Best Kept Secrets(12)

"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?"



"Nope. I just figured that if I could outchase the law, I

could outchase the lawbreakers." He shrugged. "It seemed

a natural career choice. Hungry?"

Before she had a chance to answer, he pushed open the

door of the B & B Cafe. A cowbell mounted above it announced

their entrance. It was the place where things were

happening, it seemed. Every table--red formica with rusted

chrome legs--was full. Reede led her to a vacant booth along

the wall.

Greetings were called out to him by executives, farmers,

roughnecks, cowboys, and secretaries, each distinguished by

his attire. Everyone except the secretaries wore boots. Alex

recognized Imogene, Pat Chastain's secretary. As soon as

they passed her table, she launched into an animated, whispered

explanation of who Alex was to the women seated with

her. A hush fell over the room as word traveled from one

table to the next.

No doubt this microcosm of Purcell gathered every morning

at the B & B Cafe during coffee-break time. A stranger in

the midst was news, but the return of Celina Gaither's daughter