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She dropped into her chair. “There’s an interesting idea. You could start a Lagniappe fashion trend.”
Stan scratched his ear and grimaced. “I’ll pass, thanks.” He nodded toward the letter. “So what had you so engrossed that you didn’t hear me sneaking up? Something break in the Chandler trial?”
Libby shook her head. “See for yourself. That’s the fifth one I’ve gotten. Same handwriting, same stationery, same language. I’m beginning to take this guy seriously. I admit, I’m spooked.”
Frowning, Stan took the letter from the desk and read. “Have you reported this to the police?”
“Yeah. A couple weeks ago. They can’t tell me much. No prints on the letters, and the stationery is pretty generic.”
He grunted. “And this one? You called it in yet?”
“Not yet.” Libby rubbed her temple. “I’ve been so tied up with the Chandler case, I hadn’t realized how out of hand this guy had gotten. I’ve had hate mail before—people letting off steam. No real substance. But this guy…” Libby bit down on her bottom lip as she thought back to the earlier letters. “His threats are escalating.”
Stan tossed the letter onto her desk. “This is way beyond venting steam, Lib.”
She shivered. “Yeah. I know.”
“So…” He lifted the receiver of her desk phone and waved it at her. “Shall I report this letter or will you?”
Sighing, she pried the phone from his hand. “I’ll call it in. But not now. I’m exhausted. Too tired to deal with police questions and protocol.” She hung up the receiver, and Stan frowned. “When I get home. I promise. First, I just want a hot bath and a couple aspirin.”
Pushing away from her desk, she collected her briefcase and brushed past him. Stan turned as she marched toward the door and continued glaring his disapproval. “You taking home the brief I gave you on the Browning case?”
She raised her overstuffed briefcase and nodded. “Got it. I’ll go over it tonight and get back with you in the morning.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. If I know you, you’ll put it first and forget about calling the cops.”
Her shoulders drooped. “I won’t forget.”
“Promise me. ’Cause I will call if you don’t. This guy sounds serious, and you know how dangerous he could be.”
She shuddered. Yeah, she knew. The wackos she’d helped put away never ceased to amaze her with their capacity for evil.
“I’ll call. I swear.” She gave Stan an affectionate pat on the shoulder then headed out to the long, dim hall.
“Let me at least walk you out to your car.” Stan kept pace beside her.
She grinned and shook her head. “No need. I’ve got Old Peppy with me.” She held up the pepper spray on her key chain. “And I’m parked in the garage. Security’s got cameras there. I’ll be fine. Go back to whatever’s got you here burning the midnight oil.”
Stan hesitated, but finally shrugged and waved her off. “Just be careful.”
“Always am.” Despite her bone-deep weariness, she headed toward the elevator with a brisk stride, her head high and her eyes scanning her surroundings. As usual, she and Stan weren’t the only ones working late, but the majority of the offices along the spartan corridor were already dark and empty. Her low-heeled pumps clicked on the linoleum floor, the sound reverberating in the deserted hall. Libby had walked this hallway at night for years. Yet tonight, with Stan’s warnings fresh in her ears and the newest letter from her stalker tugging at her thoughts, the isolated corridor seemed gloomy. Unsettling. The spiders-on-your-skin feeling of having someone unseen watching you.
Libby jabbed the elevator call button with more force than needed, irked that she let herself get spooked so easily. Just the same, she repositioned her keys so the pepper spray was more accessible and ready with the flick of a finger.
She pulled in a cleansing breath while she waited for the elevator and mentally reviewed her schedule for tomorrow. In addition to the Browning hearing, she had depositions for the Gulliver case and motions to file with the Chandler case. Another twelve-hour day at least.
The elevator rumbled and groaned in the shaft, but the doors never opened. Hadn’t Sally Hickson spent two hours stuck in the elevator last week?
Libby gave the elevator doors one last withering glance before she headed for the stairs. The exercise would be good for her. By working late, she’d missed her three-nights-a-week kickboxing class twice this week already.
The emergency exit door clanged closed behind her as she trudged down the first of twelve flights of stairs, lugging her overburdened briefcase. Until the Chandler case was settled, she’d probably be missing a lot more than just aerobics classes. Like a personal life.
When was the last time she’d gone to dinner with a friend? If she couldn’t remember, it had been too long. And forget about dating. A relationship took too much time and energy. She didn’t need another demand on her day.
Or another broken heart. Libby’s steps faltered. Where had that thought come from?
Easy. Her assistant Helen’s little aside in their morning meeting that Cal Walters was out on parole.
Cal Walters. The memory of his laserlike blue eyes drilling into her from across the courtroom still haunted her. He hated her. He’d made that much clear with his icy glare. But why?
So much history…
Squaring her shoulders, she plodded on down the steps, shaking off the melancholy that settled over her whenever she thought about Cal. No point dredging up the if onlys.
As she reached the ninth floor, Libby heard a door a few floors above her open and close. She grinned wryly. Someone else had tired of waiting on the decrepit elevator.
The heavy, low-pitched thud of a man’s footsteps joined the clack of her own shoes on the concrete steps. An uneasy jitter crawled up her spine. She was so isolated in the stairwell….
She pushed the nagging sensation aside, blaming Stan for making her too jumpy. Pausing at the seventh floor, she shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other. When she stopped, the heavier footsteps fell silent, too.
Libby furrowed her brow. Odd.
She started down the next flight. The man’s footsteps resumed.
A prick of alarm nudged her to a faster pace. The person behind her matched her speed.
Don’t panic. Clamping down on the swirl of jitters that skittered through her, she leaned over the railing to look up. “Stan? Is that you?”
No answer.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Silence.
She slowly took a few more steps. The thuds echoed her progress, but she saw no one.
“You’re not funny, Stan!” She picked up her pace, wishing she’d accepted his offer of an escort.
The rasp of labored breathing wheezed behind her, growing louder—the ominous hiss of a viper waiting to strike.
Libby took the steps as quickly as she could without tripping. Her briefcase slapped her legs. Her heartbeat matched the frantic rhythm of her feet. Her pursuer kept time.
“I’m gonna get you, bitch!” His hoarse voice scratched through her like shards of ice, chilling her to the marrow. She swallowed the whimper that swelled in her throat.
Stay calm. Think.
With a sweaty hand, she clutched her pepper spray, flicked off the safety catch. Racing to the fifth floor, she mentally prepared for an attack. No one would hear if she screamed.
She was alone. On her own.
She could head for the lobby instead of the garage, but the night watchman’s desk was down several long corridors.
No. She’d parked right across from the stairs. Much closer.
If she could just reach her car and get inside…
His footsteps sounded closer. Oh God, no!
Move faster! Panic hovered in her chest.
She had to keep her head.
Turning at the third floor, her heel snagged. She stumbled. Her hip smacked the steel bar. Pain snaked down her leg, and she yelped. The misstep cost her valuable seconds. Ignoring the throb in her hip, she plowed on.
He was gaining on her.
Breathing raggedly, Libby bolted down the next set of stairs. It was him—the crazy who’d sent threats on blue paper. Her gut told her so.
Terror clambered up her throat, choking her. The heat of his breath scorched her neck, but when she turned, no one was there.
Don’t look. Just run.
Second floor. First. Faster!
Libby slammed through the door at garage level. Steel bands of terror strangled her lungs. A white-hot sting speared her hip as she sprinted across the deserted parking area. Gasping in pain and panic, she frantically mashed the remote to unlock her Camry. The headlights flashed on, blinding her briefly as she neared the driver’s side.
Her fingers fumbled with the ignition key. Cursing the shadows that cast the parking lot in darkness, she groped for the door. She jerked the handle of her Camry. The door didn’t budge. Her head swam dizzily, and her hands shook as she tried the remote again.
Metal screeched, followed by an echoing boom. The stairwell door. He’d reached the garage. She sensed her stalker zeroing in on her, heard the shuffle of feet on concrete….
Please, please! Finally her door lock clicked off with a snick. Her knees wobbled with relief. Snatching the door open, she threw her briefcase inside.
She smelled him first.
The unmistakable scents of male sweat, deodorant soap and pine. An instant later, a large hand closed around her arm.
“Lib—”
She gasped and jerked against the man’s grip. Spun. Raised the can of pepper spray.
With lightning speed, he knocked the vial from her hand. She screamed. Fought. Flailed at him with her fists.
He clamped a hand over her mouth. His long, hard body pinned her against the side of her car.
Still, she struggled, but her captor was an immovable wall of muscle.
The prosecutor in her cut through the haze of fear. Look at his face. Make a mental picture so you can give a description.
Assuming she got away.
Her stubborn will rejected the voice of doubt. She would get away. No way would she become a statistic.
Fighting his hold on her mouth, she angled her head. The light from her Camry spilled through the open door and illuminated his chiseled jaw, raven hair and laser-blue eyes.
A face she knew. Intimately.
“Hello, Libby,” Cal drawled. “Long time no see.”
Libby’s face, already pale with fright, blanched a shade whiter. Cal frowned and eased his grip on her arm. Something had her spooked. Badly. She’d bolted through the door from the stairs as if she had the hounds of hell on her heels.
“Are you all right, Lib?”
The bedroom-brown eyes he remembered were now bright with fear and glanced nervously around the empty parking garage. But was she looking for someone to help her or searching for whatever demon had had her racing for her car?
The idea that she could be afraid of him gnawed his gut. No matter how much he hated what she’d done to his life, the years she’d stolen from him, the job he’d lost, he wasn’t the kind of man who’d harm a woman. In all the months they’d spent together, hadn’t she at least learned that about him?
“Mmmr wwrm,” she mumbled from under his hand.
His scowl deepened, and he nailed her with a no-nonsense glare. “I’ll let go of your mouth if you promise not to scream again. That last screech busted my ears.”
Her dark eyes flashed indignantly.
Oh, yes, he remembered her stubborn pride. A steel will ran through her, equal to her passion. And her compassion.
He needed to reach her tender heart and her inordinate sense of responsibility today. She was his last hope, his only hope. Besides, she owed him.
Slowly he pulled his hand away, keeping a wary eye on her.
“How dare you scare me like that! What were you thinking? You deserve a face full of pepper spray for that stunt! Of all the—”
She swung at him.
But twenty-four months in prison had sharpened his reflexes, taught him to be quick on his feet and have eyes in the back of his head. He easily blocked her fist and pinned her wrist to the car. “Whoa! Settle down. What stunt are you talking about?”
She rolled her eyes then turned an icy glare on him. “On the stairs? The ‘I’m gonna get you, bitch’ crack? Following me, hiding from me, purposely freaking me out?”
The stairs? He thought about the terror that had filled her face when she’d burst through the garage door and run for her car. Unease jerked a knot in his gut. He cut a sharp glance to the stairs then back to Libby. “Someone followed you on the stairs? Did they hurt you?”
What had she said about a comment using the term bitch? His disquiet ratcheted up a notch.
She yanked her arm from his grip and righted her silk blouse. The soft fabric clung to her curves and made no secret of the feminine body beneath. “You’re not funny. What were you trying to prove?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Yeah, right.” As she moved to climb into her Camry, he grabbed her arm and brought her dark eyes back to his. She pressed her lips in a thin line of irritation.
“I’ve been over there in my truck waiting for you for over an hour.” With a hitch of his head, he directed her gaze to his dilapidated Chevy.
