Cassidy and the Princess Page 4
He knew what she could do. Did he have the right to propose it? What if something happened to her?
“What is it?” she asked.
She also could read his mind. No one else had ever been able to do that. Not his former wife. Not Manny. It was uncanny.
“Detective?” she prompted again. She’d awakened to someone trying to kill her, had dived off the bed and kept her head—and she still looked like a princess. That image, though, was misleading. If she was like a princess, she was one laced with iron.
But she would have to be tough to get to where she was. He knew how much training it must have taken. How much discipline.
“He might have left something in this room,” he said. His hand was still around the hypodermic.
“He had gloves,” she said.
“Maybe not when he filled the hypodermic.” But that, he knew, was a pretty futile hope. This man had been very, very careful. It was too much to ask that he would make a mistake now. Still, Cassidy wanted it at the state crime lab. There might be something there.
She obviously saw the doubt in his face. And great circles shadowed those marvelous eyes.
He looked at his watch. “You should get some sleep,” he said. “I’ve asked for some officers to guard your room. I’ll stay out there until they arrive.”
“Do detectives usually do that?” she asked.
He resisted his first instinct to say, Only for pretty ladies. That would be crossing his personal line. “It’s just for a few moments,” he said more curtly than he’d intended.
She looked startled at his tone. A light seemed to die in her eyes. He girded himself against a reaction. He was there to solve a crime, to apprehend a serial killer. The worst thing he could do was allow himself any personal feelings. That was the best way to get someone killed.
And there was no place in his life for personal feelings. He’d had them once, and they were a mistake. He’d almost destroyed two people.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she persisted. “What can you do? What can I do? I won’t go through life being terrified.” Then, after several seconds, she added, “I want him caught. I want him punished. I don’t want him to do to anyone else what he tried to do to me.”
She was feeling anger mixed with loss. Loss of security. Loss of safety. He knew that from experience. Post-traumatic stress syndrome wasn’t limited to those in the military. He surprised himself by wanting to reach down and touch her hand, to reassure her.
“I’ll ask the nurse to see if you can’t have something to help you sleep,” he said, starting for the door.
“I don’t think I can sleep now,” she said. “Please…don’t go.”
He suspected it had taken some courage for her to make that request. He didn’t think she asked for much from others. Others, however, probably asked a great deal from her.
“Yes,” he said simply. He went to the door, opened it. No uniformed officers yet. With the red tape involved, it would probably be morning before they arrived. He turned out the light and went to a chair, settling down into it, his long legs dangling in front of him.
“Thank you,” she said.
Marise heard the soft snoring across the room. It was comforting. She had feigned sleep, knowing that he would probably stay awake until he thought her asleep.
He looked tired, his cheeks shadowed with dark stubble. But she felt safe with him in the room. She wondered whether a wife was missing him. A family? But she was profoundly grateful to whomever had relinquished him for the evening. She didn’t want her mother’s hysterics or Paul’s overprotectiveness. She didn’t want to deal with any of that at the moment.
She would have a battle to fight tomorrow. She had heard everything the detective said, and sensed what he had not. She didn’t know if she could offer any real help in apprehending the man, whether she would recall enough to provide any clues. But she had meant it when she said she would not live her life in fear. She would stay here as long as there was a chance she could help.
And the Sectional in less than three weeks? Her dream? No, not hers. Her mother’s. Paul’s. Did she have the right to destroy it for them? If she didn’t make the competition, they wouldn’t have the points to continue to the World Championship.
The lives of unknown women? Paul’s career? Her mother’s lifelong goal?
How to balance them all. She no longer wanted to be responsible for all of them. For once in her life, she wanted to be responsible only for herself.
She closed her eyes, started to drift…
“I’m sorry I’m late, Daddy. I don’t feel well.”
“Excuses. Always excuses. Why can’t you be more like your brother? Now, he’s going to be a star.”
Her brother turned and gave her a reassuring smile. He was eleven and had already won a regional championship. He was their parents’ real hope, she knew that. She was their second. But she tried. Hours of lessons. Of practicing. She was never good enough. And now came her first competition, and she’d thrown up in nervousness. That’s why she was late.
The car accelerated. She saw the amber light turn red. Late. They were late. Because of her. Because of her fear. Suddenly, she heard the squeal of brakes, felt the jolt of the car and then the crashing sound of metal against metal…
“Easy.” The voice was deep but the low drawl was comforting.
She opened her eyes. Light was filtering into the room. A warm hand was on her shoulder.
It moved away almost immediately. She felt the loss of it. More than she should have.
“You were having a nightmare,” the detective said. He looked worse than he had a few hours ago. His hair was sticking out in all directions, the stubble was darker, his eyes were bloodshot.
“The attack?”
She started to say no, then gave a nod. She didn’t want to tell him she’d killed her father. And her brother. Her mind knew it had been an accident; her heart said she was responsible.
Then a knock at the door, and the room filled with her mother, her partner, a nurse with a tray.
Her mother stared at the detective next to her bed. “What are you doing here?” she said. “And why are there policemen outside?”
MacKay—she thought of him that way now—stepped away from her. “Miss Merrick was attacked last night,” he said evenly.
“In the hospital?” her mother asked. “How could that…?”
Paul went immediately to her bed, crowding out the detective and leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Marise?” he asked, his voice breaking.
She felt the concern in his voice, and her heart ached. He really did care for her. She’d known that, though at times she’d wondered whether his interest wasn’t more in keeping her as a partner.
Now as she looked in his eyes, she realized she had been wrong. He did love her. She took his hand, feeling the strength that had allowed her to make nearly impossible lifts.
“I’m really all right,” she said, even though she knew she wasn’t. And that there would be explanations that would have to be made. She would have to explain why she was staying in Atlanta. And later—but not now—she would have to explain why she couldn’t marry Paul.
She saw the detective slip out the door.
The people who cared most about her were in the room. She wondered, then, why she felt so alone.
Chapter 3
“What happened?” her mother asked.
She shrugged. “I woke up last night, and there was an intruder in the room. I screamed, and he left.”
Paul’s brows furrowed. “Someone from the hospital?”
“I think it was the same man who attacked me outside the arena. There was the same odor about him.”
“He didn’t hurt you?” Her mother hurried to her side and clasped one of Marise’s hand in hers.
“No,” she reassured both of them. “I got away from him by rolling off the bed. All that falling served me well,” she said wryly. “I might have a bruise. Nothing more.”
“I have it now,” she said. “Neither you nor I thought we would need it yesterday since we were using another name,” she pointed out.
Paul’s hand tightened around hers. “How could he have found you?”
“Detective…MacKay thinks it could be someone associated with the hospital.”
“That settles it,” Paul said. “We found a small jet that we can charter. We can leave this afternoon.”
“I’m not leaving,” she announced.
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “The plane is quite safe, even comfortable. And we can afford it with that last endorsement signing.”
“The police think that man killed other women,” Marise said. “They think I can help them.”
“Solving crimes is their problem,” Cara Merrick said. “They are detectives. You’re not.”
“There’s something else,” Marise said carefully. “If he believes I can recognize him, or something about him—and apparently he does or he wouldn’t have taken the risks he did last night—he might follow me if I leave. I’ll never feel safe again.”
“Nonsense,” Paul said. “Of course, he won’t follow us. He’ll just be relieved you’ve left.”
“Are you that familiar with the thinking of a serial killer?” she asked a bit too sharply.
Paul looked hurt.
“I can’t go,” she said. “Not as long as there’s a chance I can help the police.”
“Help the police?” her mother said as if it were a foreign concept. “How can you help the police?”
“A police artist will be here this morning.”
“I thought you said you didn’t see anything.”
“Detective MacKay seems to think that I might recall some things.”
“We can leave after that, then,” her mother said with relief.
“You didn’t listen,” Marise said. “He could follow me.”
“I can protect you,” Paul said.
At one time, she might have accepted that. Now protection took the form of a tall, lanky detective with mussed hair, intelligent dark eyes and a gentle touch. But she should know better than to depend on her own judgment.
She’d fallen in love once. Desperately. His name was Patrick Bennett, and he was a business executive with a sportswear company, older than her by fifteen years. Their relationship ended when she injured her ankle and no longer had the strength it took to be a singles champion with the increasing demand for higher and more complicated jumps and combinations. Her coach had suggested pairs skating. It took as much athletic ability but the strain wasn’t as consistent on her ankle, and Paul and her coach had always been careful to protect it as much as possible. She and Paul had been well-matched in height, technique and abilities.
Patrick had been concerned about her injury at first. Then the concern dissolved into coolness. Before long, he was dating another singles skater, and Marise realized he wanted a trophy companion, not part of a team. It had been bitter knowledge, and she’d guarded her heart ever since. That was also one reason she’d considered Paul’s offer. They were already friends with a lot in common. She didn’t have to worry about betrayal.
And she liked Paul. He had helped her through her heartbreak. He’d demanded her full attention, and the work had been a balm. Although he could be arrogant at times, he was also generous to her and hardworking. He seldom criticized or blamed when she made a mistake.
The only problem was that skating was all he really cared about. She wanted more. She’d always wanted more.
She wanted a home and family. She couldn’t imagine Paul as a homebody and father. He genuinely loved the spotlight and travel and glamor. He wouldn’t understand her compulsion to help capture someone who had almost killed her, who might well kill again.
Neither would her mother. To them, the gold medal was the only trophy worth pursuing.
As the two pressed her to take the flight, she wished MacKay hadn’t left. She wanted his support. Then she questioned whether he’d left because he was forcing her into making a decision.
“Marise?” her mother said, obviously believing the silence meant she was reconsidering.
“I’m going to stay,” Marise said. “It’s not just my safety. Nor other women he might attack. It’s me. He assaulted me. He tried to kill me. I…owe him. I want to help put him away. I want to look in his face when it happens.”
Paul and her mother stared at her as if in shock. But then, she had never been this angry before. She hadn’t realized how angry she was.
A knock came at the door, and the detective entered again, this time with a man with an overlarge briefcase.
“This is Alan Greene, our artist,” he said, as both her mother and Paul looked at him with disapproval.
Greene looked around. “Can we do this alone?” he asked.
Cara Merrick started to bristle.
“I think I should stay here with her,” Paul said, taking a defensive stand next to the bed. “She’s had a second shock in as many days.”
“She’ll be more helpful if she can concentrate,” the police artist said politely but firmly.
“Please wait outside, Paul,” Marise said.
“If that’s what you want…”
“It is, and you, too, Mom.”
Her mother frowned, obviously reluctant to leave. “If you need us…”
“I know,” Marise said. Her mother had been right outside for eighteen years, ever since she’d lost her husband and son. She’d accompanied Marise everywhere as her daughter won competition after competition, then became her business manager and agent.
Guilt about that accident so many years ago had kept Marise from suggesting another manager. And her mother did a good job. After she’d given up skating herself so many years ago, she and Marise’s father had run a skating school. Cara Merrick had been the business manager and deserved much of the credit for its financial success. She’d sold it years later and used the proceeds to finance Marise’s lessons and competitions and costumes.
Marise owed her.
She owed her—and her father—an Olympic Medal, the one shining goal neither of her parents had achieved. She and Paul actually had a shot at it. But first they needed a good showing in the Sectional and, hopefully, the U.S. Championships.
Her mother and Paul left reluctantly. Their coach had already flown ahead to Seattle with the costumes and equipment. One less mother hen with which to contend.
“Can the detective stay?” she asked.
The police artist nodded as he took out his computer and plugged in a modem.
Marise’s heart beat faster.
“Close your eyes,” the police artist said. “Think about impressions. Think about the night before last. What do you see?”
“Darkness. There was a street light, but he came from behind and dragged me into a dark corner. He wore a mask.” Her throat was dry. Her voice sounded scratchy.
“How big a man?”
“He seemed large.” She was picturing his bulk now. Her eyes were still closed, and she willed herself back to those moments. Back to the terror.
“His clothes?”
“Dark. Black, I think.”
“And the ski mask?”
“Black. Yes, black.”
“All right. Thin, fat?”
“Powerful,” she said. “Muscular. His arm was strong. I know muscles. I could feel them around my neck. I think he must work out.”
“Good. Very good,” the artist said.
“Height?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s between five-ten and five-eleven. I’m five-three, and he was about six inches taller than I am, about an inch shorter than Paul.”
He let out a surprised breath.
“I skate next to Paul every day. I know his height.”
“Good. Now his face. What did you see?”
“I didn’t exactly see it. It was too dark, and it happened so quickly.”
“Broa
d face?” he asked. “Narrow?”
“I don’t know,” she said desperately.
“Open your eyes,” he asked gently. His computer screen was turned toward her. He ran through several facial types. None of them brought any flash of recognition.
“Don’t try too hard,” he said. “Just watch and see if any ring a bell in your head.”
He had an easy way about him, and she found herself nodding and relaxing. Several more pages, then an impression…nothing more.
“Stop,” she said. “I’m not sure, but something about that face…”
It was a square face, heavy jowled. She stared at it for a moment, trying to remember more, to see more. Fear was crawling up her spine. What was it about that facial type?
The artist waited a few more moments, then suggested quietly, “Why don’t we try some eyes?”
A half-hour later, they had a picture. But she couldn’t say whether it was actually her assailant or a mishmash of memorable features that lingered in her mind. “I’m just not sure,” she admitted.
“You’ve done very well, Miss Merrick,” the artist said. “I’ll bet anything that when we find this man, there will be a resemblance.”
When we find him. If they found him.
Detective MacKay had not uttered a word during the entire time. Perhaps he had not wanted to break her concentration. But she had known he was there, and that had made her feel safe.
Now he came over to the bed. “Thank you,” he said in the rumbling deep voice that somehow gave her confidence in him. “That will be helpful.”
“I don’t know how,” she said.
“We have a lot of information we didn’t have before,” he said. “We know he’s familiar with hospital routine. He came in here during change of shifts when no one was likely to be in. He wears latex gloves. That’s probably where the smell came from. We finally have some leads. Thanks to you.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Perhaps you should go to Seattle.”
“You thought there was a chance he would come after me.”
His silence told her it was indeed a worry.
“If he came after me once, he’ll come again.”