“You haven’t told me what C.Z. stands for,” he said, gesturing to the nameplate on her desk.
She made a face. “Charlotte Zoe. I was named after my two grandmothers.” She couldn’t help smiling. “Now do you understand why I use the initials?”
That drew from him a chuckle. It was a deliciously intimate sound that immediately conjured up an image of a candlelight dinner or a quiet conversation in front of a roaring fire. Why was she thinking such things? She’d never even read a romance novel.
“Charlie,” he said, still smiling. “That would work. I think I like that.”
“That’s what my father called me sometimes,” she murmured, plunged once again into the emotional morass of her memories.
“Sorry. I wonder if he might have mentioned that, and that’s why it came to me now.”
She had a sudden clear image of the two of them, big men swapping cop stories, laughing together, casually tossing out bits of personal information the way men so often did, then hurrying on before things got too personal.
“We seem to have gotten offtrack somewhere,” she said. “I know you said you’d had special training to deal with…situations like this, but you need more personal contact, Zach. Withdrawing isn’t a good solution to your problem.”
He folded his arms across his chest again, his gaze steady. “And just where do you propose that I find it?” he questioned mildly in a tone that hinted broadly at her naïveté.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m surrounded by scumbags who’ve been put here by people like me.”
“The corrections officers?” she suggested, knowing immediately that was a foolish thought.
“Number one, they aren’t permitted to fraternize, and number two, there’s some resentment there. Some corrections officers are guys who wanted to be cops and didn’t make it.”
“Surely there must be some men here who aren’t that bad,” she said, wishing she’d never brought up the subject. It went against all her training and everything she believed in to know she couldn’t help him. She’d become a psychologist because she wanted to help people, and now…
“Don’t worry about me, Charlie. I’ll manage.”
Their eyes met and held. C.Z. held her breath. In a different world, said his eyes—to which hers replied, Oh, yes. Yes.
Her phone intercom buzzed, causing her to start nervously, as though she’d been caught doing something very wrong instead of just thinking about it. He glanced briefly toward the phone. The moment shattered. She got up from her desk.
“My next appointment is here,” she said unnecessarily.
He stood, too, but he didn’t move toward the door until she had come around her desk. Without it between them, she felt frighteningly vulnerable—and yet she knew she’d gotten up because she wanted, for one brief moment, to remove that barrier.
She looked at him, allowing herself for one crazy moment to imagine how it would feel to be in his arms, to nestle her head just under that square chin—to let it happen.
He knew. His gaze was steady. Not once during their sessions had he ever said or done anything suggestive, as the others invariably did. She almost wished he would, because then maybe she wouldn’t spend her nights fantasizing about him.
“See you Thursday, then,” he said, betraying his thoughts only with a slight, but undeniable huskiness.
“THERE WAS TROUBLE last night,” Jack Sanford said by way of greeting C.Z. when she arrived at work two days later, her mind already on the session with Zach Hollis scheduled for this afternoon.
“Oh? What sort of trouble?” She wasn’t surprised. The prison was in the midst of a pseudo-strike by the corrections officers. They weren’t permitted to strike, so instead, they were calling in sick in great numbers.
“A fight. Michaels and Johnson from your group and two from one of my groups. The victim was yours, too—Hollis, the cop.”
Very fortunately, C.Z. was turned away from him at the moment as she poured herself some coffee. “Zach?” she said, unable to prevent his first name from slipping out. “What happened to him?”
“He’s in the hospital. The four of them ganged up on him in the rec room. The warden’s ordered a lockdown until the sick-out’s over. Michaels and Johnson are in the hospital, too. The other two were treated here in the dispensary.”
C.Z. turned to him, having set down her coffee mug because her hands were trembling. “How badly is Hollis hurt?” she asked in a carefully neutral tone.
“Not too bad, I guess. A concussion is what I heard—plus some cuts. One of them had a knife.” He shrugged. “I guess they went after him because he’s a cop—or was.”
C.Z. struggled not to let her relief show. It sounded bad enough, but certainly not life-threatening. Sanford ran a hand through his thinning hair. He was her boss and the man who’d sold the state prison authority on his idea for an intervention program.
“This could spell trouble for us, C.Z. We’ve got a six-month review coming up, and I’m afraid they could terminate the project even though I’ve got a one-year contract.”
She managed to murmur sympathetically, but her concern was for Zach, not for the project. She knew Sanford still had high hopes for their success, but she knew the program was doomed even before this incident. The prison environment just wasn’t conducive to their program.
“I’m going to the hospital to see Hollis,” she said, then added hastily, “and Michaels and Johnson, too, of course.”
“Sure. Okay.” He nodded distractedly. “We’ll talk about it after you get back.”
C.Z. PAUSED in the doorway, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. He didn’t look as bad as she’d feared. In fact, the only visible sign of injury was a thick bandage on the upper part of his right arm. The nurse had told her the concussion was severe enough that they would probably keep him for a few days.
She thought about their conversation only two days ago, when she’d asked him if he considered himself to be a violent man. He’d said he wasn’t afraid of violence, and now she understood why. He’d been attacked by four men, at least two of whom were as big as he was. And yet he’d clearly managed not only to survive the assault, but also to put two of them in the hospital, as well. She shuddered, then began to approach his bed.
“Zach,” she said quietly, not sure if he was awake. His face was turned away from her and he’d given no indication he’d heard her come in.
When he finally turned toward her, she saw that his right eye was blackened and there was a small bandage on the left side of his jaw.
She sank into the chair next to his bed. Uncomfortable with the silence, she asked, “What happened?”
“I’m a cop,” he replied in a tired voice she barely recognized.
“It wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the sick-out,” she said.
He grimaced. “That only gave them a better opportunity. It would have happened sooner or later anyway.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Though she knew there wasn’t, she wanted desperately to let him know she cared.
He regarded her silently through his one good eye. The scrutiny went on for so long she became uncomfortable, hearing the echoes of her meaningless words.
“You can help me get out of here.”
She stared at him as a chill slithered through her. “You mean out of the hospital?” she asked, even though she was certain that wasn’t what he meant.
“No, I mean out of prison. I’ve got a plan. I was hoping you would come here.”
She managed to meet his gaze but looked away quickly. “I can’t. I mean, how—”
“No one would know you’ve helped me. I’ve got it worked out.” His words tumbled out quickly, then he paused. She could sense his discomfort. She knew it wasn’t the result of his injuries. It was that he was being forced to ask for her help.
“It won’t stop, C.Z. And if I’m transferred, it’ll happen there, too.”
“But if you’re transferred and no one knows you’r
e a cop…”
“No one was supposed to know here. They can smell cops.”
“What’s your plan?” she asked, hoping against hope she could somehow prove to him it wouldn’t work.
He gestured to the window. “That bottom part that opens is held in place with a couple of screws. There’s a ledge outside, and from there, I can get to the roof of the ambulance garage, then to the ground.”
She got up and walked to the window. A part of her was pleased he obviously trusted her enough to tell her about his plan. But mostly, she was terrified—terrified of what he was suggesting and even more terrified of her ambivalence. She knew she should say no in the strongest possible terms—but she didn’t.
“That ledge is awfully narrow, and it’s a long jump to the roof—especially in your condition.” She added that last as she remembered his military training. She couldn’t begin to guess what skills he might possess.
“I don’t intend to try it now. I’ll be okay by tomorrow, but I’ll pretend to still have the headaches and double vision so they keep me here.”
“What about the guard?” she asked, turning to him and trying not to sound desperate. Her conscience and her professional ethics were screaming at her to say no.
He shrugged, then winced at the pain in his injured arm. “There’s only one, and he’s more concerned about the other two, who are down the hall. It’s doable, but I need someone to bring me clothes and a screwdriver.”
He reached carefully for the box of tissues on the nightstand, then dug into the bottom and withdrew a dinner knife. “I’ve already tried to use this on the screws. It would probably work, but it’s going to take more time than I’m likely to have. But I can leave it behind and they’ll think I used it. My prison clothes are in the closet. I’ll take them with me so they’ll assume that I’m wearing them.”
Their eyes met, but after only a second, he looked away. She knew he wouldn’t beg her—and she also knew she didn’t want him to beg. He had lost so much already, and she couldn’t bear to see him lose his pride, as well. Neither could she stand the thought he might be killed.
“All right,” she heard herself say, even though the turmoil within her continued. She knew that, at the very least, she should wait and think this over—away from his overwhelming presence. She would be committing a crime that could not only end her career but send her to prison.
The enormity of those two small words washed over her like ice water, but she could not take them back. She could not deny Zach Hollis, and she’d known that from the very beginning.
Then she heard the voice that was hers again, calmly asking for his sizes. He gave them to her, saying he would need shoes, as well, since his had been taken away. She nodded and wrote that down. The whole scene had taken on a surreal quality. This couldn’t be her, calmly agreeing to commit a crime to help a man who was convicted of attempted murder.
“I…I have to go now,” she said shakily.
Neither his battered face nor his voice revealed anything as he nodded. “I’ll ask them to call you tomorrow. I’ll say I really need to talk to you. That way it won’t look suspicious for you to be coming back.”
She nodded and left his room. She was in her car before she realized she hadn’t talked to the other two men.
After her visit to Zach, C.Z. talked herself out of her insanity. She would see him tomorrow and explain that while she certainly sympathized with his predicament, she just couldn’t risk becoming involved. But an hour later, she was in her car and headed toward the mall.
“Reality-check time,” she told herself as she tossed her purchases into the trunk and got into her car. “If you’re really going to do this, at least be sure you understand why you’re doing it.”
There were good, solid reasons, of course. She believed in Zach’s innocence, though a few doubts remained. She also believed he might well be killed if he remained in prison. But the truth was that those were good reasons to feel sympathy for him—and that was all. What transformed sympathy into action—illegal action—was far more complicated and frightening.
From the moment she had first laid eyes on Zach Hollis three years ago, something inside her had snapped. No, she thought, that wasn’t the right word for it. Something had awakened—something she’d never felt before.
She’d been visiting her father, and the two of them were having breakfast in the local diner before she left. They had just sat down when she saw her father beckon to someone—and suddenly Zach was there and her mind went blank and her body began to do some very strange things.
And the memory of those ice-blue eyes and that indisputable maleness had haunted her all the way to New Haven, Connecticut, where she was in the midst of grueling graduate work. But she’d quickly immersed herself in her studies, and after a time had convinced herself it was a meaningless episode. She’d never see him again.
Following her father’s death, his chief deputy, Tom Strasser, had been named to replace him as chief of the Ondago County force. But a year later, he was forced into early retirement by a heart ailment—and Zach had gotten the job.
C.Z. heard about all this from Stacey, a childhood friend who still lived in the area. With her father gone, she’d had no reason to go there. It was through Stacey she’d learned of Zach’s arrest and conviction. Even then, she’d managed to convince herself she’d never see him again. New York State had many prisons, and surely he wouldn’t be sent to the one where she had just begun to work, in upstate New York, several hours away from Ondago County.
But he was—and then she told herself he wouldn’t remember her from a brief meeting three years earlier. He did, though, and she discovered that not even the fact that he was a convicted criminal made a difference to her treacherous body.
Lust, pure and simple, she thought. And yet there surely had to be more to it than that. Or was she only desperate to justify his assault on her senses—the way his mere existence had bypassed all her normal restraint?
C.Z. SPENT a restless night filled with dreams that were by turn frightening and erotic, but she did her best to get through a busy day at work. Jack Sanford enlisted her help in his meeting with the warden, who lost no time telling them their project was worthless. C.Z. remained quiet while Jack defended the program, then she asked what measures could be taken to protect Zach in the future.
“I saw him at the hospital yesterday,” she told the warden. “And he’s very concerned.” As she heard herself speaking calmly and professionally, she knew she was already trying to justify his future escape—and her part in it.
“We’ll do the best we can,” the warden said. “But I can’t give him any guarantees—and he knows that.”
“Couldn’t he be moved to another facility where no one knows his background?” she asked, hoping that the warden would contradict Zach’s answer to that question.
“We could move him, but it wouldn’t matter. Prison grapevines are pretty amazing, Dr. Morrison. They’d find out sooner or later. He was with the NYPD for some years, and he’d be bound to run into someone he helped put away or someone who knew he’d been a cop.
“In this case—and I think Hollis would agree with me—it’s better to know where the trouble’s coming from. We will be moving the others as soon as it can be arranged. But my sources tell me the real instigator wasn’t involved. So there’s nothing we can do about him—yet.”
“Who was that?” Jack asked before she could.
“William Davis. We think he put the others up to it.”
She exchanged a glance with Jack. They both knew Davis. He was in one of Jack’s groups. He was serving time for manslaughter, a knife fight in a bar, she recalled. And he was from Ondago County, though she was sure he was already in prison by the time Zach was appointed. She’d have to mention the comment to Zach.
They left the warden’s office, and C.Z. glanced discreetly at her watch as Jack bemoaned the bleak future of the program. It was nearly three o’clock, and Zach hadn’t called before s
he met with the warden. Could he have changed his mind? She was more conflicted than ever after the scary picture the warden had painted of Zach’s future.
She got her answer when they reached the small suite of offices shared by the psychologists and other counselors. Their secretary called to her, waving a pink message slip.
“I have an urgent call for you from the hospital social worker. She says one of the men is demanding to see you. He won’t talk to her, and she says he seems really upset.”
“Who is it?” C.Z. asked as her heart began to thud and then threatened to leap into her throat.
“Zach Hollis. He’s that good-looking cop, right?”
C.Z. nodded, wincing inwardly. She didn’t like hearing Zach’s attractiveness being mentioned.
“He’s probably worried about what he’ll be facing when he comes back here,” Jack said, shaking his head sadly. “I really feel for that guy, after what the warden said.”
“You’re probably right,” C.Z. said. “I’ll stop to see him on my way home.” She didn’t dare sound too eager.
Jack heaved a sigh. “TGIF—and not a moment too soon. If I ever needed a long weekend, it’s right now.”
C.Z. realized she’d completely forgotten about the upcoming Columbus Day weekend. But no matter how much Jack thought he needed it, she needed it more. If Zach did manage to escape, she’d have plenty of time to practice acting shocked before she returned to work on Tuesday.
IT WAS JUST PAST four-thirty when C.Z. stepped off the elevator and started down the hallway to Zach’s room. She had tried to stuff his clothes and the screwdriver into her oversize shoulder bag, but in the end had been forced to use her attaché case, as well.
The guard was positioned as before, between Zach’s room and the rooms of the other two men. Sweat began to prickle her skin as she approached him, knowing he would be well within his rights to ask to search her bag and case. She hoped to dissuade him with the excuse that she was taking work home for the weekend.
Runaway Heart Page 2