by Sandra Brown
Who was she arguing with?
She rubbed the surface of the salve with the pad of her index finger, making several tight circles in it, until the friction and her own body heat warmed and softened it. She dabbed the salve on his lower lip, then the upper one, barely making contact, touching him so gingerly it hardly counted as touching.
When both lips had been dotted with the fragrant salve, she withdrew her hand. Hesitated. Then she touched his lower lip again, except this time she didn’t break contact. Slowly, she spread the balm from one corner of his mouth to the other, then back again. She did the same with the upper lip, following the masculine contour, staying within the shape of it with the painstaking care of a child who would be scolded if she colored outside the lines.
And just as she was about to retract her hand again, he woke up. The eye contact was electric.
Neither said anything. They remained perfectly still, with her index finger resting on the seam of his lips. Rennie held her breath, realizing that his deep and even breathing had also ceased. She strongly felt that if either one of them moved, something would happen. Something momentous. Exactly what, she didn’t know. In any case, she didn’t dare move. She wasn’t certain she could. His blue gaze had an immobilizing effect on her.
They remained frozen in that tableau for… how long? Later she couldn’t remember. It lasted until Wick’s left eye closed against his pillow. She actually heard his eyelashes brush against the pillowcase. She didn’t resume breathing until after he had.
Then she pulled back her hand, clumsily recapped the tin of lip balm, and left it on the bed tray. She didn’t look at him again before leaving the ICU. “Call me if there’s any change,” she instructed brusquely as she returned his chart to the nurses’ station.
At the elevator, the policeman on guard held open the door and addressed her shyly. “Dr. Newton, I just wanted to say… well, Wick’s a great guy. A few years back, one of my kids got hurt. Wick was first in line to donate blood. Anyhow, I wanted to tell you thanks for pulling him through this morning.”
Rennie attributed the tear to exhaustion. She hadn’t realized how tired she was until the elevator began its descent. She leaned against the rear wall of it and closed her eyes. That was when she felt the tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away before reaching the ground floor.
As she moved through the hospital exit, another policeman surprised her by following her out. “Is something wrong?”
“Wesley’s orders, ma’am. Doctor,” he said, correcting himself.
“Why?”
“I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. I figure it’s something to do with Threadgill.”
The officer walked her to her car, checked the backseat, looked beneath it. “Drive safely, Dr. Newton.”
“Thank you, I will.” He continued watching her until she had gone through the gate.
She had driven several blocks before she noticed the cassette. It was protruding from the audio player in the dashboard. She stared at it, mystified. She never played cassettes, always CDs.
At the next stoplight, she pulled it out to check the label. There was none. She could see the tiny spools of audiotape through clear plastic. Dismissing the sense of foreboding that came over her, she inserted the cassette and punched the arrow indicator for Play.
Strains of piano music filled the car, along with the husky tones of a female torch singer.
“I’ve got a crush…”
Rennie struck the controls with her fist, banging it against them repeatedly until the music stopped. She was trembling, primarily with anger, but also with fear. Having policemen posted around the hospital hadn’t deterred Lozada from placing this tape in her car. How the hell had he managed it? Her car had been locked.
She groped inside her leather satchel in search of her cell phone, but all she succeeded in doing was dumping the contents of her satchel onto the floor. She reasoned that by the time she stopped and found her phone she could be home. She would call Wesley from there.
She sped through two red lights after glancing right and left to check for oncoming traffic. She wheeled into her driveway at an imprudent speed. The garage door took an eternity to open. It had barely cleared the roof of her car when she drove under it. She used the transistor to reverse it, and it began to close behind her before she even cut her car’s engine.
Leaving her spilled possessions on the floor, she clambered out and hit her back door at a dead run. She burst into her kitchen, then drew up short.
Flickering light shone through the connecting door to the living room. No light source in her living room produced that kind of light. So what was going on? Until she knew, the sensible thing to do would be to back out the door, reopen the garage, and run down the center of the street, waving her arms and yelling for help.
But she wasn’t going to run screaming from her own house. To hell with that!
She left the back door standing open. She took a butcher knife from a drawer. Then she crossed the kitchen and entered the living room. Candles, hundreds, it seemed, but probably closer to dozens, flickered in clear-glass containers of every shape and size. They had been placed on every available surface, filling the air with a heady floral fragrance and making the room appear ablaze.
On her coffee table was another bouquet of red roses. And from the CD player, music in stereo. Another version. Another artist. But the same classic Gershwin tune. Lozada’s theme song.
She was breathing hard through her mouth, and she could hear the pounding of her heart above the music. She took a cautious step backward, rethinking the advisability of handling this herself. Maybe she should escape through the kitchen door after all.
She calculated the time it would take to get help. Back through the kitchen. Out the door. Punch the garage door switch on the wall. Duck beneath the door. Down the driveway and into the street. Or through the hedge to Mr. Williams’s house. Calling for help. Involving other people. Involving the police.
No.
She walked to the sound system and turned off the music. “Come out and face me, why don’t you?”
The shouted words echoed back to her. She listened closely, but it was difficult to distinguish any sound except those of her own harsh breathing and hammering heartbeat.
She moved toward the hallway, but paused at the end of it. It stretched before her, dark and ominous, seemingly much longer than it actually was. And because he had made her afraid in her own sanctuary she became even angrier. Anger propelled her forward.
She moved quickly down the hall and reached for the light switch in her home office. The room was empty, with nowhere to hide. She pulled open the closet door. Nothing in there but her stored luggage and travel gear. Again, there was nowhere for a grown man to hide.
From there she went into her bedroom, where more candles flickered. They cast wavering shadows on the walls and ceiling, against the window blinds that, because of him, she now kept closed at all hours of the day and night. She looked under the bed. She went to the closet and opened the door with a flourish. She thrashed through the hanging clothes.
The bathroom was also empty, but her shower curtain, which she always kept open, was drawn. Too angry now to be afraid, she shoved it aside. Another arrangement of roses rested on the wire shelf spanning her tub.
She swung at the vase and sent it crashing into the porcelain tub. The racket was as loud as an explosion.
“You bastard! Why won’t you leave me alone?”
She marched back into the bedroom and went around blowing out the candles until she feared the smoke would set off the alarm. She retraced her steps through the living room but left the candles burning for now. In the kitchen she closed the back door and locked it, returned the knife to the drawer.
She found a half full bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge, poured most of it into a glass, then took a long drink. Closing her eyes, she pressed the cold glass against her forehead.
She debated whether to call Wesley. What would be th
e point? She couldn’t prove that Lozada had broken into her home any more than Wesley could prove that he had murdered Sally Horton and attempted to kill Wick.
On the other hand, if she didn’t report this and Wesley somehow found out about it… Right. Much as she dreaded doing it, he should be notified.
She raised her head, opened her eyes, and saw her reflection in the window above the sink. Standing behind her was Lozada.
She’d only thought she was too angry to be afraid.
Chapter 19
He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. His eyes were so dark the pupils were indistinguishable from the irises.
“You seem upset. I wanted to please you, Rennie, not upset you.” His voice was soft. Like a lover’s.
Her mind was racing down twin tracks of terror and fury. She wanted to lash out at him for disrupting her systematized life. Equally as much she wanted to cower in fear. But either reaction signaled weakness, which she didn’t dare let him see. He was a predator who would sense his prey’s weakness and take full advantage of it.
He took the wineglass from her and pressed the cup of it against her lips. “Drink.”
She tried to turn her head aside, but he gripped her jaw with his other hand and held it in place while he tipped the glass. She felt the wine cold against her lips. The glass clinked against her teeth. Wine filled her mouth. She swallowed, but not all of it. Some dribbled over her chin. As he wiped it away with his thumb, he smiled at her.
Rennie had seen that kind of smile all over the world. It was an abuser’s smile for the abused. It was the smile of a cruel husband for the wife he had beaten beyond recognition. The enemy warrior’s smile for the girl he had raped. The father’s smile for the virgin daughter he’d had castrated.
It was a possessive and condescending smile. It announced that the abused one’s free will had been taken away, and that, through some perverse reasoning, she should be happy about it, even grateful for her abuser’s tolerance.
That was Lozada’s smile for her.
He tipped the wineglass toward her lips again, but she couldn’t endure that smile any longer and swatted the glass away. The wine sloshed over his hand. His eyes narrowed dangerously. He raised his hand, and she thought he was about to strike her.
But instead he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked off the wine with obscenely suggestive strokes of his tongue.
His evil smile turned into a soft laugh. “No wonder you didn’t want it, Rennie. It’s cheap. A terrible vintage. One of my first projects will be to introduce you to really fine wines.”
He reached around her to set the glass of wine on the counter. His body pressed against hers and held. His nearness smothered her. She couldn’t breathe and she didn’t want to. She didn’t want his cologne to be recorded in her olfactory memory bank.
She willed herself not to push him away. A flashback to the photo of Sally Horton enabled her to remain still and endure the pressure of his body. Lozada probably wanted her to struggle. He would welcome an excuse to assert himself as the dominator. Abusers thrived on reasons to justify their cruelty.
“You’re trembling, Rennie. Are you afraid of me?” He leaned even closer. His breath ghosted across her neck. He was erect and rubbed himself against her suggestively. “Why would you be afraid of me when I want only to make you happy? Hmm?”
Finally he moved back and, with an air of amusement, took a long look at her, from the top of her head to her shoes and back up. “Maybe before we tackle wine education we should start with something more basic. Like your wardrobe.” Placing his fingers on her collarbones, he stroked them lightly. “It’s a sin to hide this figure.”
His eyes lowered to her breasts and lingered there, and somehow that was worse than if he had actually touched them. “You should wear clothes that hug your body, Rennie. And the color black to offset your pale hair. I’ll buy you something black and very sexy, something that shows off your breasts. Yes, definitely. Men will want to fondle you, but I’ll be the only one who will.”
Then his eyes returned to her face and his tone became teasing. “Of course you’re not looking your best today. You’ve been working very hard.” His fingertip traced the dark crescents beneath her eyes. “You’re exhausted. Poor dear.”
She swallowed the gorge that had filled her throat when he described his fantasy. “I am not your dear.”
“Ah, the lady speaks. I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost the capacity.”
“I want you to leave.”
“But I just got here.”
That was a lie, of course. It had taken him at least an hour to place all the lighted candles in her living room. Where had he been hiding when she searched the house?
As though reading her mind, he said, “I never give away trade secrets, Rennie. You should know that about me.” He pinched her chin playfully. “We do, however, have a lot to talk about.”
“You’re right. We do.”
Pleased, he smiled. “You go first.”
“Lee Howell.”
“Who?”
“You killed him, didn’t you? You did it as a favor to me. And the attack on Wick Threadgill. That was you too, wasn’t it?”
He moved like quicksilver. He raised her blouse with one hand and ran his hand over her breasts and around the inside of the waistband of her skirt. She shoved against his chest with all her strength. “Get your hands off me.” She slapped at his searching hands.
“Stop that!” He grabbed her hands and pulled them hard against his chest. “Rennie, Rennie, stop fighting me.” His voice was gentle; his grip wasn’t. “Shh, shh. Relax.”
She glared up at him.
In a deceptively soft and reasonable voice, he apologized. “I’m sorry I had to do that. A few years ago the police used an undercover policewoman to try and trap me. I had to make sure you weren’t wearing a wire. Forgive me for getting a little rough. How’s this? Better now?”
He let go of her hands and squeezed her shoulders, his strong fingers flexing and relaxing rhythmically, massaging her like an attentive husband who’d just learned that his wife had had a long and tiring day.
“I’m not working for the police.”
“I would be terribly disappointed in you if you were.” His hands squeezed a little harder. His expression turned malevolent. “Why is it you’ve been spending time with Wick Threadgill?”
She made a face of dislike. “I didn’t know he was a cop. He deceived me to use me.”
“So why did you work so hard to save his life?”
Wesley’s words of warning came back to her. Sally Horton had been an innocent pawn in the blood rivalry between Wick and Lozada. She had died for the role she had unwittingly played. “That’s what they pay me for,” she said flippantly. “I don’t always get to choose my patient. In this case, fate chose me. I drew the short straw. I couldn’t let him bleed out there in the emergency room.”
His eyes searched hers. He curved his hand around her throat. His thumb found her carotid and stroked it. “I would be very unhappy if you were to cheat on me with Wick Threadgill.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
“Has he ever kissed you?”
“No.”
“Touched you like this?” He caressed her breast.
Her throat was too tight to speak. She shook her head.
“That cop has never been this hard for you, Rennie,” he whispered, pressing himself against her. “He never could be this hard for you.”
“Hands in the air, Lozada!”
Oren Wesley barged in, followed by two other officers, service pistols drawn and aimed. The three fanned out into a semicircle around them.
“Hands up, I said! Now, move away from her!”
Rennie was dumbfounded. But as Lozada complied with the order his face became a placid mask. Within seconds he’d been transformed into an identical replica of himself, the kind of perfect effigy that would appear in a wax museum. He revealed no anger, su
rprise, or concern. “Detective Wesley, I didn’t know you stayed up this late.”
“Assume the position.”
Shrugging negligently, Lozada leaned forward upon the kitchen table. His hands were splayed near a basket of fruit where the bananas were getting too ripe. It was a bizarre thought to register when a would-be rapist and reputed killer was being patted down in her kitchen, but Rennie found it a welcome distraction.
The policeman who had the honors retrieved a small handgun from Lozada’s pants pocket. “It’s registered,” Lozada said.
“Handcuff him,” Wesley instructed. “He’ll have a knife in an ankle holster.” While one of the policemen was dragging Lozada’s hands to the small of his back for cuffing, the other knelt and raised his trousers leg. He slid a small, shiny knife from the sheath. Lozada’s expression never changed.
Wesley looked across at her. “You all right?”
Still too astonished to speak, she nodded.
One of the policemen was reading Lozada his Miranda rights, but he was looking at Wesley over the cop’s head. “What am I being arrested for?”
“Murder.”
“Interesting. And who was the alleged victim?”
“Sally Horton.”
“The chambermaid in my building?”
“Save the innocent act for the jury,” Wesley said, giving Rennie a glance. “You also stabbed Wick Threadgill in attempted murder.”
“This is a farce.”
“Well, we’ll see what turns up in our investigation, won’t we? In the meantime, you’ll be a guest of the county.”
“I’ll be out by morning.”
“As I said, we’ll see.” Wesley motioned with his head for the other pair of policemen to escort him out.
Lozada smiled back at Rennie. “Good-bye, love. See you very soon. I’m sorry about this interruption. Detective Wesley loves to grandstand. It’s compensation for other deficiencies.” As he drew even with Wesley, he said, “I think your dick was buried with Joe Threadgill.”
One of the policemen shoved him hard in the back. They disappeared through the door into the living room. Rennie sagged against the counter.