Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) by Mari Manning Page A

go. He wanted to keep her close. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to hear the honest truth.
    …
    The aroma of fresh coffee drifted past Kirby’s nose. A man’s raspy breath sawed the air. A wool blanket tickled her neck. Her eyelids drifted open. Planks of varnished redwood stretched across the ceiling.
    Where am I?
    “Thought you might sleep all morning.”
    Kirby bolted up. She was in a strange bed in a strange room in a strange house. Maguire slouched against the doorjamb, slurping coffee and studying her. Rumpled curls, muscular chest, vee of dark hair running down his belly, sweatpants hanging on narrow hips.
    Alarm jolted through her. He looked satisfied and sexy. What happened last night? Had he… Had she? Lord Almighty! Had she slept with Maguire?
    A searing pain drove through her head, and she fell back against the pillows. “What…am…I…doing…here?” Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick. As if she’d been on a bender.
    Maguire pulled up a chair. The scrape of chair legs against wood vibrated inside her head like thunder.
    “Found you wandering around last night,” he said.
    “Last night?” She remembered the sudden crush of exhaustion, of feeling too tired to hold up her head. Then nothing. Not putting on her T-shirt or brushing her teeth or turning down the bed. Speaking of T-shirts, what was she wearing, if anything? She brushed her fingers over her hips. The Rangers jersey twisted securely around her.
    “Just after midnight. You were banging on the barn.”
    “I don’t remember.” Her emotions swung between sheer embarrassment and sheer terror at being discovered. Either way, she couldn’t bear to look at him. “Was I, uh—I mean, did I, uh, do anything?”
    “After the striptease?”
    Shocked, she whipped her head around.
    He grinned at her. “You didn’t do anything.”
    Wow. The overbearing, angry bull of a ranch manager was gone. In his place was a hot guy with a smile and a sense of humor. She was beginning to see what Frankie had seen. Maybe Brittany and Angie, too.
    Her stomach did a somersault. “I feel like I chugged a bottle of whiskey last night.”
    He sobered. “I’ll bet. Sorry.”
    Sorry? She was back to being wary of him. “Did you do something to me?”
    He rubbed his beard stubble in his familiar way. “Let’s get you fixed up, then we can talk. I’ve got ibuprofen in the bathroom.” His chair scratched savagely against the floor; she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her head. When she opened them, he was gone.
    Maguire’s bedroom was as untamed as the man himself. A dozen empty hangers dangled in the closet. Shirts, shoes, socks, underwear, jeans littered the floor. A worn belt lay over a chair. His Stetson hung from the bedpost. Under character flaws, slob joined bad temper.
    On the bedside table, a thin wallet and a set of keys sprawled on a paperback. Kirby jiggled the book out from under his things. It was a well-thumbed copy of The Rancher’s Handbook . A man with a dream?
    The edge of a creased snapshot poked from the pages, and she opened the book. A young girl, nine or ten by Kirby’s guess and already a beauty, mugged for the camera. She sat on the steps of a rainbow-colored trailer, dark hair lifted by the wind, toes dusted with dirt, an oversize shirt baring one thin shoulder to bright sunlight.
    Her eyes, serious and direct, matched Maguire’s. Sister or daughter? Mother? Cousin? Aunt? Whatever branch of the Maguire family tree she sat on, her relationship to Seth Maguire was blood.
    “What’re you doing?” Alarm sharpened Maguire’s voice.
    Kirby shut the book and set it on the table. “Who’s the little girl?”
    “No one.”
    In other words, none of your business.
    His mouth relaxed into an easy smile, too easy to be genuine. “Here, take this. You’ll feel better.” He held out two tablets and a glass of water.
    The water was cold and quenched the fire in her throat. She emptied the glass in a few gulps and fell against