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  on some social register. People who lived in houses like this usually had roman numerals after their names.

  Boyd Fletcher III.

  She was just Priscilla Alice O’Roarke, formerly from a backwater town in Georgia that wasn’t even a smudge on the map. True, she had made something of herself, by herself. But you never really pulled out your roots.

  Rising, she walked over to toss her cigarette in the fireplace.

  She wished he would hurry. She wanted to get out of this house, get back to work. She wanted to forget about the mess her life was suddenly in.

  She had to think about herself. Where she was going. How she was going to get through the long days and longer nights until her life was settled again. She didn’t have the time, she couldn’t afford the luxury of exploring her feelings for Boyd. Whatever she had felt, or thought she was feeling, was best ignored.

  If ever there were two people more mismatched, she couldn’t imagine them. Perhaps he had stirred something in her, touched something she’d thought could never be touched again. It meant nothing. It only proved that she was alive, still functioning as a human being. As a woman.

  It would begin and end there.

  The minute whoever was threatening her was caught, they would go their separate ways, back to their separate lives. Whatever closeness they had now was born of necessity. When the necessity passed, they would move apart and forget. Nothing, she reminded herself, lasted forever.

  She was standing by the windows when he came back. The light was in her hair, on her face. He had never imagined her there, but somehow, when he looked, when he saw her, he knew he’d wanted her there.

  It left him shaken, it left him aching to see how perfectly she fit into his home. Into his life. Into his dreams.

  She would argue about that, he thought. She would struggle and fight and run like hell if he gave her the chance. He smiled as he crossed to her. He just wouldn’t give her the chance.

  “Cilla.”

  Startled, she whirled around. “Oh. I didn’t hear you. I was—”

  The words were swallowed by a gasp as he yanked her against him and imprisoned her mouth.

  Earthquakes, floods, wild winds. How could she have known that a kiss could be grouped with such devastating natural disasters?

  She didn’t want this. She wanted it more than she wanted to breathe. She had to push him away. She pulled him closer. It was wrong, it was madness. It was right, it was beautifully mad.

  As she pressed against him, as her mouth answered each frenzied demand, she knew that everything she had tried to convince herself of only moments before was a lie. What need was there to explore her feelings when they were all swimming to the surface?

  She needed him. However much that might terrify her, for now the knowledge and the acceptance flowed through her like wine. It seemed she had waited a lifetime to need like this. To feel like this. Trembling and strong, dazed and clear-eyed, pliant and taut as a wire.

  His hands whispered over the leather as he molded her against him. Couldn’t she see how perfectly they fitted? He wanted to hear her say it, to hear her moan it, that she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her.

  She did moan as he drew her head back to let his lips race down her throat. The thudding of her pulse heated the fragrance she’d dabbed there. Groaning as it tangled in his senses, he dragged at the snaps of her jacket. Beneath he found nothing but Cilla.

  She arched back, her breath catching in her throat as he captured her breasts. At his touch it seemed they filled with some hot, heavy liquid. When her knees buckled, she gripped his shoulders for balance, shuddering as his thumbs teased her nipples into hard, aching peaks.

  Mindlessly she reached for him, diving into a deep, intimate kiss that had each of them swaying. She tugged at his jacket, desperate to touch him as he touched her. Her hand slid over the leather of his holster and found his weapon.

  It was like a slap, like a splash of ice water. As if burned, she snatched her hand away and jerked back. Unsteady, she pressed the palm of her hand against a table and shook her head.

  “This is a mistake.” She paced her words slowly, as if she were drunk. “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “Too late.” He felt as if he’d slammed full tilt into a wall.

  “No.” With deliberate care, she snapped her jacket again. “It’s not too late. I have a lot on my mind. So do you.”

  He struggled for the patience that had always been part of his nature. For the first time in days he actively craved a cigarette. “And?”

  “And nothing. I think we should go.”

  He didn’t move toward her or away, but simply held up a hand. “Before we do, are you going to tell me you don’t feel anything?”

  She made herself look at him. “It would be stupid to pretend I’m not attracted to you. You already know you affect me.”

  “I want to bring you back here tonight.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t afford, even for an instant, to imagine what it would be like to be with him. “I can’t. There are reasons.”

  “You’ve already told me there isn’t anyone else.” He stepped toward her now, but he didn’t touch her. “If there was, I wouldn’t give a damn.”

  “This has nothing to do with other men. It has to do with me.”

  “Exactly. Why don’t you tell me what you’re afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of picking up the phone.” It was true, but it wasn’t the reason. “I’m afraid of going to sleep, and I’m afraid of waking up.”

  He touched her then, just a fingertip to her cheek. “I know what you’re going through, and believe me, I’d do anything to make it go away. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re backing away from me.”

  “I have others.”

  “Give me one.”

  Annoyed, she walked over to grab her purse. “You’re a cop.”

  “And?”

  She tossed her head up. “So was my mother.” Before he could speak, she was striding back into the foyer to get her coat.

  “Cilla—”

  “Just back off, Boyd. I mean it.” She shoved her arms into her coat. “I can’t afford to get churned up like this before a show. For God’s sake, my life’s screwed up enough right now without this. If you can’t let it alone, I’ll call your captain and tell him I want someone else assigned. Now you can take me to the mall or I can call a cab.”

  One more push and she’d be over the edge, he thought. This wasn’t the time for her to take that tumble. “I’ll take you,” he said. “And I’ll back off. For now.”

  Chapter 6

  He was a man of his word, Cilla decided. For the rest of that day, and all of the next, they discussed nothing that didn’t relate directly to the case.

  He wasn’t distant. Far from it. He stuck with her throughout her remote at the mall, subtly screening all the fans who approached her for a word or an autograph, all the winners who accepted their T-shirts or their albums.

  It even seemed to Cilla that he enjoyed himself. He browsed through the record racks, buying from the classical, pop and jazz sections, chatted with the engineer about baseball and kept her supplied with a steady supply of cold soft drinks in paper cups.

  He talked, but she noted that he didn’t talk to her, not the way she’d become accustomed to. They certainly had conversations, polite and impersonal conversations. And not once, not even in the most casual of ways, did he touch her.

  In short, he treated her exactly the way she’d thought she wanted to be treated. As an assignment, and nothing more.

  While he seemed to take the afternoon in stride, even offering to buy her a burger between the end of the remote and the time she was expected back in the studio, she was certain she’d never spent a more miserable afternoon in her life.

  It was Althea who sat with her in the booth over her next two shifts, and it was Althea who monitored the calls. Why Boyd’s silence, and his absence, made it that much more difficult f
or her to concentrate, Cilla couldn’t have said.

  It was probably some new strategy, she decided as she worked. He was ignoring her so that she would break down and make the first move. Well, she wouldn’t. She hit her audience with Bob Seger’s latest gritty rock single and stewed.

  She’d wanted their relationship to be strictly professional, and he was accommodating her. But he didn’t have to make it seem so damned easy.

  Undoubtedly what had happened between them—or what had almost happened between them—hadn’t really meant that much to him. That was all for the best. She would get over it. Whatever it was. The last thing she needed in her life was a cop with a lazy smile who came from a moneyed background.

  She wished to God she could go five minutes without thinking about him.

  While Cilla juggled turntables, Althea worked a crossword puzzle. She had always been able to sit for hours at a time in contented silence as long as she could exercise her mind. Cilla O’Roarke, she mused, was a different matter. The woman hadn’t mastered the fine art of relaxation. Althea filled the squares with her neat, precise printing and thought that Boyd was just the man to teach her how it was done.

  Right now, Cilla was bursting to talk. Not to ask questions, Althea thought. She hadn’t missed the quick disappointment on Cilla’s face when Boyd hadn’t been the one to drive her to the station for her night shift.

  She’s dying to ask me where he is and what he’s doing, Althea thought as she filled in the next word. But she doesn’t want me to think it matters.

  It wasn’t possible for her not to smile to herself. Boyd had been pretty closemouthed himself lately. Althea knew he had run a more detailed check on Cilla’s background and that he had found answers that disturbed him. Personally, she thought. Whatever he had discovered had nothing to do with the case or he would have shared it with his partner.

  But, no matter how close they were, their privacy was deeply respected. She didn’t question him. If and when he wanted to talk it through, she would be there for him. As he would be there for her.

  It was too bad, she decided, that when sexual tension reared its head, men and women lost that easy camaraderie.

  Abruptly Cilla pushed away from the console. “I’m going to get some coffee. Do you want some?”

  “Doesn’t Nick usually bring some in?”

  “He’s got the night off.”

  “Why don’t I get it?”

  “No.” Restlessness seemed to vibrate from her. “I’ve got nearly seven minutes before the tape ends. I want to stretch my legs.”

  “All right.”

  Cilla walked to the lounge. Billy had already been there, she noted. The floor gleamed, and the coffee mugs were washed and stacked. There was the lingering scent of the pine cleaner he always used so lavishly.

  She poured two cups and as an afterthought stuck one leftover and rapidly hardening pastry in her pocket.

  With a cup in each hand, she turned. In the doorway she saw the shadow of a man. And the silver gleam of a knife. With a scream, she sent the mugs flying. Crockery smashed and shattered.

  “Miss O’Roarke?” Billy took a hesitant step into the light.

  “Oh, God.” She pressed the heel of one hand to her chest as if to force out the air trapped there. “Billy. I thought you were gone.”

  “I—” He stumbled back against the door when Althea came flying down the hallway, her weapon drawn. In an automatic response, he threw his hands up. “Don’t shoot. Don’t. I didn’t do nothing.”

  “It’s my fault,” Cilla said quickly. She stepped over to put a reassuring hand on Billy’s arm. “I didn’t know anyone was here, and I turned around—” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she managed, dropping them again. “I overreacted. I didn’t know Billy was still in the station.”

  “Mr. Harrison had a lunch meeting in his office.” He spoke quickly, his eyes darting from Althea to Cilla. “I was just getting to it.” He swallowed audibly. “Lots of—lots of knives and forks left over.”

  Cilla stared at the handful of flatware he held and felt like a fool. “I’m sorry, Billy. I must have scared you to death. And I’ve made a mess of your floor.”

  “That’s okay.” He grinned at her, relaxing slowly as Althea holstered her weapon. “I’ll clean it right up. Good show tonight, Miss O’Roarke.” He tapped the headphones that he’d slid around his neck. “You going to play any fifties stuff? You know I like that the best.”

  “Sure.” Fighting nausea, she made herself smile. “I’ll pick something out just for you.”

  He beamed at her. “You’ll say my name on the air?”

  “You bet. I’ve got to get back.”

  She hurried back to the booth, grateful that Althea was giving her a few moments alone. Things were getting pretty bad when she started jumping at middle-aged maintenance men holding dinner knives.

  The best way to get through the nerves was to work, she told herself. Keeping her moves precise, she began to set up for what she called the “power hour” between 11 and midnight.

  When Althea came back, bearing coffee, Cilla was inviting her audience to stay tuned for more music. “We’ve got ten hits in a row coming up. This first one’s for my pal Billy. We’re going back, way back, all the way back to 1958. It ain’t Dennis Quaid. It’s the real, the original, the awesome Jerry Lee Lewis with ‘Great Balls of Fire.’”

  After pulling off her headphones, she gave Althea a wan smile. “I really am sorry.”

  “In your place I probably would have gone through the roof.” Althea offered her a fresh mug. “Been a lousy couple of weeks, huh?”

  “The lousiest.”

  “We’re going to get him, Cilla.”

  “I’m hanging on to that.” She chose another record, took her time cuing it up. “What made you become a cop?”

  “I guess I wanted to be good at something. This was it.”

  “Do you have a husband?”

  “No.” Althea wasn’t sure where the questions were leading. “A lot of men are put off when a woman carries a gun.” She hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. “You might have gotten the impression that there’s something between Boyd and me.”

  “It’s hard not to.” Cilla lifted a hand for silence, then opened the mike to link the next song. “You two seem well suited.”

  As if considering it, Althea sat and sipped at her coffee. “You know, I wouldn’t have figured you for the type to fall into the clichéd, sexist mind-set that says that if a man and woman work together they must be playing together.”

  “I didn’t.” Outraged, Cilla all but came out of her chair. At Althea’s bland smile, she subsided. “I did,” she admitted. Then her lips curved. “Kind of. I guess you’ve had to handle that tired line quite a bit.”

  “No more than you, I imagine.” She gestured, both hands palms out, at the confines of the studio. “An attractive woman in what some conceive of as a man’s job.”

  Even that small patch of common ground helped her to relax. “There was a jock in Richmond who figured I was dying to, ah … spin on his turntable.”

  Understanding and amusement brightened Althea’s eyes. “How’d you handle it?”

  “During my show I announced that he was hard up for dates and anyone interested should call the station during his shift.” She grinned, remembering. “It cooled him off.” She turned to her mike to plug the upcoming request line. After an update on the weather, a time check and an intro for the next record, she slipped her headphones off again. “I guess Boyd wouldn’t be as easily discouraged.”

  “Not on your life. He’s stubborn. He likes to call it patience, but it’s plain mule-headed stubbornness. He can be like a damn bulldog.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “He’s a nice man, Cilla, one of the best. If you’re really not interested, you should make it clear up front. Boyd’s stubborn, but he’s not obnoxious.”

  “I don’t want to be interested,” Cilla murmured. “T
here’s a difference.”

  “Like night and day. Listen, if the question’s too personal, tell me to shut up.”

  A smile tugged at Cilla’s mouth. “You don’t have to tell me that twice.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you want to be interested?”

  Cilla chose a compact disc, then backed it up with two 45s. “He’s a cop.”

  “So if he was an insurance salesman you’d want to be interested?”

  “Yes. No.” She let out a huff of breath. Sometimes it was best to be honest. “It would be easier. Then there’s the fact that I made a mess of the one serious relationship I’ve had.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “Mostly.” She sent out the cut from the CD. “I’m more comfortable concentrating on my life, and Deborah’s. My work and her future.”

  “You’re not the type that would be happy for long with comfortable.”

  “Maybe not.” She stared down at the phone. “But I’d settle for it right now.”

  So she was running scared, Althea thought as she watched Cilla work. Who wouldn’t be? It had to be terrifying to be hounded and threatened by some faceless, nameless man. Yet she was handling it, Althea thought, better than she was handling Boyd and her feelings about him.

  She had them, buckets of them. Apparently she just didn’t know what to do with them.

  Althea kept her silence as the calls began to come in. Cilla was afraid of the phone, afraid of what might be on the other end. But she answered, call after call, moving through them with what sounded like effortless style. If Althea hadn’t been in the studio, watching the strain tighten Cilla’s face, she would have been totally fooled.

  She gave them their music and a few moments of her time. If her hand was unsteady, her finger still pushed the illuminated button.

  Boyd had entered her life to protect it, not threaten it. Yet she was afraid of him. With a sigh, Althea wondered why it was that women’s lives could be so completely turned upside down by the presence of a man.

  If she ever fell in love herself—which so far she’d had the good sense to avoid—she would simply find a way to call the shots.

  The tone of Cilla’s voice had her snapping back. Recognizing the fear, sympathizing with it, Althea rose to massage her rigid shoulders.

  “Keep him talking,” she whispered. “Keep him on as long as you can.”

  Cilla blocked out what he said. She’d found it helped her keep sane if she ignored the vicious threats, the blood-chilling promises. Instead she kept her eye on the elapsed-time clock, grimly pleased when she saw that the one-minute mark had passed and he was still on the line.

  She questioned him, forcing herself to keep her voice calm and even. He liked it best when she lost control, she knew. He would keep threatening until she began to beg. Then he would cut her off, satisfied that he had broken her again.

  Tonight she struggled not to hear, just to watch the seconds tick away.

  “I haven’t hurt you,” she said. “You know I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “To him.” He hissed the words. “He’s dead, and it’s because of you.”

  “Who did I hurt? If you’d tell me his name, I—”

  “I want you to remember. I want you to say his name before I kill you.”

  She shut her eyes and tried to fill her head with sound as he described exactly how he intended to kill her.

  “He must have been very important to you. You must have loved him.”

  “He was everything to me. All I had. He was so young. He had his whole life. But you hurt him. You betrayed him. An eye for an eye. Your life for his. Soon. Very soon.”

  When he cut her off, she turned quickly to send out the next record. She would backsell it, Cilla told herself. Her voice would be strong again afterward. Ignoring the other blinking lights, she pulled out a cigarette.

  “They got a trace.” Althea replaced the receiver, then moved over to put a hand on Cilla’s shoulder. “They got a trace. You did a hell of a job tonight, Cilla.”

  “Yeah.” She closed her eyes. Now all she had to do was get through the next hour and ten minutes. “Will they catch him?”

  “We’ll know soon. This is the first real break we’ve had. Just hang on to that.”

  ***