She huffed out a breath and stared into the gloom again, seemingly captivated by the sun’s fight to break through the thinning edges of the clouds. After a few seconds, she asked, “How do you know my name?”
“From the APB.”
The words brought her attention back to him, and she swallowed so hard he heard her throat contract. “An APB on me? Are you serious?”
Quite the poker face, this one. “No. I got your name from your bag.”
“Oh.”
The exchange didn’t exactly incriminate her, but it cemented his decision to run her for warrants. Replacing his hat, he said, “I don’t suppose you have any ID to back it up?”
“My wallet is in my bag.”
She definitely sounded hesitant, which supported his suspicion she had something to hide. “Rain’s stopped. Let’s go around to the trunk and have a look.”
He stepped out before she could reply and offered his hand to her in a way that didn’t really give her a choice. Still, she managed to avoid his outstretched arm and exit the vehicle on her own. He closed his fingers around her elbow as they walked to the trunk. Yes, her color was back, and she appeared stable, but a head-rush could change her status quickly. He didn’t want any harm coming to her on his watch. Any additional harm, he corrected, noting she favored her right foot with every stride.
“Ms. Goodhart, did you hurt yourself when you fainted?”
She slid him a sidelong glance but kept walking. Make that limping. “Everyone calls me Roxy. And I’m okay. It’s just these boots. I have a little hot spot on my heel.”
He looked at her boots. Not new, but not designed for long walks in the rain.
He’d check the damage after he checked her ID.
They reached the back of the cruiser, and he popped the trunk. She took a second to bundle her hair into a knot, treating him to another view of red lace through the gaps in her shirt. With her hair under control, she unzipped the duffel and started digging. Bracelets jangled as she searched.
Jumbles of clothes, lingerie—it was hard to tell the difference—tumbled from the bag. Within seconds, it looked like a Fredrick’s of Hollywood had exploded in his trunk. He rescued a red cowboy boot before it hit the pavement, but not in time to catch the crumpled pack of cigarettes that fell out. Lovely. He picked them up and slid them into his shirt pocket.
“Bingo!” She tore the Velcro flap of a red nylon wallet emblazoned with grinning silver skulls and spent another few seconds rifling through overstuffed slots meant to organize credit cards, pictures, and whatnot. Finally, she held up a photo ID as if she’d retrieved a map to the universe.
He tossed the boot into the duffel. She held out a hand for the cigarettes, but he shook his head. “Let’s see the ID,” he said and plucked the card from between her fingers. Roxy stared back at him from a Texas driver’s license, instantly recognizable despite a spiky fringe of platinum bangs obscuring her unmistakable eyes.
According to the vital stats, Roxanne Belle Goodhart had called Austin home at the time the license was issued. She claimed five feet four inches of height—he called bullshit on that—weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and had recently celebrated twenty-two years of decorating the planet with her presence.
“Five-four?”
She re-zipped her duffel and pulled herself up to full height. “On the nose.”
Maybe in the shit-kickers. He committed her driver’s license details to memory. “You’re a long way from Austin.”
She shrugged, but the casual gesture didn’t dissipate the nerves humming off her like electricity from a high-voltage line. “I’ve been traveling for a while. Going where the opportunities take me.”
He handed the ID to her. “You know this license is expired, right?”
“I planned to renew it when I got home. I just…” She trailed off and shrugged again. Now she looked a little lost. “I haven’t figured out where that is yet. I have a passport. Somewhere.” She gestured toward the duffel.
“Later. Right now, Roxy, I want you to take a seat in the cruiser.”
Color drained from her face. She took an unsteady step away. He grabbed her arm to catch her, noting the jump of muscles beneath his grasp.
“Am I under arrest?”
Chapter Two
“You’re in pain,” Officer Donovan replied in a deep voice that managed to sound authoritative even when mildly exasperated. He removed his hat and used it to gesture at her foot before adding, “The car seems like the best place to put you while I try to do something about it.”
Apparently confident of her compliance, he turned, placed his hat in the trunk, and retrieved something from one of the well-ordered side compartments. Roxy watched the play of muscles under his rain-dampened uniform. Sure, he could bust her seven ways from Sunday, but she couldn’t help admiring the easy grace in his tall, athletic frame.