HE VICTIM’S NAME WAS JACOB WANETTA, FIFTY-SIX YEARS old, the president and CEO of Wanetta Advertising. He lived on Cherokee Road, and he and his wife were golfing enthusiasts. He was working at home that day, and he’d been hale and hearty when his wife was picked up by a friend a little after lunch to play nine holes at the Mountain Brook Country Club, then have cocktails. He’d waved them off from the front door, so it wasn’t a matter of the wife saying he was alive then, the friend had seen him, too. When the wife arrived home after a fun afternoon of golf and gin, she found her husband sprawled beside the hearth in his den, a bullet through his brain.

The evidence technicians found the shell casing where it had rolled under the sofa, and immediate comparisons were being made to see if it matched the three found at the Lankfords. From the damage done, the bullet looked to be the same caliber as the others, though the ME would have to weigh the slug to be certain. The shot appeared to have been delivered in the same manner as two of the others. Except for Mrs. Lankford, who had been shot between the eyes, the other killing wounds had all entered from the left, indicating the killer had been standing to the left of the victim and was right-handed. That had to be sheer coincidence, where he stood, but maybe not. Maybe, being right-handed, he deliberately maneuvered so he was on the victim’s left, giving himself an unencumbered shot. If he stood to the victim’s right, shooting would require swiveling his body, and might give the victim time to react.

As it was, none of the victims had stood a chance. They hadn’t had time to do more than blink, if that. Except for Merilyn Lankford; she had obviously been trying to call for help.

Jacob Wanetta had been a hefty, athletic guy. If any of them could have fought, he would have been the one. But he’d gone down just like the others, without resistance. There were no overturned chairs, no lamps knocked askew, nothing... just that very efficient killing.

He had been killed while Sarah was safely at the police department. There was no question of her innocence, and since by all indications he and the Lankfords had been killed by the same person, that effectively removed the media focus from her. The chief put out a statement that they had been concerned for Miss Stevens’s safety, but they had at no time considered her a suspect. That was a flat-out lie, but who cared, if it killed the media’s interest in her?

Ahern said he’d left her at the Mountain Brook Inn, with instructions to check in under Geraldine Ahern, his mother’s name. Cahill wished Ahern had actually gone inside with her and seen to it himself, but he understood the urgency to get to the scene. When Mrs. Wanetta’s hysterical phone call had come into 911, there in the police department, everyone had scrambled like fighter pilots racing to meet an oncoming wave of bombers.

They were stretched thin, trying to handle the normal problems that cropped up plus three murders in one day. With this latest development, Lieutenant Wester decided there wasn’t any reason to keep Cahill separate from the Lankford case; Wester had only five investigators to begin with, so he needed every one of them concentrating on this. As far as Cahill was concerned, that also lifted the restrictions on him involving Sarah, not that he’d intended to pay much attention to them anyway. Still, it was nice to know his ass wasn’t going to get busted for doing it.

It was close to midnight when Wester decided they were all so tired they were losing their effectiveness. They’d have to wait and see if the evidence techs came up with any new physical evidence. They had already interviewed as many friends and neighbors as they could—unless they started dragging people from their beds—and, as Nolan put it, they were starting to get “the stupids.”

Sarah hadn’t been far from Cahill’s mind all day, and abruptly he remembered to ask, “Ahern, did you have anyone take Sarah’s clothes to her?”

Ahern gave him a blank look, then groaned. “Shit, I forgot.” He glanced at his watch. He had called his wife two hours ago and told her he’d be home soon.

“I’ll do it,” Cahill said. Wester was listening to them and when he didn’t say anything, Cahill knew he was cleared.

“Are you sure about that?” Ahern asked, giving him a shrewd look. “You might want to stay out of reach for a few days.”

“No, that’s exactly what I don’t need to do.”

He was as short on sleep as everyone else—probably shorter, considering what he and Sarah had done with the chocolate syrup the night before—but he had no interest in going home without seeing her first. She, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t be glad to see him at any time, much less in the wee hours of the morning.

Tough shit.

He picked up her clothes first, figuring she wouldn’t refuse to see him if he had her things. He got everything, digging out her suitcases and cleaning out the closet, because he assumed she wouldn’t be coming back here to stay anyway. In just the short time she’d been here, though, she had already put her personal touches on the bungalow, with her books and photographs, and her music collection. He thought about packing those up, too, but she wouldn’t have room for them in a hotel room, and he didn’t want to take the time right now. She needed her clothes; the other things could wait.

He was fast, but thorough, remembering to get all her toiletries and makeup from the tiled bathroom, and her underwear from the built-in drawers in the closet. Packing her things was easy; she was very neat, which made things go faster. Maybe she hadn’t been here long enough for her things to have developed a life of their own. He had a stubborn hope that one day her clothes would push his out of the closet, and he’d complain about needing a bigger house just for the closet space. He had a stubborn hope for a lot of things, and they all revolved around Sarah.

Finally he had everything packed in his truck, and as he wound his way over to 280, he called Sarah’s cell phone number, but the recording came on immediately informing him that the customer was not in service at this time. He was used to her keeping it on the entire time she was at his house, putting it on the charger every night, but now there was no reason for her to make it easy for anyone to get in touch with her. Growling, he got the number of the Mountain Brook Inn from Information, was put through, and asked for Geraldine Ahern.

Sarah was one of those people who woke instantly when disturbed, springing from bed ready to do battle, thwart burglars, or cook breakfast. He began to worry when she hadn’t answered by the fourth ring. She did answer on the sixth one, though, and her voice sounded dull. “Hello.”

“I’m bringing your clothes over,” he said. “What’s your room number?”

She paused. “Just leave them at the front desk.”

“No.”

“What?”

There, that was better; there was a little life in her voice. “If you want your clothes, you’ll have to see me.”

“Are you holding my clothes hostage?” More life. It was outrage, but at least it was life.

“If you don’t want them now, I’ll take them home with me and you can pick them up there.”

“Damn you, Cahill—” She stopped, and he could hear her exhaling through her nose in exasperation. “All right.” She told him her room number and slammed down the phone.

Progress was being made.

He didn’t mind arguing. It was not talking at all that drove him crazy. As long as she was talking to him, even if by dint of coercion, then he had a chance.

At the inn, he got a luggage cart and loaded all of her things on it, then wheeled it to the elevator past the watchful eye of the clerk manning the desk. Cahill opened his jacket a little, flashing the tin on his belt, and the clerk became interested in other things.

Sarah must have been standing at the door, because she jerked it open before he could even knock. The squeaking of the luggage cart must have alerted her. She already had a hand extended to take one bag when she registered the load on the luggage cart.

“I brought everything,” he said, keeping his voice down because of the other guests sleeping on this floor. It was a wonder he remembered the courtesy, because Sarah was naked, clutching a sheet around her. “I didn’t figure you’d be staying there again.”

“No,” she said, shuddering. “But what about my—”

“You can get the rest of your stuff later.” He wasn’t above using his size to get what he wanted; he grabbed two of the suitcases and moved forward, and she was forced to step back from the door. He set down the suitcases, planting himself in the doorway, and swiveled to get the other bags. Before she could get the two suitcases hauled to the side, he had the others inside and he stepped forward, closing the door behind him. She had turned on every light in the place, making certain the room was as far from intimate as she could make it, even smoothing the bedspread back over the bed after she’d removed the sheet that was now wrapped around her.

But she hadn’t put on her clothes, and she’d had time to do so. Instead she was wrapped in a sheet, and she was naked beneath it. He wondered if she even realized what that revealed about her emotions. Normally he would have said yes, but after the day she’d had, she probably didn’t realize.

She clutched the sheet tighter, lifting her chin. “Thank you. Now get out.”

“You look like a Victorian maiden protecting her virtue,” he said, shifting the suitcases himself.

She had still been pale, her features pinched, but now her eyes narrowed and color washed into her cheeks. She was a good strategist, though; she must have sensed that a good fight to clear the air was just what he wanted, because she bit back whatever she had been about to say and moved several feet away. “Leave.”

He moved closer. Maybe he could make her mad enough to swing at him; she’d have to let go of that sheet then. “Make me,” he invited.

“I’m not doing this,” she said, briefly closing her eyes and shaking her head. “If I have to, I’ll call your supervisor and make a harassment charge against you. It’s over. We didn’t work out. End of story.”

“No,” he said. Shannon had once said he could give stubborn lessons to a jackass, and he intended to live up to his reputation. “Sarah, I love you.”

Her head snapped up, and the expression in her eyes was furious. “No you don’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “The hell I don’t.”

Then she was advancing on him, holding the sheet with one hand and poking at him with a stiffened finger with the other. “You don’t even know who I am,” she snapped, breathing fire. “If you did, if you had paid the slightest amount of attention to me other than when you wanted to screw me, you’d never, not for one damn second, have thought I murdered anyone, much less someone I liked as much as I did M-Merilyn.” Her chin wobbled, and her face began to crumple. “And—and I loved the Judge,” she said in a trembling voice, trying hard not to cry. “You can’t love someone you don’t know, and you don’t k-know me.”

It wasn’t just her voice trembling; she was shaking all over. Cahill felt something clench in his chest. Damn it, he hadn’t liked it when she said he screwed her. He didn’t like the term, didn’t like what it implied. Fucking, yeah; when they made love, it was earthy and hot and sweaty, and that was fucking. But it had always been making love, too. It had never been just screwing.

She was falling apart in front of him. Cahill breathed a curse and pulled her into his arms, easily subduing the feeble girly-pounding she did on his chest; then she sort of crumpled against him and began to cry as she had earlier, in great, heaving sobs.

He picked her up and sat down on the bed, holding her on his lap and murmuring soft things to her, doing the things he should have done this morning. She wasn’t holding the sheet now, her hands were fisted on his jacket, and the sheet began to loosen around her slender body. Ruthlessly he helped it along, pulling his jacket out of her grip and shrugging out of it at the same time as he tugged on the sheet, exposing more and more of her warm skin.

He fell back on the bed, twisting so she was on her back and he was leaning over her as he pulled the sheet completely free. She was still crying and she made a weak grab for the sheet, but he caught her hand and held it as he bent his head to kiss her, at the same time stroking his free hand over her smooth breasts, down her flat belly, then finally to the ultrasoft folds between her legs.

Her mouth was salty from her tears. She whimpered a protest, but she was arching toward him, and when he released her hand, it slid around his neck. He moved fast, opening his pants and shifting on top of her, parting her legs and settling between them. He guided his penis to her, and pushed. She wasn’t wet but she was moist enough, though he had to rock several times to get all the way inside her.

She whimpered again, and went still, staring up at him with drenched, heartbreaking eyes.

“Shhh,” he murmured, moving gently inside her. Usually she gave as good as she got, standing toe-to-toe with him whether they were sparring or making love, and this vulnerability hurt him deep inside. Maybe this was wrong, loving her now when her defenses were down, but it was the fastest way he knew to reestablish the connection between them. The bonds of the flesh... not just sex but the linking of two bodies, the most primitive way of seeking comfort and not feeling alone.

He would have made it last the rest of the night, if he could have. As it was he stopped whenever he felt his orgasm building, lying still until the urge subsided then slowly stroking again. All the while he was kissing her, caressing her, telling her he loved her as he coaxed her from acceptance to response. He had never concentrated on a woman before as he concentrated now on Sarah, alert for every nuance, every caught breath, every shift of her legs. He’d always been hyperaware of her when they made love, but this was even more so. He felt as if his very survival depended on loving her now, on reforging the link his suspicion had broken.

It was a long time happening, but finally her hips began to move to meet him, and her fingers dug into his shoulders. He kept his pace slow, loving the feel of her tightening around him as if she was trying to hold him inside. The pulse at the base of her throat was hammering, and her nipples were tight, flushed with color. Tension coiled in her finely honed body, lifting her to every inward thrust, her legs sliding around his and locking in that way she had of holding him in, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.

Her head tilted back, a groan sounding deep in her throat.

He pushed deep, held there, and felt her begin coming. He was so close, had been on the edge for so long, that he began coming, too, as soon as he felt the first contraction around him. He tried not to thrust, tried to hold himself still and deep for her pleasure, and his own pleasure spread through him like hot melted wax.

She lay beneath him, breathing hard, and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes to streak into the hair at her temples. “I can’t believe I did that,” she choked out.

Struggling for breath, he propped on his elbow and wiped his thumb across her wet cheek. “I’d undo the day if I could,” he said hoarsely. “God, I’m so sorry. It isn’t just that I’m a cop; after I was such a stupid fool trusting Shannon, I—”

“I’m not your ex-wife!” she shouted furiously, and shoved against his shoulders. “I don’t give a damn what she did. Get... off me, damn it; your badge is scratching my stomach!”

Ah, shit. He rolled off her and flopped on his back. He was still wearing his holster, too. He guessed he was lucky she hadn’t pulled his pistol and shot him.

She jackknifed to a sitting position and glared down at him, her face still wet with tears. “I’ll say this for you,” she said bitterly, “you’ve taught me a lesson. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I trust—” She stopped herself, letting her breath out in a long, weary sigh. “Oh, God. I sound just like you.”

He got up and went into the bathroom, washing and straightening, tucking his shirt into his pants. Sarah got up and came to stand beside him, unconcerned about her nakedness as she washed her face, then wiped away the results of their lovemaking. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“I love you,” he said. “That isn’t going to change.”

Her shoulders slumped. “The hell of it is, I still love you, too. I just can’t get past this right now.”

“I can wait.” He smoothed her hair back, stroked her cheek. “As long as it takes. But don’t throw us away. Don’t make any drastic decisions. Give it time, and let’s see what happens.”

She stared at him in the mirror, and sighed as if in defeat. “All right. For now. I hope I wouldn’t have let you make love to me if there was nothing left, so I have to think maybe there is. Just... give me some room, okay? Let me get some of myself back.”

He took a deep breath. He felt as if he’d won the lottery, or a stay of execution. Something.

She made a wry face. “I don’t know if it’s drastic, but I’ve already made a hasty decision. I already have another job.”

He felt blank with shock. “What? How? Here?”

“Yes, here. It’s someone I’d already met, and he’d offered me the job. He was coming into the hotel this afternoon and saw me, and he made the offer again on the spot. I took it.”

“What’s his name?”

“Trevor Densmore.” Her voice was weary, all her temporary energy fading fast.

He didn’t remember the name. “Have I already checked him out?”

“No, his name wasn’t on my list of possibles.”

“Then why take the job now, if you wouldn’t consider it before?”

“It’s a place to hide,” she said simply.