Remembering Agent Devlin’s request for her patient records, she mentally ticked down the list, wondering if any one of them could have orchestrated the killings. Joel Sanger, a young man in his late twenties, had experienced a psychotic break after a plane crash. Recently he had exhibited violent tendencies toward women. She also had to consider her newest patient, Richard Wheaton, a man she suspected might be suffering from DID, dissociative identity disorder. Richard had been traumatized as a child. Now his behavior was erratic. She’d only begun to scratch the surface of his problems.
Could one of them be responsible for the deaths?
If so, and she started asking questions, would he try to kill her next?
Chapter Three
Mark accepted the list from Claire. Working with her was going to be hard, watching her struggle to maintain her independence with a handicap even worse.
But not touching her would be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He had wanted her the first moment he’d seen her.
Ironically, they had met in a Starbucks when he’d been on leave for the weekend. Her hair had brushed his shoulder as she’d turned to grab a packet of sweetener. When she’d laughed and said that she was a coffee addict, he’d looked into her gorgeous eyes, and they’d immediately connected. A week later, he’d taken her to dinner. A day later to bed. The romance had been fast, sometimes sweet, but very seductive. And the sex had been mind-boggling.
But the breakup—inevitable.
He was, after all, his father’s son, and didn’t know how to hold on to a woman.
But at least his father had been a hero in the military. Had received a distinguished award for bravery and heroism in a recon mission. Had died in the line of duty serving his country, rescuing prisoners of war a few years ago.
Mark saw the faces of his fallen men in his mind’s eye. Even though the army had hinted at giving him a commendation, he had refused it. He didn’t deserve to be rewarded when his friends lay six feet under, their families still mourning.
“There are other employees.” Claire broke into his thoughts, indicating the printout of names she’d given him, “but you’ll have to obtain those from CIRP.”
“I’m sure Devlin is on it.” His gaze dropped from her rose petal mouth to the paper, and he skimmed the list, his fists tightening. “I’d like to interview the people on this list as soon as possible.”
Claire ran a finger over her watch, obviously reading the braille settings. “Most everyone will be gone by now.”
He nodded, then realized Claire couldn’t see him. She’d never look into his eyes with that same sweet lust again. He had to clear his throat to talk. “They leave at five?”
“Not always, but by eight or nine, everyone’s pretty much cleared out except for the janitorial staff and security guards.”
“Then I’ll start tomorrow.” He folded the paper and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “What are your plans tonight?”
A frown creased her brow as if she was surprised he asked. “I’m going to the studio for the show.”
“You can’t be serious?”
Her chin rose a notch. “Of course I’m serious. I told you I wouldn’t give up my job.”
“But a woman was murdered last night, Claire. You must be shaken by her phone call and that creep’s message to you.”
“That’s exactly the reason I have to go.” She picked up the phone. “If the killer wants to connect with me, I have to be there when he calls.”
“Is that what the legal advisors of the show suggest?”
She hesitated. “They’re concerned, but it’s important to present the image that I’m cooperating in trying to find this madman. We’re going to set up a separate line, too, so we can transfer the calls and the public won’t have to listen.”
“The research center is using you for free publicity.” He moved so swiftly and grabbed her arm that she startled and dropped the phone. “Don’t do it, Claire.” His gaze latched on the curve of her cheek, her slightly parted lips, a tiny scar at the corner of her chin that hadn’t been there before. He couldn’t stand to see her hurt again. And he wanted to reach out and touch that scar. Kiss away the pain that had caused it. “Please, Claire, stay home.”
Her breath whistled between them, soft, yet full of tension. Once it had vibrated with want, desire, heat. Now he felt only anger.
“I can’t, Mark. Besides, the station is tightening security for me. Now, if you intend to work on this case, either help me or leave and request another agent.” She reached for his hand, firmly lifted his fingers away from her arm. He caught her fingers in his for the briefest of seconds, savoring her touch, feeling her warmth seep into the cold places he’d lived with since he’d lost her a year ago.
A tense second passed between them, fraught with old memories, and need. He was just about to reach out and brush an errant hair from her cheek when Claire swallowed. “Let me go, Mark, so I can phone the station to send over a car.”
He dropped her fingers, aching at the loss and reminding himself that he couldn’t get personally entangled with Claire again. His men had died and he’d walked away alive, at least physically. Mentally he was a mess. He didn’t deserve Claire. He wasn’t sure there was even enough of him left to give her what she needed either.
Still, he refused to leave her unprotected. “Forget the car. If you’re going to the radio station, I’ll drive you.”
“No—”
“The subject is not up for debate, Claire. I’ll let the station security know.” He smiled, his next words half threat, half promise. “Since I’ve been assigned to protect you, I intend to stick to you like glue.”
At one time she would have welcomed that. But this time, her lip trembled, and she had no reply. She gathered her purse, then he slid his hand to the small of her back to guide her to the door. Instead of leaning into him, warming to his touch as she once had, she pulled away, reached for her cane and walked ahead alone, her chin held high. The cane clicked ominously on the floor in front of him, its sound mimicking a soldier’s march.
His heart twisted in response—her dismissal was a firm reminder that everything between them had changed.
GRATEFUL FOR the glass window separating her and Mark, Claire kept her head down, her focus on preparing for the evening show. The car ride had been excruciating, the close quarters too confining for comfort.
She had wanted to touch Mark so badly it hurt.
Memories of her accident assaulted her, playing havoc on nerves already destroyed by the mere feel of Mark’s hand pressed possessively against her back. Riding in his old Thunderbird convertible again with the wind tossing his scent toward her had only reminded her that once she’d been happy, in love.
Before he had left. Before she’d lost their child.
An image of a dark-haired little baby froze in her mind. She imagined the soft weight of its body, the little hands reaching for her, the sound of its cry.
The radio signal buzzed, jerking her from the image. Claire exhaled to compose herself, then checked her watch, indicating to Drew that she was ready to start.
Keep it strictly business.
Unfortunately, Mark had joined Drew, rattling her newfound philosophy. She didn’t