Midnight Disclosures

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….

Chapter Four

Mark hadn’t slept all night for thinking about Claire. He scrubbed a hand over his bleary eyes, parked in front of Claire’s cottage and climbed from his Thunderbird. Early morning sunlight fought for existence through the hazy sky. Mark could relate. Ever since he’d been carried from that prison camp and honorably discharged from the military, he felt as if he’d been slogging through a dark fog searching for his way.

Searching for a reason to live.

Claire.

Keeping her safe gave him purpose. But it was all tangled up with this new job and the past. Only she wanted nothing to do with him.

Perspiration dotted his forehead as he approached her front door. For just a moment, he allowed himself to move back in time. He had come to pick her up for their second date. He’d worn his uniform. She’d opened the door, her hair blowing in the breeze, her lips parted in invitation, her eyes lit with anticipation.

Tonight, those eyes wouldn’t be able to see him.

He braced himself for the disappointment, along with the war that raged within him over not touching her.

Finally, shaking off his own selfish need, he punched the doorbell. A second later, Claire appeared.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Mark.”

When she swung the door open, she was still wearing a white linen nightshirt that caught in the morning breeze and fluttered around her thighs. Sunlight shone through the sheer fabric, giving him a glimpse of her sleek body, of golden skin, narrow hips, a flat stomach, then lower to the heat that had once sated his desires.

God help him, but he wanted to push up that gown and sink himself inside her now.

“Mark…I’m not dressed.”

“Obviously. Do you always answer the door like that?”

She jerked her head up, defensive. “No.”

He was just about to lecture her on the fact that a killer was stalking Savannah when he noticed she was shaking. Her face was pale, too. “What’s wrong?”

“I…I think someone was in my cottage.”

He gripped the doorjamb, instincts alert. “When?”

“Now,” she whispered, “or…maybe last night.”