No fresh snow had fallen that day, but the wind was icy, freezing the old snow at the edge of the sidewalk into dangerous piles of ice. Lacey shivered as she stepped carefully through the Portland street crowds and pulled her thick collar up around her neck, wishing she had a scarf. Stuart Carter, a dental student of hers, had a sculpture showing at one of the smaller galleries, and she’d promised to stop by, not ready to isolate herself completely from the regular world until necessary.
First Thursday was a monthly downtown Portland event where the public mobbed the Pearl District to view art and artists alike. Locals set up crude stands on the sidewalks, selling homemade creations, while the art galleries threw open their doors to tempt the public to drop big bucks and eat organic appetizers.
Jack had caught her by phone in her office just seconds before she’d headed downtown to the galleries. He’d sounded relieved when she answered the phone, but he wouldn’t elaborate on his police interview when she asked. He’d wanted to talk to her in person. Tonight. She hadn’t mentioned yesterday’s visit from the police on the phone, suddenly feeling awkward about Michael’s insinuating articles and not ready to explain her relationship with the reporter, who was surely on Jack’s shit list.
When she’d told him of her commitment downtown, Jack had asked to meet up and she agreed, not sure why she was doing so.
This was not a date with Jack Harper. She repeated the refrain again.
He simply wanted to touch base with her, tell her what happened in his police interview. That was all. Lacey’s mind shifted to the new murder she’d heard about yesterday. Did Jack know about Joseph Cochran?
Who was killing the men from DeCosta’s prosecution? Starting with the discovery of Suzanne, everything pointed back to the DeCosta case. Suzanne, the arresting cop, the district attorney.
Am I in danger? How much? Lacey’s fingers grew numb as if their blood supply had suddenly been severed. She drew a deep breath and appreciated the masses of people crowding the sidewalks. Safety in numbers.
Finding the street corner where she’d agreed to meet Jack, she stopped to stare through a window at an ugly watercolor, a clashing chaos of browns and grays, and her mind spun back ten years. Dave DeCosta had been evil. Closing her eyes, she could see him at the trial, lounging back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the defense table, watching the proceedings with casual, bored eyes. Like he was watching a scoreless football game on a Sunday afternoon.
She had never seen any emotion in his eyes. As if a nugget of his soul had been missing. His family had sat silently in the row behind him. Their faces expressionless. Their mental states and thoughts hidden from court observers.
She’d spent long days in the courtroom, listening to the parade of witnesses, horrified at the testimony of those who’d discovered the remains of his victims. Graphic descriptions and photos of torture, sexual abuse, and corpse abuse. DeCosta had sat unaffected and aloof while Lacey’s stomach fought to keep its contents. She’d picture Suzanne in his hands and mentally collapse under the blistering guilt of being the one who escaped.
Survivor’s guilt, her psychiatrist had called it. Common in people who survive ordeals where others died.
Lacey’s eyes opened as the pace of her breathing sped up, and she refocused on the watercolor, seeking distraction.
It didn’t matter what the psychiatrist had called that hellhole. It had been the blackest period of her life. After leaving the hospital following her brush with death, she’d stayed in bed for days, sometimes weeks, fighting back the nightmares that toyed with her sanity.
It had been a catch-22. She’d wanted to sleep. Just sleep for long blissful periods of nothingness. But the horrors came to life in her dreams. Tranquilizers helped keep the horrors away but affected her sleep quality, making her exhausted. Leaving the sanctity of her house had taken superhuman effort. Even a simple trip to the grocery store had taken mental coaxing and preparation.
She would’ve stopped eating if not for the efforts of her parents, friends, and doctors. Food hadn’t been important. She didn’t eat because her body no longer created impulses of hunger.
Because she’d let go, Suzanne was gone.
Guilt had dragged her down to a point where she stockpiled her Vicodin. Every night she’d stared at the growing number of pills, nervously fingering them, counting them, arranging them into piles, and finally putting them back in the bottle, screwing the lid on tight, hiding them from her mother. It went on for months, even after her physical pain was gone. For some reason, just knowing she could resist the drugs had given her a tiny sense of control in her life.
One year to the day that Suzanne vanished, she’d stood staring into the toilet, watching as if from a distance, as she dumped the Vicodin into the bowl and flushed them away. Every last pill. It’d made her feel strong. She’d been given a second chance. Something a lot of people never get.
She’d never looked back at that dark period. Until now.
She’d managed to keep control this time. Her nights were still hellish, but staying busy at the dental school helped with distraction. Wallowing in a bowl of ice cream or simply talking with Michael also helped. She ached for the comfort of her mother, but considered herself lucky to have close friends. Some nights she wanted to beg Michael to sleep on her couch, but she wouldn’t allow that crutch. She could get through this on her own.
DeCosta was dead. He couldn’t reach her.
Lacey lifted her chin. She wouldn’t live in fear from police theories and hunches. It would take a lot more than that to disrupt her life. She didn’t hide. She directed her life; not her faceless fears. She had pepper spray in every coat pocket and a brand new kick-ass security system in her house.
Her stomach tightened and her throat burned as she turned away from the watercolor, finally comprehending it was a painting of a graveyard. She wrapped her arms around her middle, guarding against the wind and memories.
“Are you cold?”
She jumped, her hand instinctively moving to her purse, then stared up into questioning gray eyes. Jack Harper. Warmth flowed through her and pushed away the threatening shadows quicker than a venti coffee. Death and graveyards faded. She studied the tall man. He looked good. Nice slacks and a thick jacket couldn’t hide the fact that he was...What was the right word? Built. Well built. His black hair was trimmed short, slightly spiky on the top, making her fingers want to drift through it, testing the texture. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
Simply put, the man was hot.
Being around him was warming her up, stirring up her insides into a very pleasant eddy. And the way he looked at her...as if he had intimate ideas to mix up more heat between them.
What was she thinking?
He was so wrong for her! He must have women literally falling at his feet. The top-ten bachelor article had hinted he enjoyed playing the field, that he was a man who didn’t form commitments. She refused to be a toppled domino in the long line behind him. Besides, he just wanted to talk to her. He wanted information, not drinks and dinner. Or more. Right?
She found her voice. “No, I’m not cold.”
He reached out, took her hands, and rubbed them furiously, frowning.
“You’re like ice. We should’ve met inside.”
His warmth seeped into her hands and leaped to her belly, igniting a low blaze. Startled, she pulled her hands back. She couldn’t get sucked in by his charm. “I’m fine. But let’s get out of the cold.”
He firmly took back one of her escaped hands and started into the gallery with the ugly watercolor in its window. She dug in her heels, eyeing the creepy painting, and pulling back on their clasped hands. His brows briefly narrowed.
“Not this gallery. Let’s head down the street.”
He’d kept a firm hand on her most of the evening.
It was her size, Jack rationalized. Even in high-heeled boots, she barely reached his shoulder, and it was bringing out the protector in him. He’d already shouldered one slightly drunken klutz to keep the idiot from plowing her over. Or maybe it was the cold. He’d had a brief moment of guilt when he first spotted her on the sidewalk, with her collar up around her neck and hugging herself like she was frozen. He should have insisted they meet in a restaurant or bar.
Lacey stopped their progress to study the name over an art gallery door. “Damn it. Stuart told me which gallery his sculptures were in, but now I can’t remember.” Glancing at a small green street sign, she exhaled in frustration. “We’re on the right street. Hopefully we’ll stumble across him, because I promised I’d come see his stuff. I had no idea there are so many different galleries. How many art galleries does one city need?” she muttered.
That was perfectly fine with Jack. He didn’t mind wandering. It gave him more time to talk to her, study her, get to know her. They’d rapidly discovered they had one thing in common; the art scene wasn’t the place for them. Pushing crowds and pontificating gallery owners and buyers ruined the enjoyment of simply studying the original pieces. He hadn’t brought up his police interview yet, putting it off as long as possible. The longer he delayed it, the more time he had to be next to her.
She used her hands when she talked. And her eyes. Her brown eyes sparkled in rhythm with her hands when she was happy. He tried to keep her talking, talking about anything. Her voice was warm, and she frequently sounded like she was about to laugh. He liked it.
They pushed through the doors of a coffee shop, stomping the frozen slush from their feet. He watched her run a hand over her hair, almost absently. Not frantically searching out a mirror, like some women would after the wind. She looked perfect. The cold had turned her cheeks pink, and her brown eyes were bright. She’d left her hair down and loose tonight. Before, he’d only seen it pulled back into a ponytail. It was long and gently wavy, with all shades of blonde from dark honey to polished gold. His hands ached to touch.
“I’m dying for coffee. I don’t care what it tastes like as long as it’s hot.” She shivered.
He moved the two of them into the line, happy to wait. From the length of the line apparently the rest of Portland needed coffee too.
He stood behind her, subtly resting his hands on her shoulders as he studied the board. He stiffened slightly. There was that scent from Saturday morning, and it wasn’t from the lattes and mochas. He bent over slightly to sniff at Lacey’s hair and closed his eyes. She smelled like a bakery. Cinnamon, vanilla, and honey all tickled his nose. Delicious. It suited her.
His eyes popped open as her shoulders jerked. Had she caught him smelling her hair?
Lacey’s focus was on a couple leaving the front of the line with their drinks. They were midthirties and dressed for the cold. The woman was blonde and angular with a sour expression. The man with her was the same height, but he had an anxious look that suggested years of tiptoeing around his mate’s moods. Jack watched the man’s steps slow as he spotted Lacey; his expression darkened as he moved his gaze over her head to meet Jack’s.
Lacey sucked in a sharp breath, and Jack felt a quiver travel up his arms from where his hands rested on her. He tightened his grip on her shoulders, reacting to the challenge in the other man’s eyes.
Who the fuck was that?
Lacey couldn’t believe it.
Three hundred coffee shops in Portland and he had to walk into hers. Well, to be honest, he’d been here first. But the amended movie quote stuck in her head. She’d lasted more than a year without running into this man. Why tonight of all nights?
Jack tightened his fingers on her shoulders, and she thanked the stars for his presence. This was a confrontation where she needed a hot guy at her back. A tall, hot guy. And his possessive hands on her shoulders were perfect.
“Dr. Campbell.” Frank spoke like she were filth.
Some things never change.
Anger flared, but she gave a cool smile.
“Frank.” She turned to the scowling woman at Frank’s side. “Celeste.” The other woman said nothing, ignoring Lacey as she sized up Jack. Her sour expression faded into a simpering, admiring smile. Dream on. Lacey didn’t know which one of the couple she disliked more.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack briefly stare at Celeste then turn his gaze back to Frank. He said nothing.
Perfect. Lacey sucked in a breath. “Oh, this is Jack.” She turned adoring eyes to Jack, trying to signal him with her brows. Confusion briefly flashed across his face but he recovered and gave the couple a formal nod. “Jack, meet Frank and Celeste Stevenson.”
No one offered a hand. Jack kept his hands firmly on Lacey’s shoulders and pulled her slightly closer. Frank’s face clouded.
“Have you been enjoying the artwork? We’ve had a lovely time browsing—”
“Shut the fuck up, Lacey,” Frank spat.
She felt Jack start to push her aside to get at the shorter man, but she grabbed his right arm tight to her chest and held on, pulling his body tight to her back. Frank paled and stepped slightly behind Celeste. Coward.
Lacey wished she could see the expression on Jack’s face. According to Frank’s reaction, Jack looked ready to grind him into hamburger.
“Now, Frank. There’s no reason to be rude.” Adrenaline pumped through her veins. After all the things this asshole had done to her...
Frank pushed a furious Celeste toward the door, giving Jack and Lacey a wide berth. Celeste’s expression twisted to hate as deep lines formed between her brows.
“No reason? I could come up with several million, you sneaky bitch.” Frank had the last loud word as the door slammed shut.
The boisterous chatter of the shop abruptly halted. Every person in line, every person behind the counter, and every person seated at the tables stared at Lacey.
Lacey closed her eyes, listening to her heart pound. That didn’t go too badly.
“Wow. Who was that?”
She’d nearly forgotten Jack was there. She still had his arm clasped tightly against her breasts and could feel his heat against her back, through her coat. Embarrassed, she dropped his arm and turned to face him. She should’ve let him pound on Frank a little. By the look in Jack’s eyes, he’d have done it with pleasure. She forced a weak smile, trying to meet his intense gaze.
“That was my ex-husband.”