Midnight Disclosures

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.”