Karen Rose - Have You Seen Her?

He tilted his head to one side. "But I do please." And he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, the suggestions as horrific as he could conjure. Her reemergence dreams would be… interesting.

"Welcome to the k-zone," he intoned in a deep voice. But she was already too far gone to hear him. He swept the sawdust aside, sat back, and waited for the show to begin.

Friday, September 30, 6:45 P.M.

Brad's Dr. Marshall had been quiet for most of the ride to her apartment, speaking only to give him the most basic directions. Steven pulled into an empty slot in front of her apartment and turned to study her face. After Raleigh PD took her statement she'd become subdued, as if the import of the threat was finally real. He saw it often. After an incident people tended to behave with excessive bravery or optimism-until the adrenaline wore off and reality sank in. He suspected that's where Dr. Marshall's mind was at this point. Mulling over the possibilities. Who could have written that note? And would they carry through on their threat?

She sat very still, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her hair hanging down so that all but the tip of her nose was obscured. Her left hand was bare, as he'd noticed before, but now he noted the thick silver ring she wore on her right thumb. A Celtic design. A man's ring.

He didn't like that. He didn't like that she wore a man's ring or that she worried it. But, of course, it didn't matter what he didn't like as he'd only see her this once.

Only this once.

He didn't like that, either. To his great irritation, he realized he didn't want to leave. Didn't want their time together to come to an end. Hah. As if "they" had "time together." They'd met, talked, and would likely never meet nor talk again. Still, he hesitated. She sat so quietly, staring down at her hands. Miles away. He was almost afraid to break into her thoughts.

He leaned toward her and caught the coconut scent of her hair. Breathed deeply. Then cleared his throat.

"Dr. Marshall?" he said quietly.

Her head jerked up, sending her hair sliding back against her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and startled, met his, blinked, then focused. And her cheeks turned the most becoming shade of rose.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize we were here already." Her eyes dropped to her fingers, busily fidgeting with the silver ring. "I guess I just realized that someone hates me enough to slash my tires and threaten me with hate mail." Her lips quirked up. "Without a spell-checker of course."

He smiled back. "Are you ready to go in?"

She reached to the floorboard for her purse. "Sure. Just give me a second to find my keys." She rummaged for a minute, then stopped and looked back at him, her eyes almost black in the shadow of the Volvo's overhead light, her dark brows bunched. "I think you still have them."

"Oh." Without taking his eyes from hei face, Steven reached in his coat pocket and pulled out her keys. "Here you go."

She took her keys gingerly, not even brushing his hand in the process. And he felt disappointed. Then felt annoyed at feeling disappointed. He sat back firmly in his seat. "You put the card for the towing company in your purse. They said your car would be ready by tomorrow at noon. And don't forget to call the Raleigh PD for their report for your insurance company."

Her expression went blank for just a moment and she blinked. "I'm sorry, my brain just crashed. What was the name of the officer again?"

"You're feeling the aftereffects of an adrenaline high," Steven explained, reaching for a pen and one of his business cards. He scrawled the officer's name on the back. "His name is Al Pullman and he's with the Investigative Division." Steven hesitated, then blurted, "My office number's on the front. Call me if you need anything else."

She took the card, her lower lip clamped between her teeth. "Do you have another card?"

Silently he gave her one and watched as she wrote on the back in neat block letters. She looked up, still biting her lower lip, and he felt the sizzle of lust head straight down along with the urge to bite her lip himself. But that was crazy. Primal and crazy. In a few minutes, he'd be gone, never to see her again.

She held out the card. "I'm not making a… a… pass at you, Mr. Thatcher," she said softly. "Truly. I just wanted you to know I care very much about Brad. If you need to talk, here's my home number and my e-mail address." She gave a little shrug. "He's important to me, too."

He slipped the card into his pocket. "Thank you."

"I guess I'll get out of your hair now. Thanks for everything." She got out and waved.

He watched her limp up the sidewalk. The apartment unit had a floor-to-ceiling window, three stories high, and through it he could see the flights of stairs winding to the top. That meant there was probably no elevator. And she'd written Apartment 3-D on the back of his business card. Third floor. He continued to watch as she limped inside and climbed to the first landing, one plodding step at a time. Then stopped to rest. And slip off her ridiculous shoes.

Steven sighed. He was the cause of her injury, even though her shoes were ridiculous. Sitting here while she navigated the stairs alone went against everything his mother had ever taught him. Open doors, hold umbrellas, pull out chairs and assist those you've maimed. Well, Mom had never said the last one, but she would have, had the occasion come up. Helping would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Helping would also give him one last opportunity to feel her brush against him and to smell the soft fragrance that made him wonder if it was any stronger on her bare skin. He drew a deep breath. Bare skin . That particular picture was one he should put out of his mind that minute. But once there, the picture stubbornly refused to budge. It was a very nice picture.

If he was perfectly honest, he wanted to see her to her door, whatever his motivation. So do it, putz , he told himself. He didn't need to tell himself twice. He was out of his car and at her side by the time she was halfway up the next flight of stairs.

She made a face at his appearance. "Now I'm really going to feel guilty at keeping you from your kids. I'm fine. Go home, Mr. Thatcher."

He took her shoes in his right hand and offered his left arm. "Steven," he said before he realized the correction was coming out of his mouth. Once said, the wall of formality couldn't be rebuilt. Even if he'd wanted to. Which, given the picture still flashing in his mind, he didn't want to.

She took his arm, embarrassed gratitude in her expression. "Jenna. And thanks. You really don't have to." She hopped up a step, leaning on his arm. "But thanks just the same."

By the time they reached her apartment she was flushed and heated and he more so, and very glad he was wearing his suit jacket. It was a good thing he was never seeing her again. His heart couldn't take it.

"Thank you, once again." She smiled and extended her hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Steven. Thank you for being there when I needed you."

He took her hand. "Thank you for caring about my son."

Her next words were cut off by a pandemonium of barking. She glanced at her door and gently pulled her hand from his. "I need to go." She gestured at the door. "I have to, um, walk the dog."

"What kind of dogs are they?"

Her eyes darted sideways. "Just one," she said brightly. "Just one dog." She glanced over to her neighbor's door and rolled her eyes. "I'm all right , Mrs. Kasselbaum. No need for concern."

Steven looked to his left, just in time to see the neighbor's door close. "Nosy neighbor?"

She rolled her violet eyes again. "You have no idea." The barking continued and she put her key in the door. "Well, um, thanks again."