“What good fortune. I’m to have the prettiest woman in the room as my dinner companion.”
Nether’s cool gray eyes stared boldly into hers. “And I thought this was going to be just another tedious fundraiser.” His gaze dropped to her bodice.
Robbi smiled self-consciously and turned to the heavyset man on her right who was already digging into the basket of rolls. She introduced herself.
He ripped the dinner roll apart, dropped it on his bread plate, and extended a crumb littered hand for her to shake.
“Bill Sexton. Domestic Abuse Coalition.” He leaned toward her. “I hope the meal is halfway palatable. It rarely is at these functions, you know. Of course, the Nugget is renowned for its food. Let’s make it interesting and wager on what type of chicken we’ll get tonight. Chicken fricassee, cacciatore, tetrazzini? Chicken in orange, pineapple, or tangerine sauce? Glazed, braised, or honey-roasted? What’s your guess, Miss Paxton?”
Offering a thin smile,. Robbi shrugged then quickly scanned the room. With the exception of the waiters and busboys, everyone was seated. Her own table was full. She looked at the two other head tables. Sophie had a full one. There was an empty seat beside Valerie.
Where was he? Jake was the sort of man who would fulfill any and all obligations. She knew him well enough to bank on that. How could she have fallen so hard for a man, made love with him, and then lost him all in a blink of an eye?
Bottles of red and white wine were placed on the table. Zach Nether, pouring wine in her glass, took this opportunity to tell her something about himself. In the course of ten minutes he managed to weave into the conversation nearly all of his material assets—both liquid and long-term—his honorary achievements and future aspirations. She knew his type. Good-looking, sexy, and charming. Few women were a challenge. At this stage of his life it was no longer a question of victory, but of time. Although he tried to monopolize her attention, she managed to steal glances at an empty chair at the next table.
Dinner ended and the presentation began. Sophie, as moderator, read off the long list of community contributors. Awards were given, door prizes and raffle winners selected, and then Roberta was called as the first speaker.
At the podium, she scanned the packed room. Jake stood in the doorway. Her heart skipped a beat. She quickly looked down at her notes; the words leapt about on the paper. Her fingers trembled, but she recovered, stated the center’s goals, then as she thanked those who had helped support the cause, she was acutely aware of Jake crossing the room to a gesturing Valerie.
Joseph Eckker shifted, trying to make his large frame more comfortable on the contoured oak barstool. He felt a deep, throbbing ache in his side where the bullet had gone through his body. He looked down to make sure no blood had soaked through the wadded bandage he’d taped there before going out that evening. The wound had looked angry, red, and puckered, and when he’d poured hydrogen peroxide on it, it had foamed, sizzling like an Alka-Seltzer in water. There was pain, plenty of it, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He had remarkable recuperative abilities—like a cat—and would heal without incident.
Eckker’s search for Roberta Paxton had stalled. Her phone number was not listed in the directory. He had gone back to the high-rise on the river only to discover the condo belonged not to her, but to a Jake Reynolds. He’d hung around for several hours without luck. He would check it out again later.
Now vigilant, focused, he sat on the hard stool and scanned the dim, smoky rooms, searching for a new companion. From past experience it was his observation that the ones most likely to suit his taste congregated, strangely enough, in bars. He was careful not to frequent the same one more than a few times. And never to return to a place where he had been successful in his quest.
He took in a large area in one broad sweep. He never feared missing her, for like sonar, something went off in his head, instantly alerting him of her presence.
He put the half-full mug of beer to his lips and finished it down. He ordered another, his fourth. He could down a keg of beer, a reservoir of beer, and the alcohol would fail to calm the strange chemical stimulus that raged inside him at this stage. There was no way he could deny himself, refuse to take a new companion. No longer in control of his own emotions, he yielded to the powers within. He was merely a robot, doing another’s bidding, and until it was done he did not exist for himself.
His gaze swept to three women entering the front door. He felt an involuntary vibration. There she was. Surrounded by a thick mane of golden hair was the one he’d been waiting for. The one who’d happily share his mountain.
THIRTY-NINE
As Jake crossed the room, his eyes stayed on Roberta. She stood at the podium, looking like a goddess in a bright-green strapless dress. He caught her eye and she quickly looked away.
A woman at a front table continued to gesture to him, pointing at an empty chair beside her. He made his way to her table and, his attention still directed on Robbi, quietly sat down.
A moment later Roberta closed her presentation, gathered her notes, and returned to her seat followed by enthusiastic applause. She sat between two men. Jake was relieved to see that neither was Donald Bauer. The one on her right seemed oblivious to anything and everyone. The other one was a different story. He was leaning toward her, talking in a hushed, intimate way into her ear. A date, Jake wondered, feeling an instant resentment for her handsome dining companion.
Someone nudged him. The woman to his left, Valerie Sanchez, was staring at him.
“Your introduction, Dr. Reynolds,” she said, nodding toward a lofty gray-haired woman in a red and silver knit dress standing at the podium...
“. . . please welcome Dr. Jake Reynolds.”
Amid polite applause Jake made his way to the podium. He opened by telling a “shrink” joke. He had a whole repertoire of them, but chose to tell only one to lighten the mood and to ease his own tension. This was a party of sorts, and he decided his talk would be serious but not glum.
He explained the role of psychiatrist in cases of battered women. Within minutes he had the attention of all those in the ballroom with the exception of Roberta and the man next to her. Whenever Jake glanced at her table he saw the man, his hand on the back of Roberta’s chair, talking to her. She whispered back.
He tried to concentrate on his speech.
Eckker stared into the mirror behind the bar and watched the girl approach. She wedged in between two empty stools, her fingers tapping on the bar top to the beat of the rock music while she waited for service.
He shifted on the stool to face her. His gaze traveled boldly over her body. He licked his dry lips, then rubbed the stubble on his face where, only a few days ago, a full beard had been. He felt the fresh scab along his jawline where Masser’s drywall knife had sliced him.
She asked the bartender for a glass of water. She pried open a bottle of aspirin and was about to spill some into her hand when, pausing, possibly sensing the intensity of his eyes on her, she turned to look at him.
He smiled. “Wanna drink?”
“No thank you,” her tone clipped.
She turned slightly. Just enough to discourage him, yet not so much as to antagonize him should he be a psychopath. She pretended to become absorbed in her surroundings.
“Maybe later,” he said softly.
Gripping the aspirin bottle tightly, she took the glass of water, turned, and hurried away.
Roberta smiled politely at the man next to her. Since Jake had taken the podium, Nether had monopolized her with questions about her private life. “Mr. Nether,” she whispered, “the man speaking is a friend of mine. I should be listening.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.”
“Please,” she hissed under her breath. She turned slightly, full attention forward. Earlier Jake had looked her way, but now his gaze seemed to stop just short of her table.
She ached for him. He looked so familiar, so much a part of her, as though she’d known and loved him
all her life instead of only a few weeks. She felt a lover’s pride as he stood so handsome in a black tuxedo, speaking eloquently, the eyes of every woman in the room riveted on him.
He closed his presentation, praised the center for its superb work, and, under resounding applause, returned to his seat.
Sophie concluded the program with, “And let the fun begin.”
Robbi stood. She would go to him, explain Don’s surprise visit. Tell him it was over between Don and her.
Jake stood talking to Valerie. Robbi moved through the milling people toward him, but before she had gotten more than a few yards, someone caught her arm.
“The news people are here from Channel 3,” Sophie said, turning a reluctant Robbi and leading her to a throng of supporters where anchorwoman Beth Amsterdam stood talking with a man toting a minicam. “This is live for the newsbreak. Let’s do our stuff, little one.
Peering over her shoulder, Robbi looked for Jake. She finally caught sight of him moving toward the exit. Despair washed over her. He can’t be leaving! Not before she had a chance to talk to him, to explain. How would she make it through this night without him?
She started to go after him, but Beth blocked her way. “We’re ready. Miss Paxton. They’re patching us through.”
“But—”
The anchorwoman jockeyed in beside Sophie and Roberta, the microphone held between them. They stood on the edge of the dance floor. Behind them couples moved to a slow rendition of “Mack the Knife.”
As she watched Jake exit through the double doors, a tiny red light blinked on the camera and she wanted to cry.
Eckker divided his attention between the television and the mirror. In the mirror he watched the young woman with the beautiful blond hair at a table behind him. Someone asked her to dance, and she moved out of his vision.
He turned back to the TV. Three women were on.
One of the two being interviewed looked familiar. The newslady was saying, . . at the tenth annual Discover Dinner Dance, we’re here with Roberta Paxton . .
He jerked upward with a start.
On the screen a pretty woman in green with masses of reddish-brown hair began to speak. “Tonight’s dance ...” Abruptly her expression turned bewildered, pained, then suddenly her eyes stared vacantly into the camera—
No longer was Roberta in the ballroom being interviewed for the news. She saw an oak bar, liquor bottles lined up under a plate glass mirror. She saw a TV, and she was looking at herself on the screen. She dropped her gaze and saw, reflected in the mirror directly opposite her, a fierce-looking man staring at the TV.
She heard the anchorwoman identifying her: “Live from the Rose Ballroom of John Ascuaga’s Nugget, where Sophie Bennett and Roberta Paxton, directors of the Silver State Women’s Center ...”
Those cold black eyes stared unflinchingly at the TV. A wicked, knowing grin spread across his face.
She thought she would scream.
She watched as he waved away the fresh beer from the bartender, slapped down money on the bar, and abruptly left the stool.
Bright spots flashed in front of her eyes before everything went black.
FORTY
A claustrophobic wall of people pressed around Roberta, solicitous, curious. Someone placed a glass of water to her lips, another waved a flat clutch purse like a fan in front of her face. She lay on the carpet at the edge of the dance floor, her head on Sophie’s lap.
“Should we call a doctor?” Valerie was asking.
Roberta looked at the faces but saw only the threatening mask of the killer. He knew who she was. He knew where to find her. He would come for her, kill her. How long would it take him to get to her? How long had she been out? Panic made her dizzy again, sick to her stomach. She had to get away.
She shook off the hands holding her and came to her feet. With an effort, she broke through the group. From her table she grabbed her purse, then rushed out of the ballroom. Zach Nether caught her by the arm.
“Roberta, where are you going? Wherever it is, I’m right with you.”
Shaking her head, she pushed him away.
Unsteady in her high heels, she raced down the stairs to the main floor. She rushed to the rear of the casino. At the exit she paused to dig her car keys from her purse, then she was pushing through the glass doors, impatiently plowing through a knot of people coming in.
The headliner show had just ended and valet parking was swamped. Jake stood outside under a violet lit portico and waited for the attendant to bring his car.
To his left a flash of bright green caught his eye. He turned to see a woman with reddish hair running across the street to the parking lot. Roberta?
What would make Robbi run out of a party as if the devil were after her? A fight with her dinner companion? Another vision?
What should he do? Try to catch her before she reached her car? Wait for his car, then drive to her house, assuming that would be her destination? Go back inside and ask her coworkers why she’d run off? Or ignore the whole thing and get on with his life?
He saw her climb into her Jeep, start the engine, and speed away, tires squealing.
Jake stepped to the valet booth, shoved his parking stub under the glass, and demanded his keys. An attendant had already gone for his car.
Jake paced, his gaze directed toward the valet lot. Dammit, where the hell was his car?
On the way home her mind raced. It would take her less than five minutes to get her revolver, change clothes, and throw together a few things. How long would it take him to find out where she lived? Her phone number was unlisted, and it was certain no one at the center would tell him—unless they were forced.
Oh, God.
Her first instinct was to go to the police. Avondale would be thrilled by this new development; he’d love to use her to get to the killer. She shuddered violently. No, no way in hell would she take that chance. She could still see the look on that monster’s face when he realized who she was.
For the protection of the workers at the center she had to tell the police, but she didn’t have to tell them where she was. Let Avondale stake out the house and the shelter. She would be long gone.
She turned into her driveway and slammed on her brakes at the back door. After shutting off the engine and lights, she took several moments to control her breathing. She was hyperventilating, on the verge of passing out again. Cupping her hands tightly over her mouth, she inhaled slowly until the lightheadedness eased.
She looked around. The long drive to the street was deserted. To the right of the Jeep was the tall dense hedge between her neighbor’s yard and her driveway. A light wind had shadows dancing all around her. She opened the car door and listened. Leaves skittered along the concrete. A rustling sound had her heart pushing up into her throat. The wind wasn’t that strong. The hedge behind her stirred. In the side mirror she saw a large figure moving behind the Jeep. Then the view in the mirror became totally obliterated.
Roberta tried to close the door, but it was jerked open, the handle ripping from her grasp. The man reached in for her. She tried to scramble backward, to get to the passenger door. Her arm was seized cruelly. She screamed as he hauled her, kicking, from the car.
A massive hand covered her mouth. His other arm wound around her waist. Too hysterical to take stock of the situation, she turned on the big man, fighting for her life. He pinned her arms to her sides as they struggled at the back of the Jeep.
Suddenly they were both bathed in a flood of light. The big man loosened his grip just enough for Roberta to push at him. She spun away, falling against the side of the house. Jake’s car shot up the drive and hit the assailant before he could reach her again. The man flew across the hood of the T-bird and tumbled over the front fender to the passenger side of the car. The car came to a screeching halt within inches of her Jeep.
Terrified, adrenaline pumping like crazy, she looked around for him. He was there on the other side of Jake’s car. He would rush her again any second.
Jake hopped out of the car. He swooped down, grabbed one of the scalloped bricks used to trim the flower bed, and, waving Roberta back, he ran around behind the car, brick raised.
Roberta saw him bend down.
“Jake,” she whispered, “is he dead?”
“Gone,” he answered.
When Jake started toward the tall hedge bordering the neighbor’s property, she cried out, “Jake, no! Let him go!”
Robbi rushed into his arms, trembling, gasping for breath.
Silently, with an arm securely around her, Jake pulled open the passenger door. “Hurry, get in.”
“I have to get some—” But she didn’t finish the sentence. She realized there was nothing as important as getting away from there, and as quickly as possible. Her worst nightmare had come true—the killer knew about her and he wanted her dead.
From his condo Jake phoned Avondale and told him the killer had come after Roberta. He briefly explained the circumstances.
“Dammit, we need to talk to Miss Paxton. Is she there with you?’ Avondale wanted to know.
Jake looked down at Roberta sitting on the floor in her party dress, legs crossed in front of her, hugging her knees.
Roberta held out her hand for the phone. Jake gently touched her cheek before handing it to her.
“Detective Avondale?”
“Miss Paxton, you can’t—”
“Just listen. He was in a cocktail lounge. The bar was large and had a good-size dance floor with a sound system, no band. The bartender wore a white dress shirt and black bow tie. The place was full of neon signs, you know, the kind that beer and liquor companies use for advertising. It had oak decor, high tables, and stools.”
“What was he wearing?” Avondale asked.
“The same dark jacket—sports jacket—and a plain dark T-shirt. He was clean shaven and looked much younger without the beard.”
Night Prey Page 20