by Cassie Miles
On the outer side of the folder, David made a note to talk with Kevin MacKay. As he proceeded through the files, his list of people to interview grew. He had nearly twenty when Blair appeared in the doorway.
"Pizza's here," she announced.
He'd forgotten his hunger, his lust and virtually everything else. Concentrating on his work, David had fallen into an all-consuming state of research. Pieces of data ricocheted inside his head as he pushed away from the desk and followed her to the tiny table in the dining area where a large pizza box awaited.
"Wait a minute," he said. "How did this pizza get here?"
"Not a mystery. The delivery guy buzzed at the front door. I ran downstairs and—"
"Hey! I'm supposed to be your bodyguard," he said. "You could have been killed."
She arched an eyebrow. "While picking up a pizza?"
He didn't appreciate her attitude. "The whole idea of protecting you is for you to stay here, safely locked inside."
"Whatever." She opened the pizza box and pushed a paper plate toward him. "Something to drink?"
"Beer?"
"Sorry," she said. "I have cranberry juice and soda pop. Oh, and I think there's vodka somewhere."
"Just water."
At his town house there was beer. And a comfortable space in his office. And his computer. While investigating other crimes, he'd come up with a system of spreadsheets to outline suspect profiles.
If Jake hadn't been living there, David would have suggested that she move in with him for a while. Clearly, that was impossible. Blair didn't need to be reminded of her past by having Jake around. And David knew there would be no chance of further kissing with her ex-boyfriend in the next room.
He bit into a slice of hot, cheesy pizza.
"So," she said. "Are you finding anything interesting?"
"I've got a list of people to interview."
"I want to come with you," she said.
David always worked alone. He found that his subjects were more willing to talk to one person. Plus, he was sharper when he concentrated his entire attention on each interview. Having Blair with him would be a distraction. "Why?"
"The Godiva chocolate for one thing. There's a direct threat to me, and I need to confront it."
"What else?" He sensed that she was holding back. "And what's the other thing?"
"A dead fish," she said. "When I went down to the parking lot this afternoon, I found a gutted trout in my car. That's why I changed my mind about attending the autopsy and—"
"Did you tell the police?"
"I told Dr. Reinholdt. The CSI team is going over my car. I don't really expect they'll find any trace evidence."
He stuffed more pizza into his mouth to keep from exploding. Unsure of whether he was more ticked off at her for concealing evidence from him or more enraged about this obvious threat from the killer, he chewed furiously.
"Leaving a big fat clue, like the trout, wasn't typical of the Fisherman," she said. "I know he selected his victims and stalked them."
"Right," David said.
"But did he threaten them before he abducted them?"
"I'll check the files."
"It just seems weird, leaving the fish in my car."
David swallowed a blob of pizza grease too fast. It stuck in his throat. In more ways than one, he was choking. "What are you saying?"
"Maybe this killer really is a copycat."
"Doubtful," he said. "Serial killers have specific reasons for their actions. There's something about the details of the execution that satisfies them. And the Fisherman is very precise. It's not likely that somebody else has the same fantasy."
"The copycat's thrill could be simply that," she said. "Copying the first guy. Outsmarting the cops and making them look foolish."
It was possible. Typically, serial killers got a kick out of the power they had over law enforcement. They liked to sit back and watch while everybody ran around trying to find them.
"Frankly, Blair, I'm more concerned about your safety than the psychological profile. Aren't there security cameras in your parking area?"
"Only one, and it isn't aimed at my car." She frowned. "I should've handled this differently. I should have reported the dead fish right away. Keeping a crime scene pristine and untampered with is vital to a thorough forensic investigation."
He nodded.
"I didn't want to admit that I was scared," she said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I really do need a bodyguard."
Hallelujah! She was beginning to catch on. "Let me hire a pro."
"I'd rather slick with you."
Though he wasn't trained for the job, David was motivated. He'd fight to the death to protect this woman. "Okay, fine."
"Therefore," she said with a self-satisfied grin, "I should stay with you all the time, even when you're interviewing suspects and witnesses."
He opened his mouth, then closed it as he finished off his slice of pizza and reached for another. Her plan sucked. Though being with her 24-7 sounded like he'd just won the lottery, he wasn't supposed to touch her or even think about a relationship. Plus, she'd be a major distraction during his interviewing process.
"I'm right," she said. "Aren't I?"
"Don't gloat."
"We'll work together very well. I'm sure of it."
David felt like a moron in a chess game with a Mensa genius. Outplayed. Manipulated. "I'm going back to your office."
"I'll stay out here and go over the forensics," she said. "When you've reviewed everything, maybe you could give me an update."
"Sure."
In her office, he sank into the chair behind her desk. Surrounded by reports and evidence of six brutal murders, he could only think of the crafty, clever woman in the other room. Blair wasn't his idea of a victim. She'd played him like a concert pianist and had gotten what she wanted. Being around her was a constant challenge.
But he liked the idea of matching wits. Sooner or later he'd come out on top...in more ways than one.
With renewed energy, he dug into the files. Concentration consumed him. He stared for several seconds at a name. Justin Hunter. That was the guy at the Coroner's Office, the medical supplies salesman who claimed to be a fan of David's writing.
For a while Agent O'Hara focused his suspicions on Justin Hunter, who ran a Web site devoted to serial killers. It couldn't be coincidence that Hunter happened to be at the Coroner's Office at the time of the autopsy.
There were other names. Family members and associates. David's list of interview potentials was growing. When he finally looked at his wristwatch, four hours had passed. It was nearly midnight—time for him to go home, take a shower and catch a few hours of sleep before tomorrow morning. But he didn't want to leave Blair unprotected.
He stood and stretched and yawned.
There was no place for him to sleep in her condo. She didn't even own a sofa. Her bed? Not a chance, not if he wasn't supposed to touch her.
He went to the front room to pose this problem to Blair and found her curled up in the recliner chair in front of the television, sound asleep under a crocheted blanket. On the table beside her chair were three crumpled paper cups that he knew had held Godiva chocolate.
Her face, in repose, had a sweetness that was absent when she was alert. Her bangs fell haphazardly across her smooth forehead. Her lashes made dark crescents above her pink cheeks.
Though he hated to wake her, he knew she'd be more comfortable in her bed. He leaned close and whispered, "Blair."
Not even a twitch. Apparently, she was a sound sleeper.
"Come on, Blair."
Gently he removed the blanket. She'd changed into a long, pink, jersey nightgown that subtly outlined her slender curves. On her feet were fuzzy slippers. And she still wasn't moving.
"Time for bed," David said. He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other under her shoulders. When he lifted her into his arms, her head drooped. Still asleep, she nuzzled warmly against his chest as he carried her fr
om the chair down the hall and into her bedroom.
Gently he stretched her out on the queen-size bed and pulled down the covers. She rolled onto the sheets and grabbed the pillow without opening her eyes.
He stood beside her bed, smiling down at her. Blair would hate being described as adorable, but that word came readily to his mind. She was sweet and cuddly as a kitten.
Reaching down he took off her slippers. Her injured ankle was crisscrossed with pale, puckered scars where pins and rods had been implanted. Farther up her leg were more marks from her surgeries. David bent down and kissed the places she'd been hurt, wishing he could erase her pain.
"You're beautiful," he whispered as he pulled the covers up over her shoulders.
♥ Scanned by Coral ♥
Chapter Six
Blair wakened slowly. Her body rose gently from the pleasant lethargy of sleep, floating upward toward the surface. It was morning. Rolling to her side, she glanced at the bedside clock. After nine o'clock? Amazing! She was usually up with the dawn, completely alert.
But yesterday had been packed with activity. It was a three-ring circus with more thrills, chills and excitement than she usually encountered in a month. The Fisherman's threats were less than amusing. But her moments with David? His kisses? A lazy grin spread across her face.
She shouldn't be thinking about him that way. Time to make coffee.
In the front room, she stopped in her tracks and stared. David had fallen asleep in the recliner chair. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and his muscular forearms clenched across his chest. His shoulders hunched. His head drooped at an uncomfortable angle. Ouch! He was going to be stiff. She knew the morning-after ache of sleeping in that chair because she often drifted off while watching late-night television.
As far as she could remember, that was what had happened last night. She'd been staring at the tube, hoping to distract herself. She'd closed her eyes, just for a minute, to rest them. Had she gone to sleep? Apparently not. Somehow, she must have staggered down the hall to the bedroom, leaving David to fend for himself.
Talk about a terrible hostess! Guiltily she reached out and tapped his shoulder. "David, do you want to get up?"
He growled like a bear coming out of hibernation. Even before he opened his eyes, his hand rubbed at the base of his neck, and he winced. "What time is it?"
"Not too late," she said brightly. "A little after nine."
He wrenched himself out of the chair. His eyes were bloodshot. The rugged stubble on his chin made him look disheveled. His khaki trousers and cotton shirt from yesterday were so wrinkled that they looked like the sagging skin of a shar-pei puppy.
He cleared his throat. "We've gotta get moving."
"Why?"
"I have an appointment at ten-thirty with Ted Hurtado."
"The reporter who got all those letters from the Fisherman?"
"Right," he said. "I set it up yesterday."
"That still gives us an hour," she said. "Enough time for me to shower and swim."
"Afraid not, Blair. I need to go back to my place for a change of clothes. And you're coming with me."
Though she'd been insistent yesterday about taking part in all his interviews, they didn't have to be joined at the hip. If she didn't do her regular swimming, she'd be cranky all day. "Why don't you go home and change, then come back and pick me up?"
"We stay together." He crammed his feet into his loafers. "I'm taking this bodyguard stuff seriously."
"Okay, fine. I'll be ready in five minutes," she said. "But we're stopping at a Starbucks on the way."
"Five minutes," he snarled.
"Not exactly Mr. Congeniality in the morning," she mumbled as she hustled down the hall. From her years as an intern working double shifts, Blair knew how to throw herself together in a flash. Her short hair required only a bit of tousling. Face washed. Teeth brushed.
In just over five minutes, she was dressed in black slacks, a red silk shirt and a gray blazer. She strode out of the bedroom. "Ta-da!"
David grabbed the box of information from CCC. "Nice work, partner. You look good."
She couldn't honestly say the same for him. She reached up to pat his stubbled cheek. "How's your neck?"
"I'll live," he said.
They were off and running.
His town house was pleasantly empty of Jake, and Blair had a chance to check out the surroundings while David was in the shower. She wandered around, sipping her Starbucks latte.
From the outside, his home qualified as upscale with its flowing modernistic design, and the interior reinforced that impression. The floor plan for the living room, dining room and kitchen was open space under a swooping cathedral ceiling.
Blair started in the kitchen, hoping she might find food. The appliances behind a black marble countertop were state-of-the-art, but the refrigerator held only a half loaf of bread, a six-pack of beer and catsup. Could she make toast? She eyed the bread suspiciously. Not quite sprouting mold, but the half loaf had probably seen better days.
She moved on.
In the sunken living room, the decor featured a lot of leather and heavy masculine furniture that seemed to suit David's taste. But there were also designer touches that made her think he'd hired a professional to furnish his home. Instead of family photos, there was geometric artwork on the walls. Directional lights focused on interesting sculptures and a few artistic silk flower arrangements.
When he emerged from the bedroom down the hall, buttoning the front of his blue cotton shirt, she pointed to a dramatic display of orange and white lilies. "I had no idea that you were a flower kind of guy."
He stared at the arrangement as if seeing it for the first time. "Orange lilies. In the language of flowers, they stand for hatred. White lilies are for purity."
She raised an eyebrow. "What's the message? I hate purity?"
"I didn't choose the flowers. I hired a decorator, and she did the whole thing. Furniture doesn't much interest me, and I'm on the road a lot."
"So why did you decide to spruce the place up?"
"I started dating somebody," he said. "It seemed like the right time to buy a sofa."
In spite of Blair's stated refusal to have a relationship, the mention of another woman caused a ping of jealousy in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to hear about other girlfriends. Instead, she returned to the display of orange and white lilies. "Hatred and purity?"
"That's right," he said. He slowly twisted his head from side to side. "My neck's killing me."
"One more question," she said. "Why do you know the meanings of flowers? It's a kind of Victorian, maiden-aunt thing."
"Forget it." He continued to rub his neck.
"Come on, David. I'm sure there's an interesting story involved."
His blue eyes focused sharply upon her, and Blair had the sense she'd probed too deeply. What kind of dark secret could possibly be connected with a silk flower arrangement?
"There was a serial killer case in Montana," he said. "Four victims. The killer always left behind a bouquet. Black roses, symbolizing death. Gardenias for a secret love. And lilies. He used lilies, too. The sick bastard."
David strode across the room to the side table where the vase of artistically arranged silk lilies stood. Gripping the bouquet by the stem, he lifted the flowers and crushed them, heads down, into a trash can.
His abrupt action startled her. "What are you doing?"
"Erasing a reminder."
As he went into the kitchen, she saw only a glimpse of his profile. His taut jaw and the deepening of lines at the corners of his eyes were enough to show his tension.
"The flower killer was caught," David said tersely. "Unlike the Fisherman, he was sloppy. There was enough DNA evidence and fibers to convict on all four murders."
Unlike the Fisherman. Every part of his life—his entire livelihood—related back to that case. She had to do something to relax him before he exploded. "You need a massage."
"We do
n't have time."
"May I remind you that I'm a doctor? I can fix that ache in your neck in under ten minutes. Come over here," she ordered, pointing to one of the chairs by the dining room table. "Take off your shirt and sit."
He strode toward her, tearing open the buttons he'd fastened only a moment ago. He draped his blue shirt over a chair back and turned to face her. "Okay, Doctor, do your stuff."
She smiled. His chest was firm, lightly muscled with a sprinkle of black hair that arrowed down to the waistband of his trousers. Very nice, Blair thought. "Sit backward on this chair," she said. "The chair back is a good height. Rest your arms on the top and your chin on your hands."
As she arranged him on the chair, she especially enjoyed the dorsal view. His spine was perfectly straight. With each small movement of his arms, the muscles from shoulders to blades to rib cage flexed and extended in subtle, enticing ripples. Very nice, indeed.
She couldn't' help remembering how his arms enfolded her last night on the balcony. And she'd pushed him away? Obviously, Blair had been out of her mind. A sane woman would have dragged him into the bedroom and had her way with him.
"Relax, David."
Her fingertips worked at the knotted muscles at the base of his neck. She lightly massaged, then went deeper, releasing the knots of tension.
He groaned. "Oh, yeah. This is good."
She turned his head from one side to the other, worked her way out to his shoulders and returned to his nape. He smelled like soap, fresh and—to her mind—sexy.
"Is this medical?" he asked.
Not really. Blair wasn't a chiropractor. But she knew that the first step to a cure was having the patient believe. "Of course it's medical. I'm loosening the intersecting flexors."
"Whatever you're doing, keep at it."
She kneaded her way down his spine and up again. As David relaxed, she grew more tense. Excited, really. Touching his naked flesh couldn't help but arouse her sensual imagination.
She needed a distraction. "Last night, going through the information, did you figure anything out?"