by Pamela Clare
“Great. Glad to hear it.” He lifted it over her head and laid it aside. “But it has to come off for a minute, ’cuz I plan to kiss you until this fear goes away and we don’t need that thing going off by accident.”
With that, he enfolded her again, kissed her, muttered reprimands for her carelessness, gratitude for her safety, praise for her courage. And all of it punctuated with urgent kisses and touches meant to reassure—who? him? her?—that she was safe, whole.
Only when passion threatened to overcome good sense and morality laws did he pull back. Even at that, all he did was lift her so she was sitting in the more conventional sideways fashion on his lap. Her soft bottom was a torture, but one he couldn’t bear to deprive himself of just yet.
“This can’t go on,” he muttered into her hair.
“I know. Someone’s bound to walk in.”
He laughed. “Not that. Though we do have to cool it. I meant this stalking thing. It can’t go on.”
She lifted away from him to search his gaze, her own eyes bright and brilliant as gemstones. “I’m all for that, but how do you propose to stop it?”
“Let’s think about this.” He settled her more comfortably against him. “It’s the bottom of the ninth. Bases are loaded –”
“Baseball? You’re turning to baseball for an answer to my nightmare?”
Her expression made him smile. “Sweetheart, baseball has all the answers. Now, are you going to let me think?”
“Baseball?”
“Okay, they’ve got home-field advantage. It’s bottom of the ninth, and you’ve got a slim one-run lead that you have to preserve.”
“Wait a minute. Why does he have home-field advantage?”
“Because he knows who his opponents are, but we don’t know him.”
“And why do I have a lead?”
“Because he hasn’t caught you yet.”
She shivered, delicate but unmistakable. “Okay.”
“All right, back to the game. If you can shut ’em down in this last at bat, game’s over. You win. But it’s not going to be easy. Bases are loaded. The count is full, three balls, two strikes.”
“So he’s the batter and I’m the pitcher?”
“Correct. He’s the guy with the big stick who can hurt you. You’re the one who has to out-think him.”
“Great,” she muttered. “So, what do I do?”
“Bases loaded with a 3-2 count, he’s sitting dead red on a fastball.”
“So I throw him a curve ball?”
He shook his head. “He knows you can’t afford to miss with a breaking ball. If you do, game’s over.”
A frown pleated her brow. “So I throw him a fastball?”
“Hell, no. He’d be all over that.”
“And God knows my slider is rusty.”
He grinned. “Smartass.”
“Okay, coach, what do I do?”
“Throw him a change-up.”
“Huh?”
“Something off-speed. Same arm action as a fastball, same plane of delivery, but you take a little off. He’s sitting on a heater, thinks he’s gonna get it, and then wham, he’s way out in front of it, off balance. At your mercy.”
“That’s all well and good, but what are we going to do?”
He barely heard her words, her voice drowned out by the turbulent rush of thoughts colliding, coming together. Of course!
“Come on.” He spilled her off his lap and leapt up. “We have to find Ray. I have a plan.”
*
It was harder than she thought it would be. Hard to kiss John goodbye and watch him load Bandy into the Taurus and drive away. Hard to be alone in her own house, even with the alarm armed. In the silence, the ticking of her kitchen clock was oppressive. She stole a casual glance out the window. There it was, the cable TV van she knew housed four officers. Four highly-trained members of the emergency response team.
Taking a deep breath, she went directly to her study, turned the computer on and settled to work. Or rather, settled to pretending to work. Not that she didn’t have plenty to do—the DeBoeuf files Vince had given her still sat on her desk like a reproval, but no way could she concentrate with her nerves twanging like this.
Forty-five minutes later, it happened. A scratching at her side door, so faint she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been straining for it. Then the alarm, shrill and piercing.
She ran to the living room to see a man pelting down her drive way, a blur of black clothing and speed as he turned onto the sidewalk. Then the doors of the van flew open. Flak-jacketed and armed, the ERT team hit the pavement running.
“Stop! Police!”
Suzannah heard the shouted command even from inside her house, even with the intermittent squawking of the alarm, so there could be no doubt the suspect heard it too. All he did was glance back once, then sprint faster. Another command to stop, accompanied by a warning that shots would be fired. Still, the suspect raced on, zigging and zagging, making a desperate bid for the cover of the deciduous woods at the end of the street. Then a cruiser, its lights strobing, pulled onto the street blocking his escape route. Officers sprang from both sides of the car, taking separate beads on the suspect from behind the cruiser’s doors.
The suspect surrendered then, throwing his arms up in the air. She saw him mouth something, but he was too far away now for her to hear. She saw the suspect put his hands on his head, fall to his knees, stretch out on the pavement, following commands she couldn’t hear. Then the ERT team fell on him.
She’d watched scenes like this play out a hundred times on television, but the reality was different. Despite herself, she gasped at the violence of it.
No, not violence. That wasn’t the right word. The whole operation was controlled, professional, textbook. But the speed and efficiency with which it was handled, the force and authority behind every action, brought the reality of it home.
Suddenly, she realized the alarm was still bleating. She hurried to the panel and killed it, then went back to her post at the window.
This is what John does, she thought as she watched the handcuffed man being carefully stowed in the back of the cruiser. Oh, not the tactical SWAT team thing. But he was trained to take a suspect down like that. She’d known it, of course, but there was knowing and then there was knowing.
Then John was back, his car screeching to a stop on the street. Parking haphazardly, he jumped out, slammed the door and rushed toward the house. She met him halfway. There on the lawn, in full view of the neighbors, a half dozen cops and any number of other onlookers, she flew into his arms.
“It’s over,” he said, clasping her tight. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
She clung to him. “Thank God you’re here.”
“You’ll have to go downtown, now.”
“Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
She allowed herself to be helped into the passenger seat of John’s car, where she waited a moment while he had a word with Ray Morgan. Then John joined her in the vehicle.
As soon as his door closed, she said, “Do you think we pulled it off?”
He grinned. “Hell, I was sold, and it was my plan. R.J. did a helluva job, don’t you think?”
Constable R.J. Barnett, on loan from the Saint John PD for the purposes of today’s performance, lest a local officer be recognized. Suzannah had never met the man, but she had to agree he played a great felon. “I knew it wasn’t for real, but I thought my heart would pound right out of my chest.”
He leaned over, gripped her head and kissed her once, hard. Was that for real or was that for their audience?
“Now we gotta finish the sell-job for the media, in case our man missed the live show.” He fastened his seat belt and shot her a glance. “Ready for Act II?”
Just the thought of Act II made her stomach flip. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
*
Within two hours, the arrest was all over the news. By the next morning, all the televis
ion stations had footage of the ‘suspect’, identified as Richard Sherwood, being escorted into court, where he was quickly remanded to the forensic psychiatric facility in Campbellton for evaluation. Footage of Suzannah saying how grateful she was to finally have the year-long ordeal of her stalking over. Then the payoff question, planted with a friendly reporter:
“So, what does this mean for your romance with Detective Quigley?”
She faced the unblinking eye of the camera. “Romance?” Looking as cool as her Ice Princess persona under the hot lights, she let an amused smile curve her lips. “I guess Detective Quigley and I were better actors than we thought.”
“So the two of you were never romantically involved?”
This from Renee LeRoy, who looked just as disapproving as ever. Some things never changed.
“That would be rather bad for business for a criminal lawyer, now, wouldn’t it?” Renee’s lips didn’t twitch, but laughter rippled through the rest of the press. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip. No romance here, I’m afraid. Detective Quigley was merely posing as my boyfriend to try to get the drop on my stalker. As you can see, it worked beautifully. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to celebrate my freedom by taking a week’s vacation, starting right now.”
“Nothing special planned? No romantic getaway?” The same obliging reporter.
“No getaway, romantic or otherwise. After this ordeal, I’m just planning on rediscovering privacy and the joys of solitude.”
Smiling, she pressed her way past the media scrum. Half way to her car and not quite out of sight of the media, John stepped from behind his vehicle and grabbed her arm.
“No romance, huh?”
She’d been expecting it, had helped choreograph it, but his sudden appearance took a lift out of her. She tried to pull her arm free, per the script, but the words she said were the wrong ones, for his ears only. “Do we really have to do this part?”
“’Fraid so, sugar.”
“But I just told the world there’s nothing between us.”
“And now we’re gonna make them believe it.”
“John –”
“Suzannah, there’s a very good chance he’s here right now, watching this from the sidelines. Now look at me like I’m a bug just crawled out from under a rock.”
She looked down pointedly at his hand.
He released her elbow. “Oh, very good. Now give it to me with both barrels.”
“All right, Detective, but remember, you asked for this,” she muttered. Drawing herself up to her full height, she turned her haughtiest look on him. “I think you must be confused, Detective,” she said, allowing her voice to rise. “That was just pretend, make believe. But it’s all over now.”
“Suzannah, we had something special. Don’t ruin it.”
The anguish in his gruff voice sliced into her. It’s not real. It’s not real. Suzannah closed her eyes and repeated that refrain a few times. Then she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Something special? John, you were my bodyguard. Self-appointed, I might add. I didn’t ask you to do it. And all we had was a plan to flush out my stalker. It worked. I’m grateful. End of subject.”
“But Suzannah –” He grabbed her arm again.
Oh, God, this was hard. Only a handful of the onlookers who’d drifted closer to listen in on the exchange would know the truth. The rest would take her cruel disdain at face value. She tasted bile at the back of her throat and knew she was in danger of throwing up. Finish it quickly.
“Look, I’m sorry you got the wrong idea, but now that I’m no longer in danger, there isn’t any us. Got it?”
This time, he did more than just release her arm; he practically shoved her away. “Got it.” Wheeling, he walked stiffly away.
She adjusted the sleeve of her jacket, lifted her head and marched toward her rental.
Close curtain on Act II. Just please, God, let it be the last one.
Chapter Eleven
Quigg leaned back in his chair, twisting a coin absently in his hand as he waited for Suzannah to answer the special cell phone he’d given her.
On the third ring she picked up, her voice breathless. “John?”
“Where’d I drag you from?”
“I was upstairs napping, but I’d left the phone downstairs.”
“Keep it close,” he instructed. He hated not being there to help her endure the waiting. He couldn’t even be part of the surveillance team holed up in the adjacent houses. He had to be seen to have removed himself from the role of Suzannah’s guardian. It helped a little to be able to talk to her occasionally. “How you holding up?”
“Great.”
“Baby, you are such a lousy liar.”
“Okay, I’m a wreck. It was hard enough sitting here for the staged version. The real thing is killing me.”
He flinched at her turn of phrase, knew by the quality of the silence humming between them that she’d caught the echo of her own words. He rushed to offer reassurance.
“Hey, this is gonna be a cake walk. Our boy thinks we’re preoccupied with the suspect we collared. He thinks surveillance has been dropped and that you and I are splitsville. He believes you’re defenseless, and that’s what’s gonna sink him.”
“I know. It’s just … wearing.” A pause. “John, what if he doesn’t make a quick move? What if he delays for weeks? How long can your guys sit on my house?”
Her question would have scared hell out of him if it hadn’t already occurred to him. But it had, and he’d thought it through. “He’ll make his move, couple of days, tops.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Three things.” He shifted the cell phone to his left hand to accept a sheaf of messages a clerk was handing him. He sifted through them quickly. Dammit. A break in his biggest case. Looked like the scumbag’s secretary-slash-lover was ready to dish the dirt on her boss. Seeing surveillance photos of said boss renewing his wedding vows with his wife after promising he would divorce her must have done the trick. Quigg suppressed a groan. A month ago, he’d have given his left testicle to nail this guy, but the timing really sucked.
“Three things?” Suzannah prompted.
“Yeah, sorry. Someone just handed me a message, but I’m back again.” He turned away from the pink message slips. “Number one, his attack on you at the Registry Office. He made personal contact for the first time. He promised a reckoning soon. With that action, he’s taken it to a new level, the penultimate level.”
“Good ten-dollar word, Detective.”
He heard the fear edging the sarcasm in her voice. “I actually know quite a few of them,” he said mildly.
“Okay, what’s number two?”
“Number two is you fought back. You inflicted an injury on him. He won’t let that lie for long. From what he said to you it’s always been personal, he always intended to make you suffer, but I’m willing to bet your striking out at him has taken that desire for revenge to a whole new level of urgency.”
“And number three?”
“Number three, you drew blood.”
“I thought that was number two?”
“No, I mean the blood itself. DNA. And unless he’s fallen off the edge of the earth, he knows by now that we have a suspect in custody. He’ll act before we have a chance to realize we apprehended the wrong man.”
“But DNA tests take forever,” she protested. “Even if you put an urgent rush on it, it’s going to take weeks. That’s pretty common knowledge.”
“True. But blood typing doesn’t take any time at all. And everybody knows that, too.”
A short silence while she digested that. “You’re right. Thanks. I feel better.”
“And I’d feel better if I were there with you.”
“Me, too. I missed you last night.”
Her voice had turned husky, taken on that tone that made his groin tighten. “Ditto.”
“I’ll be so glad when this is over.”
“We should take some vacation, g
o somewhere.” The words were out before he had a chance to consider how he’d cope if she declined.
Silence stretched for a moment, then her husky voice again. “I’d like that.”
She’d said yes. He grinned. Then the clerk came back bearing another message slip. He glanced at it quickly. “Look, Suzannah, something’s breaking here, a case I’ve been working forever. I hate to hang up, but I gotta go.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just a phone call away. I’ll keep this cell on me. And you’re in good hands with Ray.”
“I know.”
“And the ERT team’s top notch. They drill for this stuff all the time.”
“I’m not scared. Just nerved up and anxious to have it over. Don’t worry about me. Besides, I have work to do. I still haven’t done a tap on that corporate re-org Vince gave me.”
Quigg grinned. The last time she’d tried to tackle that project, she’d abandoned it in favor of having her way with him on the couch. He was probably the only man in the world who got hard at the words ‘corporate re-org’.
They said their good-byes. Quigg’s lingering smile faded as he picked up the latest message from Letitia Wood. Time to go talk to her. He grabbed his jacket, marveling at his good luck. When would men learn not to mix business with pleasure? Stupid to be dipping his wick at the office, but doubly stupid to do it with a personal assistant who knew his business so intimately. Hell hath no fury and all that jazz.
*
Suzannah hadn’t held out much hope that she’d be productive, but as it turned out, work was just the antidote against anxiety that she needed. And just as well she had lots of it, for nothing happened all day.
She finally put the files aside to make a solitary supper of crusty French bread, some excellent Brie and a glass of equally excellent Cabernet-Shiraz. Because they’d told her it was necessary to show herself outside, she’d taken her meal on the patio. Then she’d gone out to her backyard beds and cut flowers. After filling three crystal vases with dramatic arrangements of Asiatic and Oriental lilies, she’d sat out for another half hour pretending to read the latest Grisham novel.
She’d felt terribly exposed, but not because she feared her stalker would take her out with a rifle. That would be too impersonal and anonymous. He’d want her to know who he was and why he was extracting this revenge. No, she felt exposed because she knew there were countless eyes on her the whole while from behind slitted blinds.