car accident.”
Still hanging on to her, his breath brushed her cheek, eliciting memories of a hot night between the sheets, their bodies moving together in a heated rhythm of passion that had left her aching for more.
Forever.
But that would never be. Not now.
Agent Devlin cleared his throat. “Steele, the case, our questions?”
She heard Mark’s feet snap together, imagined him standing rigid with anger. She knew him well enough to recognize that the ironclad control on his emotions had been shaken, and he was wrestling to regain his equilibrium.
But erotic visions interceded into the darkness where she lived, resurrecting a longing for the past—the coarse stiffness of his short hair brushing her belly, his lips tracing a path along the curve of her spine.
And his eyes—she’d never seen a man with eyes his color. They were almost golden, rimmed in pale yellow. Filled with passion, they turned almost chocolate-brown, with laughter, the gold shimmered like sunshine.
Although he’d hardly ever laughed.
She’d wanted him to laugh more, had tried to ease the hardness in his eyes, take away the loneliness.
Now she’d forgotten how to laugh herself.
“Sit down,” Claire implored softly. “I’ll get us some coffee and we’ll talk.”
His labored sigh heightened the tension between them, but he finally dropped his hands. “Fine.”
Claire turned, so desperate to reorient herself that she ignored his clipped tone. The last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself or give the image that she was helpless.
She did not want Mark’s pity.
Another reason she hadn’t informed him of her accident or condition. She’d been smothered enough by her sister Paulette’s well-meaning intentions.
She recounted her steps to the den, thankfully bypassing the furniture without a bump. It was imperative that her belongings stay in place. If a table or stool were moved, she’d trip and fall on her face.
Something she absolutely could not do in front of a strong man like Mark.
“Have a seat, gentlemen, and I’ll get some coffee.”
“I’ll help.” Mark moved up behind her.
“No, I can handle it.” She didn’t bother to apologize for her own abrupt tone. She needed time to compose herself before facing Mark again.
The current situation with the women who’d been murdered had already destroyed her peace of mind.
She slipped into the kitchen nook, removed a serving tray, stacked three cups on it along with the coffeepot which she kept filled all day, then added sugar and creamer and returned to the den. Her hands trembled as she set it on the coffee table.
“Please serve yourselves, gentlemen.”
“Thanks, Dr. Kos,” Agent Devlin said from the big armchair.
“Sit down, Claire.” Mark’s voice came from the love seat.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, using two fingers to measure, then slid onto the sofa, feeling his scrutinizing eyes trace her every movement.
“When did you have this accident?” Mark asked.
An involuntary shudder passed through her. This was the question she’d dreaded most. The night you left, she wanted to scream. I was rushing to the airport to accept your proposal, to tell you about our baby.
Now, he would never know. He couldn’t know.
“A few months ago. I’m fine now.”
“You’re not fine, you’re blind,” Mark said in a gruff voice.
“That’s true,” Claire conceded, “but thanks to the wonderful rehab program at CIRP, I’m learning to adjust.” She crossed her legs, determined to change the subject. “Now, Agent Devlin, why is Lieutenant Steele with you? Do you have news about the two women who were murdered?”
Claire tightened her hands around her coffee mug to warm them. All night she’d lain in a pool of her own fear, a chill of helplessness engulfing her.
She hadn’t been able to save her child. Or those women.
She had to help the police find the killer.
“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone in custody yet,” Devlin cut in. “That’s why we’re here. We need your help.”
Claire nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
Devlin cleared his throat. “Good. The first victim, Dianne Lyons, was single, twenty-five, blond, a waitress at a local diner in Savannah. She lived with a cat and her boyfriend.” He paused. “The second victim, Beverly Bell, was married, thirty-two, a brunette and a professional architect. She lived with her husband and baby.”
Claire twisted her hands together. That poor child had been left without a mother. It was all so senseless.
“So far, you and the Calling Claire show appear to be the only connection,” Devlin supplied. “You didn’t know either of the victims, Dr. Kos?”
“No.” Claire hugged her arms around her waist, the image of the young women fighting for their lives haunting her.
“You’ve never treated either of them?”
“No. Did you trace the calls or find any evidence at the scene to identify the killer?”
“Not yet,” Devlin said. “We’re still waiting on the forensics report. The killer used throwaway cell phones you can pick up at any convenience store. We’re trying to pinpoint where the killer purchased them, but it’ll take time.”
“But you think he’ll kill again?”
“Yes.” Agent Devlin sigh was filled with weariness. “Do you have any idea why he’s calling you?”
Claire shrugged. “The show. It’s his twisted way of announcing his crime. He wants the publicity, probably even wants help.”
“You do believe the killer is a man?” Agent Devlin asked.
Claire nodded.
“He likes the attention?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you could create a profile?”
Claire nodded. “Yes, but I’ll need more information on the murders.”
“We can give you access to police files.” Devlin paused. “We’ll also need to look at your patient files. It’s possible the killer knows you personally. He chose
