by Rita Herron
“Have any of his patients had problems with him? Any complaints?”
The two women traded questioning looks, but clamped their mouths shut.
“Like I said, we’t be gossiping,” Wynona said.
Eileen latched on to the other nurse’s arm. “That’s right, we could lose our jobs.”
“Two women have been murdered,” Mark said. “Other lives may be at stake.”
They glanced nervously around, then Eileen leaned closer. “Well, there was a female patient who complained. She said he…he came onto her.”
Mark frowned. “Did anyone corroborate her story?”
“No, as a matter of fact Dr. Kos questioned the girl, but she didn’t believe her.”
“But you do?”
Eileen shrugged and Wynona bit her lip. “The girl did have some questionable bruises on her arms. She claimed he grabbed her, but he denied everything. According to him, she got volatile, and he had to restrain her.”
Lassiter’s name moved up a notch in Mark’s mental database of suspects. As if they regretted the confidence they’d shared, the women rushed off, so he headed toward Claire’s office.
When he arrived, she was locking up for the night. “Claire?”
She jerked her head up and anger knotted his stomach at the sight of a fresh bruise on her cheek. He lifted his hand, brushed his fingers across the red welt, his breath tight in his chest. “Who did this?”
She blinked and dropped her head forward as if to shield the wound from him, but he cupped her chin in his hand and refused to let her hide. “Who hit you, Claire?”
“One of my patients got upset. It’s nothing, Mark.”
“The hell it’s not. A patient attacked you and you call it nothing?”
“He simply reacted to a traumatic memory, and I happened to be in the way. Accidents go with the territory.” She pulled away, but he caught her arm, refusing to let her run. His heart was pounding.
“His name, Claire?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I can’t tell you that, Mark.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both. If I don’t protect my patients’ privacy, they won’t confide in me. Then I’m useless.”
“Dammit, Claire, you told Lassiter? And how helpful will you be to your patients if you end up dead?”
She sighed, anger tightening her mouth. Or was it fear? “Kurt is another psychologist, Mark. I was asking his professional opinion.”
“That’s not how it looked to me.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “My relationship with Kurt is none of your business.”
He wrapped his hands around her arms, determined to make her realize she might be in danger. He didn’t want her to fall for Lassiter’s innocent boy act.
“You can’t trust anyone, Claireot right now. It’s too dangerous.”
This time she raised her chin. Even though she couldn’t see him, he felt her eyes bore into his as if she could. “I know how dangerous trusting a man can be, Mark. After all, I once trusted you.”
Her words cut him like a knife. But regardless of her feelings toward him, he had to protect her.
“Did you know that Lassiter’s ex-fiancée died suspiciously?”
The quiver of her bottom lip indicated she hadn’t.
“And one of his patients made allegations against him.”
“She was manic,” Claire said. “And those claims were never substantiated.”
“It does make you wonder, though,” Mark said. Claire suddenly seemed apprehensive, as if he’d started the wheels of doubt turning in her mind.
Good. It was better she be paranoid and alive than trusting and dead.
CLAIRE STRUGGLED to calm her tumultuous emotions on the ride back from the station. She didn’t want to distrust her patients, her friends or her co-workers. At CIRP, she had started to finally feel safe. To heal.
But the killings, and Mark’s warning, had shattered that sense of safety.
She struggled to remember the details of Kurt’s fiancée’s death and his female patient’s complaint. His fiancée had had emotional problems, had been anorexic but trying to recover. Then she’d become obsessed with Kurt. A suicide hadn’t been expected, but in retrospect, Kurt had professed that there might have been signs. Signs she’d kept well hidden. He’d blamed himself…or so it had seemed.
His patient had been young, suffering from a manic-depressive disorder. Her bouts of hysteria had been occurring daily and had gradually grown more acute. Then that day, she had claimed Kurt had hinted at trading sexual favors for drugs.
Claire had listened to her story, but she hadn’t believed her. It was easy and not uncommon for patients, especially female patients, to blame their doctors, to accuse their male caretakers of sexual harassment. The girl had a history of not taking responsibility for her own actions. Of lying to get attention. She’d been angry and going through withdrawal from her cocaine addiction.
Had Claire been wrong in not listening to her more carefully? Had she been so blinded by Kurt’s kindness to her that she’d been oblivious to the truth?
No…
“You still like Italian food, don’t you?” Mark asked as he parked at Antonio’s, a place they had frequented when they’d dated.
Mark’s voice broke through the haze of her troubled thoughts. They had shared a love for rich spicy food just as they had coffee and making love in the mornings.
“Claire?”
“Yes, I still like Italian food.”
“Good.” He opened the door, and she inhaled to calm herselfhis was a business dinner. Not a romantic night with her lover.
He led her to the back of the room, the delicious scents of marinara sauce and garlic bread wafting around her. Without asking, he ordered the half and half combination pizza they’d shared when they’d dated.
“Wine, Claire?”
Yes, she would love some to ease the tension. “No, thanks, I have to concentrate on the show tonight.”
“You wouldn’t if you’d give it up until this case is over.”
She fumbled with her water glass, silently willing herself not to make a fool of herself in front of Mark. He hadn’t come for romance. “Don’t start again, okay?”
“I…I’m sorry, Claire, but I’m worried about you.”
And don’t pretend you care. “I’ll be fine. After all, the FBI and the Savannah police are both working on the investigation.” She toyed with the napkin in her lap. “Why are you really working with the FBI, Mark? I thought you intended to make a career out of the military?”
His hesitation resonated with tension, reminding her of the reporter’s comment. “I received a medical discharge,” he said in a gruff voice.
Claire’s hands tightened around the napkin. Were his injuries visible? She wanted to reach out and touch him, make sure his face hadn’t changed, that he hadn’t been hurt. But she’d given up that right when she’d returned his ring. “What happened?”
“My men and I were ambushed. I took some shrapnel to my shoulder.”
“But you’re all right?” She hadn’t detected a limp or a cane. And he wasn’t in a wheelchair.
“I’m fine, although it affected my marksman abilities,” he said in a dark voice.
“And the other men with you?”
He hesitated. “They weren’t so lucky.”
“They didn’t survive?”
His breath rasped out. “No, my entire unit was lost.”
Claire’s heart squeezed at the anguish in his voice. She couldn’t help herself, she reached out and placed her hand over his. The brief contact sent heat curling in her belly, resurrected hidden desires and yearnings that she had only felt with Mark. His hands were so strong, callused, wide, his fingers long and blunt. But they had been so magical. “I’m sorry, Mark. I’m sure you did everything you could to save them.”
His hand stiffened beneath hers while his silence suggested he blamed himself. “Do you want to talk about it?”<
br />
“No.”
The waitress appeared to deliver their food and Mark pulled away, his dismissal of the subject evident when he began to talk about the pizza. She allowed him to give her a slice, then she concentrated on eating, afraid she’d dribble food on her clothing and not even know it. He lapsed into silence, their conversation during the meal stilted
Back in the car, she tried to pull herself together and stop worrying about Mark. He didn’t want her concern, and he obviously didn’t intend to share his problems.
But his presence in her life, along with his comments about Kurt Lassiter, added to her mounting distress. She detested living under this constant level of distrust.
And she sensed that Mark’s attitude toward Kurt held a personal edge to it that had nothing to do with Kurt being a suspect. Mark had sounded almost jealous.
No, Mark was not jealous. Why would he be? He hadn’t written or called when he’d received the ring.
The army had been his life. He’d told her that when he’d decided to leave, he’d chosen it over her.
But she was still surprised he’d accepted the discharge. He could have stayed on, taken a desk job.
But Mark was not a desk job kind of man.
Had his friends’ deaths affected him so deeply that he would give up his career goals? Was he battling inner demons? Or had she read too much into the threads of darkness she heard in his voice?
“We’re here.”
Claire gathered her cane and purse. “Thanks for the ride.”
He sighed. “I’ll park the car and meet you inside in a minute.”
“You don’t have to baby-sit me during the show, Mark.”
“I want to be there if there’s another call.”
Claire relented and nodded, then climbed the steps to the station and opened the door.
“Evening, Ms. Claire.”
It was Arden, the janitor who was always so nice. “Are you done for the night?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Got to go home and see about the wife. She’s not feeling too well.”
“Tell her hello for me, and I hope she’s better soon.”
He held the door for her, then left, and she entered the radio station. Inside, she headed straight to the elevator, but when she reached it, her cane hit a sign on the floor.
“It’s out of order,” a man said in a low voice. “We’re working on it now, Miss. You’ll have to take the stairs.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need help?”
“No, thank you.” Claire frowned, an uneasy feeling gnawing at her. But she shook it off. Mark had definitely stirred her paranoia with his comments, but she refused to give into it.
After all, the man was just a repairman. And if the elevator was broken, there would be other people in the stairwell.
Sweeping the cane in front of her, she turned and walked toward the door that led to it. A dank odor assaulted her when she entered. Cigarette smoke. Maybe sweat. A chill washed over her. The stairway had always been drafty, she remembered, pausing as she heard footsteps behind her. Hating her visual impairment for adding to her paranoia, she, then climbed one level. The footsteps remained the same distance behind her.
She stopped, deciding that it might be another crew member. Maybe even Drew. But the footsteps halted as well.
“Hello, who’s there?”
An eerie silence echoed through the cement walls. “Drew?”
Again, no one answered. And there was that odd odor.
She gripped the stair rail and took another step, hoping she’d imagined it. But it lingered—some kind of medicinal scent similar to the one in her cottage the day she’d had the intruder.
Her stomach clenched in response, and she called out again, “Who’s there?”
But this time the whisper of a voice drifted toward her, “Bad girls must die, Claire. But you’re not a bad girl, are you?”
Claire gripped the stair railing and ran, stumbling up the stairs. Panicked, she misjudged the distance between steps and lost her footing. Her knees hit the concrete, she bit back a cry, and tasted blood.
Then the whisper of the man’s breath brushed her cheek, his singsongy voice piercing the air around her.
Chapter Seven
“Where’s Claire?”
The station manager glanced up at Mark over an assortment of CDs as he readied for Claire’s show. “She hasn’t come in yet.”
“What?” Alarm rang in Mark’s mind. “I dropped her off in front a few minutes ago.”
Drew shrugged. “Maybe she went to the ladies’ room.”
Mark breathed in and out. “Right.” So, why did he suddenly feel so uncomfortable, as if his sixth sense was alerting him to danger, just as it had seconds before the attack on his men?
He checked the clock. After he’d parked the car, he’d phoned Detective Black at the Savannah P.D. for an update before he’d entered the building. That had been a good ten minutes.
His gaze scanned the room. Through the glass window, he noticed a rose on Claire’s desk. It wasn’t in a vase, but wrapped in dark green tissue. The warning bells clanged louder. “Where did that come from?”
Drew followed his gaze, his expression perplexed. Then he spotted the rose and frowned. “I don’t know. It wasn’t there when I arrived.”
“Did you leave the area?”
“I forgot some notes and ran back to my office. I couldn’t have been gone more than a few minutes.”
Mark dashed inside the room and checked the card. The envelope was plain white, no florist’s logo. And it was addressed to Claire.
His anxiety level rose another notch. He slid the card from the envelope.
Rose are red, violets are blue, a single red rose means I love you.
Your secret admirer
Damn. If the killer had dropped it off personally, that meant he had been in the building.
He might still be around. And Claire was nowhere to be seen.
His heart pounding, he called security to check the building, then rushed from the room, and scanned the hallways but saw nothing. He raced to the ladies’ room and knocked, then poked his head in. “Claire?”
It was empty.
He ran toward the elevator, fighting full-fledged panic. The bell dinged, it opened, and a brunette exited. “Excuse me, have you seen Dr. Kos?”
“Who?”
He stifled a curse. “Dr. Kos? The psychologist, she hosts the radio show, Calling Claire?”
“Oh, yes, she was in the lobby a few minutes ago.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“No. She went into the stairwell.”
Why would Claire take the stairs? It didn’t make sense.
He thanked the woman, then spotted a security guard and explained the situation. “Make sure all the exits are barred. Stop anyone who enters or tries to leave.”
Then he vaulted toward the stairs at a sprint. Just as he opened the door, Claire stumbled out, grasping for the wall, her cane bobbing between them. Her hair was disheveled, her face flushed, her breathing rapid. A swift inventory revealed bloody knees and a scrape to her arm.
He grabbed her to pull her to him, but she pushed at him. “Let me go!”
“Claire,” he said in a ragged whisper, “it’s okay, it’s me.”
“What?”
“It’s me, Mark.” He gently shook her. “You’re safe now.”
She bit down on her lip, emotions clouding her face. His stomach clenched. His own primal need overcame reason, and he dragged her into his arms, pressing her head into the crook of his shoulder. Someone had obviously been after her, but she’d survived. Thank God.
Unable to stop himself, he stroked her back, dropped a soft comforting kiss into her silky hair, then closed his eyes and held her.
FOR A BRIEF FEW SECONDS, Claire savored being in Mark’s arms, her earlier ordeal having shaken her to the core. Mark was real. Strong. Safe.
Or was he safe?
No, he had hurt her…
Stil
l, she was trembling so badly she couldn’t bear to pull away. His familiar scent washed over her in a comforting caress, although his chest heaved up and down erratically as if he’d beenun as well.
“Claire, thank God you’re all right.”
She nodded against his chest, her trembling subsiding slightly. But she was still afraid to speak, afraid her voice would reveal the terror rippling through her.
He brushed her neck with his fingertips, then lifted her chin toward him. She felt him scrutinizing her face, searching for injuries, and she desperately wished she could see his expression, that the darkness that had clouded her vision for the past year would lift and allow her to look into his eyes, just one more time. Then she might be able to read his emotions, understand the feelings that had drawn him away from her, and the truth that had brought him back into her life.
But she couldn’t allow herself to fall back into the trap of wanting him, needing him. She was much too vulnerable. Besides, why would he want a life with her now that she was imperfect?
She didn’t want pity, or for him to feel responsible or guilty. She would never be a burden to anyone. She’d told her sister the same thing and she’d meant it.
“What happened, Claire? Why were you in the stairwell?”
She licked her lips. “The elevator was out, so—”
“The elevator isn’t out, Claire.”
As if to punctuate his statement, the familiar elevator chime sounded. A shiver rippled through her. Mark must have felt it because he rubbed his hands up and down the sides of her arms.
“But there was a sign, and a man…in the lobby. He told me they were repairing it.”
“The elevator was fine when I came in. And I didn’t see a repairman.”
Claire swallowed. “He…I don’t understand.” Or did she? The man who’d been in the stairwell, he’d been posing as a repairman to trap her. And she’d been so gullible.
Mark’s silence reverberated with the same realization.
“He must have followed me into the stairwell,” she finally whispered. “I heard footsteps behind me and called out, then I stumbled, and he was there.”
