Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (9 Novels from Bestselling Authors, plus Bonus Christmas Novella from NY Times Bestselling Author Rebecca York)

by Kaylea Cross

  “Libby. My daughter Libby.” Brownlee was short of breath from the quick run across the lawn. “This is Libby’s cat. She didn’t come home last night.”

  The detective was going to call something into his shoulder radio when Brownlee heard his daughter’s screams coming from inside the house. With a mixture of relief and sadness, he saw her run toward the edge of the pool, where the small, dark body of the wet feline lay on a yellow plastic sheet. It was guarded by a member of San Diego’s finest, one who was way too short for his girth.

  “Noodles!” she screamed. It broke his heart. She ran past him, sank to her knees and wailed over the dead animal. “No. No.”

  Brownlee was filled with panic and stood watching his daughter unravel, unable to move. She was hysterical. He wasn’t sure what to do.

  Carla ran past the doctor on her way to her daughter’s side, giving him The Look.

  “Carla,” Brownlee whispered as he caught Carla’s arm and pulled her back to his side. “Where’s she been?”

  “She’s been with Him.”

  “Shit,” he whispered. It got the attention of the investigating detective.

  “Now is not the time, Austin. Would you just shut up for once?”

  She was good at showing him non-verbally something he could never say to any of his patients: “Are you out of your mind?”

  * * *

  An hour later, all the police and rescue workers left the Brownlee back yard. A report had been made. Libby had gone upstairs with Carla. He heard the two women talking in whispers, an occasional sob punctuating the echoes.

  Like the whispers in my own head. Perhaps he was losing it, after all. He knew many of his patients heard these whispers, commanding them to do things. Unspeakable things. Could one of them have killed Libby’s cat?

  After verifying it was after three o’clock—his personal rule governing when he could have his first drink before dinner—he poured himself what he knew would be the beginning of several drinks of the day. Dinner would take care of the first buzz. The second buzz would put him into a comatose sleep, until he woke up sweating at about three in the morning, unable to sleep again. He knew he needed help. As a doctor, he recognized it. As a patient, he was powerless over the grip of the fear immobilizing him.

  With his drink in one hand, he sat back down at the table and continued his mail perusal. There were those two smiley-faced letters. He took a sip of courage, inhaled and slit open the first one with a steak knife. He pulled the letter from the envelope. Did he really want to know what it said?

  Hell yes. Denial again. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Not yet.

  Placing his hands in sandwich baggies so he wouldn’t taint the evidence, he slipped the letter out from the envelope. A single piece of paper. Perfumed. Something familiar about it. On pink stationery. The letters were cut out of magazines and formed the message:

  Y-O-U W-I-L-L P-A-Y

  The other message was just as brief: G-E-T R-E-A-D-Y F-O-R H-E-L-L.

  He’d thought perhaps someone had found out he’d donated to the Women’s Free Health Clinic. Perhaps they got a copy of all their benefactors and sent out hate mail. But this was definitely more personal. Seeing his daughter’s cat at the bottom of the pool, and hearing her anguished screams did feel like Hell itself.

  He gulped down the rest of his drink and stared at the letters.

  Why? For a mistake I made? He couldn’t think of anyone with this level of anger that was not institutionalized. He scanned his files, mentally. Could not find any animal abusers he was treating, or treatments that had gone wrong. Except for the ones he couldn’t stop from taking their own lives. Those haunted him daily.

  He slipped the notes back inside their envelopes, and tucked the two envelopes inside the bills and took them to his study. Opening up a file drawer, he slipped the bills and the notes in the To Be Paid file and re-locked the drawer.

  The little headache that had niggled around the back of his head now came on strong, pounding his skull at the temples. He’d go see his friend on the force and show him the letters. Tonight he needed to be with his women.

  Carla closed the door to Libby’s room behind her as he rounded the top of the stairs.

  He took her in his arms and held her while she wept silently. His big hand rubbed through her hair, finding the top of her spine, where he massaged her neck while he held her.

  “Who is doing this, Austin? Do you know?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone deeply disturbed.” He sighed. “I’ll go see Clark at the precinct. Maybe he will give me something to look for.”

  She drew back to stare into his eyes. “Look for? You think you know this person somehow? One of your patients?”

  He didn’t want to answer that question, but he could see she’d figured it out. Twenty-five years of marriage made it easy for her to spot his fear, to intuit what he feared. He’d learned long ago it was useless to hide his feelings from her. She read him like a book. The way he wished he could read his patients.

  “Maybe,” he whispered. “But no one that I’m aware of.” He held her face between his palms. “Carla, no one, understand? I wouldn’t be treating someone like this without precautions.”

  She nodded.

  He felt like a heel, but he didn’t want to tell her about the letters. Maybe the cat caper would satisfy the pervert. Or, maybe there was evidence on the letters the police could use to catch the guy. Either way, he didn’t want Carla alarmed. He would tell her to take precautions tonight, after they’d had a family meal, and after his head cleared. In the meantime, he’d set up a meeting for tomorrow with his friend in the San Diego Police Department. He’d also be rehearsing that speech to Carla several times.

  It was going to be nearly impossible to get Carla out of the house, but he knew it was time to face the reality of their situation. He had to make her understand, without showing her the letters.

  If that was possible.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day, Dr. Brownlee knew Detective Clark Riverton was not happy about his call, and had probably spent the morning cleaning up his office in preparation for their meeting. It was Sunday, after all, and Brownlee had insisted they meet at the detective’s office, not the Brownlee home. That made it more official. And meant he didn’t yet have to tell his wife and daughter about the letters.

  The surface of Riverton’s dented metal desk was hardly ever exposed, not like today. The detective’s man-cave was a perpetual cleanup in process, one never completed. The desk’s soft plastic top was perfect for pressing hard when filling out quadruplicate forms for the Department. Over the years he’d seen the man grip his medium point blue pens and press so hard, as if to savor making indentations in the soft grey surface beneath. After coming back from an interview or profile meeting, Brownlee would watch the detective rummage for a patch of desk surface, and fill out those reports. It was totally unnecessary in this day and age of computers, which of course could be altered with a keystroke.

  The good old days.

  He was struck by how heavy Clark had gotten. He’d gained as much weight as Brownlee had lost. Riverton stood and extended his hand.

  “Austin. Good to see you. We’re overdue.” He pointed to a chair and Dr. Brownlee sat down as the metal groaned beneath him. He suspected these chairs were uncomfortable for a reason. Riverton wasn’t the chit-chat type of cop.

  “Thanks, Clark. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” Brownlee said while rearranging his legs. It did no good. He decided to get right to it. “I’ve got something going on.”

  “Okay. Saw the report about your daughter’s cat. Not good. Not good at all.”

  “Agreed. That’s why I’m here.”

  A series of rings distracted Riverton. He wrinkled his forehead as he searched the outside nearly deserted room. Several lines ringing continued. He swore.

  “Just a minute, Austin. I gotta get someone on these damned phones. Been crazy
over here all morning.”

  He yelled at one of the female staff. “Helen, the phones!”

  She delivered him a murderous look while she slowly ambled toward a headset. A pair of detectives were drinking coffee in another office and came out to give her a hand.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  Riverton closed the door behind him, adjusted his wrinkled tie, and deposited his frame in the cracked leather swivel chair. He gave full attention to his friend. “Sorry.”

  Brownlee looked at his lap, pulling out a plastic baggie containing two envelopes. He handed them across the desk. “You’ll want to look at these. I got them yesterday.”

  The detective slipped on a pair of gloves and opened the sealed freezer bag. Side by side, he laid each letter over the envelopes they came in, and looked back and forth between them.

  “Jeez, Austin.”

  Brownlee began, “I got the first one on Wednesday of last week, but tossed it. These two came yesterday morning. I opened them after we found the cat.”

  “They came after the cat was killed?”

  “No. They were already at my house when I found the cat.” Brownlee took a smaller baggie out of his inside jacket pocket. “And then I got this one first thing this morning. It didn’t come in the mail, of course. It was left in my box sometime last night or this morning.”

  Clark opened the offered bag and laid the contents on top. There was a photocopy of a picture. A man’s muscular fist was around the neck of a grey and white tabby cat. The cat’s body was limp. A tattoo of a three-toed frog tracks extended from the man’s wrist to the inside of his elbow.

  “I’ve seen this tat before,” Riverton said.

  “Where?” Dr. Brownlee asked.

  Riverton fired a look that drilled all the way to Brownlee’s soul. “On my dead brother-in-law.”

  Brownlee didn’t know what to say.

  “He was in the Navy. Special Forces. In Afghanistan, about four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Riverton looked back at the picture in his hands.

  “That was—is—Noodles, Libby’s cat,” Brownlee said.

  Riverton slowly shook his head. “He’s one sick bastard.”

  Brownlee knew by the expression on Riverton’s face this wasn’t going to have a happy ending. “I gotta ask you, Austin. Why the hell did you wait until you had a dead cat and three letters to show me?”

  His shrugged. Denial? Yeah, probably. He felt tired, defeated. “No reason, Clark. Just thought it would blow over.”

  “And the last time one of these fuckers just rode off into the sunset without killing someone human, was when, exactly?”

  Did Riverton think he was an idiot? His right eye twitched.

  “Austin, look, I know you are one helluva psychiatrist, but you know as well as I do, this is a police matter now. Besides which, you’re too damn close to work this case or try to do things on your own. You don’t mess around with these types. Ever. You understand?”

  “Yes. So, where do we start?”

  “We don’t start anywhere. You’re out.”

  “That’s not possible. This involves my family.”

  “These situations always involve someone’s family. Hell, I don’t have to tell you that. Someone’s family knows about this guy, and has overlooked the symptoms. Gave him the benefit of the doubt and now he’s out causing all kind of havoc for innocent people.”

  Innocent people? What if I’m guilty?

  “So, I’m supposed to sit on my hands?” he said. He was getting irritated.

  “You won’t like this answer. I’m going to need a profile of all your patients.”

  Brownlee shook his head and held up his palms. “Can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can, if it will save a life.”

  “I think the guy is targeting me, and isn’t a danger to the public.”

  “That’s horseshit and you know it, Austin.” Riverton held up the picture of the cat. “He’s already a danger to the public. See what I mean about being too close?”

  He knew Clark was right. Just didn’t want to think about it more than he had to.

  “You got a monitoring system on the house? Cameras?” Clark queried.

  “Wouldn’t have helped the cat any.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Austin. I’m not thinking about the goddamned cat!”

  “I’ll look into it,” Brownlee said, adjusting his collar and rolling his shoulder.

  “You better treat this seriously, Austin. And watch everything going on around you, even if you think it doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, point taken. But, I don’t think it’s someone I’m treating. Clark, you have to give me some credit. I’d spot this guy a mile away.”

  Riverton leaned back in his chair. “I understand. I might even agree with you. But we just can’t take any chances. I think you seriously should consider moving out of your house. Take a vacation. You need to get away from here and let us do the job we get paid to do.”

  He’d never get Carla out of the house. There had to be some other way. He didn’t want to let this letter-writing cretin feel like he’d won. If he could spare telling Carla about those letters, he would.

  Not a chance. Have to tell her now. Tell her tonight.

  “Clark, we’re not going anywhere. We stand and fight,” he said at last.

  “This isn’t a war, Austin.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “Look—you recognize the signs—this guy wants to get caught. He’ll keep doing this until he does. He can’t help himself.”

  “My only concern is for my wife and daughter.”

  “Exactly. Glad you’re thinking straight. I’m worried about the whole lot of you, even if you’re not. They’ve got to leave. If you won’t go, then please, Austin, make sure they do.”

  * * *

  Driving home, Dr. Brownlee didn’t know how to tell his wife he agreed with his detective friend. He’d have to dynamite her from the property. It would be easier to transplant their twenty-five year old fruit orchard and her flowerbeds than get her to leave. But he had to try.

  Or, he could hire a private security firm to watch the house. He knew Carla would hate feeling like she was in prison. So would he. Maybe get some cameras and monitors added to his alarm system. Yeah, that might work. And if it didn’t?

  He had to discuss it with her before Riverton’s team came over tomorrow to interview the three of them.

  If she had to move, he wasn’t sure how he’d protect her unless they stayed together. It wouldn’t work to have her move and him stay behind to help catch the guy, so that option was out. Libby would be back in grad school, living with her roommate off campus, but probably rarely alone. She would be safe enough. Brownlee doubted she was the target, anyway.

  He didn’t like either option. He didn’t like not being in control, not that he didn’t trust the police and his friend of twenty-plus years. He just knew he was likely to notice things they would miss. If he was not there, how would those instincts be able to help?

  As he approached his house, he saw a red scooter parked up by the rollup door at the end of the driveway, making it impossible for him to enter his own garage. Anger welled up. That damned SEAL had already inserted himself in his family, no doubt using his charm on his wife and daughter.

  Briskly striding over the patterned concrete stones leading from the garage, he made it to his front porch just as the antique metal and glass door opened and out stepped the SEAL, towering over him.

  Sneaky bastard, visiting with my wife and daughter while I’m away.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid I left the scooter in your way.” The Navy man averted his eyes.

  “Damned right, son.” Brownlee watched the SEAL fist both hands, leaving them at his sides. “Our guests usually park in the street, where it doesn’t interfere with our needs. You do understand that don’t you, son?” Cooper stepped as close to him as he could without touching. “I take offense being called your son. Sir. Be
sides, I’m not here to visit you. I came to see Libby.”

  “Well isn’t that just what a father wants to hear?” Dr. Brownlee stared up at the towering giant and tried to grin. He was counting on the element of control being on Cooper’s side.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  “I’m going to move my fucking bike.” Cooper finally said, breaking eye contact as he stepped around him. The SEAL walked the scooter across the Brownlee’s lawn and parked it at the edge a flowerbed, kickstand firmly on concrete, but not touching the street.

  You Navy asshole. Somewhere deep inside Brownlee knew that his brother Will, if he were angry, would have done the same.

  “You think I’m tough?” Brownlee started, “You’d better hope that thing doesn’t fall into my wife’s flowers. You’ll get a piece of her mind you won’t forget. She tends those flowers like her life depends on it.”

  “Yeah?” Coop said as his gangly frame ambled up the pathway like a huge dancer, on his way toward the front door. He put his hands on his hips and forced a grin. “I guess I’d play with flowers all day long if I was married to the likes of you.”

  “You fucking asshole. I think…”

  “Austin!” The sound of Carla’s voice punctured the air. Libby stood just behind her mother on the porch landing. Both the women were looking at him, not the giant who wore that stupid victory grin.

  Then Carla leveled her gaze at Cooper. “Both of you ought to be ashamed. Acting like a couple of grade school kids on the playground. Grow up.” She left the porch and Libby ran outside and into the arms of the SEAL. No mistaking the signs of a budding relationship between the two, Brownlee noted. It made him sick to his stomach.

  Cooper was whispering in his daughter’s ear, and, as much as Brownlee wanted to hear the words, he also didn’t. It hurt that the sailor was being the one to console his daughter who had spent most of last night in tears over the loss of her cat. Tears Brownlee couldn’t stop for her.

  Brownlee retreated to his car, started it up, punched the door clicker, and parked inside. He sat for a moment in the silence and the darkness of his garage. How had his world gone so completely off-kilter? When did it change? Then he did the unthinkable. He had that thought he counseled people all day about. But he couldn’t help it.