He held her tight, pillowing his face on her hair again, inhaling her scent, imprinting it on his memory. Lace curtains billowing in the breeze, vanilla and cinnamon, splashing barefoot through puddles after a summer shower. This was the essence of Hart. No amount of dirt or grime could mask it, not from him.
How could she stand to be with a fool like him? A man who'd been careless before with fragile feelings offered to him, even if they had been offered by a deluded, unbalanced woman.
More than ever he regretted his poor judgment. The irresponsible, immature recklessness that had led to the mistakes he'd made with Pamela. It was easy to blame it on the drink, but Drake knew the real fault lay within himself. His shame over the man he'd once been now left him nauseous, as if he'd been contaminated by some bilious disease.
As if he might contaminate her by staying close. Selfish bastard, he berated himself.
This is your fight, not hers. You need to finish what you started
.
"Pamela died a year tomorrow," he told her, moving away from her comfort. She followed, placing a single hand on the small of his back, letting him know she wasn't shrinking from his words. That he allowed her hand to remain shamed him further. "Someone has gone to great lengths to be certain I don't forget that fact."
"Strange letters? Threats?" she asked.
He looked at her. Maybe he wasn't as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. "How did you know?"
"Tony Spanos told me he was getting them too. Said he thought they came from Pamela's sister but he couldn't prove it, couldn't track her down."
A surge of anger flared through him. Spanos talked to Hart about this? What the hell was the man thinking, dragging her into this? He almost told her what Jimmy found, that Spanos was his number one suspect. Stopped himself just in time. Hart considered Spanos a friend, casting suspicion on him without proof would only drive a wedge between them. Exactly what Spanos wanted.
She was silent for a moment. "Does Jimmy know?"
"I told him this afternoon." He turned to her once more, taking her hands in his. "Now can you see why we need to leave here? Tonight? After tomorrow I can track this actor down, take all the time in the world–but until then–"
"You're not safe here," she finished for him. "You need to go to the Lake," she continued, nodding as if explaining that two plus two made four, as if it were that simple for a man to turn tail and run, abandoning her.
He shook his head. "No.
We
have to go. I am not going to leave you here."
"I can't go," she said in that firm way of hers that broached no argument.
He inhaled, the air searing through his lungs as hot as the anger threatening to spill over onto her. Damn Spanos for putting him in this position. And Hart, who gave so much to perfect strangers—why couldn't she give him this one thing? "Why not? What's so important that you can't leave for a few days–if only to give me some peace of mind? I've seen you put your life at risk to help a friend or a patient. Why can't you do this for me?"
"I want to. Believe me, I wish I could, but I need to–"
"No but, just do it!" Her eyes hardened at his impervious tone. He forced himself to soften his voice. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Might as well ask why the sky was blue. It just was. Nothing he did would ever change it. Or Hart.
But he needed her to see reason. He grabbed her wrists. "Goddamn it, Hart! This is not a game. I mean it. Get your things. We're going, now!"
Her eyes blazed at that and she broke his grip with a quick movement. "Get your hands off me!"
God, how could he be so stupid? Laying hands on her when he was angry. After what she'd been through with King…
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
She wouldn't look at him. Her eyes focused on his hands, her body shifted automatically into a defensive stance. As if he could ever, would ever hurt her.
He sucked his breath in, blinked against an angry burning that blurred his vision. "I have to go. If you–" He shied away from the L word, afraid it would push her farther away. "If you care at all for me, if you want to help me, you'll come too."
For a split second he thought she would change her mind, come with him. She still wouldn't meet his eyes, stared down at the floor, head bowed, hair curtaining her face, an impenetrable shroud.
"I'm sorry. I can't–"
Pain and anger drove him out the door before she could finish. But what kept him from turning back was pure fear.
Blood swirled through his vision as the images his stalker planted in his mind played in a macabre slideshow. Pamela dead. Drake dead. But the one image he couldn't let go of, that made him so dizzy he almost tripped down the steps, was the one his own imagination created: Hart dead.
If he stayed, she was in danger.
He had no choice. He had to go. His stalker would follow him. It was the only way to keep her safe.
CHAPTER 12
Cassie watched in disbelief as the door slammed behind Drake. He was leaving her. Just like that. No chance for her to get a word in edgewise and he was out the door.
Her own face, enhanced by Drake's talent, looked back at her from every corner of the studio. If it had been her reflection in mirrors she would have gleefully shattered them all. But they were Drake's vision, the product of his talent, and Cassie couldn't vent her fury on them.
She ran from the studio to the front window in the living room just in time to see Drake's Mustang fishtail its way out of the parking lot. She crossed into the bedroom to watch the twin taillights run the stop sign at the end of the street, then lost them in the lights of the city.
Should have found a way to explain, to make him understand why she couldn't leave.
But he hadn't given her a chance, had he? And when he grabbed her, she'd let her own anger and fear take over. She sank onto his bed, hugged her knees to her chest. Her eyes ached as if she should be crying but no tears came. The high ceilings of Drake's bedroom gathered shadows, shrouding her in darkness.
She understood why Drake couldn't stay. Hell, she told him to leave. It was the look of hurt and disappointment in his eyes that haunted her. Truth was, maybe she needed some distance to sort all this out.
For about the millionth time, she entertained doubts about continuing her relationship with Drake. It felt like all too often she failed him—usually when he needed her most. Just as she failed everyone she loved, no matter how hard she tried.
Cassie, I need you to be strong.
Her father's last words to her echoed through the dim room. If she closed her eyes, his face, shattered by pain after the car accident filled her mind. Followed by others—Mary Eamon, for one. And Richard, a tragic mistake she was still paying for.
She stripped free of her ruined clothes and took a long, cool shower in Drake's oversized claw foot tub. The ghosts of her failures followed. When she was twelve her father had needed her to get him help in time. Now Drake needed her to go with him, Mary Eamon needed her to stay here and bring her justice…they all needed something from Cassie, but she couldn't save everyone. All she could do was try.
She dried off, threw the towel over the shower curtain then stopped. Drake liked his towels hung neatly on the rack behind the door. The least she could do, seeing as how she couldn't give him what he really wanted.
Swallowing her pain, she quickly dressed in a tank top and pair of khaki shorts, then left to spend the evening dissecting the murder of a three-year-old little girl.
<><><>
Drake drove the Mustang with the top down, radio blasting. He took the back roads to avoid the other Friday evening travelers, people rushing to get anywhere but where they were. He understood their need; he often felt that same restlessness. New faces, new thrills, new places. It was one of the things that attracted him to law enforcement.
He hadn't had those restless feelings as much lately. Not since he'd met Hart. With her he finally felt content to stay where he was. Maybe he'd grown up at last? He always thought he'd be disappointed to see the same face day after day, to be with the same woman this long, but he didn't feel that way at all. At least not until tonight.
They had plenty of arguments before—her stubbornness and independence assured that. As far as he could tell, he did little to provoke them. Well, maybe that wasn't fair. They were both adults, used to living on their own, doing things their own way. They had both made compromises in this relationship. But he'd never seen her so adamant, unwilling to bend, to address his needs. It made him wonder if he meant as much to Hart as she did to him.
Drake thought about that as he drove, replaying the argument in his mind. The only lights came from a farmhouse in the distance, the road curving gently between fields of corn. It hadn't really been an argument, he realized. More like a tirade. He hadn't given her much chance to explain her reasons, had he?
Maybe because he was disappointed she hadn't put his needs first? Hart knew better than anyone how Pamela's suicide had affected him. He didn't need her sympathy—and he certainly didn't want her pity. Maybe this whole situation was a warning, a red flag he had grown too complacent. Expecting Hart to know his needs and wants without him saying anything—wasn't that every man's fantasy? Is that really what he wanted in a woman: a security blanket rather than a partner?
Drake shook his head, stirring his headache into a fierce primal pounding. Life used to be so much easier. Go out, find a girl, have a few drinks, a few laughs, go home and have sex, part ways in the morning. No ties, no complications. Of course that was what he'd had with Pamela, and look how that ended up.
Two hours later he pulled into his aunt's driveway. He sat in the car for a few minutes, still thinking hard. Who was he running from? Pamela? Hart? His anonymous stalker? Or himself?
The door to the two-story cottage opened. Nellie and his mother emerged, smiling to greet him. Drake pushed all thoughts of other women aside as he got out of the car and went to hug them.
"Remy, it's so good to see you. It's been so long," Muriel Drake gushed, using her pet name for him. "Where's Cassie?"
Nellie joined them on the driveway as Drake grabbed his overnight bag from the trunk.
"Think it might rain?" he asked. "Maybe I should put the top up."
"No rain this weekend," Nellie promised, taking Drake's other arm as they walked into the house. Drake's uncle would be joining them tomorrow. He dropped his bag in the foyer and walked with Nellie and his mother through to the kitchen. The back of the house faced the lake with a deck coming off the dining room and an enclosed porch off the kitchen. There Nellie had a picnic table set with four places.
"You two go sit," she told Drake and his mother. "I'll get dinner. Muriel made a pasta salad and we have fresh bread. We thought you wouldn't be very hungry with the heat and all." Nellie busied herself in the kitchen while Drake and Muriel went into the sun porch.
Drake stood at the screen door looking out over the back yard and dock. The lights of other houses and several boats reflected from the water. Further out the lake was dark, but he could hear the sound of the water lapping against the dock. He kept his back turned from his mother but he knew what she was thinking as she removed the extra place setting.
"We didn't have a fight," he lied, answering her silent question. "She got busy at the Center."
"Did I ask?" Muriel came up and gave him another hug. "It's so good to have you here."
Drake kissed her on the cheek. "Hey," he called out to Nellie. "Where's my other best girl?" He moved into the kitchen. "When do we eat around here? A man could die of starvation."
"You won't get anything until you get out of my kitchen," Nellie waved him back onto the porch. She brought a tray with a loaf of bread, a bowl of pasta salad and three bottles of beer out and joined them at the picnic table.
"Cheers." Nellie lifted her bottle of beer in a toast before they began to eat.
They clinked bottles and Drake smiled. His aunt was the only person he knew who could turn drinking a bottle of beer into a refined occasion. That was one of the things he loved most about her, her aptitude for putting people at ease. It was one of the talents that had made her such a good journalist. But that was a long time ago. He looked closely at his mother and aunt and for the first time realized they were growing old. For a moment he felt the cold hand of mortality grip him as well.
Suddenly he wished more than anything he was back in the city, despite the heat, despite the danger. No, it wasn't the city he missed. It was Hart, plain and simple.
He took another sip of beer but it tasted bitter in his mouth. The urge to apologize to Hart was so great he excused himself from the table and tried to call her. No answer and when the voice mail came on, he couldn't fumble the right words out. All he could manage was, "I miss you. Please call."
He hung up, clutching the cell phone like it was a lifeline to Hart. Willing it to ring. It didn't. His mother's laughter called him back to the other room. He forced a smile for their sake, wishing he could do better.
CHAPTER 13
"Start at the beginning," Assistant District Attorney Lisa Dimeo instructed Cassie between bites of her Primanti Brothers' Reuben.
They were in Lisa's tiny office whose only saving grace was that it had a ceiling fan. With a wheezing noise that occasionally grew into a sickly cough, the blades strained against the heavy air.
Cassie pushed the reams of paper on the desk to one side, making space for her own turkey and prosciutto. "Why? You've read all the reports."
"Because I think we might lose this one and that thought makes me want to puke, all right? You were there. Maybe there's something I can use, something not in the reports. Don't leave anything out."
Last thing Cassie wanted to think of was that day. That sun-filled, crisp January day that still haunted her dreams. When Mary Eamon arrived at Three Rivers Medical Center's ER.