Without a Trace Read Free

and the grief, he had a dangerous look. The bones were prominent, the eyes intense. Even now, when he was on his own time, they made occasional sweeps of the room.
    He hadn’t shaved in three days, and his beard was rough enough to give his mouth a surly look. The waiter was happy to leave him with his bottle and his solitude.
    As dusk fell, the sky became quieter and the cantina noisier. A radio played Mexican music interrupted by occasional bursts of static. Someone broke a glass. Two men started to argue about fishing, politics and women. Trace poured another shot.
    He saw her the minute she walked in. Old habits had his eye on the door. Training had him taking in the details without seeming to look at all. A tourist who’d made a wrong turn, he thought as he took in the ivory skin dashed with freckles that went with her red hair. She’d burn to a crisp after an hour under the Yucatecán sun. A pity, he thought mildly, and went back to his drink.
    He’d expected her to back out the moment she realized the type of place she’d wandered into. Instead, she went up to the bar. Trace crossed his ankles and whiled away the time by studying her.
    Her white slacks were spotless despite the dusty heat of the day. She wore them with a purple shirt that was loose enough to be cool. Even so, he noted that she was slender, with enough curve to give the baggy slacks some style. Her hair, almost the color of the setting sun, was caught back in a braid, but her face was turned away, so he could see only her profile. Classic, he decided without much interest. Cameo style. The champagne-and-caviar type.
    He tossed back the rest of the drink and decided to get very drunk—for Charlie’s sake.
    He’d just lifted the bottle when the woman turned and looked directly at him. From the shadow of his hat, Trace met the look. Tense, he continued to pour as she crossed the room toward him.
    “Mr. O’Hurley?”
    His brow lifted only slightly at the accent. It had a trace of Ireland, the same trace his father’s had taken on in anger or in joy. He sipped his whiskey and said nothing.
    “You are Trace O’Hurley?”
    There was a hint of nerves in the voice, as well, he noted. And, close up, he could see smudges of shadows under what were extraordinary green eyes. Her lips pressed together. Her fingers twisted on the handle of thecanvas bag slung over her shoulder. Trace set the whiskey down and realized he was just a bit too drunk to be annoyed.
    “Might be. Why?”
    “I was told you’d be in Mérida. I’ve been looking for you for two days.” And he was anything but what she’d expected. If she wasn’t so desperate, she’d already have fled. His clothes were dirty, he smelled of whiskey, and he looked like a man who could peel the skin off you without drawing blood. She pulled in a deep breath and decided to take her chances. “May I sit down?”
    With a shrug, Trace kicked a chair back from the table. An agent—from either side—would have approached him differently. “Suit yourself.”
    She wrapped her fingers around the back of the chair and wondered why her father believed this crude drunkard was the answer. But her legs weren’t as steady as they might be, so she sat down. “It’s very important that I speak with you. Privately.”
    Trace looked beyond her to the cantina. It was crowded now, and getting noisier by the minute. “This’ll do. Now why don’t you tell me who you are, how you knew I’d be in Mérida and what the hell you want?”
    She linked her fingers together because they were trembling. “I’m Dr. Fitzpatrick. Dr. Gillian Fitzpatrick. Charles Forrester told me where you were, and I want you to save my brother’s life.”
    Trace kept his eyes on her as he lifted the bottle. His voice was quiet and flat. “Charlie’s dead.”
    “I know.” She thought she’d glimpsed something, some flash of humanity, in his eyes. It was gone now, but Gillian still responded to it. “I’m sorry. I understand you