The fourth book in the Lone Star Sisters series, 2009

IT HAD TAKEN FOUR MONTHS, calling in every favor ever owed her, a case of expensive Scotch and a date with a slimy private investigator who had made the mistake of thinking “date” meant “sex.” A knee to the groin had cured him of that belief. In the end, Dana Birch had gotten her man.

Now, as she rode the elevator up to Garth Duncan’s penthouse condo, she smiled at the paperwork in her hand. Paperwork that demanded he come talk to the good people at the Dallas Police Department. Paperwork that said Garth was going to have a very bad day. She, on the other hand, couldn’t be happier.

“Rat bastard, weasel dog,” she murmured as she stepped off the elevator and headed to his front door. “You thought you were so smart. You thought you could do whatever you wanted and get away with it. You thought you could hurt my friends.”

If life were perfect, he would resist accompanying her and she could threaten him with her gun. Maybe even accidentally shoot him. If only he were the type of guy to cower in the face of authority, not to mention consequences. In her fantasies, he would tremble and beg. While it wasn’t as good as watching him bleed, it would be a close second. Unfortunately Garth was more the type to have a thousand-dollar-an-hour attorney who lived to sue police departments. Not that his high-powered attorney would be much help today.

“You are so mine, Garth,” she said, then knocked.

In the minute or so it took him to answer, she savored the victory. She’d worked hard to nail Garth and it had been worth every long hour of digging, following up clues and waiting for a lucky break. It was his own fault, she thought cheerfully. He’d messed with people she cared about. No one did that without having to face her.