Shades of Passion (13 page)

“So we’re back to your disdain for my job?”

He could have said they’d never left it, but he didn’t. “Nope. We’re here. With you scared. With someone threatening your life. And with you not willing to tell me about it. Yet you forget. We’re supposed to work together. Haven’t you considered the fact that someone threatening you might be a threat to me, as well? To your patients?”

She bit her lip, obviously taking what he said seriously. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I’ll tell you. But I want your word you’re not going to go off half-cocked, hunting down someone who might have simply let his emotions get the better of him and written down something that he shouldn’t have. It doesn’t mean he has any intention of acting on it.”

“I promise not to go off half-cocked. I’m not much for half measures anyway. When I do something, if I ‘do it,’ I make sure I go in all the way.”

The sexual innuendo was unmistakable and deliberate on his part. At worst, he wanted to distract her; at best, he wanted to make her smile. The fact she didn’t smile let alone call him on his statement told him she really was scared. But she wasn’t stupid. She narrowed her eyes, searching his face for humor, and he was careful to keep his expression blank.

“Have a seat,” she finally said. “I have to get something, and then we’ll talk.”

* * *

N
INA WENT INTO HER STUDY,
shut the door and leaned back against it as she tried to get her racing heart to slow down. Simon had scared her, yes, but she was feeling off balance for another reason altogether. Because of the letter she’d received yes, but also because...well, she’d thought he was sexy before...

When he acted all firm and protective of her? Wow.

She’d been tempted to throw herself in his arms and gobble up all that manly strength and protection he was offering her. As much as that made her feminist ideals howl in shame, it was only natural to want to be taken care of at times. She knew that. She just couldn’t let herself give in to those feelings and actually rely on him. At least, not for anything more than his professional advice or protection.

She moved to the drawer where she kept the three cards she’d accumulated over the years. Again, she hesitated. She believed Beth’s father was essentially harmless, but finding the letter on her doorstep had been a deviation from his routine. It was troubling, and Simon was right. She might be willing to take chances with her own safety, but she couldn’t do that with others. It was best to show him the cards, maybe even let him ask a few questions, rather than be stupid or prideful about it. It might go a long way to showing him that she wasn’t careless or a complete bleeding heart. Go a long way to getting him to trust her. She wanted to help people, but she didn’t want to endanger herself, emotionally or physically, to do it. Since they’d be working together, it was important he know that.

She took a deep breath before walking toward the kitchen. She’d get more Ziploc bags. Put the cards inside before she gave them to—

She passed the living room and, at the sight in front of her, she stopped abruptly.

Simon Granger was sprawled out on her couch, his knees splayed casually open. One arm rested against the back of the couch, while the other encircled her cat, Six. It struck her how big he looked, how masculine against her chenille sofa, and next to her curved-leg coffee table and end tables. When he saw her, he straightened and she mentally shook herself. Rushing to the kitchen, she retrieved six of the largest Ziploc bags she had. One at a time, she placed each card and each envelope inside a separate bag, spreading each card open first so he could easily view both the outside and inside. As she did so, she was acutely aware of his gaze on her and the way her hands trembled slightly.

Finally, she sat next to him, taking care to keep several feet of breathing room between them.

“What’s its name?” Simon asked.

“What?”

“Your cat.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “Her name is Six.”

He nodded. “On account of her having six toes on her left hind leg.”

She let out a light laugh. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Well, I know it’s not the most original name, but it was better than the name the shelter gave her.”

“Which was?”

“Clownface. I just couldn’t do that to her.”

“Yep,” Simon said, grinning. “Six is
such
a better name.” His grin faded, though, when he glanced at the cards in her hand. “Come closer and let me see that,” he said, patting the empty cushion next to him. “And tell me about this threat.”

She hesitated, then shifted closer. His heat and solid strength washed over her. Comforted her. The relief almost made her dizzy. She was used to being by herself. To living in this great big house with no one for company but Six. It rarely bothered her and most of the time she enjoyed her independence.

But it was comforting to know she wasn’t entirely alone now. Not in this.

She hadn’t told anyone about the cards she received because she hadn’t wanted her past to play any role in her life in San Francisco. Maybe it was time to tell someone. And Simon obviously wanted to help. “Every year I get a card from a patient’s father. It marks the year of the patient’s death. She was a teenage girl named Elizabeth Davenport. Beth. She came to me after her mother died. She was suicidal. Suffered from acute depression and delusions. And despite my best efforts, she ended up killing herself.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

She nodded and held out the cards. “Her father blamed me. Quite publicly. He couldn’t tell reporters enough about how I’d screwed up and cost his daughter her life.”

“Did he ever try to hurt you? Physically?”

“One night he cornered me in a parking lot. He screamed at me. At one point, he grabbed my arm. But one of my colleagues chased him off. I never saw him again after that.”

“But you heard from him.”

“Yes. Three times. The third the most recent—the day you and I met. The third anniversary of Beth’s death. I—I didn’t really take it seriously. And I assumed that would be the last I’d hear from him. At least for another year.”

“Until you received the letter today.”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence?” Her question sounded weak to her own ears. “Granted, it could be from Beth’s father, but it’s not consistent with the cards I’ve received. Plus, he’s always handwritten his notes. This one is typed.”

“He threatened you in the recent card he mailed you. Why not up the ante? Why not come here and prove he’s serious? That doesn’t sound like coincidence to me. It sounds like cold-blooded intent—at the very least, intent to scare you. And he obviously succeeded.”

He read over the three cards she’d handed him, his face darkening with each one. He picked up a pen and small pad of paper he’d placed on the coffee table. “What’s his name and where does he live?”

“Lester Davenport. He lived in Charleston, last I heard.”

“That’s where you lived before moving to San Francisco?”

“Yes, but I also lived in Seattle for a while before finally deciding on San Francisco.”

“And he found you in Seattle, too,” he said, noting the Seattle address on one of the envelopes he held. “Do you know how?”

“No, but I’m a licensed professional who works with the public. I imagine it wouldn’t be too difficult to search for psychiatric practices on the web. After all, you found out where I lived, right?”

“I have access to public records that a normal person doesn’t. You need to make an official complaint,” he said.

Her chest went tight. “I—I don’t want to do that.”

“Why not? Even if he didn’t threaten you with the letter, the cards are sufficient. Right now they’re just written threats, but someone with a vendetta will often escalate their behavior with no warning whatsoever. There’s a real threat of actual harm, and you need to take that seriously.”

“I do. I admit the letter I received this morning scared me—I’m still scared—but we don’t know that Lester Davenport left it. Even if he did, it doesn’t mean he’ll really hurt me. I met him before Beth killed herself. He brought her to me because he wanted to get her help. I honestly think he’s just a father in mourning. Beth was his only daughter and before she committed suicide, her mother died of cancer. Lester lost everything he loved in a matter of months. He’s stuck in the grief process. People say things when they’re hurt and grieving that they don’t mean. That they’d never say otherwise. I think he simply needs to vent, and I don’t want to take legal action because he acted rashly and end up causing more problems for him.”

She sounded almost desperate to make him believe her. And she knew why. Knew she was making excuses for Lester because she was also making excuses for her own father, the same man who in his grief had told Nina it was her fault Rachel had died.

Simon watched her carefully, as if aware something in her past was driving her to defend Lester Davenport. Hell, he could have been a therapist himself given the way he was studying her.

Finally, he said, “You know it’s him, Nina.”

She shook her head. Then somewhat contradicted the gesture by saying, “Maybe. Part of me might suspect it’s him. But I can’t know it. And neither can you.”

He grunted. Stood abruptly, which dislodged Six and caused her to prance away. “Will you at least let me check it out? Have the letter processed for fingerprints? Make some inquiries. Unofficially?”

Unofficially. That she could handle. And like he’d said—they’d be working together. He might not be thrilled by that fact, but he obviously took his job seriously and would feel compelled to look into the situation whether she gave him her permission or not. She was a witness and a potential victim, that was all. Just another part of the job for him. He was attracted to her, but that wasn’t the same as caring about her. After all, he’d told her flat out that he didn’t even like her. She had to remember that. “That’s fine. Just keep it off the books.”

He nodded, and tucked his pad and pen into his inside jacket pocket.

She stood, as well. “Thank you again.”

He stared at her. Then to her surprise, he stepped closer, raised his hand and lightly gripped her chin. “Thank you for confiding in me. Despite the issues we have between us, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

She jerked at his words. His words negated her earlier thoughts. Made it sound like he really did care about her. Probably just more games to manipulate her and get what he wanted out of the shadow program, she thought. But she’d play along. “Are you always this straightforward?”

“Honestly? I’m usually not this talkative. Just ask anyone I work with. But when I do talk, yes, I try to be a straight shooter.”

Yes, that was more than apparent. She wondered if he knew how utterly attractive that made him. More attractive than he already was, which was obviously considerable.

She bit her lip.

She was already playing along. Now that her fear and worry about the letter had been dissipated slightly, she found all she wanted to do was luxuriate in this odd connection she felt to him. Despite the “issues” he’d referred to, he was a good cop. A good man. One who said he was attracted to her and one who’d already verbalized his utter certainty that, if they worked together as planned, they’d eventually end up “doing it.” Having sex. Sex she hadn’t had in a good long time. Sex she hadn’t wanted to have in a long time.

But that had obviously changed. Her body wanted sex. With this man. The sooner the better.

Of course, that couldn’t happen, but he’d already shown a propensity to flirt. To tease. Maybe he’d be willing to do it a little longer. Maybe flirting with him—maybe even kissing him—would stabilize and reinvigorate her as much as she’d been hoping her planned trip to the ocean would.

“So,” she said, reaching up to lightly trail her fingertips against the outer wrist of the hand he was touching her with. She liked the way his eyes immediately darkened. “Were you being honest when you said you’re attracted to me? When you said something happening between us is unavoidable?”

“Yeah. I was.” He frowned and pulled his hand away from her touch. Interesting. Despite having more than his fair share of chutzpah, was he actually scared of the very attraction he’d just copped to? Actually scared of little old her?

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t have a say,” he explained. “I think you’re attracted to me, too, but if you don’t want anything to happen, all you have to say is no and nothing will.”

“But you doubt my ability to say no?” She smiled slightly. “You’re very perceptive, Detective.”

He narrowed his eyes. Those same eyes that had caused her to wax so poetically in her own mind when Karen had asked about them. Steely gray, they should have been remote. Hard. Instead, they reminded her of velvet. And how much she loved the feel of velvet.

“Meaning?” As if against his better judgment, his hand slowly lifted again. Instead of cupping her chin this time, he cradled her cheek in his palm.

Her breath quickened and she moistened her lips. His lips parted slightly as he watched her.

“Meaning, we aren’t working together. Not yet. If ‘something’ is going to happen between us anyway, maybe—” When she paused, he swiped his thumb slowly against her lower lip. Automatically, she gasped at the pleasure that small touch brought her.

He shifted ever closer, brushing her body with his. “Maybe...what?”

“Maybe we should—grab the bull by the horns, so to speak.”

He smiled, not just with his mouth, but with his eyes. Eyes that were focused intently on
her
mouth. “Exactly what part of me—or you—is the bull is this scenario?”

“What I mean is, maybe we should try to defuse any tension by satisfying our curiosity now. Our curiosity about kissing,” she amended quickly. “Not anything more. But a first kiss? That’s bound to be on our minds. Considering we’re attracted to each other, I mean.”

“Right.” His gaze remained on her mouth. “Seems reasonable,” he said.

“Right. Especially because—well, maybe what we’re anticipating won’t live up to the fantasy. That’s almost always the case. If we kiss, chances are we’ll see this—this—”