Texas Heroes: Volume 1

by Jean Brashear

  He was not dashing his body on the rocks for Lacey DeMille ever again.

  Chapter Two

  In a packed ballroom steamy with the heat of many bodies, Lacey shivered as she watched him walk away.

  But her palm was hot where he had touched her, and on her knuckles she could feel the imprint of his mouth. Her body quivered with the lightning bolt that had arced from his body to hers.

  And she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream that Devlin Marlowe had walked back into her life.

  “Lacey, darling, who is that man and why is he here?” Her mother’s voice grated across nerves already strained past bearing. Then Philip walked up to her other side and turned her toward him.

  “Is that him?” he demanded. “The one who—”

  Bought me? Lacey fought a laugh wrenched up from the rawness within her, remembering Dev’s bold statement. He had been the same back then, full of daring and mischief. He had made her want to be like him, so unafraid, so ready take on anything. Anyone.

  Come with me now, tonight. I’ll take care of you, I swear I will. Words she’d buried deep rose to the surface and taunted. Lacey bit her lip to stem tears she couldn’t explain.

  Why, Dev? Why did you leave?

  She hadn’t believed her father at first, but when Dev never even checked to see if she was all right after that horrible night, she’d known the truth.

  Lust at first sight, a youthful impulse—and a painful mistake.

  Dev had asked her to go away with him that night, not seeing how impossible it was. Her father would have hunted them to the ends of the earth. She’d been packed off to school in Europe, her heart in tatters. Foolish little girl.

  Lacey had been a fool not once, but twice. She didn’t want to hurt like that ever again. She was always careful now.

  “What’s wrong? What did he say to you?” Philip demanded. “He is the one, isn’t he?”

  “I can’t believe he made such a spectacle,” her mother complained. “I hope you set him straight and canceled that ridiculous arrangement.”

  Lacey was drowning in voices, in demands. All she wanted was to be alone, to go someplace quiet where she could try to absorb what had happened.

  “Lacey?” Philip’s hand was on her elbow. “What is wrong with you?”

  She did laugh then, one short burst, quickly stifled. Her mother and Philip stared at her as though she’d lost her mind.

  And another laugh leaked out of her, then grew stronger. Soon she was laughing hard enough that it seemed reasonable that tears would escape and roll off her lashes.

  “That’s it,” Philip grated. “I’m taking you home.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Byrne,” her mother offered. “He’ll prescribe something to settle your nerves.”

  Lacey wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself to answer, but before she could, her father had intervened.

  “She doesn’t need a doctor, Margaret. I’ll take care of this.” He pulled her to the side and shot back an order. “Go get her a glass of water, Philip.”

  Her father led her away from the crowd looking on with avid glances. When they were at the edge of the room, he turned her to face him, his expression stern.

  “That was Marlowe, wasn’t it?” He didn’t have to say the name. “Was he the bidder?”

  Lacey could only nod. Memories held her fast in their grip. She felt almost as naked now as she had that night.

  “What did you tell him?”

  Nothing seemed real. Not her father standing in front of her, not her mother’s horror, not Philip’s presumption. Not the touch she could still feel on her skin. Or the green eyes that could still claim her.

  “It will be fine, Daddy. I can handle it.”

  “You’re going to do this?” His voice rose, and the little girl she’d been shrank from his disapproval. “I forbid it. I’ll take care of this, Lacey. He won’t bother you again.”

  Just the way her father had taken care of her other mistake, obtaining an annulment and hushing up her ill-fated elopement. He had the connections to do it.

  He’d been right, of course. She and Luc could never have made it. They were too different—and that, of course, was the attraction. He was a race car driver she met during her last year in Europe. A reprobate, a bad boy all the way, he had made her blood run hot. Just like Dev.

  He’d made her want to dare things she shouldn’t. Just like Dev.

  Then he had taken her father’s money and vanished like smoke.

  Just like Dev.

  It doesn’t have anything to do with who we are now.

  Was Dev right?

  Her heart said no. And she couldn’t, wouldn’t make another mistake. She knew nothing about this Dev, only that a boy bearing his name had taught her about passion—and then walked away without a backward glance.

  She should let her father handle it. Only he knew what had happened. Only he knew how little Dev had cared. He would handle it and she would never have to see Devlin Marlowe again.

  The decision is yours. Dev gave her more credit than her own family did.

  Within Lacey arose something she couldn’t name. Some tiny seed of all her wondering why she was here, what her life meant.

  “No, Daddy.” She lifted her gaze to his and parroted Dev’s words. “It was a long time ago. We were just kids. He can’t hurt me now.”

  “Princess, you’re wrong.” His voice carried too much force for something so far removed.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy. I know you want to protect me, but I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “No, Princess. Don’t do it.”

  “Why not?” She was honestly curious. “I’m not sixteen. I made my mistakes with Dev, with Luc. But I’m a grown woman now. You have to let me handle it.”

  She could see a war going on behind his eyes. “It’s only a picnic. It’s for the children.”

  Her father’s frown deepened and he started to speak but then shook his head. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Is there something I should know?”

  Her father glanced away for a second, then returned his gaze to hers. Finally, he shook his head slowly, exhaling in a gust. “No. There’s nothing. Just be careful, Princess. Be very careful.”

  She smiled then, to ease his mind. “A simple picnic, Daddy. I can handle it.”

  She prayed she was right.

  Dev leaned against the window frame and stared into the dark night outside his hotel room, unseeing. He uttered a few choice, ripe curses, raked his fingers through his hair, and shoved away from the wall to return to the desk where his laptop accused him.

  The cursor blinked patiently, waiting for Dev to organize his thoughts. But all he could see was a pair of silvery eyes gone icy and imperious. Was there even a trace of soft gray velvet left inside that perfectly-groomed exterior?

  Just a job. It’s just a job. You’re not a kid anymore, and neither is she.

  Yanking his tuxedo shirt out of the waistband of his slacks, Dev worked at the studs, stripping the garment off his body and tossing it on the bed. Then he sat down again and used the discipline that had marked his life for years to focus on the screen before him. He knew the facts of the case; he could relate them to Lacey, carefully and with no emotion at all. That would be the best way. Just the facts, ma’am.

  If only it were that simple.

  Right now, he’d like to talk to Maddie. He could use a reminder of all the reasons why this case had nothing to do with him. But it was two-thirty in the morning, and the Gallaghers rose with the chickens.

  And all he’d told Mitch and Boone and Maddie was that he knew who Lacey was, not all that had gone on between them years ago. If he thought the words on the screen made a long, complicated story, try adding in his own little tangent.

  Okay. How would he start? Lacey, there’s this tiny town called Morning Star, where a man named Dalton Wheeler took the rap for a murder he didn’t commit—

  Dev shook his head. Okay— There was a girl named Jenn
y who loved Dalton very much, but he vanished and she found out she was pregnant and she went away to have you and had to give you up.

  Damn. It was all true, as far as it went. But how to explain to her about all the love, the heartache?

  Would Lacey understand that in those days, Jenny had few options? She went away, had the baby, and the doctor took care of the adoption. Jenny never knew about the very wealthy man and his wife who staged an elaborate deception because bloodlines were so important. Margaret DeMille would never admit that the child she ostensibly went to the pure country air of Switzerland to have was not her own. That the baby girl was tiny and delicate only helped in disguising her true age when they returned to Houston.

  So they told no one, not even Lacey. She slept tonight, wrapped up in her certainty of who she was, where she belonged.

  And he prowled a hotel room and wished for sleep. He should have stayed at his brother’s. At least Connor would distract him from thoughts he didn’t welcome.

  They’re good people, Lacey. Give them a chance. Don’t get on your high horse and break their hearts.

  Hell, maybe Maddie was the right person to tell her.

  No. This was his job. He always did his job. Even if he trusted the Ice Princess not to hurt Maddie—which he didn’t—he had never skipped out on a responsibility to a client, and he wouldn’t start now.

  Dev cursed softly. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Dallas was only three hours away, and he had other cases, other commitments. With quick, decisive steps, he changed into jeans and packed up. Maybe in his own bed, he could stop the thoughts whirling long enough to get a little shuteye. Then he’d make a game plan.

  In his ’63 T-bird gas guzzler that rode like a living room sofa, Dev took a detour on his way out of town. He drove down River Oaks Boulevard with its grand homes shrouded in trees. Lacey didn’t live at the estate anymore—she had her own condo not far away—but he wanted to take a look at his enemy’s lair.

  There it was, down the long circular drive. Two-story Colonial with mahogany front doors, the wide front porch opening onto manicured grounds. Huge pines and magnolias scattered over emerald lawn, thickening stands of them at the boundaries. In the spring the azaleas would scatter brilliant bursts of color. From the street, the whole place looked like a dream house.

  Appearances could be so deceptive. Somewhere, nestled way back under the trees, was the gazebo where dreams had died.

  Cursing softly, Dev pulled away. A few blocks farther, he stopped in front of a condo where he knew there was a jazzy red convertible in the garage. He looked at the darkened windows and wondered which ones let moonlight filter onto her bed.

  He remembered a gazebo silvered in moonglow. Remembered innocent gray velvet eyes. Silken curves trembling under his hands.

  What are you dreaming tonight, Lacey?

  Dev set his jaw, sipped at the styrofoam cup of coffee, and drove away.

  Lacey awoke from a fitful sleep and glanced at the clock. Three fifteen. The headlights from a passing car swept across the wall. She rolled over and stared across the lavender silk comforter toward the moonlight spilling into her window, drifting across her shoulder.

  You’re so beautiful, Lacey. She couldn’t have seen the green of his eyes that long ago night, so serious and dark as he bent over and unfastened the bodice of her dress, but somehow they were always that startling green in her dreams. He had taught her the hum of rapture beneath the boundaries of her skin. Had sent the heat of ecstasy rushing through her veins.

  Are you sure about this? Had she been sure? Or just so full of her pipe dreams that she couldn’t see how they had been doomed from the start?

  Somehow tonight after seeing Dev again, she could remember, for the first time in years, not how badly it had ended, not the shouts, the fear, the awful nakedness.

  Instead, she remembered nerves. Jive-jumpy thrill, pounding in her blood. The sweetness of an ache that had stolen her breath. Longing so sharp she could taste it still. Everything with Dev had seemed larger than life. More colorful. More intense.

  Intense. That was Dev, then and now. She’d seen the fierce glow still inside him tonight.

  She had fallen headlong into the madness, trusting Devlin Marlowe to be her first, the one she would remember forever. The man who would make her a woman. He would be her one true love. She’d been so sure.

  Foolish, foolish girl. Tears slipped across her temple and trickled into her hair as Lacey watched the moon slide behind whispery clouds.

  Silly little rich girl. Lacey wept for the innocent and her fanciful dreams…

  The girl who never suspected that even love had its price.

  Ringing woke her into sunlight that sliced into her vision. Lacey tripped on the edge of the comforter and fumbled for the cell in her purse. She squeezed her lids shut against the glaring brightness. “Hello?” she croaked.

  “Too early?”

  She glanced at the clock but couldn’t make out the numbers. “What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  She groaned, then bolted up straight. “Dev?”

  “Not a morning person, right?” His tone was dry.

  “No, it’s just—” She squinted then threw her shoulders back, standing up straight, as if military posture might help. “Never mind. Why did you call?”

  His tone went brisk and impersonal. “I have to be in Dallas all week. I’d like to schedule the picnic for next Saturday. Will that work for you?”

  She fumbled for her planner. “What time?”

  “You choose.”

  How about never? “Noon?”

  “Fine.”

  Silence spun out.

  Then they both spoke at once.

  “Dev, I don’t think—”

  “If you need to call—” He paused, like her words had just registered. “Look, this doesn’t have to be painful. A simple picnic, that’s all. For a good cause.”

  It will be painful. It can’t be anything else. But she was too much Margaret DeMille’s daughter to say so, and the cause was important. One hand pressing against her stomach, Lacey spoke again. “I have a three o’clock tennis match at the club. That shouldn’t be a problem, do you think?” There. She’d put a time limit on it. Two hours, max.

  How would she ever get through two hours alone with Dev?

  A wry chuckle sounded in her ear. “Tell you what. I’ll just give you my cell number so it’s easier for you to cancel.”

  “I won’t cancel.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.” He gave her a phone number with a Dallas area code. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d cancel by Friday so I don’t have to make the drive.”

  “I won’t cancel, Dev.”

  He paused before he answered. “Then you’ll surprise me.”

  His tone turned impersonal again. “I’ll call you when I get to town, and we’ll work out logistics.” Then he hung up without even saying goodbye.

  “I won’t cancel, Dev,” she whispered once more, into a silent phone.

  She wouldn’t. But oh, how she wished she could.

  Chapter Three

  Dev knocked on the door of the frame house that his mother had lived in for twelve years.

  Muffled by the door, a voice called out, “Come on in.”

  He turned the knob and stepped inside, bracing in reflex. Waiting…always expecting his mother’s four-month sobriety to have come to an end.

  But the scent of coffee, not liquor, greeted him on this Sunday morning after his return from Houston.

  Coffee…and the sight of his mother sitting on the living room floor surrounded by boxes, holding a tie in her hands, a wistful smile on her face.

  Monique Marlowe looked up. “Do you remember this? Your father called it his lucky tie. Wore it whenever he had to deal with IRS or a difficult client.” She held it out to him.

  Dev stepped over boxes and squatted down beside her, worried at the moisture glistening on her lashes. “You could leave this stuff to us, M
om. We’ll go through it.”

  Her once-black hair had gone snow-white suddenly, as if her battle with the bottle had drained everything from her. “No, Devlin. These are my memories. It’s taken me almost twenty years to face them. I need to deal with them myself.” She stroked one finger down the tie, an unremarkable regimental in shades of navy and burgundy.

  And suddenly, Dev did remember it, knotted around Patrick Marlowe’s neck. For one instant, he could feel his father’s hand clap his shoulder, could see the green eyes he’d inherited sparkling with pride as his father spoke. Will you look at this boy, Monique? He’ll be as tall as me soon. Our Dev is growing up.

  Dev had probably been twelve, three years away from the worst day of his life.

  At least, the worst day until he and Lacey—

  “Would you like to have the tie, Devlin?”

  “No.” He saw the hurt in her eyes at his curt tone. He shook his head and exhaled. “I’m sorry. I drove in from Houston, got here just before seven.” And still couldn’t get any damn sleep. “You have any coffee made, Mom? Then I’ll give you a hand here.”

  His mother held out a hand for assistance, and Dev tugged her to her feet, the grace she’d never lost, even at her worst, still evident.

  Monique Marlowe had been a lovely drunk. She’d never turned slovenly, had coped—in her own way. If she couldn’t handle four children or the realities of a life of poverty, still she’d held on to the one thing that had always been hers—her beauty. At sixty-two, she bore some lines of age, but she was still too beautiful to be a grandmother.

  But thank God she was. Dierdre’s child had been the surprising magic that had transformed her. Had given her what her children could not: a reason to stay sober.

  “Poor Devlin,” she murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “You work too hard.” The lovely blue eyes turned uncertain, and she looked down at her hands. “All this has made me think about a lot of things. I—I’ve never apologized to you, son. It wasn’t right what I did when Patrick—” Her eyelashes batted rapidly, but a single tear spilled over.