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A warm breath tickled the back of her neck, sending a chill down Clea’s spine. Heart pounding, she started to turn around when the crowd shot forward again.
“I’ve been wanting to touch you all evening.”
Fear tightened her throat, paralyzing her for long seconds, at the sound of that voice. She tried to whip around, but found herself trapped, unable to move amid the crush of bodies pushing her toward the theater entrance. Panic raced through her. “Please. I need to get through,” Clea choked out the words and shoved at the man in front of her, struggling to break free.
“You’ll have to wait your turn like the rest of us, sister,” somebody snapped.
“You don’t understand, I have to—”
“You can’t escape. I’ll never let you go.”
The blood in her veins turned to ice as he began telling her what he wanted in that throaty whisper. She started to shove again, but a hand reached from behind her and fingers closed tightly around her breast.
Clea screamed, a bloodcurdling cry of outrage and fear that echoed in her ears. She whipped around, her elbows striking against chests, shoulders and arms. Heedless of the grunts and protests her frantic movements incited, she stared into a sea of strange faces. “Who are you?” she demanded, hating the note of hysteria climbing in her voice. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Who are you yelling at?” an elderly gentleman asked.
She registered the cap of snow-white hair gleaming in the evening light. “Someone...someone just said something to me.” She couldn’t bring herself to admit that the monster had also touched her.
“Harry, did you say something to the young lady?” the woman beside him asked.
“Not me.” He eyed her as though he thought she were ill.
“Then it must have been someone else,” Clea insisted as people began to step around them. “You must have seen him. A man. He was standing right behind me.”
The couple looked at one another and shook their heads. “Sorry. Didn’t notice anyone in particular. Hard to with this kind of crowd.” Draping his arm protectively around the shoulder of the woman beside him, he said, “Come on, Josie. We want to see the play.”
“But wait—”
“Clea.” Ryan shouldered his way to her side. “What is it? What happened?”
Relief flooded through her at the sight of him. “There was a man. He—”
“It’s all right,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He stroked her back, made soothing sounds, then slowly steered her away from the dwindling crowd.
“Clea! Ryan!”
Margaret Donatelli rushed over to them. “What’s going on?”
Clea stepped out of Ryan’s arms and went to her friend. “He was here, Maggie. At the theater.”
“Who?” Margaret asked.
“The...the man who’s been sending me the letters and calling me.”
“What happened?” James Donatelli asked as he rushed over to join them. “I was buying theater programs, and then the next thing I knew I couldn’t find Maggie or you.”
“Poor Clea’s had a terrible fright. Apparently the man who’s been sending her those letters followed her here tonight.”
“Where is he?”
“He ran away when I screamed,” Clea explained.
“My God!” James exclaimed.
“Did you get a look at his face?” Ryan asked, his gaze fastening on hers. The look in his eyes was dark, determined, and not even remotely flirtatious. His cop face, she decided, remembering that he had been one. Given his fierce expression, she almost pitied the criminals who had crossed his path. The serious, focused Ryan Fitzpatrick was even more unsettling than Ryan Fitzpatrick the charmer.
“Did you get a look at his face?” Ryan repeated.
“No. He was behind me, and the crowd was too thick. I couldn’t turn around. All I could do was listen.”
“Did you recognize his voice?” he asked, his voice sharp, his eyes sharper, reminding her of a wolf on a hunt.
“No. He...whispered.”
“What did he say?”
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to shake off the chill inside her as she remembered what he had told her. “Things... things that he wanted to do.” Clea trembled. No way could she repeat to Ryan the things the man had said when he’d touched her.
“Enough with the questions,” James snapped. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”
“It’s all right. I’m sure Ryan’s only trying to help.” Regaining a grip on herself, Clea straightened her shoulders. “If you two don’t mind, I think I’m going to skip the theater. I just want to go home.”
“You need to call the polite,” Ryan told her.
“I intend to. After I get home.”
“You should call now so they can take your statement while everything’s still fresh. Here, you can use my cell phone.”
Clea ignored the phone in his outstretched hand. “I said I’ll call when I get home.”
“I’ll give you a ride home. You can call from my car.” He cupped his hand under her elbow.
Clea dug in her heels, feeling as though she were being railroaded. “What about your case?”
“My case?”
“The one you’re working on. That is why you were across the street earlier, isn’t it? Because you’re working on some type of investigation?”
Ryan paused. His eyes darted from her to his aunt and back again. “I’m finished for tonight. So, I can take you home. While I’m there, I’ll check out your apartment for you. Make sure your locks and alarm system are up to snuff.”
Clea swallowed. She hadn’t even considered that he could be waiting in her home for her. It had never once crossed her mind. But then, she hadn’t expected him to be here at the theater tonight either.
“Heavens! You’re shaking like a leaf,” Maggie told her. “You’re in no condition to be by yourself tonight. You’re coming home with James and me.”
“Uh, Aunt Maggie. I’ll see that she gets home safely. And she really should file that report with the police.”
“The police will just have to wait. They haven’t done anything so far.” She turned to her husband. “Can you finish up things here with the marketing people from Taylor’s without me?”
“I’ll make our excuses. You take the car, and I’ll take a taxi home.” He kissed his wife. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Ryan, would you mind walking them to the car?”
“Glad to.”
Maggie led her to the parking lot at a brisk pace, but she was conscious of Ryan behind them, speaking to someone on his cellular phone.
“Now when we get home, I’m going to draw you a nice hot bath, and then I want you to—”
“Aunt Maggie,” Ryan cut in, his voice deep and tight. As they reached the car, he took the key from his aunt’s fingers and unlocked the door. “I called the police. They’re sending a unit out to speak to Clea.”
“Then you’ll have to call them back and tell them to come to my house, because that’s where she’ll be.” Maggie ushered Clea into the back seat and climbed in beside her.
Ryan ducked his head inside the car. “You intend to drive from back here?”
She patted Ryan’s cheek as though he were a child. “No, my dear boy, I intend for you to drive us home, and then I want you to come back here to pick up your uncle.”
“I’m a security specialist, not a chauffeur,” Ryan argued, but he slid into the driver’s seat anyway and started the engine.
“You’re also my nephew, Ryan Fitzpatrick. And you might want to remember that at least for the time being, you and your agency are on my payroll.”
Stunned, Clea asked, “Fitzpatrick Security is working for you?”
Maggie made a face. “Yes, but given Ryan’s performance here tonight, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m getting my money’s worth.”
Two
“I don’t need a private investigator or a security specialist, or whatever it is he calls himself,” Clea told his aunt several hours later.
“Either one works for me. Take your pick,” Ryan offered from across the Donatellis’ living room. He earned himself another glare. Clea had gone all stiff and prim the moment she had discovered she was the case he had been working on. And she had been spitting mad ever since.
“You shouldn’t have hired him without consulting me.”
“Someone had to do something,” Maggie countered.
“I was...” She hissed out a breath. “I am doing something. I’m letting the police handle it. You heard the officer. They’re working up a profile on the type of...on the type of person who does this sort of thing.”
This sort of thing. She made it sound so civilized, Ryan thought, observing the exchange between Clea and his aunt. He took another sip of scotch and leaned against the bar. There wasn’t anything remotely civilized about being terrorized by some sicko who got his kicks from frightening women. Every time he thought of how close he had been when that creep had... He bit back an oath and tightened his fingers around the glass. Whatever it took, he intended to make sure the guy never got another chance at Clea.
“And what have the police come up with so far?” Maggie argued, her Irish temper showing. “I’ll tell you what they’ve come up with. Nothing.”
“She does have a point,” James added. “It doesn’t look like Chicago’s finest are getting anywhere fast on this case.”
“And you’re not going to be safe until that madman who attacked you is caught and locked behind bars,” Maggie chimed in. “And the only way that’s going to happen is if you have a professional, someone who knows how to hunt down that kind of vermin.”
“I already have an entire group of professionals looking for him,” Clea pointed out. “They’re called the Chicago Police Department.”
Maggie sighed. “I have the utmost respect for our police officers, but I’m afraid in this case, you just can’t afford to rely on them to find that creature. Things are not the way they used to be when my father and brothers were on the force. Back then, the police would have had that...that cretin in custody right after you received the first letter.
“But things are different now. Now a police officer has to be concerned about things like overtime and budgets, instead of just making sure the streets are safe and the criminals are behind bars. There’s not enough time or money to spend on real police work anymore. Why do you think so many officers are leaving the force? Why I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it’s the reason both Ryan and his brother Connor decided to get out.”
His aunt’s little speech brought Ryan up short, reminding him that his departure from the LAPD two months ago marked the first time in four generations that no Fitzpatrick was serving in law enforcement somewhere. Of course, there was always the chance that wherever Connor was, he’d gone back to being a cop. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine his oldest brother doing anything else. But then, he’d never been able to imagine his father and brother nearly coming to blows five years ago, or the angry silence that had followed since Connor had packed up his things and left town.
“Maggie, I understand everything you’re saying, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But, I’ve made up my mind on this. It’s bad enough I have to deal with the police poking their noses into my personal life. I refuse to have someone else snooping around in my affairs and watching my every move.”
At the sharpness in Clea’s tone, Ryan brought his wandering thoughts back to the present. The look she leveled at him probably made most men shiver, he decided. Fortunately, he didn’t have an aversion to cold—not when he knew there was heat banked just below the surface of that frosty disdain of hers. And he intended to sample that heat again, he promised himself.
Clea picked up her coffee cup, then set it down again untouched. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Fitzpatrick. But I won’t be needing your services after all.”
So, they were back to Mr. Fitzpatrick. “No need to apologize, Duchess. I’m being compensated for my time.” Pushing away from the bar, Ryan ambled over to the couch where Clea sat looking cool and regal in her ivory cocktail dress and pearls. He could still spot the nerves she was trying so hard to hide. She was scared down to her pretty little toes, and just didn’t want to admit it.
He snagged an oatmeal cookie from the tray in front of her and devoured it in two bites. Taking his time, he skimmed his gaze over her face, down her body and back up again. “Besides,” he said, reaching for another cookie. “The fringe benefits have certainly been worth it.”
Her eyes snapped with green fire, anger overriding the fear, just as he had hoped it would. Suppressing a grin, he held up another cookie and said, “Great cookies.”
“Thank you, dear,” Aunt Maggie said from behind him.
He nodded, but held Clea’s gaze. “So, you want me to follow you home, or are you going to stay here tonight?”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Your assignment where I’m concerned is over.”
“Oh, you made yourself perfectly clear ” He polished off another cookie, then dusted his hands. “But you’re not the one giving the orders. Aunt Maggie is. She’s the one who hired me.”
Clea’s hands tightened into fists, but her voice remained surprisingly even as she said, “Well, I’m unhiring you. Consider yourself fired, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
Ryan merely smiled. “Afraid it doesn’t work that way, Duchess. Since you didn’t hire me, you can’t fire me.”
“Maggie, I’d appreciate it if you would explain to your nephew that his assignment, or whatever it is he chooses to call spying on me, is over.”
“Ryan, you stick to her like glue until that...that man is caught and thrown into jail.”
“Yes, ma’.”
“Maggie!” Clea protested.
Despite her fragile appearance, Margaret Fitzpatrick Donatelli was anything but, Ryan mused. Clea Mason was another story. She projected as tough, fearless. And her expression and voice gave no indication of the tangle of nerves working inside her. But she didn’t seem able to keep her hands still. Right now they were gripping the cup of iced coffee she had picked up again, but had yet to taste. She was strong, determined, not used to relying on anyone. He had learned that within days of meeting her. But he suspected that Clea Mason wasn’t half as tough as she pretended to be, or as she wanted everyone to think she was. An urge itched at him—to take her into his arms, hold her and promise to keep her safe. But if he followed through on that urge, she would probably sock him in his gut.
“Enough arguing, Clea. If your family was here, they’d insist you get some sort of protection. But since they’re not here, it’s up to us to see that you do. You’re still welcome to move in here—”
“Maggie, I can’t. I’m not going to let him run me out of my home.”
“I understand. But until the police find that man, Ryan will make sure you’re safe.”
Clea released a frustrated sigh and turned to Ryan’s uncle. “James, please talk to your wife. Tell her this isn’t necessary.”
James shook his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in thirty years of marriage to Maggie, it’s that once she makes up her mind about something, there’s no changing it. Besides, she’s right, Clea. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Come on, Duchess. How bad can it be to have me around for a while?”
She arched her eyebrow in that regal way and somehow managed to look down her pretty, straight nose at him, even though he was the one standing. “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”
“Ouch!” With her wary green eyes and that smooth black hair framing her face, she reminded him of a beautiful, sleek kitten—with very sharp claws. “Since I’m not sure my poor ego can handle the answer, I’ll just pass on it for now.”
“Wise decision.”
Ryan eased onto the arm of the couch and caught a whiff of her scent. Roses...and something exotic and elusive—like her. He couldn’t help wondering if her skin was as petal-soft as it looked. Realizing the dangerous direction of his thoughts, he dragged himself back to the problem at hand. Finding Clea’s sick fan. “But I do have a few other questions that I’d like to have answered.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of questions?”
“Oh, just routine stuff about the letters and calls you’ve been getting.”
“I’ve already told the police everything.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’d like you to tell it again—to me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I need as much information as you can give me so I can catch this guy. And I am going to catch him, Clea. You can bank on it. It would just be a lot easier if I had a little more to go on.”
Some of the tension went out of her, and he could see the fatigue setting in. “All right,” she said, her voice weary. “What do you want to know?”
Fifteen minutes later, in the privacy of his uncle’s study, Ryan still had little or nothing more to go on. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. “What about boyfriends?”
“I date men, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Not boys.”
“Ryan,” he corrected. “Then what about your men friends?”
“What about them?”
“Are you seeing anyone in particular right now?”
She stiffened, clearly uncomfortable. “Is that really any of your business?”
“Everything about you is my business. Now, how about the names of those men?”
“I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
And if things worked out as he planned, the only man she’d be seeing in the near future would be him. “What about the last guy...uh, man friend?”
“What about him?”
“For starters, his name.”
“Andrew.”
Ryan wrote the name down in his book and waited. When she said nothing more, he looked up from his pad. “Does Andy have a last name?”
“Davidson. And it’s Andrew. No one calls him Andy.”
“Figures,” Ryan muttered as he jotted the name down. “When was the last time you saw Andrew?”
Clea paused. “It’s been a while.”
“Define ‘a while’ for me.”
“Two years,” she said, the words little more than a whisper.
“Two years?” he repeated, lifting his eyes up to meet hers. “You expect me to believe you haven’t been involved with anyone for the past two years?”
“I don’t care what you believe. You asked me a question and I’ve answered it. If you don’t like the answer, then that’s your problem.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like the answer. But we’re being honest here. You’ve got a mirror. You don’t need me to tell you that you’re a beautiful, sexy and desirable woman because you already know it. Which means you’re either lying, or the men in this town are all blind.”
“Gee. You really have a way with compliments, Fitzpatrick. It’s enough to turn a woman’s head.”
Ryan let her sarcasm roll right off him. “I call them like I see them. So which is it? Are you a liar, or are the men around here blind?”
“Neither. I haven’t been interested and neither have they.”
Ryan paused, curious about her reply. “How come?”
“How come what?”
“How come you haven’t been in a romantic relationship for more than two years?”
“Because I haven’t wanted to be in one. All right?” She made an exasperated sound. “Look—Destinations and its success is a high priority in my life. The bookings have more than doubled in the past six months. That means my workload has doubled, too.”
At the arch of his eyebrow, she continued. “Listen, I’m not saying I’m the only one who’s been putting in a lot of hours. Everyone’s been working hard. But the corporate travel program is my baby. I intend to make it a success.”
“And success means spending all of your time planning overpriced travel packages.”
“I spend a lot of my time creating profitable sales packages. I’m also responsible for managing the agency and its operations. Which means researching and selecting a new computer system to handle the increased client base created by those expensive travel packages I design. I also hire all the new agents and make sure everyone is trained on the new equipment. So, yes, I guess I’ve allowed Destinations to take up a lot of my time lately, which means I haven’t had much time to worry about whether or not I’m dating enough.”
“Trust me, you’re not. Haven’t you ever heard that saying about ‘all work and no play’?” he asked, pleased and at the same time disturbed at the workaholic life-style she had just described.
“I didn’t say I haven’t gone out with anyone for the past two years. I said I haven’t been involved in a serious relationship for two years.”
“Want to explain the difference to me?”
“The difference is that I can go out to dinner, the ballet or a charity event with a man without being emotionally involved with him.”
“What about physically involved?”
He could practically see the steam rising from her on that one. “I’m not even going to answer that.”
But she already had. No lovers, he concluded, more than a little pleased. “So who are these men you go to dinner, the ballet and charity things with?”
“Friends.”
Ryan sighed. Getting answers from her was like pulling teeth. “Names, Duchess. I need names. No matter how remote they may seem to you, anyone you’ve gone out with or come into contact with could be the man we’re looking for.”
Her hands curled into fists and she looked at him scornfully as she said, “Patrick Evans, Donald Markson, Harry Peters. And stop calling me Duchess!”
“Anyone else?”
“Your uncle. I believe he escorted me to a black-tie fund-raiser where the agency was donating a cruise when your aunt was out of town about two months ago.”
He added his uncle’s name to the list.
“You’re putting James’s name down on that list?”
“He’s a man.”
“He’s your uncle.” Furious, she shot to her feet. “This is crazy. You’re crazy. None of those men are even capable of doing anything like this.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know.” She reached for the brandy he’d poured her earlier, swirled it around in her glass.
“You’d be surprised what a man will do when he finds himself obsessed with a woman.” What disturbed him was that after kissing her and sampling that sweet heat of hers himself, he could almost understand a man being driven mad with the need for more of her.
“Not them. I told you, those men are my friends.”
“How about defining friend for me.”
“Just what the word implies—a friend, a companion, a pal.”
“Any of those pals ever graduate to being your lover?”
She slammed the glass down onto the table. “No,” she said, her voice like chipped ice.
“Any of them want to be?”
“That’s it! I’m not listening to any more of this. You’re just trying to embarrass me.”
Ryan caught her by the arm before she could storm off. “What I’m trying to do is find out if the guy who’s after you could be a former lover, or someone who wanted to be your lover, that might have gone nutso when you rejected him.”
“I haven’t rejected anyone.”
“You rejected me,” he reminded her.
Clea blinked. “I—That was different.”
“How? I haven’t made any secret of the fact that I’m attracted to you. I’ve asked you out several times. I’ve kissed you, and I’ve even asked you to marry me.”
“You weren’t serious.”
“How do you know?” Her scent reached out to him, tangled around him. Still holding her wrist, he rubbed his thumb across her pulse, felt the rapid beat beneath that smooth, soft skin.
“Because...because you’re not,” she told him, defiance and desire in her eyes as she looked at him. “Men like you aren’t interested in marriage.”
“What if I was?” Desire licked through him. He lowered his head a fraction, until his mouth hovered just above hers. “What if I told you I wanted you the first time I laid eyes on you? That I decided right then and there that we would be lovers. What if I told you that I thought there was a chance we might even work ourselves right up to marriage and a half-dozen kids?”
Shock—and something else—flashed across her face for a moment, and then she made her expression go blank. “Then, I’d say you really are crazy because that isn’t going to happen.” She pushed against his chest.