Kate Stevenson - Witness… And Wife?

And a lump on her head.

“We found you just inside the door to Judge Wainright’s chambers, unconscious,” Luke explained, his gaze fixed on her face as if hoping the telling would prompt her memory. “The attacker probably hit you with the same object he used on Wainright.”

The same object? With Wainright’s blood still dripping—

Cassie jerked her trapped hand free, then stiffened, tormented by fragmented images. Shifting shadows. A flash of light. Thunder.

“I don’t remember…” she whispered, fighting against a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Anything.”

If her response frustrated him, Luke was careful to hide it. His expression remained neutral as he leaned back in the chair. “Okay, Cassie. It happens sometimes. Especially with head wounds. Given time it’ll come back. Meanwhile we’ll see what we can get from the tape.”

His composure grated on her nerves. She hated the way nothing bothered him. She’d always hated it. No matter how bad things got, Luke remained calm and unruffled. Even when…Cassie turned her face away to hide the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes.

If only her head would quit pounding. If only she could forget the past as easily as she’d forgotten last night. If only…

She’d fallen asleep. Somewhere between protest and angry silence, she’d drifted away. Luke moved to the side of the bed, noting the dark smudges beneath Cassie’s eyes, the dried tear tracks on her cheek.

She whimpered and stirred restlessly. Without thinking, he brushed back the damp curls that clung to her forehead, and she stilled beneath his touch.

Vulnerable. Defenseless. And in desperate need of a champion.

Abruptly he withdrew his hand and shoved it deep into his jeans pocket. Cassie was anything but helpless, no matter how she seemed right now. He would only end up looking like a fool if he let himself believe otherwise.

Before self-pity could gain a fingerhold, he strode out of the room, nodding to the cop on guard duty outside the door. Luke had a statement, for what it was worth. There was nothing more he could do here. Only pausing long enough at the nurses’ station to leave his phone number and call Cassie’s father, he hurried through the empty corridors and out into the early morning.

His battered Ford sat at the far edge of the parking lot, looking like a poor relation to the half dozen or so late-model cars scattered around it. As he made his way down the aisle, the sun pushed its way above the trees, burning off the remnants of last night’s storm. The world sparkled with color, crisp and sharp. Not even a hint of breeze disturbed the air. It was going to be a scorcher.

Before climbing into his vehicle, Luke followed the progress of a slow-moving car on the opposite side of the street. Bundled newspapers shot from the passenger window, thudding against concrete driveways at regular intervals. Last night’s events had probably made the morning edition. Thank God, the press had agreed to withhold Cassie’s name. He would have hated to see it spread across the front page, especially now, when she seemed to be the only lead.

Weariness washed over him. He was getting too old for these all-nighters, he decided as he climbed into his car and started the engine. He felt like one of those ads that showed a plate of scrambled eggs: “This is your brain on…” Insert lack of sleep.

Shaking his head, Luke tried to clear his mind. Right now all he wanted was a steaming shower and a few hours’ rest, but first things first. Chief Bradley expected a report. Pulling from the parking lot, Luke began reviewing the previous night’s events.

Cassie was the last person he’d expected to find at the scene of a murder. When he’d returned to Colorado three weeks ago from temporary assignment with the Dallas Police Department, he’d known he stood a good chance of running into her. Boulder’s size made it inevitable their paths would cross. He’d prepared for a casual encounter, not the heart-stopping experience of identifying an unconscious victim as his ex-wife. Not since his rookie days had he felt so utterly helpless. And then anger had overwhelmed him—raw, pulsing rage that made him want to smash his fist against skin and bone. Unfortunately there’d been no one to punch.

Well, he needn’t worry about inappropriate reactions much longer. Bradley was certain to invoke the unwritten rule against working on an investigation that involved family. And rightly so. Luke’s marriage to Cassie was history, but too many memories remained. Memories that would certainly play havoc with his objectivity.

Memories.

Like that first morning when she’d slipped through the doors of the police station. In one swift glance from across the room he’d taken in her white blouse, black skirt, pale blond hair pulled into a tight knot at her nape and had tagged her—a teenager masquerading as a grown-up.

He’d amended his assessment when she confidently approached the front desk and questioned the clerk. A woman. Small and delicate, but definitely a woman. He revised his estimate of her age upward several years. He didn’t know he was staring until she scanned the room, searching for someone. Him, he realized, when she met his curious gaze and started toward him.

A current of electricity shot through him, and hot coffee nearly overflowed his mug. At the last instant he looked down and released the lever on the coffee machine, battling a sudden case of nerves that left him feeling more like a gawky boy than a seasoned cop.

And then she was standing before him, smiling. Open and friendly, her smile was hard to resist. But Luke’s fate was sealed when he gazed into her eyes.

Cassandra Bowers had eyes the color of Amazon rain forests.

She’d laughed when he told her that the first night they made love. “How do you know?” she asked. “Have you been there?”

“No,” he replied, letting the strands of her hair run liquid through his fingers. “I’ve only dreamed.”

“A poet,” she whispered and kissed his lips with gentle urgency. “I’ve fallen in love with a poet.”

She hadn’t been entirely wrong.

Because of her, poetry had sung in his heart. He just couldn’t speak the words out loud. And somehow, when tragedy had struck, the words became lost in the cadences of sorrow.

A growl of almost physical pain reverberated in his chest. Savagely he ground the car’s gears in his haste to put distance between himself and his memories.

A horn blared.

He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt a few inches past a stop sign as the other car crossed the intersection, its driver raising his hand in a one-fingered salute.

Luke grimaced and continued down the street, ticking off the names of men who could take over the investigation. Burns, Jessup, Haggerty—all competent replacements.

Competent, but unimaginative.

They’d follow the book, track down leads and patiently wait for Cassie to regain her memory.

And not one of them would worry about what she was going through.

Just as he hadn’t two years ago when they’d lost their child.

Luke pulled in at the station and turned off the ignition, trying to convince himself there was no comparison. The two situations were entirely different. He’d been going through hell himself.

Still, the fact remained—he could have done something.

Wrong, he argued, staring out the windshield. Cassie hadn’t wanted his help. Hadn’t wanted him after the baby had died. And he couldn’t blame her. After all, the entire tragedy would never have played out if Luke had not authorized a high-speed police chase.

He rubbed the back of his neck to work loose a knot of tension and climbed from the car, feeling every one of his thirty-six years. Hindsight was easy. Easy and useless. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he might wish to. And, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about Cassie’s current problems.