by JoAnn Ross
A vague intuitive uneasiness stirred. “Hi,” she said.
The woman didn’t answer. Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the chilly sea air rose on Cait’s flesh.
She’d no sooner turned to leave when she was tackled from behind, thrown facedown into the water.
As strong hands yanked viciously at the waistband of her sweats, Cait began to fight.
For her life.
11
STUPID, stupid, stupid!
Furious at herself for having made such a rookie mistake, Cait turned on her attacker with a flash of white-hot rage. Kicking violently against the strong hands that were attempting to rip her sweatpants off her, she went for the eyes, managing instead to rake her nails down his face when he turned his head.
Blood spurted from the long claw marks. Cursing viciously, he curled the fingers of his right hand in a fist and hit her on the side of the face. Cait had not known that a punch could hurt so much. She saw stars, and then, for a moment, her vision blurred. Striking out blindly, her flailing hands grasped the pewter gray wig and jerked it off. It fell into the swirling water and went unnoticed.
Even as he struggled with the now wet sweatpants, the rapist continued to drag her further beneath the pier. Cait resisted with every atom of her strength. It crossed her mind that he might have a weapon—a knife, or even a gun—but then she remembered the police photos of the women he’d battered and remembered what Charity had told her about him seeming to enjoy the feel and sound of his fists shattering his victim’s bones.
Reminding herself that was one thing she had in her favor, she continued landing punches wherever she could, on his face, his shoulders, his chest.
“I’m a cop, dammit!” she shouted against the roar of the tide.
He actually had the nerve to laugh at that. “You don’t think I figured that out for myself?” he challenged. “Fool me once, shame on you.”
He hit her again, a strong, full-powered blow that exploded against her jaw and caused the back of her head to slam against the wet sand. “Fool me twice, shame on me.” Another blow, between the ribs, managed to suck the wind from her lungs. “So arrest me, why don’t you?” he suggested evilly. Despite her best efforts to resist, he’d managed to yank the pants down to her knees. Even as she continued to struggle, through the haze of pain his fists were creating, Cait realized that he was trying to turn her over, to bury her face in the sand and surf. To suffocate her.
Relying on her Police Academy martial arts training, she slammed the side of her hand against his windpipe at the same time her heel managed to connect with his groin. A guttural roar bellowed out of him, making him sound like a wounded lion. He released her and curled up in a fetal ball, wheezing for live-saving air while clutching his wounded testicles.
Cait struggled to her feet, pulled up her sweatpants and ran on shaking legs for her tote bag. She’d just managed to get her pistol out when he managed to stand up as well.
At any other time, she might have thought about how silly he looked in that old-lady dress. But there was absolutely nothing funny about either her murderous assailant or the situation.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned. She was standing in a two-legged stance, pistol gripped in both hands, just as she’d been taught. “It’s over.” Her chest was burning. Breathing was proving an effort, but she managed, with absolute concentration, to keep the gun steady. “You’re under arrest.”
At that he roared and lunged toward her again.
Cait pulled the trigger.
There was a thunderous explosion and a fire flash of light. Then only the soft sound of the wavelets washing against the cool pale sand and the creak of the wooden pier overhead.
* * *
SLOAN WAS IN Cait’s kitchen, preparing paella when the squad car brought her home. One glance at her bruised face and he felt a rage so white-hot for the first time in his life he understood the term crime of passion. He also understood exactly how a reasonably sane person could commit murder.
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch,” he said, even as he enveloped her in his arms.
“She already took care of that,” the uniformed officer said, looking at Cait with a blend of awe and respect. “The pervert won’t be raping anyone else, that’s for sure.”
The idea was incomprehensible. Sloan stared down at her. “Cait?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”
Dammit, she’d wanted to tell him in her own way. Seeing the shock on his face, Cait feared that having been forced to face the brutal, dark side of her work, Sloan might decide he couldn’t love a woman capable of taking a life. Even in self-defense.
“Not now,” he agreed.
He pressed his lips against a purple mark on her temple and struggled for calm. He wanted to curse. To rant. To rave. He wanted to go down to wherever they’d taken the creep’s body and spit in his lifeless face.
With effort, Sloan reminded himself that she didn’t need him to be going off like some crazed, half-cocked alpha male. What Cait needed now was tenderness. And love.
“Thanks for bringing her home,” he told the officer.
“No problem.” Realizing that three was definitely a crowd, the young patrolman backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“I was making dinner,” Sloan said. Her hair was sandy and tangled with seaweed. He brushed it gently away from her battered face. “But it can wait. What would you say to a shower?”
She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her bruised cheek against his chest. “I’d say yes.”
He turned on the shower and began to undress her slowly. Carefully. Easing the top over her head, sliding the pants down her legs. When he tossed the sandy sweats into the wastebasket, Cait opened her mouth to protest that they only needed washing, then realized she’d never be able to wear them again.
Stripping off his own clothes, he took her hand and drew her beneath the stream of warm water, adjusting the nozzle to a soft, gentle spray. Although the room and the water were warm, Cait was shivering.
She’d managed, just barely, to keep from screaming while waiting for the patrol cars to arrive after she’d called in the shooting. She’d also managed, somehow, to keep her composure during the inevitable questioning, although she’d been relieved when the commander of the special unit assured her that her report could wait until tomorrow.
The hardest thing had been not to shout at the young cop who’d rattled on during the drive to the apartment. Cait didn’t feel much like a hero. Right now, she didn’t even really feel much like a cop. Most of all, she just felt numb.
She stood there, trembling, as Sloan massaged the shampoo into her hair. “Poor baby,” he murmured as the sand and seaweed disappeared down the drain.
He took her bar of French milled soap, rubbed it between his palms, and ran the perfumed bubbles over her body, stopping to press his lips against each piece of bruised flesh.
When his fingers brushed between her legs, she flinched.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, his hands as gentle as his voice. “You’re okay.”
Although she’d always sworn never to depend on any man, Cait found herself feeling so very grateful she’d had Sloan waiting at home for her.
“He didn’t do anything,” she said on a faint, fractured voice. “I mean, he didn’t—” she drew in a painful breath “—rape me.”
“Thank God.” He was on his knees, spreading the lather down her legs like a silken veil. “For you.” He surprised her by kissing her in the very same place where she’d flinched before. “But it wouldn’t have mattered to me, Cait. Except for how it would have hurt you.”
His lips had touched her this way before, and had always aroused her. This time, as she combed her fingers through his wet hair, she felt strangely soothed.
“Some men have trouble with the idea,” she managed. “Of another man...” Her voice drifted off.
On some distant level Cait told herself that these tumult
uous feelings she was experiencing would be helpful when she was assigned to the Sex Crimes Unit. But right now, it was difficult to think of anything except how close she’d come to being a victim herself. Never, in all her twenty-five years, had Cait ever felt as vulnerable as she had during that terrifying time beneath the pier.
Sloan lifted his head and looked up at her, his expression as sober, and as loving, as she’d ever seen it.
“I told you, sweet Cait,” he said simply, “I love you.”
It was then that she began to weep.
His heartfelt words opened emotional floodgates. Her hot tears continued to stream down her cheeks as he dried her off. As he carried her to bed.
“He killed the dog.” The cocker spaniel’s body had been found by a responding Malibu sheriff’s deputy, floating at the water’s edge. “He strangled it,” she said, pushing the words past the painful lump in her throat. For some reason, she’d found that crime particularly horrifying. “It had served its purpose. And I suppose he was afraid it might try to protect me.”
Not having the faintest idea what she was talking about, Sloan murmured soft soothing words meant to comfort as he continued to stroke her hair.
Finally, when she was all cried out, protected by the strong circle of Sloan’s arms, Cait fell asleep.
The minute Blythe learned about the shooting from Natalie, who’d seen it on a televised newsbreak, she’d called the apartment, only to be told by Sloan the same thing Cait’s mother had been told. Cait was sleeping.
When she offered to come by, he assured her that he had things well under control, that he expected an understandably emotionally exhausted Cait to be out like a light all night and suggested that Blythe call again in the morning.
As she hung up the phone, Blythe thought how strange it was to have Sloan taking charge that way. Strange, but nice, she decided. Independence was all very admirable and necessary, but she’d always thought Cait had a way of overdoing it.
Right now, if the news reports were even moderately accurate, she was grateful Cait had Sloan to take care of her.
Deciding that he was right, that there was no reason to cancel her plans, Blythe began to dress for Alan’s long-awaited Hospital Board banquet.
Five hours later, she was standing in front of the window wall of her fiancé’s Pacific Palisades home.
The living room had been professionally decorated in shades of gray, ranging from the muted silver of the walls to the deep pewter shade of the carpeting. Tasteful graphics—nothing too bold or avant garde—hung on the pale gray walls, illuminated by track lighting along the ten-foot ceiling.
The furniture, like the art, was contemporary. Italian black leather and molded, modular pieces covered in a muted black-and-gray striped upholstery blended perfectly with black lacquer bookshelves and glass-and-chrome tables that seemed to float atop the plush carpeting. A collection of small sculptures was displayed on glass-and-chrome shelves. The mood of the room was every bit as controlled as the man who lived there.
Moonlight created mysterious shadows in the mist that hung over the ocean. When she thought about how close Cait had come to dying down there, Blythe shivered.
“You’re awfully quiet,” a deep voice behind her offered.
She turned her head and smiled. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“About work,” he guessed.
“No. Well, yes. In a way,” she qualified. Knowing how he disapproved of Cait’s work, she hadn’t told him about today’s dramatic events.
“You work too hard,” he chided, handing her a balloon glass of clear liquor.
“You’re probably right.” Hawaii was sounding better and better. She could lie on the beach, soaking up rays, reading all the novels she’d been saving up, and drinking mai tais.
While she was away, Gage Remington could be digging up some cogent facts about Alexandra and Patrick. Then, when she returned to L.A., she’d be rested and ready to begin work on the star-crossed lovers’ story.
Blythe sipped the brandy. “This is wonderful.” She closed her eyes briefly, allowing the taste and bouquet to linger.
“One of my more grateful patients recently took a trip to France to celebrate her new face. She returned with a new husband—a French novelist twenty-five years her junior—and this fruit brandy from Alsace which she gave to me. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
She opened her eyes. “Oh, Alan, I’m sorry. I still haven’t properly congratulated you on your award.”
“Actually, you did,” Alan allowed. “I seem to recall you slipping in it somewhere in that monologue about the private detective you hired.”
She heard the trace of grievance in his voice and knew it was well deserved. “I really am sorry, darling,” she said in her most conciliatory voice. “It’s just that I was so excited that Gage has a lead on Alexandra’s old makeup artist.”
Realizing she was doing it again, Blythe clamped her teeth together. Hard. “But enough about me.” She gave him her warmest smile. “Doctor of the Year is a very impressive award.”
“True. But I’d give up the award in a moment in exchange for chief of surgery.”
“You’ll get it. After all, you’re popular with the staff, you’re definitely one of the most talented surgeons on staff—”
“One of?” he asked with a crooked smile.
“The most talented,” she amended. “Why, when you began discussing your advances in brow lifts, you could have heard a pin drop for five tables around.”
“That’s lion country,” he said proudly. “Working right over the brain. One slip of the scalpel and the patient’s forehead is frozen like a zombie’s.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t have the nerve to try it,” Blythe said. “And everyone was very impressed to hear you’re going to be featured in Town and Country as one of the top face makers in the country.”
“It’s nice PR,” he allowed. “But I’m not certain it pulls much weight with Menninger.”
Alan had always been deeply involved in hospital organization. He relished the politics involved, kept mental lists of who supported him and who opposed him and plotted his strategy with the precision of the Joint Chiefs of Staff pre-paring for armed invasion. She knew his ego was very much on the line in his current campaign to become chief of surgery.
“Dr. Menninger knows you’re the best,” she argued. “That’s why he sent his wife to you. Speaking of which, she looks marvelous.”
“She should. After all, the woman went from a size twelve to a size six,” he said. “Martin’s been complaining about the cost of all her new clothes but the way he’s been dragging her to every social event of the season, I think he believes he’s gotten his money’s worth.”
“He definitely has. And as for Sandra Longstreet,” Blythe said, naming an Academy Award-winning actress in her late sixties, “she looked radiant. And fifteen years younger.”
His chest puffed out at the compliment. “A deep plane procedure is a lot of work, but it’s worth the extra time and effort. Before the lift, we had to break her jaw, move it down, with her teeth still attached, of course, and fix it in place with titanium plates and a graft of demineralized cow bone.”
“That’s amazing,” Blythe said, honestly impressed even as she wondered what could possibly make a woman willing to suffer such pain solely in the name of vanity.
“I also transplanted fat from her thighs to around her mouth to fill in the wrinkles from all those years of smoking.”
“You’re definitely an artist, darling. The Michelangelo of the medical profession.”
“Ah,” he protested with a confident, practiced smile, “but Michelangelo could always throw away his mistakes.”
They shared a laugh over that.
When he took the glass from her hand and placed it on the glass table in front of them, Blythe realized that the evening had just shifted from the professional to the personal.
“Did I mention that I love that dress?” he as
ked, running a long talented finger across her collarbone. The formal gown was a slender floor-length tube of gray silk, cut Grecian style, baring one pale shoulder.
“You should. Since you’re the one who bought it.”
“I wanted tonight to be perfect. Every doctor in the room was envious of me when I walked in with you on my arm.” He made her sound like a second award he’d just won. Slightly depressed, Blythe slipped out of his light hold. “Is this new?” she asked, walking over to an ebony onyx figure of a nude set atop a black pedestal.
“I bought her last week,” he allowed, his smooth controlled tone giving away neither the puzzlement nor the frustration she’d seen move across his eyes. “The minute I saw her in the gallery I realized that this is what I’ve always considered the perfect female form.”
Blythe mentally compared the svelte female figure to her own curvaceous body. “You’ve no idea how that idea depresses me.”
Alan laughed at that, a deep sound that was every bit as controlled as everything else about the man. “You’ve nothing to worry about, darling,” he assured her. Crossing the room he took her in his arms. “Especially when you marry me.”
“Are you saying that you’d want your wife fat and barefoot in the kitchen?” she teased lightly.
“Gracious no!” He looked at her with mock horror. “I meant, that as the wife of a plastic surgeon, you could have all the nips and tucks you wanted.”
Accustomed to control in his personal life, as well as his professional life, Alan closed the discussion by linking their fingers together and leading her into the bedroom. As in the rest of the luxurious apartment, glass and silver predominated, giving an almost operating-room sterility to the room.
Without preamble, he began to undress. First he placed the dinner jacket temporarily over a cedar stand. Blythe watched as those talented fingers dispensed with the ebony studs and matching cufflinks with the same deft skill he utilized in returning youthful beauty to a middle-aged society matron.