by Cassie Miles
Though she told the detectives over and over that it was dark in the swimming pool, and she couldn't see, they insisted that she must have noticed something. "After all that questioning, I felt like making something up. I would have said anything to get those guys off my case."
"A lot of witnesses do." He leaned back on the sofa and casually draped his arm around her shoulder. "I usually do my interviews a couple of days after the police have talked to the witnesses. Many of them admit they aren't sure what they saw. But they remember other details."
"And you use those details when you're writing your story."
"That's the real story to me," he said. "How random violence changes people's lives."
She remembered reading one of his stories about a sniper who shot four people. Through the eyes of a witness, he described an approaching thunderstorm and the way the blood on the pavement was diluted by raindrops. Though he never directly mentioned sorrow at the senseless loss of life, she'd felt it. "I like the way you write."
"Thanks."
She glanced up at his profile. A handsome man. With his black hair and blue eyes, there was no denying his attractiveness. But men like David often got overlooked. He was steady and casual. Not a "bad boy." Nor was he the toughest guy on the block.
O'Hara, Adam and even Weathers were more macho. They swaggered and postured and vied for the position of top dog. And while those other men locked horns, it was David who quietly took control. Like tonight. From the moment he carried her into the bathroom to his showdown with Weathers and O'Hara when he backed her insistence not to have a bodyguard, he was supportive, steadfast and solid. Without making a scene, he hadn't allowed anybody to push her around.
Maybe he wasn't the type who won medals or led his troops into battle. But he was brave and strong in his own way. In her eyes, he was a hero.
She rested her head against his shoulder. "You were fantastic tonight."
"You're joking. I should have gone with you to the pool. You wouldn't have been attacked if—"
"Don't start second-guessing," she said. "I've played that game too many times. Looking back and saying, 'What if I'd done this or that.' It's a waste of time. The past never changes."
He lightly stroked her shoulder. "So, what do we do next?"
"About what?"
"The investigation," he said. "The Fisherman."
She hadn't really considered the next step. Tonight, she'd been so scared she almost wished she was dead. The idea of pushing forward, diving deeper into their investigation seemed reckless. "There's an army of cops and FBI agents on the case. Plus they have access to the most up-to-date forensic equipment."
"True." His voice sounded resigned.
"But I don't want to quit." Now that she'd had a chance to recover her wits, she was angry. She wanted thai monster caught and locked away where he would never hurt another woman. "We should keep at it. Keep doing what we're doing."
He gave her a squeeze. "I hoped you'd say that."
"So, what's the game plan?"
"A couple more interviews. I have an appointment tomorrow with Justin Hunter. A real weird little guy. He works as a medical supplies salesman, but he also runs an Internet site on serial killers."
"Charming," she said. "What else should we do?"
"If I was writing an article about this case, I'd sit down and organize the information we gathered in today's interviews. Cross-referencing with other known data."
"Sounds mathematical," she said.
"In a way it is. I make spreadsheets. For example, timing. Assuming the guy who attacked you is the Fisherman, there's a five-year gap we have to explain. So I feed in all the names and figure out who was out of Denver at the time."
"Kevin MacKay." She strongly disliked the former priest who was so quick to disparage his murdered fiancee. "He was working for International Medical Aid. Out of Denver. Out of the country."
"But he doesn't exactly fit the profile. Remember, part of the reason this guy kills is for power, to show he's smarter than the cops." David snuggled her more closely against him. "Not very smart to start off your string of murders with your own girlfriend."
"Where are you getting the details for these profiles?"
"Mostly from O'Hara's notes." He dropped a casual kiss on her forehead. "FBI notes on profiling."
All this incidental touching was beginning to have a sensual effect on her, but Blair wanted to ignore the tickle of desire that centered a few inches below her stomach. She shifted position to get more comfortable, nestling in the crook of his arm. "David, what would you have done if I wanted to back off on the investigating?"
"I'd back off," he said.
"Just like that? You'd forget about your quest to find your sister's real murderer?"
"I'd put it off for another day," he said. "You're my number one priority, Blair. All that's important is keeping you safe."
She met his gaze and felt herself being drawn magnetically toward him.
Logically she ought to resist this impulse. Though the attack in the swimming pool made her feel vulnerable and she needed the reassurance of human contact, it wasn't right to lead him on. She and David shouldn't embark on a relationship while they were caught in this sticky web of hurt, regret and fear. She was pretty sure they didn't love each other.
Yet she continued to gaze up at him. The line of his cheekbone intrigued her. And the shape of his lips, his very sexy lips. One little kiss wouldn't hurt.
She closed her eyelids and arched her neck, waiting for him to respond.
It took only a brief moment. His lips touched hers lightly—the merest caress, a gentle wakening.
Then he kissed her with firm pressure, making his desire known to her. A warmth spun through her body, erasing her tension and focusing her sensations on just one thing. Passion.
He held her face in his hands and tasted her mouth with a fervent strength. Her breath quickened. She wanted more. Tonight she wanted to sleep in his bed.
But only a moment ago she'd told herself that sex with David was a mistake. She clasped his hands and lowered them. "David, I don't think—"
"That's good. Don't think."
Her heart fluttered. "We can't have a relationship."
"Too late. We're already friends."
"You know what I mean." The words of refusal came out of her mouth, but her body yearned toward him.
"You want to make love," he said, stating the obvious. "And so do I. Where's the problem?"
"I'm not interested in casual sex." Although, at the moment, it sounded like a lot of fun. "We need to wait until we understand what sort of relationship is possible."
"Okay, when will that happen?"
"After our investigation is over."
He groaned. His head fell back against the sofa. "That could take weeks."
Any decision they made right now would be precipitous, driven by the intensity of the situation. "If you still want me after the Fisherman is apprehended, then we can consider a real relationship."
"You know what this reminds me of? When you're a kid and you have to eat all your vegetables, even the brussel sprouts, before you get the dessert."
"I like brussel sprouts."
"What would happen," he said, "if we had the dessert first?"
Make love before any relationship basis was established? "Not a good plan."
"You love your chocolate." He tasted her lips again. "This could be sweet as Godiva truffles."
Her resistance was fading fast. She allowed him to kiss her again.
"Creamy filling," he whispered. "Coconut centers."
She sighed and kissed him back. "Strawberries dipped in melted milk chocolate."
This was a fine seduction—semilogical and potentially fattening. She felt the barriers of her self-control lowering with a blissful whoosh.
Still kissing him, she stroked his chest. Beneath his cotton shirt, she felt the nubs of his hard, flat nipples. She needed to touch him, to claim the warmth of his flesh Her f
ingers unbuttoned his shirt, and she tore the fabric apart.
Rising on her knees beside him, she massaged his firm, muscular chest. The rough texture of his black hair excited her, and she leaned down to nuzzle her cheek against it.
When her hand slipped lower, he gasped. The sound aroused her even more. "Oh, David. I'm so ready for dessert."
"Yes," he said. "Oh, yes."
He slipped her shirt up and over her head. In seconds he'd unfastened her bra and discarded the flimsy bit of lace. His gaze devoured her. Then his hands. Then his lips He nibbled a line from her throat to her belly button.
She was wildly aroused. Her body was singing, screaming in a trembling soprano about to hit high C. But when he touched the waistband of her jeans and popped open the button, she grasped his hands again.
"Not here." Though he'd already seen the scars on her leg, this was different. He might be distracted by her disfigurement when she wanted his admiration. Making love, she wished to feel beautiful.
"Where?" he asked.
In the bedroom there would be sheets and blankets to cover herself with. They could turn out the lights. "Bed."
"Excellent plan."
Shirtless, they rose from the sofa and went up the staircase to his bedroom. The fact that she was half-naked amused Blair. "This is so unlike me."
"That's where you're wrong," he murmured. "To the rest of the world, you might be Dr. Blair Weston, ace medical examiner. But I knew from the minute I saw you swimming in your electric-blue suit that you had a wild, passionate nature."
"You knew that?"
"I'm a good judge of people." He turned on the overhead light in the bedroom.
"Too much glare," she said.
"But I want to see you."
"Too bad." She threw back the covers and sat on the sheets. "Turn it off. Close the door."
"Whatever you say."
As soon as the darkness closed around her, Blair knew she'd made a mistake. Her eyelids fluttered. In her mind she was back in the swimming pool, flailing at an invisible threat. Panic rose in her chest.
Instinctively, she leaped to the center of the king-size bed.
"Blair? What's going on?"
This was crazy. Worse than her dizzy spells. In her mind she felt the cool liquid lapping around her in rippling motion. The splintered reflection off the water. Like knives. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, but she couldn't hold back a wrenching sob.
David turned on a dim bedside lamp. "What's wrong?"
She wanted to explain, but she couldn't speak. And when he reached for her, she scooted away. Frantically she pulled up the bedspread to cover her nakedness.
"It's okay." David took a step back from the bed. "Nobody's going to hurt you."
Waves of terror washed over her. She crumpled on the bed in a fetal position, still feeling the waves and the terror. She couldn't fight it. Her willpower was gone. The pent-up emotions of the past five years exploded, and she wept.
She felt David's hand, gentle and reassuring on her naked back. This wasn't fair to him. "I'm sorry," she choked out.
"It's okay." He arranged the blankets to cover her. "Let it out, Blair."
Torrents of pain and regret spilled over the shattered wall of her self-control. As she sobbed, her body relaxed. She was under the covers, still crying. Her face burrowed in the pillow. Would these damned tears never stop?
The next morning, David was still kicking himself. He never should have pushed her, should've known that Blair was vulnerable and needed rest instead of...what he'd been offering.
As he stood in the kitchen, waiting for his coffee to brew, he made a solemn vow to keep his sex drive under wraps, so to speak. No touching. No long, lust-filled stares. And definitely no kisses.
It wouldn't be easy. For the next several days she'd be living here. They'd be in constant contact.
He grabbed his coffee mug and went into the bathroom for a cold shower.
When he emerged, he looked in on Blair who was sleeping soundly in his bed with the small lamp on the table still lit. Even asleep, she didn't look completely relaxed. Her tousled brown hair plastered damply to her forehead. Her arm crooked at an uncomfortable angle, and she restlessly changed positions as if caught in a nightmare.
Quietly he closed the bedroom door.
In his office David booted up his computer and entered the information from yesterday's interviews. A few important details came to the surface.
In regard to stalking, none of the earlier victims reported such incidents to the police. But they seemed nervous to their friends and family. One had been drinking heavily. Another wrote in her diary that she felt as if someone was watching her.
Also, when David asked specifically about possible missing items, the sister of mermaid number three mentioned a missing bracelet. Number two had lost a pair of opal earrings. Apparently, in some cases, the Fisherman was taking souvenirs from his victims.
Though David tried to think of something his sister had lost, he came up blank. And it wouldn't help to ask his parents. Shortly after his sister's murder, they'd enlisted people from their church to clean out her apartment, donating all of her clothing and jewelry to charity.
It was their way of coping, and he didn't blame them. Everybody handled grief differently. If it had been up to him, David would have been more likely to build a shrine to Danielle.
He returned his attention to his computer. Kevin MacKay was the only person who'd come across as suspicious, but it was hard to fit him into the role of a serial killer. The guy was a former priest, and he worked for International Medical Aid.
The next best suspect was Justin Hunter, whom David had scheduled for a lunch meeting today. Hunter wasn't personally connected with any of the victims. He came to the attention of the police when they checked his serial killer Web site where he displayed a detailed knowledge of the Fisherman.
Also, Hunter's job put him in contact with hospitals where two of the victims worked. He'd even been hanging around at the Coroner's Office where he'd introduced himself to David.
Online, David checked out Hunter's handiwork at a Web site that should have been called www.psycho.com. It was an encyclopedia of serial murders, ranging from Jack the Ripper to the Boston Strangler to the Fisherman. Quite a nasty little hobby.
When David saw his own name referenced, he cringed. He didn't like being part of this ghoulish network, this fascination with the horror show of serial murder. And yet, there he was.
With a shudder David went back to his charts, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. He cross-referenced several factors: timing and alibi; childhood abuse; prior criminal activity; medical history.
It was after ten o'clock when Blair appeared in the doorway to his office. She was all showered, clean and dressed. The only evidence of last night's breakdown was a slight puffiness around her eyes. The swelling from her head wound was hidden behind her bangs.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine." Her smile was determinedly cheerful. "Really, I'm okay."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No big deal." She shrugged. "I guess I'm not the kind of woman who can eat dessert first."
Though she was clearly on edge, he didn't push. If Blair wanted to tamp down her fears and get on with her life, that might be the best way for her to handle the attack. "Okay, then. No dessert this morning. Let's start with coffee."
"And breakfast. I'm starving."
As he followed her to the kitchen, a difficult question began to form in his mind. He'd promised to take her along on his interviews. But she was fragile. He sure as hell didn't want to trigger another meltdown.
She peeked inside the fridge. "Blueberries!"
David continued to ponder. It would be easy to arrange for police protection while he was out.
"Yogurt!" she said. "And eggs. And lunch meat."
And what if Justin Hunter actually was the Fisherman? What if he was the man who attacked Blair last night? She
might recognize him. There might be some detail in his voice or the way he moved that would identify him.
David couldn't be responsible for putting her in that kind of danger.
"Your cleaning lady is brilliant," Blair said. "She got all the right food. So, what do you want for breakfast?"
"A bite of cereal with blueberries," he said. "I have a lunch appointment in about an hour."
"Remind me again. Who are we meeting?"
Leaning an elbow on the marble countertop, he watched her, trying to gauge her reaction. "It might be better if I go alone."
"Don't be silly," she said. "I'm coming."
"My appointment is with Justin Hunter. He's somebody who should be taken seriously as a suspect."
"So?" After opening and closing a few cabinet doors, she found bowls.
"Hunter might be the Fisherman."
As she placed the bowls on the countertop, she hesitated. For an instant her resolute enthusiasm was disrupted. "What are you saying?"
"I can arrange police protection for you. There's no need for you to face this guy."
"Maybe there is."
"Why?"
"If I recognize him, this could all be over."
She opened the box of granola cereal and shook a portion into each bowl. As she took the milk from the refrigerator, Blair felt a trembling in her hands.
Last night, when the dam burst, she thought she'd washed away all her anxieties with her tears. She wanted to believe she'd had a final catharsis. But apparently there was more. Fear was endless.
Her fingers clenched into fists. "Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water, here comes Jaws again."
"Then it's settled," David said. "I'll meet Hunter for lunch. And you stay here."
But she was tired of hiding from real life. For the past five years, she'd secluded herself in her apartment, afraid to face a world where she wasn't in control. Though she'd told herself that she couldn't go back to work because of physical injuries, the truth was that she'd been afraid. Afraid of not being the best, the prettiest, the most competent. "I have to go with you. I need to stay involved."
"Why?"
This was hard to explain. "I can't spend my whole life hiding from my fears."