Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it meant that she hadn’t totally forgotten him as he’d once believed.
“Of course.”
“It’s an FBI matter now,” Devlin said. “But we will be working in conjunction with the local police and CIRP’s security.”
Mark watched the sunlight catch the golden rays in her hair, the way she massaged her forehead with her long slender fingers, a gesture he’d seen so many times. He wanted to massage her temple, soothe away her worries, watch her eyes light up with passion the way they once had when he touched her.
“Please review your files, Dr. Kos,” Devlin said. “If one of your patients fits the profile of our killer, you have to inform us.”
“I’ll review them,” she said, although she didn’t commit any further.
“We also need a list of any men you’re involved with,” Mark said.
Claire swallowed. “I’m not involved with anyone at the moment.”
A sharp pang of relief rifled through Mark, but he ignored it. “Anyone in the last, say, two years. That includes male employees where you work, neighbors, acquaintances—”
“I get the picture.” Claire held up a hand. “Do you really think the killer is someone I know?”
“We can’t say yet,” Agent Devlin said. “We’re gathering the same information on the victims. Who knows? We might get lucky and find a connection when we cross-check them.” Devlin’s coffee cup clattered as he placed it on the saucer. “If you think of anything, Dr. Kos, no matter how trivial, something one of the women said on the phone, something a client told you that strikes a familiar chord or a connection, please inform Agent Steele. He’ll be your contact.”
Mark shook Devlin’s hand, agreed to stay in touch, then watched as he headed to the door. As soon as it closed behind him, Mark turned to Claire. She was facing the fireplace, her back to him, her posture rigid. He wanted to go to her, to hold her and assure her everything would be all right. But a wall had been erected between them, a wall he didn’t know how to breach.
And he couldn’t relinquish the hurt that had consumed him those first few weeks when he’d gone overseas, thinking she didn’t want him.
He had tried to understand. A military life wasn’t conducive to family. He should know, having grown up in one. Always moving around. A new city, strange people and faces. Never getting too close because there were always goodbyes. His life belonged to the army. There was no room for anything else.
Now he’d left that behind, and he had to build a new life.
“You should have left, too,” she said quietly.
He had once. In fact, he hadn’t expected to return from overseas. Another reason he’d decided not to bug her with phone calls when she hadn’t shown that day. It had been unfair of him to pressure her for an answer before he shipped out or to ask her to wait for a man who might never return.
And now he had, but he was an empty shell of a man. A man riddled with guilt and the dark shadows of death that only war could bring.
He shut out the thought. Tried to focus on the case. “I don’t intend to leave until we catch this guy.”
She turned then, that foggy look in her eyes almost too painful to tolerate. “Then I guess I’d better start on that list of possible suspects,” she said softly. “The sooner we catch this guy, the sooner you can go.”
He ground his teeth, her message loud and clear. She didn’t want him back in her life. Just as she hadn’t wanted to marry him.
The whisper of her shampoo tortured him as she walked past and claimed the desk chair in front of her computer. His stomach knotted as he realized the changes she’d made to her apartment, her computer, her life. He glanced around the small living area at the bookcase, surprised at its lack of hominess. In Atlanta, Claire’s shelves had been filled with books and brass horse sculptures, a collection she’d started with her sister years ago. Claire had loved riding, had often teased that she wanted to take him on a bareback ride in the mountains, or on the beach. He’d always joked that they didn’t need a horse to do that.
They had never taken the ride.
Apparently she hadn’t brought the sculptured horses with her when she’d moved to Savannah. Had she given up riding because of her visual impairment?
He watched her compile the list and wondered about other changes. She’d once been full of laughter, full of surprises, and grit. The grit was still there, but the laughter had died.
She’d also always been open, honest, giving, loving and passionate. She’d enjoyed sex, had not been shy about the act like other women he’d known.
Had she changed in that respect now, too? Or had she lied about not having another boyfriend?
He clenched his fists by his sides at the mere thought of another man touching her, then reminded himself that he’d lost her long ago. “Why didn’t you send me word about the accident, Claire?”
Claire’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard and his eyes were drawn to the special program she used. “Because we were no longer a couple, Mark.”
The finality of her statement hammered reality home as she turned her back and resumed working at the computer.
CLAIRE FELT Mark’s presence behind her as she assembled the list he’d requested, her emotions in a tailspin. How could he show up in her life and demand she walk away from her job? And how could he still have the power to affect her simply with the sound of his voice and his masculine scent?
She had worked so hard to forget him, all the small details that made him special and had endeared him to her heart.
Like the old-fashioned way he opened the door for her, and the way he pressed his hand to the small of her back when he led her into a restaurant. And the way he murmured her name as if it was a lover’s caress. The simple hoarse sound of his voice had caused a tingle to spread up her spine.
He wouldn’t be murmuring her name in any kind of a lover’s caress now.
Especially if he discovered she’d lost their baby.
Besides, time had passed. He probably had another woman in his life. And she was blind, would be a burden to any man, especially one as adventurous as Mark. He liked outdoor sports, parachuting, mountain climbing, skiing, all kinds of activities she couldn’t participate in now.
Worse, being close to him only reminded her of the night they’d made their baby.
Forcing the torturous thoughts from her mind, she concentrated on her acquaintances and entered their names into the program, although she felt as if she was betraying them by listing them for the police. But the task had to be done. And it gave her something concrete to focus on besides the fact that Mark was watching her every movement. Even without sight, she felt him following her, gauging her facial expressions, honing in on her fear so he could use it to persuade her to stop hosting her show.
But she’d been on the receiving end of the phone calls, had heard those women’s pain-filled pleas, and she intended to help stop the killer. It was the only way she could silence the haunting cries in her mind and atone for her responsibility in the victims’ deaths.
Dragging herself back to the keyboard, she plugged in several names. Ian Hall, the new Director of CIRP. Dr. Ferguson, the head of the psychiatry department. Dr. Kurt Lassiter, another psychiatrist. She paused, remembering the lunch they’d shared the week before, they way he’d touched her hand when she’d reached for her water glass. She’d sensed he wanted more than lunch, but she hadn’t encouraged a relationship.
Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling that he’d been angry with her when she’d declined his invitation to a movie, she added a few other names: Billy Mack, a counselor on staff, and two of the orderlies who