The Heart of Brody McQuade

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the southern tradition of oral history, and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and often uses her medical background to add an extra dose of intrigue to her books. Another fascination that she enjoys exploring in her reading and writing is the infinite capacity of the brain to adapt and develop higher skills.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats, and, at current count, seven computers.

She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at rickey_m@bellsouth.net

To Delores and Rita – here we go again.

Prologue

Christmas Ev e

Lieutenant Brody McQuade, Texas Ranger, looked at the ornate casket for the first time since he’d walked into the quiet chapel. His heart twisted with pain so severe he couldn’t breathe. That was his baby sister beneath that blanket of pink and white poinsettias. Kimmie.

Ever since he could remember, his mom had drilled into him that Kimberly was his responsibility.

If anything ever happens to us… Those words weren’t just empty motherisms. His parents had been thrill-seekers, and wealthy enough to pursue their dangerous hobbies.

A pipe organ’s dulcet tones swelled. Brody’s throat closed and his shoulders bowed as if they could shield his heart from deeper pain. Out of habit he straightened them. He was a Texas Ranger and Rangers were always strong and straight—dependable and responsible.

Next to him, Sergeant Hayes Keller turned his head slightly. “You all right?” he whispered.

Brody lifted his chin. No way could he let Hayes or the third Ranger on the pew, Egan Caldwell, know the shape he was in. He was their superior officer. His responsibility to them and to the Rangers went beyond personal feelings.

Ah, dammit, Kimmie. What were you doing in that car without your seat belt on? He stared at his hands and pretended the blurriness in his eyes wasn’t tears.

Hayes nudged him.

“The service is over, Brody. Let’s go.”

He raised his head. The music had stopped. In the silence he heard clothes rustle and a few quiet coughs. Everyone was waiting for him to make the first move.

He stood, bitter nausea clogging his throat. Why the hell hadn’t he insisted on a private service? He felt the stares from the people in the chapel—most of whom could have prevented this tragedy if they’d paused in their partying and drinking for one second.

He approached the casket. He reached out a hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually touch the polished surface.

“Bye, Kimmie,” he whispered hoarsely. “I swear I’ll put the bastard who did this away for the rest of his worthless life.”

He felt a touch on his shoulder.

He looked up. It was Caroline Stallings, the socialite who’d let Kimmie die. What kind of woman drove with the top down three days before Christmas? And let a passenger ride with no seat belt?

“Lieutenant McQuade, please accept my condolences. I feel so bad about what happened.”

He took in her pale face and bruised forehead. It was all he could do to rein in the anger that churned in his gut. He met her gaze, gleaning a grim satisfaction when her eyes widened with apprehension. “Thanks,” was all he could manage.

With Egan and Hayes behind him, he navigated through the crush of attendees, most of whom he’d only met in the past three days as he’d interrogated them about Kimberly’s death.

He’d had no idea that interning on the San Antonio City Board would throw Kimberly into the middle of the city’s wealthiest inner circle. Caroline Stallings was on the board, and maybe that explained it. Kimberly had admired Caroline, had in fact raved about her.

But there was something fishy about the hit-and-run crash that had taken his sister’s life, and before he got through with them, he planned to unearth all these Cantara Hills trust-fund babies’ dirty little secrets.

Just as he reached the rear door he saw a familiar, squirrelly face. Gary Zelke, the SOB who had drunkenly slammed into Caroline Stallings’s vintage Corvette.

Frustration, grief and anger roiled inside him like a toxic stew. He eased past a tall blonde who smelled like money and roses, and confronted the little twerp.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Zelke turned white as a sheet. “Just paying my respects.”

“Why aren’t you in jail? You’ve got a lot of gall.” Brody clenched his fists. His jaw ached. “I ought to—”

“Pardon me.”

It was the blonde. Her tailored suit revealed legs that went all the way to the ground. In heels, she came close to his six foot two.

“I’m Victoria Kirkland. We met briefly at the police station the day after the accident.”

He frowned, trying to place her. Suddenly the memory hit him. She was Zelke’s ambulance-chasing lawyer and a potential witness. She’d driven through the intersection seconds before Caroline and Kimberly had.

“You. You bailed him out. After the dirt-wad left my sister lying in the street.”

Victoria Kirkland flattened her lips and nodded. “Lieutenant, my deepest sympathy goes out to you and your family—”

Brody leveled his famous quelling gaze on her. “But…?”

Her green eyes sparked without faltering, and a tiny quirk of her lips surprised him. She gave him back look for look and her expression clearly said, Don’t even try.

“But I’m Mr. Zelke’s attorney. Anything you have to say, you say to me.”

Brody ground his teeth. “He killed my sister.”

Now her gaze faltered. “He didn’t, but I won’t argue the point here while you’re in mourning.”

Brody clenched his fists and his jaw. “Don’t do me any favors, Counselor.”

“You have my card. Call me and we can discuss the charges you’re bringing against my client.”

All of Brody’s anger and pain transferred itself to the long, cool blonde. Sharp as a stiletto and twice as dangerous. If she were cut she’d probably bleed ice water. Why was she bothering with a two-bit drunk like Zelke?

She wasn’t sleeping with him. Hell, she’d eat him alive.

Brody rubbed his eyes and turned away. One thing he knew for sure. When she tangled with him, she’d lose, because he had the advantage. Her heart wasn’t in it. His was.

He was fighting for justice for his little sister.

Chapter One

Eight months late r

“Hey, Caldwell, get up!” Brody McQuade pushed open the door to the second bedroom of the luxury conference suite at the Cantara Hills Country Club. His fellow Ranger was nothing more than an irregular lump under the fancy bedspread.

“Egan!”

The lump stirred. A rude, muffled comment reached Brody’s ears. “Let’s go. We’ve got another break-in.”

The lump turned into a head with brown hair sticking out every which way. “Another…at the condos?” Egan cursed and sat up, kicking at the bedclothes. He yawned and rubbed his head.

“Yeah. Come on.”

Egan squinted at him. “You’re already dressed.”

Brody didn’t respond.

Egan sighed. “I’ll catch up. What room?”

“Didn’t get particulars. The police are there. Ask at the door.” Brody left Egan sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands.

Grabbing his holster and hat, Brody stalked out to his Jeep Compass. The whine of police sirens echoed in his ears. He could see flashing blue lights in the near distance, over the Cantara Gardens Condominiums, south of the country club.

Adrenaline pumped through him and he had trouble reining in his impatience on the four-minute drive around the back nine holes of the golf course to the condos’ gates. He’d have preferred to sprint across the manicured greens and straightaways. Probably wouldn’t take forty seconds if he ran flat out.

But arriving at a crime scene sweaty and wrinkled wasn’t the Ranger way. Nor was it Brody’s style.

He’d been expecting this. There had been a break-in every month at the condos since January. Seven so far. Two fatalities. Trent Briggs in February, and Gary Zelke three months later, in May.

Deason hadn’t mentioned the name of the latest victim. The San Antonio Police Department Detective Sergeant had sounded frantic.

Did that mean they’d had another fatality?

He pulled up to the gate where an SAPD officer waved him through. Normally the residents used a computerized access card to open the gate. He had a master in his pocket.

Pulling up beside a police car, he headed inside. He didn’t recognize the officer at the front door, but the young man’s eyes lit on the silver star pinned to his shirt pocket and nodded. “Sergeant Deason is waiting for you, sir. In the penthouse.”

He raised his eyebrows. The penthouse. Victoria Kirkland’s apartment. Naturally it had to be her. Anger bubbled up from his chest, hot and noxious as methane gas.

Suck it up, McQuade. Tonight she wasn’t the shyster who’d gotten Kimmie’s killer off with nothing but a DUI. Tonight she was a victim. He didn’t ask if she’d survived the break-in. If she hadn’t, Deason would have told him.

He stepped into the elevator and eyed the button labeled “P.” Beside it was a narrow horizontal slot. He inserted the master access card the condos’ manager had given him into the slot and pressed the button.

The elevator car rumbled and started climbing, straight to the top. The doors opened into a foyer that could have been the lobby of a fancy hotel, complete with massive vases of flowers, illuminated artworks, and marble floors and columns.

Damn. Victoria Kirkland didn’t make this kind of money practicing law. She was a trust-fund baby. He should have known.

He pointedly ignored the voice in his head that reminded him that he was, too. His situation was different. For one thing, he was never going to touch the money his careless, carefree parents had placed in trust for Kimmie and him.

As his boot heels clicked on the marble floor, he heard heavier boots on the dark mahogany staircase to his left. The tall, burly detective sergeant, Cal Deason, came down the stairs.

“McQuade,” he said, holding out his hand.

Brody shook it briefly. He and Deason had worked together before. They both knew that the Rangers were in charge of this investigation, but Brody was careful to give Deason his full respect and consideration for his position. “What’s going on? Have we got a fatality?”

Deason shook his head. “Nope. She was damn lucky.”

Brody’s gut clenched. Lucky? Yeah. Some people were born lucky. He concentrated on the slight weight of the unique silver badge pinned to his shirt and reminded himself that this wasn’t personal.

Personally, he despised the leggy attorney for making good on her promise to get Gary Zelke acquitted of the charge of vehicular manslaughter. But as a Texas Ranger, he was bound to protect her and stop these break-ins and murders.

“Injuries?”

“Bruises on her neck. But other than that, just scared.”

So the perp had gotten in. Tried to kill her. That fit the pattern. If he’d succeeded, this would have been the third killing in eight months—if he counted Kimmie’s. One murder every three months.

“The guy got past the condo’s security alarm system,” Deason went on, “just like every other time. But Ms. Kirkland had her own system installed when she moved in.” Deason nodded toward the ceiling.

Brody followed his gaze and spotted the security cameras trained on the doors. “You get the tapes?”

Deason nodded. “That’s the only camera, and the guy didn’t use the front door, but I’ll have my guys go through them.”

“No. I’ll send them to Austin. Sergeant Caldwell will take them.”

“I’ll have ’em ready.”

Deason’s words were affable, but Brody detected a note of resentment in his tone. He couldn’t blame the homicide sergeant. But Deason knew Brody had no choice. The request for the Rangers to take charge of the investigation had come from the mayor through the governor.

The residents of Cantara Hills had the clout to cover their butts. Once the Rangers had control of the investigation, there’d be no question of conflict of interest.

“I’d appreciate it. How’d the perp get inside?”

Deason shook his head. “My guys are checking. However he did it, he went out the same way. Ms. Kirkland’s extra security may have saved her life, but it allowed the perp to get away clean.”

“I assume your guys are going over that area with a fine-toothed comb. Give Sergeant Caldwell anything you find. As long as we’ve got the Rangers’ crime lab, we might as well use it. Where is Ms. Kirkland?”

“In the kitchen. She wanted some hot tea.”

His mental picture of her modified slightly to add a fragile expensive teacup to her perfectly manicured hand. He’d figured her as a fancy martini type.

“Sergeant Caldwell will be here in a minute to help you process the scene. I’m going to talk to her.”

Deason nodded toward his right. “That-a-way. McQuade…”

He turned back.

“She hasn’t been processed yet. I told her we could wait until she’d calmed down.”

Wealth hath its privileges.

He knew that, too well. What he’d never been able to figure out was why great wealth didn’t come packaged with wisdom and responsibility.

If his parents hadn’t missed out on the responsibility gene, his and his sister’s lives might have taken another path and Kimberly would be alive.

Quelling the urge to clutch at his chest where grief and loneliness still squeezed the life out of his heart, he stepped around a marble column, through a formal dining room and into the kitchen area.

The kitchen was as outrageously opulent as the foyer and living room. It was more like a balcony than a kitchen, with paned windows running across one entire wall, Mexican quarry tile on the floors and teak lounging furniture taking the place of a table and chairs.

Victoria was sitting on a love seat holding a mug in both hands while a young police officer stood nearby looking bored and awestruck at the same time.

Brody caught his eye. “Crime-scene kit?”

The officer nodded. “Yes, sir. Right here.” He toed a metal case at his feet.

“Help them upstairs.” He gestured with his head. “Leave the case here.”

Victoria looked up. Her mug jerked slightly, even though her pale face didn’t change expression. “Lieutenant McQuade. I didn’t expect to see you.” Her voice was husky.

He bit back a retort. Did she actually think he’d send someone else just because she was the victim? This was his case, and he didn’t let anything interfere with a case. “I was available.”

She muttered something. It sounded like Lucky me.

“Tell me what happened.”

She set the mug of tea down on the teak side table. “Can I make you some tea or coffee?”

“No. Tell me what happened.”

Her lips compressed into a thin line and she sat back. For the first time he noticed what she was wearing. It was some kind of shiny satiny nightgown with a robe over it. Except that it wasn’t exactly a robe. It was black and red and looked Oriental. A kimono? Whatever it was, it and the gown together hardly qualified as clothes. The material of both was so slinky and clingy that he could see the vague outline of her nipples and the V where her thighs met.

Lust speared through him. Hell. He swallowed and concentrated on her words.

“I went to bed fairly early, around eleven. I must have gone right to sleep because the next thing I knew something startled me.” She lifted the mug and blew across its surface. The satiny fabric whispered and shimmered.

Brody’s mouth went dry. Dragging his gaze away from her slender body, he focused on her feet. They were encased in delicate, ivory, open-toed slippers. Her toenails were unpainted—naked.

He shifted his gaze to the windows. “What startled you? A sound?”

“Maybe. I woke up and I knew someone was in my apartment. Sergeant Deason has already asked me all of this.”

“Now I’m asking. And trust me, this won’t be the last time.”

“I’m aware of how investigations work, Lieutenant. I was merely pointing out that you might save yourself some time if you talked to him.”

No. You’re merely testing to see if you can intimidate me with your wealth and position. He crossed his arms. She was a victim here. As much as she irritated him, he couldn’t forget that.

“I’ve got plenty of time. What happened next?”

Her fingers tightened on the mug. “I sat up and he—whoever it was—grabbed my throat.” She closed her eyes. “He pushed me down and flipped me onto my stomach before I could react. Then the security alarm went off.”

“It went off after he attacked you?”

“It’s my personal security system, not the building’s. It trips when a door or a window is breached. It automatically calls the police, then after fifteen seconds, the siren goes off.”

“Fifteen seconds? You could be dead in fifteen seconds.”

What little color she had in her face drained away. “Th-the theory is that the police get a head start.”

“Brilliant theory,” Brody muttered. “The condo’s security system never went off, just like the other break-ins.”

“What does that mean? Are you saying it’s one of us?”

He bristled at her words. One of us. As opposed to whom? “Do you mean the residents of Cantara Hills, rather than the rest of San Antonio?”

She angled her head and assessed him. “I mean one of the residents of Cantara Gardens. Lieutenant, should I be talking to someone else? I’m afraid your personal grudge against me might jeopardize this investigation.”

“There is absolutely nothing personal about my feelings for you.”

“Are you sure? Because it certainly sounds personal.”

Brody reined in his rising irritation. She was right. His question had been out of line. She was the victim of a potentially deadly crime. That was all that mattered. The fact that she was instrumental in freeing the drunken weasel who killed his sister had no bearing on this case. Nor did the unfortunate fact that despite himself, he was attracted to her.

“What about Gary and Trent? Do you think it means anything that they’re the only two who’ve been killed?”

And there it was.

The one thing that kept gnawing at his brain and digging at his insides. He couldn’t shake the feeling that their deaths had something to do with his sister’s death eight months before. His notebook was filled with notes and charts and analyses of every detail of the break-ins and murders—their similarities and their differences.

Everything about the break-ins led back to one undeniable fact. If he started with the night Kimberly was killed, the fatalities in Cantara Hills were three months apart. December, February, May and now August. The break-ins had started in January. There had been one a month since then. The theory was that the five people who weren’t home when the break-ins occurred had been lucky. But Brody had a different theory.

Trent Briggs and Victoria Kirkland had left socialite Taylor Landis’s party together that fateful night, just ahead of Caroline and Kimberly. Zelke had left a few minutes after Kimberly. Victoria had passed the intersection just seconds before Zelke plowed into Caroline’s Vette and fled the scene of the crime.

Briggs and Zelke had been killed during break-ins. And now the last person who’d been near the scene at the critical time that night had been attacked.

And nearly killed.

But Brody didn’t want to get into that with her. She’d denied seeing anything that night, and she’d gotten Zelke off with nothing more than leaving the scene of an accident and driving under the influence.

Brody hated her for that. Even though she’d proved that another vehicle had crashed into Caroline’s car first. Even though the final coroner’s report concluded that Kimberly had already been thrown from the car before Zelke hit it.

“Lieutenant? None of the other break-in victims were attacked, were they? Their apartments were broken into while they were gone.” Her eyes glittered and the mug clattered as she set it down. “So why Gary? Why Trent? Why…me?”

Dammit. She was really spooked. Despite his resentment, the hint of tears in her eyes and the faint trembling of her lower lip tugged at his heart.

“The theory is that the others were lucky they weren’t home,” he said noncommittally.

“It’s too much of a coincidence. Trent and I passed that intersection only seconds before Caroline and Kimberly, and then Gary.”

“Let’s get back to what happened tonight. Now, did you notice anything about your attacker? Was he big? Small? Fat? Skinny?”

“I don’t know. His hands maybe. They were strong—big.”

“Any scars? Any identifying marks?”

She shook her head without looking at him.

Dammit, he needed something to go on. She was the first—the only one who’d been attacked and lived to tell it. “What about his clothes? Long sleeves? What about smell? After-shave? Cologne? Bad breath?”

Her head still turned back and forth. “I can’t tell you anything. I was asleep and then he was there.” Her voice quavered.

Brody’s frustration built. He planted his feet hip-width apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “So a man broke into your home, found his way to your bedroom and attacked you, and you can’t tell me one thing about him? Are you even sure it was a man?”

Victoria opened her mouth, but the retort he expected didn’t surface. Instead, she closed her eyes and the corners of her mouth grew white and pinched. “I’m sure it was a man.”

“How?”

She glanced up at him. For an instant her green eyes flashed with fear. Then she dropped her gaze. “His breaths sawing in and out in my ear. He sounded—and felt—like a man.” She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

Then she shuddered, and her terror and revulsion reverberated inside him.

“All right. Good. Now stand up. I need to see your neck.”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not your call to make. As an attorney, I’d think you’d know that. I need to examine the bruises and process you.”

“Process me?”

He cleared his throat impatiently. “Look, Ms. Kirkland. I know you understand procedure. So it’d be helpful if you’d cooperate.”