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 helped with the patients, Ray Foote and Ted Cleaver. But she couldn’t possibly remember the entire staff at CIRP. The police would have to check the hospital personnel records.
Next, she added Drew Myers, the producer of the radio show, and his assistant, Bailey Cummings, but Bailey was no more than a college intern. And Drew had been nothing but a friend. Then there was Arden Holland, the janitor. Deciding he was too old to fit the profile and not agile enough to pull off a murder and escape, she dismissed him completely.
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
