Confessions. JoAnn Ross

at this time.”

      “When can we talk to the senator?”

      “Whenever he and his attending physician say you can. That’s not my decision to make.”

      “If the senator and Mrs. Fletcher were both shot, who called the crime in?” a reporter Trace vaguely remembered being from the Camp Verde Bugle Call, asked.

      “The senator placed the call himself after having been wounded. The 911 tape will be available to the press after this press conference is concluded.

      “Now, since that’s all I have to say at this time, I’m going to turn the microphones over to Ms. Ingersoll.”

      As he passed Jessica, Trace murmured, “Have fun, Counselor.”

      * * *

      “What kept you?” Mariah said ten minutes later when she opened the door of the suite to Trace.

      “Couldn’t find a parking space. Every damn space in town is filled up with rental cars.”

      She folded her arms across her chest. “Seems to me a sheriff could park anywhere he wanted. Even in a red zone.”

      Trace shrugged and did his best not to notice that she smelled like Eden in springtime. “Wouldn’t want to set a bad example. And didn’t your mother ever warn you to ask who it is before you open your hotel room door?”

      “I knew it was you.” She stepped aside. “How about a beer? You look as if you could use one.”

      Trace thought about assuring her he never drank on duty. Then he remembered the beer he’d left on the counter. Had it only been nine hours ago? It seemed a lifetime. “A beer sounds great.”

      “Sit down.” She gestured toward the couch which was covered in some material designed to resemble a Navaho blanket, then retrieved a beer from the compact refrigerator beside the bar and took out a bottle of designer water for herself. The television was on with the sound turned down.

      “There are some nuts. And crackers, if you’re hungry. Or I can order us lunch from room service.”

      “Beer’s fine.” Trace watched a buffed up soap opera guy and a gorgeous young thing who didn’t look old enough to be legal swap spit. “Whatever.” She handed him the beer, then sat down in the tub chair opposite the couch and put her bare feet up on the coffee table. She’d changed into a red-and-white striped T-shirt and white shorts. Her toenails had been painted the soft coral color of the underwater reefs where he and Ellen had gone scuba diving during their Hawaiian honeymoon. “Thank you for coming.”

      “I had the feeling that if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

      “You’re right. I would have.”

      The hunk on the screen began to undress the girl. Trace tilted the beer back and swallowed. It was cold and went down real fine. “This hits the spot.”

      “I’m so pleased.” He’d obviously showered and changed since she’d seen him last, which made him a bit more presentable.

      Up close, the man appeared even larger than he had earlier. Overpowering. The breadth of his shoulders seemed almost too wide for the tweed sport coat. Having learned that he’d spent much of last year in the hospital, she was surprised that his build was so muscular, his stomach so taut. When Mariah caught herself wondering if the male body sitting across from her was as hard as it looked, she immediately dragged her gaze back to his face.

      His eyes were intent. And unnervingly watchful.

      “Did you get hold of your mother?”

      Mariah frowned. “Yes. She’s flying into Phoenix later this afternoon.”

      “You going to meet her plane?”

      “I offered. But she insisted on hiring a car.” Trace heard her soft sigh and decided that the Swanns weren’t exactly the Cleavers. Then again, what family was?

      His attention drifted toward the TV where things were progressing nicely. The girl was down to a silky red thing Trace now knew was a teddy. The guy’s shirt was gone. The jeans followed. Trace took another longer swallow of beer as the couple fell onto the bed.

      “You handled that press conference very well,” she said.

      “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

      “So I was told.” She followed his glance. “I wonder if Jimmy still eats those sausage sandwiches for lunch before all his love scenes.”

      “Jimmy?”

      “Jimmy Masters.” She gestured toward the man whose lips were currently working their way down the woman’s throat. “I lured him away from his pregnant wife years and years ago. When I first moved out to Hollywood.”

      “I suppose that’s what earned you the title of the Vixen of Whiskey River,” he said easily.

      She frowned over the rim of the green bottle. “Doesn’t anything shock you?”

      Trace shrugged. “Not much.”

      “Not even murder?”

      “Murder doesn’t shock me,” he corrected. “It disappoints me.”

      “Is that why you quit the force?”

      “No.” Trace tipped the beer again. He’d made some progress since the shooting, but thinking about those days still made him thirsty. “And by the way, J.D. filled me in on your early acting career. He says you were a very convincing daytime villainess.”

      “I should have known better than to try and put something over on a cop.” Amusement touched her eyes, which reminded him once again of her mother’s. They were the type of wide, liquid eyes a man could fall into and drown, if he wasn’t careful.