Behind Closed Doors Read online

  Clay drove for an hour before finally pulling into his parking space at his apartment complex. He’d taken little-traveled streets, doubled back on his route and kept an eye on his rearview mirror to make certain they weren’t followed.

  Ann remained silent throughout the drive, Twilight in her lap. It wasn’t until he shut off his car engine that she turned and looked at him, her eyes wide and luminous in the early evening light. “Do you think he’ll find me here?”

  Clay hesitated before answering, trying to gauge just how much she could handle. “Probably,” he admitted. “Although it will take him a little time.”

  “How do you think he knew I was at your mother’s?”

  “Who knows. Maybe he followed us the night I took you there, or perhaps he knows I’m in charge of your case and so decided to check the Clintons in the phone book. My mother is listed, but I’m not.”

  “I hate this,” she said suddenly, her voice filled with suppressed anger. “Running. Hiding. Looking over my shoulder. I hate feeling like a displaced person, without a home.” Her eyes flashed with a bright spark of anger. “I hate what this monster has done to my life.” The anger burned brightly for a moment, then faded, leaving the blue of her eyes dull and lifeless.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside. You’ll feel better after tasting my hamburgers and home-style fries.”

  “You cook?”

  “Yup. Hamburgers and home-style fries, that’s pretty much the extent of my culinary expertise.” He smiled, a gesture he hoped would reassure her, put the sparkle back in her eyes.

  She smiled back, but it lacked heart. She looked beaten, hollowed out by the events of the last weeks. More than anything Clay wanted a moment alone with her monster, a moment to extract his own particular brand of vengeance.

  “I’d better warn you,” he said a moment later as he unlocked his front door. “This isn’t exactly the Ritz.”

  “Yes, but the rent is just perfect.” She touched his arm in appeal. “Please don’t apologize for your home. I’m grateful you’re opening the door to me.”

  Class. The woman definitely had class, Clay thought as he ushered her inside. Immediately he saw the place through her eyes. Functional furniture with no distinctive color or style. The kitchen area emitted no aura of warmth, nothing but stark serviceability. A temporary holding tank for a man without a life, Clay thought with sudden insight. Irritated by his thoughts, he swept a stack of newspapers off the sofa and gestured for her to have a seat.

  “I’ll just put your suitcase in the bedroom,” he said, then disappeared into the adjoining small room. When he returned, Ann and Twilight had made themselves at home on the sofa.

  “Clay, I can sleep here,” Ann said. “I don’t want to take your bed.”

  “I insist. Besides, most nights I fall asleep here on the sofa anyway.” He clapped his hands together, summoning a burst of enthusiasm. “And now, to create my masterpiece meal.”

  Ann followed him to the kitchen area, separated from the living room by a bar with two stools. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. Pour us each a glass, then sit your bottom on one of those stools and watch a master chef at work.”

  She smiled at him, apparently realizing he was working hard for just that effect. As she poured the wine, Clay got out the pound of hamburger and began to form patties.

  “Good wine,” she said as she took a sip and sat back down on the stool to watch him work.

  “Yeah, I’m not much of a drinker, but I’ve always enjoyed a glass of wine to unwind after work.”

  As Clay prepared their meal, their conversation remained light. They didn’t talk about monsters, didn’t speak about fear or the events that had brought her to his house.

  Instead they talked about living in Kansas City, about the crazy midwestern weather, and how neither one of them had ever missed living in a bigger, more cosmopolitan city.

  Their pleasant conversation continued as they ate. The hamburgers were juicy and full of flavor and the French fries were spicy with a blend of mysterious seasonings. The wine was sweet and chilled, and Ann knew she was drinking more than she should. But, each glass soothed frayed nerves and chased the edge of fear further away.

  “You cooked, I’ll wash,” she said as they cleared the table.

  “Okay,” he agreed easily. “I’ll dry.”

  Standing at the sink with Clay at her side as they washed and dried the dishes, Ann felt the magical pull of the moment. Anyone peeking in the window would assume they were husband and wife.

  And if they were husband and wife, they’d finish doing the dishes, enjoy another couple of hours of talk, then go to bed together. They would make love, then fall asleep and perhaps dream of the children they would have, the future they would share.

  Merely an illusion, she reminded herself. She and Clay were not husband and wife, would never share a future together. They wanted different things, needed different things.

  “Why don’t we take our wine and sit on my patio, watch the sun go down?” Clay suggested when they’d finished the dishes.

  “That sounds nice.”

  Evening shadows were just starting to fall as they sat down at the small table on Clay’s patio. The western sky was ablaze with colors. Deep hues of pink and orange decorated the horizon, as if in gasping its final breath daylight had decided to leave with a spectacular final show.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Clay said as if reading her thoughts.

  “Gorgeous.” She settled back in the chair, feeling loose and more relaxed than she had in days. “I used to hate sunsets.”

  “Why?” He looked at her curiously.

  She eyed the glorious sky. “Sunsets mean the coming of night, and night always frightened me as a child.”

  “I think most kids at one time or another are scared of the dark.”

  She smiled. “I suppose.” She ran a finger around the rim of her glass, then took another drink. How could she tell him it wasn’t the dark that frightened her, but the things that happened in the dark.

  They both fell silent. As the quiet stretched between them it didn’t grow awkward or uncomfortable, rather it became companionable, pleasant. The sun dipped down below the horizon and darkness descended quickly. Insects began their nightly chorus and in the distance a dog barked. Still they remained, drinking their wine and enjoying the quiet togetherness.

  With the sun down, the temperature dropped into a comfortable zone as a light cool breeze appeared. As the breeze caressed Ann’s skin, she found herself thinking of Clay’s caresses. She wished they would go inside and make love once again. But she knew that particular wish was a foolish one.

  “I’m going to have to move,” she said, her thoughts skipping like a stone thrown across the surface of a pond. “When this is all over I’ll have to find another place to live. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stay a night in the condo again.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel differently when this man is caught and put behind bars.”

  She looked at him, noting how his features had become obscured by the night shadows. “Your partner is still angry with me, isn’t he?”

  “Raymond thinks you know more than you’re telling.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think we should go inside now. It’s getting late.”

  Yes, it was getting late and Ann had consumed far too much wine. She needed to go to bed, needed to stop thinking of being held in Clay’s arms. “Yes, and I’m exhausted,” she agreed.

  “It will just take me a minute or two to get some blankets and a pillow from the bedroom, then it’s all yours,” he said once they were back inside.

  “While you’re doing that I’ll just change into my nightclothes.” She picked up her suitcase and went into the bathroom. It smelled of Clay. His aroma seemed to permeate the room, the scent of spicy cologne, of clean maleness.

  Unpacking her nightgown and robe, she tried no
t to think about Clay. The single night they’d shared had been more than enough to convince her that he was a threat to her well-being, a hazard to the health of her heart.

  Changed into her gown and robe, she left the bathroom, bumping into Clay as he came out of the bedroom. “Sorry.” She blushed as they maneuvered around each other, her hands touching his chest, his brushing her thighs in the process.

  After what seemed like an eternity, they managed to get past each other. “I put clean sheets on the bed. Let me know if you need anything,” he said, his eyes simmering with an emotion that caused Ann’s blood to heat.

  I need you. I want you. The words teased on the tip of her tongue, but she bit down on them and swallowed. “Thank you, I’ll be fine. Good night, Clay,” she said, then turned and went into the bedroom.

  Twilight was already there, curled up on the pillows as if he’d lived there all his life. In the past couple of days, between Rosemary’s loving care and the element of time, Twilight had come around, acting more like he had before the poisoning.

  He meowed a complaint as she scooted him over to one side of the bed. “Come on, sweetie, you have to share,” she said. Once beneath the sheets, she looked around the room curiously.

  As with the living room, this room held little essence of the man who slept here. No personal photos, no special mementoes anywhere, just the bed, the dresser and the nightstand with a metal lamp. With a sigh, Ann reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

  She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. Instead she realized she’d been wrong. Clay’s essence was everywhere in the room. His familiar scent lingered in the air, and she had the crazy feeling his dreams were trapped in the softness of the pillow.

  “Get a grip,” she whispered to herself, fighting a wave of yearning so great it nearly stole her breath away. She turned over on her side and hugged the spare pillow close to her chest, but still the ache resounded deep within her.

  She replayed that moment in the hallway, when Clay’s eyes had flared with desire. He wanted her. She wanted him. But it was crazy to continue, crazy to allow her heart to get anymore involved with him. Still, she couldn’t simply shut off her desire for him like turning off the faucet on a sink. But, she could turn off his.

  It was easy to do. She’d done it with Greg. All she had to do was tell Clay the sordid details of her past. He believed her past held the secret to the identity of her tormentor. She knew her past only held pain.

  In sharing that pain, she had a feeling Clay would never again look at her with eyes filled with desire. And surely that would make her desire for him die.

  Before she could change her mind, before giving herself a chance to lose her nerve, she flipped on the lamp and got out of bed. She pulled on her robe and left the room.

  “Clay?” She peeked into the living room, where he lay on the sofa, the lamp next to him on and the television barely audible.

  “Yeah.” He sat up, his chest bare, a sheet covering the lower half of his body. He punched the Mute button on the remote.

  She nearly faltered. His chest looked so broad, so strong and her fingers remembered exactly how it felt, so warm and sexy. She drew in a deep breath and crossed the room to sit on the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Okay.” He started to rise, the sheet gripped around his waist.

  “No, please. Stay where you are,” she protested. “Just relax.”

  “Ann, what’s going on? What do you want to talk about?”

  She curled up in the chair and wrapped her arms around herself. “Raymond thinks I’m hiding something in my past. He’s right, although it’s not the identity of the man who’s after me.” She frowned, knowing she wouldn’t be able to tell him her secrets with the light shining on her face. “Could you shut off the lamp and the television?”

  Two clicks and the room fell into darkness. Ann cleared her throat, wondering where to begin. “My mother died in my arms when I was fifteen. Acute alcoholism. That was the end of the nightmare I called my childhood.”

  “Ann, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  “Yes, I do. I want you to understand that I’m not intentionally hiding any important clues, not withholding information that might help you find this man.” More than this, she knew it was the easiest way to erect a barrier, keep her safe from falling any more deeply in love with Clay.

  She pulled her legs up beneath her and collected her thoughts. “My mother loved three things—singing, drinking and men. She insisted she was going to be the next Dolly Parton.”

  “Was she any good?” Clay asked softly.

  “She sang like an angel when she wasn’t drinking. Unfortunately, those times were rare.” For a moment Ann tilted her head, her memory bringing the sound of her mother’s voice back like a distant sweet echo. The memory faded, usurped by unpleasant reverberations from the past, her mother screaming in rage, crying in torrents, laughing hysterically.

  She shook her head slightly to rid it of those particular details. “We lived in a variety of horrid motels and in the back rooms of bars. When I went to sleep at night, I never knew where I’d be or what I’d find the next morning.” She rubbed her shoulders, seeking warmth from the cold chill of her memories.

  “I believed if I was good enough, smart enough, Mom would eventually stop drinking and be a real mother to me. It never happened.” She paused a moment, taking a step deeper into the mists of the past, knowing what she’d told him so far was only the beginning.

  “Clay, I can’t tell you for sure if there’s somebody in my past who might want to seek revenge on me. I spent a long time trying to forget those years and I finally managed to suppress them into a place where they aren’t easily retrieved anymore. There were men in my mother’s life, usually mean drunks.”

  Alone in a dark room, the scent of stale liquor and mustiness permeating throughout. She curled into the corner of the bed and watched as the door slowly creaked open. “Mommy?” Her voice echoed off the dirty walls. It wasn’t her mother. The shadow that moved toward her was too tall, too broad to be her mother.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly closed to dispel this particular disturbing memory. She didn’t remember what happened after the door closed behind him, knew it was one of the memories she’d shoved into the darkest recesses of her mind. She drew in a deep breath and released it on a mournful sigh. “There are things in my past that I don’t want to ever remember, but I can’t imagine there being a man I somehow wronged. I was powerless, the adults in my life had all the power.”

  “And abused it.” The lamp clicked on.

  Ann shielded her eyes from the glare with the back of her hand. “Don’t...” She protested the light, preferring the anonymity of darkness.

  “Why?” Clay left the sofa and knelt at the edge of her chair. “What are you afraid I’ll see?”

  She shrugged, wrung out by her foray into the past, too exhausted to hide the resulting emotions that still flooded her.

  “Ann, let me tell you what I see.” He cupped her face in his hands, his eyes compelling her to look at him. “I see a strong, beautiful woman who survived horrors and thrived in spite of her childhood.”

  His thumbs caressed her cheeks. “I see a courageous woman who was once a victim, a survivor who had become a vital, passionate, caring woman.”

  Tears blurred her vision of him, cathartic tears of release. She’d told him more, far more than she’d told Greg, but Clay hadn’t turned away. His face came closer to hers and his lips touched hers in a kiss of such sweetness, such gentleness, her heart convulsed in her chest.

  Ann wrapped her arms around him, realizing her plan to emotionally push him away had backfired. She’d survived a hellish childhood filled with emotional and physical abuse. She hoped she was strong enough to survive the futility of loving Clay.

  Chapter 13

  Dawn chased the night shadows out of the bedroom, washing the room in the pale
golden light of a new day. Clay watched daybreak claim the room. His arm was sound asleep, trapped beneath Ann as she slept, but he was reluctant to move.

  They’d not made love the night before, but rather had talked as he’d held her in his arms. She’d given him more pieces to her past, snippets of information that horrified him and filled him with compassion. He was humbled by her strength, her will to survive and the way she’d managed to put the past behind and move on with her life.

  He turned his head and looked at her. In sleep her features were soft, almost angelic as the morning light bathed her face. His heart convulsed as he thought of the child she had been, the experiences she’d suffered with her mother.

  He now understood her need to lock her bedroom door each night before going to sleep. He now understood her lack of intimate friends, the need to keep herself protected from any more hurt. She had suffered the ultimate betrayal in not being able to trust her mother to keep her safe.

  For Clay, it was impossible to imagine a childhood where he would not have been able to depend on his mother. Rosemary had meant stability, unconditional love, and from the moment of birth he’d trusted her to nurture him.

  In his job, Clay saw the results of poor parenting and dysfunctional childhoods every day. By all percentages, Ann should have become an alcoholic, a drug user, a criminal. He admired the fact that she’d been smart enough to use education to climb out of the muck of her past.

  More than anything, Clay wanted to give her back her safety, return to her the life she’d worked so hard to achieve. He needed to find the man who was after her, and he needed to do it in the next four weeks. When he left for Hawaii, he wanted to know Ann was all right.

  And he couldn’t do it lingering in bed. He suddenly felt the pressure of time running out. His time on the job was winding down. He’d disposed of all his cases except this one. Twenty-seven days to find a madman.

  He gently withdrew his arm from beneath Ann’s neck, stifling a groan as the needles and pins sensation indicated the return of blood flow.