Agent-in-Charge. Leigh Riker
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the only one who made her feel safe.
These familiar surroundings didn’t quell her anxiety. The smells of cooking that drifted from other apartments, the blast of someone’s television, the feel of the floor beneath her feet in the hallway could lead to fresh terror in a heartbeat.
As panic engulfed her, she had to suppress the impulse to throw herself into Graham’s arms again. That would create a danger of a different kind. She couldn’t get near Graham without noticing his scent, his body heat, the deep timbre of his voice that heated her blood.
Maybe she shouldn’t have taken Graham up on his offer of a ride home. But her nerves were shot. She kept remembering those frightening seconds in the revolving door, being spun out of control. Every sound, even the scrape of the key in the lock, set her heart racing again. Who might be lurking around the nearest corner? Ready to attack her again? To kill.
Graham couldn’t slip the key into the lock fast enough for Casey. Then he said, “Wait. Don’t go in.”
And in the entryway, she could feel it, too, that sixth sense that they weren’t quite alone. Then suddenly, they weren’t.
The door across the hall flew open and footsteps pounded toward her. Casey felt a heavy hand settle on her shoulder. “What’s wrong here?”
The dark voice belonged to her neighbor, but not to her elderly and sometimes forgetful neighbor. It was Anton’s son, big Rafe Valera. Wide-shouldered, thick-muscled, a bull of a man with dark hair and hard gray eyes. To Casey he’d always been as gentle as a kitten without claws.
Graham disagreed. Without warning he slammed Rafe up against the doorframe. “Drop it.”
“Damn it,” Rafe bellowed, “you almost broke my arm!”
Casey heard a brief scuffle, some kind of karate throw, then a few grunts before something heavy, like metal, thudded to the floor.
Graham’s voice was a low-pitched snarl. “This jerk was carrying a gun.”
A gun? Rafe owned a gun?
“I heard noise,” he said. “I was worried about Casey.”
The two men knew each other slightly but Casey felt their usual instant dislike in the air. Once, that would have meant jealousy on Graham’s part. She thought of Rafe’s dangerous good looks, his usual black clothes.
“You remember Rafe,” she said, which didn’t lighten Graham’s mood.
“Does he always flash a .357 Magnum when he sees you?” Clearly disapproving, Graham disappeared inside to check the apartment. Then he was back, prowling the living room while she and Rafe hovered in the open door, silent with tension.
When Casey heard her answering machine click on not ten feet away, she jumped. “Listen to this,” Graham muttered.
She frowned, puzzled. It was only her doctor’s receptionist with a reminder message from yesterday about her appointment today. “What is it?”
“Someone was here.”
She’d been right and Casey sounded braver than she felt. “The man who pushed me into the revolving door?” She could feel Rafe’s sharp eyes on her but didn’t stop to explain her latest mishap. “You mean, he heard the message. Then he knew where to find me.”
“And followed you there,” Graham agreed. “There are no visible signs of forced entry. There isn’t a chair out of place, nothing disturbed.” This only seemed to make him more suspicious. “Valera, did you see or hear anything?”
“I was about to wake my father from his afternoon rest before Casey got home. I didn’t hear or see a thing until you came.”
Graham returned his attention to Casey. “When you weren’t here at the apartment earlier—thank God, you weren’t—your visitor must have split. Apparently he got exactly the information he needed.”
The other apartment door opened again. Casey heard Anton’s carpet slippers shuffle across the hall. The older man sounded frantic. His European accent had deepened.
“What is happening? I wake up from my nap and Rafe is gone.” She envisioned Anton’s graying hair, standing on end, his blue eyes fierce. “You are not hurt again, Casey?”
“No.” Not too much. “I’m fine.” She reached out a reassuring hand, and heard Rafe bend down to retrieve his gun. Graham didn’t stop him, but his tone stayed grim.
“I’ll talk to you later, Valera. You too, Anton.” He waited until they went back across the hall. Then he ushered Casey inside and locked the door.
“If I had any doubts before about your hit-and-run being deliberate, Casey, I don’t now. Ever since the revolving-door incident, I’ve been wondering if the guy saw me with you in that lobby. If he did, then why risk going after you?” Graham paused. “Now I wonder if he did see me—and wanted us to know that you aren’t safe, even with someone else around. That you’re a target even in a crowd.”
Casey shivered. “Because I’m…blind.”
“I think he wants us to know you’re always alone in that way, always vulnerable. And he can get to you. No matter where you are.”
Us? “Then earlier he didn’t mean to kill me.”
“It was a warning,” Graham suggested. “But why?”
Without thinking, Casey took a step forward. Graham moved, too. Then she was in his strong, hard arms, held tight to his broad chest. Graham pressed his cheek to her hair.
“What the hell is going on?” he muttered.
Casey didn’t know. Yet even here, in her own home, she wasn’t safe. Until she learned why, she wouldn’t forget those terrifying moments caught in the whirling doors.
Just as she couldn’t forget the man in the elevator.
Or being run down like some hunted prey.
Chapter Two
The next morning when Casey’s doorbell buzzed, her heart beat so fast it threatened to shatter. She felt her pulse in the still-stinging scrapes on her hands and knees. After yesterday’s twin mishaps, she stood frozen with one hand on the doorknob. Outside she could hear someone breathing heavily.
He wants us to know you’re alone…vulnerable.
What if her attacker was just inches away, with only the closed door between them and her possible murder?
“Casey, open up. It’s okay.”
Graham. Still, Casey hesitated. Last night she had stayed in Graham’s embrace until she finally stopped trembling, automatically seeking solace in his familiar scent, and the safety she found in his arms. She refused to let him stay the night, then hadn’t slept a wink after he left.
Casey fumbled the locks open. “What are you doing here again?” She heard something whap, hard and rhythmically, against the nearby wall. Then something warm and moist nudged her side.
“I brought you a present.” Graham stepped into the apartment. His arm brushed hers for a fraction of a second, and a disturbing tingle of awareness ran over her skin. “The wet nose comes with the dog.” Casey heard the sharp click of toenails on her entry floor. “Meet Sweet William,” Graham said.
“A guard dog?”
For an instant she preferred that to Graham’s scent, his touch, his masculine aura. The too-vivid memory of his dark hair and eyes, that hot gaze that would send desire racing through her body. Even without her sight, she had perfect recall of his high-chiseled cheekbones, his broad shoulders, his muscled chest, his washboard belly, strong tanned hands and powerful thighs. She didn’t have to see, Casey realized, to get the same effect. The flesh on her bare arm still buzzed from their brief contact.
“A guide dog,” Graham corrected.