Midnight Disclosures. Rita Herron

said good-night, and Claire headed for the front of the station. Mark trailed behind her, allowing her the small victory by letting her lead. She would not win the war, though, and get rid of him.

      Not until this killer was caught.

      She halted at the front door and reached for her cell phone.

      “Put it away, Claire, I’m driving you home.”

      “That’s—”

      “I know, not necessary.” He sighed. “Listen, Claire, it’s obvious you don’t want me around, but we’ve agreed this killer has to be stopped, so the sooner we start working together, the sooner we can accomplish that.”

      She snapped her phone shut.

      “Every moment doesn’t have to be a battle.”

      “Then stop treating me like I’m an invalid.”

      He couldn’t help it. Claire brought out all his protective instincts. And more.

      “You’re being overly sensitive,” he said, aware his comment would irritate her. “And I don’t think of you as an invalid, but you have to cut me some slack. I’m just doing my job.” And trying to be considerate. Something you once would have admired.

      She flinched as if he’d hit her, and he felt about two feet tall. “Fine, let’s go to the car.”

      He glanced outside and noticed it had started raining. “Wait here, and I’ll bring it around.”

      “I can go with you.”

      “Don’t be silly. It’s pouring down rain, Claire.”

      “I can hear the rain, Mark. I’m not stupid.”

      “No, just stubborn.” His temper had reached its limits. He and Claire had never bickered over trivial things, had simply fallen into step together as if they’d been dancing all their life. Now, they were totally out of sync. “I’ll be back in a second.”

      She folded her arms. “Pull up directly in the center, and I’ll meet you outside.”

      He gritted his teeth, then jogged outside to the car. Her independence was a good thing, he reminded himself.

      Unless it made her do something stupid, like put herself in the hands of the killer.

      CLAIRE TOSSED and turned through a fitful sleep. When she’d first arrived home after her accident, she’d argued with her sister about moving to Savannah. Paulette wanted Claire to stay in Atlanta so she could take care of her. As if Claire really wanted to be indebted to her sister.

      Once again, she dreamt that she’d been locked in the house with Paulette, forced to endure her condescending attitude and feel like an invalid, a burden to feed her sister’s martyr attitude.

      That nightmare had drifted into one of her accident. The bloodred water had sucked her under. She’d struggled and fought, the iciness gripping her until she’d finally floated into a surreal state, blinded by a sharp light. Then someone had pulled her from its clutches, dragged her to the surface and tossed her ashore, as if she should go on. But she hadn’t wanted to go on.

      Save yourself, Claire.

      But she couldn’t…

      Mark suddenly appeared, battling enemy soldiers and being shot, then falling to his death. She saw the blood, so much blood, but there was no red, only black. Her scream boomeranged her back to the hospital where she’d awakened with a throbbing emptiness swelling inside her. She was all alone. So alone.

      Another cry escaped her and she jerked awake, only to finally fall fitfully back to sleep and dream of the women callers, begging for help, their final cries ringing in her ears.

      Then the killer was after her.

      She was running blindly through the marsh, wondering if it really mattered if she lived or died…. So much had happened. She’d lost so much already.

      She jerked upright, trembling and breathing hard, then froze, reminding herself her nightmares had held only partial truths. She reached for the picture frame and traced her fingers over the heart-shaped opening where her baby’s picture should have been. It was empty. Her baby was gone.

      But Mark was still alive.

      The woodsy scent he’d left behind wafted around her, and she gripped the tangled sheets with fisted hands.

      Oh, Mark was very much alive.

      Alive and strong and so damn masculine she wanted to scream every time she got near him. Scream for him to hold her, to take away the pain, to make love to her and magically change everything back to the way it used to be.

      Dreaming of what could have been was futile.

      Throwing off the covers, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and listened to the familiar early morning sounds that represented comfort and safety. The lull of the ocean outside. An occasional seagull soaring overhead. The whisper of the wind against the wooden frame.

      This was her life now. Claire Kos—psychologist. Workaholic. Radio personality.

      Loner.

      Checking her clock, she realized she had only half an hour before Mark would arrive. Last night, they’d made plans to go to the police precinct and review the files on the victims before she met with her first patient. She headed to the shower, but she stumbled and nearly fell, barely catching herself on the rocking chair she normally kept in the corner.

      It wasn’t in the corner anymore, but stood in the center of the bathroom doorway.

      Someone had moved it.

      Claire’s breath caught in her chest, a sick feeling sweeping over her. Then a strange odor assaulted her—a medicinal scent. Someone had been inside her cottage. Was he still there?

      HE WANTED CLAIRE.

      He’d wanted her for so long. Even with her eyes glassy-looking with pain, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Beautiful and strong and gutsy and…alone.

      Just like Dianne Lyons and Beverly Bell.

      Who did they think they were shunning him?

      Claire had, too. Even though he had saved her once…

      Yes, he had, and he could forgive her for turning away. If she’d only listen now. If only she’d come to him.

      He watched her curtains flutter in the wind and wondered if she’d awakened. Did she know he’d slipped inside her cottage to watch her sleep? That he had almost reached out and soothed away her cries, had nearly touched that silky hair, had almost brushed his lips across hers when she’d tossed the covers in her nightmares.

      He knew all about nightmares.

      Just as he knew Claire’s hidden desires. Her need for comfort in spite of her fierce independent nature.

      Her need for a strong man.

      And he was strong. In spite of his injuries, the past few days he had proven he was still fit.

      He brought one of her scarves to his mouth, closed his eyes and inhaled her scent, then imagined his lips tasting hers, imagined taking off his clothes, having her healing touch slide across his skin. With her, he would be whole again. And he would make her whole, too.

      He would make her forget Mark Steele.

      Claire would see it that way one day, too.

      Until then, he’d have to be content to watch her from afar. And he’d take what he could from the others, proving his strength as his hands tightened around their slender throats, drawing the life from them….