If there was a third it would be Tory Falcon. He jammed the key into the ignition of the Blazer and let the engine roar to life. Tory was the target of this madman. He knew it, felt it in his bones. And he intended to do everything in his power to stop him.
By the time he reached the clinic he’d squashed the panic, turning the fear into cold, calculating anger. Letting his truck idle on the road, he looked down the driveway and saw that the lights were still, on inside the clinic. “Thank God,” he muttered, realizing she’d at least had enough sense not to go to the clinic to turn them off.
Turning his attention to her house, he saw lights blazing out of every first-floor window. Either she hadn’t gone to bed yet or she was trying hard to make it look that way. Easing his truck into gear, he headed down her driveway and cut the engine as he glided silently to her front door.
As he shoved the seat as far back as it would go and struggled to get comfortable, he stared at the lights, wondering what she was doing. And told himself with his next breath it didn’t matter, as long as she was safe.
Why was someone stalking Tory Falcon? Was it simply because she was new to the community, with few friends and no family, living in an isolated location? Was it because she was an easy target? Or was there another, darker reason?
Holt’s hands curled around the steering wheel as he stared at the woods surrounding Tory’s house, dread curdling in his stomach. He had been spending a lot of time at the veterinary clinic. To a casual observer, it would appear he was interested in the new vet.
Had the murderer’s attention focused on Tory because of Holt’s interest in her? Had he somehow drawn Tory into the battle between himself and the murderer? Or was the grudge more personal, the hatred focused more directly?
Holt thought again of the look on Bobby Duvall’s face as they’d stood outside the grocery store three days ago. Bobby had a lot of reasons for hating both Tory and Holt. And what better way to settle two scores at once?
Slowly Holt looked at Tory’s house. Was his continual presence out here putting her in more danger? If he never came out here again, would she be safe? And was he willing to take that chance?
He wasn’t. He knew it instantly. Regardless of his feelings about her, she was a citizen of Eagle Ridge, and he was sworn to protect her. If this madman had focused on her—and Holt knew, deep down, that he had—then he had no choice but to watch her.
And what were his feelings for her? It was no more than physical wanting, he told himself. Never again would he get emotionally bound up with a woman. It would cause nothing but pain for either of them. No, his feelings for Tory Falcon went no deeper than lust.
Lust was merely an urge, and like all urges it was subject to his will. Wanting her physically he could control and keep separate from the rest of his life. Never again would he hand over his heart to a woman. He’d rather pluck it out of his chest himself. That would hurt far less.
He looked at her house, once more trying to ignore the faint ache beneath his breast.
The baton flashed at her and the pain burst inside her head, making her cry out in agony. But no sound came out of her throat except a choking gurgle. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, and she pushed hetself to her knees.
The face of the police officer towering over her was vague and blurry. As she started, the shadows suddenly shifted and his face came into focus. Holt Adams stood looking at her. There was no 6alon in his hand, and the expression on his face wasn’t one of rage, but Tory felt the fear expanding deep inside her.
He extended one of his hands to her. She stared at it for a long time, hope struggling against the fear that pulsed all around her. Gravel dug into her hands until she lifted them off the road. As she tentatively reached toward Holt, he disappeared into a swirling fog.
Tory opened her eyes to the darkness in her room, her heart drumming in her chest. The fear from the dream seeped away, leaving a dull longing in its place.
The dream had never varied before. As she stared at the white walls of her room, willing her heart to calm down, Holt’s face lingered in her mind. Why had he appeared in her nightmare? And what would she have found if she’d managed to take his hand before he vanished? Comfort or more pain? Hope or despair?
She didn’t know. Throwing her comforter to the side, she slipped out of bed and told herself that she didn’t want to know. Holt Adams was dangerous to her. After the way he’d handled the dog earlier that evening her physical fear of him had eased, but he could inflict a mortal blow to her heart and her soul. And he would be fatal to her attempt to regain control of her life.
Shaking with cold even wrapped in the warmth of the thick robe, she started down the stairs. Thank goodness she’d left the lights on, she thought, shivering. When the third step from the bottom creaked, she only hesitated for a moment. Then she heard the dog stirring and hurried to the kitchen.
He lifted his head when she walked into the room, and thumped his tail once. The sound was muffled against the towels, but she felt her throat swell and tighten. Her eyes burned as she knelt next to him and opened the crate.
“How’re you doing, guy? Are you feeling better?”
The dog thumped his tail again in answer and swiped at her hand with his tongue, and Tory smiled mistily as one tear rolled down her face. He was going to be all right. She turned off the flow of fluids from the bag suspended over his head, capped the catheter in his leg then sat back and watched as he stood up.
He moved stiffly and tentatively, obviously reluctant to put any weight on his feet. She let him take a few steps, then gently lowered him to the floor.
“I bet you need to go outside, don’t you?” she said softly, and was rewarded with another thump of his tail. She thought about opening the front door and taking him out, and her gaze shifted involuntarily to the kitchen window. Only the tips of the trees were visible, but she swallowed hard. “You’ll have to make do with papers tonight, buddy.”
It only took a minute to pile newspapers in one corner of the kitchen. The dog seemed to know what they were for, and in another minute had finished relieving himself. Tory bundled the soiled papers into a plastic garbage bag, set it by the back door and turned to the dog, petting him again.
Wide awake, she walked into the living room and settled on the couch. She wasn’t surprised when the dog followed her and plopped down on the floor at her feet. As she watched him, a picture of Holt insinuated itself into her head, stroking the dog and murmuring to him in a low voice.
So what if the dog liked him and Holt liked dogs? she asked herself defiantly. It didn’t prove anything.
Except that it probably hadn’t been Holt who’d put the dog in the woods in the first place. An animal would remember the person who’d tied him up so cruelly. He certainly wouldn’t wag his tail the next time he saw him.
Tory sighed and rested her head against the back of the couch. Questions about Holt could chase through her head forever like squirrels in a cage, and it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d made his position very clear earlier that evening. He was only interested in one thing, and she’d never been interested in sex for its own sake. And if by chance he decided he wanted more, she wasn’t able to give it to him anyway.
A low growl came from the dog at her feet, and she shot up on the couch. He was staring at the front of the house, but his hair wasn’t standing on end the way it had earlier.
“You hear something out there, don’t you, buddy?” She heard the pleading in her voice and swallowed hard. When he didn’t look away from the door she reluctantly slid off the couch, looking from the telephone to the door.
She compromised by getting the phone before she looked out the window. If she saw anything suspicious she could punch in the number for the police station immediately. Clutching the receiver in one clammy hand, she edged over to the window and pressed her back to the wall. Taking several deep breaths, she finally lifted the edge of the curtain and peeked out the window.
A black tr
uck stood in front of her house, blocking the stairs. The phone fell from her hand and clattered to the floor as she stared out, unable to move. Finally she dropped the curtain and fell to her knees, scrabbling for the receiver. Her shaking hands couldn’t hold on to it as she frantically tried to press the numbers on the dial.
“Tory, it’s me. Open the door.”
Holt’s voice penetrated the front door, and for a moment she was afraid her imagination was playing a cruel trick on her. As she stared at the door, his voice came through the wood again, louder this time.
“Open the door, Tory. I saw you at the window.”
The dog wobbled to the door, tail wagging, and looked at Tory impatiently. Clutching the receiver to her chest, she stood up slowly and walked to the door. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as she called out, “Holt?”
“It’s all right, Tory. Unlock the door.”
Her damp palm slipped on the cool metal of the doorknob as she fumbled with the lock. She finally got the door open, and Holt stepped into her living room and closed the door behind him.
His gaze traveled down her robe, and she felt heat creep across her cheeks as she pulled the lapels together with one hand. “What are you doing here?” she managed to say. “You scared me to death.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t even mean to let you know I was here.” He nodded to the couch. “Mind if I sit down? The truck isn’t built for comfort.”
“Of course,” she said instantly, waiting for him to sit down then choosing the place on the couch farthest from him. He looked like he’d been sitting in the truck most of the night, she thought, watching him. His jacket and shirt were rumpled and twisted, as if he’d shifted in the small seat innumerable times, trying to get comfortable. His skin was gray with fatigue, and his eyes were black coals burning out of deep pits. He rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.
“Why are you here, Holt?” she asked softly.
Without moving his head he opened his eyes and looked at her. “Because I was worried. Because whoever called you about the dog tonight came too damn close to getting you, and I wasn’t about to give him a second chance.”
She stared at him, an unexpected mix of feelings stirring in her. He had given up sleeping in his bed so he could sit and guard her door. Tenderness stirred in her chest, along with something else she hurried to label gratitude.
Along with it came another burst of fear. “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in places like Eagle Ridge,” she whispered.
“Tell that to Sally Phillips and Carrie Stevens,” he retorted, his voice blunt and hard. “They didn’t think so, either.”
“What should I do, Holt?” Her voice sounded small and frightened, and she cringed. It was hard to be strong and heroic at three o’clock in the morning. Especially when the police chief sat on your couch telling you that you were the target of a killer.
“Leave. Get out of here as fast as you can.”
“I can’t do that.” She looked at her hands, locked together in her lap to prevent him from seeing their trembling. “All my money is tied up in this clinic. I have to stay here and keep it going.” Closing her eyes, she willed herself to control the panic. She was trying to rebuild her life on the fragile foundation of this clinic. If she left now, she would be admitting that she couldn’t do it.
“Then you’re going to have to be more careful,” he said, his voice a low growl. “For starters, you keep that clinic door locked and only let in people who have appointments. You don’t go outside at night by yourself, even if it’s just to walk to the clinic. If someone calls you after hours with an emergency, you put them off until the morning. And you never, ever open the door to your house to anyone. I don’t care who they are.”
She felt the blood draining from her face as she stared at him. “You’re making me a prisoner here,” she whispered. “I can’t live like that.”
“Then you’ll die like those other two women,” he said, his voice harsh. “That’s your choice, Tory. Either cooperate with me or take your chances with the killer.”
“But I have to go to the clinic at night if I have a patient in the hospital. And some emergencies won’t wait until the morning. What am I supposed to do then?”
“I’ll be here every night to walk you to the clinic. And if you get a legitimate emergency, call me and I’ll come out.” His voice softened. “I know you wouldn’t turn an animal away if it needed help, and I don’t expect you to do that. But I’m sure the killer knows that, too. It would be far too easy to lure you out of your house some night with a phony emergency call. And you wouldn’t think twice about responding to it, would you?”
“Probably not,” she admitted. Clenching her hands together in her lap, she stared at her twined fingers. “But you can’t spend all your time out here, Holt.” Her voice was quiet. “You have other responsibilities and other people to protect. What if the murderer decides to go after someone else?”
He was quiet for a long time. Finally, his voice sounding strained, he said, “I don’t think he will. The only prowlers that have been reported since you’ve been back have been out here. You were the one he tried to lure into the woods with the dog. No, like it or not, this guy seems to be after you. So I’m going to be your shadow.”
“You’re frightening me.” The words seemed to linger in the air of the quiet house, echoing around her ears.
“I’m trying to be realistic. You won’t leave, so I have to do what I can to protect you.”
She could feel him watching her, but she refused to look at him.
“I don’t want you to die, Tory.”
At that she did look at him. His gray eyes were distant and forbidding, and he was looking right through her. He was a man lost in grim memories.
She looked away, unable to bear the pain on his face. “I guess I don’t have a choice. I would be a fool to refuse to do what you’re asking.”
“And you’re not a fool, are you, Tory?” he murmured.
“I hope not,” she whispered. But she was. Only a fool would want things she couldn’t have, things she knew would be bad for her. Only a fool would wish the dog hadn’t growled and interrupted them earlier.
He pushed himself off the couch. “You should get some sleep,” he muttered. “I’ll go out to the car and leave you alone.”
As if there was the slightest chance she’d get back to sleep tonight, she thought, closing her eyes. When she opened them she was looking into Holt’s tired gray eyes.
“You don’t have to sleep in the truck.” The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to bite them back. “Why don’t you just stay on the couch?”
He paused at the door. “What?”
“If you’re going to stay out here, you’d be more comfortable on the couch than in your truck. You’re welcome to use it.” An odd expression flitted across his face, and she hurried to add, “If you want to, of course.”
“I’d want to. You’re couch is a damn sight more comfortable than that truck.”
He moved toward her, and she told herself to back up, to go upstairs, but she couldn’t seem to move. He stopped inches from her. “Thank you, Tory.” His gravelly voice was low and intimate in the quiet house. It sounded as if everything in the room was holding its breath. “Good night.”
His breath whispered against her cheek, and she found herself swaying toward him. Jerking away, she turned and stumbled on the hem of her robe. His hand clamped around her arm to steady her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She waited until he released her, then hurried to the stairs.
“Good night, Holt.” She hated the breathless sound of her voice. “Make yourself at home.”
Stupid thing to say, she told herself as she practically ran up the stairs. The last thing she wanted him to feel was at home on her couch. In her room, she began to ease the door shut, then hesitated as she caught a glimpse of the night and the trees outside her window.
<
br /> Maybe she didn’t want to close herself completely inside this room. Leaving the door open a crack, she listened to Holt moving around downstairs for a while, feeling strangely comforted. Finally she slipped off her robe and got into bed.
It wasn’t thoughts of the dream and the killer outside that kept her awake, though. All she could think about was Holt lying on the couch in her living room. As she turned over one more time during the endless hours until dawn, she thought that memories of her dream would have been more comfortable than the thoughts burning in her mind tonight.
Chapter 8
The alarm clock shrilled in her ear, and Tory opened her eyes with a silent groan. Her head throbbed from lack of sleep and she wanted nothing more than to roll over and close her eyes again. But the weak light of dawn streamed through her window, mercilessly illuminating the face of her clock. Her first patient would arrive at the clinic all too soon.
Stepping out of the bedroom, she froze as the lights from the living room blazed at her. Then she remembered. Holt was there, standing guard in her living room. Waiting for the murderer to come for her.
The heat clicked on in the house; the warm air rising out of the register at her feet and blowing at the hem of the skimpy nightshirt she wore. It reminded her that she wasn’t dressed for company. She hurried into the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind her.
Twenty minutes later she walked downstairs to find the living room empty. A cushion from the couch lay jammed into one end, bunched and rumpled. The rest of the couch was rumpled, too. In fact, as she stared at it, she imagined she could see the faint outline of Holt’s body on the cushions. If she sat on the couch, she was sure she would feel the heat from his body wrapping around her.
“Good morning.” His slightly husky voice came from the kitchen door, and she jerked her head up to find him watching her. The tails of his flannel shirt were loose, as were the top two buttons. His hair was tousled and his face was shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. He looked incredibly sexy as he leaned against the door frame with a cup of coffee in his hand.
The Dark Side Of The Moon Page 11
