Silent Surrender. Rita Herron

Doc, it won’t…hurt. It’ll j…ust sting a little.”

      Sarah bolted up, sweat-drenched sheets tangled around her legs, her pulse racing, her breath coming in gasps. She had to have been dreaming. How else was it possible for her to hear the same voices in the hospital and here again in her own house? Her house was empty. So where had the voices come from? The doctors had mentioned delayed hearing—was that what was happening? Were these voices a part of the conversation she’d heard in the hospital?

      Lightning streaked through the blinds and she fisted the sheets in her hands, fighting her unshakable terror of the storm. Shadows from the starless night hovered about her bedroom, taunting her. Lightning flashed again.

      No, not lighting—her apartment lights were blinking signifying someone was at her door. This time a ding sounded in the background.

      The doorbell. She’d never heard it before and had assumed when she’d had the apartment customized to fit her needs, they’d disconnected it. Thankfully, the bell emitted a soft musical sound that reminded her of bells ringing, one familiar sound from childhood. She pushed her hair from her face, grabbed a robe and stumbled toward the den, then checked the peephole, expecting to see Sol again. But that big detective, Adam Black, stood on her doorstep, dripping rain from his black hair, his dark face even more intimidating in the shadows with lightning illuminating his hard, sexy features. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, his cheekbones etched in granite, his shoulders so broad he must have to custom order his clothes. He pounded the door with his fist and she jumped, then finally pulled herself together enough to unlock the door.

      “Can I come in?”

      She flinched at the harsh set of his jaw as she read his lips. He smelled of rain and wet leather and some earthly scent that reminded her of the woods and sex. Her stomach quivered. Why did the man make her think like that?

      He had a black leather jacket slung around his broad shoulders and a pair of well-worn jeans hugged his muscular thighs. Encased in work boots that had seen better days, his feet seemed enormous. He looked as if he should be riding a wild mustang across the prairie.

      Or riding a woman in the darkness of her bedroom.

      Shaken by her own thoughts, her legs threatened to buckle so she clutched the wall for support.

      He seemed oblivious to her reaction. “Look, Miss Cutter, I’m getting soaked. Can I come in?”

      A clap of thunder boomed and she jumped, the sound almost as shocking as the tension radiating between them.

      He must have realized she was too stunned to move so he pushed his way inside, more gently than she’d imagined, then kicked his boots on the hall rug, brushing his jacket to alleviate the moisture soaking his hair. She stepped inside the kitchen, retrieved a towel and handed it to him. Their hands brushed slightly and heat suffused her, fire curling low in her stomach. His gaze dropped to her cotton robe where it had fallen open at her breasts, revealing the thin nightshirt she’d thrown on to sleep. She belted the robe, a blush rushing up her face. Why did this stranger affect her so? He didn’t like her. And she wasn’t sure she liked him.

      He studied her silently as he ran the towel over his head, down his face and long neck. Finally, he handed the towel back to her, a half smile curving his mouth. “I won’t bite, you know.”

      She felt like a fool and braced herself for his teasing laughter.

      But he didn’t laugh. Instead he kept watching her with those mesmerizing eyes.

      “You got any coffee?”

      She stared at him, then signed, “What are you doing here?”

      “I don’t read sign language,” he said.

      Resigned, she silently cursed herself for even trying, and reached for her Palm Pilot. “What are you doing here?”

      “I need to ask you some more questions.”

      Fury snaked through her. “To make fun of me again?”

      He studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes raking over her, lingering on her mouth. Finally he shook his head. “No. I’m sorry about that. I want to hear your story.”

      “Why?”

      He motioned toward the kitchen and she remembered he’d asked for coffee, so she made a pot, then poured them both a cup, not surprised when he took his black. Her hands trembled when she handed him his mug.

      They sat at her small pine table, the room feeling unbearably small with his large body taking up all the space. He seemed to take in the details of her kitchen, the cheery yellow paint and ceramic cats, with a tiny smirk. She tried not to look at his mouth, to wonder what he would look like if those full lips ever really smiled. But even if she hadn’t latched on to his mouth to read his lips, she would have been mesmerized by them. He wrapped his big powerful hands around the yellow coffee mug and she decided he had to be the sexiest, most masculine man she’d ever laid eyes on.

      Tigger loped in and rubbed up against him, and he surprised her by reaching down and scratching the tabby’s back. She couldn’t believe her cat had taken to this man. Tigger usually reserved affection for her and her alone. Where was his loyalty?

      “Does he go out?”

      Sarah shook her head, biting her lip when he frowned at the cat’s mangled tail. But if the cat’s deformity repulsed him, he didn’t show it.

      “Okay, tell me once more about this woman you heard.” He sipped the coffee, his intense gaze trapping hers.

      She hesitated at the spark of awareness in his eyes.

      “You said you wanted to help this woman?”

      “Why?” she wrote. “Do you believe me now?”

      “Maybe. Let’s just say I went to the research center and did some checking.”

      Sarah sat back in the chair, her breath catching. He’d actually followed up and done what she’d asked. Just when she’d convinced herself everything had been a dream, he’d found something to substantiate her story? “I…a…” She hesitated, trying to think how to word her next question. “Is there a Dr. Harden or Harper who works there?”

      “Dr. Harley.”

      Oh, God. “And she’s missing?”

      Pain darkened his black eyes, the first real emotion she’d seen, other than that simmering sexuality. “I have reason to believe she is.”

      Her pulse raced. “Who is she?”

      He ran a hand through his hair, raised his head and looked straight into her eyes, a sense of desolation radiating from him. “My sister.”

      Adam steeled himself against the sympathy in Sarah Cutter’s cornflower-blue eyes, and the allure of knowing she was half-naked beneath that flimsy robe as he explained briefly about Denise’s sudden vacation.

      “Write down everything you remember,” he said gruffly. He sipped his coffee, once again zeroing in on the faint scars on her hands as she wrote.

      Basically, her story remained the same as before, offering him little to go on. As had Denise’s journal. He had a few more pages to skim, but so far the portions described very personal feelings about her divorce and her co-workers, with a few notations about apprehension over her research.

      “Are you sure you didn’t hear someone mention her name before your surgery, then you dreamed about her afterward?”

      “I couldn’t hear before the surgery.”

      “But you read lips, right?”

      She nodded.

      “You might have seen her name on a chart somewhere?”

      Her writing became short and jerky. “I didn’t hear anyone mention her name before the surgery and I don’t remember seeing her name anywhere, either. Does