Chapter One

Heat waves drifted across the concrete as the '63 Thunderbird slid from the shadow of the garage. Her big V8and Holley two-barrels purred like a satisfied woman, all warm and sexy and throaty. The hot Texas sun made ahundred little bursts of light within her wire wheels, slid along the chrome fins, and poured over the glisteningblack paint. The owner watched as she rolled toward him, and he smiled in appreciation. Several months ago,the Sports Roadster had been little more than a home for mice. Now fully restored to her former glory, she wasdazzling - a reminder of a time when Detroit had been more interested in cracking sixty in eight seconds thanmiles per gallon, safety features, or where to put the cup holder.

Jackson Lamott Parrish sat within the red leather interior of the big T-Bird, one wrist hanging over the redsteering wheel. The light caught in his thick brown hair, and fine lines creased the corners of hisgreen eyes as he lowered his lids against the blinding sun. He revved the big engine one last time, took his handfrom the steering wheel, and shoved her into park. He swung the door open, and the sole of his cowboy boot hitthe pavement. In one smooth motion, he stood and the owner of the restored Roadster stepped forward andhanded him a check. Jack glanced at it, noted that all the zeros were in the right places, then folded it in half. Heslipped it into the breast pocket of his white dress shirt.

"Enjoy," he said, then turned and walked into the shop. He moved passed a nineteen-seventy 'Cuda 440-6, itshuge Hemi engine suspended from a cherry picker. Over the sounds of air compressors and power tools, Jack'syounger brother, Billy, called out to a mechanic beneath a '59 Dodge Custom Royal Lancer.

The space just vacated by the T-bird would he filled the next day with a nineteen-fifty-four Corvette. The sportsclassic had been found in a dilapidated garage in Southern California, and Jack had flown out three days ago totake a look at it. When he discovered it had only forty, thousand original miles and all the numbers matched, hebought it for eight grand on the spot. Once fully restored, the ' He dropped her arm as if he couldn't stand thetouch of her.

"Yes, I know."

"Good. You stay away from me, Daisy Lee," he said, drawing out the vowels in her name. "You stay away orI'll make your life a misery."

She looked up into his dark face, at the passion and anger that had not abated in fifteen years.

"Just stay away," he said one last time before he turned on his bare heels and disappeared into the shadows.

She knew she would be wise to heed his warning. Too bad she didn't have that option.

Although he didn't know it yet, neither did he.

ette would bring ten times that. When it came to restoring vintage cars, Parrish American Classics was the best.

Everyone knew it.

Ground-pounding, ear-assaulting muscle cars were in the Parrish boys' blood. Since they'd taken their firststeps, Jack and Billy had worked in their daddy's garage. They'd yanked their first engine he lore either of themhad grown their short-and-curlies. They could tell a 260 V8 from a 289 with their eyes closed and could rebuildfuel injectors in their sleep. Proud native sons of Lovett, Texas, population nineteen thousand three, the Parrishboys had grown up loving football, cold beer, and tearing up asphalt on the flat open roads - usually while somebig-haired, loose-moraled female repaired her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

The boys had been raised in a small three-bedroom house behind the garage. The original shop was gone now.

Torn down and replaced by a bigger, more modern space with eight hays. The yard behind the garage had beencleaned up. The old cars and junked parts had been towed away long ago.

The house was the same, though. Same roses their mama had planted, same patches of dirt and grass beneaththe towering elm. Same concrete porch and the same screen door that needed a good dose of WD4O. The househad just been given a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. The same white color as before. The only realdifference was that Jack now lived there alone.

Seven years ago, Billy had married Rhonda Valencia and had happily given up his wild ways for domestic bliss.

As far as anyone in town could recall, Jack had never been tempted to give up his wild ways. As far as theyknew, he'd never met a woman who'd made him want a one-on-one. A forever.

But they didn't know everything.

Jack made his way to his office at the rear of the garage and closed the door. He stuck the check in a deskdrawer and pulled out his chair. Before he'd purchased the '54 Corvette, he'd searched out her history then flownto California to inspect her to make sure there wasn't any serious damage to the structural integrity of the car.

Searching the history of a vehicle, finding replacement parts, and restoring it, compelled him and kept at himuntil the vehicle was once again perfect. Fixed. Better. Whole.

Penny Kribs, Jack's secretary, walked into his office and handed him the day's mail. "I'm leaving to get my hairdone," she reminded him.

Jack looked up at the wispy black pile on top of Penny's head. He'd gone through all twelve years of school withPenny, and he'd played on the football team with her husband, Leon.

He rose and set the mail on his desk. "You goin' to get yourself beautiful for me?"

She had rings on just about every finger and long pink nails that curled like claws. He'd often wondered howshe typed without hitting extra keys or managed to put on all that mascara without poking out an eye. He didn'teven want to think about her wrapping her hand around Leon's johnson. The thought sent a shiver down hisbackside.

"Of course," she said through a smile. "You know you've always been my first love."

Yeah, he knew. In the third grade, Penny'd told him she loved him then she'd kicked him in the shin with herblack patent leather shoes. He'd always figured he didn't need that kind of loving. "Don't tell Leon."

"Oh, he knows." She waved a hand and moved to the door, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake. "He alsoknows that I would never get involved with you.

Jack folded his arms across his chest and leaned his butt against the edge of his desk. "Why's that?"

"Because you treat women like an anorexic treats a Whitman Sampler. You nibble here and nibble there. Maybeyou take a few bites, but you never eat one whole."

Jack laughed. "I think there are a few women who could set you straight on that."

Penny wasn't amused. "You know what I mean," she said over her shoulder as she walked out the door.

Yeah, he knew what she meant. Like most women, Penny thought he should he married, raising children, anddriving an SUV. But as far as Jack was concerned, he figured his younger brother had taken care of that task forboth of them. Billy had three daughters ranging in age from six months to five years. They lived on a quiet cul-de-sac with a swing set in the backyard, and Rhonda drove a Tahoe, the alternative choice of soccer momseverywhere. With all those nieces, jack felt no pressure to bring another Parrish into the world. He was "UncleJack," and that suited him just fine.

He returned to his chair and unbuttoned his cuffs. He rolled his sleeves up his forearms, and got back to it. Itwas Friday and he had a mountain of work to clear off his desk before he could start his weekend. At five, Billyopened the door to tell him he was leaving. Jack glanced at the Buick Riviera clock sitting next to his computermonitor. He'd been at it for three hours and fifteen minutes.

"I'm headed for Amy Lynn's T-ball game," Billy said, referring to his five-year-old daughter. "You gonna makeit by the park?"

Amy Lynn was Billy's oldest and Jack tried to make it to her games when he could. "Not tonight," he answeredand tossed his pen on the desk. "Jimmy Calhoun's bachelor party is tonight over at The Road Kill," he said.

Until recently, Jimmy had been a real carouser. Now he was giving up his freedom for a pair of matching goldrings. "I told him I'd stop by for a few."

Billy smiled. "Is there gonna he strippers?"

"I imagine."

"Don't tell me you'd rather watch naked women than a game of T-ball?"

Jack's grin matched his brother's. "Yeah, it was a tough choice to make. Watch women take their clothes off orfive-year-olds run around bases with their helmets on backward."

Billy laughed, in that special way he always had of tipping his head back and letting loose with a few heh-heh-hehs. It sounded so much like their father, Ray, Jack figured it had to he genetic. "Lucky bastard," Billy said,but without much heart. They both knew that Billy would rather watch Amy Lynn run around with her helmeton backward. "If you need someone to drive you home from The Road Kill," Billy added on his way to thedoor, "call me."

"Of course." A drunk driver had taken their parent's lives when Jack had been all of eighteen. The brothersmade it a point to never drive drunk.

Jack worked for another hour before he turned off his computer and headed out of the garage through the bays.

Everyone else had already left for the day, and his bootheels echoed in the silence. He locked the door and setthe alarm, then he jumped into his Shelby Mustang. It started to rain as he drove toward the outskirts of Lovett.

A light sprinkle of drops mixed with the dust and wind, and turned the car's shiny black paint a dull gray.

The Road Kill was a lot like other bars strewn throughout the Texas panhandle. Country music poured from thejuke while the patrons drained the beer spigots of Lone Star. A big red-white-and-blue DON'T MESS WITHTEXAS sign hung on the mirror behind the bar, while old road signs, stuffed armadillos and rattlers decoratedthe walls. The owner of the bar was also a taxidermist, and if a patron was so inclined, or was drunk enough, heor she could purchase a rattler belt or an ultra-attractive armadillo handbag at cut-rate prices.