Lone Star Lonely by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page A

find a way out of this. All she needed was one
chance, one opportunity. She would get away, collect her father and
head for the border. They could hide out in Mexico….
    Her glass was empty. She tipped the bottle to
refill it, slopped the whiskey all over her hand, gave it up and
took a slug from the bottle. Then she walked over to her dresser
and pawed through the drawer full of designer swimsuits. She liked
her white one best. Where was it? Oh, yeah, it was all bloodstained
and stuffed into a plastic bag. The cops had taken it away. Shame,
too. It was her favorite. She yanked out several, finally found the
black one-piece with the zipper up the front, and then had to set
her bottle down to get into it. It took longer than it should. She
thought about doing without it, but decided that if the killer or
the cops showed up, she would rather be dressed. Besides, Adam was
still lurking around here somewhere, wasn’t he?
    She got the zipper tugged up, grabbed her
bottle by the neck and took it with her. The hall floor wobbled a
little, but she managed to grip the railing to keep her balance.
She clung to it all the way down the stairs, and then turned and
walked through the long corridor to the very back of the house, and
through the big, ugly metal door there. This section housed the
indoor pool, which was smaller and plainer than the one outside.
Rectangular, Olympic sized. Not kidney shaped. No slides. Beyond
the pool was the hot tub, situated in a glass alcove so one could
get the feeling of being outside without the nuisance of mosquitoes
or inclement weather. Joseph had known how to live. The
bastard.
    She slipped into the hot bubbling water,
hissing as she sank down until it reached her chin. Then she leaned
back. Took another drink. There would be no hot tubs in prison. And
if she ran to Mexico, she wouldn’t be able to afford one. She
figured she’d betted enjoy this while she could.

    Kirsten was not in her room, or the bathroom
attached to it. But her suitcase was back in the closet. Adam had
taken a quick peek into the garage before coming up here, and both
Cowan Mercedes were still in place. His own Jag sat outside, where
he’d left it. So she must still be in the house.
    He always operated with a careful plan, a
well-thought-out goal and a means to achieve it. So what the hell
was he doing here, playing baby-sitter to a murder suspect—one he
detested? He’d given this no forethought. He had no plan. He’d
acted on impulse. He had no idea what he was doing, where this was
going, or what route it would take to get there. He was flying by
the seat of his pants, and he didn’t like it.
    He glanced at the mess she’d made of her
bedroom. A dresser drawer stood wide-open, its colorful contents
spilling from it. Several bathing suits were scattered on the
floor. The bed was rumpled, and the cabinet beside it stood
open.
    Frowning, he walked over to that cabinet,
hunkered down and peered inside. A few bottles of expensive wine
stood in a neat row, unopened. But there was an empty spot in the
lineup. He closed the door and eyed the empty glass sitting in a
puddle on the polished top of the bedside stand. Leaned closer and
sniffed.
    “Whiskey.” He sighed. “Hell, I can’t say as I
blame her.”
    He glanced again at the bathing suits strewn
about the floor, the prim white outfit she’d been wearing tossed
carelessly down, as well. The pool? No. It was outside. She would
have set off the alarm if she’d opened the doors. What else?
    Damned if he knew. Maybe she had a tanning
salon hidden in this monstrosity somewhere. Sighing, Adam resigned
himself to a long search. But it ended up being a lot shorter than
he’d expected. Because as soon as he headed back downstairs and
started moving through the house, calling her name, he heard her
off-key singing echoing through the place.
    And for just a second, he smiled. Damn.
Kirsten had always loved to sing. The problem was, she usually
sounded like a wounded coyote,