Christy chuckled. “Not a chance. The only thing alike about us is the name.”
The lighthearted conversation continued, with the group one-upping and teasing one another. Christy liked seeing Jonathan in this setting, liked the easy camaraderie he had with his colleagues. And she was amused by their interest in her. Apparently seeing Jonathan with a woman was a novelty.
She wished he’d dance with her. The vocalist began to sing a Willie Nelson signature ballad, “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain.” Christy wanted Jonathan’s arms around her, wanted to be held close for a slow dance. But Jonathan was deep in conversation with Dell, so she could only watch the dancers and imagine Jonathan’s heart beating against hers, his lips against her hair. Later, she promised herself. Later they’d have their private “dance,” the most intimate kind two people could have.
Jonathan kept his back turned, his attention trained on Dell. It wasn’t easy, with the slow music and the singer crooning a song of love and loss.
Jonathan wasn’t interested in Dell’s theory on the Night Stalker. He wanted to dance with Christy, inhale the sweet scent she wore, feel the softness of her skin. Sitting so close to her and not touching her was maddening. He wanted to dance with her now, then take her home and make love to her through the night.
He wanted…exactly what he shouldn’t. He had no right to even think of making love to Christy again, not when he knew he was so wrong for her. He’d already screwed up her life. He shouldn’t add sex to the mix.
Damn, he could do with a selective memory loss right now. Because he could remember everything about last night. Every touch, every sigh. And the thought of not repeating that incredible lovemaking was pure torture.
After the slow song, the band took a break. “Hey, here comes the news,” Marilee said suddenly. All eyes turned to the big-screen TV above the bar.
The news anchor introduced a segment on the Night Stalker. Then the camera focused on the woman who had waylaid Jonathan earlier. With her hair pulled back in a sleek chignon and her navy summer suit, she looked the picture of a confident professional. “A serial killer lurks in Houston. A task force formed by the Houston Police Department meets regularly but has been unable to apprehend the man who has now murdered six women.
“We caught up with noted forensic psychologist, Dr. Jonathan Talbot, who was instrumental in leading Chicago police to the notorious Dr. Death, and who is currently consulting with the HPD.”
The brief exchange between her and Jonathan played, and then the camera swung back to the reporter. “It seems the police are no closer to capturing the Night Stalker, the killer who has terrorized the Medical Center area. Houston women, especially those who work in the huge complex of hospitals along Fannin Street, are frightened.”
She then interviewed a woman dressed in hospital scrubs who said she was scared to leave the hospital at night. “Women want an end to this,” the woman added. “The police should put more detectives on the case.”
“Yeah,” Dell interjected in a voice tight with frustration, “like we don’t already have every cop in the city on the hunt.”
“It takes time,” Armand said.
Marilee set down her beer. “Exactly what women feel they don’t have,” she pointed out. “We know these cases aren’t solved overnight, but they don’t.”
Beer sloshed on the table as Shannon shoved her glass away. “People oughta have more faith in us.”
Dell nodded, his face grim. “If they’re gonna blame someone, it’s always the cops.”
“Hey,” Armand said, “you can’t change human nature. Take it easy.”
“Yeah,” Luis said. “Chill out, Dell. You got the late shift tomorrow. Go sit by that fishing hole near your house, catch yourself a big ol’ catfish.” When Dell nodded and visibly relaxed, Luis turned to Shannon. “And you—”
“If you tell me to go take a bubble bath, Ramirez, I’ll cream you,” Shannon said.
Armand held up a hand. “Children! Calm down. The last thing we need is to fight among ourselves.”
Conversation lagged after that, and one by one, people began to leave. Luis said he had a lady friend waiting. Dell had company coming over, and Armand’s grandson had a Little League game at eight-thirty.
Only Shannon and Marilee remained when Jonathan and Christy took their leave. As they walked back to police headquarters through the soft twilight, Christy thought about the night they’d spent together and the night to come, and her heart began to pump. With every step her anticipation soared higher. She glanced at the man walking by her side. What would happen between them now?
He kept his eyes straight ahead, and he didn’t take her hand. She supposed his mind was on the Night Stalker, so when they got into her car, she took her cue from him and kept her voice even. “My house or yours?”
“He knows where you live, and probably where I live, too,” Jonathan said, then considered for a moment. “Let’s go to yours. I want to look it over and see how safe it is.”
Abruptly her thoughts, which had been focused on lovemaking, shifted. Pleasurable excitement gave way to dread. “Do you think he’ll come?”
“I don’t know, but if he does, we’ll be prepared.”
She gave him directions to her house and told herself not to be afraid. Jonathan had kept them safe before. But she glanced out her side mirror anyway to see if anyone was following.
“Tell me about Dr. Death,” she said, trying to distract herself. “I recognized the alias, but I don’t remember the case.”
“He was an intern who believed he had a directive from God to murder AIDS patients.”
She gazed at Jonathan admiringly. “And you caught him?”
“I constructed his profile. The police caught him.”
“Any other especially notorious killers you’ve identified?”
“The Midnight Angel, a nurse in Portland, Oregon, who put more than twenty people ‘out of their misery’ before the cops nabbed her. And a young man in Cleveland who began killing off doctors when he wasn’t admitted to medical school.”
“You’ve worked on a lot of cases connected with medicine.”
“Yeah, it’s a specialty of sorts. That’s why I was called about this one and why I said yes.”
They turned off the freeway and drove along a quiet avenue in upscale West University. Not far from the Medical Center, it was a popular neighborhood for physicians and their families, who usually tore down the small bungalows built decades ago and replaced them with megahouses. Keith had coveted such a house. Nothing had pleased him more than moving into this showplace. It was much too big for a woman alone, and Christy had almost decided to put it up for sale. She wondered what Jonathan would think of it.
Now she gazed at his strong profile and wondered about him. What was his life like before now? “What drew you to your career?” she asked. “Was someone important to you a crime victim?”
He shook his head. “No one’s asked me that before,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself. I should know but I don’t. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Christy said softly. “I think a lot of people just fall into their careers. But maybe it’s one of the things you haven’t remembered.”
“No, I do remember. I went to law school for a year, didn’t like it, and was searching for something else. I read an autobiography of a federal agent, and I started thinking about law enforcement and applied to the Bureau.”
“Is profiling part of FBI training?”
“All agents have some instruction in it, and some elect to specialize and get more in-depth training. I happened to live next door to a profiler and got interested in his work. The insights he had into the criminal mind were fascinating, so I went for the specialty. And I also returned to college and got a psychology degree. I always tried to emulate my neighbor.”
“Sounds like you thought a lot of him.”
“I did. He was killed in a raid a few months before I started profiling.” He
braked for a red light. “I had this…feeling I had to carry on for him.” In the traffic light’s glow, Christy saw that he looked embarrassed. Just like a man, to feel uncomfortable sharing his deepest feelings. Even male psychologists apparently found that difficult.
She reached across the console and touched his arm. “You’re a nice man, Jonathan.”
He glanced at her. “As nice as J.D.?”
So he knew she was confused about him and his alter ego. “Just about,” she said, “and about as nice-looking, too.”
“Aw, aren’t you a sweet thang?”
Christy laughed at the exaggerated drawl. “Honey, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never sound like a Texan.”
She pointed to a cross street. “Turn left here. It’s the second house.”
Now it was her turn to be uncomfortable. The house was…well, pretentious.
“Big,” Jonathan said.
A two-story tan stucco, it was, in Christy’s mind, three times bigger than it needed to be. “Yeah, well…”
“Not your style,” Jonathan went on. “Your husband’s.”
“Ex-husband,” she reminded him. “I’m thinking of selling. That was one thing I wanted to decide while I was vacationing.”
“Sorry I interfered with that,” Jonathan said and opened the driver’s-side door. He carried her bags in, set them in the entry hall and said, “I’m going to take a look around.”
She followed him as he made his inspection. The house had an elaborate alarm system, installed because Keith often “worked late,” or so he’d said. And also because he’d insisted on a state-of-the-art media room, which was now empty.
Christy had always felt safe in the house, but suddenly she didn’t. Azalea bushes grew near the dining-room windows. They were meant to be decorative, but now they seemed perfect for hiding a killer. The wide glass doors to the back patio and the tall windows in the living room seemed too inviting. And her bedroom had French doors that led out to a balcony…which was much too close to an oak tree that an enterprising burglar, or worse, the Night Stalker, could climb.
Christy waited nervously for Jonathan’s opinion. After a thorough tour of the house, he said, “You have a good protection system. We’ll just tweak it a little.”
“How?”
“I want to put your company on alert, tell them you’ve had a threatening call and get them to monitor your system closely. And I’ll pick up some better locks. Yours are a criminal’s dream…”
Christy blanched at his words.
“…that is, if he can bypass your alarm system.”
“Can he?”
“Doubtful, but you need to hear the worst-case scenario. Even if there were no Night Stalker, you need better locks.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“No.” He looked away.
Silence. Stiff, uncomfortable silence. They stood in the kitchen, looking everywhere except at each other. Jonathan stared at the refrigerator as if he’d never seen one before. Suddenly, they seemed to have nothing to say.
“Do you, uh, want some coffee?” Christy asked.
“No, thanks. It’s getting late.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Last night they’d been in bed together. Tonight…
“I’m staying the night,” he said. The emotion she’d heard in his voice the other evening was gone. He was just reciting a fact.
She kept her voice cool, too. “I know.”
“I’ll bunk in your guest room.”
Christy felt as if he’d slapped her. She looked past him and said, “The bed isn’t made up. I’ll get some clean sheets.”
“Thank you.”
Someone overhearing them would never guess that twenty-four hours ago they’d been locked in a passionate embrace. Feeling as if she were a robot marching stiffly through the house, she went to the linen closet and got out a set of sheets.
She brought them to the guest bedroom. Jonathan was waiting at the door. He reached for the linens. “Thanks.”
She held onto them. “I’ll make the bed.”
“Not necessary.”
They stood there, stalemated, both grasping the sheets as if they were the most important things in the world.
Stupid, Christy thought. “Take them.” She let go.
Their eyes locked.
She couldn’t look away. She had to ask. “Why?” she whispered.
“Because.”
She waited.
Jonathan sighed. “Because my life’s too complicated. Look what I’ve gotten you into.”
“I’m reminding you, Jonathan, that you didn’t do it intentionally.”
“No, but sleeping with you wouldn’t be right.”
“You’ve done it once. More than once if you want to be precise.”
His glance never wavered. “I don’t want to be unfair to you.”
“Because this won’t last?” Christy let out a long breath. “There’s no guarantee that anything will last. And truth? I don’t know yet if I want this to.”
His expression told her nothing. What the heck, she thought. Might as well say it all.
“Jonathan, let me decide what’s fair to me. I’m a big girl. I can live with whatever happens.” She raised her chin in challenge. “Can you?”
Chapter 14
Jonathan stared at her for a long moment. And then he dropped the sheets and pulled her into his arms. “Christy. God, I want you.” His mouth covered hers and he kissed her with such urgency and desperation, he took her breath away.
When she could breathe again, Christy tugged at his hand. “Me, too. Come to bed,” she whispered. “Quick.”
They stumbled across the room, leaving clothes in their wake. His shirt landed on the floor, then his jeans. He struggled with Christy’s bra, then tossed it up and over his shoulder toward the nightstand, where it hung on the bedside lampshade. For once, Christy didn’t care about the mess. She wanted him naked, mouth to mouth, skin to skin. Sheets forgotten, they made love on the unmade bed.
It was fast, it was wild. It was the most thrilling night of her life. They drove each other harder, higher. He nipped her shoulder. She ran her nails down his back. Groaning, panting, they raced to see who would climax first. Christy did, only seconds before Jonathan joined her.
And then they lay exhausted, side by side. “Like fireworks,” she panted. “Like the Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve, all rolled into one.” Would they ever top this night? she thought, as she fell asleep.
In the morning, reality returned.
Jonathan hurried her through breakfast, barely gave her time for the obligatory table-clearing. When she returned to the bedroom and picked up the discarded sheets, he took them out of her hands and set them on the bed. “Leave them.” He glanced at his watch. “Hannah’s expecting us.”
Christy frowned. “Are you sure this is necessary? I hate to impose—”
“It’s taken care of.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Jonathan, there’s something more. Something you’re not telling me.”
He looked away, then back. “Marilee came up with one more detail the victims have in common. All of them were redheads.”
Christy gasped and touched her hair. “I told you, I’m not—”
“Close enough.”
“Should I…dye it?”
He shook his head. “Won’t help. He’s seen you.” When she shivered, he came to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
This time she didn’t protest.
She noticed that Jonathan kept his eyes on the rearview mirror as he drove. A couple of times he doubled back and took side streets. She didn’t ask him if he thought someone might be following. Clearly, he wasn’t taking chances.
Still, Hannah’s house wasn’t far. A ranch-style brick with a neatly trimmed yard in the pleasant older neighborhood of Afton Oaks, it looked like a nice place to raise children. Jonathan parked in front.
He glanced at Christy as she scanned the surroundings. “It’s safe.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. I was just looking around and thinking this doesn’t seem like the home of two federal agents.”
“Because there’re no bars on the windows? No shotgun shells on the lawn?” Christy flushed, and he lowered his voice as he rang the doorbell. “Most of us try to appear normal.”
The door was opened by a woman who indeed appeared normal. In fact, with her pixie face framed by a riot of chestnut curls, she looked more like a kindergarten teacher than an FBI agent.
“Hi, come in,” she said. Jonathan introduced Christy, and Hannah shook her hand. Though she looked like a mischievous imp, her grip was strong, reassuring.
“It’s nice of you to do this,” Christy said.
“No problem.” She showed them into a living room crowded with infant paraphernalia. “Sorry about all the junk,” she said, “but you’ve entered baby world.”
“Then where are the babies?” Jonathan asked.
“In the bedroom. Infants are like cats. They sleep all day.” She grinned at Jonathan. “Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. I have to leave,” Jonathan said. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“Don’t worry, Doc,” Hannah told him. “Motherhood hasn’t robbed me of my skills.”
He hugged her. “I know. I’m just—”
“A father hen…rooster…whatever.” She opened the door. “Go.” When the door shut behind him, Hannah turned back to Christy with a wide smile. “How about the coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
“Great. Come on and we’ll sit and talk. I’m so looking forward to being with a person who says something besides ‘wah wah wah.’”
In the kitchen, she got down two cups, and filled them. “Don’t get me wrong. I adore my babies, but their communication leaves something to be desired. I find myself having three-way conversations with me taking all three parts.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Sugar, cream?”
“Sugar.”
Hannah brought the cups to the table. “So tell me, how’d you get mixed up in this serial-killer business?”
After Christy explained, Hannah said, “Jonathan’s great. He’s a decent guy and a good agent. He’ll keep you safe.”
Stranger in Her Arms Page 15