by Lisa Jackson
He crossed the room. Freshly cut flowers scented the air and reminded him of Kaylie. Always Kaylie. Despite the divorce and the past seven painful years alone, he’d never truly forgotten her, never been able to go to bed at night without feeling a hot pang of regret that she wasn’t beside him, that he wasn’t in her life any longer.
Shoving the sleeves of his pullover up his forearms, he walked to the recessed bar near a broad bank of windows. He leaned on one knee, dug through the cabinet and smiled faintly when he found his favorite brand of Scotch, the bottle dusty from neglect, the seal still unbroken. With a flick of his wrist he opened the bottle, just as, by confronting her, he was reopening all the old hurt and pain, the anger and fury, and the passion…. As damning as it was exciting. Closing his eyes, he reined in his runaway emotions—emotions over which he usually had tight control. Except where Kaylie was concerned.
“Fool.” Straightening, he poured himself a stiff shot. “Here’s to old times,” he muttered, then tossed back most of the drink, the warm, aged liquor hitting the back of his throat in a fiery splash.
Home at last, he thought ironically, topping off his glass again as he sauntered to the French doors.
Through the paned glass, he stared down the cliff to the beach below. Relief, in a wave, washed over him. There she was—safe! With no madman stalking her. She walked from the surf, wringing saltwater from her long, sun-streaked hair as if she hadn’t a care in the world. If she only knew.
Wearing only a white one-piece swimming suit that molded to her body, sculpting her breasts and exposing the tanned length of her slim legs, she tossed her thick, curly mane over her shoulders.
His gut tightened as he watched her bend over and scoop up a towel from the white sand. The next couple of weeks were going to be hell.
* * *
Kaylie shook the sand from her towel, then looped the terry cloth around her neck. The last few rays of sun dried the water on her back and warmed her shoulders as she slipped into her thongs and cast one last longing glance at the sea. Sailboats skimmed the horizon, dark silhouettes against a blaze of magenta and gold. Gulls wheeled high overhead, filling the air with their lonely cries.
The beach was nearly deserted as she climbed up the weathered staircase to the house. Leaving her thongs on the deck, she pushed open the back door, then tossed her towel into the hamper in the laundry room. Maybe she’d pour herself a glass of wine. Pulling down the strap of her bathing suit, she headed for the bedroom. First a long, hot shower and then—
“How’re you, Kaylie?” a familiar voice drawled.
Kaylie gasped, stopping dead in her tracks. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she spun around quickly, drops from her hair spraying against the wall. Zane? Here? Now? Why?
Draped over the couch, long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, he looked as damnably masculine as he ever had. His ankles were crossed, his expression bland, except for the lifting of one dark brow. However, she knew him too well and expected his pose of studied relaxation was all for show.
His steely gray gaze touched hers, and his lips quirked. For a few seconds she remembered how much she had loved him, how much she had wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. With an effort, she closed her mind to such traitorous thoughts. Her throat worked, and slowly she became conscious that one strap of her swimsuit dangled over her forearm, leaving the swell of her breast exposed.
“W-what the devil are you doing here—trying to scare me to death?” she finally sputtered, adjusting the strap back over her shoulder. But before he could respond, she changed her mind and shook her head. She wasn’t up to talking to Zane—not now, probably not ever. “No, wait, don’t answer that, I don’t think I want to know.”
He didn’t budge, damn him, just lounged there, on her couch, drinking her Scotch, stretched out and making himself comfortable. His nerve was unbelievable, and yet there was something about him, something restless and dangerous that still touched a forbidden part of her heart. And she knew he wouldn’t have shown up without a reason.
His scuffed running shoes dropped to the floor. “You didn’t call me back.”
She felt a jab of guilt. She’d gotten his messages, but hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him. “And that’s why you’re here?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Oh, please, don’t start with this,” she said, reminded of the reasons she’d divorced him, his all-consuming need to protect her. “You don’t have to worry about me or even be concerned that—”
“Lee Johnston’s going to be released.”
The words were like frigid water poured over her, stopping her cold. Zane’s feigned casualness disappeared.
“He’s what?” she whispered. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Lee Johnston, a short, burly man with flaming red hair and lifeless blue eyes. And she remembered the knife—oh, God, the long-bladed knife that he’d pressed to her throat.
“Y-you’re sure about this?” Oh, Lord, how could she keep her voice from quavering? The look on his face convinced her that he believed she was in grave danger, and yet she didn’t want to believe it. Not entirely. There were too many dimensions to Zane to take anything he said at face value. Although she’d never known him to lie.
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Someone called me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone who called himself ‘Ted.’”
“Ted? Ted who?” she asked.
“I wish I knew. I thought maybe you could help me figure it out,” he admitted, launching into his short tale and starting with the first nerve-jangling call from “Ted,” and ending with his gut feeling that Dr. Henshaw was holding out on him. “Do you have a recorder—a tape player?”
She nodded mutely, then retrieved the portable player from her bedroom. Zane picked up his jacket and took out a small tape, which he snapped into the machine. A few seconds later, “Ted’s” warning echoed through the room.
“Oh, my God,” Kaylie whispered, her hand to her mouth. She listened to the tape twice, her insides wrenching as the warning was repeated. Zane, though he attempted to appear calm, was coiled tightly, his features tense, his eyes flicking from her to the corners of the room, as if he half expected someone to jump out and attack her.
Why now? she wondered frantically. Why ever?
She bit her lower lip, then thinking it a sign of weakness, stopped just as the tape clicked off. “Why did this ‘Ted’ guy call you? Why not me?”
“Beats me,” Zane admitted, sipping amber liquor from a short glass, his jaw sliding pensively to the side. “None of this is official. At least not yet.” Zane’s features were hard, and a quiet fury burned in his eyes. “So far we’ve only got this guy’s—whoever he is—word for it. I talked with Johnston’s psychiatrist and I didn’t like what he said.”
“But he didn’t say Johnston would be released.” She turned pleading eyes up at him.
“No, but I’ve got a gut feeling on this one. Henshaw was being too careful. My bet is that the man’s going to walk, Kaylie. Whoever called me had a reason.”
“Oh, God.” Her whole body shook. Stark moments of terror returned—memories of a deranged man who’d sworn he’d kill for her. “They can’t let him go. He’s sick! Beyond sick!”
Zane lifted a shoulder. “He’s been locked up a long time. Model patient. It wouldn’t surprise me if the courts decide he got better.”
Her world spun back to that horrible night when Johnston had threatened her, waved a knife in front of her eyes, his other arm hard against her stomach as he’d dragged her from the theater. He’d sworn then that he would kill for her and he wanted her to witness the sacrifice….
In her mind’s eye, she could still see his crazed smile, feel him tremble excitedly against her, smell the scent of his stale breath.
She sagged against the wall and felt the rough texture of plaster against her bare back. Think, Kaylie, she told herself, refusin
g to appear weak. Swallowing back her fear, she straightened and squared her shoulders. She couldn’t fall apart—she wouldn’t! Forcing her gaze to Zane’s, she silently prayed she didn’t betray any of the panic surging through her veins. “I think I’d better talk to Henshaw myself.”
“Be my guest.”
On weak legs she walked into the kitchen, looked up the number of the mental hospital, and dialed with shaky fingers. A receptionist answered on the fourth ring. “Whispering Hills.”
“Yes, oh, I’d like to talk to Dr. Henshaw, please. This is Kaylie Melville—I, um, I know one of his patients.”
“Oh, Miss Melville! Of course. I see you on television every morning,” the voice exclaimed excitedly. “But I’m sorry, Dr. Henshaw isn’t in right now.”
“Then maybe I could speak to someone else.” Kaylie tried to explain her predicament, but she couldn’t get past square one with the cheery voice on the other end of the line. No other doctor would talk to her, nor a nurse for that matter. On impulse she asked to talk to Ted and was informed that no one named Ted was employed by the hospital. Before the receptionist could hang up, Kaylie asked, “Please, just tell me, is Mr. Lee Johnston still a patient there?”
“Yes, he is,” she said, whispering a little. “But I really can’t tell you anything else. I’m sorry, but we have rules about discussing patients, you know. If you’ll leave your number, I’ll ask Dr. Henshaw to call you.”
“Thanks,” Kaylie whispered, replacing the receiver. She poured herself a glass of water and tried to quiet the raging fear. Think, Kaylie, think! Don’t fall apart! She drank the water, then made fists of her hands, willing herself to be calm.
When she walked back into the living room, Zane still sat on the couch, his elbows propped on his knees, his silvery eyes dark with concern. A part of her loved him for the fact that he cared, another part despised him for shoving his way back into her life when she’d just about convinced herself that she was over him.
“Well?”
“I didn’t get very far. Henshaw’s out. He’ll call back.”
The furrow in Zane’s brow deepened.
Kaylie, trying to take control of the situation, said, “I’ll—I’ll talk to my lawyer.”
“I already did.”
“You what?” she demanded, surprised that Zane would call her attorney, the very man who had drawn up the papers for their divorce.
“I called Blake. His hands are tied.”
She was already ahead of him. “Then I’ll talk to Detective Montello. He was the arresting officer. Surely he’d…” Her voice faded as she saw him shake his head, his dark hair rubbing across the back of his collar. “Unless you’ve already called him, too.”
“Montello’s not with the force any longer. The guy who took his place says he’ll look into it.”
“But you don’t believe him,” she said, guessing, her heart beginning to pound at the thought of Lee Johnston on the loose. Icy sweat collected between her shoulder blades.
“I just don’t want to take any chances.”
For the first time, she thought about him being in the house—waiting for her when she finished her swim. “Wait a minute, how did you get in here?”
Zane glanced away, avoiding her eyes. “I still have my keys.”
“You what?” she demanded, astounded at his audacity. He hadn’t seemed to age in the past seven years. His hair was still a rich, coffee brown, his features rough hewn and handsome. His eyes, erotic gray, were set deep behind thick black brows and long, spiky lashes. “But you gave them to me,” she said.
He offered her that same, off-center smile she’d found so disconcerting and sexy in the past. “I had an extra set.”
“And you kept them. So that seven years later you could break and enter? Of all the low, despicable… You have no right, no right to barge in here and make yourself at home—”
“I still care about you, Kaylie.”
All further protests died on her lips. Emotions, long buried, enveloped her, blinded her. Love and hate, anger and fear, joy and sorrow all tore at her as she remembered how much he had meant to her. Her breath was suddenly trapped tight in her lungs, and she had to swallow before she could speak. She shook her head. “Don’t, okay? Just… don’t.” She willfully controlled the traitorous part of her that wanted to trust him, to believe him, to love him again. Instead she concentrated on the truth. She couldn’t allow herself to feel anything for him. What they’d shared was long over. And their marriage hadn’t been a partnership. It had been a prison—a beautiful but painful fortress where their fragile love hadn’t had a ghost of a chance.
“Look, Kaylie, I just thought you should know that Johnston’s about to become a free man—”
“Oh, Lord.” Her knees went weak again, and her insides turned cold.
Zane sighed, offering her a tender look that once would have soothed her. But he didn’t cross the room, didn’t hold her as he once would have. Instead he rubbed impatiently at the back of his neck and glanced at a picture on the mantel—the small snapshot of their honeymoon. “Johnston was obsessed with you before, and I doubt that’s changed.”
“I haven’t heard from him in a long while.”
“No letters?”
She shook her head, trying to convince herself that Lee Johnston had forgotten her. After all, it had been years since that terrifying encounter, and the man had been in a mental hospital, receiving treatment. Maybe he’d changed….
“Don’t even think it,” Zane warned, as if reading the expressions on her face. “He’s a maniac. A psycho. He always will be.”
Deep down, Kaylie knew Zane was right. But what could she do? Live her life in terrified paranoia that Lee Johnston might come after her again? No way. She glanced down and noticed that she was wearing only her bathing suit still. “Your information could be wrong,” she said, walking to the laundry room, where she snagged her cover-up off a brass hook near the door. Standing half-naked in front of him only made the situation worse. She struggled into the peach-colored oversized top and pulled her hair through the neck hole only to find that Zane had followed her and was standing in the arch between the kitchen and laundry room, one shoulder propped against the wall. His gaze flicked down her body to her thighs, where the hem of her cover-up brushed against her bare skin.
“And the call?”
“A crank call.”
“You really think so?” he asked.
“I—I don’t know.” Kaylie cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on the conversation. “But I think you overreacted by driving all the way down here—”
“I called, damn it,” he snapped, his patience obviously in shreds as his eyes flashed back to hers. “But you didn’t bother to call me back.”
She felt another guilty pang, but ignored it. She’d considered returning his call and had even reached for the phone once or twice, but each time she’d stopped, unsure that she could deal with him and unwilling to complicate her life again.
“You didn’t say anything about Johnston—”
“Of course not! I didn’t want to freak you out with a message on your recorder.”
“Well, you’re doing a damn good job of it now,” she snapped, her own composure hanging by a thread. Just seeing Zane again sent all her emotions reeling, and now this…this talk about Johnston. It was just too much. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
Zane’s voice was softer. “Look, Kaylie, I think you should take some precautions—go low profile.”
“Low profile?” she repeated, trying to get a grip on herself as she walked past him into the kitchen. She couldn’t let him see her falling apart; she’d fought hard for her independence and she had to prove to him—and to herself—that she was able to take care of herself. She picked up a small pitcher and began watering the small pots of African violets behind her sink. But as she moved the glass pitcher from one small blossom to the next, the stream of water spilled on the blue tiles. She mopped up the mess w
ith a towel and felt Zane’s eyes watching her, taking stock of her nervousness. “And what do you think I should do?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
His gaze, so rock steady it was maddening, met hers. “First of all, install new locks—a couple of dead bolts and a security system. State-of-the-art equipment.”
“With lasers and sirens and a secret code?” she mocked, trying to break the tension.
“With motion detectors and alarms. But that won’t be enough. If Johnston’s released, you’ll need me, Kaylie. It’s as simple as that.”
Desperate now, she tried to joke. “You? As what? My bodyguard again?” She watched him flinch. “I don’t think so—”
His hand shot out and he caught her wrist, spinning her around. She dropped her dish towel. “I’m serious, Kaylie,” he assured her, his voice low, nearly threatening. “This is nothing to joke about!”
Was he out of his mind? The inside of her wrist felt hot, and she fought the urge to lick her lips.
“And I think it would be best if you took some time off—”
“Now, wait a minute, I can’t leave the station high and dry!”
“Your career just about did you in before,” he reminded her, then glanced down to where his fingers were wrapped around her arm. Slowly he withdrew his hand. “You need a less visible job.” Then, as if realizing his request bordered on the ridiculous, he wiped his palms on his jeans and added, “Why don’t you just ask for a leave of absence until this mess with Johnston is straightened out?”
“No way. I’m not going to live the rest of my life in high anxiety—especially over some stupid call.” Though she was afraid, she couldn’t give in to the fear that had numbed her after Johnston’s last attack. And the man was still locked away.
Tossing her damp curls over her shoulder, she reached down and grabbed the towel from the floor. Her wrist, where Zane had held it so possessively only seconds before, still burned, but she ignored the sensation, refused to rub the sensitive spot where the pads of his fingers had left their impressions.