Explosive Attraction (6 page)

“Seat belt,” he ordered, clicking his into place and starting the engine.

Darby shot him an irritated glance because of his latest order, but her efforts were wasted because he didn’t bother to look at her. Instead, he kept
looking in his mirrors, and studying every car in the parking lot. As soon as her seat belt was on, he pulled out of the parking space.

He started forward, just as a man stepped out from beside another car and stood in the lane about fifty feet ahead of them. He motioned for them to stop. But instead of slowing, Rafe hit the accelerator, making the truck leap forward. The man had to jump
out of the way to avoid being run down.

Darby gasped in shock and turned in her seat to look behind them. The man was standing in the middle of the lane again, his hands fisted beside him. Even in the dim parking lot lights, Darby could see the mask of fury on his face.

“Who was that?”

Rafe glanced in his rearview mirror before answering. “That was Jake.” He didn’t pause at the
stop sign onto the main road. The truck’s tires squealed as he turned south.

“Who’s Jake?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Jake Young is a detective, and a bomb tech. He’s the man with the gun we were hiding from at the hospital. You probably don’t remember seeing him in the stairwell since you were basically catatonic at the time.”

She rolled her eyes at his “catatonic”
comment. “The one who was trying to help us, right? He was searching for the bomber?”

He grunted noncommittally.

“Why didn’t you stop back there?”

When he finally looked at her, she sucked in her breath, shocked at the raw pain and bitterness stamped across his face.

“Jake was my wife’s brother. He blames me for her death.”

Chapter Six

The two double beds in Darby’s motel room boasted neon green coverlets with palm fronds and brightly colored parrots. Beach-scene prints decorated the walls. The carpet was a faded royal blue. The room screamed “cheap,” but thankfully, when Darby stepped into the tiny bathroom to take a look, it was blessedly clean. Bright white subway tiles reflected the overhead light
without a hint of mildew or grime.

She stepped back into the main room. “Which room will you be in?”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “You thought I was staying in a separate room?”

She folded her arms. “Yes, of course. It’s not like we’re...you know...courting.”

“‘Courting’?” His grin widened. “Do people really say that in this century?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

His smile faded, and in four long strides he was standing in front of her, his usual serious expression firmly in place. “I can’t protect you from another room. Like it or not, we’re stuck together until the bomber is caught.”

The thought of him sleeping in a bed a few feet away had her belly tightening. A memory flashed through her mind...his hard lips molding to hers, his warm hand
caressing her bottom as he pulled her close, his body hardening against her. Her breath caught in her throat.

He cocked his head, studying her. “The psychiatrist said you didn’t remember what happened when you were in the trance. Is it starting to come back?”

Come back? She’d never forgotten. She’d been frozen, unable to move or respond, but she’d been aware of everything around her.
And she hadn’t forgotten. She’d just been too embarrassed to admit it.

She remembered
everything.

He took a step toward her, then another. “In the ceiling, when we heard the gunman below us, you whimpered. I had to kiss you, to silence you. And then I—”

“Stop,” she whispered.

He gently lifted her chin. “You
do
remember.”

“I don’t... I don’t want to...” She licked her lips,
her gaze falling to his mouth. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His hands moved to her shoulders. He braced his legs on each side of her, surrounding her with his heat. “When I...touched you...”

She leaned toward him. “Yes?”

His thumbs traced small patterns on her shoulders, making her shiver with longing.

“I need you to understand,” he said, his voice rough, raspy. He cleared
his throat. “I was only trying to shock you into moving. You realize that, right? I was trying to protect you. I wasn’t...” He rested his forehead against hers.

Darby slid her hands up his chest. “You weren’t...what?” she whispered.

He shuddered and took a step back, then another. “I wasn’t trying to take advantage. I apologize.”

Darby blinked. Rafe stood two feet in front of her,
looking chagrined. What had just happened? He’d caressed her shoulders. His voice had thickened when he spoke to her.

Had she imagined that?

Apparently she had. But she certainly hadn’t imagined her own reaction. She’d wanted, needed, to touch him, and had desperately wanted him to touch her in return. She twisted her fingers together. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Lack of sleep had muddled
her mind. She had actually convinced herself that Detective Rafe Morgan, a man who’d never made any pretense at even liking her, was attracted to her—and that she was attracted to him.

How humiliating.

If the floor had opened up beneath her right now she would have gladly jumped in the hole.

No matter how tight and dark it was.

“No problem.” She struggled to sound nonchalant.
“I understand you were just trying to protect me. And of course it makes sense for you to stay in this room with me. After all, you
are
my babysitter.”

He frowned and looked as though he wanted to argue, but she grabbed her suitcase and swept past him.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

* * *

A
FTER
SPENDING
ALL
DAY
and all night cooped up in the motel room, Darby was more than ready
to go somewhere else, anywhere else. Still, the police station wouldn’t have been her first choice. But Rafe wanted her to meet with the sketch artist this morning.

The sprawling complex off U.S. 1 that housed the police department was almost a second home for Darby. She’d been in the driver’s license office next door a couple of times. She’d been at the courthouse as an expert witness too
many times to count. And she was often in the police station to be interviewed by the detectives, including Rafe.

But she’d never been in the police station as a witness to a crime, until today.

The sketch artist sat across from Darby now. Sandy seemed nice enough, but Darby still couldn’t relax. The idea of trying to describe a man who’d tried to kill her, and was still out there somewhere,
had her clutching her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. The confidence she normally felt deserted her. “The nose is wrong, but I can’t figure out why.”

Sandy picked up her eraser and rubbed it across the drawing, leaving a white open area on the page where the nose used to be. “Take all the time you need.”

“His nose looked a lot like mine,” Rafe said from the doorway. “Except
it was slightly crooked at the end, if that helps.” He was holding a large, brown paper sack and a cardboard drink carrier with three cups. He set them on the desk. “The guys finally brought subs. Sorry it took so long to get lunch.”

Sandy watched him closely, studying his face as her pencil moved across the pad of paper on her lap. She sketched in a new nose on the drawing, then held it
up for Darby’s inspection. “Better?”

A chill swept through Darby. Until now, the sketch hadn’t seemed like a real person’s likeness. But now, looking at that familiar face, all the fear and helplessness she’d felt in the boat, the marsh, the hospital, came crashing back.

Her throat was too tight to speak, so she gave a small nod.

A thoughtful look crossed Rafe’s face. As if coming
to a decision, he pulled one of the sandwiches out of the bag and held it out to Sandy. “Would you mind eating somewhere else? I’d like a few moments alone with Dr. Steele.”

“No problem, Detective Morgan. I could use a break anyway.” Sandy rose from the chair behind the desk, leaving her pad and pencil. She grabbed her soda and sandwich. “I’ll be back in, what, half an hour?”

“That’ll
work,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Thanks for lunch.” She raised the sub in salute and left the office.

Rafe closed the door behind her, moved one of the sandwiches to the edge of the desk so Darby could reach it and sat down across from her. “I ordered you a diet soda. Forgot to ask what you wanted to drink, but I figured diet was safe. My sisters love the stuff so I took the chance you might,
too.”

She smiled her thanks and scooted her chair closer so she could use the desk as a table. They ate in silence, and it wasn’t until she finished her sub that she realized she’d practically inhaled her food.

Rafe’s blue eyes lit with amusement, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Don’t be embarrassed. Your manners were impeccable.” He laughed when she scowled at him. “You had to
be hungry. You haven’t eaten since we ordered room service around this time yesterday.”

She wiped her mouth and set her napkin down. “What about you?” She waved at his half-eaten sandwich, which he hadn’t touched in several minutes. “Aren’t you hungry? Are you feeling okay? The concussion—”

“The concussion is not an issue. I don’t even have a headache anymore. Besides, I snacked earlier
on some vending machine food.”

She tossed her sandwich wrapper in the garbage can. “Were you able to find anything out about the investigation? Are there any leads?”

“I’ll answer that in a minute. First, you have something important to take care of.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket and held it out to her.

“What’s this for?” she asked, hesitantly taking the phone.

“With everything happening so fast, I didn’t think to offer earlier.”

“Offer what?”

“To let you call your family. They have to be worried about you. Even though your name wasn’t released to the press, the location of the warehouse bombing was. And your family has to be worried that your office was just across the street, especially since they haven’t heard from you.” He stood. “Is ten
minutes enough time?”

He was halfway to the door when she called out to him. “Wait, I don’t... I don’t need ten minutes. I don’t even need one. But...thanks. Really, I appreciate it.”

A look of understanding crossed his face as he took the phone and sat down again. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t have a family. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

“No, I...ah, have a family.
I just don’t...” She awkwardly cleared her throat. “You said you were going to tell me about the investigation.”

He studied her, looking thoughtful.

She tried to sit still without squirming under his scrutiny. Her family situation was complicated, and not something she wanted to discuss, especially with Rafe Morgan.

“Actually,” he said, “I want your help on another part of the investigation,
aside from the sketch.”

Darby let out a relieved breath.

Rafe pulled his chair around the side of the desk next to hers and rested his forearms on his knees. “The fingerprints from the hospital confirm that Daniels and Buresh were both attacked by the same perp.”

She frowned. “Did you think there was more than one?”

“We can’t make assumptions. That’s when mistakes happen. Unfortunately,
the fingerprints didn’t come up in our local database or in the FBI database. That means our perpetrator hasn’t been in the system before. So, we’re no closer to knowing who he is. But if we can get a list of suspects together, we’ll be able to exclude based on those prints.” He shrugged. “It’s a start.”

“You said you thought I could help. How?”

“You’re the common link. The bomber sent
the first envelope to you. And then he left an envelope at the scene with your picture in it, when he abducted you.”

She blinked at the reminder and tightened her hands on the arms of the chair. “Go on.”

He studied her for a moment, as if to decide whether she was going to fall apart or not. “Since he doesn’t know where you are,” he continued, “we believe he’ll move on to another victim
soon. When he does, I’d like to be ahead of the game, with a list of potential suspects. That’s where you come in. There has to be a connection between you and the bomber. Is there anyone you’ve had an argument with recently, someone who might think of you as their enemy?”

“Honestly, there are probably a lot of people who think of me as their enemy.”

His brows rose.

“Don’t look
so surprised,” she said. “I told you I get a few threats every year. I’m a psychologist, and an expert witness. Both of those roles pit me against plenty of people, from clients’ families who don’t think I did enough to help their loved ones, to families of victims in court cases where I testified on behalf of the accused. It’s a long list. The best thing to do is to get my laptop from my office.
All of my active cases are on there. And my backup external drive has older cases. I need my computer anyway, so I can review the appointments that have to be canceled, and arrange referrals for my clients until I can return to work.”

Some of his earlier enthusiasm waned. “Just how long a list are we talking about?”

“I’ve been a practicing psychologist for six years, worked with hundreds
of clients.”

“Our bomber is angry,” Rafe said. “Something happened recently to set him off. I’m assuming the bomber and your kidnapper are the same person for now, so let’s limit our search to males only. And let’s focus on the past six months. How many cases then?”

“I disagree with your timeline assumption. People can hold grudges for a long time. Sometimes, the anger builds over time
rather than diminishes. Especially if someone is mentally unbalanced.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’d say our bomber is definitely unbalanced, or he wouldn’t be running around trying to kill people.” His jaw tightened. “But of course, that doesn’t mean he’s legally insane and can get off without doing time for murder once we do catch him.”

She sighed and chose to ignore his unsubtle
barb, his implication that she might jump on his statement and use it to get the bomber a lighter sentence. “I’m just saying that if you focus on the past six months, you might rule out someone who feels he was wronged much longer ago than that, maybe years. But until now he either didn’t have a plan or the means to execute his plan, or something happened recently to trigger his behavior.”

He cocked his head, looking thoughtful. “Let’s assume we go back twelve months. How many clients are we talking about then?”

She shrugged. “I’ve personally treated dozens of clients in the past year. Add in the court cases where I’ve consulted and testified, both here and in neighboring cities like Jacksonville, maybe a hundred. And of course you’d have to consider the family members as potential
suspects, too.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s better than what I had before, which was absolutely nothing. Let’s go find Sandy and finish that sketch. Then you can give me your keys and I’ll get that laptop and hard drive from your office.”

“You aren’t going to my office without me. And you aren’t looking at my files without a court order.”

“Are you seriously going to force
me to subpoena your files? That’s a huge waste of time.”

“I could lose my license. I have to respect my clients’ privacy.”

He shook his head, not looking happy. “Fine, I’ll have one of the guys get a court order. In the meantime, I’m still going to be the one to go get your files for you—even if I’m not looking at them yet. There’s a guy out there trying to kill you. You aren’t going
anywhere near your house or your office until we catch him. You can wait here while I go.”

“It’s not that simple. I’ll need my appointment book, my files on other psychologists so I can work on referrals, my notes from recent meetings and therapy sessions that haven’t been put into the computer yet. There’s no way I’ll be able to explain where all of that is, or exactly what to look for.”