by Cassie Miles
Her first instinct was to grab the towel from Adam and cover the grotesque scarring on her leg, but she forced herself to follow her regular routine. She rubbed the moisture from her short brown hair, draped the towel over her shoulders and stood, revealing all five feet, eight inches of her body. Her angular shoulders. Her jutting hipbones. Her minimal breasts. And her right leg that was seven-eighths of an inch shorter than the left.
She felt David's gaze upon her and avoided looking back at him, embarrassed by what she might read in his expression. Walking slowly to minimize her limp, she went to a hook at poolside where she grabbed her full-length terry cloth robe and wrapped it around her, tying the sash tightly at her waist. Her feet slipped into a pair of rubber thongs with a bright yellow daisy at the juncture of her first and second toes.
"Your answer?" Adam asked. "Will you attend the autopsy?"
"What's my role in this?" Though her pulse raced, she kept her voice level and businesslike. "Why has CCC been called in? We usually don't get involved in ongoing crime investigations."
"Because of me," David said. "About a week ago I asked CCC to take another look at my sister's murder."
"Why?" she asked.
"Eddy Adderly is dying, and it made me think. I want to know—without a shadow of doubt—that the right man was arrested and convicted, that the Fisherman will never harm another woman."
She could hear the frustration in his voice. When she finally looked at David, she saw a troubled man who wanted the truth and didn't care what she looked like. He didn't think of her in terms of her appearance. And why not?
Her ping-pong shift in emotions was rather annoying. Only a moment ago she wanted to hide from David. Now, contrarily, she wanted him to notice her. Why shouldn't David Crawford be interested in her as a woman?
"Listen, Blair, I don't have any right to ask for your help. You don't owe me anything. But I know—"
"How's Jake?" Her tone was brittle.
"He's fine," David said warily.
"Still playing the field?"
"With a vengeance."
She'd met David through his friend, Jake Zitti, whom she'd been dating at the time of the Fisherman murders. Jake was driving the car at the time of the accident. Jake the Snake dumped her before she was out of the hospital.
David was a whole different story. He'd made a dozen hospital visits, bringing flowers and magazines she couldn't read because she was out of her mind on pain medication and didn't care what she looked like. Other issues loomed larger. Would she ever walk again? Would she regain the use of her arm? David had been kind and encouraging. In some ways, she thought, he'd treated her with the tenderness and attention he was unable to lavish upon his murdered sister.
The memory of Danielle Crawford returned Blair's attention to the Fisherman. Should she observe the autopsy? She turned to Adam. "I need to think about whether I want to be involved in this consultation. I'll call you back at one o'clock. That would be, um, 1300 hours."
"I know you'll make the right decision." Adam gave a brisk nod. "Call me on the cell."
He pivoted and went out the door. She was left alone with David.
"Mind if I stick around?" he asked.
"You won't influence my decision one way or the other," she warned.
"Not even a little?"
"I don't like looking backward. The Fisherman serial murders got real personal." She shrugged off the remembered fear. "It's a time in my life that I'd rather forget."
"I understand."
She rather doubted that. His response to those tragedies had been the extreme opposite of hers. Instead of trying to forget, David had obsessed over his sister's murder. He'd plunged deeper and deeper into the horrifying world of serial killers and snipers and mass murderers. He'd travelled all around the country, searching for...what? "Why do you do it?" she asked. "Why do you keep digging into these crimes?"
He glanced at the pool. "Why do you swim?"
"A typical reporter." She grinned. "Answering one question with another."
"It's my nature," he said.
"You know, David, even though you're a hotshot TV consultant, you still dress like a beat reporter."
"How's that?"
"You're not quite put together. Khaki trousers with a belt that doesn't match your loafers. Wrinkled blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Loosely knotted necktie. I bet you're still wearing the same brown tweed sports jacket you had five years ago."
"It's in the car," he said. "And you didn't answer my question about swimming. Why do you do it?"
"Because it's good for me."
"But it's not necessary physical therapy."
"Not anymore," she said.
"You're pretty much recovered from your injuries," he said. "Tell me, Dr. Blair Weston, why haven't you gone back to work as a medical examiner?"
She held up her wrist, displaying the pale scars from two operations. "My hand is still too shaky."
"For working on dead people?"
"For your information, there's a certain degree of precision required in an autopsy."
"Let me see that wrist."
He caught hold of her forearm and pushed up the sleeve of her robe. With his thumb, he traced the line of scars along the tender flesh at the inside of her forearm. Though his hands were warmer than hers, his light caress sent shivers through her body.
She lifted her gaze to meet his and found herself fully engaged in a study of his intense, compelling eyes. A darker rim circled multifacets of blue, nearly as splintered and complicated as the man himself. As she stared at him, the tiled pool room and the rippling expanse of turquoise water faded into a soft, pleasant blur.
"I think there's another reason you haven't gone back to work," he said gently. "I don't know the label. Trauma. Fear. Sorrow. All of the above."
"Maybe." Blair had tried psychological therapy and quit when she didn't make measureable headway.
"Were you ever able to recall what happened in the accident?"
She shook her head. She remembered driving with Jake. The windows on the car were down, and there was a breeze. Riding in a car with Jake behind the steering wheel was always a harrowing experience. Too fast. He always drove too fast. "I don't remember the crash. My mind is a blank until I woke up in the hospital. I assume I was in shock."
"Me, too," he said. "After Danielle was killed, I went into emotional shock. The way I coped was writing about it. So there's the answer to your question. I keep writing, keep digging into serial killings because I need to make sense of it. For my sister. And for myself."
He might have undertaken an impossible task. "Do serial killings ever make sense?"
"Not in a rational way."
She couldn't quite believe that they were standing here, holding hands and talking about heinous crimes. "I should get going. Adam needs my decision in less than two hours."
"I'd like to see you again," David said. "Can I take you to lunch sometime?"
"How about now? Come upstairs with me, and I'll make you a terrific tuna salad sandwich."
"You're on."
Side by side, they left the swimming pool, crossed the lobby and boarded the elevator. Though Blair suspected that David was coming upstairs to convince her to investigate the Fisherman, his attention pleased her. He'd asked her to lunch. He wanted to spend time with her.
At her condo on the fifth floor, she unlocked the door. "Make yourself at home. I'll just run into the bedroom and get changed."
"Do you have to change?" David followed her into the living room. "I like the blue bathing suit. It shows off your curves."
Her curves? Apparently, David had noticed more about her than her damaged leg. "Were you ogling me?"
"I'm a reporter. A trained observer."
"And what have you observed?"
"Curves. Nice curves."
His blue-eyed gaze rested warmly upon her. His masculine appreciation was unmistakable.
Blair didn't know what to think of this attention from
David Crawford, whom she'd always placed in the category of friend rather than boyfriend. Of course, she'd considered the possibility of dating him. With his black hair and blue eyes, he was handsome. And he was funny. And kind. Could there be something more between them than friendship?
"Come on, Blair." His eyebrows lifted, teasing. "Let me see that bathing suit again."
"If you want curves, take a drive down the Pikes Peak."
"Are you scared to give me another glimpse?"
He was definitely flirting with her. It had been ages since she'd played this kind of game with a man. "Scared of you? No way."
"Then do it."
"Open my robe?"
"Or forever be branded a coward," he said.
"I'm no chicken." She untied the terry cloth sash. She literally put her best leg forward as she slowly parted the material and offered him a view.
"Very nice." The corner of his mouth curved in a half-grin, and he reached toward her. His hands slipped inside her robe and rested on either side of her rib cage. "You're perfectly proportioned."
"Nobody's perfect."
"Lady, you're close."
She ought to object to his overture. Blair wasn't the kind of woman who tumbled easily. She had more self-control in her little finger than most people had in their whole body. But, instead of pulling away, she leaned toward him.
She wanted to be held—wanted her electric-blue swimsuit to leave a damp impression on his rumpled shirt and khaki trousers. And she offered no objection when his lips touched hers. The pressure of his mouth was firm but tentative. This wasn't a passionate kiss but more of an exploration, a testing of boundaries.
Then his hands encircled her torso, and he pulled her closer, crushing her against him.
His kiss became more demanding. His tongue forced her lips to part.
A sudden, pleasant heat shimmered through her body like a mirage. Her boundaries crumbled as she swooned against him. It had been so long. She'd missed this tenderness, this passion, this intimacy. She wanted to let go of all inhibitions and tear away their clothes.
But that would be crazy. Foolish. She would never risk her heart again. Awkwardly she separated from him, taking a clumsy step backward, ending their delicious embrace. "How did that happen?"
"I could show you again," he offered.
"I think not." When she turned away from him, a secret smile of pure delight played across her lips. "Now, I'm going to change clothes."
"I like black lingerie," David said.
"Dream on."
"I will."
As he watched her leave the room, David exhaled the breath he'd been holding. He felt like a very lucky man. Three times lucky.
Once lucky because when he contacted CCC, the first name Adam mentioned was his old friend, Blair.
Twice lucky because Blair was glad to see him.
Lucky times three, because she kissed him back. He'd felt her body yearning toward him, and he could tell that she was as hot as he was. Maybe even hotter.
He strolled across the carpet and sank into a recliner chair. Why hadn't he kissed her sooner? Years sooner?
Leaning back in the chair, he checked out her condo. The recliner where he sat was the only comfortable piece of furniture. The rest of the room was exercise equipment: a treadmill, a stationary bicycle and a mat for floor exercises. There was a small table with two chairs in the dining area—not a space that was large enough for entertaining. The blinds were drawn.
David recognized the no-frills decor. This was a purely functional space for a single person. In that way it reminded him of his own town house, which was nicely furnished but unused except for the desk and the bed.
In just a few minutes she returned to the living room. She wore jeans and a purple jersey shirt with a white collar. Her gait was different. He assumed that her black shoes were fitted with lifts that made walking easier. She'd blown dry her short brown hair in a cute tousled style that made him want to run his fingers through it.
"I have a question," she said. "About the woman who was killed yesterday, what was her profession?"
David knew exactly where she was going. The Fisherman chose his victims carefully. Though he was subtle, there was evidence that he stalked these women before he abducted and killed them. His six victims came from three workplaces: hospital, newspaper and law enforcement. "She was a cop."
Blair cringed. "I assume she wasn't on duty."
"She was retired," he said. "A former homicide detective. She quit the force last year to stay home with her family."
"Oh, no. She had kids?"
"Two boys. They're both grown and in college. The victim spent most of her time taking care of her aging parents." There was one more piece of information he needed to tell her. "This latest victim was one of the investigators on the Fisherman murders five years ago."
"Her name?"
"Pamela Comforti."
Blair gasped. "I knew her."
David was beginning to regret his request that Blair get involved in the investigation. She'd been through enough. She didn't need to be dragged back into this tragedy. "I'm sorry."
She glanced at her wristwatch. "There's not much time before I need to call Adam. What do you think I should do?"
"I'm torn," he said honestly.
"Why?"
"Of course I want your input. You were the medical examiner in charge of the prior murders. You're smart. You know how to interpret the data. And you know the Fisherman's modus operandi."
However, as she'd mentioned before, the prior investigation had become personal. At the time, Blair had been assigned a bodyguard. "Why did the police consider you a target?"
"Godiva chocolate." She went toward the kitchen. "Come in here with me while I make sandwiches."
He followed her to the small galley kitchen. Though David knew most of the details on the Fisherman murders, her reference wasn't familiar. "What about Godiva chocolate?"
"It was a detail that the police kept secret," she said as she went to the fridge and took out the makings for sandwiches.
"Are you going to tell me?" he asked.
She turned and faced him. Her green eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes, shone bright. "Because I did the autopsy on the first victim, the Fisherman serial murders became my case."
He nodded. Standard procedure for the Coroner's Office was to maintain consistency on related murders. "Go on."
"My autopsy results on the contents of the stomach and upper GI showed that every victim, after the first one, had eaten chocolate a few hours before her death."
"So?"
"Specifically, it was Godiva chocolate."
David still didn't get it. "What does this have to do with you?"
She pointed to a gold foil box on the kitchen counter. "I've always had a passion for Godiva chocolate. Some of the forensics people even called me Lady Godiva. The police deduced that the Fisherman was feeding his victims my favorite chocolate before he killed them."
"As a sick threat to you."
"Very sick," she said.
David's jaw tightened. "Call Adam right now. Tell him to forget about the autopsy. I don't want this psycho coming after you again."
"Neither do I." Pensively she frowned. "But it's not my choice. It's up to the Fisherman. He makes the decision about who's next."
Chapter Two
Blair opened the gold box of Godiva and popped a mini-truffle into her mouth. The rich chocolate melted comfortingly on her tongue. Of course she worried about the Fisherman and the scheduled autopsy and an investigation that might turn deadly. She'd be crazy not to be nervous. However, a different concern was uppermost in her mind. David.
As she made sandwiches at the kitchen counter, he stood near enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. She could smell him—a clean scent like soap and fresh laundry.
"Blair." The way he spoke her name sounded like an endearment. "I don't want you to do anything that might be dangerous."
Like kissin
g you? While she'd been changing clothes, the fact that they'd kissed had absorbed into her consciousness. There was an obvious sexual buzz between them, but she didn't understand why or where it might be going. Was she ready for a real relationship? Would she be satisfied with less?
"Blair, are you—"
"Fine, I'm fine." She flapped her hand, brushing away his concern. "There's nothing dangerous about my life, David. The way I figure, my odds of being attacked by a serial killer are about a hundred thousand to one." Which was roughly equivalent to the odds of a single thirty-four-year-old woman who seldom left her house finding a meaningful relationship with a man. "Wildly unlikely."
"Wrong," he said. "The Fisherman isn't a random killer. His targets are—"
"I know. Women who work in medicine, law enforcement or the media. None of which applies to me. In case you haven't noticed, I don't work anywhere." Without turning around to look at him, she groped for the door to the refrigerator. "What do you want to drink?"
"Any kind of soda pop that's not diet."
Her teensy kitchen wasn't big enough for two people, but he continued to hover as if lurking within a three-foot radius would somehow protect her from a psychotic murderer. She grabbed two cans of pop from the fridge and circled to face him. "Excuse me, David. It's a bit crowded in here."
"I should hire a bodyguard for you."
"What?"
He dropped his hands to her shoulders and stared intently at her. "Let me do this. I'll hire somebody who won't get in the way. Not a guy. A woman bodyguard. A really big woman who knows martial arts."
"You want to hire Xena the Warrior Princess to look after me?"
"If that's what it takes," he said.
This time, when she looked up into his well-meaning eyes, she didn't have the urge to kiss him. It was the opposite: she wanted to punch that lantern jaw. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to come in here and disrupt her life?
He said, "You need protection."
"What I need is space."
She pressed the icy aluminum cans in her hands against his chest, and he recoiled.
"Damn, Blair. That's cold."
"Be glad the pop cans aren't open. I might have dumped the contents on your pointed head." She glared. "I don't need a bodyguard."
