MICHELLE BURIED HER FACE in her hands as the news story continued to spill across the screen. The whole business with the Confederate picture had been a comedy of errors. And the bottom line was, she should never have printed it.
Surely, though, nothing truly awful could happen because of the mistake at the gallery. If only the media hadn’t covered the event. If only she hadn’t put her hand up to block the cameras. She knew better, but she’d acted on impulse. The wrong impulse. She stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.
Around her the celebration of her highly successful exhibit continued unabated. Kevin—her oldest friend in the city—and Marco were proposing toasts. A dozen friends were at the bar to show their support. This should have been a moment of elation. Instead, she was worried sick.
“Michelle, what are you doing here by yourself?”
Kevin Long was a fashion photographer who worked for the biggest names in the industry. His blond hair, a halo of curls, made him look angelic.
“Too much emotion.” She twirled the stem of her wineglass. “I needed a moment to gather my wits. It’s been hectic.”
“Hectic and successful. You should be dancing on the tables, but instead, you’re acting like you’ve just lost your best friend.” He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry your parents didn’t show.”
She’d been so absorbed in the picture fiasco that she’d failed to even acknowledge the hurt generated by her parents. They’d wanted her to become a doctor. They felt photography was a hobby, not a career. In their generally disapproving way, they’d simply refused to acknowledge any success she had in her chosen field. Friends like Kevin and Marco were her support system.
“I didn’t expect them to come.” She forced a wry smile. “It’s okay. They love me. They just don’t understand me.”
“You’d think they would be proud.”
“Maybe they are, in their own way. They’re just more stubborn than proud. But your folks came, and they’re like my second parents. That was plenty good enough for me.”
“Mom and Dad view you like a daughter, Michelle. You know that. In fact, if it came to a choice between the two of us…they’d pick you.”
Her laughter wasn’t forced. Kevin was an outrageous liar, and he always made her feel better. “Let’s join the party.” Marco was still proposing toasts, and if she didn’t get in there and break it up, no one would be able to stand long enough to flag a taxi home.
As she turned to go back inside, she noticed a long black car parked at the curb, motor running. No one had gotten in or out of it. It was almost as if someone was in the car waiting…for what? A prickle of goose bumps ran up her neck. She shook her head. She’d watched way too many movies.
THE AUSTIN AIRPORT WAS quiet, and Lucas put his booted feet on his overnight bag, tipped his hat over his face and decided to catch forty winks. He’d gotten a ticket on a late-night flight to Dallas, where he’d take a midnight special to New York. He’d be at Michelle Sieck’s door before the rooster sang in the morning.
As he sought sleep, he tried to steer his thoughts away from Lorry and where she might be—or who might be tracking her right this minute.
The truth was, if the Maxim family connections in New York had seen the story on the photo exhibit, Michelle could be in as much danger as Lorry.
He’d almost drifted off when he had a terrible image of Michelle in the hands of Robert Maxim, Antonio’s younger brother. Word on the street was that Robert was more brutal, more sadistic than Antonio had ever thought to be.
The image was so disturbing that Lucas gave up on resting. He went to the concession stand, where a lone Latino woman was reading a magazine behind the counter. She smiled at his request and made a fresh pot of coffee for him.
When he had his large black coffee, he went back to his seat, pulled a notepad out of his pocket and began to make notes.
Antonio Maxim had been sentenced to life in prison on a charge of first-degree murder. The Maxim family ran an underground white slavery ring, luring young Texas girls to the big city with a promise of modeling and acting careers, only to hook them on drugs and turn them out on the streets.
The life expectancy for such a girl was eight years. If they weren’t rescued, many of them died of diseases borne of the drugs that kept them numbed to life. More than a few ended up as suicides. Some were murdered because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Lucas’s brother, Harry, had been sent undercover from the Dallas Police Department up to New York to get evidence on the Maxim family. He’d done just that, but someone had blown his cover.
Harry had been standing on the corner of a busy intersection in broad daylight when a black Mercedes had pulled up in front of him. In one of the boldest killings in the city in recent years, Antonio had stepped out of the car long enough to shoot Harry point-blank in the heart and head. He’d died within seconds.
Lucas knew the fine details of the murder because of Lorry Kennedy’s courage. Known at that time as Betty Sewell, she’d been in the vicinity by happenstance—a dance audition—and her thoughts had been on many things other than her physical surroundings. At the trial that resulted in Antonio’s conviction for murder, Lorry testified that she’d come around the corner just in time to see Antonio step from the car, shove the gun in Harry’s chest and pull the trigger. Antonio was smiling when he did it.
Survival instincts had kicked in, and Lorry had dropped her bag and run for her life. She’d escaped, but three days later, Antonio and his men had found her. Antonio had given the order to cut her throat, and his men were in the process of doing just that when Lucas had arrived. He’d killed three of Antonio’s men on the spot and gotten Lorry to a hospital.
The doctors hadn’t been certain Lorry would live, but she had. And she was hopping mad. She made certain that Antonio went to prison for the rest of his life.
Now the last hurdle was his appeal. If something happened to Lorry, then the case against Antonio would be extremely weak. Antonio knew that, as did his brother, Robert. And Robert would do whatever it took to get his big brother out of prison.
Whatever it took.
Killing Lorry. Killing Michelle Sieck. Whatever it took.
Lucas swallowed the rest of his coffee and stood. He could see the plane outside the window. Soon he’d board. Then he’d find that photographer. She’d endangered Lorry and herself.
The Maxims wouldn’t care what Michelle knew or didn’t know. If there was even the slimmest chance that she could lead them to Lorry, they’d dig it out of her by any means necessary.
Chapter Four
Michelle awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. She’d had only two glasses of champagne, so the throbbing behind her eyes must be tension-related. The events of yesterday had caught up with her in a physical way.
She rolled over and snatched a pillow to cover her head. It was just after six, a time meant for sleep.
The hard knock at her door didn’t register until it came for the second time, a series of poundings that said someone meant business.
Thinking that it might be something to do with Marco and the gallery, she grabbed her old chenille robe and went to the door.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming!” She was grumpy and she didn’t care. She cracked the door on the chain and felt as if she’d stepped into someone else’s life. The tall man from the Confederate wedding was standing outside her apartment. Except he was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a Stetson—exactly as she’d imagined him.
“Michelle Sieck,” he said in a voice like someone on Law and Order. “I’m Lucas West. Please open the door. Now.”
“Why