she’d been seeing a therapist. It sure would be handy to talk to that counselor, but psychiatrists wouldn’t talk without a warrant—and sometimes not even then.
First thing tomorrow, he’d put in a call to a friend in the Atlanta police department and see if he could unearth any pertinent information on Brooke Johnson.
Stripped down to his shorts, he pulled the sofa into a bed and got between the sheets. He closed his eyes and relaxed into unconsciousness.
HIS DREAM state didn’t last all night. A sound from behind the bedroom door pulled him awake. Immediately, he was out of bed and on his feet. The digital clock in the kitchen showed the time: it was 1:07 a.m. Poised for action, he listened hard. The sound came again—a small whimper. He wasn’t surprised that this subtle noise woke him. Ever since serving in a combat zone, he’d been a light sleeper.
What was going on in that bedroom? It didn’t seem possible that an intruder had broken in. They were on the third floor, and there was no access through the windows. All the same, he needed to check on Brooke’s safety.
Gun in hand, he eased the bedroom door open. Moonlight poured through the window.
He saw her curled up in a tight ball with the covers thrown aside. Her shoulders trembled, and he realized that she had made the noise. It was a quiet sob that tore at his heart. She uncoiled and rolled over, her head thrashing back and forth in denial. Her eyes were closed—she was still asleep and dreaming of her own private sorrows.
He approached the bed and placed his gun on the nightstand. Standing over her, he couldn’t help but admire her long, slender legs and slim torso. Her dark red hair—the rich color of cherry wood—tangled around her face. Her full lips moved, but no words came out.
Careful not to disturb her, he pulled the comforter back over her. Very gently, he smoothed the hair off her face.
A long, low groan pushed through her lips. She seemed to relax; her breath came more easily. In the moonlight, her skin was luminescent. Her delicate features shone with a natural beauty that was a wonder to behold.
But he couldn’t allow himself to be attracted to her. He hadn’t come all the way across the country to find a lover. Taking his gun from the table, he left her bedroom and returned to the sofa bed.
Less than an hour later, she cried out again. This time, it was a loud shout.
Michael bolted from sleep and ran to her bedroom. He found her cowering in the corner beside the open drapes, as if she was trying to protect herself from a beating.
When she saw him, she stood up straight. Her body was stiff; tension radiated from every pore. In a shaky voice, she asked, “Where am I?”
“In a hotel in Aspen.”
His words seemed to confuse her. She shook her head. Her hands clenched into two fists, and she raised them to her mouth. “Who are you?”
“Michael Shaw,” he said as gently as possible. “I’m not going to hurt you, Brooke.”
Her gaze focused on the gun he held in his hand. “Leave me alone. Please. Please.”
“You’re safe, Brooke.” He set the gun down on the dresser. “I’m here to protect you. You can go back to bed. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
Stiffly, she edged along the wall until she reached the bed. Her movements were clumsy as she got under the covers. “You can go. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Go,” she said. “Please. Go away.”
He wasn’t sure that she was awake. Not fully conscious, anyway. Caught up in her nightmare, she’d lost track of the present, hurtling backward in time to relive a bad experience. Her behavior reminded him of combat veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Though she hadn’t been to war, some parts of her life must have felt like a battlefield. That ex-husband of hers had really done a number on her.
THE NEXT morning, Brooke sat across the table from Michael, eating the breakfast he’d ordered from room service. Waffles for him. Eggs Benedict for her. She’d already taken a shower and washed her hair. All in all, she felt okay in spite of her nightmares and the nagging half memory that she’d done something embarrassing last night, like sleepwalking.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and added her usual three packets of sugar. Her own version of extra sweet tasted better to her than any of the fancy concoctions from the coffee specialty shops.
Her first bite of egg was excellent. The second even better. She dug in, glad to be hungry. She’d need all her strength to get through today.
“I usually don’t eat so much breakfast,” she said.
“My aunt Hester used to say it was the most important meal of the day.”
“Aunt Hester, huh? She sounds like something out of an antebellum novel.”
“She was real. A true Southern belle.”
His voice struck exactly the right tone of friendliness, but there was something in his eyes that worried her. He seemed to be taking her measure, deciding how he ought to handle her.
And she was also wary—unsure if she wanted his help but afraid to be on her own. If there truly was a serial killer after her, she could do a lot worse than having this handsome cop from Birmingham as a protector.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “for letting me stay here last night.”
“No problem.” He took a huge bite of waffle, drizzled with syrup and butter. “I’m glad you didn’t have to drive all the way across the mountain to Glenwood Springs.”
“So am I.”
Her decision to drive toward Glenwood Springs hadn’t been entirely logical, but she had wanted to put distance between herself and the place where Sally died. Her instinct had been to run—to escape the inevitable gossip and avoid the questions.
She knew what it was like to be at the center of a terrible situation. When her marriage exploded, she’d faced constant, cruel, judgmental scrutiny. Though Atlanta ranked as one of the largest cities in the South, her shame made the streets shrink to a microcosm. Everywhere she went—to her job, to the grocery store, to the gym—she encountered people who knew her and Thomas. Some looked upon her with pity. Others regarded her with disgust, unable to understand how she could leave her very influential, very handsome husband. How dare she take out a restraining order against him? Clearly she was a crazy, ungrateful witch.
They couldn’t know what happened inside their marriage, and she was too proud to tell the truth. No woman wants to admit that she allowed herself to be trapped in an abusive relationship. She should have left Thomas much sooner than she did.
She attacked her eggs with renewed vigor.
“You’ll be staying here again tonight,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the police will be done with my house.”
“Even so, you’ll need to have the locks changed. And I’ll be hiring a cleaning service to put things back in order.”
He was right about the locks. “I can’t let you pay for a cleaning service. After I get my car fixed, I can—”
“Already taken care of,” he said. “I made a phone call last night. Your tire is repaired, and your car is parked in the hotel garage.”
She should have been grateful, but there was something unnerving about having him step in and run her life. She needed to set some boundaries. Laying her fork down on her plate, she confronted him directly. “I insist on paying for the repair. How much do I owe you?”
“Money isn’t a problem.”
It hadn’t escaped her notice that this was a very deluxe suite in a hotel that wasn’t cheap. The classic