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The laughter she’d restrained earlier came out free and full as she went to get ready.
Brett frowned as he drove through Elyssa’s neighborhood. He wondered who had rejected her and how the guy could have been such a fool. Why couldn’t he have seen past a couple of scars to the beauty inside? A wave of anger surged through him. Whoever he was, the bastard had hurt her. Badly.
Lucky he and Elyssa had run into each other in the hall this afternoon or he’d never have convinced her to go out with him. She’d have stayed in costume, hiding behind her clown face indefinitely. Thank God for chance meetings.
He pulled up before a two-story Victorian set back on a quiet street. Oaks shaded the front yard. Pansies planted on either side of the porch steps nodded a welcome. On the porch were two wicker rocking chairs with a small wicker table between them. Did she sit there on summer nights, watching the stars?
She opened the door to his knock. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he answered, then simply stood and looked his fill. She wore a pale blue silk blouse and matching pants. Shiny silver loops dangled from her earlobes, and she wore a trio of thin silver bracelets on one arm. Her soft-brown hair hung loose, flowing in glorious waves to her shoulders. On television she’d worn it pulled back in a sleek twist, but this… God, he wanted to run his hands through it, then run them on a long, thorough journey over the rest of her.
She flushed under his intent gaze. “You didn’t say where we were going. Is this okay?” She glanced down at her outfit. For the first time since he’d known her, she sounded uncertain.
“Perfect,” he said hoarsely, his eyes drawn to the dainty pearl buttons on her blouse. He’d like to unfasten them one by one…
The hell with dinner; he wanted to take her to bed.
Firmly he stifled that thought. They’d taken a major step today, and she wasn’t ready for the next one. He’d wait. He was a patient man. Oh, he could be rash at times, but when something really mattered, he knew how to bide his time, how to take care. He did that every day, when he battled disease, beating it back inch by inch. He’d do that now, too. “I’ve made reservations at The Orchard,” he said, and took her arm.
The restaurant was quiet and elegant, with subdued lighting, attentive service and a menu food critics consistently applauded. A perfect setting for the evening he’d been waiting for since the first time he’d seen Elyssa.
As the maamp2;ˆtre d’ led them to their table, someone called his name. Brett turned and saw a group of senior staff members from St. Michael’s. He stopped to greet them.
“Well, I see Clark lets you out sometimes,” Dr. Herbert Raines said.
“Not only that, but he recommends restaurants.” Brett grinned as he met the eyes of Clark Madigan, the hospital chief of staff, who’d convinced him to leave Duke University Hospital and come here.
Madigan returned the smile. “Dr. Cameron deserves an evening out at a fine restaurant now and then. He’s doing a first-rate job.”
Brett acknowledged the smiles and nods from around the table, then said, “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Elyssa Jarmon. She’s been entertaining the kids in the cancer unit.”
To his surprise Madigan’s eyes cooled. He shook Elyssa’s hand but said only a curt hello. Not his usual style. Clark Madigan was charm personified. But not tonight.
None of the other doctors were particularly cordial, either. But Brett put that out of his mind. He wasn’t here to speculate on his colleagues’ moods. The evening he’d been longing for had finally come to pass, and he wanted to focus on Elyssa.
“Sorry for the interruption,” he said when they were seated.
“I don’t mind.” Her eyes teased. “I’m enjoying being with a famous doctor.”
“You’re pretty well-known yourself.”
She flashed a wry smile. “Former celebrity.” She paused, then said, “Brett, I want to tell you about my accident.”
The waiter hovered, order pad in hand. When they’d made their choices, Brett said, “I know about the accident,” then, noting her surprise, added, “but not the details. I ran into the coordinator of volunteer services the other day, and she told me you’d offered your services because you were grateful for the care you’d gotten at St. Michael’s after your wreck. That’s all I know.”
Elyssa picked up her water goblet, set it down. “It happened last year in March. Randy Barber, a friend from the station, gave me a ride home from work. Someone ran into us and Randy was…killed.” Her lip trembled, and Brett quickly reached over and covered her hand with his.
“I was in a coma for two weeks,” she went on. “When I woke up, I didn’t remember anything about the wreck. I still don’t.”
“Not remembering’s a way to protect yourself from something too painful to face. You may be better off if you don’t.”
“No.” The intensity with which she spoke surprised him. “Last month Jenny Barber, Randy’s wife, told me she believes what happened wasn’t an accident. She wanted to know what I could remember. She wanted my help.” Her face was stark with anguish. “I couldn’t give it to her.”
Wanting to soothe, he stroked her hand. “It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe I’m not trying hard enough to remember,” she said, and he saw that the thought brought her pain. “Since Jenny talked to me, I keep wondering if I could have done something that night, something that would have kept Randy alive.” Her free hand fisted on the table. “And if what happened wasn’t an accident, if someone deliberately ran into us, then I need to know who and why. I have to find out.”
Her words made him uneasy. He didn’t like the idea of Elyssa investigating a possible murder. But surely she didn’t intend to conduct a serious inquiry, not on her own. Or did she? “That’s a job for the police,” he said.
“The police report said the wreck was accidental.”
“Well, then.”
“I think they’re wrong.” Her eyes flashed, and he suddenly saw the determined reporter.
“You won’t learn much a year and a half after the wreck,” he pointed out.
“Maybe not, but I have to try. Yesterday I found some notes Randy made the day before he died. Under them he drew a skull and crossbones. I’m researching the notes, but so far I haven’t come up with anything. I’ve started asking questions, too.”
Brett felt a prick of alarm. “Be careful.”
“I will. I’ve done investigative work before.” She touched her cheek. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that wreck ended my career. That’s reason enough for me to try to find out who caused it.”
“I understand how you feel,” he said, “but watch your step. And get some help if you need it.”
While the waiter served them, Brett studied the crisscross of tiny lines on Elyssa’s cheek. An idea occurred to him, but he needed to present it tactfully. “Some cancer patients have scars,” he said carefully. “You could help them come to terms with that.”
She frowned. “How?”
“By visiting them, talking to them, letting them see that you’ve gone on with your life in spite of the injury.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“The Department of Social Work has a training program for breast cancer survivors who talk to patients. I could give them a call, tell them what I have in mind…if you feel up to it.”
“How can I help people ‘come to terms’ as you call it when I’m not sure I have?”
“Coming to terms—healing—is a process,” he said. “You’re building a new career, doing something with your life. You’re farther along the road toward healing than most.”
“I’ll think about it.” Her expression was solemn but he saw the spark of interest in her eyes. She’d say yes, he thought, and by helping others heal, would help herself.
He steered the conversation to lighter topics—the summer’s blockbuster movie, politicians she’d interviewed, a forthcoming book by a former senator that was expected to set Washington on its ears.
When their plates were removed, he reached for her hand, toyed with her fingers. A faint flush lit her cheeks. He touched her wrist and noted with satisfaction how her pulse jumped beneath his fingers. No matter what he and Elyssa said aloud, below the surface another conversation took place: I want you. Soon. Want me back.
They continued talking, lingering over coffee and dessert. Brett barely noticed the time passing until he glanced around and saw that the restaurant was nearly empty. Their waiter stood in the corner, eyeing them balefully. Brett beckoned to him. “I think he wants us out of here.”
Elyssa took one last bite of cheesecake and set down her fork. “That was delicious.”
“We’ll come again.” Often. Patience was a virtue, but so was persistence.
A sliver of moon glinted in the star-dusted sky as they climbed Elyssa’s porch steps. The daytime heat had abated, but the air was still thick and muggy. In the oak trees crickets buzzed, the only sound that broke the stillness.
Elyssa got out her key. “I enjoyed the evening.”
“So did I. Here, let me get the door.” He took the key from her, unlocked the door and followed her inside.
“Do you want some coffee?”
He shook his head. “I’m doing early rounds. What I want—” he stepped closer, put his arms around her “—is this.”
She only had time to register that this was the move of a confident man, before his lips covered hers.
She’d imagined kissing him more times than she could count, but now it was real and she was lost. Lost in the pressure of his lips, the taste of his tongue, the warmth and rhythm of his breath. She felt his heart beat in tune with hers.
She kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his. She could hold him like this, kiss him like this forever.
“I want you,” he murmured against her mouth.
Oh, I want you, too. So much. But she’d learned to be cautious. She’d learned how easy it was to go with your emotions and end up paying the price.
She drew back and put a hand to his chest. “Brett, we’re moving too fast.”
“Not nearly,” he whispered, sprinkling kisses along her jaw.
“For me we are. I need some time.”
He sighed. “I’ll give it to you then…grudgingly.” His lips curved in a half smile. “But don’t make me wait too long.”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure how much time would be long enough.
“One more kiss,” he said and pulled her close again.
When they drew apart, his eyes were as dazed as hers.
Brett kept strictly to the speed limit as he drove home. He didn’t trust himself to drive too fast; his blood still pounded from Elyssa’s kisses. They’d packed a punch he’d never expected.
“Whoa,” he told himself. This didn’t feel like the lighthearted affair he had in mind. This felt…serious.
But he knew his limitations. He couldn’t let this relationship become anything but casual. “Back off, Cameron,” he ordered himself. “She’s right. You’re moving way too fast.”
Still under the spell of Brett’s kisses, Elyssa wandered through the house. She measured coffee into the coffeemaker for tomorrow, turned off the downstairs lights and slipped off her sandals. Dangling them by the straps, she climbed the stairs.
In her room she glanced at the bed. If she hadn’t stopped Brett—stopped herself—they’d be there now. She’d done the right thing, she told herself firmly, as she ran her hand over the pillow. She needed to probe her heart and mind before she took the next step.
She went into the bathroom and slowly undressed. How would it have been to undress for Brett? To watch him undress? To feel flesh against flesh?
Her lips still tingled from his kisses. Her skin was still warm. She looked in the mirror. Dreamy, half-closed eyes gazed back. She touched her lips. How long since someone had kissed her like that? Never before, she thought. Never.
She slipped into a nightgown and was strolling back into the bedroom when the telephone rang. She jumped, then laughed. Probably Cassie, dying to hear all the details of her evening. Or maybe Brett was calling to say good-night.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Elyssa Jarmon?” The male voice sounded faraway, disembodied.
“Yes.”
“This is a warning.”
Her hand tightened on the receiver. She checked her caller ID. “Anonymous.” Nervously she glanced out the window. The blinds were open, and she stood in a revealing gown, exposed to any eyes that cared to look. Hand trembling, she reached over and shut the blinds.
“Stick to clowning.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
He laughed. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. You keep following in Randy Barber’s footsteps, you’re in trouble.” The line went dead.
Her legs shook as she sank down on the bed. She sat for a few moments, taking deep breaths, then when she was sure she could stand, she raced downstairs. She peered outside but saw no one. No strange cars, either. Then she checked all the doors and windows and made sure her alarm system was turned on.
Upstairs again, she tried to calm herself by considering what she should do. Be logical. Make a list.
She grabbed a pencil and wrote “call the police,” then crossed it out. She doubted she’d get much response by reporting one phone call. She’d done a story once on a woman who’d received dozens of calls from a stalker before the police paid attention to her plight. And in this case, what could they do when Elyssa couldn’t tell them who the caller was?
The pencil dropped from her nervous hands. Logic and planning hadn’t calmed her yet. Think.
She could call the telephone company and put a block on anonymous calls. Or tape the next call—if another one came—and try to figure out who was on the line. Yes, that made sense.
Frowning, she stared at the phone. That voice. She’d heard it before, she was certain. But where?
Chapter 5
Elyssa woke with a throbbing headache. She’d sat up for hours, gripping the fireplace poker, the nearest thing to a weapon she could find. When she finally lay down, every noise from outside, every creak and groan in the house had her leaping out of bed and grabbing her makeshift weapon. At last, near dawn, she fell into a troubled sleep.
Now she sat up, rubbed her eyes and massaged her temples. Along with the headache, she felt groggy and vaguely nauseated. She’d never had a hangover but she suspected they felt like this. “Coffee,” she muttered and trudged downstairs.
By the time she’d drunk half a cup, her mind began to clear. Last night she’d been so shaken, she hadn’t asked herself the obvious question, how did her caller know she was investigating Randy’s death? She’d told only two people—Brett and Derek. Now that she’d tipped him off, was Derek trying to frighten her away from a story he wanted?
The voice last night wasn’t Derek’s. She would recognize it in an instant even if he tried to disguise it. Would he have gone so far as to get someone else to call and scare her off so she’d leave this story to him and Channel 9?
With Derek, anything was possible. Well, he wouldn’t get away with it. She grabbed the phone and punched in his number.
“Derek Graves,” he answered in the too-smooth voice she’d come to detest.
“This is Elyssa.” She got straight to the point. “Someone called me last night to warn me—no, to threaten me—that I’d better stop looking into Randy’s death.”
“Good grief, Elyssa, what have you been up to?”
“Up to?” Though anger threatened to bubble over, she kept her voice level. “All I’ve done is talk to you. What have you been up to?”
