by Mallory Kane
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
This book is dedicated to Tina Colombo, whose help and encouragement have meant more to me than she can possibly know.
Prologue
The bright winter sun sent a pale rainbow of color through the sheer curtains.
The facets of a diamond solitaire sparkled with prisms of light, almost overpowering the hard blue glint that shone from the barrel of the 9mm Glock aimed at her head.
"No!" he cried. The breakfast tray in his hands tumbled slowly, silently to the floor as he dived toward the bed.
But no matter how fast he was, the bullet was faster. It happened as if in slow motion—her sad brown eyes meeting his, her hand turning—pointing the barrel of the gun at him, the tears glistening on her pale cheeks like the diamond on her left ring finger.
He reached out just as the gun's report echoed in his ears. The bullet stopped him in his tracks. Yet he still struggled to get to her, to somehow stop her. His bare feet slipped in juice, in coffee, in blood.
As he hit the bed and grabbed at her arm the second shot rang out, and her blood spattered his face and hands, mingling with his own.
Geoffrey Archer opened his eyes to darkness and nauseating, aching loss. He kicked away the sweat-soaked sheets and vaulted up, crossing the room in two long strides. In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, then leaned his forearms against the lavatory and hung his head, waiting for the nausea to pass.
Finally, he straightened, pushing his hair back with his hands. His right hand cramped, and burning pain shot through his fingers and up his wrist.
His legacy from his wife's suicide.
He massaged his wrist and flexed his fingers as he stepped to the window and threw back the drapes. The red and purple stain on the eastern sky reminded him of that last morning and his dream.
He'd been too slow. He was always too slow.
Chapter One
The barrel of the gun glinted blue in the bright lights. Theresa Wade stared at it, her fingers still chilled from touching the cold steel. She reached into her purse for a box of ammunition and set it down beside the gun. Then she set her purse aside and picked up the noise-canceling ear protectors.
After she'd donned the headgear and the safety goggles, she looked down the narrow corridor stretched out in front of her. At the far end, twenty-five yards away, was a piece of newsprint on which was printed the silhouette of a man's head and torso in deep blue.
There was no face on the silhouette, nor was there one in her mind. Still, she knew who the target represented. It was the shadowed face of the Lock Rapist. The man who'd raped her sister and five other women, the man she'd seen sneaking out of her apartment building that night. The man who had seen her.
With renewed determination, she looked down at the gun. It didn't look like much lying there. A few inches of blue-black metal. A hollow tube with a handle.
She reached for the box of bullets, but her jaw clenched and her temples pounded. Her fingers closed in a fist.
"Come on, Resa," she whispered. Pick it up. She'd brought her gun in here. She'd set it on the counter. And if tonight went the way every other night had gone for the past two weeks, at the end of the evening she'd pick it up, slide it back into her purse alongside the box of bullets and leave the firing range.
But tonight wasn't like every other night.
Tonight she stopped waiting for Geoffrey Archer to come to her.
Frank Berry, the day manager of Archer's firing range outside of Nashville, had warned her. "You want to learn to handle that gun, come during the day. I'll be happy to teach you. But I leave at seven. After that, you're on your own."
She'd asked him about Archer.
"Yep. He's down here every evening till ten. But he's not gonna help you. Don't expect him to."
But she did. Archer was the reason she was here. She could feel him, sitting in his office near the stairs that led up from the basement firing range into the foyer of his Victorian home.
Detective Geoffrey Archer. Former detective with the Nashville Police Department.
She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to ten. Every evening, right around this time, he came out of his office. He walked down the row of lanes—checking, she supposed, to see if everyone had left. Usually the only people who stayed this late were cops—both uniformed and detective, and her.
Tonight there was no one else here.
She flattened her palms against the counter and kept her eyes on the target as she took a careful breath and waited for him to walk by.
How did she know when he was behind her? Was it a scent? A change in the conditioned air that swirled around her? The ear protectors kept her from hearing his approach. Still, she knew that even if she could hear, she'd have to depend on her other senses. Because he moved as silently as a cat through his shadowy lair.
Something changed and a warm finger of awareness slid down her spine. He was there, behind her. Her shoulders tightened and she suppressed a shiver.
It had been six months since her sister's attack, but she still started at unexpected sounds and shied away from men. It had taken her weeks to step into an elevator if there was a man in it.
She took a deep breath and turned, but he was gone.
Damn him. He'd done what he did every night. He'd paced the length of his massive basement, then slunk back to wherever he went—his office, his lair, his underground dungeon. She mentally shook her head at her silly thoughts.
Archer was no mysterious phantom, stealing through underground caverns, hiding from the light. He was just a man. A wounded, heartbroken man.
He and she had a lot in common, although he didn't know it. Not yet.
But he would find out tonight.
She removed the ear protectors and goggles and set them on the shelf, then stuffed the empty gun and ammunition into her purse.
She walked past the firing lanes toward the stairs. To her left was the table with the sign-in sheet for the range. To the right was his office. He was always in there sitting behind the desk when she came in. He'd never looked up.
Tonight she ignored the sign-in sheet. She turned and looked through the door into his office.
He was standing with his back to her, slowly and carefully writing something on a wall calendar. His white T-shirt stretched across his broad, spare shoulders and hung loosely over faded jeans that hugged his hips and butt in that way that only comes with years of wear and washing.
His body was long and lean, yet even with his back to her, he gave off a powerful presence that at once comforted and disturbed her.
He needed a haircut, but his just-too-long hair suited him. The wavy strands at the nape of his neck drew her eye. If she were interested in him—which she wasn't—she might be tempted to slide her fingers around his nape.
Just as she reminded herself that she only had one interest—learning to shoot her gun—his head angled like that of a predator sensing prey.
He turned and tossed the pen onto his desk, then raised his gaze to hers. His dark eyes were hooded, his brow furrowed. A few days' growth of beard shadowed his lean cheeks.
She fought not to lower her eyes. She'd felt his sharp gaze on her as he prowled the range, but nothing had prepared her for the impact of his eyes. Even though everything about him conveyed competence and protection, hi
s piercing stare was grim and disapproving.
Resa lifted her chin and stared back. She would not be the first one to look away. She needed him, and she wasn't about to give him a reason to think she was a wimpy female.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. His mouth flattened into a frown and he crossed his arms.
"Can I help you?" he growled.
Resa's whole body went cold. She nearly turned and ran. But two things kept her rooted in place. Running was exactly what he wanted her to do. He wanted her to leave him alone. And she knew that if she didn't talk to him now she'd never get up the courage again.
Her jaw tightened. She sucked in courage with a deep breath. "I want you to help me."
She hadn't thought his eyes could get any darker, but they went as black and as opaque as coal.
"See Frank." He sat down in his desk chair and picked up a sheet of paper.
"I've seen Frank. He can't help me."
Archer put down the paper and stared at it for a few seconds. Then he leaned back in his chair and sent her a quelling glance. "If Frank can't help you, I sure can't."
"I'm paying a fee to rent a lane here." A couple of stray hairs tickled her eyelashes, but her hands were trembling too much and she didn't dare swipe them away.
Something flickered in his eyes. "Thank you," he said wryly as his dark gaze slid over her pale ecru blouse and sleek black trousers, not stopping until it settled on her iiberfashionable round-toed black pumps. Then he raised his brows and retraced each inch of her until he was looking into her eyes again.
His stare took her breath away. She swallowed. "I want you to teach me to shoot."
"No."
"No? What—why—" She was speechless. She'd expected him to give her a hard time, but he'd shot that single word at her like a bullet.
She closed her eyes for an instant, struggling to stay calm. She couldn't get rid of the urge to turn and run, and he knew it.
He was trying to intimidate her. Trying, ha. He'd succeeded, and he knew that too. But her sanity, maybe even her life, depended on persuading him to help her. She'd be damned if he would succeed in scaring her away.
When she opened her eyes he was watching her.
"Why not?" she asked. "This is a public range, isn't it?"
"Unfortunately."
"Well, Detective Archer, I'm paid through the end of the month."
He winced. "Geoffrey Archer. Not Detective."
His hostile growl rumbled through her. She'd thrown out his former title to try to gain a semblance of an advantage over him—and truthfully, to hit him where it hurt.
She'd definitely done that. Too well. She'd seen pain behind his narrowed eyes.
Involuntarily, she glanced down at his hands. They were big and elegant, with long blunt fingers. The only visible indication of the injury that had forced him to retire early was the network of scars across the back of his right hand, and the slight curve of his index finger.
She knew from newspaper reports that more than a year ago his wife had shot him in the hand before turning the gun on herself and committing suicide.
Feeling embarrassed that she'd deliberately baited him and unaccountably sorry for what had happened to him, Resa spun on her heel and walked back toward the lane she'd rented.
She stepped up to the counter and pulled the gun out of her purse. She ejected the empty magazine and laid it on the counter. Then she wrapped her fingers around the gun's handle.
She wasn't going to give up. She'd learn how to handle a gun. Eventually, she'd learn to shoot it, with or without Archer's help.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She jumped. He'd sneaked up on her, something she'd have thought he could never do. She answered him without turning around. "Learning to hold my weapon."
"It's nearly ten." His words were tight, squeezed out from his clenched jaw.
She felt a mean triumph. She'd forced him out from behind the barricade of his desk. She whirled and glared up at him. "I need a few more minutes."
Without meeting her gaze, he stalked away.
Gritting her teeth and ignoring the frustrated stinging behind her eyes, Resa awkwardly aimed her empty gun at the silhouette of the man who'd raped her sister.
Archer heard her high heels echoing across the concrete floor of the firing range. He tilted the desk chair back and glanced at his watch. 10:15 p.m. on the nose. Same time every night for the past two weeks. It was almost as if she stayed those extra minutes after closing time to taunt him.
Well, she taunted him all right. But not the way she intended to, he was sure.
She was persistent. And stubborn as hell. It seemed to him that she'd been here every night for at least a month.
He'd have to ask Frank when she'd originally signed up. Frank usually handled the billing and he'd warned Archer that she'd been coming during the day, but was planning to switch to evenings.
There were so many contradictions about her. She was obviously terrified of guns, yet she was determined to teach herself to use one. She did her best to project an image of calm assurance, but her dark-green eyes held a fear that she couldn't mask.
The bank of monitors on his office wall showed every accessible area of the range. He glanced up at the one connected to the camera at the top of the basement stairs. As she trudged up them, Archer saw the weariness etched in her face.
Quickly, he signed the last check and set down the pen. His hand ached. He rubbed his palm and then stretched his fingers, wincing as the tight muscles and newly reattached tendons resisted.
When he heard the door at the top of the stairs close, he stood and followed. At the top of the stairs, he flipped the light switch off. When he was fully cloaked in darkness, he opened the door and crossed the small foyer. He eased the front door open.
She was backing a white, late-model sedan out of a parking space. He glanced at the dimly lit license plate—out of habit. He already knew her tag number. He'd watched her leave every night, just to make sure she got safely to her car.
She drove down the hill to the end of his driveway and turned right onto the farm road.
He stood there for a few seconds, then started to close the door. Just then he caught a flash through the brush, coming from where the driveway dead-ended into the road. He froze, stopping the door with his hand.
Within a few seconds, he saw another flash—the unmistakable reflection of the moon on metal. It was a car, running without lights. Following her.
"Damn," he whispered. "Who are you?"
For an instant he considered jumping into his own car and taking off after them. He considered calling her to warn her.
But it was none of his business. The flash could have been anything. A soup can on the side of the road. A puddle of water.
Hell, even if it were a car, for all he knew it was her boyfriend, making sure she got home safely.
"None of my business," he muttered as he locked the front door. He glanced to his right at the door that led to the main part of the house, but instead of locking up the firing range and heading to the kitchen to find something to eat, he pushed open the door labeled Firing Range and took the stairs back down to the basement.
The daily sign-in book was beside the entrance at the bottom of the stairs. The last line read, Resa Wade: in 8:03 p.m., out 10:15 p.m.
He flipped the pages backward.
Resa Wade: in 8:02 p.m., out 10:12 p.m.
Resa Wade: in 8:00 p.m., out 10:14 p.m.
His detective's brain catalogued the information and categorized her. She was honest. Careful. Detail-oriented.
And familiar. At least her name was. He knew he'd never met her before she'd come to his range. He'd have remembered that creamy skin, those dark-green eyes, that sun-shot brown hair.
And that attitude. His mouth almost curved into a smile before he stopped it. Frowning, he headed for his office. There were only two reasons for him to be so certain he knew her. The first could be eliminated out of hand. He hadn't been with
a woman since his wife had died more than a year ago. In fact, he'd hardly seen a woman in all that time, until Resa Wade showed up.
So the reason he found her name familiar had to be reason number two. He went into his office and sat down at the desk. Locked in the bottom drawer was a thick file folder containing all the information he'd gathered over the past three years on the Lock Rapist—the monster who'd caused his wife's death— who'd taken away the only two things that had ever mattered to him. His wife and his career.
With a gun hand that didn't work, he'd had no choice but to take a disability pension. They'd offered him a desk job, but there was no way he could be chained to a desk for the next fifteen years. The forced retirement was marginally less humiliating than answering phones and doing computer searches while enduring his fellow officers' pity.
He pulled his key ring from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. Using his left hand, he lifted the heavy folder out.
An icy chill of dread snaked down his spine as he opened the file. This had to be how he knew Resa Wade. She was somehow connected to the Lock Rapist.
Resa was almost home. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. A huge sigh escaped her lips. She was so tired. It was a bone-deep weariness that came from too much stress and too little sleep.
She'd been to Archer's firing range every single night for the past two weeks, ever since she'd come back from Louisville, Kentucky.
That last trip to her mother's home was her seventh in the six months since Celia had been attacked. Her mother wanted her to move to Louisville and help with her sister. Celia wasn't doing well. She couldn't sleep despite tranquilizers and sleeping pills. She sat in the living room looking out the picture window and chain-smoking. She wouldn't wash her hair or eat unless someone was there to coax her.
Resa's mother was at the end of her rope, and so was Resa. She'd offered to pay for Celia to go to a psychiatric facility, but her mom wouldn't hear of that.
So Resa had told her there was nothing else she could do. She'd been away from her work too long, and her work was in Nashville. Her stress level wasn't helped by her guilt over leaving her mother to deal with Celia.
