Instead, he had to head back to the neighborhood of the rich and greedy and Taylor Landis.
COULD THIS DAY GET ANY WORSE?
First the confrontation with Kenneth regarding his possible tampering with the bid for the new city library, then that ordeal with Miles at the restaurant.
The only highlight was the excitement about her best friend Margaret Hathaway’s upcoming wedding. Margaret had been alone a long time, had never gotten over giving her son up for adoption when she was fifteen. She’d even hinted at hiring a P.I. to look for him, but her father, Link, had insisted against it. Poor Margaret. Her friend’s pain had prompted Taylor to hire the P.I. herself. Finding out that her son’s adopted family loved him would make a perfect wedding gift to Margaret. Then she could finally have the happiness she deserved.
Her cell phone rang, and she checked the number as she turned into Cantara Hills. Miles.
Not again.
She let it ring until it went to voice mail, but a second later, it started all over again. Knowing he wouldn’t give up, she hit the connect button.
“I knew you were there,” Miles snarled.
“Listen, I already told you that I’m not giving you any money right now. Grow up and start being responsible.”
“You’ll be sorry for turning your back on me, Taylor.”
A chill swept up Taylor’s spine. “Is that a threat?”
His bitter laugh echoed over the line. “It’s a promise.”
The dial tone buzzed in her ear as he abruptly ended the call.
Taylor shivered. After her mother’s death, her father had quickly remarried. But his marriage to Miles’s mother hadn’t lasted long, and both she and Miles had been bitter and had tried repeatedly to milk him for money. But she’d never heard Miles so out of control. As she pulled down the drive to her mansion, she saw the crime scene tape in her driveway, and her senses jumped to alert.
The tape and the smoky, charred debris that had stained the imported Italian brick reminded her that someone had tried to kill her. That her body parts, instead of her BMW’s, could have been all over the lawn….
If she hadn’t rescheduled her appointment, she would have been driving home at the time the bomb exploded. According to Sergeant Egan Caldwell, the device had been set on a timer. Which meant that someone had known her routine and had intentionally planned for the car to explode with her inside.
Could Miles have done it? Or was Carlson Woodward responsible?
But why would Carlson have wanted her dead?
Hugging her arms around herself, she scanned the front of her estate, feeling paranoid as she let herself in and checked her security system. Ever since the breakins had started in Cantara Hills, she’d been nervous. Had expected to be hit. After all, her mansion held expensive furniture, paintings, vases, collectibles, and she had several exquisite customized one-of-a-kind pieces of jewelry her father had given her over the years.
All tucked away in her safe because she rarely wore them. She enjoyed the advantages money offered, but didn’t flaunt her wealth. In fact, that money was sometimes a curse. While most girls had to worry about men wanting in their pants, she had the added hassle of wondering if they wanted to get into her bank account. Even her father used his wealth to replace his feelings for her with expensive gifts.
And the break-ins—did the police believe that Carlson Woodward was responsible for them? She frowned and walked through the kitchen to the foyer and the spiral staircase, then wound her way up to her suite.
But why would Carlson steal from the neighbors? He didn’t need the money. Her little brother, Miles, was a different story. He was so desperate for cash and angry with some of her friends who’d begun refusing him loans, that he might resort to theft.
She slipped into a bathing suit, sighing as her bare feet sank into the plush Oriental rug. Padding barefoot down the steps, she exited through the sunroom, grabbed a towel from the pool house and dropped it, along with her cell phone, onto a patio chair. The last vestiges of sunlight had faded hours ago, but the pool lights illuminated the terrace, bathing the intricately patterned stonework in a pale glow. The smell of roses from the garden along with hydrangeas bordering the patio scented the air, disguising the hint of chlorine, and she stared into the shimmering aquamarine water.
Still, thoughts of Carlson’s attack on Caroline haunted her. She and Caroline had been neighbors and friends for years now. Apparently, Carlson had spread rumors in the community about Caroline having an affair with Sergeant Egan Caldwell, and had even called her father to stir up trouble.
Then he had attacked Caroline. Thankfully Ranger Caldwell had rescued Caroline and shot Carlson. Unfortunately Egan had been injured in the confrontation. Now Caroline had accompanied him to Austin to take care of him while he recuperated. Taylor still couldn’t believe that Caroline had fallen for the surly ranger.
She dove into the water and began a crawl stroke. She and Caroline had joked about the three cowboy cops who’d invaded their country club community with their big bodies, hard attitudes and…guns. They’d dubbed Lieutenant Brody McQuade, Kimberly’s brother, the intense one. Sergeant Egan Caldwell, the surly one. And Sergeant Hayes Keller—he had a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.
Still, an odd tingling rippled through her as she thought about him—he was all bad attitude. Big, brawny, muscular, with eyes as black as soot and a temper as hot as fire. He was just the kind of man she normally avoided because he looked as if he could snap a person into pieces with just one look. But still, he was dangerously sexy….
Her stomach clenched. Where had that thought come from?
She didn’t even like the guy. When he’d questioned her, she’d felt his disdain carving a hole through her.
She’d be glad when he left the area.
She swam another lap, counting strokes, but suddenly the lights flickered off, both outside and inside, pitching the terrace into darkness. Her breath hitched. There wasn’t a storm cloud in sight, no reason for a power failure.
Something was wrong.
Scanning the terrace and garden for signs of an intruder, she swam to the pool edge to get out and call security. Suddenly a movement at the edge of the gardens by the pool house caught her eye.
A man?
Panic shot through her. She had to call for help. But the chair where she’d put her phone was next to the gardens.
And the only unlocked door was the sunroom door. She’d have to pass the pool house to reach it.
Taking a deep breath, she took off running, but before she reached the door, someone clamped a gloved hand over her mouth and encircled her neck with the other. She clawed at his hands, but he dug his fingers into her larynx, cutting off her air. Remembering the self-defense moves she’d learned, she jabbed her elbow in his chest, brought her knee up then stomped down on his foot.
He growled in fury and tightened both hands around her throat. Blind panic assaulted her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Desperate, she reached for something to use as a weapon as they fell against a patio chair. Her hand closed around a garden shovel and she stabbed backward with it, but he knocked it from her hand and it skittered across the terrace.
Enraged, he punched her jaw so hard her ears rang and she saw stars.
She had to fight back. But he hit her again, her legs buckled and her knees hit the stone with a painful thud. He shoved her face down, and she tasted blood as her head slammed against the brick wall encircling the patio. Then he dragged her toward the pool.
Summoning her last bit of strength, she flailed and kicked, clawed at him, but