Playing Dead

on the news. I put it together.”

“I’m sorry, Mitch. I really thought it would be over by now, but. .”

“But what?”

“It’s never going to end until they find my dad. And I’m scared.”

“That he’s going to hurt you?”

“Me?” She shook her head rapidly back and forth. “Hell no, he’d never hurt me. I’m scared that they’ll kill him. He’s a fugitive. He escaped from prison. But did you know he captured nine of the other escapees? Or led the police to their capture? I didn’t know anything about it until a reporter cornered me outside the Rogan-Caruso office and asked if I’d heard anything about my father tipping off the police about one of the escapees. Then I talked to Bill-he was my guardian-and he looked into it. Found out my dad was a hero, then the media broke the story. He’s still my father-and I never visited him in prison. Not once. I never wrote to him, or answered his letters to me.”

Why was she talking like this? She’d never told anyone about the letters, she tried to never think about them. She’d read them, of course she had to, she was too damn curious by nature. All were the same. How are you? I love you. I’m innocent.

She’d hardened her heart against her father because she couldn’t handle the emotions that battled within, the guilt, the fear, the anguish, the betrayal. And the love. She had loved her father so much. .

And now she had hope. That’s where all this was bubbling up from, a new idea that she might have been wrong for half her life.

Mitch wrapped his arms around her in a hug. At first Claire stiffened. She hadn’t been hugged-not like this-in longer than she could remember. Protected. What a silly thought. Mitch was a writer-sure, he was physically fit-but she had far more self-defense training than he had. She had no reason to feel protected or anything else with him.

He tilted her chin up and said, “Claire, nothing you could tell me is going to change the way I feel about you.” He kissed her. “We all have said and done things we regret. I’ve done my fair share. But I’m telling you right now, Claire O’Brien, that what’s inside you is a passionate, smart, beautiful woman I’m lucky to be here with.”

This kiss was warmth and passion. This kiss was a prelude to bed. A promise.

The bond she’d felt with Mitch, almost from the first time they met, was strong. It scared her, and that, she realized, was why she didn’t want him to meet Dave, Bill, and the others. She didn’t want anyone or anything to hurt this new and powerful relationship. Didn’t she deserve to be happy? To find someone she wanted to spend her time with? She was so tired of being alone. In her heart, she’d been alone since the day her mother was murdered.

With Mitch, she felt whole.

Mitch had that aura of a loner that she knew all too well. And for the first time, she wanted to get closer to someone. To really let someone into her heart, not just her bed.

But she also wanted him in her bed. She needed an hour of nothing but a physical connection. She had to clear her mind, to feel something other than pain and confusion.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, her voice unusually deep.

“Claire-” His voice was thick, eyes searching hers, desire for her as strong as her own.

“Follow me home,” she said, taking his hand.

He sat in his car in the far corner of the parking lot and watched the entrance of the Fox amp; Goose, waiting. The door opened and he leaned forward in anticipation. It wasn’t Claire.

She’d said she was meeting her boyfriend-Mitch Bianchi-but she’d refused to share any more information. He’d known she was seeing someone-he made it a point to check up on her whenever possible-but she’d sounded enamored with the asshole. And why had she not brought him by the house for the game? Why was she being so secretive about this relationship? He was a writer-a nothing, like all the other losers she picked. He’d never been threatened by any of them. He understood Claire better than she knew herself. He’d made it a point to study her, learn about her, understand her. She dated men who were her intellectual inferiors. She used them for sex and nothing more. And as long as none of them were a threat to him, he could quench his thirst with other women.

His hands clenched the steering wheel. He hated that she slept with men other than him. He’d wanted to be her first and only. But that would have tipped his hand too soon. It was better this way, watching her from afar. Being there for her when she needed him. And then. . he’d know when the time was right. He’d know when to show her that fate had brought them together. They were meant to be.

He had his girls to keep him from moving on her too soon.

Too soon? It’s been fifteen years!

He didn’t want to kill her. He wanted her, but if he took her he would have to kill her. Instead, he protected her by standing back and not sharing his love. His love would kill Claire, and then he would have nothing left to live for.

She was everything to him.

Until she got serious with another. When she took another man not only to bed, but into her heart, when she opened up her soul. . that was for him, and him alone.

The door opened again and he saw her. She wore the dark jeans, and had added strappy high-heeled shoes and a lacy black tank top that hugged her breasts like a leather glove. Her fair skin was so white, especially against her shiny black hair. To touch her hair, her skin, her breasts. .

His eyes whipped to the man with her, his heartbeat quickening. Mitch Bianchi was not like the rest. He had the same good looks, but was taller, more physical, older than other men Claire had dated. He had an air about him. . a familiar appearance. Did he know this ass-hole? No, he didn’t think so. It was more the way he moved, the way he scanned the parking lot. Maybe he was in security, worked for Rogan-Caruso, though Claire said he was a freelance writer. Odd.

They were talking, then suddenly Claire wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and kissed him. A full-body kiss, up against the side of the building.

No, no, no! This was not good. The jerk had his hands on her ass, then her back, then her hair. What was he going to do? Fuck her right there in public?

He desperately wanted to confront them, arrest them for public indecency, kill them. He should be the one with his hands on Claire, but not up against the wall of some filthy bar. He’d pour rose petals on her bed, treat her like a princess. His princess.

They stopped groping each other and walked-together-toward Claire’s Jeep. She’d been drinking. That’s why she was acting like a slut. She’d been drinking and he was going to take her home. Except that she slid into the driver’s seat. He walked three cars away and got into a rather nondescript American car.

With clenched fists he wrote down the license plate, then followed. Discreetly.

Bianchi followed Claire home. Parked in her driveway behind her Jeep. He was going to screw her. Bastard.

“She’s mine!” he shouted in the safety of his car.

He drove off, angrier than he’d been in a long, long time. He almost stormed into her house. Almost. . to confront her. He wanted too much to kill her.

I sacrificed for you! I protected you! You’re mine!

But he continued up H Street, turned down a side street, and then made another right and headed back downtown.

He’d had these urges before. There was only one solution.

He went on the prowl.

THIRTEEN

As Claire led him across the threshold of her house, Mitch told himself he needed to extricate himself from this situation. When Claire learned the truth she would be hurt and furious, and he didn’t want to pile on any more pain.