LITMIR.BIZ

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their police artist, they’d have a better chance of finding this guy.

      Tate’s reluctance was evident as she quickly sat down. “I don’t want him to be put through that if he doesn’t want to do it,” she said, and reached to close her door, effectively ending the conversation.

      The ride home was even more quiet than the ride over. Nick hated putting that fearful look into her beautiful green eyes, but he felt sure that Tate Monroe knew more than she was revealing. However, he reminded himself, he’d have to move slowly if he wanted her to open up to him.

      And meanwhile, he’d do a little investigating on his own.

      When he pulled up in front of Maggie’s, Tate had the door open before he’d shifted into Park. “Thank you for dinner. We both really enjoyed it, but it’s been a long day and I’ve got to get Josh to bed.” Moving quickly to forestall any resistance from Nick, she got out and helped her son.

      Nick got out anyway. “Would you like me to go in and check out the house, just to make sure it’s okay?”

      “No, thanks. We’ll be fine.” With cops crawling all over the house most of the day, she doubted the intruder would return.

      “Okay, then. I’ll be in touch,” Nick said, wondering if she heard. Or if she even cared.

      “Good night, sweetie,” Tate said as she pulled Josh’s bedroom door halfway closed. “Sleep tight.”

      “Leave the hall light on, please, Mom.”

      “Okay.” Even though he had a night-light on in his room, Josh liked the hallway lit in case he had to get up. Drawing in a deep breath as she made her way to her own room, Tate didn’t mind. If a hall light meant her son would rest more easily, it was a small thing. If only her own sleep would be less fitful by the simple addition of a light on.

      Checking her watch, she wondered if it was too late to call her district manager and arrange for a couple of days off until Maggie was home and settled. She’d also have to find a day-care center or summer children’s program for Josh until Maggie was once more able to take care of him while she was at work. Picking up her bedside phone, Tate decided she’d best call now.

      Ten minutes later, she hung up, ever so grateful that Judith Dunn was so understanding. How many times had she had to call her boss and explain yet another reason she couldn’t be in? Too many to count. And all the times she’d taken a leave of absence, moved away for several months, only to return and have Judith pleased she was back and ready to go to work again. Of course, when she was there, she worked hard, but she still felt lucky to have Judith on her side.

      Tate slipped off her shoes and began undressing. Lucky. It wasn’t a word she associated with herself ever really. Luck wasn’t something a person could rely on anyhow. We make our own luck, good or bad, her father used to say. How true those words were, she thought as she stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the water. A hot soak would feel good.

      Pinning her hair up onto her head, Tate gazed dispassionately at her image in the mirror. Most of her life, she’d had people tell her how lucky she was to have such lovely skin, such beautiful hair, such a lovely figure. She supposed that was luck of a sort, being born to good-looking parents from a great gene pool. But it was nothing she’d personally done. Her looks were just there, no big deal.

      Others often made it a big deal, Tate acknowledged, testing the water with her fingers, then adding fragrant bubble bath. Men fell over backward over a beautiful woman until the woman no longer heard the compliments and wound up wondering if only her looks were of importance to them and not who she truly was. Women often became jealous even if she did nothing more than walk into a room. Tate knew she’d never deliberately done anything to earn that reputation, but there it was. Which was probably why she trusted only Molly and Laura.

      And men not at all.

      Shutting off the water, Tate climbed into the bubbly, steaming water gingerly, then lay back, closing her eyes. Her mother, from the little she could remember, had also been beautiful. Only she’d gloried in it, flirting outrageously, breaking hearts along the way. Especially her father’s when she’d walked away from her family the year Tate turned eight and her brother, Steve, was only six. Later Tate had learned that she’d left a note saying she simply couldn’t stay the wife of a small-town tailor. She needed to be free.

      Dad had handled her departure better than Tate or Steve, who’d both blamed themselves way into their teens. Her father never spoke of their mother with bitterness, saying that she was like a beautiful butterfly who’d stayed with them a while, then had flown off to share her beauty with the world. However, he’d warned Tate that beauty was a gift and that she mustn’t take unreasonable pride in it. She’d heeded his advice.

      Tate inhaled the warm aroma, letting the soothing water heal her tired body and mind. Where, exactly, had being beautiful gotten her? Because she’d instinctively known early on that men wanted her mostly for one thing only, she’d been reluctant to date. Then one had come along who’d seemed way above the crowd, a handsome, charismatic man who’d looked into her eyes and actually listened to what she said as if her words mattered, as if she were important, special.

      He hadn’t rushed her into bed, but rather they’d talked for hours—about books and music and horseback riding and hiking—all manner of things. They’d taken long, leisurely walks in the woods together, cooked dinner at his place, camped by the river and slept under the stars. Gradually she’d allowed herself to trust him. Loving had followed as surely as night follows day. The morning she realized she’d been thinking of love and he’d been thinking of an interlude was one of the worst times in her life.

      Tate trailed damp fingers through the floating bubbles, her mind floating, too, back in the past. Everything had fallen apart then and nothing had been the same since. Her warm and tender love had turned to bitter ashes. At first, she’d wanted to die—of heartache, of shame. But Maggie had pulled her through, talking softly, encouraging, some nights just holding her while she wept. And there’d been Molly and Laura, more like blood sisters than friends, always there for her in those days when she’d been so needy.

      The only good thing that had come out of that terrible time was Josh, her beautiful boy. He was the only male she could trust without question, the only one she’d ever allow to get close to her. And yet, because of her mistake, her error in judgment, both Josh and Maggie were in danger. Last year, when they’d been on the run, she’d known that Molly had been threatened, too. Then Laura had been stalked and even forced off the road, landing in the hospital. That had somehow frightened even the madman hounding all three of them, for there’d been no sign of him for many months. Tate had prayed he’d abandoned his sick plans.

      How could she have been so naive?

      No, she might as well admit her suspicions. The invasion at Maggie’s wasn’t caused by some intruder looking for valuables rumored to be hidden in her home. Tate could think of only one person who might have ordered the break-in and she could guess what his hired thug had been searching for. What she didn’t know was how to handle him.

      Sitting up, she soaped her washcloth and swished it around her shoulders and arms. Her thoughts drifted to Detective Nick Bennett. She could tell he wanted her to open up to him, but how could a man who’d come from the warm and loving family he’d described ever be able to relate to her problems? Get a restraining order, he’d suggest probably. But if she named names, he’d realize she couldn’t do that. If she revealed too much and if somehow the news got out, the stalker would turn up the heat and somehow manage to take Josh. She couldn’t be with her son every minute. And what could she do to stop such a man? Move again? The very thought started her trembling.

      The bathwater had cooled. Tate pulled the plug, rinsed off and wrapped herself in a large white terry-cloth towel. As she walked into her bedroom, she thought she heard a car engine start up right outside. Cautiously, she moved to the window and peeked out between the soft folds of the sheer curtains. Just then, a sleek black car with tinted windows flashed on its lights and slowly pulled away from the curb.

      Damn him!

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