by Rebecca York
"I love you," he whispered. Then said it again louder.
"Did it hurt to say it?" she asked, a smile flickering at the corners of her lips.
"Only a little. It will probably get easier with practice." He pulled the quilt off the sofa, tucked it around them, and nuzzled his face against hers, trailing his lips up her cheek.
Her arms came up to circle his shoulders, pull his body more tightly against hers. "I can't promise everything is going to work out perfectly. We may have some… sadness… in our life."
"You mean, we may lose some children?"
"I hope that's not going to be true. But there are no guarantees. There never are."
He sucked in a breath, let it out in a rush. "I think I got the closest thing to a guarantee I could get when they sent a doctor out from Bio Gen Labs—and it turned out to be you."
She snuggled in his arms. "You know what Jack started calling you a long time ago? The Lone Wolf. Ironic, isn't it?"
"You talked to Jack?"
"He came over to find out how I was doing. He kept coming back, and I could open up with him a little more each time. He ended up telling me how much you needed me. That was after he'd been out here and talked to you."
"The sneaky bastard."
"I told him why I was waiting before I came back here."
He thought about that for a moment. "So he found out we're going to have a baby before I did."
Her color deepened. "Do you mind? I had to talk to someone. And he… he let me know that he's our friend." She watched his face anxiously.
"I think he is."
He saw the tension ease out of her. Then she gave him a sly smile. "I think if you asked him, he'd be your best man at the wedding."
His face must have told her how unprepared he was for the suggestion.
"That is if you're interested in making an honest woman of me," she added.
"God, yes. I just wasn't thinking that far ahead."
"I'd like to do it soon—before I start showing. I think the ceremony will be a little more decorous that way."
Once the idea took hold, he realized how much he wanted the world to know she was his wife. "As soon as we can," he answered thickly.
She pressed against him, then raised her head. "So now that I know you're not going to send me away, I think you're going to have to feed me. I was too nervous to eat anything before I came here. But now I'm ravenous. I've discovered pregnancy will do that to you."
"You want some chicken soup?" he offered. "I have a bunch of it left."
"Steak, I think. This child I'm carrying is demanding meat."
"Well, then, that's what he'll get." He climbed out of their makeshift bed, hurried down the hall to his bedroom, and pulled on a T-shirt and jeans.
When he returned he saw that she'd dressed in her shift and run her hands through her hair.
He stopped at the entrance to the great room, just staring at the woman who had changed his life, still hardly able to believe she was really in his house—really his. For the rest of his life.
She must have read the expression on his face.
"Believe it," she murmured. Then, "Go gcumhdaí is dtreoraí na déithe thú."
He gazed at her in wonder. "You know what that means?"
"Yes. 'May the gods guard and guide you.' I got myself a Gaelic dictionary. I used one of yours when I was here before. I know why you named this place Díthreabh. It's your refuge. Ours, now."
She glided toward him, kissed his lips, his cheeks, his brows as her fingertips stroked lovingly over his back and shoulders.
He gave himself over to her embrace, and in that moment, he finally understood the Lone Wolf would never be alone again.
Turn the page for Jack Thornton's pulse-pounding story in
EDGE OF THE MOON
Coming in August 2003 from Berkley Sensation
"I'VE GOT SOMETHING more important for you. Come on into my office."
Jack pushed back his chair, then followed his supervisor to the private enclosure in the corner of the squad room.
When they were both seated, Granger said, "I'd like you to interview a woman named Kathryn Reynolds." He consulted a file on his desk. "She turned in a missing person report two days ago on her tenant, Heather DeYoung. One of the uniforms at the Rockville station, Chris Kendall, took the initial report."
"Uh huh."
"We have several other missing person reports in the county. Another woman named Brenda Quinlin. A young man named Stewart Talber. And an eight-year-old boy, Kip Bradley."
Jack felt his chest tighten. A kid. About the age of his own children. He remembered the newspaper accounts of the case. There was some evidence that the boy had been abducted by his noncustodial father, but neither the man nor the boy had turned up in a month of beating the bushes for them. Jack was still hoping it was the father, because the alternative hit too close to home.
"The missing adult male is mentally ill," Granger was saying. "On the surface these cases don't seem related to each other—or to Heather DeYoung. But you're good at digging information out of witnesses and making correlations. DeYoung is the freshest case. I want your impressions—and then I want you to see if you can find any patterns."
Basically, there was nothing strange about Granger's request. Jack knew he was good at connecting the dots on cases that might not seem related. Still, Granger's manner put him on the alert. There was something else in play here. Had a bigwig with an interest in one of the cases leaned on the captain?
Jack knew he might never find out. So he simply said, "Okay," took the offered case files, and went back to his own desk to study them.
An hour later, he pulled up in front of Kathryn Reynolds's nicely preserved Victorian on Davenport Street. Out of habit, his appraising eye took in details. It was early in the season, but the flower beds were dressed with a fresh layer of mulch. Pink and red azaleas and a variety of daffodils were in bloom, along with white dogwoods.
He sat for several more minutes, still grappling with the odd, disquieting feeling that had settled over him in Granger's office. He might have ignored it, but long ago he'd learned to trust his spider senses.
He'd worked with Chris Kendall, the officer who had taken Reynolds's report, back when they were both at the Bethesda station, and he would have liked to talk to him before coming out here. But the patrolman had left the building for a doctor's appointment before Jack had gotten the assignment. Too bad, because the initial police contact was a good source of additional information. Although the uniforms put down what was required in writing, there was usually a whole lot they didn't get onto paper. Jack liked to do a little probing into their casual observations, stuff they didn't think was important enough to go in the report, or stuff they didn't even know they'd noticed, until he asked about it. He also paid attention to their opinions, which gave them a chance to express "gut feelings" that were often useful later.
Of course, Jack suspected Granger was probably planning to do the same thing with him. More than once, the captain had sent him out on an interview that hardly seemed top priority, then quizzed him on his impressions.
After climbing out of the unmarked and locking the door, he glanced toward the second floor of the house and caught a flash of red. Red hair, he realized—as fiery as flames flickering behind the windowpanes.
Was that Reynolds? Or someone else? Whoever it was had pulled back the moment he'd looked up. So was she nervous about getting caught peering out or curious about who had pulled up in front of her house?
He hadn't called ahead. She'd said she worked at home, so he'd taken a chance on catching her in—catching her off balance if there was something going on that she hadn't shared with Officer Kendall.
He tucked the folder unobtrusively under one arm and started toward the front door. According to the initial report, Ms. Reynolds owned the house and lived on the upper story. The missing woman had an apartment on the ground floor.
Jack rang the bell and listened to foot
steps coming down an inner stairway. He prepared to confirm the name of the female who opened the door; but the moment the door opened, the breath froze in his lungs so that it was impossible to speak.
He was caught and held by a pair of emerald-green eyes, a sweep of wild red hair, and skin like rich dairy cream.
His muscles went rigid. His arm clamped against the folder tucked against his body.
Time seemed to stop, like a scene from a videotape frozen on a TV screen. Unable to move forward or back away, he stared into her eyes, seeing her pupils dilate and then contract.
Everything around him was out of focus, with the exception of the slender young woman standing in the doorway. She remained sharp and clear. Details came to him: the way her breasts filled out the front of her wildflower-printed tee shirt. The smell of strawberries wafting toward him. The startled look in those green eyes.
Along with the physical awareness came a jolt of pure sexual energy, like nothing he had ever experienced in his life. Lust at first sight. It was almost palpable—arching between them like electricity between two contact points. Dangerous and at the same time so compelling that he would have leaped through a wall of fire to reach this woman if she had been on the other side.
The whole out-of-kilter experience lasted only seconds. Then the world as he knew it clicked back into real time. The moment had passed so quickly that it was easy to tell himself that it had all been in his imagination.
He clung to that theory, because if it wasn't imagination, he was hardly equipped to deal with what had happened.
The woman in the doorway took a quick step back, as if trying to escape from the same emotions bolting through him.
For several heartbeats, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Jack dragged air into his lungs and let it out before asking, "Kathryn Reynolds?" He was surprised that his voice sounded normal.
"Yes. And you are?"
"Jack Thornton, Montgomery County P.D."
Reynolds's hands clenched in front of her. "The police? Have you come to tell me something about Heather? Is it bad news?"
"Are you expecting bad news?" he asked, slipping back into his professional mode, carefully watching her reaction.
"No… I mean, I don't know. I hope not. I don't know what to expect."
"Can I come in? Then you can tell me what brought you to the station house."
"Can I see some identification?" she countered, as if she'd just realized she should have asked.
"Of course." While he pulled out his ID and shield, he was still mentally shaking his head at his out-of-character reaction in those first few seconds after she'd opened the door.
She studied his ID, then said, "I already filed a report with Officer…" She stopped and fumbled for the name. "Officer Kendall."
"Yes." Jack put away his credentials, then pulled the folder from under his arm, opened it, and showed her the forms. "I have the report right here. So can we talk?"
This time she nodded and stepped back to let him into a vestibule. He followed her through a second doorway, then up a flight of steps, watching the unconscious sway of her hips in faded jeans.
He was accustomed to making assumptions about people based on their personal spaces. Seconds after stepping into her apartment, he was thinking that Kathryn Reynolds was a study in contradictions.
In one corner of the room was an antique desk with a computer under a set of mahogany wall shelves. Catty-corner to the desk area were more shelves piled with neatly labeled folders and plastic boxes. The office atmosphere was broken by all manner of whimsical objects that adorned the work area. He saw ceramic cats, a papier-mache rooster, at least ten fancy glass paperweights, a glass unicorn. On her computer screen was an underwater scene with swimming fish and coral. When the computer made a belching, bubbling noise like a toilet flushing, she crossed the room and cranked the sound down.
He cleared his throat. "So when did you first notice that Heather DeYoung was missing?"
She walked toward one of the easy chairs, picked up a paisley pillow, and clutched it to her middle as she sat down. "It kind of crept up on me. Two days ago I realized she hadn't come home since Sunday night."
"She was missing for five days before you reported it?"
Her fingers clamped on the pillow. "You're making it sound like an accusation."
"I didn't mean to. I'm just trying to get the full picture," he said, still watching her reactions, thinking that facts were never the whole story.
"Sometimes she stays away for several days. It suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't seen her in a while."
"Okay." He answered, noting her discomfort, although he still didn't know if it was because of her friend or because of him.
For a split second he thought about what had happened when she'd opened the door. Should he say something? To clear the air? Or to find out if she'd experienced the same thing that he had?
The latter would be his primary motive, he silently admitted. A very unprofessional motive.
Usually he had an excellent sense of what questions to ask a witness or a suspect. Today he fumbled for the right approach.
"Let's see. Ms. DeYoung works for the Montgomery County School System—as a substitute teacher. That pays enough to support her?"
"She says it does."
"But she could have some other source of income?"
"I don't know."
He set finances aside for the moment. He had other ways of poking into the woman's fiscal solvency. Instead, he quickly switched topics. "So Ms. DeYoung is unreliable?"
She tipped her head to one side. "Where did you get that impression?"
"It isn't unusual for her to take off for several days—on a whim." He waited for her to counter the statement.
"Yes, but she pays her rent on time. She doesn't give me any problems."
"What kind of problems are you referring to?"
"She doesn't play loud music. She doesn't have wild parties. She doesn't wake me up at two in the morning if the toilet's stopped up. She gets out a plunger."
He nodded, thinking about what she was saying and what she was leaving out. "Does she have any bad habits? Drugs, alcohol? Something that could get her into trouble?"
"No," she said, but could have sounded more sure.
"But?"
Reynolds swallowed. "I don't like to make judgments. And I don't like to talk about people."
"I understand. But if it will help us find Heather, I'd appreciate your insights."
She swallowed, then answered. "Okay, I don't like her boyfriend."
"Because?"
"He takes advantage. She loves him, but he doesn't love her."
"How do you mean, 'takes advantage'?"
"He's borrowed money from her." She stopped, played with the fringe of the pillow. "I wouldn't tell you this if it weren't important. He told her he'd stop dating her if she didn't have an abortion last year, but she was the one who had to pay for it."
The guy sounded like a real winner, but Jack still didn't know whether or not Reynolds was exaggerating her assessment. "She discussed all that with you?"
"Yes. We've gotten to be good friends."
"What's his name?"
"Gary Swinton."
"Could she be at his house?"
"His apartment," she corrected. "I thought of that. I called and left a couple of messages on his answering machine."
"Do you have a phone number for him, an address?"
"In my Rolodex." She stood, set the pillow down on the chair, and crossed to the desk, where she flipped through cards—then gave him the requested information.
"What about a work address?"
She thought about that. "I know he's a clerk at Circuit City. The one in Bethesda. I think he's in small electronics—because he got a good deal for her on a floor model table-top stereo. But I don't have the address."
"I know where it is. Can you give me a description? Some way I'll recognize him?"
Her hand skimmed acr
oss the desk, settled over a foot-long clear plastic rod with colored liquid and shiny stars and moons inside. When she tipped it on end, the liquid and the glitter began to flow up and down the tube.
She stared at the bobbing glitter, her brow wrinkling. "He's about thirty years old. Blond hair. Light eyes. They're set close together. His hair is usually just one beat too long—maybe to hide his bald spot. He's average height. Not too heavy. He's got a small scar on the left side of his chin. I guess that would be the most identifying mark."
"Okay. That's great," he said, writing it down. "You're good at detail."
"My art background."
"Yeah."
She was still playing with the plastic tube. He watched the swirl of colors. "What's that?"
She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "A magic wand."
"Where did you get it?"
"Don't tell me you need one."
"Sometimes I'd like to have one. But I was thinking my daughter would like it."
"Oh, you're married."
"I was…" He let the sentence trail off. Probably she thought he was divorced, and he didn't want her thinking that he couldn't make a marriage work. Then he reminded himself that it didn't matter what she thought about him. He was interviewing her about a missing person—that was all.
"Oh," she said again, twirling the plastic rod in her hand.
His eyes were drawn to the bits of glitter and the swirling blue liquid. For a moment they both watched the shifting motion inside the beveled plastic.
"What would you do with a magic wand if you had one?" she asked.
"Solve Stone Who Done Its."
"What's a Stone Who Done It?"
"A case where there are no solid suspects and no leads."
"Um."
He watched her lips form the syllable, then roused himself from his study of her—a very unprofessional study. "Would it be possible for me to see Ms. DeYoung's apartment?"
She hesitated. "I'd feel like you were invading her privacy."
