the drug had on her.
She’d known from the first that the series of articles she’d planned about the Kingsley kidnapping wouldn’t go over well with a lot of powerful people in this city. The reputations of three well-respected men were all at stake, and she’d known they wouldn’t take her accusations lying down.
The Kingsley kidnapping had affected a lot of people, and when the truth finally came out, lives would be ruined.
But one life would be saved.
And that was the only one that could be allowed to matter, Valerie thought, as she closed her eyes and finally succumbed to the medication.
THE DREAM WAS ALWAYS the same. Her name was Violet again, and she was back in that tiny house in southeast Memphis, watching through the crack in her bedroom door. She heard her mother scream, saw her father collapse to the floor, and then the big man turned and looked at Violet. Looked at her with those cold, black eyes.
The devil’s eyes.
Violet tried to scream, but no sound came out. She tried to shrink away, but couldn’t move. She was trapped, mesmerized by a gaze so dark and evil, she felt herself sinking into those bottomless depths from which she knew there would be no escape.
But she had to try. She had to try and save herself. She had to try and save her father.
Because if she didn’t, no one else would.
Violet fought her way up from the black pit. She struggled to free herself from the terror that claimed her, night after night.
As she finally reached the surface, the terror gave way to confusion, and Violet slowly became Valerie. But then she opened her eyes to find the devil himself staring down at her.
CHAPTER TWO
VALERIE GASPED and sprang up in bed.
“Take it easy. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was deep and rich, not in the least threatening, but shivers scurried up Valerie’s spine. He reached out to ease her back against the pillows, but Valerie shrank away from him. “I’m Sergeant Colter,” he said.
What did one say to one’s nightmare?
“Valerie Snow,” she managed, clutching the sheet to her breast.
After her initial shock began to subside, Valerie realized who he must be. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? He had to be Judd Colter’s son because he was the spitting image of his father as he had looked thirty-one years ago when he’d stormed into a tiny home in southeast Memphis and changed three lives forever.
The resemblance almost took Valerie’s breath away.
She found herself staring up at him, studying his face longer than she should have, trying to analyze him with a reporter’s eye for detail.
There were subtle differences, she decided. He wasn’t exactly like his father. At least, not physically.
He was just as tall, but leaner than Judd Colter had been. His hair was just as dark, but he didn’t wear it in a military style like his father had. The thick strands brushed against his shirt collar, gleaming blue-black in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
His features were more even than his father’s. And more handsome, Valerie thought, startled to feel the quiver of butterflies in her stomach.
Oh, yes, there were definitely differences, but one thing remained the same: his eyes were just as dark and just as cold as his father’s.
Valerie shivered and tried to look away. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Reluctantly she met his gaze. “What about?”
One dark brow rose in surprise. Or was it condescension? “You’ve made a pretty serious accusation, Ms. Snow. Or have you forgotten?”
At first, she thought he was talking about her article, then she realized he meant the incident with the bus. “You mean when I said someone tried to kill me?”
Something flashed in his dark eyes. Something Valerie couldn’t quite define. “You didn’t say that exactly. You said you were pushed.”
She forced a harsh laugh. “Semantics, Sergeant Colter.”
“Hardly. Even if you were pushed, it could have been an accident.”
“Even if?” Valerie glared up at him. “I said I was pushed, and I was. And I think it was very deliberate.”
He took out a pen and notebook and pulled up a chair. “Why don’t we get the paperwork out of the way first, and then you can tell me what you think happened. What’s your full name?” When she hesitated, he glanced up. “Is that question too difficult for you?”
There was enough arrogance in his voice to stir her temper. Yes, and you have no idea why, she thought bitterly. “Is this going to take long?” Maybe if she stalled him, he would give up and go away. What was he going to do, anyway? Go looking for someone who had a reason to push her in front of a bus?
Well, he didn’t have far to look, did he?
“That depends on you,” he said.
She shrugged. “Guess I’m not going anywhere for a while.” That’s it, she thought. Tough it out. Don’t let him get to you.
After all, she was good at pretending, wasn’t she? She’d learned a long time ago not to let anyone see the real person, the real emotions, behind her hardened veneer.
“Your name,” he repeated, his pen poised over his notebook. His hands were large and well shaped, Valerie noticed. And ringless. He wasn’t married. She wondered why.
“Valerie Anne Snow.”
He started scribbling. “Address?”
She rattled off her street address and he wrote it down.
“All right,” he said, glancing up at her. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“Just the facts, ma’am. Right?” When he didn’t respond to her sarcasm, Valerie shrugged and said, “Angie and I had just left work—”
“Angie?”
“Angela Casey. She writes an advice column for the Journal. That’s where I work,” she added, trying to gauge his reaction.
There was none. He appeared to be made of ice. “Go on.”
“She was meeting someone for an early dinner, and so I left her on Front Street and headed for city hall, for Austin Colter’s press conference. I wanted to get there early, before anyone else showed up—” She stopped short, wondering if that was why Sergeant Colter had arrived on the scene so quickly. Had he been headed for his cousin’s press conference, as well?
Or had his reasons been more sinister than that?
She suppressed another shiver. “I stopped at the intersection, waiting for a light. There was some kind of commotion in the crowd. Someone dropped something, I think, and while everyone was looking down, someone pushed me into the street. Pushed me hard,” she added. “Hard enough to make me fall down. It wasn’t an accident.”
“You didn’t see who it was?”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t recognize anyone in the crowd?”
“No.”
His dark, probing gaze took her measure. “How long have you been in town, Ms. Snow?”
“How do you know I wasn’t born here?” she challenged, flirting with danger.
“You may have been born here, but you haven’t lived here in several years. Your accent is, what? Midwestern? Chicago?”
“All right, you caught me,” she