by Debra Webb
“You called me, remember?”
The sound of his voice shimmered over her already exposed nerve endings. “Only because you called first and hung up like a kid playing a prank.” She huffed a sigh of exasperation. “And let’s not forget you knocking on my door and then vanishing like Houdini. What’d you think? That I’d sneaked out the back door to go murder someone else? I don’t even have a back door.” Control snapped. “Why are you doing this?”
As she fought to regain her composure, something changed in his eyes, and that lean, chiseled profile softened just the tiniest bit. “That’s just it,” he said. Even his voice was softer now. “I didn’t call you and I damn sure didn’t knock on your door until just a few seconds ago.”
Mac watched the confusion claim her, lining her smooth brow, parting those luscious lips. “One of your men,” she refuted. “I opened the door,” she gestured to the one he’d slammed only moments before, “and no one was there.” Her gaze flew to his. “You said you’d be watching. I saw the car.”
“I didn’t follow you home tonight, nor did any of my men. Can you describe the vehicle you saw?”
She shook her head in answer to his question, as well as in denial of the possibility that obviously scared the hell out of her. Someone had been watching her, all right. “I... I don’t understand.”
Mac squeezed his hands into fists and resisted the urge to reach for her. Every moment with her was a battle for one kind of control or the other. “Is there anyone in your neighborhood who would do this sort of thing as a joke?” he asked, determined to keep this discussion on track. “A friend or neighborhood kid who gets off on scaring others, maybe?”
Her head moved jerkily from side to side. “All the neighbors are older, like Mrs. Polk.” She laughed, but the sound held no humor. “No way could one of them have knocked and gotten down the stairs and out of sight before I opened the door. I mean, I was a minute or so opening it, but not that long.” She seemed to wilt beneath the weight of the realization that she’d just dismissed the safest, most reasonable possibilities, leaving only one alternative.
Mac crossed to the door, opened it and moved out onto the small landing to survey the situation from her vantage point He peered over the side and concluded that even jumping over the railing wouldn’t have been a big deal for a younger person, an athletic type. He knew he could do it easily. But if her neighbors were around Mrs. Polk’s age, seventy or so, there was no way one of them could have taken that leap. He glanced up and down the narrow alley that separated the house from its neighbor. With the numerous overgrown shrubs and small, detached garages, there were plenty of places to hide. A quick jump over the rail and simply darting back under the stairs would be sufficient camouflage from here.
He stepped back inside and closed the door. During his short absence Elizabeth had donned a tattered robe. With her arms wrapped around herself, she looked incredibly vulnerable and very much like a frightened little girl in need of a hug.
But she was no little girl. Those full lips were parted slightly as if she was on the verge of asking something but feared the answer. She’d straightened her glasses and thrust her fingers through her hair, leaving the silky mass hanging loosely around her slender shoulders.
Beating himself up for noticing every little thing about her would accomplish nothing, but somehow he had to get a grip here.
Right now was the perfect time to push for answers. She was vulnerable. But it took every ounce of determination he possessed to do the job. “It’s time to stop playing games, Elizabeth. Tell me what it is you’re hiding and we’ll get this mystery solved.” He stared directly into her eyes. “You won’t be safe until this thing is settled. I know it and I think deep down you know do as well.”
The delicate line of her jaw hardened just a fraction. “Are you admitting that you believe me when I say I didn’t have anything to do with Ned’s,” she blinked rapidly, “with Dr. Harrison’s murder?”
He wanted to believe she was capable of a slick move like this—that the whole phone-call-knock-on-the-door thing was a hoax designed to garner sympathy—but he knew better. No way could she fake that kind of fear. He’d seen it in her eyes when she realized it hadn’t been the authorities outside her door or on the other end of that call. She’d been truly frightened.
Still, on the off chance that he was a bigger fool than he already suspected... “No,” he told her flatly. “I’m admitting that I believe someone else knows your secret and maybe that secret is putting you in the same kind of danger Harrison found himself in.”
Direct hit. Her breath caught and the stark fear glittered in her eyes once more. Now all he had to do was move in for the kill.
Stepping closer—into her personal space, a move he already knew unsettled her—he pressed, “Tell me the truth, Elizabeth. I can’t help you if you don’t.” She tried backing away from him, but he just kept moving nearer until she backed into the sofa. “Do you know where I was when you called tonight?”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t escape those penetrating blue eyes. Please, she wanted to cry, just leave me alone. I didn’t do this awful thing! But she couldn’t speak. She could only stare into those accusing eyes and pray he wouldn’t see the truth in her own.
“I was at the scene of a ten fifty-four. Do you know what a ten fifty-four is, Elizabeth?”
He was closer, yet she wasn’t sure he’d moved. But something about his savage demeanor made her feel as if he was right on top of her, waiting for her to break.
“A homicide,” he said in answer to his own question.
Emotion quaked through her. Another murder. God, she didn’t want to know this. Why didn’t he just leave? It couldn’t have anything to do with her. She blinked back the sheen of tears that threatened to wreck the remnants of her already shredded composure and stared back at him in defiance. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Did you know Deana Dell, the model?” he went on, ignoring her question, his face mere inches from hers. “She was one of Dr. Harrison’s patients, too. Maybe you saw her at the funeral.”
The blond. She knew instantly. In the red dress. A model. Living large and fast. Elizabeth remembered her. She’d read about her and her trouble with drugs, last year maybe. She’d instantly wondered if the model had been covering up for someone else, too. But at the funeral Elizabeth hadn’t gotten a good look at her face. Hadn’t recalled who she was then.
And now it no longer mattered.
She was dead
Homicide.
That meant murder.
Dear God.
Her stomach rolled over.
“That’s the second one of Harrison’s patients to die since the funeral,” he said pointedly. “Don’t you find that strangely ironic?”
The room tilted and then started to spin. Nausea boiled up in her throat. She was going to be sick.
Mac moved back a step as Elizabeth pushed away from him and ran from the room. Restraining the need to go after her, he took a moment to calm the crazy mixture of emotions raging inside him. But he couldn’t take any chances that she might make a run for it. There was a window—no fire escape, though. In four steps he’d crossed the room and entered the small hall. As he reached the closed bathroom door, his concerns were allayed by the sound of her violent retching.
Guilt stabbed him right in the gut as he leaned against the wall next to the door. He’d forced that on her, had pushed her to the edge. Damn. Sympathy wasn’t supposed to enter into this. Where was his usual detachment? Why the hell couldn’t he maintain a proper distance?
He released a weary breath and refused to consider the answer to either of those questions.
Eventually he heard the toilet flush and the water running in the basin, then a minute or so later she opened the door. “I’d like you to leave now,” she announced with a good deal more strength than she looked capable of managing.
“I need some answers first.”
She r
ipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, then glared at him. “Don’t you ever give up? I’m telling you I don’t know anything!”
He stepped nearer to her. Didn’t miss the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Yes, you do. And I’ll keep coming back until you tell me everything.”
She pushed her glasses back into place and shoved her hair from her face with unsteady hands. “You’re wasting your time, Agent MacBride.”
Another thought poked its way through the jumble of theories attempting to coalesce in his brain. “How did your ex-fiancé take your affair with Dr. Harrison?”
She blinked, taken aback by the question. What was he fishing for now? Didn’t the man get it? She didn’t know anything relevant to his case. “Brian and I broke up months ago.”
MacBride shrugged, the move casual, but his expression was anything but casual. “That may be, but he had to be pissed off when he learned he’d been replaced by a hotshot shrink. Wasn’t Harrison a friend of his?”
A frown worried her lips. She’d seen Ned at some of the parties she and Brian had attended. She’d even seen Brian talk to Ned from time to time, but then, he talked to everyone. Not once in their nine-month relationship had she heard Brian mention Ned. Ned certainly never mentioned Brian other than in the context of how her breakup with him added to the stress that brought on her panic attacks.
“I don’t... think so,” she admitted in all honesty. “I suppose you could call them casual acquaintances.”
MacBride was watching her so closely that she could almost feel his eyes on her. She tugged the lapels of her robe tighter around her, but it wasn’t her body that held his attention. He was studying her face, analyzing her responses, looking for signs of deception.
“It’s late, Agent MacBride,” she said, squaring her shoulders and moving slightly away. “I’d like you to go now.”
For one long moment she was sure he intended to argue the point, but to her surprise, he didn’t.
“I’ll be outside all night,” he said, instead. “When I go, one of my men will take over.”
She nodded, too grateful now for a bodyguard of sorts to be angry.
With one final, lingering look, he turned and made his way back into her living room. She followed, suddenly painfully conscious of her meager furnishings and less-than-spectacular housekeeping skills. She wasn’t exactly a slob, but she wasn’t neat, either.
At the door he hesitated. “This door doesn’t have a peephole or a dead bolt. Think about getting both installed. In the meantime, at least ask who’s there before you open the door.”
Oddly, she sensed his words were well meant. That he cared what happened to her.
Yeah, right.
He only wanted to keep his prime suspect alive and well until he could nail her for murder and close the case.
“Thanks for the advice.” She failed miserably at sounding appreciative.
His gaze bored into hers. “I’m serious, Elizabeth. I don’t want you to end up dead.”
With that profound statement he left.
For several seconds after the door closed, she could only stand there absorbing the impact and ramifications of his words.
Two of Ned’s patients had been murdered in the past seventy-two hours. Coincidence? Apparently the FBI didn’t think so.
Cold, bony fingers of fear clutched at her. Maybe MacBride was right. Maybe her life was in danger. Before the thought fully formed in her mind, she turned the button on the knob locking the door. She hurried over to the front window and drew back the curtain. Just as he promised, MacBride backed out onto the street and parked directly in front of the house. Relief flooded her.
Vanessa Bumbalough was dead. Deana Dell was dead.
Who would be next?
Elizabeth half stumbled to the sofa in her haste and snatched up the phone. She punched in Gloria’s number and paced the floor as she waited for her friend to answer. Please, God, she prayed, let her be home. And safe.
When a groggy hello came, Elizabeth blurted, “We have to talk!”
Mac waited patiently for Duncan to answer his cell phone. “They find anything else?” he asked without preamble.
“Nothing. The techs found dozens of different prints. The lady apparently had a lot of guests. Since she and the Bumbalough woman ran in the same circles, there’s no telling how many sets matching the previous scene they’ll find.”
A lot of nothing leading nowhere. Mac rubbed his eyes and stared up at the light in the window of Elizabeth’s apartment. He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.
“I’ll maintain surveillance on Elizabeth Young tonight,” he informed his partner. “I’ll need you here to relieve me by eight in the morning. Tonight, I want you to track down a Brian Novak of Design Horizons and have him meet me at my office at nine sharp.”
Duncan snorted. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, Mac. How can I—?”
“I don’t care if it’s Christmas,” Mac shot back. “Death doesn’t observe weekends or holidays. Have the guy at my office at nine sharp.”
“Will do,” Duncan replied sheepishly. “Anything else?”
Mac exhaled a weary breath. “That’s it. Call me if there’s any news from the ME.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone on the console. It was going to be a long night. Shifting until he found a comfortable spot, he considered the layout around Elizabeth’s apartment. She had no security, and the surrounding area was an intruder’s wet dream. Everyone went to bed early and likely didn’t hear as well as they used to. If someone wanted her, getting to her would be easy. She worked long hours and probably slept like a rock during the few hours of rest she got.
If she was the innocent she insisted she was and the latest turn in this case evolved into what he suspected, she could very well be in grave danger.
Whether she was a suspect, a material witness or simply a woman in jeopardy because she got mixed up with the wrong guy, Mac was duty bound to protect her.
Problem was, duty had nothing to do with his incessant need to stick close to her. He was plunging headfirst into personal involvement with a suspect. Something he never did.
But there didn’t appear to be a damned thing he could do about it this time. Some part of him was hell-bent on saving the woman, whether she wanted to be saved or not.
~*~
Elizabeth slept maybe two hours the entire night. Before sunrise she was pacing the floor. At six she’d forced herself to bake her Sunday favorite, blueberry muffins. And she’d made a strong pot of coffee. The way she felt at the moment it would take the entire pot to get her through the day. But she had to work. She simply had no choice.
She pulled on her jeans and a tee-shirt, rolled on a clean pair of socks and then slipped on her sneakers. Another cup of coffee and she’d be good to go.
She stilled, her gaze drawn to the front window. How was MacBride faring? She moved to the window and peeked around the edge of the curtain. He was still there. The driver’s-side window had been lowered to let in the cool morning air. As she watched, he scrubbed a hand over his face. She could just imagine how he felt. Exhausted. Hungry.
“Dammit.”
No matter how many times she told herself that her most recent problems were entirely his fault, she just couldn’t help feeling bad about him sitting out there in a cold car after having no sleep.
Admitting defeat, she filled a thermal to-go cup with coffee and wrapped a couple of muffins in a paper towel. The least she could do was feed him. He had, after all, spent the night watching over her. The thought had her experiencing more of that awareness she could no longer deny. She was sexually attracted to the man.
She groaned. What an idiot she was. Outright asking for trouble. Ignoring the alarm bells jangling in her head, she pulled on a jacket and marched out the door, down the steps and across the street. He caught sight of her before her sneakers hit the pavement and he was climbing out of the car.
“Is everything all right?” Those blue eyes surv
eyed her from head to toe.
Just like last night, she could feel his eyes roaming her body. And damned if he didn’t look even better with a night’s growth of beard shadowing that chiseled jaw. “Everything’s just peachy,” she lied, forcing the forbidden thoughts to the farthest recesses of her mind. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Actually he looked ravenous. But then, she hadn’t noticed that look in his eyes until after he’d given her the onceover. She scolded herself for allowing such a silly notion. Rich guys like MacBride didn’t bother with working girls like her. Well, working girls in the sense of blue-collar types. She’d been born into a blue-collar family and she was damned proud of it. Her short stint in the high-end design world hadn’t gone so well. She didn’t belong there.
“Thanks.” He reached for the cup. “I was having fantasies about coffee.”
She blinked away the fantasies she’d been having that had nothing to do with coffee. “It’s black. I didn’t know if you liked cream or sugar.”
“Black is perfect.” He had a taste and moaned. “That hit the spot.”
The sound of his satisfaction had her smiling and feeling entirely too warm. “Muffins.” She thrust the still-warm baked goods at him and chastised herself again for being a total schmuck.
He set the coffee on the roof of his car and reached for the muffins.
His fingers brushed hers and butterflies took flight in her belly. She needed to go, now. “I have to get to the job site.”
“On Sunday?”
Shoving her hands into her back pockets, she offered another of those careless shrugs. “Sometimes it’s necessary.” Unlike him, she had to really work for a living. Even then she didn’t have money to throw around on extravagant clothes and much less luxury cars. She stole a glance at the dark sedan he drove. Foreign, loaded, mega pricey. She’d bet those leather seats were heated, too. Must be nice. And here she’d felt sorry for him out here in his seventy-thousand-dollar car. How many ways could she prove herself a fool?
For a time they stood in silence. He consumed the muffins and coffee. Finally he tossed the napkin into his fancy car, then handed the cup back to her. “That certainly hit the spot, thanks.”
