LITMIR.BIZ

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the man who’d hurt her would be caught and punished, and that nothing—nothing—would ever hurt her again.

      And he really wanted to kiss her.

      A soundless groan lodged in the back of his throat. Great. As if he weren’t stressed out enough. Now he had to deal with ridiculous urges more suited to a fifteen-year-old than a grown man who had a job to do.

      He shouldn’t be thinking about kissing this woman. Nobody could deny how stunning she was, but as a federal agent he should know better than to be captivated by a witness.

      “Wow…I didn’t expect…this,” she marveled when they stepped into the front hall. She glanced at the wood-paneled walls, then down at the rich, red carpet beneath their feet. “It’s so cozy in here.”

      Before he could answer, she shook off her black leather boots and brushed past him, looking, for the first time all day, interested in her surroundings. He suppressed a grin as he unlaced his own boots, then set the security alarm on the wall. When he entered the living room to see Sam examining the large stone fireplace in front of the brown leather couch, he had to smile.

      “What were you expecting?” he asked curiously.

      She whirled around, a tentative smile reaching her lips. “A bachelor pad,” she admitted. “Bare necessities, couch, TV and table to put the beers on. But this place is amazing. Did you decorate it yourself?”

      He chuckled, watching her stare at an oil painting—a landscape—hanging nearby. “I wish I could take credit, but my mother is the interior decorator in the family, not me. She came by and worked her magic. You should see my family home.”

      “So you live here in Chicago? Don’t you work out of Quantico?” she asked.

      He nodded. “I am in Virginia a lot, but I try to come back here whenever I can. That’s why I bought this house, more of an incentive to come home.”

      “I’ve always loved this city,” she confessed, sounding wistful. She moved over to the tall bookshelf in the corner and absently ran her fingers over the spines of the novels stacked there.

      “I’d assume in your line of work, you’d be traveling to New York and L.A. quite a lot,” he said. “What made you choose Chicago as your home base?”

      He found himself oddly curious about this woman. What he knew about her came from her file, an array of facts compiled on paper. Sure, he was aware that she and her older brother had been orphaned when she was sixteen. Knew she’d gotten her first break when a talent agent discovered her in a shopping mall. Knew she looked damn good in swimsuits, and that her middle name was Corrine. Yet knowing and understanding were two different things.

      For some inexplicable reason, he wondered about the woman behind the profile. How had she felt growing up with only her brother? Why had she chosen to become a model? Why hadn’t there been a man in her life to help her heal after the attack?

      That those questions should even be important to him was more troubling than he’d have liked to admit.

      “I grew up here.” She shrugged and met his eyes. “All the places I’ve traveled never seemed to compare. This is home. At least, it used to be.”

      He cleared his throat, knowing that he couldn’t offer assurance that she’d be able to leave her farmhouse anytime soon. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get settled?” he suggested. “You can take the guest room at the end of the hall.”

      She nodded. “All right. When are we going to the hospital?”

      He glanced at his watch. Quarter to five. “Probably around nine,” he answered. “Visiting hours end at eight but we want to make sure the press isn’t lingering around when we get there. If it were up to me, we’d go much later, but Elaine’s doctor says she needs to rest. No late-night visits.”

      “Have you met her before?” Sam’s voice was soft.

      “Yes.”

      Her knowing gaze told him she’d caught the hitch in his voice. “She’s not in very good shape, is she?”

      Blake swallowed. “No. She’s not.”

      

      “Your name is Lois Lawford,” Rick Scott said. He turned the key in the ignition and backed the unmarked sedan out of Blake’s driveway. “You’re Elaine’s sister.”

      Sam managed a nod, her heartbeat accelerating and palms growing damp as she stared at Blake’s house in the rearview mirror, slowly disappearing from sight. She felt like a kid on her first day of school, nervous, panicked over leaving behind the familiar and delving into the unknown. Only what lay in store for her wasn’t a strange classroom and a bunch of kids she’d never met—she was about to meet a woman who’d suffered as much as she had. And the thought of looking into another survivor’s eyes and seeing everything she herself had felt mere months ago was unbelievably nerve-wracking.

      At least nobody would recognize her in this getup. The frumpy sweater and baggy jeans Rick had asked her to change into were uncomfortable, the short blond wig on her head was making her scalp itch and the thick black eyeglasses pinched her nose. A young female cop from the Chicago PD had stopped by Blake’s house to apply Sam’s makeup, and the woman had done a good job. Sam’s complexion was now darker, hinting at Mediterranean descent. The shadows under her eyes gave her face a sunken look, and there was even a small mole over her top lip now. She’d barely recognized herself when she’d glanced in the mirror. The whole disguise made her feel homely and out of sorts.

      Her nerves began to skitter as Rick drove in the direction of Chicago General. The last time she’d been there was as a patient, not a visitor, and those memories were far too fresh, far too raw, to forget. For a second she was tempted to order Rick to turn the car around and drive her back to Blake’s where she’d felt safe, but she quickly tamped down the irrational urge.

      It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help with the investigation. She would do anything to put the man who’d attacked her behind bars. But wanting to help and experiencing her own trauma again were two different things. Sure, she could browse through mug shots, hope to miraculously identify a man whose face she’d never even seen. But staring into the tortured eyes of another victim and hearing the tormenting tale that would no doubt mirror her own?

      God, she didn’t know if she could do it.

      Hoping that talking about the investigation would ease her anxiety, she glanced at Rick. “Is Lois Elaine’s older or younger sister?”

      “Older. You’re a journalist from DC, but weren’t able to get away until now. You and Elaine were never really close.” Rick smiled faintly. “I guess that sort of makes you insensitive, for not coming to see your sister sooner.”

      “As long as nobody finds out who I am, I’m fine with being seen as insensitive.” She hesitated, briefly staring at the dark road ahead before turning back to Rick. “Why didn’t Blake come with us?”

      “He went on ahead. He’s arranging for a couple of cops from the Chicago PD task force to keep an eye on the hospital entrance while you’re inside. Just to make sure any reporters are kept in line.”

      “Oh.”

      Her hands trembled. She didn’t know why Blake’s absence bothered her, but it did. She’d come to trust Blake Corwin—at least as much as she could trust anyone. Something about his tall, powerful body made her feel protected, feel as if he would step in front of a bullet if it meant saving her life. Which was a little ironic, considering that, one, she barely knew the man, and, two, he’d put her in danger just by bringing her back here. By bringing her back from the dead.

      “Wait, reporters?” she said suddenly, focusing on Rick’s last remark. “Why would reporters be there? Elaine was declared dead.”

      Rick shrugged. “Hoping to get an interview with her doctor maybe, or find a nurse willing to talk about what happened. Elaine is in the ICU, pretty much the only area

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