Behind Closed Doors

  “Guess I’ll go back to bed,”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Carla Cassidy

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Copyright

  “Guess I’ll go back to bed,”

  Clay said abruptly.

  Ann saw a spark of something breathtaking in his eyes. Desire. Fiery and strong, it radiated from his gaze. Her heart thudded in a foreign rhythm. She wanted him to go back to bed...she wanted him to take her in his arms and love her. Confusion swirled in her.

  He stood, and the emotion she’d seen in his eyes was gone, making her wonder if she’d only imagined it.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good night, Ann...I hope the rest of your night is filled with pleasant dreams.”

  “Thanks.” She turned and fled. She had a feeling her dreams would still be disturbing, although in a very different way.

  Dear Reader,

  By now you’ve undoubtedly come to realize how special our Intimate Moments Extra titles are, and Maura Seger’s The Perfect Couple is no exception. The unique narrative structure of this book only highlights the fact that this is indeed a perfect couple—if only they can find their way back together again.

  Alicia Scott begins a new miniseries, MAXIMILLIAN’S CHILDREN, with Maggie’s Man, a genuine page-turner. Beverly Bird’s Compromising Positions is a twisty story of love and danger. And welcome Carla Cassidy back after a too-long absence, with Behind Closed Doors, a book as steamy as its title implies. Margaret Watson offers The Dark Side of the Moon, while new author Karen Anders checks in with Jennifer’s Outlaw.

  You won’t want to miss a single one. And don’t forget to come back next month for more of the best romantic reading around—only from Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Leslie Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  CARLA CASSIDY

  Books by Carla Cassidy

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  One of the Good Guys #531

  Try To Remember #560

  Fugitive Father #604

  Behind Closed Doors #778

  Silhouette Romance

  Patchwork Family #818

  Whatever Alex Wants... #856

  Fire and Spice #884

  Homespun Hearts #905

  Golden Girl #924

  Something New #942

  Pixie Dust #958

  The Littlest Matchmaker #978

  The Marriage Scheme #996

  Anything for Danny #1048

  *Deputy Daddy #1141

  *Mom in the Making #1147

  *An Impromptu Proposal #1152

  *Daddy on the Run #1158

  *The Baker Brood

  Silhouette Desire

  A Fleeting Moment #784

  Under the Boardwalk #882

  Silhouette Shadows

  Swamp Secrets #4

  Heart of the Beast #11

  Silent Screams #25

  Mystery Child #61

  Silhouette Books

  Silhouette Shadows Short Stories 1993

  Devil and the Deep Blue Sea”

  The Loop

  Getting it Right: Jessica

  Yours Truly

  Pop Goes the Question

  CARLA CASSIDY

  is an award-winning author who has written more than twenty-five books for Silhouette. Recently she won Best Silhouette Romance of 1995 from Romantic Times magazine.

  She believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write.

  A former cheerleader for a professional football team, Carla lives in the Midwest with her husband.

  To my mother-in-law, Antoinette,

  for her years of love and suppport...

  and for always believing in me.

  Prologue

  Reporters and cameramen jockeyed for positions on the courthouse stairs. Police officers bullied and cajoled, attempting to keep everyone behind the tape barrier that created a narrow walkway from the courthouse front door to the street. Overhead the July sun shone, relentless in intensity, adding heat and humidity to the fever of the frenzied mob.

  One reporter swiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief while a female counterpart applied a fresh coating of lipstick. An air of anticipation electrified the scene, causing the most mundane acts to take on new significance.

  The media had traveled from a four state area to Kansas City, Missouri, for this very event. Each and every person would remember what they were doing, what was being said on the morning the witness had arrived in court to present testimony that would put away a serial killer.

  A hush fell on the crowd as a late-model black car pulled to the curb. The car belonged to Samantha Whitling, the assistant district attorney. At the same time every morning for the past three years she’d arrived at the courthouse, but never to such fanfare. However, never had she been transporting such an important witness.

  As the car came to a halt, Samantha stepped out. No smile softened her stern features. Stone Face, as the press referred to her, walked around to the passenger side of the car, seeming oblivious to the crowd. She walked with military precision, her navy suit unflattering on her sticklike shape.

  Samantha Whitling was not a favorite among the press. Not as forthcoming as her predecessor, Samantha maintained a closed-door policy the press resented. Still, there was no way she could have kept a lid on this particular case. Heinous serial murders had a way of being bigger than the best closed mouth.

  The hush grew louder as Samantha opened the passenger door and the witness stepped out. Clad in a pink party dress, pale blond hair beribboned with matching bows, the little girl looked as if she were on her way to a birthday party. The only thing missing was a smile. Somber, with her pale eyebrows wrinkled in an unmistakable expression of anxiety, she offered her hand to the assistant district attorney.

  Samantha Whitling smiled in encouragement as she took the little girl’s hand, and cameras whirred.

  Inside the courthouse, from the confines of a small, secured room, the prisoner watched out the window; his eyes narrowed as he watched the child flash a quicksilver smile to the photographers.

  Oh yes, smile, little one, he thought. Smile while you can. Anger swelled inside him, pressing tightly against his chest. He closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths, fighting for control. He had to maintain control, had to maintain patience.

  Opening his eyes, he once again focused out the window, watching as the woman and child disappeared from his view. He knew the child’s testimony would send him to prison. Ann Carson. Her name was burned into his brain. She’d seen too much, had identified him from three different lineups. Yes, the little brat would send him away, but probably not forever.

  He leaned forward, studying the way she walked, memorizing the features of her face. Some
day he’d be out again, free to walk the streets. Someday he’d be free to find her, find the little witness. Ann Carson. He’d find her and then he’d make her pay.

  Chapter 1

  Twenty-one years later

  AULD LANG SYNE. I CAN GET YOU ANY TIME. Ann Carson frowned and reread the words of the note she’d just pulled from beneath the wine bottle in her refrigerator. How had it gotten in there? Where had it come from?

  A cold breath whispered against the back of her neck, raising the hairs on her nape as the full implication hit her. Somebody had been in her house. At some time during the day while she’d been at work, somebody had been here.

  The note fell to the floor as she grabbed the phone and punched in 911. As she waited for the call to be answered, her gaze shot around the room as her heart pounded loudly in her ears.

  Was somebody still here? Hiding in the shadows of a closet? Concealed behind the laundry room door? Waning late afternoon light filtered in through the curtains, no longer able to illuminate the dark pockets in the corners of the room...hiding places.

  “Come on, come on,” she breathed into the phone, willing a dispatcher to answer.

  “This is 911 emergency,” a harried female voice finally intoned.

  “I think somebody is in my house. I just got home from work and went to get a glass of wine. I found a note in my refrigerator. Somebody’s been in here and I don’t know if they’re still here or not.” She kept her voice to an urgent whisper, her gaze continuing to dart around the room.

  “Ma’am...slow down.... Calm down. An officer is on the way. You’re at 921 Evergreen Avenue?”

  “Yes...yes that’s right.” Ann closed her eyes, trying to calm the frantic beat of her heart. How could she hear if somebody sneaked up on her with the loud booming of her heart resounding in her ears?

  “Now tell me your name.”

  “Ann. Ann Carson.” Movement in Ann’s peripheral vision caused her to gasp and whirl around. She stifled a scream as Twilight sat down before her and began bathing his sleek fur.

  “Ms. Carson. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes I’m fine. My cat just scared me, that’s all.”

  As Ann answered a round of questions, she hoped an officer would arrive before her heart exploded with fear. Slowly, as the minutes ticked by, the edge of terror waned somewhat. It seemed like forever before she heard a loud knock on the front door and a voice shouting that it was the police. Hanging up with the dispatcher, Ann scooped up Twilight and raced to the door.

  He didn’t look like a cop. That was her first thought when she opened the door and saw the man who stood in front of her. With dark hair that tumbled down on his forehead and a whisper of a five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, he looked more criminal than crime fighter. The dark blue uniform of the Graceton Police Department reassured Ann that he was, indeed, a cop.

  “You think there might be an intruder in the house?” he asked as he flashed his badge.

  She nodded and he pulled her out of the house and pointed her toward his patrol car. “Wait there. I’ll check it out.”

  As he drew his gun and entered the house, Ann walked down to where the car was parked. Leaning against the passenger side of the car, she felt the first stir of impotent anger.

  Somebody had been in her home, invaded her privacy. She’d bought the condo less than a year before after living in a tiny cheap apartment and saving every cent for years. In the past eight months her new home had become her sanctuary, her asylum from her past, a stable, safe place. And now someone had violated it.

  She pulled the belt of her robe more tightly around her waist, grateful she’d put it on over her blue silk pajamas. Picking up and hugging Twilight close to her chest, she fought against another shiver of apprehension.

  Had somebody watched her change from her day clothes to her pajamas? Had the intruder hidden in her closet, watching as she’d undressed? Sickened by the thought, she wrapped her arms around herself.

  She straightened up as the officer appeared on her front stoop. She started toward him, but hesitated as he held up a hand to stop her. “Just let me do a quick check of the grounds,” he said, then disappeared into the woods at the side of the condo.

  As the minutes ticked by, Ann’s momentary anger died, replaced once again with a chilling fear. It had been the thick surrounding woods that had initially sold her on the place. Now she saw the trees and brush not as a rustic, beautiful setting, but rather as a plethora of potential hiding places.

  The purple shadows of dusk only intensified the dark secret places in the woods. Overhead the light from a full moon spilling down couldn’t penetrate the dark heart of the overgrown area.

  “All clear.”

  Ann jumped and whirled around to where the officer had apparently completed a full circle around the back of the condo. “Let’s go inside and you can tell me why you think somebody was in the house.”

  She nodded and followed him back into the house. Once inside she led him into the kitchen, where he sat at the table and pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “Okay, let’s start with your name.”

  “Ann. Ann Carson.” She put down Twilight and sank into the chair across from the officer. The artificial light of the kitchen emphasized the harsh, almost brutal lines of his face...the face of a man who had lived hard with no regrets. “And you’re...?”

  “Clay. Clay Clinton,” he answered, then resumed his note taking. “You live here alone?”

  She nodded. “Alone other than my cat.” Clay Clinton. The name suited him, all hard consonants.

  He glanced over to where Twilight had curled up on a hooked rug, the feline warily studying him. “He looks like he’s had a rough life.”

  “He showed up on my doorstep about two years ago, missing half an ear and nearly starved. He tolerates my living here with him.”

  “Now tell me why you think somebody was in here. Did you see someone? Hear noises that indicated an intruder?”

  “No, nothing like that,” she replied. “I got home from work, opened up the patio door and stepped out on the deck for a few minutes. I came in, changed my clothes, then went to get a glass of wine.” She looked around and spied the note where she’d dropped it on the floor before calling 911.

  She walked over and picked it up and handed it to him. “This was under the wine bottle in my refrigerator.”

  He read the handwritten note, a frown deepening the furrow across his brow. “I know it sounds crazy,” she continued, “but whoever put the note there also drank the last of the wine.”

  “Where’s the bottle?”

  She pointed to the refrigerator, wishing his dark eyes gave away his thoughts. He stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. As he reached in to grab the bottle, she couldn’t help but notice how the navy uniform emphasized his slender waist and broad shoulders. Officer Clay Clinton was definitely an attractive man. She hoped he was a great cop.

  “How much wine did you think was left in the bottle?”

  “I don’t know...I think it was about half empty.”

  “Have you looked around to see if anything is missing?” he asked as he placed the bottle on the table between them.

  “No,” she replied, surprised by the question. She hadn’t even thought about robbery. “I mean, I’m pretty sure nothing is missing from the living room. But I really wasn’t paying much attention when I first got home.”

  “Let’s go through the rest of the place and make sure our trespasser isn’t a burglar as well.”

  It took only minutes to go through the house. Despite the horror of the situation, Ann couldn’t help the burst of pride that suffused her with warmth as she led him through the living room. Decorated in deep burgundy and hunter green, each piece of furniture had been chosen carefully.

  She’d paid a small fortune in furnishing the house, expensive items meant to last a lifetime. Furniture that spoke of longevity and permanence.

  There were two bedrooms, a small one d
evoid of any furniture and the master suite decorated in an explosion of brilliant colors, the matching bedspread and curtains like a crazed artist’s paint palette.

  “Nothing is missing that I can tell,” Ann said as they returned to the living room.

  He looked around the room. “No windows were open? You have no idea how somebody might have gotten in?”

  She shook her head, then frowned. “It’s possible the patio door was left unlocked, but I’m not sure. I’ve tried and tried to remember if I had to unlock it when I opened it this evening, but I just don’t remember.”

  “The front door doesn’t show signs of any forced entry. If you think there’s a possibility the back door was unlocked, I’d say it’s a good bet that’s how somebody got in.”

  “But why? Why would somebody do something like this?” Her gaze sought his.

  He smiled for the first time, the gesture smoothing the lines of his face and deepening his attractiveness. “I ask myself that at every crime scene.” He sat down on the edge of the sofa. “I’ve got a few more questions to ask you to finish up my report.”

  She nodded and sat down next to him, immediately surrounded by his masculine scent, a mixture of spicy cologne; minty soap and an underlying whisper of maleness.

  “What about keys? Anyone else have keys to your house?”

  She hesitated, unsure whether to mention anything about Greg or not. “Only one, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Greg Thorton.”

  “And what’s his relationship to you?”

  Ann felt the telltale blush that swept across her face. “Nothing now. We dated for a while, but it didn’t work out. We broke up about two weeks ago.”