Best Kept Secrets

frown, the sheriff answered his own question. "No, I can

 

see that Mrs. Graham failed to mention all that."

 

"You think I'm here on a personal vendetta."

 

"Yeah, I do."

 

"Well, I'm not," Alex said defensively. "I believe there

 

are enough holes in this case to warrant reinvestigation. So

 

does District Attorney Harper."

 

"That egomaniac?" he snorted contemptuously. "He'd

 

indict his own mother for selling it on street corners if it

 

would move him any closer to the attorney general's office."

 

Alex knew his comment was partially true. She tried another

 

tack. "When Mr. Chastain is better acquainted with the facts, he'll agree that there's been a gross miscarriage of

 

justice."

 

"Pat had never even heard of Celina until yesterday.

 

He's got his hands full chasing down wetbacks and drug

 

dealers."

 

"Do you blame me for wanting justice? If your mother

 

had been stabbed to death in a horse barn, wouldn't you do

 

everything possible to see that her killer was punished?"

 

"I don't know. My old lady split before I was old enough

 

to remember her."

 

Alex felt a pang of empathy for him that she knew she

 

couldn't afford. No wonder the pictures she'd seen of Reede

 

had been of a very intense lad with eyes much older than his

 

years. She'd never thought to ask her grandmother why he

 

looked so serious.

 

"This is an untenable situation, Mr. Lambert. You are a

 

suspect." She stood up and retrieved her purse. "Thank you

 

for the coffee. I'm sorry to have bothered you so early in the

 

morning. From now on, I'll have to rely on the local police

 

department for assistance."

 

"Wait a minute."

 

Alex, already making her way toward the door, stopped

 

and turned. "What?"

 

"There is no police department."

 

Dismayed by that piece of information, she watched as he

 

 

 

reached for his hat and coat. He stepped around her, pulled

 

open the door for her, then followed her out.

 

"Hey, Sam, I'm leaving. I'll be across the street." The

 

deputy nodded. "This way," Reede said, taking Alex's elbow

 

and guiding her toward a small, square elevator at the

 

end of the hall.

 

They got into it together. The door creaked when he pulled

 

it closed. The sound of grinding gears wasn't very reassuring.

 

Alex hoped it would make the trip.

 

She tried to help it along by concentrating hard on their

 

ascent. All the same, she was fully aware of Reede Lambert

 

standing so close to her that their clothing touched. He was

 

studying her.

 

He said, "You resemble Celina."

 

"Yes, I know."

 

"Your size, your mannerisms. Your hair's darker, though,

 

and it has more red in it. Her eyes were brown, not blue like

 

yours." His gaze moved over her face. "But there's a striking

 

resemblance."

 

"Thank you. I think my mother was beautiful."

 

"Everybody thought so."

 

"Including you?"

 

"Especially me."

 

The elevator jerked to an abrupt stop. Alex lost her balance

 

and fell against him. Reede caught her arm and supported

 

her long enough for her to regain her balance, which might

 

have taken a little too long, because when they separated,

 

Alex felt light-headed and breathless.

 

They were on the first floor. He shrugged into his jacket

 

as he guided her toward a rear exit. "My car's parked out

 

front," she told him as they left the building. "Should I put

 

more money in the meter?"

 

"Forget it. If you get a ticket, you've got friends in high

 

places."

 

His smile wasn't as orthodontist perfect as Junior Minton's,

 

but it was just as effective. It elicited a tickle in the pit of

 

her stomach that was strange and wonderful and scary.

 

 

 

His quick grin emphasized the lines on his face. He looked

 

every day of his forty-three years, but the weathered markings

 

fit well on his strong, masculine bone structure. He had dark

 

blond hair that had never known a stylist's touch. He pulled

 

on his black felt cowboy hat and situated the brim close to

 

his eyebrows, which were a shade or two darker than his

 

hair.

 

His eyes were green. Alex had noticed that the moment

 

she had walked into his office. She had reacted as any woman

 

would to so attractive a man. He had no paunch, no middle-aged

 

softness. Physically, he looked two decades younger

 

than he actually was.

 

Alex had to keep reminding herself that she was a prosecutor

 

for the sovereign state of Texas, and that she should

 

be looking at Reede Lambert through the eyes of a litigator,

 

not a woman. Besides, he was a generation older than she.

 

"Were you out of clean uniforms this morning?" she asked

 

as they crossed the street.

 

He wore plain denim Levi's--old, faded, and tight--like

 

the jeans rodeo cowboys wore. His jacket was brown leather,

 

and fitted at the waist like a bomber jacket. The fur lining,

 

which folded out to form a wide collar, was probably coyote.

 

As soon as they'd stepped into the sunlight, he'd slid on

 

aviator glasses. The lenses were so dark that she could no

 

longer see his eyes.

 

"I used to dread the sight of a uniform, so when I became

 

sheriff, I made it clear that they'd never get me in one of

 

those things."

 

"Why did you always dread the sight of one?"

 

He smiled wryly. "I was usually trying to outrun it, or at

 

least avoid it."

 

"You were a crook?"

 

"Hell-raiser."

 

"You had run-ins with the law?"

 

"Brushes."

 

"So what turned you around, a religious experience? A

 

scare? A night or two in jail? Reform school?"