his body.
When he spoke, his voice was too close, too quietly intimate. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
She whirled and almost hit him, he was that close. She tried to step backward but her heel hit the baseboard. She flattened her palms against the wall behind her.
“Sure about what?” she asked. Where she was or if she was safe? “I don’t understand these questions. What does any of this have to do with me?” she cried.
“Think about the name. Rosemary Delancey,” he said calmly, then leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Rosemary,” drawing out the S.
Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. Rissshhhh, rozzzzzsss. The whispers blended with his voice, swirling around her in a singsong rhythm. “I—don’t—know—anything about—Rosemary Delancey,” she bit out, suppressing the urge to squeeze her temples between her hands again.
“I think you do,” he said, staring down at her. He lifted a hand toward her hair.
She recoiled, alarm rising in her chest. She slid sideways, away from him. “Get away from me,” she cried.
He stepped backward, regarding her narrowly. His jaw tensed. “Rosemary,” he said. “Say it. Rosemary.”
“Stop it!” She squeezed her head again. “I don’t know that name. Why are you doing this?” Her temple throbbed again.
“I think you know why,” he said quietly.
Rose’s temper burst into flame. “Leave me alone! I don’t know anything! I never heard of her!”
Detective Lloyd’s eyebrows went up. “That’s surprising, because she was someone who should have meant a lot to you.”
“Why? How?” Rose asked, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket in her fist and shaking it. “Stop playing with me and tell me what you want me to say.”
Dixon Lloyd looked down at Rose’s hand on his arm. It was a pretty hand, with long slender fingers and short unpainted nails. Nails that didn’t go with the image stored in his head, but then, nothing about this woman matched up with the twenty-two-year-old girl he’d come to know.
He focused on the black fingerless lace gloves she’d put on as soon as she’d been able to get to the piano to retrieve them. Were they an affectation, along with the long flowing skirt and blouse? Was she trying to perpetrate a witchlike image, similar to the seventies and eighties pop icon Stevie Nicks? Or was all that gauzy feminine garb hiding something—like knife scars?
The thought surprised him. Then, as he considered it, a queasy anger turned his stomach.
Swallowing against the queasiness, he turned his attention to her face and studied her up close for the first time. Most interesting was a long scar that started at the level of her right brow and traveled jaggedly down her cheek to her jawline. The shriveled skin drew her mouth slightly on the right side and caused her right eye to slant upward.
His stomach turned over. Scars. Of course. That’s why her face seemed off. The photo he’d carried in his wallet all these years was of a pretty girl with good bones and the promise of classic beauty once she matured. She’d been barely twenty-two when she’d died. Disappeared, he corrected himself.
Now the scar, along with the character that came with age, made her face much more interesting. Still lovely. If possible, even more fascinating. Certainly no longer a Stepford beauty queen. She was stunning. Stunning and mysterious, a dangerous combination.
“—unless you explain,” she was saying.
“What?” He’d missed most of what she’d just said.
“What do you mean what? Everything. Why you’re here. Who Rosemary Delancey is. Why you think any of this has anything to do with me.”
She tossed her answer at him as a challenge, but Dixon didn’t think she was nearly as brave as her words sounded. Her face was pallid, her eyes were becoming damp and a fine trembling shimmered through her.
He steeled himself against her tears. She’d stayed hidden all this time—why? Because of the scar? He could understand a young debutante not wanting to be seen in public with what must have seemed like a hideous facial deformity.
But Rosemary Delancey was thirty-four now. Was she still so vain? Or was she afraid of whoever had attacked her? Whatever the reason she hadn’t come forward, she knew now that the gig was up.
It was time to hit her with the facts and gauge her reaction.
“Okay,” he said, holding up one finger. “First, Rosemary Delancey was the victim of a violent attack twelve years ago. She lost so much blood that the medical examiner concluded that she could not have survived. But that conclusion couldn’t be verified because her body was never found.”
He held up a second finger. “Second, I’m here because someone recognized you.”
Rose’s amber-colored eyes went wide, whites showing around the iris. Her face drained of color. She pressed a hand against her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. “Recognized me?” she croaked.
Dixon was surprised at her obvious terror. He knew it was real. No one could fake that sudden pallor. But if she was that afraid of being found, why did she live only a few blocks from where she was attacked? Why hadn’t she left the city? Or gone back to her family? If anyone could make her feel safe, it was the Delanceys, wasn’t it? He filed that question away to think about later.
He continued, holding up a third finger. “Finally, why should it matter to you? I would think that the answer to that question is obvious, Miss Delancey.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. She moaned. Her face turned from palest pink to sickly green and her eyelids fluttered rapidly. Then her pupils rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.
Dixon caught her barely in time to keep her from crumpling to the floor. He struggled to hold on to her limp body. He’d deliberately baited her, throwing the name at her, and he’d been prepared for an explosive reaction—maybe even a violent one. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d hit him or tried to run away, but he sure hadn’t expected her to faint.
“Hey, Rosemary,” he murmured, close to her ear, as he slid his arm around her back to get a better hold on her until he could move her to the couch. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Her limbs went from rag doll–limp to stiff as boards in less than a second. “Let me go,” she cried hoarsely, pushing at his biceps and scrambling to her feet.
He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and gave her the once-over to be sure she was actually awake before he loosened his grip.
Immediately, she teetered, but when he reached out to steady her, she threw her palms up and stumbled backward. “I want you out—of here,” she demanded breathlessly.
He studied her. She was still pale—her skin looked translucent, but the greenish hue was gone and pink splotches were growing in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“Not until I’m sure you’re all right.”
“Of
