by Rebecca York
Marshall was silent.
Sheridan answered. "He and I have gotten close."
Jack burned to explore that simple statement, since he'd doubted that Ross Marshall was close to anyone. It was another thread he had to drop for the moment. "What kind of genetic testing?"
Marshall hesitated, then answered in a low voice. "A family trait that causes high infant mortality."
"And you recently got the test results?"
"No. That was why I came over here."
So was that why he'd been uptight at lunch? Jack wondered, suddenly revising his assessment of their recent conversation. Marshall had been anticipating some bad news from Dr. Sheridan. From a woman he was romantically interested in, of all people. Switching his attention back to the doctor, he saw something was bothering her. Something about his questions? Something about Marshall?
"What else do you want to tell me about?" he asked gently.
She sucked in a breath of air and let it out. "Can we talk off the record?"
"Yeah," he answered, knowing he'd decide when he heard it whether to press her.
"Okay. There was a break-in at the lab yesterday morning."
Marshall's head swung toward her. Apparently this was the first he'd heard of it.
"My boss told me in confidence that someone had been harassing him. A former client who claimed that he'd gotten incorrect test results from us. He said he thought the man had run him off the road a couple of days before that."
"So that's why you wanted me to know it wasn't one of your, uh"—he flipped back through his notes—"macular degeneration patients who came after you."
"Yes."
"Is the information about the former client on record with the officers who investigated the break-in?"
"I don't think so. Walter said he didn't want bad publicity for the lab, so it was better to keep that aspect of it quiet."
Beside her Marshall made an explosive noise. "So he didn't say anything—and tonight something happens to you!"
"It might not be connected," she said in a shaky voice.
"And it might!"
Jack watched the exchange, sure now that whatever else was true, Marshall cared a lot about this woman.
And from the way she was glued to his side, it looked like the feeling was mutual.
She raised her eyes to Jack's. "Please, don't tell Walter that I said anything to you."
"This is bullshit!" Marshall spat out. "You could have been raped because your jerk of a boss is trying to protect the lab's reputation."
"Your boss—Walter what?"
"Walter Galveston."
Jack wrote it down, then asked, "Did he tell you the name of the client?"
"He said some of our records were missing."
"Oh, great," Marshall said, his voice sarcastic.
"Ross—" she murmured.
"Okay, I'll shut up." He stood, paced to the far wall, then came back to the couch, leaving several inches between himself and Dr. Sheridan. She immediately closed the distance separating them.
Marshall gave Jack a direct look. "Do you need anything else from her tonight? Or can she go home?"
"I… I don't want to go home alone," she said in a small voice.
Marshall hesitated for a beat before saying, "I'll follow you in my Jeep."
"Will you stay with me?"
Jack saw him swallow, saw his features tighten. He wanted her, but he didn't want to be alone with her? Because of what he'd found out from the tests? Was he lying about not having gotten the results? Or was he just anticipating bad news?
Marshall dipped his head toward her. "I'll stay with you."
Her fingers knit with his, clung. "I'm sorry I'm acting like a wuss."
"You've been through a bad experience," Jack answered. "And Ross will make sure nothing happens to you."
He saw the flash of surprise in Marshall's eyes, then turned his attention back to Dr. Sheridan.
"I've just got a couple more questions. Is the door normally locked after hours?"
She thought about that for a moment. "I assume so."
"And there's no alarm?"
"There is. But it wasn't set, because I was waiting for Ross."
Marshall's jaw muscles tightened. "Which means the guy could have come in here and gotten you—and I wouldn't have known about it."
She acknowledged the observation with a quick nod.
Jack stood, wishing the perp had gotten into the building. Instead he'd caught her outside in the rain—which was going to make the crime scene a nightmare for the techs. "Can you show me the place where the attack occurred?"
She stood, glanced at Marshall, then grabbed his hand as she moved toward the door. In the darkness, she pointed to a spot that was partially protected by an overhang. Which was better than nothing. Maybe there was still some evidence that hadn't been washed away.
"Okay. Thanks. I'll wait for the lab technicians," Jack said.
"Thanks," she answered, sounding grateful that she was being allowed to leave. Then, "Do you think you can catch him?"
"I hope so."
She nodded. "I have to get my purse."
Marshall stayed with her as she retreated down the hallway, then returned. "Who else works here?" Jack asked.
"Our receptionist, Betty Daniels." Sheridan stopped and pressed a hand against her lips. "What if she came in here tomorrow morning and got raped? And Hank—Henry—Lancaster. Dr. Lancaster. He's the other researcher on our team."
"Write down their names and numbers, so I can interview them. And Dr… Galveston's."
She opened a Rolodex in the receptionist's desk and copied down the information, which she handed to him.
When they'd concluded their business, he watched Marshall checking out the parking lot before allowing Dr. Sheridan outside and escorting her to her car.
Over the three years they'd been working together, Jack had made a lot of assumptions about the PI. All week he'd been rethinking those conclusions. And tonight had given him a lot more to consider.
ROSS followed Megan home, sticking close behind her as she headed toward Gaithersburg. She turned on to a road called Walnut Lane and drove through an older neighborhood with mature trees and enormous lots by today's standards. When she pulled into the driveway of a small, redbrick ranch, he parked several feet behind her.
By the time he joined her in the kitchen, she'd taken off her coat and hung it on a rack near the back door.
Looking at the wide moldings and real plaster walls, he judged the house to be about sixty years old. Somebody had remodeled the kitchen, a bare minimum job, with dark green Formica counters, white appliances, inexpensive white cabinets, and a white tile floor that was probably hell to keep clean.
She'd relieved the monotony with pot holders and tea towels decorated with black-and-white cows. The cow motif was repeated on the salt and pepper shakers and the teakettle. And the wallpaper between the cabinets and the countertop was of a green meadow.
A lot of men probably wouldn't have given the room much notice. But with his remodeling experience, he found the effect both whimsical and charming.
However, he didn't bother to say so as he carefully kept his distance from her. The way she looked—disoriented, bedraggled, haunted—tore at him. He wanted to reach for her, hold her, comfort her, as much to ease the tight feeling in his chest as anything else. But now they were alone, and it wasn't safe to touch her. Especially after last night's phone call. So he kept his arms stiffly at his sides.
"You want some coffee?" Megan asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
"I don't drink coffee."
"Right. I forgot. I've got some herbal tea." She turned toward a cabinet near the stove, opened it, and stood staring blindly at boxes of tea. Tonight had been the most terrible of her life, and here she was preparing to make tea, while the man who could help her get through till morning was standing a few feet away.
He had put his arms around her. Soothed her. She needed more
than that from him. More than he was willing to give?
The flood of emotions sweeping through her was dangerous. But she disregarded the danger. With a small sound, she swung back around and faced him, unashamed of the naked need on her face.
"Ross. Please. Hold me."
Only a few feet separated them.
She saw the stiff way he stood, as though powerful forces warred inside him. She had come to understand what they were. His need for her—and his silent vow to resist that need.
Last night, when she had been safely out of his reach, he had allowed himself to give rein to his feelings. She understood that. Distance had made him feel safe.
Now… the buried fire in his eyes made her bold enough to take a step closer.
When she moved, so did he, step by step, until she could feel his warm breath, then his flesh. At the moment his lips touched hers, the world contracted to the feel of his mouth, his hands on her body.
Last night she had touched her own lips, imagined his kiss—and come alive with wanting him.
But tonight the reality of the flesh and blood man was more potent than the game they'd been playing.
She opened her mouth under his, drinking in the taste of him—the taste of woodlands and dark shadows where magic lurked. Magic she could only dimly imagine. She'd sensed hidden powers within him. Now she knew they came from the earth and the forest.
She made a small, wanting sound, captivated by the feel of his hands on her shoulders, her back, her ribs. When she said his name again, the syllable was lost in the pressure of her lips against his. He shifted her in his arms, eased back against the countertop, splaying his legs to equalize their heights. A strangled exclamation rose in his throat as he pulled her to him so that his chest pressed against her breasts.
Her tongue met his, retreated, came back again to stroke and slide, the contact sending alternately hot and cold shivers over her skin.
She wanted him. Wanted him to drive everything from her mind but what was happening between the two of them.
Her heart raced at a feverish pace, the beat frantic—as frantic as her need to get close to him and closer still.
She wrapped her arms around him, sealed his body to hers, only half aware of the their surroundings. The only thing of importance was the man whose physical presence had imprinted itself on her.
She felt all of him. Hard muscles. Corded arms. Long legs. And the rigid pressure of his erection against her thigh. That wasn't where she wanted him. Squirming against him, she eased into a more intimate position so that his sex was pressed to hers, with only scant layers of fabric separating their heated flesh.
"God, Megan," he groaned, his hips moving rhythmically against hers, his body like a furnace, heating her.
He shifted her in his arms, found her breast with his hand, stroking and pressing through the fabric. Her nipples were already stiff and aching. The touch of his hand sent a quivering wave of need surging downward through her body, and she arched against him.
The clothing had become an intolerable barrier. Her fingers tangled with his as she reached for the buttons on the front of her lab coat.
Her fingers stopped. She caught her breath as a shaft of reality stabbed through her, and she suddenly remembered why she was wearing her lab clothes at home.
Perhaps he felt the change in her. Perhaps he was struck by the same realization, because he moved her away, putting inches of space between them.
She grabbed for his arm, but he was already turning her so that she was standing next to him, pressed to the countertop.
She stared at him, saw his breath coming hard and fast as he stood with his head thrown back and his hands thrust behind him, gripping the counter.
"Ross—"
"No," he said between gasps of air.
"Why not?"
"Because this is the wrong thing for you."
"Ross, let me decide what I want."
"No. You're vulnerable. I'd be taking advantage of you."
Maybe he was right, but she'd wanted him with a desperation that bordered on madness. She stretched out her hand, then let it fall back, keeping her eyes on his face. His features were contorted, and she saw him struggle to relax them.
"Fix the tea," he said in a raw voice.
The strangled sound and the tight look on his face were enough to make her obey. That and her own embarrassment.
She'd started something he wasn't prepared to finish, and she wanted to duck out of the kitchen and flee down the hall. Instead she mechanically filled the kettle, got two tea bags from the box, and put them into black-and-white mugs.
"Sugar?"
"No thanks." He looked like he wished he were anywhere else as he pulled out the chair farthest from her and sat.
The kettle whistled and she busied herself getting their tea.
Then she scraped out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down, cupping her hands around the mug but not drinking.
"Are you angry with me for asking you to hold me?" she asked, her breath frozen inside her as she waited for the answer.
"No."
"Then what?"
"I'm trying to keep my hands off you," he answered, clamping his fingers around his own mug.
"I thought I made it clear you don't have to do that."
"You've been through a terrible experience tonight. You're not in any shape to make sexual decisions."
"Sexual decisions," she repeated, struggling to keep her voice steady. "That sounds so cold."
When he said nothing, she shifted in her seat. "You and I… want each other." That was only a shadow of what she was feeling.
Wanting. Not just sexual wanting. So much more. Needs she was powerless to articulate because she'd never imagined them before.
She saw her own needs mirrored in his eyes. But he kept his hands firmly on the mug of tea.
"I told you that getting mixed up with me was a bad idea. Didn't you call me this afternoon because you had some results of the, uh, karyotyping?"
She sighed, recognizing that he was determined to change the subject—to shift the two of them away from the out-of-control passion of a few moments ago. "Yes, I called about the tests."
He'd been slumped in his seat. He sat up straighter, leaned toward her. "And you found something abnormal?"
"Something strange."
When he sat there, still as a statue, waiting, she went on. "You probably know that the correct number of human chromosomes is twenty-three pairs?"
"Yes."
"You have a twenty-fourth chromosome."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"There are two kinds of chromosome abnormalities, and each can cause major problems," she began, striving for detachment. "There can be defects in the structure of the chromosomes. Or there can be an incorrect number. Each kind of abnormality can result in spontaneous abortions, children who die shortly after birth, mental retardation, abnormalities of sexual development. Down's syndrome is caused by an extra twenty-first chromosome."
"What does a twenty-fourth chromosome do?"
"There are no documented cases of a twenty-fourth chromosome like yours. It simply doesn't happen."
"Except in my family."
"It would seem so."
"And it kills the girl babies."
"Apparently. But the males have some kind of protection against the effects. Which must mean there's some interaction between the protein from the Y chromosome and this twenty-fourth one."
When he nodded, she went on. "But with some males, the protection only holds until sexual development begins."
His eyes were alert, and she could see that he was taking it all in.
"Can you do something about it?" he asked.
"I don't know. I'd love to have a fertilized egg to work with, see what happens if we remove that extra chromosome."
When she realized what she'd said, she pressed her fingers to her lips, looked away.
ON the way home Jack thought about discussing t
he events of the evening with Laura. Then he remembered Laura wasn't waiting for him on the couch in the living room. Two years, and he still felt like a limb had been amputated. She'd been his wife, his partner. She was the mother of his children, and she would never be waiting for him at home again because some damn drunk driver on I-270 had crossed the median and slammed into her car with enough force to ram the engine block into the front seat.
He gritted his teeth, pushed the awful image out of his mind. There was no point in thinking about it, because it wasn't going to do him any good.
Instead of Laura, his housekeeper, Emily Anderson, was in the living room watching a classic movie channel when he came through the front door. But she switched off the set when he walked in.
Thank God for Mrs. Anderson. She was a sixty-year-old widow with steel gray hair, warm brown eyes, and more energy than a lot of women half her age. For the past eighteen months, she'd occupied the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. She was wonderful with the kids, eight-year-old Craig and his six-year-old sister, Lilly.
Jack tried to spend as much time as he could with his children. But sometimes the job interfered. Having Mrs. Anderson made him feel less guilty.
"Another long day," she said, as she bustled into the kitchen and lifted the lid on the pot that sat on a back burner of the stove.
"Yeah." He sniffed appreciatively. "Your Hungarian goulash?"
"Yes. The rice is in the oven."
It was the kind of meal she could serve herself and the kids early in the evening and keep warm for him. The woman would have made a damn good cop's wife if she hadn't been married to an electrician for thirty years.
He opened the fridge, took out the salad she'd set there, mid also pulled out a beer. Popping the cap, he took a long swallow.
A place was set at the kitchen table for him. He dropped into a chair, watching her move about the kitchen, getting his dinner. At sixty, she still kept herself trim. If he squinted through half-closed lids and mentally changed her hair color, he could almost make himself believe it was Laura.
"Do you want some company?" she asked, breaking the spell.
"I'd like that."