Closer Encounters. Merline Lovelace
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eyes flew open. Her arms froze in the act of twining around a strong, corded neck.
Good Lord! This wasn’t a dream! This wasn’t anything close to a dream! She was wrapped in the arms of a man she’d met just a few hours ago. Worse—much worse!—she was damned if she could recall how she’d gotten there. Thoroughly flustered, she shoved out of his hold.
“What are you doing?”
Frowning, the handsome stranger shagged a hand through his short-cropped hair. His voice was tight, his apology gruff.
“Sorry. Guess I misread the signals.”
What signals? The last thing Tracy remembered with any clarity was suggesting Mr. Andrew McDowell take a flying leap off the Green Pier. Not quite in those words, of course, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how they’d progressed from that chilly parting to a kiss that darned near melted her bones.
Oh, God! Had the stress of the past few months pushed her over the edge? First her job. Then Jack. Now this. Was she losing it? Making a desperate attempt to hide her incipient panic, she angled her chin.
“I think you’d better leave.”
He studied her for several moments, his face unreadable.
“Now,” she added with as much authority as she could muster at the moment.
He accepted the dictum with a curt nod. “See you around.”
Not if she could help it!
Looking as disgruntled as Tracy now felt, he deposited his plastic cup on the coffee table. The minute the door closed behind him she rushed to flip the dead bolt and fumble the chain into place. Slumping against the door, she put a hand to her mouth.
Tracy could still taste him on her lips, still feel the imprint of his body against hers. The man delivered one heck of a kiss. She’d give him that.
Her fingers came away stained with a greasy red smear. Grimacing, she went in search of a tissue. The chaos in the bathroom made her eyes pop.
Good grief! Surely she hadn’t created this war zone!
Her mouth curling in distaste, she surveyed the wet towels, the discarded bathrobe, the soap scum ringing the tub. A messy litter of cosmetics drew her to the tiled counter. Confusion swirled through her as she eyed the unfamiliar bottles, brushes and tubes.
Her usual beauty regimen consisted of a swipe of blush, a little mascara and flavored lip gloss. She rarely wore eye shadow and shied away from bright, garish colors like the lipstick lying uncapped on the counter. And where the heck had those bobby pins come from?
The near panic returned, prickling Tracy’s skin with icy goose bumps. She was losing it!
Her first instinct was to run. Driven by the wild urge to throw her things in her bag and scurry home to the safety of her cozy apartment, she whirled. Reality intervened before she’d taken more than a step or two.
The ferries didn’t operate at night. She couldn’t get off the island until morning. More to the point, she had a grim task to perform before she could depart Catalina. She’d put it off too long already.
“Tomorrow,” she promised softly, her chest squeezing.
The whispered vow came through Drew’s earpiece with Dolby-like clarity.
Tomorrow.
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, waiting for more. All he heard were the muted but unmistakable sounds of Tracy undressing, followed by a swish of bedcovers. An erotic mental image erupted inside his head as she slid into bed. No surprise, with his blood still singed from that wild kiss.
Where the hell had that come from? Drew hadn’t intended anything other than a mere taste. Next thing he knew, he was practically devouring the woman whole. The fact that her mouth had opened so seductively under his was no excuse for losing control of the situation. Drew couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had aroused and baffled him as much as this one. Frowning, he waited while she struggled to fall asleep.
Minutes passed as he listened to her roll over. Thump the pillow. Roll over again. After a long, gusting sigh, her breathing evened. Sometime later, it deepened to a soft, regular snuffling.
Drew waited another five minutes before he punched his code into his cell phone and aimed the camera at his right eye. Denise appeared on the video screen a few moments later.
“I read you, Riever. You all tucked in for the night?”
“I’m about to be. Anything on the target’s medical history?”
“Her last doctor’s visit was eight months ago, to renew her prescription for the patch.”
“She quit smoking?”
“Not that kind of patch. This one’s for birth control. Very convenient for active women who don’t want to worry about taking a pill every day.”
Drew tucked that information away. “No consults with a mental health professional?”
“None that I could find. But she’s paid out big bucks to a home health-care company over the past six months. I found charges for oxygen, nebulizers, nurses’ visits and diabetes test strips. I also found charges at the local Wal-Mart for Ensure and Centrum Silver.”
“Sounds like she was taking care of a senior. I found a photo in her wallet of her with an older man. I’m guessing her grandfather. I was going to ask you to run her family history.”
“Already done. She has no living relatives. Parents were killed in a car accident when she was three. The aunt who raised her died while Brandt was in college.”
“Have the team up in Puget Sound ask around to see if they can ID this older man.”
“Roger that. I’ll also have them check out the home health-care company. It has a twenty-four-hour number for emergencies, but the person who answered my call was goosey about releasing information until she checked with her supervisor in the morning.”
“Good enough. Maybe we can…”
Drew broke off. Head cocked, he strained to hear the soft sounds in the other room. The low murmurs came in snatches interspersed with breathy sighs.
“Something wrong, Riever?”
“I just picked up sounds from next door. Evidently the target talks in her sleep. Correction, make that sings in her sleep.”
It took only a few moments for Drew to recognize the melody.
“She’s humming the same tune she played on the computer earlier. Did you find anything on the song or the singer?”
“The song was written in the late thirties and recorded by a dozen different crooners over the years. Trixie Halston, the singer Brandt was listening to tonight, recorded her version in 1940.”
The low, seductive humming was like a drug, seeping into Drew’s veins, reheating his blood. Distracted by it, he had to force his attention back to Denise.
“Did you find anything on Halston?”
“Yeah, I did. She got her start with a small group in Nebraska and sang with a couple of swing bands before joining the Kenny Jones Orchestra. She was his featured singer from 1939 to 1941…until she took a dive off a balcony, right there on Catalina.”
The skin on the back of Drew’s neck tightened. His gut told him he knew the answer, but he asked anyway.
“What balcony?”
“The same one our target almost jumped off this afternoon,” Denise confirmed. “It happened in November 1941. Kenny Jones and his band were playing to a packed house in the ballroom. The newspaper reports said Halston slipped out to get some air after the last set. They also