“Ms. Langford? Roman Lufka here. From what my secretary, Diana, has told me, it sounds as if you’ve got a serious problem on your hands.”
The deep cultured voice whose accent suggested an East Coast education and sophistication came as much of a surprise to her as his assurance that her fears were justified. The police had shown her relatively little interest or compassion.
“I get a pit in my stomach just anticipating looking at the mail. When the first letter came, I thought it had to be some sort of hideous joke, but it has gone on too long. I was feeling so desperate I decided to call your office.”
“I’m glad you did. Can you meet me at Lieutenant Parker’s office in say, twenty minutes?”
She breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, yes. Does this mean you’ll take my case?”
“It does.”
“Thank you.” Her voice trembled.
“You’re welcome. See you soon.”
She heard the click before she put the receiver back on the hook. Thank goodness she was going to get some help.
Roman drove the tan Ford he used on the job into the underground carpark of the metropolitan hall of justice.
Unfortunately, there was no anonymity here. By the time he’d reached the third floor of the complex, he’d shaken hands with a dozen officers and exchanged shoptalk with a dozen more who wanted to discuss the stakeout he’d been on.
He broke it off as soon as he could and headed for Parker’s office. The head of the stalking bureau possessed a need to be in control at all times. Since he was on the phone, Roman used sign language for permission to get into the files. The other man hesitated, then expelled a frustrated sigh and nodded his go-ahead.
On his way to the cabinet, Roman theorized that this had to be one of Parker’s better days, or else the phone call had distracted him.
His client hadn’t arrived yet. He decided to get started.
Lam, Lamoreaux, Landau, Landrigan, Langford. Roman pulled her file and sat down at a table against the wall.
The first item to meet his gaze was a copy of her passport photo, and a large color photograph of her tour group assembled on the steps of St. Peter’s in Rome.
A hairy-faced figure among the group had been circled with black marker. Obviously he was the man who’d been harassing her.
Roman’s eyes darted to the other people in the crowd until he found Brittany Langford, a budding new architect according to Diana.
With her ash-blond hair long enough to be pulled back in a medium-size ponytail, she looked about nineteen rather than twenty-six, and very attractive.
Putting the pictures aside, he began studying the information from the report taken by investigating Officer Green. It was sparse at best.
Glen Baird. White male, approximately six feet, medium build, medium-dark brown hair and brown eyes, resident of Madison, Wisconsin.
If the man’s hair were shaved off, the description could belong to hundreds of thousands of men in the U.S. The letters would tell Roman a great deal more.
Oftentimes it was during the initial perusal of evidence—when his brain seemed to be in free-association mode—that his creative side took over. As ideas sprang into his mind—ideas to be followed up on at a later date—he would make verbal notes into his pocket recorder.
The process of assessing, digesting, analyzing random bits of information generally revealed a pattern, sometimes a whole picture of a mind that didn’t function in the normal way.
He started to pull the recorder from his pocket when he heard his name called out in a familiar feminine voice with that slightly husky tone. He looked up to discover that his newest client was even more beautiful than the picture had revealed.
Those vibrant blue eyes and flawless young skin, all part of her classic features, would draw any man’s gaze. But combined with the full curves of her figure and long slender legs the blouse and skirt couldn’t camouflage, she would definitely be the star attraction anywhere, let alone on her tour bus.
“Ms. Langford.” Rising to his feet, he put out his hand for her to shake, then flashed her his credentials to identify himself.
The top of her head reached his chin. A subtle, flowery fragrance emanated from her.
As a rule, when Brit tried to match a face with a voice, she was totally off base and inevitably disappointed. For once in her life, the reality surpassed the image of the bodyguard-type she’d conjured in her mind.
His hazel eyes stared directly into hers. The attractive, dark-haired man stood at least six feet two, maybe three. He had a lean, powerful build and was probably in his midto late-thirties. With a name like that and his olive complexion, he was definitely of European or even Eastern European extraction. Yet he was as American as she was. The combination took her breath.
There weren’t any men of her acquaintance who looked remotely like him, not even a few of the striking foreign males she’d met on her tour.
Her gaze quickly reverted once more to his company credentials which contained his picture and description.
“Please. Sit down.”
“Thank you.”
He helped guide her to a chair before he sat opposite her. There was an air of unreality about the whole situation. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her?
“I appreciate your being willing to talk to me this afternoon, for making it possible for me to pay you in installments. I’m very grateful.” Damn. Her voice quivered.
“It’s my job,” he murmured with a quick smile. That, plus his attire of polo shirt and chinos, gave him a humanness lacking in the uniformed police officers she’d talked to thus far. Brit wished she could achieve the confidence and calm he exuded.
“From what Diana told me on the phone, you’ve never been in this kind of a situation before. A virtual stranger has invaded your life totally unsolicited. I don’t blame you for being frightened.”
“It’s horrible.” Her voice wobbled again. “Have you read the letters?”
“Not yet. I only arrived a few minutes before you did. Let me look through them first. I’ll be using a tape recorder, making verbal notes. Will that bother you?”
She’d been watching him, fascinated by his totally male aura and professional demeanor. “No. O-of course not,” she stammered.
“Good.”
Roman spent the next few minutes perusing the first of six letters written on lined paper a student would use.
Brittany—
Everyone on the tour called you Brit, but when I saw your full name on the address sheet most of
