shouldn’t take you long to hit a dead end, he’d said this afternoon, and he had been right. She was running out of questions, and they had learned nothing. “What kind of response does she bring?”
He shrugged but continued to stare out. “That night in the ER, I heard that she’d had a heart attack, and…I was sorry. I didn’t have any idea who she was, but…it mattered. It was as if her death—or her life—was important to me in some way.”
“Maybe you’d done business with her. Maybe you were on your way here to meet with her.”
“Stone checked her appointment book. Everyone listed in it is present and accounted for.”
“Maybe your business with her was personal.”
He shook his head. “She was very organized. She kept track of her personal business as well as her professional matters.”
“It’s human nature to feel some measure of sadness when you hear someone has died. Maybe that’s all it was. You were just being human.”
With another shake of his head, he closed the blinds, then faced her. “I don’t think I’m a very empathetic person.”
“What do you think you are?”
He rested his hands on the back of the chair across from her, and his fingers automatically tightened. “I don’t know, but I think…” He took a deep breath as if it were the only way to force the words out. “I think I’m afraid to find out.”
Chapter Two
“Do you want something to drink?”
Martin nodded as Juliet got to her feet. They’d been at it more than an hour—lots of questions, lots of the same depressing answers. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Why did she bother asking? Why did he bother repeating? Why didn’t they just accept that, for all practical purposes, his life before last June no longer existed? At least not in a place where he could get to it.
After a moment alone in the quiet office, he left his chair and stepped into the hallway. The living room was dark, but he could make out overstuffed furniture in dark stripes, the kind made for stretching out on, and a television, silent in the corner. There were two doors between him and the kitchen, one probably a closet, the other open to reveal a bathroom. A third opening on the opposite side was another hallway, one that presumably led to the bedrooms. That was where he’d first seen her this evening, buttoning her dress, unknowingly teasing him, tantalizing him, turning him on.
He remembered sex—not with any particular person, not at any particular time, but he remembered the need, the raw, aching hunger, the torment in a slow, leisurely seduction and the pleasure in a quick, hard completion. He remembered the sense of power at what he could make a woman feel and the very real vulnerability at what she could do to him.
Sweet hell, what Juliet could do to him, if only he could remember. If only he knew his past.
He walked the length of the hallway, not allowing himself even the quickest of glances down the shorter hall to the bedrooms. She stood at the counter, her back to him, filling glasses with pop and arranging cookies on a plate, and he took advantage of her lack of awareness to study her. Her feet were bare—had he always found that erotic or was this a post-concussion fetish?—and her skirt swirled around her ankles as she moved. The dress was loose and full from the waist down. It clung like a second skin from there up, snug enough that he could tell by the uninterrupted smoothness that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He knew she wasn’t wearing one, because he’d seen that pale delicate skin, so soft and inviting that his fingers ached to touch it.
She was humming softly to herself, with her head bent so her hair fell forward, revealing her neck. It was long, pale, probably soft, definitely erotic. All he would have to do was walk across the room, brush a few strands of hair aside, touch his mouth to her skin, and he would be so damned hot that he just might burst into flames.
He was moving toward her, closing the distance between them, only a few feet away, when she turned from the counter and saw him. Startled, she dropped the glasses she held. Pop, ice and bits of glass went everywhere, splashing her skirt and his jeans, as color flooded her face. “Oh, my God, I didn’t know— Don’t you make noise when you walk?”
Though he hadn’t meant to frighten her, he felt guilty, anyway. He should have spoken from the doorway, should have let her know that she was no longer alone, but he’d seen her, and everything else—except wanting her—had fled his mind. “Sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’ll clean that—”
“I will.” She snatched up a towel from the counter and crouched, careful to tuck her skirt tightly around her legs. He found a broom and dustpan in the corner and, while she mopped up soda, swept the broken glass into a pile. When he knelt to scoop it into the pan, he found himself closer to her than he’d ever been, closer than he should ever be. Close enough to see that her eyes were just a shade more blue than hazel. Close enough to touch her. Close enough to hurt her.
Startled by the thought, he moved back, swept the glass into the pan and got to his feet, quickly putting the length of the room between them. Why the hell would he hurt her? Was that what he did? Hurt vulnerable, helpless women? Maybe even kill them?
Like Olivia Stuart?
The thought had occurred to Juliet earlier that maybe he had given the order for Olivia’s murder. She hadn’t asked, but he knew she had wondered. He wondered, too. Had he been coming to Grand Springs to harm the mayor? To help her? Or was his response to the news of her death nothing more than human nature, as Juliet had suggested? Damn it, he didn’t know.
But, as he’d told her, he didn’t think he was a very empathetic person. He thought he might be a coldhearted bastard. Maybe a cold-blooded killer.
She stood up, wet a handful of paper towels, then crouched to give the floor a thorough swipe. “Sorry about the mess. I’m used to being alone, and you do move quietly. I was just surprised.”
“It was my fault.” He didn’t look at her, but he could see her peripherally—a swirl of soft colors, blond hair, bare feet. What was wrong with all the people she’d known that she was used to being alone? Why weren’t there men lined up at her door? Why wasn’t she spending her evenings with a husband and family instead of a computer? Instead of with him?
“Just give me a second and I’ll have everything—”
“Don’t bother. I should go.” He looked at her finally and saw disappointment flare in her eyes before her face flushed and she turned away to needlessly rearrange the few items on the counter. Disappointment. She didn’t want him to leave. Was she crazy or just lonely?
He knew loneliness intimately—the empty, aching need to share at least some small part of your life with someone special. He’d made friends here, but even with them, he still felt the need. He still wondered if there was someone out there somewhere who was lonely for him. Was there someone special, someone he’d loved, someone whose life was incomplete without him?
He didn’t think so. Maybe it was sentimental bull, but he believed that if there had been someone special, some part of him would know. Maybe not his mind, but his heart. His soul. But his heart was too empty. He was too alone. Too attracted to Juliet.
Juliet, who was avoiding facing him, who was embarrassed,
