by Rebecca York
She set a mug in the microwave, waited for the water to heat, then added a tea bag and joined him at the table.
"So did Craig get into any more trouble with that Dawson kid he was fighting with at school?" he asked after gulping a couple of mouthfuls of stew.
"Not that I know of."
"And what about the math test?"
"He got a B."
"Great."
"He's really working at his grades this semester."
"I know."
They exchanged a meaningful glance. Last semester Craig had been in trouble almost every week—both for academic and social problems. This semester, he seemed to be settling down.
"Lilly was picked as one of the painters on the new mural in the school lobby," Mrs. Anderson said.
"I'll bet she's pleased."
"Pleased as punch."
She gave him more information about the kids' day, then he gradually slipped into the old routine of talking about his work—because he still needed an outlet, and Mrs. Anderson was willing to listen.
"I had lunch today with Ross Marshall."
"The guy you call the Lone Wolf? The PI who feeds you information?"
He was surprised she remembered, because he hadn't mentioned Marshall in a couple of months.
"Right. He wanted to talk about a guy he thinks murdered several women in the county."
"And you're going to follow up on it?"
"When he gives me a lead, it's usually solid."
She studied him over the rim of her mug. "But this time you're wondering about it?"
"No." He shifted in his seat. "I went out to take a report from a woman who was almost raped at the bio-tech lab where she works. Marshall was there."
Her eyes widened. "You mean he attacked her?"
Jack shook his head quickly. "No, he chased the perp away. And it was pretty obvious he and the victim have a relationship."
"You told me he was a loner."
"That's what I thought. But I could see he cares about this woman—and she returns his feelings."
"So why are you still looking so grim?"
There were a lot of reasons. All of them should remain confidential. But he was sure that Mrs. Anderson never talked about his cases, unless the information was already splashed across the front page of the Washington Post metro section.
Still, he had to say, "This can't go any further."
"I'm not going to blab to my bridge group—or anybody else."
"I know. The woman's a doctor who does genetic testing. It seems Marshall came to her because he's got some sort of disease or condition. I don't know what."
"Does he seem healthy?"
"Yes. So maybe he's just a carrier." He cleared his throat. "I was doing a background check on his family. Apparently he had a lot of sisters who died at birth. And some brothers who only lived into their teens."
The lines in Mrs. Anderson's face deepened. "That's sad. It would make a man think twice about starting a family."
Jack nodded.
"How did you happen to be looking into his background?"
"His name came up in another context."
"And you're not going to tell me about it."
He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to lay it all out for her and see what she thought because she sometimes came up with surprising insights. But this time there were simply too many factors, too many variables. More than that, it wasn't ethical to tell his housekeeper that Ross was a suspect in a five-year-old murder. So what he said was "No."
She took another sip of her tea, stared at him assessingly.
"You know I hate it when you give me that look," he said, smiling.
"Well, you've piqued my curiosity. But I suppose that if it's anything significant, I'll end up reading about it in the papers," she said primly.
"Yeah, you will."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
« ^ »
MAYBE HE HAD slept sometime during the night, Ross thought as he heaved himself off the couch and folded up the blanket Megan had given him.
He'd lain on the narrow sofa, his body radiating heat and tension. But at least he'd kept himself from going down the hall and opening Megan's door and crawling into bed with her. That had to be some kind of moral victory.
He padded past her door to the bathroom, looked at his hollow-eyed face in the mirror, and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. Although he could see a disposable razor and a can of shaving cream sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he decided it would be presumptuous to use them. Not to mention too intimate, he thought, imagining dragging a razor across his face that had swept up and down the soft, feminine skin of her legs.
But the lure of the shower was too great to ignore. So he found the linen closet, grabbed a towel, and turned on the taps.
The hot water made him feel marginally better. Pulling on jeans and a shirt that were definitely worse for wear canceled out the effect.
Back in the kitchen, he leaned over the sink and peered out the window. It looked onto the street, but he couldn't see much because fog blanketed the area.
Picking up his mug from the table, he used the microwave to warm up the tea he hadn't drunk the night before.
He could hear Megan moving around in the back of the house as he sat at the kitchen table, sipping from the mug.
When the phone rang, she answered in the bedroom. A few minutes later she came into the kitchen, dressed for work and looking upset.
He wanted to hold her again, slide his lips across her hair again. Somehow he managed to keep sitting there at the table as he asked, "How are you?"
"Not great."
He hoped it was because of the phone call—not the attack. "Was that your boss on the line?"
She nodded. "He was in a hideous mood."
"Yeah. Another incident at the lab would do it."
"That. And what I said to the detective. Jack Thornton."
"You mean because you told Thornton somebody had a grudge against the lab?"
She looked down at her hands clasped in front of her. "Walter said he'd talked to me in confidence—that I had no right to bring it up with the police."
"Did you tell him Thornton asked if you could think of any reason for the attack?"
Her hands clenched until the knuckles were white. "I tried to explain what happened. He didn't want to listen."
Her obvious distress tore at him. "The hell with Walter, then."
"Ross, I work for him. It's a small office. It's going to be impossible to do my job if we're having another conflict."
"What other conflict are you having?"
She sighed. "About the way he's distributing the workload. He wants us to concentrate on jobs that will bring in fees. I want to devote more time to my research project."
"You mean the macular degeneration study? Myer's disease?"
"You remembered the name of it?"
"I'm good at details."
"So am I. I don't have any steak in the freezer. But I can give you eggs."
"Eggs would be good."
"Scrambled."
"Fine. Tell me about your project," he requested, partly because he was interested in anything about her and partly because he wanted to keep the conversation impersonal.
For the next five minutes, as she made the scrambled eggs, she filled him in on her progress so far. He sat at the table, enjoying listening to her enthusiasm when she talked about her research, enjoying the efficient way she worked.
"It sounds like you're close to a breakthrough," he said.
"Yes. Are you keeping me talking because the subject is interesting or so we don't have to deal with anything personal?"
He shifted in his chair, sorry she was so perceptive. "Both."
A little smile flickered around her lips, a smile he couldn't read.
She set down the eggs, several pieces of toast, and a jar of blackberry preserves.
He noted that she'd picked his favorite jam without even asking, then cautioned himself no
t to make anything of it.
They both reached for a piece of toast at the same time, both snatched their hands back, but not before he felt a jolt like an electric shock where his flesh touched hers.
She glanced quickly at him, then back at her plate. In the next few minutes of silence, they both managed to eat some of the food she'd prepared.
"Walter asked me if I was going to stay home today."
"Are you?"
"I'm better off keeping busy." Standing, she scraped the rest of her breakfast into the trash, then put the plate in the dishwasher.
He watched the rigid set of her shoulders, knew she was going to say something he didn't want to hear.
"So when I walk out the door, am I ever going to see you again?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"I want to." She moved to his side, laid her hand over his. No pressure, just a gentle touch, but it was enough to make him instantly hard.
She fixed her blue gaze on him, the color seeming to deepen and intensify.
"I've never felt anything like this," she said in a husky voice.
"Like what?"
"Are you going to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about?"
"I guess that would be a waste of time."
"Yes."
"Why are you interested in a man you know has a genetic defect?" he asked.
"Maybe I can cure him."
"It's too late for me. You can't send a virus to the backs of my eyes and make any significant changes."
"No. But the answer could be just as obvious."
"I doubt it. Besides, I can't change what I am."
Her hand pressed his more firmly. "Ross—"
"Why are you interested in a man who frightens you?"
Her chin jutted up. "You don't."
"That's a lie."
"Okay. Maybe I'm tired of playing it safe."
"Don't be in a hurry to sacrifice yourself to the wolves."
He saw a shiver travel over her skin, but she managed to keep her voice steady. "Don't be in a hurry to throw away something that you know is going to be spectacularly good."
He felt his nostrils flare. Somehow he managed to keep from pulling her body tight against his.
She lifted her hand away, took a step back. "If you're not going to communicate with me, I might as well go."
He ignored the editorial comment and said, "I should leave, too."
She shook her head. "You don't have to clear out because I'm going to work. Just make sure the door's locked."
"You shouldn't trust a stranger alone in your house."
"You're not a stranger." She paused, then said, "There's a package of disposable razors in the medicine cabinet and some toothbrushes I got from a drug company, if you want to use them."
"Okay. Thanks." Although he sat back and stared down at his plate, he was aware of her every move as she gathered up her purse and exited.
When she'd left, he felt more relaxed and at the same time more restless now that she was no longer with him.
He was rinsing off his mug when he heard a car slow down in front of the house.
Had she forgotten something and come back? Anticipation leaped inside him as he leaned toward the window and looked out. It was still foggy, but down by the street, twenty-five yards away, he could see a car had pulled to a stop.
Too big and solid-looking to be Megan's, he decided, and the color was wrong—although it was hard to tell exactly what the color was due to the fog and due to the distance.
The mist also made it impossible for him to see who was behind the wheel. The reverse was apparently not true. Almost as soon as he leaned forward to look out the lighted window, the car started up and sped away.
Had the driver been going to knock on Megan's front door—and changed his mind when he saw a man inside?
Or was the explanation something more sinister? Had someone been waiting for Megan to leave the house, waited until she'd driven away, and then planned to come inside—until he'd seen someone at the window?
All this could be a big coincidence, of course, except that Ross had learned to discount coincidences a long time ago.
His eyes narrowed. He didn't like the implications. Yet there was nothing he could do except turn off the light and sit in the darkened kitchen for a half hour longer, hoping whoever was out there would come back. But no cars pulled up in front of the house. So he went to the bathroom and used the toothbrush and razor Megan had offered him.
DRESSED in his gray uniform, Donald Arnott strolled down the marble walkway at Montgomery Mall. He knew he looked good in the outfit—not like some guys who let their muscles go and their guts hang out. There was even one bozo so pudgy that fat oozed over the top of his belt all the way around his considerable circumference. The jerk needed a new uniform. Or, more likely, a new job. But the mall, like every other public place in Montgomery County, had increased its security staff since the World Trade Center and the D.C.-area sniper case. And it needed every guy it could get. Really, it was easy work. And the threat of a terrorist attack gave him the excuse to come down hard on anybody he wanted. Still, the most action he'd seen all week was a couple of girls shoplifting and a woman nursing her baby on a bench. The mother had pulled her blouse up, exposing her big boob for everyone walking by to see. He'd glared at her, letting her know that nursing babies in public was disgusting.
The incident had made him feel energized enough to volunteer for an extra shift when another guard called in sick at the last minute.
He didn't need the money, of course. He'd lucked out on that score six years ago when Arden Mitchner had tried to buy her freedom with money stolen from her drug dealer boyfriend. While Donald waited in the car Arden had hoisted $500,000 of the guy's lean green. Then Donald had taken her home and killed her.
He'd also cleared out of the Fair Hills area and bought his place near Paoli.
When he'd moved to Maryland, he'd made enough profit on the Paoli house sale for a nice down payment on his present property. So he was sitting pretty. Or he had been, until the bastard with the big dog had showed up to try to ruin his life.
He knew the strong emotions churning through him were showing on his face, but he didn't glance around at the mall's lunchtime crowd. Instead he pulled out his walkie-talkie and pretended that he'd gotten an urgent call while he brought himself under control. Then he moved rapidly down to the second-level balcony. When he reached Indulge Yourself, he slowed, feeling his mood lighten. Sandy Knight worked here, and the thought of what he was going to do to her did wonders for him.
Indulge Yourself. What a wimpy name, he thought as he walked through the door. It sounded like a beauty shop or a cosmetics store. But since this was Montgomery County, where the income was one of the highest in the nation, the shop sold expensive toys for adults. Choice items like three-hundred-dollar leather carry-on bags, briefcases, key rings with real gold golf tees. Miniature electronics.
There were three or four saleswomen who worked there on a regular basis and a couple of part-timers. Sandy Knight was full time. She came out of the back room when she saw him and smiled warmly at him. She was a bleached blonde who'd probably had her boobs surgically augmented. But the effect wasn't bad, if you liked your women stacked. She was twenty pounds overweight, but her ass was tight. Sandy had told him she worked out a few nights a week at a local gym.
Which made her a challenge. He wanted her. But he'd never taken a weight lifter before. Would she turn out to be so strong that he would have trouble restraining her?
He thought not. But he'd get the cuffs on her right away, just to make sure.
He favored her with an ironic grin. "Sold any ridiculously expensive stuff this morning?" he asked.
She laughed conspiratorially. "One of those over-privileged housewives from Potomac came in looking for something to get her CEO husband for his birthday. I sold her a battery-operated mug that reheats the coffee every fifteen minutes and gives stock market quotations."
&nbs
p; He rolled his eyes, shook his head.
"And yesterday evening I showed a guy that five-hundred-dollar watch that does everything but pilot your car. He snapped it up. And he also bought one of those phones where you can download music to a little disk and listen all day. Really, people around here have more money than they know what to do with."
"That's the truth," Donald agreed.
When a customer came in, he moved to the side, then out the doorway, sorry to cut his visit with Sandy short. He was going to take her. But not until he solved his problem.
AS Megan drove to work, breathing in the moldy smell from the rain, she felt sweat pooling in her armpits.
When she'd been a little girl and her father had driven her to school on foggy mornings, she'd sat in the car imagining that the school building might have disappeared into the mist. She played the same game now—imagining that the lab might have disappeared. Because she didn't want to go there.
Last night and this morning with Ross, she'd succeeded in blocking out memories of the attack. But the closer she got to work, the more on edge she became.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot, the freshly dry-cleaned blouse she was wearing felt damp and sticky under her coat.
After shutting off the engine, she sat for a long time, unwanted details coming back to her.
It had been dark and wet. The actual physical encounter had caused a rush of confused sensations. Although she hadn't been able to see her assailant's face or take in many details, there had been something familiar about him. Something. She couldn't say what. Yet she had the feeling she knew him.
Was he the angry client who had come in for genetic testing? Had he been waiting for someone—anyone—to come outside? Or was Walter wrong? Had she been the one who'd done the interview, handled the test? And was he now out to get revenge on her as well as the lab?
She tried to tell herself that couldn't possibly be true. Still, doubt tore at her as she sat behind the wheel, swallowing to moisten her dry mouth.
It was too much to cope with—that and the wolf that had haunted her since the last night at Ross's house, she finally admitted with a little inward shiver.
The wolf that had come back to haunt her last night.
