“Who hurt you, Claire?”

“One of my patients got upset. It’s nothing, Mark.”

“The hell it’s not. A patient attacked you and you call it nothing?”

“He reacted to a traumatic memory and I happened to get in the way. It goes with the territory.” She pulled away, but he caught her arm, refusing to let her run.

“His name, Claire?”

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that, Mark.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both. If I don’t protect my patients’ privacy, they won’t confide in me. Then I’m useless.”

“And how helpful will you be to your patients if you end up dead?”

He wrapped his arms around her, determined to make her realize she might be in danger. “You can’t trust anyone, Claire. Not right now. It’s too dangerous.”

“I know how dangerous trusting a man can be, Mark. After all, I once trusted you.”

Midnight Disclosures
Rita Herron

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling for kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her Web site at www.ritaherron.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dr. Claire Kos—Blinded by the accident that cost her her child, Claire Kos has nothing to live for but work. Will that very job cost her her life?

Mark Steele—A man struggling with guilt and loss. Can he save Claire before a ruthless serial killer makes her his next victim?

Special Agent Luke Devlin—An FBI agent with demons of his own, he offers Mark a job when Mark has nothing left. But will that job be Mark’s salvation or his downfall?

Dr. Ian Hall—The new director of the Coastal Island Research Park wants to create positive publicity for CIRP. But is his plan a smoke screen to hide secretive research under way at the center?

Dr. George Ferguson and Dr. Kurt Lassiter—Two of Claire’s co-workers who lust after her. Would one of them kill to have her?

Drew Myers—The man who created the idea of the Calling Claire show. Just how far will he go to make the show a success?

Joel Sanger—A psychotic patient of Claire’s with violent tendencies toward women. Has he become a serial killer?

Richard Wheaton—Another patient suffering from dissociative identity disorder. Is one of his personalities a murderer?

Al Hogan—A troubled man who attended a support group with Claire months ago and tried to befriend her. Has he resurfaced?

To my cool aunt Nelda—

who finally got hooked on romance!

Love, Rita

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

She had to tell Mark about the baby.

Claire Kos punched the accelerator, flipped on the windshield wipers and wove her way through the late-evening traffic. Mark couldn’t leave on some dangerous mission without knowing she planned to accept his proposal, that she’d be waiting for him when he returned.

She understood his need to serve his country. He’d been raised by a military father, had grown up on a base himself. He’d been born and bred for the armed services, a true hero. His reasons were all very noble.

And she knew she was being selfish. But what about her and their unborn child? What would happen to them if he didn’t return?

Telling him won’t keep him from leaving.

She gripped the tiny silver frame she’d bought as a going-away gift in her hand. He could take the frame with him, and if he couldn’t make it back for the birth, she’d mail him a photograph to put inside. That way she and their child would always be with him, wherever he went.

Thunder clapped in the gray sky, the rain rushing down in a torrent, the shadows of the night closing in around her. A hurricane warning had been issued on the coast of Florida, the torrential rains already unleashing themselves on Atlanta.

Reminding herself that she had another life to consider now, a baby to protect, she eased her foot off the accelerator, but another pair of headlights behind her, set on high beam, nearly blinded her. She blinked and righted the wheel to correct for the curve in the road, but a horn blared as an oncoming truck roared toward her. She skimmed the edge of the embankment, spotted the bridge ahead and panic slammed into her.

Behind her another car honked, speeding up on her tail. She skidded on the wet pavement, her Jetta hurling into a tailspin. The passenger side scraped the side rails of the bridge and sparks flew from the car as it careened down the riverbank, grinding over the muddy earth. Glass exploded as she nosedived into the Chattahoochee River.

The air bag exploded, trapping her against the seat. Spots danced before her eyes, and panic knifed through her arms as a stabbing pain shot through her temple.

She had to save the baby.

Water seeped into the car, the current lapping at the windows. She jiggled the seat belt to escape, pushing at the air bag, but the seat belt was stuck. Red water swirled around her.

Blood.

Her stomach cramped, a spasm of mind-numbing agony gripping her. She cried out, tears running from her eyes. The red faded into black. Then darkness. She reached for the tiny picture frame and clutched it in her hand.

Dear God. No. She was losing her baby. They would both die. And Mark would leave the country without ever knowing that she’d planned to accept his proposal.

Or that she had been pregnant with his child.

Chapter One

A year later

Claire Kos lived in a world of darkness—a world she’d been trying to adjust to since the day she’d lost her child.

Feeling her way to her desk, she slid into the chair, adjusted the microphone and tried to banish thoughts of her own personal problems. So far, Calling Claire, as her radio talk show had been dubbed, had been a major hit in Savannah. Her callers consisted of people who wanted to discuss love gone wrong, divorces, depression, family and parental issues.

Ironic that she should be offering advice on love when her own relationship had self-destructed.

She heard noise on the other side of the glass window and sensed the producer, Drew Myers, gearing up for the show. Drew handled a hundred things at once, all deftly, as well as screening incoming calls. The station had worked out a system so he could signal her with a buzzer.

As a concession to Claire’s concern for the potential threats to herself and the show, and out of concern for the callers, she and the station manager had agreed to keep the topics on a fairly light note, hoping to avoid any issues which might need a more thorough professional assessment.

She checked her braille watch, then laid her hand over the buzzer. The familiar ding alerted her to begin the show.

The first caller complained of a cheating husband, which prompted several callers to admit their own spouse’s extramarital affair. The last caller hit a nerve—her husband had abandoned her and their infant son.

She thought of Mark.

Not that Mark had really abandoned her. He’d gone off to war, while she’d fought a war of her own at home.

Sometimes she wondered if she should have informed him of her accident. Other times, she assured herself she’d been right not to burden him with her problems. Besides, he hadn’t exactly contacted her after he’d left.

A signal alerted her to the next caller. “Hello, this is Claire, how can I help you?”

“I… I can’t s-see,” a woman cried. “It’s so dark. P-please help me.”

Claire froze, the desperation in the woman’s high-pitched voice sending a chill down her spine.

“Tell me your name,” she said softly. “Where are you?”

Instead of the woman’s voice, a muffled voice began to sing, “Blinded by the light…”

A chill skated up Claire’s spine. “Who is this? Is this some kind of sick joke?” She jerked her head up, wishing she could see Drew’s reaction, then motioned for him to trace the call, another stipulation she’d insisted upon before signing on with the program. She had no intention of offering free advice to spike ratings in lieu of true professional care.

“She was a bad girl, a very bad girl, Claire,” the muffled voice whispered. “Do you know what happens to bad girls?”

Claire struggled to detect the sounds in the background, anything that might offer her a clue as to the woman’s location. The wind howled. Some kind of bird cawed. She heard the ocean waves crashing against the shore. The man was outside, using a cell phone.

It would be harder to trace.

“Tell me who this is,” she whispered. “Let me speak to the woman again.”

“It’s too late for her,” the dark voice murmured. “But save yourself, Claire. Goodbye.”

Then the phone went dead, the woman’s cry for help fading into an eerie silence. Panic bolted through Claire.

Had she just been talking to a killer?

A week later

LIEUTENANT MARK STEELE had once lived for the military.

Unfortunately, his last army mission had gone awry, and five of his men had been killed. Although Mark had lived, he’d been injured and had spent time in an enemy prison camp. But not before he’d shot the traitor who’d revealed his men’s location.

He’d thought that bit of justice might assuage the guilt that had eaten away at him ever since, but it hadn’t even nibbled at the edges. Blinking against the blinding noonday sun, he entered the Atlanta Federal office building. Since he’d accepted a medical discharge, he’d been slogging through every day, searching for a reason to get up every morning. This new job, tracking down criminals, even if they were civilians, might give him a renewed purpose in life. God knew he needed it.

A fair-haired man in a dark suit and tie greeted him, although the normally arrogant attitude he’d always associated with the feds was absent, a dark soulless look haunting the man’s eyes. Mark instantly connected. He’d witnessed the same desolation in soldiers’ eyes just before they died.

“Luke Devlin,” the man said without preamble. He gestured toward two other agents seated at the table and introduced them.

“It’s nice to have you on board, Mr. Steele.”

Mark nodded, still adjusting to civilian life. “Thanks. I’m anxious for an assignment.” Anything to take his mind off the lost men. His lost career.

His lost love, Claire.

“We’re organizing a special task force to investigate certain aspects of government intelligence as well as the Coastal Island Research Park’s work on Nighthawk Island. Are you familiar with the research center?”

“I’ve read about the facility. It’s in Savannah?”

“Right.” Devlin moved to the wall, gestured toward a detailed map of the research islands, then quickly reviewed recent events at the center.

“There’s been trouble at CIRP, unethical research taking place. And Arnold Hughes, the first director and founder of the research center, actually had a scientist killed because he discovered Hughes wanted to sell his research to the highest bidder,” Devlin said. “Hughes escaped our first attempt to catch him, then reappeared with a new identity, but the local police have recently arrested him.”

Mark nodded.

“The new director, Ian Hall, appears to be trying to change CIRP’s reputation, but we have reason to believe there are some high-level secret projects taking place. Some have government clearance, others…we’d like to see stopped.”

“Interesting. Go on.”

“In conjunction with Ian Hall’s good faith publicity, a psychologist named Dr. Claire Kos recently began hosting a radio talk show in Savannah. You know Dr. Kos, don’t you?”

“Yes.” His heart pounded. An image of Claire Kos’s beautiful honey-blond hair floated through his mind like a summer breeze. God, he’d been so in love with her.

But she hadn’t even bothered to come to the airport to say goodbye. He’d waited like a fool until the last minute, hoping she’d show and accept his proposal.

Two weeks later, he’d received his engagement ring in the mail. Still, he’d hoped she would change her mind.

But six months had passed with no word, then six more. She had obviously moved on with her life. Not that he could blame her. After all, she must have decided she couldn’t handle the military life just as his own mother had.

He glanced down at the floor and in his mind, saw the bloody corpses of his fellow soldiers.

Better she had moved on.

She hadn’t understood his compulsion to do his job. To live up to the standards of his military father, a war hero in his own right. What would the colonel say if he could see his son today?

“You don’t suspect Claire of being involved in an unethical project?”

Devlin shrugged. “There is talk about research using hypnosis as well as mind-altering drugs that have been used before to brainwash people. By cozying up to Dr. Kos, we’re hoping you can explore that issue, among others.”

He stiffened. So that’s the reason they were assigning him to this mission. They wanted him to use Claire? “I can assure you Claire isn’t involved. She’s one of the most noble, dedicated doctors I’ve ever known.” Besides being the most beautiful and loving. But after all he’d seen in the past few years, he was too empty inside to have anything to offer a woman. And he couldn’t forgive Claire for not being there when he needed her most.

She wouldn’t be very proud of the man he was now, either.

“But she can help you gain access to the center,” Devlin said.

Mark opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut. He’d never allowed personal feelings to interfere with his job. He wouldn’t now.

Devlin cleared his throat. “There’s a new development, though, that takes precedence. In the past two weeks Dr. Kos has received phone calls on her radio talk show from two different women who were abducted. Later, police found both women’s bodies.”

“They were murdered?”

“Yes. The locals suspect a serial killer, so they’ve officially called us in.” Devlin punched a recording, and Mark went completely cold inside as he listened to the chilling calls.

Save yourself, Claire.

What the hell had the killer meant? Was he threatening Claire?

CLAIRE’S HANDS trembled as she headed to the door. It would probably be the police again with more questions. Questions she didn’t have the answers to.

She massaged her neck, rubbing away the tension. After that horrifying phone call the night before, she hadn’t slept a wink. She’d also rescheduled her patient load for the day.

How could she help others when she’d failed the women who’d phoned in needing her help? Even though she wasn’t directly responsible, their deaths weighed heavily on Claire’s conscience.

She bumped into the wall, the sharp edge digging into her hip as she reached for the doorknob. Measuring her steps always grew more difficult when her emotions were involved, or if she was tired. She pressed the call button. “Who’s there?”

“FBI, Dr. Kos, Special Agent Luke Devlin and Agent Steele, we need to ask you some questions.”

Steele? This had to be a coincidence. Someone with the same last name, that’s all. Mark was overseas, not FBI.

And what could she tell them that she hadn’t told the cops?

“Just a moment.” She unlocked the door, leaving the chain intact. “Do you have identification?”

Clothing rustled as the man removed something from his pocket. She accepted the ID through the crack in the door. Holding the badge in front of her as if she could still see it, she slid her fingers over the edges, studying it for authenticity, well aware how limited she’d become without her sight. How could she determine if it was a forgery?

Vaguely satisfied the man was who he claimed to be, she unchained the door and stepped aside.

“Thank you, Dr. Kos.” Luke Devlin’s voice sounded strained, tired, like a man doing an unpleasant job.

Then a whiff of a dark masculine scent mingled with a woodsy smell wafted upward and she froze. No, it couldn’t be…

“HELLO, CLAIRE.”

Panic jammed the words in her throat. “Mark? What are you doing here?”

“I work for the government now,” he said in a husky voice.

But why? Mark had been so committed to the military.

“Dr. Kos, do you mind if we come in and sit down?” Agent Devlin asked.

Claire was so shaken her body temporarily went into lockdown. Her first instinct was to tell them to leave, to take Mark and his intoxicating scent and his big masculine presence away. But her voice refused to work, and her legs threatened to collapse beneath her, so she gestured toward the living area.

“Certainly.” She turned and stumbled, then paused to reorient herself. Agent Devlin’s hard soles clattered on the wooden floor as he stepped inside, but Mark remained in the doorway as if he didn’t want to reenter the graveyard of their shattered relationship.

“Claire.” His throaty voice echoed with emotions she couldn’t quite name. Shock. Anger. Bewilderment.

“Come in.” She forced herself not to react to his voice, but he caught her arm and swung her around. Cupping her face in his hands, he tilted her head toward him. She released a shaky breath, and blinked to focus, aching to see him. She imagined his strong jaw covered in five o’clock shadow, his neatly clipped black hair, the small cleft in his chin, his broad nose and that tight military air. And then those big hands all over her, touching her, exploring, making her his, his guarded look fading, his eyes darkening with passion….

One reason she hadn’t phoned him after the accident. She’d wanted him so badly it was scary. But she had to learn to stand alone.

He ran his hands over her face, and she blinked, forcing back tears.

“God, Claire,” he croaked. “What the hell happened to you?”

Chapter Two

Claire’s heart pounded in her chest. How could she answer him without confiding everything. He couldn’t know…

“Claire, talk to me. What happened?” Raw shock hardened his voice.

“I had an accident. Now let me go, Mark, and let’s sit down.”

Instead of releasing her, his grip tightened. “What kind of accident?”

“A car accident.”

Still hanging on to her, his breath brushed her cheek, eliciting memories of a hot night between the sheets, their bodies moving together in a heated rhythm of passion that had left her aching for more.

Forever.

But that would never be. Not now.

Agent Devlin cleared his throat. “Steele, the case, our questions?”

She heard Mark’s feet snap together, imagined him standing rigid with anger. She knew him well enough to recognize that the ironclad control on his emotions had been shaken, and he was wrestling to regain his equilibrium.

But erotic visions interceded into the darkness where she lived, resurrecting a longing for the past—the coarse stiffness of his short hair brushing her belly, his lips tracing a path along the curve of her spine.

And his eyes—she’d never seen a man with eyes his color. They were almost golden, rimmed in pale yellow. Filled with passion, they turned almost chocolate-brown, with laughter, the gold shimmered like sunshine.

Although he’d hardly ever laughed.

She’d wanted him to laugh more, had tried to ease the hardness in his eyes, take away the loneliness.

Now she’d forgotten how to laugh herself.

“Sit down,” Claire implored softly. “I’ll get us some coffee and we’ll talk.”

His labored sigh heightened the tension between them, but he finally dropped his hands. “Fine.”

Claire turned, so desperate to reorient herself that she ignored his clipped tone. The last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself or give the image that she was helpless.

She did not want Mark’s pity.

Another reason she hadn’t informed him of her accident or condition. She’d been smothered enough by her sister Paulette’s well-meaning intentions.

She recounted her steps to the den, thankfully bypassing the furniture without a bump. It was imperative that her belongings stay in place. If a table or stool were moved, she’d trip and fall on her face.

Something she absolutely could not do in front of a strong man like Mark.

“Have a seat, gentlemen, and I’ll get some coffee.”

“I’ll help.” Mark moved up behind her.

“No, I can handle it.” She didn’t bother to apologize for her own abrupt tone. She needed time to compose herself before facing Mark again.

The current situation with the women who’d been murdered had already destroyed her peace of mind.

She slipped into the kitchen nook, removed a serving tray, stacked three cups on it along with the coffeepot which she kept filled all day, then added sugar and creamer and returned to the den. Her hands trembled as she set it on the coffee table.

“Please serve yourselves, gentlemen.”

“Thanks, Dr. Kos,” Agent Devlin said from the big armchair.

“Sit down, Claire.” Mark’s voice came from the love seat.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, using two fingers to measure, then slid onto the sofa, feeling his scrutinizing eyes trace her every movement.

“When did you have this accident?” Mark asked.

An involuntary shudder passed through her. This was the question she’d dreaded most. The night you left, she wanted to scream. I was rushing to the airport to accept your proposal, to tell you about our baby.

Now, he would never know. He couldn’t know.

“A few months ago. I’m fine now.”

“You’re not fine, you’re blind,” Mark said in a gruff voice.

“That’s true,” Claire conceded, “but thanks to the wonderful rehab program at CIRP, I’m learning to adjust.” She crossed her legs, determined to change the subject. “Now, Agent Devlin, why is Lieutenant Steele with you? Do you have news about the two women who were murdered?”

Claire tightened her hands around her coffee mug to warm them. All night she’d lain in a pool of her own fear, a chill of helplessness engulfing her.

She hadn’t been able to save her child. Or those women.

She had to help the police find the killer.

“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone in custody yet,” Devlin cut in. “That’s why we’re here. We need your help.”

Claire nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Devlin cleared his throat. “Good. The first victim, Dianne Lyons, was single, twenty-five, blond, a waitress at a local diner in Savannah. She lived with a cat and her boyfriend.” He paused. “The second victim, Beverly Bell, was married, thirty-two, a brunette and a professional architect. She lived with her husband and baby.”

Claire twisted her hands together. That poor child had been left without a mother. It was all so senseless.

“So far, you and the Calling Claire show appear to be the only connection,” Devlin supplied. “You didn’t know either of the victims, Dr. Kos?”

“No.” Claire hugged her arms around her waist, the image of the young women fighting for their lives haunting her.

“You’ve never treated either of them?”

“No. Did you trace the calls or find any evidence at the scene to identify the killer?”

“Not yet,” Devlin said. “We’re still waiting on the forensics report. The killer used throwaway cell phones you can pick up at any convenience store. We’re trying to pinpoint where the killer purchased them, but it’ll take time.”

“But you think he’ll kill again?”

“Yes.” Agent Devlin sigh was filled with weariness. “Do you have any idea why he’s calling you?”

Claire shrugged. “The show. It’s his twisted way of announcing his crime. He wants the publicity, probably even wants help.”

“You do believe the killer is a man?” Agent Devlin asked.

Claire nodded.

“He likes the attention?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could create a profile?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, but I’ll need more information on the murders.”

“We can give you access to police files.” Devlin paused. “We’ll also need to look at your patient files. It’s possible the killer knows you personally. He chose you because he wants to watch your reaction.”

“Patient files are confidential,” Claire said. “I can’t let you see them and you know it, Agent Devlin.”

Mark stood, his feet clicking across the floor impatiently. “Claire, how can you protect the sick bastard? Don’t you understand? He might be gunning for you next.”

“First of all, we don’t know that the killer is one of my patients,” Claire said in a guarded voice, unable to admit her own fear that Mark was right, “or that he intends to do anything to me except use me to gain public attention for himself.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Mark said. “Get someone else to cover the show.”

“I’m not abandoning the show or running scared.” Claire stood, squaring her shoulders and angling herself to face him, although he was pacing so rapidly she couldn’t pinpoint his location in the room. “These women, the killer, they’re calling me for a reason. I have to find out why, and do what I can to help them.”

“I don’t want you involved,” Mark said.

“I’m already involved.”

“But you’re too vulnerable,” Mark’s voice exploded. “For God’s sake, in your condition, I don’t know why you’re even on the radio.”

Fury and hurt twisted in Claire’s chest. Mark had always been protective, a hero, but at one point he’d respected her work and viewed her as an equal. Now he saw her as a weak, handicapped woman.

“I may be blind, Mark, but I’m not helpless,” Claire said, determined to prove she didn’t need his protection. And she certainly wouldn’t be controlled by a man. “I’m a professional, perfectly capable of performing my job.”

“She’s right, Steele, she’s already involved,” Agent Devlin cut in. “We need her. The killer picked her for a reason. She may be the only one who can reach him or figure out his identity.”

“Thank you, Agent Devlin.”

“But he’s right, too,” Devlin said. “You are vulnerable, Dr. Kos. We don’t know if the killer has targeted you, so we’re assigning Agent Steele to work with you.”

As some kind of bodyguard?

Claire bristled at the silent implication. How could Mark protect her when he held the power to hurt her most of all?

MARK HALTED, filled with a mixture of anger, fear and disbelief. Didn’t Claire realize the severity of the situation?

Using a trained agent as a go-between or bait would be dangerous enough, but a vulnerable blind woman…

It’s not just because she’s blind.

Damn, the sight of her long, blond curls spilling over her shoulders and those emerald eyes that had once looked at him with passion, and now looked past him, empty and vacant, had totally wrecked his composure.

He’d barely prepared himself to meet her again, yet to see her like this, to know she needed him but refused to acknowledge their past or the chemistry between them…

“You can’t be serious.” Claire crossed her arms defensively. “I don’t need his protection.”

“For God’s sake, Claire, you can’t see. You might not even know if this maniac was following you.”

She shivered slightly, and although satisfied he’d made his point, he hated to see her frightened.

“Then why not have a local cop or CIRP provide their own security?” Claire asked.

“You have a problem with my credentials?” Mark’s laser-sharp voice dared her to defy his professionalism and admit his effect on her.

“No,” Claire said tightly. “But I am wondering why you left the army.”

“My tour of duty was up,” Mark answered, unwilling to elaborate on his reasons.

Devlin cleared his throat. “Dr. Kos, you want to help us find this man, don’t you?”

Claire’s hesitation spoke volumes and gnawed at Mark’s pride. Of course she did. The feisty, smart Claire he’d known had not been destroyed by her accident. She simply didn’t want to be near him.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it meant that she hadn’t totally forgotten him as he’d once believed.

“Of course.”

“It’s an FBI matter now,” Devlin said. “But we will be working in conjunction with the local police and CIRP’s security.”

Mark watched the sunlight catch the golden rays in her hair, the way she massaged her forehead with her long slender fingers, a gesture he’d seen so many times. He wanted to massage her temple, soothe away her worries, watch her eyes light up with passion the way they once had when he touched her.

“Please review your files, Dr. Kos,” Devlin said. “If one of your patients fits the profile of our killer, you have to inform us.”

“I’ll review them,” she said, although she didn’t commit any further.

“We also need a list of any men you’re involved with,” Mark said.

Claire swallowed. “I’m not involved with anyone at the moment.”

A sharp pang of relief rifled through Mark, but he ignored it. “Anyone in the last, say, two years. That includes male employees where you work, neighbors, acquaintances—”

“I get the picture.” Claire held up a hand. “Do you really think the killer is someone I know?”

“We can’t say yet,” Agent Devlin said. “We’re gathering the same information on the victims. Who knows? We might get lucky and find a connection when we cross-check them.” Devlin’s coffee cup clattered as he placed it on the saucer. “If you think of anything, Dr. Kos, no matter how trivial, something one of the women said on the phone, something a client told you that strikes a familiar chord or a connection, please inform Agent Steele. He’ll be your contact.”

Mark shook Devlin’s hand, agreed to stay in touch, then watched as he headed to the door. As soon as it closed behind him, Mark turned to Claire. She was facing the fireplace, her back to him, her posture rigid. He wanted to go to her, to hold her and assure her everything would be all right. But a wall had been erected between them, a wall he didn’t know how to breach.

And he couldn’t relinquish the hurt that had consumed him those first few weeks when he’d gone overseas, thinking she didn’t want him.

He had tried to understand. A military life wasn’t conducive to family. He should know, having grown up in one. Always moving around. A new city, strange people and faces. Never getting too close because there were always goodbyes. His life belonged to the army. There was no room for anything else.

Now he’d left that behind, and he had to build a new life.

“You should have left, too,” she said quietly.

He had once. In fact, he hadn’t expected to return from overseas. Another reason he’d decided not to bug her with phone calls when she hadn’t shown that day. It had been unfair of him to pressure her for an answer before he shipped out or to ask her to wait for a man who might never return.

And now he had, but he was an empty shell of a man. A man riddled with guilt and the dark shadows of death that only war could bring.

He shut out the thought. Tried to focus on the case. “I don’t intend to leave until we catch this guy.”

She turned then, that foggy look in her eyes almost too painful to tolerate. “Then I guess I’d better start on that list of possible suspects,” she said softly. “The sooner we catch this guy, the sooner you can go.”

He ground his teeth, her message loud and clear. She didn’t want him back in her life. Just as she hadn’t wanted to marry him.

The whisper of her shampoo tortured him as she walked past and claimed the desk chair in front of her computer. His stomach knotted as he realized the changes she’d made to her apartment, her computer, her life. He glanced around the small living area at the bookcase, surprised at its lack of hominess. In Atlanta, Claire’s shelves had been filled with books and brass horse sculptures, a collection she’d started with her sister years ago. Claire had loved riding, had often teased that she wanted to take him on a bareback ride in the mountains, or on the beach. He’d always joked that they didn’t need a horse to do that.

They had never taken the ride.

Apparently she hadn’t brought the sculptured horses with her when she’d moved to Savannah. Had she given up riding because of her visual impairment?

He watched her compile the list and wondered about other changes. She’d once been full of laughter, full of surprises, and grit. The grit was still there, but the laughter had died.

She’d also always been open, honest, giving, loving and passionate. She’d enjoyed sex, had not been shy about the act like other women he’d known.

Had she changed in that respect now, too? Or had she lied about not having another boyfriend?

He clenched his fists by his sides at the mere thought of another man touching her, then reminded himself that he’d lost her long ago. “Why didn’t you send me word about the accident, Claire?”

Claire’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard and his eyes were drawn to the special program she used. “Because we were no longer a couple, Mark.”

The finality of her statement hammered reality home as she turned her back and resumed working at the computer.

CLAIRE FELT Mark’s presence behind her as she assembled the list he’d requested, her emotions in a tailspin. How could he show up in her life and demand she walk away from her job? And how could he still have the power to affect her simply with the sound of his voice and his masculine scent?

She had worked so hard to forget him, all the small details that made him special and had endeared him to her heart.

Like the old-fashioned way he opened the door for her, and the way he pressed his hand to the small of her back when he led her into a restaurant. And the way he murmured her name as if it was a lover’s caress. The simple hoarse sound of his voice had caused a tingle to spread up her spine.

He wouldn’t be murmuring her name in any kind of a lover’s caress now.

Especially if he discovered she’d lost their baby.

Besides, time had passed. He probably had another woman in his life. And she was blind, would be a burden to any man, especially one as adventurous as Mark. He liked outdoor sports, parachuting, mountain climbing, skiing, all kinds of activities she couldn’t participate in now.

Worse, being close to him only reminded her of the night they’d made their baby.

Forcing the torturous thoughts from her mind, she concentrated on her acquaintances and entered their names into the program, although she felt as if she was betraying them by listing them for the police. But the task had to be done. And it gave her something concrete to focus on besides the fact that Mark was watching her every movement. Even without sight, she felt him following her, gauging her facial expressions, honing in on her fear so he could use it to persuade her to stop hosting her show.

But she’d been on the receiving end of the phone calls, had heard those women’s pain-filled pleas, and she intended to help stop the killer. It was the only way she could silence the haunting cries in her mind and atone for her responsibility in the victims’ deaths.

Dragging herself back to the keyboard, she plugged in several names. Ian Hall, the new Director of CIRP. Dr. Ferguson, the head of the psychiatry department. Dr. Kurt Lassiter, another psychiatrist. She paused, remembering the lunch they’d shared the week before, they way he’d touched her hand when she’d reached for her water glass. She’d sensed he wanted more than lunch, but she hadn’t encouraged a relationship.

Shaking off the uncomfortable feeling that he’d been angry with her when she’d declined his invitation to a movie, she added a few other names: Billy Mack, a counselor on staff, and two of the orderlies who helped with the patients, Ray Foote and Ted Cleaver. But she couldn’t possibly remember the entire staff at CIRP. The police would have to check the hospital personnel records.

Next, she added Drew Myers, the producer of the radio show, and his assistant, Bailey Cummings, but Bailey was no more than a college intern. And Drew had been nothing but a friend. Then there was Arden Holland, the janitor. Deciding he was too old to fit the profile and not agile enough to pull off a murder and escape, she dismissed him completely.

Remembering Agent Devlin’s request for her patient records, she mentally ticked down the list, wondering if any one of them could have orchestrated the killings. Joel Sanger, a young man in his late twenties, had experienced a psychotic break after a plane crash. Recently he had exhibited violent tendencies toward women. She also had to consider her newest patient, Richard Wheaton, a man she suspected might be suffering from DID, dissociative identity disorder. Richard had been traumatized as a child. Now his behavior was erratic. She’d only begun to scratch the surface of his problems.

Could one of them be responsible for the deaths?

If so, and she started asking questions, would he try to kill her next?

Chapter Three

Mark accepted the list from Claire. Working with her was going to be hard, watching her struggle to maintain her independence with a handicap even worse.

But not touching her would be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

He had wanted her the first moment he’d seen her.

Ironically, they had met in a Starbucks when he’d been on leave for the weekend. Her hair had brushed his shoulder as she’d turned to grab a packet of sweetener. When she’d laughed and said that she was a coffee addict, he’d looked into her gorgeous eyes, and they’d immediately connected. A week later, he’d taken her to dinner. A day later to bed. The romance had been fast, sometimes sweet, but very seductive. And the sex had been mind-boggling.

But the breakup—inevitable.

He was, after all, his father’s son, and didn’t know how to hold on to a woman.

But at least his father had been a hero in the military. Had received a distinguished award for bravery and heroism in a recon mission. Had died in the line of duty serving his country, rescuing prisoners of war a few years ago.

Mark saw the faces of his fallen men in his mind’s eye. Even though the army had hinted at giving him a commendation, he had refused it. He didn’t deserve to be rewarded when his friends lay six feet under, their families still mourning.

“There are other employees.” Claire broke into his thoughts, indicating the printout of names she’d given him, “but you’ll have to obtain those from CIRP.”

“I’m sure Devlin is on it.” His gaze dropped from her rose petal mouth to the paper, and he skimmed the list, his fists tightening. “I’d like to interview the people on this list as soon as possible.”

Claire ran a finger over her watch, obviously reading the braille settings. “Most everyone will be gone by now.”

He nodded, then realized Claire couldn’t see him. She’d never look into his eyes with that same sweet lust again. He had to clear his throat to talk. “They leave at five?”

“Not always, but by eight or nine, everyone’s pretty much cleared out except for the janitorial staff and security guards.”

“Then I’ll start tomorrow.” He folded the paper and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “What are your plans tonight?”

A frown creased her brow as if she was surprised he asked. “I’m going to the studio for the show.”

“You can’t be serious?”

Her chin rose a notch. “Of course I’m serious. I told you I wouldn’t give up my job.”

“But a woman was murdered last night, Claire. You must be shaken by her phone call and that creep’s message to you.”

“That’s exactly the reason I have to go.” She picked up the phone. “If the killer wants to connect with me, I have to be there when he calls.”

“Is that what the legal advisors of the show suggest?”

She hesitated. “They’re concerned, but it’s important to present the image that I’m cooperating in trying to find this madman. We’re going to set up a separate line, too, so we can transfer the calls and the public won’t have to listen.”

“The research center is using you for free publicity.” He moved so swiftly and grabbed her arm that she startled and dropped the phone. “Don’t do it, Claire.” His gaze latched on the curve of her cheek, her slightly parted lips, a tiny scar at the corner of her chin that hadn’t been there before. He couldn’t stand to see her hurt again. And he wanted to reach out and touch that scar. Kiss away the pain that had caused it. “Please, Claire, stay home.”

Her breath whistled between them, soft, yet full of tension. Once it had vibrated with want, desire, heat. Now he felt only anger.

“I can’t, Mark. Besides, the station is tightening security for me. Now, if you intend to work on this case, either help me or leave and request another agent.” She reached for his hand, firmly lifted his fingers away from her arm. He caught her fingers in his for the briefest of seconds, savoring her touch, feeling her warmth seep into the cold places he’d lived with since he’d lost her a year ago.

A tense second passed between them, fraught with old memories, and need. He was just about to reach out and brush an errant hair from her cheek when Claire swallowed. “Let me go, Mark, so I can phone the station to send over a car.”

He dropped her fingers, aching at the loss and reminding himself that he couldn’t get personally entangled with Claire again. His men had died and he’d walked away alive, at least physically. Mentally he was a mess. He didn’t deserve Claire. He wasn’t sure there was even enough of him left to give her what she needed either.

Still, he refused to leave her unprotected. “Forget the car. If you’re going to the radio station, I’ll drive you.”

“No—”

“The subject is not up for debate, Claire. I’ll let the station security know.” He smiled, his next words half threat, half promise. “Since I’ve been assigned to protect you, I intend to stick to you like glue.”

At one time she would have welcomed that. But this time, her lip trembled, and she had no reply. She gathered her purse, then he slid his hand to the small of her back to guide her to the door. Instead of leaning into him, warming to his touch as she once had, she pulled away, reached for her cane and walked ahead alone, her chin held high. The cane clicked ominously on the floor in front of him, its sound mimicking a soldier’s march.

His heart twisted in response—her dismissal was a firm reminder that everything between them had changed.

GRATEFUL FOR the glass window separating her and Mark, Claire kept her head down, her focus on preparing for the evening show. The car ride had been excruciating, the close quarters too confining for comfort.

She had wanted to touch Mark so badly it hurt.

Memories of her accident assaulted her, playing havoc on nerves already destroyed by the mere feel of Mark’s hand pressed possessively against her back. Riding in his old Thunderbird convertible again with the wind tossing his scent toward her had only reminded her that once she’d been happy, in love.

Before he had left. Before she’d lost their child.

An image of a dark-haired little baby froze in her mind. She imagined the soft weight of its body, the little hands reaching for her, the sound of its cry.

The radio signal buzzed, jerking her from the image. Claire exhaled to compose herself, then checked her watch, indicating to Drew that she was ready to start.

Keep it strictly business.

Unfortunately, Mark had joined Drew, rattling her newfound philosophy. She didn’t have to see to know that his dark gaze was trained on her, or to remember its effect. His big muscular body could be intimidating, his military persona heightened by his air of authority.

In bed, that commanding attitude had excited her because underneath that tough facade, he was a pussycat.

The buzzer sounded again, and she winced, ordering herself to focus on the show.

“You’re tuned in to WKIA, and this is Calling Claire, with Dr. Claire Kos.” She hesitated. “I’m saddened to report that another woman was murdered in Savannah last night. Her name was Beverly Bell. According to police reports, she was strangled. It’s also possible her death was connected to the murder of Dianne Lyons. If you have information on either woman, or their murders, please call the Savannah police.” She recited the phone number that had been established by the police for incoming calls, then lowered her voice.

“Sometimes it’s difficult to move on after a tragic event in your life, whether that tragedy is a divorce, the loss of a loved one or a breakup. If you’d like to talk, or share tips on how you’ve overcome a loss, please call me at 555-3456. We’d love to hear from you.”

The first caller was experiencing the empty-nest syndrome. Claire suggested the woman get a job or join a volunteer organization or club, something to add a new purpose to her years. “Use this stage of your life to focus on yourself and your mate, rediscover all the reasons you fell in love, rekindle the romance, travel, enjoy the activities you haven’t been able to do with children underfoot.”

The buzzer dinged, and she accepted the next few calls, a series of young women in their twenties searching for Mr. Right. They discussed the common pitfalls women fell into by looking for men in bars, then she helped each of them make goals for the future, honing in on ways to judge if a man was a commitment phobic.

Next, a young woman who’d lost her husband in a car accident phoned, her trembling voice clutching at Claire’s heartstrings. “He was only thirty,” Sonya said. “He had just gotten a promotion, we’d bought a house, wanted a baby…”

“It’s tough to be the one left behind,” Claire said sympathetically. “You have a void in your life, and you’re grieving, but you also feel angry, as if he deserted you.”

“How did you know?”

“Because I’ve experienced those feelings, Sonya. My father died when I was young. I remember the anger, and the sadness. And of course, the questions—why him? Why me?”

“He was so young,” the girl murmured in a strained voice. “It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not fair, but anger is an honest, natural emotion, a stage of the grieving process,” Claire said. “You have to deal with it so you can move on.”

“That’s just it…I don’t know if I can.”

Claire tensed and checked her watch. Nearly midnight. The same time she’d received the other two desperate calls. Would the killer call again tonight and take another life?

“Yes, you can, Sonya. Talk to your family, your friends, tell them how you feel, vent your anger, your fears, your grief, so you can heal.”

“I’ll try. There’s something else…there’s this guy…”

“Someone who’s interested in you?”

A sniffle passed over the line. “Yes, but I feel so…guilty.”

“Experiencing survivor guilt is not uncommon,” Claire said slowly, not trusting her own emotions. “You don’t believe you’re entitled to enjoy life again, to even laugh or have friends. Or take on another lover.”

“That’s exactly how I feel,” the girl said, her voice trembling.

“But you deserve happiness,” Claire said softly. “Your husband loved you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’d want you to enjoy your life just as you’d want him to do if you had died.”

Claire wondered if she’d ever be able to take her own advice.

MARK SAT, transfixed by Claire’s words. Did she know what had happened to him overseas?

No, she couldn’t…

He saw his best friend’s face as he lay wide-eyed in the dirt, Abe’s dirt-coated hand gripping Mark’s as he inhaled his last breath. And in his mind, he saw Abe’s wife, her face ashen with grief, the burning accusations in her eyes. Why had he survived when her husband had been taken?

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, grateful Claire couldn’t see his expression. No doubt his emotions were plainly written on his face.

Instinctively, he knew Claire was right. Abe wouldn’t want him to stop living or to blame himself for his death. But rational thoughts couldn’t absolve his guilt.

“Tuck those memories of your husband into a special place in your heart,” Claire said. “And keep them safe. But keeping those memories doesn’t mean you can’t make room for more.”

Mark studied Claire through the glass window. Was that what Claire had done? She’d put their memories into another place so she could make room for someone else?

It shouldn’t matter to him. In fact, he should be happy for her. Claire deserved the best.

What did he have to offer her anyway?

“That’s all the calls we have time for tonight,” Claire said, jazz music floating into the background, “but join us again Friday night. This is Dr. Claire Kos wishing you a safe night and a happy tomorrow.”

Mark stood, and watched as she organized herself and walked to the door. He was amazed at how well she maneuvered her surroundings with her cane. She must have counted the steps, memorized the layout. He admired her spunk and her ability to adapt.

But she was so vulnerable, a perfect target. What would happen if she was on a crowded street or in a strange building? What if someone followed her?

She would be virtually helpless, not knowing if they were even there….

“Great job, Claire,” Drew said as she approached. “The show went smoothly tonight.”

Claire sighed. “Thank goodness. When I realized it was midnight, I couldn’t help but worry.”

Drew began cleaning up the sound area, filing CDs. “Maybe your bad luck is over.”

Mark eyed him, knowing everyone in contact with Claire had to be treated with suspicion. According to his notes, this show had been Myers’s creative doing, so he most likely had a vested interest, either money-or careerwise, in making it a success.

Would Myers do something drastic to spike ratings?

Something like murder?

“Thanks for letting me sit in.” He shook Myers’s hand.

“I take it you’ll be back?” Myers asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Claire said.

He glared at her, then remembered she couldn’t see him. She must have sensed his reaction though, because she shook her head, an impatient gesture he’d seen so many times when she’d been frustrated.

“I’ll see you Friday, Drew.”

Drew said good-night, and Claire headed for the front of the station. Mark trailed behind her, allowing her the small victory by letting her lead. She would not win the war, though, and get rid of him.

Not until this killer was caught.

She halted at the front door and reached for her cell phone.

“Put it away, Claire, I’m driving you home.”

“That’s—”

“I know, not necessary.” He sighed. “Listen, Claire, it’s obvious you don’t want me around, but we’ve agreed this killer has to be stopped, so the sooner we start working together, the sooner we can accomplish that.”

She snapped her phone shut.

“Every moment doesn’t have to be a battle.”

“Then stop treating me like I’m an invalid.”

He couldn’t help it. Claire brought out all his protective instincts. And more.

“You’re being overly sensitive,” he said, aware his comment would irritate her. “And I don’t think of you as an invalid, but you have to cut me some slack. I’m just doing my job.” And trying to be considerate. Something you once would have admired.

She flinched as if he’d hit her, and he felt about two feet tall. “Fine, let’s go to the car.”

He glanced outside and noticed it had started raining. “Wait here, and I’ll bring it around.”

“I can go with you.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s pouring down rain, Claire.”

“I can hear the rain, Mark. I’m not stupid.”

“No, just stubborn.” His temper had reached its limits. He and Claire had never bickered over trivial things, had simply fallen into step together as if they’d been dancing all their life. Now, they were totally out of sync. “I’ll be back in a second.”

She folded her arms. “Pull up directly in the center, and I’ll meet you outside.”

He gritted his teeth, then jogged outside to the car. Her independence was a good thing, he reminded himself.

Unless it made her do something stupid, like put herself in the hands of the killer.

CLAIRE TOSSED and turned through a fitful sleep. When she’d first arrived home after her accident, she’d argued with her sister about moving to Savannah. Paulette wanted Claire to stay in Atlanta so she could take care of her. As if Claire really wanted to be indebted to her sister.

Once again, she dreamt that she’d been locked in the house with Paulette, forced to endure her condescending attitude and feel like an invalid, a burden to feed her sister’s martyr attitude.

That nightmare had drifted into one of her accident. The bloodred water had sucked her under. She’d struggled and fought, the iciness gripping her until she’d finally floated into a surreal state, blinded by a sharp light. Then someone had pulled her from its clutches, dragged her to the surface and tossed her ashore, as if she should go on. But she hadn’t wanted to go on.

Save yourself, Claire.

But she couldn’t…

Mark suddenly appeared, battling enemy soldiers and being shot, then falling to his death. She saw the blood, so much blood, but there was no red, only black. Her scream boomeranged her back to the hospital where she’d awakened with a throbbing emptiness swelling inside her. She was all alone. So alone.

Another cry escaped her and she jerked awake, only to finally fall fitfully back to sleep and dream of the women callers, begging for help, their final cries ringing in her ears.

Then the killer was after her.

She was running blindly through the marsh, wondering if it really mattered if she lived or died…. So much had happened. She’d lost so much already.

She jerked upright, trembling and breathing hard, then froze, reminding herself her nightmares had held only partial truths. She reached for the picture frame and traced her fingers over the heart-shaped opening where her baby’s picture should have been. It was empty. Her baby was gone.

But Mark was still alive.

The woodsy scent he’d left behind wafted around her, and she gripped the tangled sheets with fisted hands.

Oh, Mark was very much alive.

Alive and strong and so damn masculine she wanted to scream every time she got near him. Scream for him to hold her, to take away the pain, to make love to her and magically change everything back to the way it used to be.

Dreaming of what could have been was futile.

Throwing off the covers, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and listened to the familiar early morning sounds that represented comfort and safety. The lull of the ocean outside. An occasional seagull soaring overhead. The whisper of the wind against the wooden frame.

This was her life now. Claire Kos—psychologist. Workaholic. Radio personality.

Loner.

Checking her clock, she realized she had only half an hour before Mark would arrive. Last night, they’d made plans to go to the police precinct and review the files on the victims before she met with her first patient. She headed to the shower, but she stumbled and nearly fell, barely catching herself on the rocking chair she normally kept in the corner.

It wasn’t in the corner anymore, but stood in the center of the bathroom doorway.

Someone had moved it.

Claire’s breath caught in her chest, a sick feeling sweeping over her. Then a strange odor assaulted her—a medicinal scent. Someone had been inside her cottage. Was he still there?

HE WANTED CLAIRE.

He’d wanted her for so long. Even with her eyes glassy-looking with pain, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Beautiful and strong and gutsy and…alone.

Just like Dianne Lyons and Beverly Bell.

Who did they think they were shunning him?

Claire had, too. Even though he had saved her once…

Yes, he had, and he could forgive her for turning away. If she’d only listen now. If only she’d come to him.

He watched her curtains flutter in the wind and wondered if she’d awakened. Did she know he’d slipped inside her cottage to watch her sleep? That he had almost reached out and soothed away her cries, had nearly touched that silky hair, had almost brushed his lips across hers when she’d tossed the covers in her nightmares.

He knew all about nightmares.

Just as he knew Claire’s hidden desires. Her need for comfort in spite of her fierce independent nature.

Her need for a strong man.

And he was strong. In spite of his injuries, the past few days he had proven he was still fit.

He brought one of her scarves to his mouth, closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, then imagined his lips tasting hers, imagined taking off his clothes, having her healing touch slide across his skin. With her, he would be whole again. And he would make her whole, too.

He would make her forget Mark Steele.

Claire would see it that way one day, too.

Until then, he’d have to be content to watch her from afar. And he’d take what he could from the others, proving his strength as his hands tightened around their slender throats, drawing the life from them….

Chapter Four

Mark hadn’t slept all night for thinking about Claire. He scrubbed a hand over his bleary eyes, parked in front of Claire’s cottage and climbed from his Thunderbird. Early morning sunlight fought for existence through the hazy sky. Mark could relate. Ever since he’d been carried from that prison camp and honorably discharged from the military, he felt as if he’d been slogging through a dark fog searching for his way.

Searching for a reason to live.

Claire.

Keeping her safe gave him purpose. But it was all tangled up with this new job and the past. Only she wanted nothing to do with him.

Perspiration dotted his forehead as he approached her front door. For just a moment, he allowed himself to move back in time. He had come to pick her up for their second date. He’d worn his uniform. She’d opened the door, her hair blowing in the breeze, her lips parted in invitation, her eyes lit with anticipation.

Tonight, those eyes wouldn’t be able to see him.

He braced himself for the disappointment, along with the war that raged within him over not touching her.

Finally, shaking off his own selfish need, he punched the doorbell. A second later, Claire appeared.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Mark.”

When she swung the door open, she was still wearing a white linen nightshirt that caught in the morning breeze and fluttered around her thighs. Sunlight shone through the sheer fabric, giving him a glimpse of her sleek body, of golden skin, narrow hips, a flat stomach, then lower to the heat that had once sated his desires.

God help him, but he wanted to push up that gown and sink himself inside her now.

“Mark…I’m not dressed.”

“Obviously. Do you always answer the door like that?”

She jerked her head up, defensive. “No.”

He was just about to lecture her on the fact that a killer was stalking Savannah when he noticed she was shaking. Her face was pale, too. “What’s wrong?”

“I…I think someone was in my cottage.”

He gripped the doorjamb, instincts alert. “When?”

“Now,” she whispered, “or…maybe last night.”

He instinctively drew her against him, using his body as a shield between her and the inside of the cabin. “Are they still inside?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Fury iced his veins. Of course she didn’t. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

“No, let me go with you.”

She clutched his arm, and for the first time since he’d seen her again, she held onto him. He hated that fear had brought them to this point. “All right, Claire, but stay behind me. And if I say run, you damn well better do it.”

She clung to the back of his shirt as he drew his weapon and moved inside, her body pressed against him. The living room was dark, as was the rest of the cottage. Claire didn’t need lights, a bitter reminder of her condition.

He scanned the kitchen, then moved to the bedroom, his throat working when he saw the tousled covers and imagined Claire stretched out on the pale yellow sheets. Had someone been inside, watching her sleep?

The room was empty, though. So was her tiny bathroom.

Finally, he lowered his gun and turned to her. She stumbled into him, then pushed away to regain her balance. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I was going to, but then you showed up.”

He paused, calming himself, reverting back to professional mode. “Why do you think someone was inside?”

She took a calming breath and squared her shoulders as if she realized she’d shown a weakness. “The chair in my bedroom was moved from the corner.”

He frowned.

“Someone had to have moved it,” she clarified as if she’d seen his expression. “It’s important that I keep everything in its place.”

He knew it cost her to admit that.

“And in my bathroom…” she said in a low voice. “My perfume, cosmetics, they were all moved around, left open on the counter.”

“Anything else?”

She nodded and hugged her arms around herself. “Some scarves were missing from my drawers.”

Mark gritted his teeth. The other women had been strangled with scarves. Had the intruder taken Claire’s as a memento or did he plan to use them to choke his next victim?

“And…” her voice broke. “I found a rose.”

Dammit. The killer had also left a crushed rose in each victim’s hand.

His stomach churned as he spotted the flower on Claire’s pillow. Was it some kind of calling card to let her know she would be his next victim?

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Detective Black arrived to process the crime scene, although he’d told Claire he doubted they’d find any fingerprints. She belted a robe around herself and made coffee, then clasped the cup to her while the men combed her cottage.

“You didn’t hear anyone last night or this morning?” Black asked.

Claire shook her head. “No. I…I don’t know how I missed hearing him. I’m a light sleeper.”

Mark grunted in disapproval. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Detective Black said. “As soon as we’re finished, I want you two at the station to review the case.”

Claire agreed, grateful when they allowed her to spray the air with freshener to absorb the pungent medicinal odor. Finally she took a shower. Taking refuge beneath the spray of hot water was heavenly, a place to gather her control, away from the all-knowing eyes of her former lover. She hated being vulnerable, hated having to admit she was unaware that someone had been in her bedroom while she was asleep.

The thought sent a chill through her that no amount of hot water could dissolve. She’d thought her other senses would compensate for her lack of sight.

Composing herself, she toweled off and dressed in a denim skirt and cotton blouse. Thankfully, the therapist at the rehab center had tagged her clothes, so she didn’t worry about looking mismatched. She blew her hair dry and twisted it into a clip, then added a hint of powder and mascara. Makeup was more difficult, but she’d practiced. A touch of lipstick came next. Heaven help her, but her hands were so shaky she almost missed her mouth.

Seconds later, she was seated in Mark’s car, the silence stretching between them as jarring as the juts in the road that led to Savannah.

“I really wish you’d leave town for a while,” Mark said as they entered the police station.

Now that the shock was wearing off, anger plucked at Claire. “I don’t intend to be victimized,” she said in a firm voice. “And when this man entered my house and moved my things around, that’s what he did.”

“Claire…”

Mark’s husky tone reeked of concern, tugging at feelings she didn’t want to revisit. “I’m not going to argue over this, Mark. Now, let’s look at those police reports. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

A sigh followed, his only reply.

Things turned even more awkward when they arrived at the station. She hated looking so helpless, having to take Mark’s arm as they climbed the steps.

Hated even more wanting not to release him.

Detective Black ushered them into a room, then spread the police reports of the two victims on the table. Mark began to study them, leaving her completely out of the loop and magnifying the fact that she was a burden now, not his equal.

“Read me the contents of the reports,” Claire said.

“You don’t need to know the details,” Mark said, that protective air vibrating around him.

Claire sighed. “How can I create a profile of the killer if I don’t know the facts?”

Mark hesitated, his reluctance obvious.

“You’ll have to be my eyes, Mark,” she said, frustrated that she needed him. “Now read me the report.”

He shuffled the papers, then read in a monotone. “The first victim, Dianne Lyons, was single, twenty-five, blond. She lived with her boyfriend and cat and worked as a waitress at a local diner in Savannah. She was found lying facedown in the sand at Serpent’s Cove, strangled and blindfolded with a scarf. Forensics is still analyzing the scarf.”

“What about the autopsy report?”

Mark exhaled in a rush. “Claire—”

“I need to know everything, Mark. I’m not going to fall apart.”

The papers rattled again. “Death by strangulation. No other injuries, no apparent signs of struggle, no foreign DNA found, including scrapings from under her fingernails.”

“So, she didn’t fight her attacker?”

“If she did, the M.E. didn’t find evidence. But she was injected with enough Percoset to make her sluggish, probably so she couldn’t fight.”

“That’s interesting. Some killers get off on watching their victims struggle.” Claire paused. “And Percoset? I wonder why the killer chose that particular drug and where he obtained it. Maybe he works in some kind of medical job, or perhaps he was injured and got hooked on pain killers while in treatment.”

“Or maybe he’s a junkie.” Mark drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll make sure we follow up on all those theories.”

“She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Do the police have any suspects?”

“Boyfriend’s alibi stands up. He was with another woman at the time.” Mark’s foot tapped on the floor. “They’re still questioning friends, relatives, acquaintances.”

“What about the second woman?” Claire asked. A surge of emotions crowded her throat at the thought of the poor motherless baby left behind.

“M.O. is the same. She was found facedown, blindfolded and strangled. Again no signs of struggle, no DNA found, no sign of sexual assault.”

“Suspects?”

“Husband claims he was in a business meeting in Charleston. His story checks out.”

“How about her co-workers?”

“Nothing so far, but they’re still being questioned.”

“And the women didn’t know each other, or run in the same circles?” Claire asked.

“No mutual friends or acquaintances that the police have discovered. Dianne rented a small apartment in the low-rent part of town, Beverly and her husband own a home in the historic district. Dianne ran with the working class, Beverly with the society crowd. No mutual clubs, volunteer organizations, hell, they didn’t even shop at the same clothing or grocery stores.”

“Odd.” Claire considered the information. “Usually a serial killer typecasts his victims to resemble the person he lost or his abuser.”

“I know.” Mark shifted. “Your show seems to be the only common factor so far.”

Claire bit her lip, the idea that she might have attracted the killer and led him to these women too daunting to fathom. No, the show hadn’t drawn him to kill; it was the other way around. He was using the show to flaunt the murders and gain publicity. “There has to be a connection. We just haven’t found it yet. Keep looking.” She paused. “Are there photos?”

Mark’s foot began tapping again, a sign of distress. “Yes.”

“Is there anything distinctive about the way the women are lying? Are they posed?”

He shuffled the photos, obviously spreading them across the table. “Both victims were lying facedown. Clothes were wrinkled and dirty, but again, no signs of sexual abuse.”

“Are their arms behind them, above their heads?”

Mark sighed. “Stretched above their heads.”

“Hmm, they’re lying facedown, as if they’re ashamed of themselves, even in death.”

Mark stilled beside her. She could feel the tension in his body. And as much as she detested doing it, in order to understand the killer, she had to get inside his head. Try to think like he would.

“He calls them bad girls,” Mark said. “But these women aren’t prostitutes.”

“Still, they’re not perfect in his eyes.” Claire shifted. “The fact that there’s no sexual abuse is interesting. It suggests he may be impotent or disabled in some way. And the way the hands are stretched above them, it shows his sense of control and power, and their lack of it. He wants them to be submissive. He gets off on proving how strong he is.”

Mark’s tapping became faster as he continued examining the photos. “Dammit.”

Claire’s hands tightened in her lap. “What is it?”

“The rose. It’s red just like the one on your pillow this morning, except this one is dead, crushed, the petals scattered around her body in the sand.”

Claire inhaled sharply. So it was the killer who had been in her cottage. Why had he left her a live rose when he’d left his victims holding a dead one?

MARK FISTED his hands around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The killer had definitely been in Claire’s bedroom watching her sleep this morning, touching her things, dropping a flower on her pillow as if marking her as his next victim. He’d known it, but seeing the photographs of the women in death had still sent a shock of reality through him. For a moment, Claire’s face had replaced those of the victims.

He’d damn near lost it.

Grappling for control, he reminded himself that the killer hadn’t warned any of the other victims. Maybe he didn’t plan to murder Claire, maybe he was just using her….

He wished to hell he could believe it.

Tires squealed as he took the turn. Claire’s hands were clenched around the seat belt, her sightless eyes wide and staring into space. Guilt forced him to slow the car; he was scaring her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s going to be all right, Mark.”

He tossed out a sardonic chuckle. “How can you be so calm?”

“You’re frantic enough for both of us.”

He laughed again, but his laughter held no humor. Claire had always been calm in the face of a storm, the reason she was such a good psychologist, where he’d let his temper rule his actions.

Except on the battlefield. He had to rein in his emotions to do his job, and he had done it. The controlled soldier, meticulous with details, focused on the hunt when tracking down a war criminal, religious about tamping his personal feelings.

Except for the night he’d lost his men. Then he’d fallen apart.

But he had to maintain his control now.

Because Claire was involved. This battle was personal. She was in danger.

“You can drop me off at the center,” Claire said quietly.

“Not a chance, Claire. I’m going in to start questioning the staff.”

“Oh…right.”

He neared the Coastal Island Research Park’s main facility, and slowed, frowning at the cluster of people gathered around the front steps. “Is the center hosting some special event today?”

“No, why?”

“There’s a crowd out front.” He parked and cut off the engine, scanning the group. “Dammit. The press is here, too.” He opened the car door, furious. Claire stepped out with her cane, and he halted. “Wait here, Claire, let me see what’s going on.”

“This is my business environment, Mark. I’m going with you.”

He scrubbed his hand over his chin and met her in front of the car, then grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then hold on.”

She tensed, but finally acquiesced, and he led them through the throng until they were close enough to hear the speaker. He recognized Ian Hall, the Director of CIRP, from the photos Devlin had shown him. Cameras were trained on him, while he held a microphone in his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time today,” Hall said. “On behalf of CIRP, I want to publicly express our concern over the two young women who phoned Dr. Claire Kos. She’s a valuable member of our team, and has done an outstanding job combining her practice and lecturing on various topics, the very reason she was chosen to host the radio talk show. CIRP is doing everything in our power to help the police investigate these violent deaths.”

“Although the police haven’t verified they’re dealing with a serial killer,” a lanky reporter said, “all evidence suggests that fact.”

“I heard they’re calling him the Midnight Murderer,” another reporter said.

More reporters jumped in, shouting questions at once.

“Is Dr. Kos available to speak to us?”

“Yes, where is she?”

“Does Dr. Kos know the identity of the Midnight Murderer?”

Mark shoved Claire behind him. “I can’t believe this. He’s milking the crimes to get publicity for CIRP.”

“I can assure you,” Hall continued, “Dr. Kos is doing everything possible to assist the police. I will arrange an interview for her when we speak again.”

“Like hell you will,” Mark muttered.

A tall reporter in front of him turned and noticed Claire’s cane. Seconds before she pounced, her eyes turned hawkish. “Dr. Kos is here now! Let’s hear what she has to say.”

The other reporters elbowed their way toward them like vultures. Mark encircled Claire with his arm and pushed through the crowd. “Dr. Kos has no comment.”

“Mark—”

“Come on, Claire, you’re not going public.”

He dragged her up the stairs, fending off hands and microphones, then shot Ian Hall a threatening look. “Get inside, Hall, we have to talk.”

Hall gaped, but recovered enough to paste on a smile for the camera. “That’s all for today, but thank you for coming. We’ll keep you posted.”

One of the reporters grabbed Mark’s arm. “Sir, are you a policeman? FBI?”

“He’s Mark Steele,” another reporter shouted. “He’s the guy who survived that explosion overseas.”

Mark gripped Claire harder. Dammit, he hadn’t thought about being recognized.

“Lt. Steele, can you tell us what happened to your men?”

Mark gritted his teeth and pushed the horde of reporters away.

“Mark?” Claire angled her head to him in question.

He had refused all interviews so far. He didn’t intend to talk now and open his wounds to the public.

“Get inside, Claire,” he barked.

Hall ducked inside behind Mark as the crowd moved forward. Mark shut the door, then yelled at a security guard to bar anyone from entering.

Ignoring the reporters’ references to himself and pleas to talk to Claire, he turned to Hall. “What the hell are you trying to do, get Claire killed?”

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