by Rita Herron
She tasted like sweetness and strength with a hint of vulnerability and the saucy desire that had always made her unique. And her slender body was alive in his hands, making his heart pound.
He struggled for control, and ordered himself to stop, but he had an empty place inside that only Claire could fill, and he deepened the kiss, tracing her lips with his tongue until she parted and welcomed him inside. His pulse racing, he slid one hand into the curly strands of her hair, then slid the other to her waist, brought her body up against him.
His need flared, hot and burning beyond control, and he cupped her bottom and moved his leg in between her thighs. Sheer hunger drove him on, and he rubbed against her belly until she groaned and responded. Her nipples stiffened beneath her shirt, her breasts tortured his own flat chest, and temptation urged him to undress her, then touch and taste her all over. Shifting so she could feel his burgeoning weight against the heat of her, he growled and explored her mouth, boldly telling her how much he still wanted her.
A broken engagement and the devastation of war hadn’t lessened the intensity of his desire.
But Claire pulled away, trying to compose herself. “Why are you doing this, Mark?”
His breath came out a ragged reply. “Because I still want you, Claire. I think that’s obvious.”
She shook her head. “No…it’s over.”
“You can’t say that, Claire, not after that kiss.”
Claire’s expression turned pained. A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. “But…it’s too late.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him. “That’s not true. We can make it work.”
“I’m not the same person I used to be, Mark,” Claire argued. “And neither are you.”
“Maybe not,” he said gruffly. “But the heat is still there.” He rubbed himself against her. “You feel it, Claire. Just admit it. Say you want me.”
An agonized whisper tore from her throat. “Stop it, Mark. That isn’t fair“And it’s fair that you’re blind?” His voice grew hard. “And some maniac is stalking you?”
She trembled against him. “No, none of it is fair, but that’s the way it is. You left to do a job, to fight for our country—”
“Is that what this is about?” His hands tightened around her arm. “Dammit, I did leave, but I’m back now, Claire, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re in the FBI. You’ll be leaving all the time to work on cases.” Her voice broke. “You’ll be in danger, going undercover, working with all sorts of evil people and criminals. Who’s to say that when you go to work in the morning that you’ll come back at night?”
His temper deflated. All along he’d worried that his career had been part of the reason she hadn’t shown that day. Now, he knew his work still bothered her. It would always bother her.
Still, he knew they could make it work. The old Claire wasn’t like his mother. She was a fighter….
Unable to help himself, he pressed his lips against hers one more time. “Life can be extinguished in a minute, Claire. Nobody can promise tomorrow. We have to take everything we can get when we can get it.”
Emotions clouded her face as she shook her head. “But you don’t have to settle,” Claire said.
“Is that what you think I’d be doing? Settling…because you’re blind?”
Claire tried to pull away. “I…I can’t do this right now, Mark. There’s too much going on.”
“Can’t do what? Make love to me? Admit that you might need someone?” He wanted to shake her. “I need you, Claire.” He sighed when she closed her eyes to shut him out. “There, I admitted it. Why can’t you?”
She swayed toward him, the fire between them hotter than ever, but the distance was still there. And he didn’t know how to reach her.
“Let me go.” Her guttural plea tore at him.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she didn’t love him. Maybe he was the only needy one….
“I’m sorry, Mark…” She turned and stumbled toward the hall, swinging her hands in a wide sweep to feel her way as if his kiss, his confession, had totally disoriented her.
His heart ached, seeing her that way.
Dammit. He wanted her back. The old Claire. The one who looked at him with passion and desire, not the one who ran from his touch.
And he’d give anything to restore her sight. Maybe then she’d accept him back into her life.
He had to find out more about her condition. She hadn’t mentioned whether surgery was an option, a corneal transplant maybe…
But what if she never saw again? Could they possibly be together anyway?
He wanted to chase after her, reassure her that everything was all right, that he would always take care of her, but Claire didn’t want to be taken care of. So he fied his hands by his sides and reminded himself that the case had to take priority.
After that, he had no idea what would happen. He had walked away from Claire once, and let her go.
He damn sure wouldn’t walk away this time without a fight.
CLAIRE STRIPPED OUT OF her clothes and threw on a nightgown, her body still humming with desire for Mark. The moment he’d touched her, she’d nearly fallen apart in his arms. She felt like a starved woman craving food, and the only man who could feed that hunger was the man in the other room sacked out on her couch.
She remembered his preference for sleeping in the nude and wondered if he was peeling off his clothes that moment, stripping out of his jeans and allowing his body to breathe the night air. In her mind’s eye, she saw the dark hair that had dusted his chest and the muscles that had bulged in his arms when he’d risen above her. His eyes had turned smoky when he’d slid inside her, then darkened to coal-black when he’d begun to pump harder. And his scent, the smell of a man driven by need and want, a man filled with lust who liked to take but who always satisfied her cravings before his own….
She would never be satisfied, not without him.
Shutting out the thoughts that she could not have him again, she curled into a ball on her side, willing the ache to cease, but she could almost feel his hands on her bare body, stroking her inner thigh, teasing her legs apart, his mouth suckling her breasts while his fingers delved deeper and deeper inside her. Teasing. Exploring. Magically bringing alive every sensation that had lain dormant in his absence. Spinning a web of desire so intricate that she would plead for him to take her to heaven and help her see the light.
She rolled to her stomach and punched the pillow. Back to reality. She lived in a world of darkness, a world she had brought on herself.
She deserved no better.
A summer breeze fluttered the trees outside, and the branches spattered softly against the window. Sweat trickling down her back, she rose and opened the window, allowing the evening air to cool her. But the grating low voice of the killer echoed through the shadows of the trees. He was calling her name.
Bad girls have to be punished, Claire. But you’re not a bad girl, are you?
His words taunted her with the truth of her secrets. Yes, she was a bad girl.
Her mother had constantly chided her on being bad when she was little. Her sister was the good child, the well-behaved one. Claire had been mischievous. She’d even gotten into scraps at school. Although she’d been standing up for friends who were targets of bullies, her mother wanted the perfect, sweet, docile child. The one who wore leotards and tights, played with china dolls. The teenager who aspired to be the perfect tennis-club wife.
She had never been docile or sweet. She’d never wanted to be a tennis-club wife.
And she certainly wasn’t perfect now. She never would be.
Really, she never had been. She’d let her selfish needs drive her to chase Mark. She’d hoped he’d look into her eyes at the airport, declare his love and not say goodbye.
Did the killer know her secrets? Was that why he’d called her to taunt her about the others?
Mark’s face materialized in her mind, and she glanced bac
k at the bedroom door, wondering if he was asleep. She ached to go to him and curl up in his arms, feel his heat next to her, inside her, replacing the cold. She wanted to forget the nightmares for one night.
But how could she make love to him with secrets still between them?
Instead she crawled back into bed and stared into the black emptiness that represented her life.
IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE. No moon. Their mission was almost over. They’d been successful so far. And soon the unit would be disbanded. Everyone would return to their own lives.
They had so much to look forward to.
Abe would go back to his wife and child.
Odd, how he and Abe had gotten so close in such a short time. But that was what war did to a man.
Especially when he was alone.
Mark fought the bitterness of knowing he had no place to go, no place to call home, no one to welcome him back from battle.
Unlike Abe. He was once again showing off photos of his son, and his beautiful wife. Mark stared at the pictures with envy.
Then a noise rumbled in the distance. Thunder? A tank? Another noise. Footsteps.
All the men jumped to alert, stomping out the campfire, grabbing weapons and canvassing the area.
Today they had celebrated a victory battle. But tonight had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Mark should have known.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. A grenade exploded in front of him. Mark jumped for cover, but the explosion caught two of his men. Fire exploded. Then another explosion. And another. He darted behind the army jeep, his heart racing, dirt, sand, debris from the explosion swirling around him. The scent of death floated toward him.
One of his men was on fire. Another bleeding. Another jerking as death claimed him.
He searched the darkness, opened fire, never saw the storm of men coming.
Seconds later, the entire camp was in ashes. The bloody bodies of his men lay piled among the burning embers.
Abe stretched out his hand, reached for Mark. He tried to drag him from the fire. But Mark could hardly move. He’d been hit in the leg, his gut torn open, and he was shot in the shoulder. His lungs burned as he dragged himself forward. Pain knifed through his stomach, rippled up his lungs. Blood oozed from his lips, ran from his shoulder. His fingers clawed at the dirt, raking the parched sand. But just as he reached his buddy, Abe’s eyes wided in horror. He had his dog tags in his hand.
“Tell Marie I love her, and Kevin, tell him I love him, too. Give him this.”
Mark’s throat choked as Abe whispered his name. He couldn’t die. Abe was getting ready to go home. To play ball with his son. Take him to his first soccer practice.
Then his buddy’s outstretched hand went limp, his mouth parted. Blood gurgled from his nose and mouth. His dog tags fell into the sand.
“Noooo!”
Mark jerked awake, his lungs tight, his body shaking. Disoriented, he searched the darkness. For Abe. For his other men.
But they were all dead.
And he was in Savannah. At Claire’s.
He dropped his head into his hands, sweating profusely. He couldn’t let Claire die, too. No, he couldn’t live if that happened.
FRUSTRATED and still dressed, he threw himself off the couch, flipped on a light to shut out the grisly images of his men and paced the room. Dammit, it was all so unfair. Abe’s wife and son left behind. The other men and their futures destroyed.
He couldn’t let it happen to Claire.
Knowing he couldn’t go back to sleep, he retrieved all the files on the male employees at CIRP and on the station manager. Swiping a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, he reviewed them.
Ian Hall had come on board as Director of CIRP a few months ago when Arnold Hughes had disappeared. Hughes had created the trouble with unethical experimentation and research, which had given the research center a bad name, and Hall was here to expunge it. But Ian Hall had been acquainted with Hughes and the original founders of CIRP, had been their colleague twenty-plus years ago when he was a research doctor himself. According to the information Devlin and the Savannah P.D. had gathered, Hall had worked with genetic engineering in the pioneer stages. In the early eighties, several years of his life hadn’t been accounted for, which gave Mark pause. A red flag waved, and he made a note to check it out. Even if the missing information didn’t pertain to this case, it might prove interesting to the files on CIRP and the special projects the FBI were investigating. What exactly had Hall been working on back then?
On a more personal note, he saw that Hall had been married early in his career, and divorced for several years. He had no children, had been raised in a modest home, but his parents had been educated. No mention of childhood abuse or trauma, which didn’t mean he couldn’t be a killer, but he didn’t fit the profile, either.
He glanced at the next file. George Ferguson had been raised in Florida, attended Duke University, then Cornell. His father had apparently died in a boating accident when George was young. His mother was a psychologist in North Carolina. Hmm. Claire had mentioned that the killer might relate to someone in her profession. And Ferguson had been alone the night of the second murder. He would check with Black tomorrow to see if he and the others had an alibi for this last one. If he hadn’t been questioned, Mark would pay a visit
And now Kurt Lassiter. He frowned. The man definitely had an interest in Claire. He grew roses. Mark called Black. “Did you check out that rose garden yet?”
“Yes, but Lassiter’s into some exotic varieties. None match the standard roses found at the crime scenes.”
“Meaning he probably would have chosen something more unusual to leave with the victims.”
“Probably.”
Mark thanked him and hung up, although he still couldn’t eliminate Lassiter. The man was smart. Perhaps he’d ingeniously used a common rose to throw them off. Maybe he’d even done so for symbolic reasons—he felt the women weren’t significant, they weren’t worth a rare, special variety.
Man, he was beginning to sound like Claire.
And Lassiter’s ex-girlfriend had died a suspicious death. He skimmed further into the file. Lassiter’s father was a miner, his mother a housekeeper. Kurt Lassiter was obviously the overachiever. Perhaps he even resented his working-class roots.
No record of abuse was listed although a small notation mentioned some kind of bike accident and head trauma when he was a teenager. There were no details on the incident, but from his own medical background, Mark knew that physical trauma could trigger psychotic breaks or episodes that might not reveal themselves until later. He’d have to look into it. Or ask Claire.
Right. Like she wanted him treating her friend as a suspect.
Exhausted and well aware it was already near morning, he decided to try and get some shut-eye. One look at her sofa warned him it was too small for him, but it would have to do.
Claire would not welcome him in her bed tonight.
He unbuttoned his oxford shirt and tossed it over the back of the desk chair, then slid off his jeans, stripping down to his boxers. At home, he would strip those, too, but just in case trouble happened, it was best he keep them on. Then a low sound rumbled from Claire’s bedroom, and he paused and listened. There it was again.
His heart jumping, he checked his gun, then crept toward the bedroom to search for the source. He eased open the bedroom door and saw the curtain fluttering from the open window.
Fear slammed into him. Had someone snuck inside?
THE PHONE CALLS weren’t enough. And neither were the other women.
They weren’t Claire.
They didn’t have her smile. Her soft, sultry voice. The compassion he saw in her sightless eyes.
He wanted to see her in person. To breathe the air near her face. To touch the silky strands of her hair.
Only then would he feel alive.
He had been breathing in her sight through the window, but the door swung open and he ducked low, the
n crept back through the sea oats flanking the small lot. Damn, Mark Steele was at her place, spending the night.
A jealous rage balled inside his stomach, bing a path through his gut, and he headed down the grassy embankment to the beach with the wind whipping by his side.
At least Steele had not been in her bed.
But he was ensconcing himself in her life as if he had a right.
He broke into a dead run, the sand kicking behind him, trampling shells that shattered beneath his feet until he was a good two miles down from her cottage, all the way to the base of Serpent’s Cove where he’d taken his first victim. His leg throbbed, and he paused to rub the knotted muscle, cursing his weakness.
Then he dropped onto the wet sand and let the dampness seep into his back. The dark smell of death wafted from the sharp jagged rocks of the cove and the ledge above, and he stared up at the starless night in search of the moon. Remembering the man he once had been only drove the pain of whom he’d become deeper, like the blade of a serrated knife. Anguish robbed his breath, and he closed his eyes. With Claire, he could still be that perfect man. Yes, Claire would see beneath the surface, she could love the man that lay within.
But frustration for all he had lost mounted inside him, as well as the unfairness that Mark Steele should be sleeping in her house tonight instead of him. Steele had deserted her when she’d needed him most. He didn’t deserve to be with her tonight or any other time.
The incessant itching on his skin began to prick at him like needles, and he clawed at the red, puffy skin. He would make it worse, he knew, but he couldn’t handle the pain. Not of being without Claire and his own ill-gotten fate. Tears rained down his face as he raised his head and released a long, anguished cry. He hated them all, Mark Steele, the government, the people at CIRP, the women who’d rebuked him—they had done this to him and they had to pay.
A second later, the pitiful sound of his cries echoed into the night, then caught in the wind and floated out to sea and the rolling tides.
Chapter Ten