At least he hadn’t ripped out the man’s throat. That was something.

  Before he could wander any further down that line of thinking, two uniforms came through the door, introduced themselves as Officer Brant and Officer Martinez, and began taking information from Megan.

  They were in the middle of taking her initial statement when a detective joined the proceedings. It was Jack Thornton, and Ross’s first thought was Oh, shit.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JACK STARED AT the bedraggled couple sitting on the sofa in the reception area, Ross Marshall and a woman who had apparently been assaulted outside her office. He was wearing rain-spattered jeans, his leather jacket, and a shirt—the same clothes he’d had on earlier in the day. Her hair was wet and mussed, and she was clutching the front of a white lab coat.

  He’d responded to the call because he was working the late shift. From the expression on the PI’s face, it looked like he wasn’t pleased to see Detective Thornton.

  After telling the uniforms they could leave, he studied the couple’s posture. Marshall had his arm around her. And she was leaning into him as though she were seeking comfort and protection. Maybe more than that, he thought with sudden insight.

  He introduced himself to the woman. “I’m Detective Jack Thornton,”

  “Dr. Megan Sheridan,” she replied. “And this is Ross Marshall.”

  “We know each other,” Ross interjected.

  She looked from one of them to the other. “Professionally?”

  “Yeah,” Marshall answered.

  Jack cleared his throat, addressed her again. “You work here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a medical doctor?”

  “Yes, but I don’t treat patients. My job is research oriented.”

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “No. But I will.” She pressed closer to Marshall, and his arm tightened around her. “I was working after hours. When I realized the window of my car was open—” She stopped, made a face. “It’s still open! Anyway, I got an umbrella and went outside.”

  “You’re not wearing the clothes you had on during the attack?”

  She looked down at the lab coat. “No. I put this on because my blouse was torn and my skirt was wet.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my office.”

  “I’d like to send them to the lab.”

  “For what?”

  “Trace evidence. Hair. Fibers. Something to help us identify the guy.”

  She got up, swaying a little on her feet. Marshall was about to jump up and steady her when she lurched away and walked stiffly down the hall.

  Jack watched Marshall keep his eyes trained on her until she disappeared through a doorway. “How is she?”

  “Shaken up. Not hurt,” the PI answered.

  Before he could ask about Marshall’s role in the incident, she was back carrying a plastic bag, which she set down beside Jack.

  “Okay. Sorry for the interruption,” he said. “You grabbed an umbrella and went outside.”

  “Yes, I opened the front door, and it was raining really hard. I couldn’t see more than a couple of feet in front of me. I was thinking about getting a flashlight when a man came out of the darkness and attacked me.”

  “What did he do exactly?”

  She shivered, and Marshall stroked his hand up and down her arm. “He grabbed me, threw me to the ground, and started ripping at my clothes.” She stopped, glanced at Marshall, and a look passed between them that Jack wished he could read. “Then Ross got the guy off me.”

  “Did you pursue him?” Jack asked Marshall.

  “He got away.”

  “Were you in the building?”

  Marshall shook his head. “No. I was in the parking lot and heard Megan scream. I came running toward the door, and I could dimly see her struggling with someone on the pavement outside.”

  “You pulled the guy off of her?”

  Marshall’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

  There was something odd about Marshall’s answers. Something that he wanted to understand. But he decided to come back to that later. “Can either of you tell me anything more about the man?”

  “He had a ski mask over his face,” Dr. Sheridan said. “I know because I tried to claw him, and my hand hit the fabric.”

  “It was dark. I can’t give you many details,” Marshall added. “I guess he was something over medium height. Medium weight. I couldn’t see his features, of course.”

  Jack wrote it down, then asked, “What kind of work does Bio Gen do?”

  Dr. Sheridan replied, “Genetic testing—mostly for couples who want to know if planning a family is a good idea. Also testing in paternity cases. And I have my own research.”

  “On what?”

  “Myer’s disease, a genetic form of macular degeneration that strikes certain individuals in their thirties. The macula is the part of the eye where the vision is sharpest. I’m working on a gene therapy that I hope will arrest further deterioration.”

  “Gene therapy? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “It’s gotten some bad press. But what I’m doing is different. I’m using an adenovirus—a modified cold virus—to deliver a normal copy of the gene to the back of the eye. But I haven’t gotten to clinical trials, if you’re thinking that someone I damaged with my wild experiments came after me.”

  Again her expression shifted subtly. He waited for her to elaborate, but she apparently didn’t have any more to say on the subject.

  He turned to Marshall, “And what were you doing at the lab?”

  “I was here to meet Megan,” the PI answered.

  “You mean, for a date?”

  “Business.”

  “Which was?”

  “Why is that relevant?”

  “Everything’s relevant.”

  “I had asked the lab for genetic testing.”

  Jack stared at the arm that Marshall kept firmly around the woman’s shoulder. “And you and Dr. Sheridan have gotten to know each other well during the course of your professional relationship?”

  Marshall was silent.

  Sheridan answered. “He and I have gotten close.”

  Jack burned to explore that simple statement, since he’d doubted that Ross Marshall was close to anyone. It was another thread he had to drop for the moment. “What kind of genetic testing?”

  Marshall hesitated, then answered in a low voice. “A family trait that causes high infant mortality.”

  “And you recently got the test results?”

  “No. That was why I came over here.”

  So was that why he’d been uptight at lunch? Jack wondered, suddenly revising his assessment of their recent conversation. Marshall had been anticipating some bad news from Dr. Sheridan. From a woman he was romantically interested in, of all people. Switching his attention back to the doctor, he saw something was bothering her. Something about his questions? Something about Marshall?

  “What else do you want to tell me about?” he asked gently.

  She sucked in a breath of air and let it out. “Can we talk off the record?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, knowing he’d decide when he heard it whether to press her.

  “Okay. There was a break-in at the lab yesterday morning.”

  Marshall’s head swung toward her. Apparently this was the first he’d heard of it.

  “My boss told me in confidence that someone had been harassing him. A former client who claimed that he’d gotten incorrect test results from us. He said he thought the man had run him off the road a couple of days before that.”

  “So that’s why you wanted me to know it wasn’t one of your, uh”—he flipped back through his notes—“macular degeneration patients who came after you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the information about the former client on record with the officers who investigated the break-in?”

  “I don’t think so. Walter said he didn’t want bad publicity for the lab, so it was better to keep that aspect of it quiet.”

  Beside her Marshall made an explosive noise. “So he didn’t say anything—and tonight something happens to you!”

  “It might not be connected,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “And it might!”

  Jack watched the exchange, sure now that whatever else was true, Marshall cared a lot about this woman. And from the way she was glued to his side, it looked like the feeling was mutual.

  She raised her eyes to Jack’s. “Please, don’t tell Walter that I said anything to you.”

  “This is bullshit!” Marshall spat out. “You could have been raped because your jerk of a boss is trying to protect the lab’s reputation.”

  “Your boss—Walter what?”

  “Walter Galveston.”

  Jack wrote it down, then asked, “Did he tell you the name of the client?”

  “He said some of our records were missing.”

  “Oh, great,” Marshall said, his voice sarcastic.

  “Ross—” she murmured.

  “Okay, I’ll shut up.” He stood, paced to the far wall, then came back to the couch, leaving several inches between himself and Dr. Sheridan. She immediately closed the distance separating them.

  Marshall gave Jack a direct look. “Do you need anything else from her tonight? Or can she go home?”

  “I . . . I don’t want to go home alone,” she said in a small voice.

  Marshall hesitated for a beat before saying, “I’ll follow you in my Jeep.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  Jack saw him swallow, saw his features tighten. He wanted her, but he didn’t want to be alone with her? Because of what he’d found out from the tests? Was he lying about not having gotten the results? Or was he just anticipating bad news?

  Marshall dipped his head toward her. “I’ll stay with you.”

  Her fingers knit with his, clung. “I’m sorry I’m acting like a wuss.”

  “You’ve been through a bad experience,” Jack answered. “And Ross will make sure nothing happens to you.”

  He saw the flash of surprise in Marshall’s eyes, then turned his attention back to Dr. Sheridan.

  “I’ve just got a couple more questions. Is the door normally locked after hours?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “I assume so.”

  “And there’s no alarm?”

  “There is. But it wasn’t set, because I was waiting for Ross.”

  Marshall’s jaw muscles tightened. “Which means the guy could have come in here and gotten you—and I wouldn’t have known about it.”

  She acknowledged the observation with a quick nod.

  Jack stood, wishing the perp had gotten into the building. Instead he’d caught her outside in the rain—which was going to make the crime scene a nightmare for the techs. “Can you show me the place where the attack occurred?”

  She stood, glanced at Marshall, then grabbed his hand as she moved toward the door. In the darkness, she pointed to a spot that was partially protected by an overhang. Which was better than nothing. Maybe there was still some evidence that hadn’t been washed away.

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll wait for the lab technicians,” Jack said.

  “Thanks,” she answered, sounding grateful that she was being allowed to leave. Then, “Do you think you can catch him?”

  “I hope so.”

  She nodded. “I have to get my purse.”

  Marshall stayed with her as she retreated down the hallway, then returned. “Who else works here?” Jack asked.

  “Our receptionist, Betty Daniels.” Sheridan stopped and pressed a hand against her lips. “What if she came in here tomorrow morning and got raped? And Hank—Henry—Lancaster. Dr. Lancaster. He’s the other researcher on our team.”

  “Write down their names and numbers, so I can interview them. And Dr. . . . Galveston’s.”

  She opened a Rolodex in the receptionist’s desk and copied down the information, which she handed to him.

  When they’d concluded their business, he watched Marshall checking out the parking lot before allowing Dr. Sheridan outside and escorting her to her car.

  Over the three years they’d been working together, Jack had made a lot of assumptions about the PI. All week he’d been rethinking those conclusions. And tonight had given him a lot more to consider.

  ROSS followed Megan home, sticking close behind her as she headed toward Gaithersburg. She turned on to a road called Walnut Lane and drove through an older neighborhood with mature trees and enormous lots by today’s standards. When she pulled into the driveway of a small, redbrick ranch, he parked several feet behind her.

  By the time he joined her in the kitchen, she’d taken off her coat and hung it on a rack near the back door.

  Looking at the wide moldings and real plaster walls, he judged the house to be about sixty years old. Somebody had remodeled the kitchen, a bare minimum job, with dark green Formica counters, white appliances, inexpensive white cabinets, and a white tile floor that was probably hell to keep clean.

  She’d relieved the monotony with pot holders and tea towels decorated with black-and-white cows. The cow motif was repeated on the salt and pepper shakers and the teakettle. And the wallpaper between the cabinets and the countertop was of a green meadow.

  A lot of men probably wouldn’t have given the room much notice. But with his remodeling experience, he found the effect both whimsical and charming.

  However, he didn’t bother to say so as he carefully kept his distance from her. The way she looked—disoriented, bedraggled, haunted—tore at him. He wanted to reach for her, hold her, comfort her, as much to ease the tight feeling in his chest as anything else. But now they were alone, and it wasn’t safe to touch her. Especially after last night’s phone call. So he kept his arms stiffly at his sides.

  “You want some coffee?” Megan asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Right. I forgot. I’ve got some herbal tea.” She turned toward a cabinet near the stove, opened it, and stood staring blindly at boxes of tea. Tonight had been the most terrible of her life, and here she was preparing to make tea, while the man who could help her get through till morning was standing a few feet away.

  He had put his arms around her. Soothed her. She needed more than that from him. More than he was willing to give?

  The flood of emotions sweeping through her was dangerous. But she disregarded the danger. With a small sound, she swung back around and faced him, unashamed of the naked need on her face.

  “Ross. Please. Hold me.”

  Only a few feet separated them.

  She saw the stiff way he stood, as though powerful forces warred inside him. She had come to understand what they were. His need for her—and his silent vow to resist that need.

  Last night, when she had been safely out of his reach, he had allowed himself to give rein to his feelings. She understood that. Distance had made him feel safe.

  Now . . . the buried fire in his eyes made her bold enough to take a step closer.

  When she moved, so did he, step by step, until she could feel his warm breath, then his flesh. At the moment his lips touched hers, the world contracted to the feel of his mouth, his hands on her body.

  Last night she had touched her own lips, imagined his kiss—and come alive with wanting him.

  But tonight the reality of the flesh and blood man was more potent than the game they’d been playing.

  She opened her mouth under his, drinking in the taste of him—the taste of woodlands and dark shadows where magic lurked. Magic she could only dimly imagine. She’d sensed hidden powers within him. Now she knew they came from the earth and the forest.

  She made a small, wanting sound, captivated by the feel of his hands on her shoulders, her back, her ribs. When she said his name again, the syllable was lost in the pressure of her lips against his. He shifted her in his arms, eased back against the countertop, splaying his legs to equalize their heights. A strangled exclamation rose in his throat as he pulled her to him so that his chest pressed against her breasts.

  Her tongue met his, retreated, came back again to stroke and slide, the contact sending alternately hot and cold shivers over her skin.

  She wanted him. Wanted him to drive everything from her mind but what was happening between the two of them.

  Her heart raced at a feverish pace, the beat frantic—as frantic as her need to get close to him and closer still.

  She wrapped her arms around him, sealed his body to hers, only half aware of the their surroundings. The only thing of importance was the man whose physical presence had imprinted itself on her.

  She felt all of him. Hard muscles. Corded arms. Long legs. And the rigid pressure of his erection against her thigh. That wasn’t where she wanted him. Squirming against him, she eased into a more intimate position so that his sex was pressed to hers, with only scant layers of fabric separating their heated flesh.

  “God, Megan,” he groaned, his hips moving rhythmically against hers, his body like a furnace, heating her.

  He shifted her in his arms, found her breast with his hand, stroking and pressing through the fabric. Her nipples were already stiff and aching. The touch of his hand sent a quivering wave of need surging downward through her body, and she arched against him.

  The clothing had become an intolerable barrier. Her fingers tangled with his as she reached for the buttons on the front of her lab coat.

  Her fingers stopped. She caught her breath as a shaft of reality stabbed through her, and she suddenly remembered why she was wearing her lab clothes at home.

  Perhaps he felt the change in her. Perhaps he was struck by the same realization, because he moved her away, putting inches of space between them.

  She grabbed for his arm, but he was already turning her so that she was standing next to him, pressed to the countertop.

  She stared at him, saw his breath coming hard and fast as he stood with his head thrown back and his hands thrust behind him, gripping the counter.

  “Ross—”

  “No,” he said between gasps of air.