Her brother turned and gave her a reassuring smile. He was eleven and had already won a regional championship. He was their parents’ real hope, she knew that. She was their second. But she tried. Hours of lessons. Of practicing. She was never good enough. And now came her first competition, and she’d thrown up in nervousness. That’s why she was late.
The car accelerated. She saw the amber light turn red. Late. They were late. Because of her. Because of her fear. Suddenly, she heard the squeal of brakes, felt the jolt of the car and then the crashing sound of metal against metal…
“Easy.” The voice was deep but the low drawl was comforting.
She opened her eyes. Light was filtering into the room. A warm hand was on her shoulder.
It moved away almost immediately. She felt the loss of it. More than she should have.
“You were having a nightmare,” the detective said. He looked worse than he had a few hours ago. His hair was sticking out in all directions, the stubble was darker, his eyes were bloodshot.
“The attack?”
She started to say no, then gave a nod. She didn’t want to tell him she’d killed her father. And her brother. Her mind knew it had been an accident; her heart said she was responsible.
Then a knock at the door, and the room filled with her mother, her partner, a nurse with a tray.
Her mother stared at the detective next to her bed. “What are you doing here?” she said. “And why are there policemen outside?”
MacKay—she thought of him that way now—stepped away from her. “Miss Merrick was attacked last night,” he said evenly.
“In the hospital?” her mother asked. “How could that…?”
Paul went immediately to her bed, crowding out the detective and leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Marise?” he asked, his voice breaking.
She felt the concern in his voice, and her heart ached. He really did care for her. She’d known that, though at times she’d wondered whether his interest wasn’t more in keeping her as a partner.
Now as she looked in his eyes, she realized she had been wrong. He did love her. She took his hand, feeling the strength that had allowed her to make nearly impossible lifts.
“I’m really all right,” she said, even though she knew she wasn’t. And that there would be explanations that would have to be made. She would have to explain why she was staying in Atlanta. And later—but not now—she would have to explain why she couldn’t marry Paul.
She saw the detective slip out the door.
The people who cared most about her were in the room. She wondered, then, why she felt so alone.
Chapter 3
“What happened?” her mother asked.
She shrugged. “I woke up last night, and there was an intruder in the room. I screamed, and he left.”
Paul’s brows furrowed. “Someone from the hospital?”
“I think it was the same man who attacked me outside the arena. There was the same odor about him.”
“He didn’t hurt you?” Her mother hurried to her side and clasped one of Marise’s hand in hers.
“No,” she reassured both of them. “I got away from him by rolling off the bed. All that falling served me well,” she said wryly. “I might have a bruise. Nothing more.”
“They should have given you protection.”
“I have it now,” she said. “Neither you nor I thought we would need it yesterday since we were using another name,” she pointed out.
Paul’s hand tightened around hers. “How could he have found you?”
“Detective…MacKay thinks it could be someone associated with the hospital.”
“That settles it,” Paul said. “We found a small jet that we can charter. We can leave this afternoon.”
“I’m not leaving,” she announced.
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “The plane is quite safe, even comfortable. And we can afford it with that last endorsement signing.”
“The police think that man killed other women,” Marise said. “They think I can help them.”
“Solving crimes is their problem,” Cara Merrick said. “They are detectives. You’re not.”
“There’s something else,” Marise said carefully. “If he believes I can recognize him, or something about him—and apparently he does or he wouldn’t have taken the risks he did last night—he might follow me if I leave. I’ll never feel safe again.”
“Nonsense,” Paul said. “Of course, he won’t follow us. He’ll just be relieved you’ve left.”
“Are you that familiar with the thinking of a serial killer?” she asked a bit too sharply.
Paul looked hurt.
“I can’t go,” she said. “Not as long as there’s a chance I can help the police.”
“Help the police?” her mother said as if it were a foreign concept. “How can you help the police?”
“A police artist will be here this morning.”
“I thought you said you didn’t see anything.”
“Detective MacKay seems to think that I might recall some things.”
“We can leave after that, then,” her mother said with relief.
“You didn’t listen,” Marise said. “He could follow me.”
“I can protect you,” Paul said.
At one time, she might have accepted that. Now protection took the form of a tall, lanky detective with mussed hair, intelligent dark eyes and a gentle touch. But she should know better than to depend on her own judgment.
She’d fallen in love once. Desperately. His name was Patrick Bennett, and he was a business executive with a sportswear company, older than her by fifteen years. Their relationship ended when she injured her ankle and no longer had the strength it took to be a singles champion with the increasing demand for higher and more complicated jumps and combinations. Her coach had suggested pairs skating. It took as much athletic ability but the strain wasn’t as consistent on her ankle, and Paul and her coach had always been careful to protect it as much as possible. She and Paul had been well-matched in height, technique and abilities.
Patrick had been concerned about her injury at first. Then the concern dissolved into coolness. Before long, he was dating another singles skater, and Marise realized he wanted a trophy companion, not part of a team. It had been bitter knowledge, and she’d guarded her heart
