LITMIR.BIZ

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though his faintly accented voice never wavered from its cool, calm and collected tone. “How can you be certain it was Mr. Eames’s killer who called you?”

      “I know.”

      “Would you care to elaborate on how you know that?”

      Charlotte smoothed a damp kink of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Would I care …?”

      Her ear.

      Oh, God.

      Charlotte’s heart stopped for a split second then raced into overdrive. “Where’s my earring?” She tugged at the exposed lobe, scarred and rebuilt from a graft of skin taken from her scalp. Hiding the disfiguring reminder with her hand, she whirled from one EMT to the next. “Did you take my earring? It’s a white-enamel daisy. Did you take it?”

      She recognized that knowing look exchanged between the two men. “Ma’am, we don’t have your earring.”

      Right. She’d probably lost the keepsake from her mother in the struggle with Officer Jones. She swung her legs off the bed, but strong hands caught her and pulled her back onto the gurney.

      “Max? I need Max.” The EMT gently took her shoulder and slipped the chilled stethoscope against her skin. Charlotte twisted away.

      “We can back-trace the number off your phone.”

      “To Richard’s.” She swung her gaze back to Spencer Montgomery. “But you didn’t find his cell, did you? I’m telling you the killer took it.” She brushed her curls back over her ear to hide the scar. “I want to look for my earring.”

      “You think the killer took your earring? The Rich Girl Killer takes souvenirs. Did you see him?”

      “No. I just …” The panic was taking hold again. She had no keepsake to hide behind, no companion to focus on and keep her thoughts clear.

      “Miss Mayweather?” The EMT who’d checked her pupils and pulse dabbed something cold and wet against her arm. When she saw the syringe on the bench beside him, she knocked the alcohol wipe away.

      “I don’t want any drugs.” She put her fingers to her teeth and whistled loudly enough for all three men to pull back for a moment. “Come here, boy.”

      But the respite was brief.

      “Ma’am, clearly you’re upset by tonight’s events. I need to give you something to calm you. Your heart’s racing. We’re worried about shock.” Max had jumped back inside the ambulance, but the EMT was blocking him from climbing onto the gurney with her. Oh, great. The whistle had caught her dad’s attention, too. He was watching her from his press interview, clearly concerned. “Just let me go home. Please.”

      “We need to remove the dog.”

      “One more question,” Detective Montgomery prodded. “Can you be certain it wasn’t your chauffeur calling for help? Perhaps a dying utterance?”

      “No!”

      “Move it, Fido.”

      “Max—”

      “I need you to lie down.”

      “Could you identify the voice?”

      “No. Please don’t.” Her mind was spinning, her heart racing. She wanted Max.

      “Lie down.”

      “… hear a gunshot?”

      What happened to one more question?

      “Give her the sedative.”

      “I don’t want …”

      “… identify the killer?”

      “Max?”

      “The dog stays.” The deep-pitched voice silenced the madness, and everything inside Charlotte went suddenly, blessedly still.

      The only thing Charlotte could hear was the rain dribbling on the asphalt. The only thing she could see were the broad shoulders of Trip Jones filling the opening at the back of the ambulance.

      He looked down at the detective beside him. “This interview is over.”

      Charlotte’s attention danced down to the bandage on his arm, up to the tanned angles of his exposed biceps and triceps. She read the white SWAT emblazoned across his vest, took quick note of the gun and badge on his belt. But in a matter of seconds, before the protests of the three men around her started in, her gaze went back to Trip’s grizzled jaw and the green-gold eyes looking down at her with a glimmer of something like intimate knowledge and understanding shining there.

      “You’re a crazy woman, all right. And I’m not sure I fully understand why. But …” He picked up Max in his arms and set him squarely in her lap. “The dog stays with her.”

      “Officer, we can’t—”

      “He’s a service animal. With him here you don’t need any sedatives. The dog stays.”

      “We have a job to do.”

      “You’re out of line, Jones.”

      “With all due respect, Detective, she’s been through enough.” Trip’s eyes cooled and his expression hardened as he looked at Detective Montgomery and the two EMTs, ensuring their cooperation. Charlotte hugged her arms around Max’s chest and lowered her chin to the top of his warm, damp head as Trip pulled something from the back of his belt and turned to shout to his friends. “Taylor, let me borrow your cuffs. Sarge? Murdock? Yours, too.”

      Charlotte watched in fascination as his big hands deftly linked the handcuffs into a long chain. He hooked the last one to Max’s collar and placed the jerry-rigged leash into her hand.

      “There. Now you can control him and he won’t be in anybody’s way.” As confidently as if they were long-lost friends, he reached out and mussed up Max’s fur. “He won’t bite.” When he pulled away, he winked at Charlotte, startling her, drawing her focus back to his teasing eyes. “As long as you’re nice to the lady.”

      For a moment, her eyes locked on to his. The teasing faded and something warmer, regretful almost, filled the air between them. Unused to her body’s curious response to a man who was practically a stranger to her, she hugged her arms tighter around the dog. But she couldn’t look away.

      Caught up in those eyes, in the kindness he’d unexpectedly shown her, in the confident strength of his presence, she breathed deeply, freely—once, twice. Maybe he was more serene mountain than volatile volcano, after all.

      He nodded, breaking the spell. “Charlotte.”

      And then Trip Jones walked away. Again.

      Taking Charlotte’s gratitude, and something less familiar and curiously unsettling, with him.

      THE MAN SITTING IN THE dark vehicle adjusted the focus on his zoom lens and snapped one more photo, congratulating himself on capturing the image of a bloodied, harried woman, curled into a ball and hugging her dog in the back of an ambulance.

      Pleased with his work, he powered down the camera and zipped it neatly into its carrying bag beside the cell phone he’d already crushed beneath his shoe. He tucked the bag into its spot on the floor behind his seat. Then he pulled his computerized notebook into his lap and clicked out of his file of old newspaper files and photos, which had provided all the information he needed to recreate the most vivid, frightening moments in Charlotte Mayweather’s life. With two more clicks he was online. He smiled. Yes. People were already chatting and blogging about Charlotte Mayweather coming out of hiding and being involved in another unfortunate incident.

      His anonymous post of tonight’s events had generated the response he wanted. Just as his helpful phone call had created the crowd of chaos he was enjoying tonight.

      Success flowed through his veins as he closed the computer and packed it in its pocket as well. Risking someone spotting the distant glow

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