LITMIR.BIZ

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      As soon as the sketch artist completed the composite, Byron materialized at her elbow, almost as if he’d been standing behind some invisible curtain. One moment he wasn’t there, the next, he was. It took everything she had not to jump. But inside, she could feel her adrenaline launch into high gear.

      “How do you do that?” she wanted to know, turning to face Byron. “How do you suddenly just appear out of nowhere like that?”

      The slightest hint of a smile whispered along his lips. She couldn’t decide if he was patronizing her. “I don’t. You just didn’t notice me because you were distracted.”

      “I’d have to be dead not to notice you,” she told him matter-of-factly.

      Kady wasn’t flirting with him, although God knew she’d done more than her share in med school, partying to shake off the stress of having to study all but nonstop for days on end. What she’d said had been a simple observation. She’d come to realize that Byron didn’t say much verbally, but his presence certainly did. He had a commanding aura about him that turned all eyes in his direction. He was what her younger sister, Tania, would have referred to as drop-dead gorgeous.

      Noting the way he handled himself, and because he’d once been a cop, Kady couldn’t help wondering just how many people had dropped dead because of him.

      There was an air of danger about Byron, and yet, for some reason, he made her feel safe.

      Byron pretended that he hadn’t heard her comment. Instead he asked, “Ready to go?” directing the question more to the man sitting at the computer than to her.

      The computer technician nodded, then pushed up the glasses that had slid down his nose. “We’re finished. Unless there’s something else?” he added, looking at Kady.

      “No, that’s him,” Kady said, taking one last look. “That’s the man I saw leaving Mr. Plageanos’s bedroom.”

      “Then she’s all yours,” the tech told Byron.

      After thanking the technician, she rose and hurried after Byron, already headed for the door. Catching up, she pressed her lips together. She had no idea how to start. Full speed ahead was ordinarily her style, but it didn’t seem to quite fit here. Part of her just wanted to let it go.

      Still, she didn’t want Byron to think that she was crass or insensitive. She wanted him to know that although she did deal with death on occasion, it wasn’t just something she shrugged off without a backward glance. His brother had lost too much blood by the time she’d gotten to him. It wasn’t a matter of her being in above her head, or not having enough expertise to save him. The man had been beyond anyone’s ability to save. He’d needed a miracle and the hospital and she were fresh out of miracles that night.

      That didn’t make it any less of a loss. Not to her. Not to Byron.

      Lost in thought, she’d managed to fall a little behind. “I’m sorry about your brother,” she said to his back.

      Leading the way out of the precinct to his vehicle, Byron looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”

      “Your brother. Bobby.” She’d remembered his name the moment the circumstances had come back to her. Almost skipping to cut the distance, she caught up to Byron, then continued to take long strides to match his pace. “He died that night. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”

      He’d spent some time hating her, hating the hospital, the ambulance drivers, everyone. And then he’d turned that hate on himself. It never got him anywhere, but that was just the way things were. He was over it, mostly. He just hadn’t forgiven himself yet.

      Byron pulled open the passenger door for her, then rounded the hood and got in on his side. She’d already buckled her belt by the time he got in.

      “Wasn’t your fault.” The words were short, staccato, as if they were being fired out rapidly. “It was mine.”

      The wealth of guilt she heard in his voice was staggering. Had he been carrying that around all this time? It was a miracle that he hadn’t self-destructed.

      Byron pulled out of the lot, his profile rigid. A lesser woman would have backed away. But she had started this; she was going to see it through.

      “You had no way of knowing what would happen to him,” she said gently.

      Knowing or not, that didn’t change what he should have done. “I should have gone in and gotten my own damn cheese.”

      Her heart went out to him. He couldn’t continue to carry this burden, couldn’t continue beating himself up about it. “Things happen for a reason. Maybe you were supposed to stay alive.”

      He looked at her sharply. She would have drawn back if she hadn’t been belted in. “And Bobby wasn’t?”

      That wasn’t what she’d meant. Kady sighed, shaking her head. “You’re a hard man to cheer up, Byron.”

      “There’s a solution for that,” he replied crisply. “Don’t try.”

      Too late, she thought. It was obvious that Byron wanted her to stop talking, to slip into silence and pretend that nothing had been said. She was willing to drop the subject of his brother, but not to spend the rest of this trip in silence. What she’d witnessed was still too much with her, too raw. For now, she needed to be distracted and he was her only resource.

      “What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

      Caught off guard, Byron looked at her as if she’d lapsed into baby talk. “Did that gunman hit you in the head?”

      “No, he never even saw me,” she reminded him, incredibly grateful for that.

      He frowned to himself as he went down a one-way street four miles over the posted speed limit. “Then why are you asking me what my name is? You know what it is. It’s Byron.”

      She shifted in her seat, the belt digging into her hip as she turned to look at him. “Yes, I know, but is Byron your first name? Your last? Is it some nickname they pinned to you in elementary school?”

      Maybe that getting-hit-in-the-head theory wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. The woman was babbling, he thought. “What kind of nickname is Byron?”

      She shrugged. It was possible. “Maybe your mother liked the romantic poets and saw a little of Lord Byron in you.” Because, she added silently, if Byron had been taller and believed in working out, she would have said that the man beside her was a dead ringer for the tragic poet.

      “Never knew my mother,” Byron answered curtly, hoping this would be the end of it. “She died after Bobby was born.”

      It seemed as if she couldn’t win for losing. She hadn’t meant to open any more old wounds. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

      Byron made no comment. Instead he continued to stare straight ahead at the road, his hands wrapped around the wheel.

      Finally, after several minutes had passed, he shrugged. “It happens.”

      More often than he probably realized, she thought. That didn’t take the sting away. “But it’s still rough, growing up without a parent.”

      He slanted a look at her. Was she about to build on some common thread? “You?”

      She felt almost guilty at having had the kind of childhood she’d had. Loving parents and sisters who would have done anything for her, would always be there for her if she needed them.

      “No,” she replied quietly. “Both of mine are still alive.”

      And probably doted on her, Byron guessed. She had that look about her. Hardest thing she probably had to deal with is finding a pair of shoes that went with the outfit she’d chosen.

      “Then how would you know?” It almost sounded like an accusation.

      The smile on her lips unsettled

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