by Sandra Brown
On the other hand, finding replacements for them might not become her problem. When they learned that their psychologist had been accused of murder, they would probably leave her practice in flocks.
As she ran past a car parked at the curb only a half block from her house, she noticed that the windows were fogged, indicating that someone was inside the vehicle. The motor was idling, although the headlights were out and the windshield wipers were still.
She ran another twenty yards or so before glancing back. The car lights were now on. It was turning onto a side street.
Probably nothing, she told herself. She was just being paranoid. But her apprehension lingered. Was someone watching her?
The police, for instance. Smilow might have ordered surveillance. Wouldn’t that be standard operating procedure? Or Bobby could be watching her to make certain she wouldn’t abscond with “his money.” It hadn’t been his convertible she’d just seen, but he was resourceful.
There was another possibility. One much more threatening. One that she didn’t want to entertain, but knew it would be foolish and naive not to. It hadn’t escaped her that she might be of interest to Lute Pettijohn’s murderer. If it got out that she had been identified at the scene, the killer might fear she had witnessed the killing.
The thought made her shiver, and not strictly because she feared a murderer. Her life was presently out of her control. That’s what she feared most—that loss of control. In its way, that was a death more real than death itself. Living, but having no choices or free will, could be even worse than being dead.
Twenty years ago, she had determined that her life would never again be given over to someone else to manage. It had taken her almost that long to convince herself that she was finally free of the bonds that had fettered her, that she alone would chart her destiny.
Then Bobby had reappeared and everything had changed. Now it seemed that everyone around her had a say-so in her life, and she was powerless to do anything about it.
After a half-hour run, she let herself into the house through a door off the piazza. In the laundry room she stripped off her drenched running clothes, then wrapped herself in a towel for the walk through her house.
She had lived alone all her adult life, so when by herself at home, she was never afraid. Loneliness was more frightening to her than the threat of an intruder. She didn’t feel the need to protect herself from burglars, but she steeled herself against the emptiness felt on holidays when even the company of good friends didn’t compensate for the lack of a family. Solitude didn’t make for coziness even when sitting in front of the fireplace on a cold night. When she was startled awake in the middle of the night, it wasn’t because of imagined noises, but because of the all-too-real silence of living alone. The only fear she had of being by herself was of being by herself for the rest of her life.
Tonight, however, she felt slightly ill at ease as she switched out the lights on the lower floor and made her way upstairs. The treads creaked beneath her weight. She was accustomed to the protests of the old wood. Usually a friendly sound, tonight it seemed ominous. On the second-floor landing, she paused to look down the shadowed staircase. The hallway and rooms below were empty and still, exactly as she had left them when she went out to run.
As she continued on into her bedroom, she blamed her nervousness on the rain. After days of oppressive heat, it was a relief, but it was almost too much of a good thing. It was coming down in torrents that pelted windowpanes and hammered against the roof. It spilled over gutters and gushed from the downspouts.
Opening a door onto the second-story piazza, she stepped out to drag a potted gardenia bush beneath the sheltering overhang. Below, in the center of the walled garden, the concrete fountain was overflowing. Flower petals had been beaten off their stalks, leaving the vegetation looking bare and forlorn. Returning inside, she secured the door, then moved from window to window to close the shutters.
The rainfall was enough to make anyone nervous. The Battery had been deserted tonight. Without the usual joggers, bicyclers, and people walking their dogs, she had felt isolated and vulnerable. The large trees in White Point Gardens had seemed looming and menacing, where usually she thought of their low, thick branches as being protective.
In the bathroom, she draped her towel over the brass bar and leaned into the tub to turn on the faucets. It took a while for the hot water to travel through the pipes, so she used that time to brush her teeth. When she straightened up out of the sink, she caught a reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and whirled around.
It was her robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door.
Knees weak, she leaned against the pedestal sink and ordered herself to stop this silliness. It was so unlike her to jump at shadows. What was wrong with her?
Bobby, for one thing. Damn him. Damn him!
Silly or not, she allowed herself the same weaknesses she would have advised a patient to allow himself. When one’s carefully constructed world begins to fall apart, one is entitled to a few natural reactions, including bitter anger, even rage, certainly childlike fear.
She remembered being a child afraid. The bogeyman had nothing on Bobby Trimble. Very capably he could destroy lives. He had nearly destroyed hers once, and he was threatening to destroy it again. That’s why she feared him, now even more than before.
That’s why she could be startled at bathrobes, and lie, and do irresponsible things such as involve a decent man like Hammond Cross in something ugly.
But only at first, Hammond. Only at the start.
She stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain. For a long while, she stood beneath the spray, head bowed, letting the hot water drum against her skull while the rising steam swirled around her.
A Saturday night in Harbour Town had seemed like such a safe lie. It placed her a credible distance from Charleston, in a crowded place where it was plausible that no one would remember seeing her. Damn the luck!
What she had told them about the pistol was the truth, but there was little chance of them believing that story now. Having been trapped in one lie, everything she said thereafter would sound untrue.
Steffi Mundell wanted her to be guilty. The prosecutor hated other women. Alex had determined that the instant they met. Her studies had covered personalities like Mundell’s. She was ambitious and shrewd and competitive to a fault. Individuals like Steffi were rarely happy because they were never satisfied, not with others, but especially not with themselves. Expectations were never met because the bar was continually being raised. Satisfaction was unattainable. Steffi Mundell was an overachiever to the extreme and to her detriment.
Rory Smilow was harder to read. He was cold, and Alex had no doubt he could be cruel. But she also detected in him an inner demon with which he constantly struggled. The man never knew a moment of inner peace. His outlet was to torment others in an effort to make them as miserable as he. That kernel of discontent left him vulnerable, but he battled it with a vengeance that made him dangerous to his enemies—such as murder suspects.
Between the two of them, it would be hard to choose whom she feared most.
Then there was Hammond. The others thought of her as a murderer. His opinion of her must be even lower than that. But she couldn’t dwell on him or she would become immobilized by despondency and remorse. She had no surplus time or energy to devote to regretting what might have been had they met at another time and place.
If ever a man had a chance of touching her—her mind and heart, the spot in her spirit where Alex Ladd really lodged—it might have been him. He might have been the one allowed to relieve the self-imposed loneliness and solitude, fill the emptiness, relieve the silence, share her life.
But romantic notions were a luxury she couldn’t afford. Her priority must be to get out of this predicament with her practice, her reputation, and her life intact.
She squeezed fragrant gel into a scrubbing sponge and used the lather liberally. She shaved her legs. She shampooed he
r hair. She rinsed for a long time, letting the hot water ease her muscles even if it couldn’t ease her anxiety.
Eventually she turned off the faucets and sluiced off excess water with her hands, then she whisked back the curtain.
Never one to scream, she did.
Chapter 21
Bobby was in the chips again.
He considered it only a temporary setback that he hadn’t yet collected his money from Alex. She would produce. She had too much at stake not to.
In the meantime, however, he wasn’t without funds. Thanks to the two coeds with whom he had spent the night, he was several hundred dollars richer. While they lay snoring in his bed, he had packed his belongings and sneaked out. The experience should teach them a valuable lesson. He had felt almost altruistic.
Finding other accommodations was a minor inconvenience when weighed against the reward. As soon as he was settled in another hotel across town, in a room with a river view, he ordered an enormous room-service breakfast of eggs, ham, grits and tasso gravy, a short stack, and an extra portion of hash browns, which he hadn’t particularly wanted, but ordered just because he was feeling so flush.
Next on his agenda was a shopping expedition. A new suit of clothes wasn’t an extravagance. It was a business expense. If he paid income taxes, he could have counted his wardrobe as an allowable deduction. In his line of work, one had to look sharp.
He had spent the remainder of the afternoon lounging around the hotel pool, working on his tan.
Now, decked out in his new suit of cream-colored linen with a royal blue silk shirt underneath, he entered a bar that had come highly recommended by a cabbie. “Where can I find some action?”
“Action?” Then, sizing Bobby up in the rearview mirror, the taxi driver had drawled, “You’re hustling pussy, aren’t you, sport?”
Flattered, Bobby smiled in reply.
“I know just the place.”
The moment Bobby entered the bar, he realized the driver knew his stuff. This was a place for prime pickings. The music was blaring. Lights flashing. Dancers sweating. Waitresses scrambling to fill the drink orders being placed by people on a desperate quest for fun. Lots of single women. Fair game.
It took him two watered-down drinks before he homed in on his target. She sat at a table alone. No one had asked her to dance. She smiled a lot, to whomever happened to be passing, evidence that she was feeling self-conscious, conspicuous, and in need of someone to talk to. Best of all, she had glanced his way several times while he pretended not to notice.
And then he charitably graced her with a return smile.
Nervously she looked away. Her hand flew to her throat, where she played with the silver beading on the collar of her shirt.
“Bingo,” Bobby said to himself as he settled his tab with the bartender.
He came up from behind her, so she didn’t see him until he said, “Excuse me. Is someone sitting here?”
Her head came around with a quick snap. She gave away her delight with the widening of her eyes, which she then tried to cover by being flirtatious. “Now there is.”
He smiled and joined her at the small table, intentionally bumping her knees with his, then offering a quick apology. He asked if he could buy her a drink, and she said that would be awfully nice of him.
Her name was Ellen Rogers. She was from Indiana and this was her first time in the Deep South. She loved it except for the heat, but even that had a certain charm. The food was divine. She complained of gaining five pounds since she’d been in Charleston.
Although she could have stood to lose fifteen, Bobby said gallantly, “You certainly don’t need to watch your weight. I mean, you have a terrific figure.”
Slapping his hand, she demurred. “I get plenty of exercise at work.”
“Are you an aerobics instructor? Personal trainer?”
“Me? Goodness gracious, no. I’m a middle school teacher. English grammar and remedial reading. I probably walk ten miles a day, going up and down those halls.”
He was from the South, she observed correctly. She could tell by his soft drawl and the melodic pattern of his speech. And southern people were so friendly.
Smiling, he leaned toward her. “We try, ma’am.”
He proved it by inviting her to dance. After they had gyrated through several songs, the DJ played a slow dance. Bobby pulled her against him, apologizing for being so sweaty. She said that she didn’t mind at all. Sweat was manly. By the end of the dance, his hand was riding her ass and no way was Miss Ellen Rogers in doubt that he was aroused.
When he released her, her cheeks were red and she was flustered.
“I’m sorry about…” he stammered. “It’s… Lordy, this is embarrassing. I haven’t held a woman… If you want me to leave you alone, I’ll—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” said Miss Rogers gently. “It’s only natural. It’s not like you could control it.”
“No, ma’am, I couldn’t. Not with holding you close against me.”
She took his hand and led him back to the table. It was she who ordered another round of drinks. Midway through them, Bobby told her about his wife. “She died of cancer. Two years ago in October.”
Her eyes misted. “Oh, how awful for you.”
Only recently had he been able to go out and start enjoying life again, he told her. “At first I thought it was good we didn’t have kids. Now I sorta wish we had. It’s lonesome, you know, being all by yourself in the world. People aren’t supposed to be alone. It goes against nature.”
Her hand crept beneath the table to give his thigh a sympathetic pat and then stayed there.
Jesus, I’m good! Bobby thought.
* * *
Hammond was standing on the other side of the shower curtain.
“You scared me half to death!” Alex gasped. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in? How long have you been here?”
“You scared me, too.”
“Me? How?”
“I figured out why you’ve been lying. You’re afraid of Pettijohn’s killer.”
“It occurred to me that I might be in jeopardy, yes.”
“I wanted to warn you and didn’t trust the telephone.”
She glanced toward the bedroom. “Tapped?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Smilow. Even without a court order.”
“I think he might have me under surveillance.”
“If he does, I don’t know about it. Anyway, I scaled your back wall. Wouldn’t suit to be seen at your house, would it? I’ve been knocking on the kitchen door for five minutes. I could see your upstairs lights on, but when you didn’t answer, my imagination went wild. I thought maybe I was too late, that something terrible…” He stopped. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m cold.”
He reached for a towel and placed it around her, folding it closed in front but not letting it go. “What makes you think you’re under surveillance?”
“I saw a suspicious-looking car while I was running. Engine on. Lights out.”
“You went running tonight? In this weather? Alone?”
“I’m usually alone. But I’m always careful.”
He smiled weakly. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I already had the jitters.”
“I couldn’t very well come up to your front door and ring the bell, could I?”
“I guess not.”
“Would you have let me in?”
“I don’t know.” Then, more quietly, “Yes.”
He stared at the hollow of her throat, where a droplet of water shimmered in the shallow depression. Releasing his grip on the towel, he stepped away from her, a move that deserved a goddamn merit badge for valor. “We’ve got to talk,” he said thickly.
“I’ll be right out.”
Woodenly, he moved into the bedroom, actually seeing nothing, but noticing her stamp on everything. Every item in the room was a reflection of her. When she joined him, she was wearing a robe, the old-fashioned
, no-nonsense kind that folded over her front and had a tie belt at the waist, as opaque as a lead apron, yet sexy as hell because she was naked and wet underneath.
“Your hand is bleeding.”
He looked at the cut on his thumb, which had gone unnoticed until now. “I guess I did that when I busted your lock.”
“Do you need a bandage?”
“It’s fine.”
The last thing he wanted to do was talk. He longed to touch her. He wanted to open the robe and press his face against her softness, taste her skin, inhale her essence. His whole body pulsed with physical desire, but he resisted yielding to it. He couldn’t be held accountable for last Saturday night. But he was accountable for everything that followed.
“You knew my name all along, didn’t you? Knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly, assimilating what he had known but hadn’t wanted to accept. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Because…?”
“Because I know you’ll lie to me. That will make me angry. I don’t want to be angry with you.”
“I don’t want you to be angry with me, either. So maybe we shouldn’t talk.”
“There is something I’d like to hear you say. Even if it is a lie.”
“What?”
“I’d like to hear you say that Saturday night… that it had never been like that for you before.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Not just the passion,” he added. “The… All of it.”
He saw her swallow, dislodging the drop of water he had noticed earlier. It trickled beneath the collar of her robe. Her voice was husky with emotion. “It had never been like that for me before.”
It was what he had hoped to hear, but if anything his expression became more bleak. “Whether we want to or not, we must talk.”
“We don’t have to.”
“Yes, we do. When you and I showed up at the dance pavilion at approximately the same time, it wasn’t by accident, was it?”
She hesitated for a few seconds, then shook her head no.
