Lone Star Lonely Read Free Page B

be a circus for the rest of the
day. Forensics teams would be in and out. He’d thought Cowan’s
death was pretty obviously a suicide…until Kirsten said she’d fired
at a masked intruder.
    Adam’s throat went dry. For a second down
there he thought he’d seen the old Kirsten peering out from behind
her ice-coated eyes. The real Kirsten. The girl she used to be back
when she’d loved him more than she’d loved an old man’s money.
    Or maybe that Kirsten hadn’t been real after
all. Maybe this was the real Kirsten, complete with ice water
running in her veins and a face so glasslike and emotionless it
would crack if she smiled.
    The bench was every bit as inhospitable as it
looked. When his back started aching in protest, he got up and
paced, even studied the framed print of a fairy trying to enchant
some poor fool of a knight. “Big mistake, pal,” Adam warned, but
from the stunned expression on the knight’s face, it looked as if
it was already too late. “Big mistake.” There was no sound from
beyond the bedroom door. And the longer Kirsten took, the more
antsy Adam got. A half hour ticked by. He was halfway to thinking
maybe she’d climbed out a window and headed for the border. It had
gone quiet downstairs. Sounded as if the rangers had packed up and
gone, for the moment. But their forensics crews would be back soon
enough. Still, if she had slipped out, maybe no one would have
seen….
    But that was stupid. She wouldn’t run. She
had no reason to. Not unless….
    The photo clicked into place in his head,
that scene he’d walked in on a short while ago appearing in
freeze-frame in his mind. Kirsten standing over her husband’s dead
body, blood on her clothes, a gun clutched in her hand. In her eyes
a killing frost, and maybe…just maybe… a hint of relief.
    But she couldn’t have done it.
    Wrong , a little voice inside him
muttered. The old Kirsten couldn’t have done it. Kirsten Armstrong.
The girl with the barely suppressed wild side and the zest for
living that got her into trouble more often than not. The girl
who’d loved him.
    That wasn’t who she was anymore.
    Adam hadn’t seen her often in the years since
she’d run off with old man Cowan. Not often. But often enough to
know she was a different woman now. And the change was so thorough,
it was as if the old Kirsten had been put to rest—dead and
buried.
    Now she dressed like a woman out to impress,
and she wore her clothes like armor. Cold, carefully chosen
conservative designer suits in harsh primary colors. And everything
matching, all the time. The skirts matched the jackets, the shoes
matched the bag. She was too put together now. As if maybe she was
hiding something. Hair, always perfect. Makeup, always complete.
Nails, always polished to a glossy shine.
    She never smiled anymore.
    This Kirsten was not the woman he’d known.
Maybe this Kirsten was entirely capable of murder. No way to tell
for sure.
    Adam got more uneasy as those thoughts
assailed him. He heaved a sigh, expelling the last of his patience
along with his breath, marched to the door and rapped three
times.
    No answer.
    He tried the knob.
    It turned, and he stepped hesitantly
inside.
    His first thought was that this was more like
an apartment than a bedroom. It was a freaking suite. Complete with
all the amenities.
    Kirsten sat at a dressing table with a tube
of lipstick in one hand. She met his gaze in the mirror. “Are they
gone yet?”
    Her hair was dry and as sleek as if she’d
just stepped out of a salon. Her eyes were lined and shadowed, and
every trace of shock or trauma her face might reveal was buried
under makeup. She wore white. Spotless, sterile white. Leg-hugging
skintight pants with little slits at the ankles, and strappy white
sandals on her feet. White sleeveless blouse, tucked in. Nice and
neat. White bolero jacket on the back of her chair, ready to don.
White opals in her ears, pearls at her throat. Even the damned
wristband on her damned