrow her interview with Harvey Lee Smith would be over and Brody would be out of her life again. Case, hopefully, closed.

She shut off the water, toweled off, dried her hair quickly and dressed in a dark pencil skirt, white blouse and matching jacket. She put on her pearl necklace and earrings and as she promised was ready to leave within thirty minutes.

When she emerged from her bedroom, her cats had surrounded Brody. Atticus, a sixteen-pound orange cat, sat at the end of the sofa staring at Brody as if he wanted to attack. Shakespeare, a wiry black cat with a snub-nose tail sat on the floor out of his reach and Mrs. Ramsey, a small gray tabby, sat in his lap, purring as he rubbed her between the ears.

God, what he must think of her. All these years and she was still not only the nerdy smart girl, but also the single lady with the house full of cats.

She snatched up her purse and snapped it open. “Ready?”

He finished off his soda and gently nudged Mrs. Ramsey back onto the couch. As he rose, his gaze lingered on her a half a beat before he held up the can. “Yep. Where’s your trash can?”

Her first instinct was to take the can and throw it out for him. She’d have done it for anyone but him. “Under the sink in the kitchen.”

As he disposed of the can, she checked her wallet to make sure she had enough cash as well as her ID. She tucked in a notebook, extra pens as well as a point-and-shoot camera. “I’ll follow you to the airport.”

He moved toward her, hat balanced in his hand, each step measured.

When had she forgotten he was so tall and broad-shouldered? He’d been like that in college, possessing a room simply by entering. Age had certainly not whittled away his muscle tone. He was broader in the shoulders and his legs and his wrists had grown thicker.

He’d never been classically or pretty-boy handsome. Very male had been the best way to describe him. Age had not only wiped away the traces of youth, but had left his face with a rawboned leanness that bordered on menace.

“It could be a late night,” he said. “Better not to leave an extra car at the airport.”

No doubt his frame all but filled the front seat of that Bronco. “I don’t mind.”

“It’ll be easier if I drive.”

A rebuttal danced on the tip of her tongue and then she swallowed it. The more she protested the bigger deal she made out of the whole situation. And this was not a big deal. It was business.

“Fine.” Atticus meowed, jumped off the back of a chair. “Let me feed the cats.”

He held out his hat, indicating the way to the kitchen. “You’ve wrangled yourself a real herd here.”

“They kinda found me.”

“You’re a soft touch.”

“Maybe.” She opened the kitchen pantry, scooped out a mound of dried food and dropped it into three different bowls scattered around the kitchen and den. Atticus took the bowl by the bin. Shakespeare moved to his bowl under the kitchen table and Mrs. Ramsey ate behind the chair.

“That big red one runs the roost,” Brody said.

She filled a water bowl and set it beside Atticus. “I’ve had him a year. But as soon as he arrived he took over.”

“Is he growling?”

“He growls when he eats. Defense mechanism, I suppose. Vet thinks he fended for himself a good while. He was half starved and pretty banged up when he came to me.”

“Give the ’ol boy credit for surviving.”

“Let me check in with my neighbor and let him know I’ll be gone. There’s a fifty percent chance of rain this evening, and if we get grounded the cats will need to be fed.”

He followed her out the front door. “Still watch the weather every morning?”

Still eat Frosted Flakes in the morning? The unexpected memory had her pulling the front door closed with a too-firm slam. She turned the key in the lock until the dead bolt slid into place. “The first personal reference to our short but brief marriage—the elephant in the room.”

He stood at the base of the stairs, one foot on the bottom step. “I never was good at pretending.”

“Cutting honesty from what I remember.”

He settled his hat on his head. He tightened and released his jaw. “There something between us we need to lance before we get this show on the road?”

“No.” Emotions tightened and released. She nodded toward the house to her right. “I’ll be right back.”

He studied her a moment. “I’ll be in the car.”