First-Class Father

by Charlotte Douglas

  “You’re going to sleep. Jeb Greenlea’s standing guard in the hall, and I’m staying right here.” Dylan shifted her gently onto the pillow, smoothed her covers and lowered his lips to hers.

  She wanted to tell him he needed rest, too, but her mouth refused to cooperate. Savoring the taste of his kiss, she drifted into unconsciousness.

  THE PRESSURE OF A HAND on his shoulder roused Dylan from a deep sleep. Instantly alert and reaching for his gun, he leaped from his chair.

  “Easy, Wade. It’s me, Cramer.”

  Dylan’s vision focused, and when he recognized the St. Pete detective, he relaxed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Have you made an arrest?” Heather asked from her bed.

  “No.” Cramer waved Dylan back into his seat. “But we’ve made some progress, of sorts.”

  Still punchy from sleep, Dylan sank into his chair. Heather pushed the bed’s remote control and raised herself to a sitting position. Her color had returned, and when she’d spoken, her voice was stronger Dylan uttered a silent prayer of gratitude, then turned his attention to Cramer. “What kind of progress?”

  Cramer perched on the wide windowsill, removed his glasses and began cleaning the lenses with his tie. “We’ve eliminated two suspects.”

  “Who?” Surprise drove the last dregs of sleep from Dylan’s mind.

  “The range officer backed up Andy Hayward’s alibi.” Cramer held his glasses to the light to check for spots. “Andy was target shooting every morning, just like he said.”

  “So he couldn’t have kidnapped Chip or shot at me,” Heather said.

  “Yeah, and the guy obviously doesn’t have the money to pay someone else to do his dirty work,” Dylan observed.

  Cramer jammed his glasses on. “Tipton’s alibi checks out, too. We questioned his wife, asked if she tried to reach Ms. Taylor at her school, but Ms. Tipton was out of town, with witnesses to vouch for her.”

  “And Tipton’s guns?” Dylan asked.

  “He insisted we run a ballistics check on every one. None of the slugs from his rifles matched the ones taken from Ms. Taylor’s kitchen.”

  “And the pistols?”

  “No matches with the markings on the cartridges from the packing house.”

  Heather looked thoughtful. “Unlike Andy, Robert Tipton does have the money to pay someone else to kidnap Chip or shoot at me.”

  “But what’s his motive?” Cramer said. “I interviewed several of his friends. The guy was hot when his daughter didn’t make valedictorian, but he got over it.”

  “Anything on the others on Heather’s list?” Dylan asked.

  “We’ve questioned them all, but none is a likely suspect Most had alibis. A few didn’t know who Ms. Taylor is.”

  “They could be lying,” Dylan said.

  “True,” Cramer said, “but my men are good. They know the subtle signals to watch for.”

  “Somebody’s trying to kill her. That knife wound isn’t a figment of her imagination.”

  Behind his thick lenses, Cramer considered Heather with gloomy eyes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor. I wish we could catch the son of a…gun, but our investigation has hit a wall. Unless there’s something you haven’t told us?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody wants this ended more than I do. If I could think of anything—”

  “I’m sure you’ll let me know.” Cramer rose from the windowsill and smoothed his crumpled tie. “Take care of that arm. Wade, keep me informed.”

  When Cramer left, Dylan turned to Heather. The afternoon sun streaming in the window lit her face with an ethereal glow. Remembering how close she’d come to becoming the angel she resembled, he suppressed a chill. “You’re looking better.”

  “I’m feeling well enough to leave.” Her brief smile melted his insides. With her good hand, she began rummaging through the drawers of the bedside table and rolling tray.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for pencil and paper.”

  “Why?”

  “To make a plan.”

  An inveterate listmaker and organizer, Heather had always approached every challenge with a blueprint Loss of blood and an armful of sutures apparently hadn’t dissuaded her. He didn’t try to stop her search. Might as well attempt to halt the tide. “A plan? What for?”

  She located a piece of hospital stationery and a ballpoint pen. Pulling the tray across her lap, she wrote plan in block letters across the top of the paper. “To catch the stalker.”

  “You don’t catch a stalker with a plan. You need clues, motives, witnesses—”

  “Been there, done that, and it got us nowhere. No, actually, I ended up here. So now we’ll make a plan.”

  Her eyes glittered like emeralds flecked with gold. Afraid she might be feverish, he placed his wrist to her forehead. It felt cool against his skin.

  She slapped his hand away. “We’ll never get anything done if you don’t cooperate.”

  Lovemaking, not cooperation, was what he had in mind, but the hospital room was neither the time nor place.

  Resigned to allowing her organizational impulse to run its course and prepared to humor her, he sank into the chair. “What kind of plan do you have in mind?”

  “A trap.”

  He didn’t like the direction she was headed.

  She put down her pen and leaned toward him. “When has this stalker shown himself?”

  In spite of his intentions to accommodate her, he sighed. “We’ve been through all this before. What’s the point?”

  Her brief flare of animation ended, and her expression turned grim. “This person has appeared four times. First when he kidnapped Chip, at the ransom drop, when he shot up my kitchen and, finally, last night. The one common factor on all four occasions is me.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not—”

  “Yes, I am. I intend to be the bait in the trap we set.”

  “That’s crazy. You were almost killed—”

  “We were both caught by surprise. We won’t let that happen again.”

  He swallowed a gulletful of guilt. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the attack. He should have been vigilant. She owed her survival, not to him, but to the proximity of Dolphin Bay Memorial Hospital and the skill of its staff. If she had died, her death would have been on his conscience.

  “No, putting you in harm’s way is too risky.”

  She shoved the fingers of her right hand through her hair and glared at him. “What’s your plan?”

  “We’ll wait for another lead—”

  “Or another attack? Don’t you see?” Her voice softened. “I’m the bait, whether we have a plan or not.”

  Chapter Eleven

  However much Dylan hated the circumstances that put Heather at risk, he knew she was right. She was the killer’s prime target, whether Dylan wanted her to be or not.

  “Chip and I can’t hide forever,” she said. “We want our lives back.”

  Ask her, an inner voice taunted, ask her if one reason she’s so anxious to have her life back is to get rid of you.

  But he couldn’t form the question. He was too afraid of the answer.

  “We’ll make a plan,” he conceded, “but we’ll do it my way. First—”

  A rap sounded at the door, and Dr. Jarrett entered the room. Unlike the previous night, he walked with a bounce to his step and his clothes were wrinklefree and unbloodied.

  “How’s my patient?”

  Dylan introduced him to Heather, who’d been either anesthetized or asleep in Jarrett’s presence until now.

  “I’m doing well,” she said, “thanks to you.”

  “And thanks to Dylan. If he hadn’t rushed you here so quickly…Anyway, the nurses have given you a good report, although one or two did ask what crime you committed.”

  “What?”

  Dylan laughed. “Patients kept under police protection here are usually ones who’ve been arrested.”

  Jarrett removed her bandage, checked her sutures and
observed carefully as she flexed her fingers. “Mobility’s good, but the incision will be sore for a few days. I’ll prescribe some painkillers.”

  “When can I leave?” she asked after he’d applied a fresh bandage.

  The doctor cocked his head and considered her. “That depends.”

  “On what?” Dylan asked.

  “On whether there’s anyone at home to take care of you. I don’t want you using that arm for a few days.”

  “She’s coming home with me,” Dylan said. “I’ll take care of her.”

  “In that case,” Jarrett said with a good-natured grin, “you’re discharged now, Ms. Taylor. I’ll tell the nurse to send for a wheelchair.”

  “What about my clothes?”

  Jarrett frowned. “They had to be cut off last night, but you’re welcome to the gown you’re wearing. I’ll have a nurse bring you a robe and slippers, too. And I want to see you in my office next week, sooner if you have a problem.”

  Dylan followed Jarrett into the hall and, as the doctor moved on to the nurses’ station, approached Jeb Greenlea, still on guard.

  “Heather’s being discharged. I’m taking her to my house.”

  “I’ll follow in the cruiser. Detective Sergeant Bullock said to keep her under close watch.”

  “Good idea.”

  At the end of the hall, the elevator doors opened, and Dylan tensed, instantly alert. When a teenage volunteer in a pink-and-white-striped uniform rolled an empty wheelchair onto the floor, he relaxed again.

  The girl’s freckled face lit up when she saw him. “Hi, Dylan.”

  He recognized the daughter of his mother’s neighbor. “Hello, Cindy. This way.”

  Cindy pushed the wheelchair into Heather’s room, and he followed. While Cindy chattered nonstop about the movie she’d seen the night before, a nurse bustled in and helped Heather into a hospital robe, disposable slippers and a sling for her bandaged arm.

  After Heather was dressed, he and the nurse supported her on either side and installed her in the wheelchair that Cindy held immobile.

  “All set?” he asked Heather.

  The effort of moving from the bed to the chair had sapped her strength, but not her spirit. She nodded with a dazzling smile.

  The nurse left, Cindy gripped the wheelchair to push it forward, and Heather bent over her arm to adjust her sling.

  “Wow,” Cindy said suddenly. “Are you related to Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “Rand Sinclair’s wife?” Dylan asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Heather met his gaze with a puzzled look. “We’re not related. I’ve never met her, but I know her husband.”

  His instincts prickled. “Why do you ask?”

  Cindy pointed to the back of Heather’s neck. “When she bent over, I saw the mark, right at her hairline.”

  He circled the chair, lifted the hair off Heather’s neck and observed the tiny birthmark in the shape of an almost perfect heart, a spot he had kissed more than once. “You mean this?”

  Cindy nodded.

  “I’ve had that all my life,” Heather said to the girl. “What’s the big deal?”

  “It’s just a weird coincidence,” Cindy said with a shrug. “About an hour ago, Mrs. Sinclair was released from the maternity ward. The doctor said her labor pains were false, so he sent her home.”

  “What’s Jasmine Sinclair got to do with Heather?” he insisted.

  Cindy shrugged again. “Probably nothing, except she has the exact same mark in the exact same place. What are the odds of that?”

  Pretty long odds—unless they’re related.

  The solution, unexpected and out of the blue, almost knocked him off his feet. Glad he was standing behind Heather so she couldn’t witness the shock on his face, he said nothing.

  He wouldn’t voice his conclusions until he’d had time to think them through, but he was convinced the little candy striper had just handed him the key to finding out who was stalking Heather—and why.

  DYLAN TOOK HEATHER to his house. His parents’ home was big and rambling with too many doors and windows a determined intruder could readily jimmy. At his own much smaller and more secure place, Heather would always be only a few steps away, and he could keep an eye on her more easily.

  The next morning after a late breakfast, Dylan waited until Heather was settled in the recliner in his living room before breaking his news. “I have a surprise.”

  “You’re spoiling me. You shouldn’t have given up your bed last night I could have slept on your sofa.”

  “You need your rest.”

  “So do you, and you probably didn’t get it. I was surprised to wake up and find you sleeping on the floor beside the bed. You’d said you’d take the sofa.”

  Reluctant to reveal the agony of sleeping so close without her in his arms, he shrugged. “I wanted to be nearby, in case you needed something.”

  “I’m already much better. Another day or so, and I can toss this sling.” Her glow of healthy color confirmed her claim. “Now, what’s your surprise?”

  Her open and trusting expression stabbed him with fresh doubts. If his instincts were wrong, an awful lot of people were going to be upset for nothing.

  “I phoned your folks yesterday afternoon while you were sleeping and told them everything that’s happened, from Chip’s kidnapping to now.”

  “You shouldn’t have! They’ll be worried sick, especially Mom. She’s such an alarmist, even over little things. And Dad’s heart—”

  “That’s why I invited them to come see for themselves that you’re okay.” He wouldn’t divulge his real motive. Not yet. “They’ll arrive around lunchtime.”

  “But they could be in danger here.”

  He sank onto the sofa and clasped his hands between his knees. He didn’t want to frighten her, but she had a right to know the facts. “Your parents have already received some strange phone calls.”

  “Threats?”

  “Inquiries, asking where to find you.”

  “Was the caller male or female?”

  “Two different callers. One a man’s voice, the other a woman’s. Both called several times.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that they identified themselves?”

  “Said they were friends of yours from college, trying to contact you about a reunion.”

  Her tension eased visibly. “My five-year reunion is this summer, so maybe the calls were a coincidence.”

  He shook his head. “The university gave me the name of the reunion committee chairman. She says they haven’t begun calling yet.”

  Heather’s shocked silence lasted only seconds. “What did my parents tell these callers?”

  “What could they say? Until last night, they didn’t know you weren’t staying at home, so your dad told them to try you there.”

  “A man and a woman,” she said with a contemplative frown. “That means two people are after me.”

  “Maybe. One could be paying the other to make inquiries. And we can’t rule out the possibility of one person disguising both appearance and voice.”

  She looked so vulnerable and fragile, engulfed in his huge chair, her arm swathed in bandages, that he wanted to sweep her up and carry her far away from danger or worry. But they had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, especially when they didn’t know who was stalking her or why.

  He didn’t know, but he had an idea.

  A glance at his watch prompted him to hurry. If he wanted to give her time to consider his suspicion before her folks arrived, he couldn’t delay any longer.

  Lifting his head, he met her gaze straight on. “Do you remember Cindy?”

  “The little candy striper who pushed my wheelchair yesterday?”

  He nodded. “Remember what she said?”

  “Not everything,” she said with a rueful smile. “She talked a mile a minute. Something about Rand’s wife. I didn’t even know he was married.”

  “Jasmine and Rand married last October. I was best
man at their wedding.”

  She grew quiet, obviously reluctant to discuss marriage or weddings. He pushed to his feet and crossed to the front window. Down the street in a dilapidated old Plymouth, Detective Sergeant Sid Bullock slumped in the front seat, keeping Dylan’s place under surveillance in hopes the attacker would make another move.

  Dylan turned from the window and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “You and Jasmine have a lot in common.”

  “You mean my birthmark?” She touched the back of her neck. “That’s some coincidence, huh?”

  He crushed memories of his lips against the nape of her neck. “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Last September, someone tried to kill Jasmine.” He had her complete attention now and could almost see wheels turning in her mind.

  “Rand told you about it?”

  He nodded. “And I worked on the case.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me what happened.” Her smile had disappeared.

  “Someone burned down Jasmine’s house. She barely escaped with her life.”

  Heather cradled her bandaged arm in her good one, as if remembering the attempt on her own life. “Did they catch who did it?”

  “Rand and Jasmine figured it out Charles Wilcox, the attorney for Sinclair and Moore Construction, wanted Jasmine dead.”

  “Why?”

  “To cover up his earlier crime. Talbot Moore—”

  “Rand’s guardian?”

  He nodded. “Over thirty years ago, Talbot and Lily Ross, Jasmine’s mother, fell in love. Charles’s sister Irene was also in love with Talbot To get rid of his sister’s rival, Charles abducted Lily and imprisoned her in a psychiatric hospital.”

  “That’s terrible! Charles’s love for his sister must be really twisted.”

  He grimaced. “What Charles loved was Talbot’s money.”

  She wrinkled her nose with its appealing sprinkle of freckles. “If Talbot married Irene and Lily was hidden away, how did they manage to conceive Jasmine?”

  “Years before the abduction, unknown to Talbot, Lily had given birth to their daughter.”

  “This is more complicated than a soap opera. Why didn’t Talbot marry Lily in the first place?”

  “When Lily discovered she was pregnant, she didn’t tell Talbot.” He paused, considering the parallels in the story. Heather hadn’t told him about her pregnancy, either. “In fact, Lily refused to see Talbot again, because Charles warned her that marriage to her would ruin Talbot, financially and socially.”