Rebecca York (4 page)

No. It was more than that, he admitted as he felt his scalp tighten. For a few moments, when his hand had circled her wrist—and right afterward—he could have sworn that something strange was happening between them.

He sighed. Come off it, Walker. You just need to find a willing bed partner. And it's not gonna be her.

With an effort, he put the congressional staffer out of his mind as he crossed the lobby of his apartment building. His newly purchased penthouse was on upper Massachusetts Avenue, with a large extra bedroom that he could use as an office. Until a few months ago, he'd been living in a slightly shabby building off Sixteenth Street. But it was scheduled to be gutted and rebuilt, so he'd had to find a replacement. And he'd decided that the royalty money he'd been socking away in bonds and savings certificates might as well go toward a mortgage payment rather than rent.

Once he'd moved into the new space, he'd liked the amenities. Like the twenty-four-hour lobby staff and the gym upstairs, where you could contemplate the city while you sweated.

Though it was close to midnight, the desk clerk called him over.

"Mr. Walker, there's a package for you."

"Thank you." Jordan accepted the red-and-blue envelope, then turned away toward the elevator.

As the car took him upstairs, he noted the return address on the package. It was from Herb Goldman, his former college roommate. Jordan had formed very few close relationships in his life. Herb was one of the people he trusted implicitly. Probably they'd bonded—as much as Jordan Walker could bond with anyone—because they'd both been shy, scared freshman at Dartmouth, neither one of them with a prep-school background. And each had found it easier to face the brave new world with a buddy at his side.

Even when Jordan had focused on liberal arts courses and Herb had taken mostly science and math, they'd stayed friends.

Herb was married now, settled down with a wife and kids—providing Jordan a window into a world he had decided he could never enter. Not with what he looked on as his personality defect. He'd never been close to his parents. In fact, he'd earned his father's dislike early on because he'd had an overactive imagination. Every time he saw a scary movie or TV show, he'd pictured monsters and kidnappers lurking in the dark, waiting to scoop him up and slit his throat or worse. That made him a sissy in his father's eyes.

His interest in reading over sports had been another one of his sins. So had his devotion to his scruffy dog, Digger. He'd related to that dog better than he had to people because a dog's mind was so uncomplicated. If you loved him, he loved you back—twice as hard.

What did it mean when you felt closer to a dog than to people? Nothing good, he was sure.

Jordan had been twelve when Digger escaped from the house and got run over by a truck. And Dad had forbidden his bringing home another pet from the pound. Probably his old man had been the one to leave the screen door unlatched in the first place—to get back at his son for being such a damn dud.

Jordan had been lonely after that, although he'd been careful not to let the old man know about it. He'd told himself that he was just fine living inside his own mind. Yet, deep down, intimacy with another human being was something he'd always craved. At the same time, getting close inevitably brought an acute feeling of discomfort.

So he'd kept to himself. And focused on what he was good at. He might not be able to change his personal style, but he could damn well make sure his career was something to be proud of.

Since he didn't want to get caught like Dan Rather with radioactive fake documents, he'd express-mailed a copy of the pathology report he'd gotten in Wilmington to Herb. A research physician with the FDA, his friend had helped him out on a couple of projects and was in an excellent position to evaluate the material from Hamilton.

As he stepped inside his eighth-floor apartment, Jordan stopped and looked around. He still did a double take every time he took in the subtly textured tweed carpet, track lighting, onyx coffee table, and gray sectional sofa that were as dramatic as the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The whole package was a lot grander than he was used to. In truth, his former apartment had been furnished with pieces he'd picked up at garage sales and the Georgetown Flea Market. But he'd thrown the old stuff out when he'd seen this place and been told he could get a good deal on the furnishings, because the diplomat who'd ordered up the decor was being recalled to Bolivia.

The only things he'd brought were his books, clothing, and a few mementos—like his Pulitzer paperweight.

He was antsy to get to the contents of the mailer, but the signal light on his answering machine was blinking.

When he pressed the Play button, he heard Leonard Hamilton's raspy voice.

"Any day next week would be convenient for us to meet. Get back to me with the particulars."

Jordan made a note on the pad by the phone. He was jotting down a few questions he was going to ask Hamilton when a completely extraneous image superimposed itself upon his thoughts. Lindsay Fleming, standing in front of a closet unzipping her black silk dress.

Jordan watched, mesmerized, as the creamy skin of her bare back emerged to his view. When she laid the dress on the bed, his pulse quickened. She was wearing a satin bra that exposed the tops of her creamy breasts and a half slip that draped seductively over the swell of her hips.

The erotic image made him instantly hard. As she reached for the catch of her bra, he murmured,

"Come on, sweetheart, take off your bra and turn around. Let me see your nipples. I'll bet they're pink, right?"

Instead of turning, she froze. After several heartbeats she glanced over her shoulder, her face wary as though she knew he was watching her.

He drew in a shaky breath, half convinced that he'd stepped into the Twilight Zone.

Immediately he dismissed the notion. He'd met a woman who attracted him, and he was undressing her in his mind. But a fantasy was like a movie in which you were the producer and director, where the actors did anything you wanted. And she was resisting him.

My God, it was as though he were actually a voyeur, and she was somehow aware of his prying eyes.

A mental shutter snapped closed, breaking the contact, and Jordan was left with nothing but the same disoriented feeling he had experienced at the senator's when his hand had circled her wrist.

"Jesus, what's gotten into you tonight?" he muttered.

Needing to get out of the room, he strode past the king-sized bed to the walk-in closet, where he changed out of his party duds and into a comfortable pair of worn jeans and a dark T-shirt. Next he opened a kitchen cabinet, took a bottle of bourbon, and poured a double shot over ice cubes.

Too much alcohol dulled his brain. But he'd discovered that one drink helped him focus his thoughts when he was having trouble concentrating. Somehow the liquor blocked out the background noise in his head. At some level or other the interference was always there—like a radio station that wouldn't quite come in. There had been a time when he had desperately wanted to tune out the static and hear the transmission clearly. The attempt had only led to frustration. It was like trying to open a door without a knob—or climb a sheer cliff without a grappling hook. There had been no way to make any progress, and he'd finally given up trying.

As he'd matured, he'd learned to ignore the cacophony, except when it became so strong that he couldn't think about anything else. Once or twice, he'd tried to talk to Herb about it. His friend simply couldn't relate to what Jordan was trying to describe. The knowledge had been one more piece of evidence to support his secret thesis: that he was different from other people. Damaged. A freak, if you wanted to put a name to it.

After a few quick swallows, he set down the bourbon on a glass-topped end table, retrieved the package from Herb, and slit it open.

He discovered quickly that he didn't need the alcohol to concentrate. The material inside the envelope was enough to rivet his attention. On top was a letter in Herb's precise writing: Walker, what kind of trouble are you in this time? The pathology report you sent describes a case of a fatal toxic reaction to a compound that, to the best of my knowledge, has never been available on the streets.

I notice you carefully deleted any facts that would tell me where this information came from or the individual it describes. I've searched our databases. Where in the hell did you get this material? By law it should have been sent directly to us from the coroner's office where it originated. But I can find no such report.

Jordan, I wouldn 't go out on a limb like this for anyone else. However, after careful thought, I've decided you've got a better chance of figuring out what's going on than I do. As you know, our records are confidential; but I'm going to give you some background information. If anybody asks, you didn't hear it from me. But please, for Christ's sake, keep me informed.

Regards,

Herb

Jordan read over the letter again, feeling adrenaline course through his system. Once in a while a journalist was lucky and skillful enough to crack open a story the government was desperate to bury.

Like his own expose on excess military spending. Tonight, he didn't need his sixth sense to tell him he was on to something else big. Herb had practically spelled it out.

Okay, so what exactly did he have here? Quickly he turned to the thick sheaf of reports and began to scan the pages. They described an army chemical weapons project designed to neutralize a large enemy force with minimal risk to friendly troops. The project, called Granite Wall, had supposedly been terminated in the early eighties. During the animal trials, a number of lab workers had accidentally been poisoned by a genetically engineered drug. And the autopsies detailed how their organs had been affected.

To his layman's eye, the findings looked surprisingly similar to the recent pathology report that Hamilton had given him.

Jordan took another swallow of bourbon, this time to relieve the uneasy feeling that suddenly squeezed his gut. Leonard Hamilton had been right. His son hadn't died in a boating accident. Either he'd taken an illegal substance that was tainted with poison, or somebody had deliberately doused him with the stuff.

But why?

Hamilton had said that digging into the circumstances of his son's death could be dangerous. Which was why Jordan hadn't asked Herb for anything more than an opinion on a medical report. Now he knew he'd better keep his friend out of the loop.

* * *

LINDSAY snuggled deeper under the covers. In her dream she was dressed in the T-shirt and panties she'd worn to bed, but she stood in the family room of her mother and stepfather's sprawling beach house. She'd played here as a child, turning a dozen dolls and stuffed animals into students in her schoolroom. She'd written spelling lessons and math problems on a chalkboard. And she'd read stories aloud and organized sing-alongs, because that way she was surrounded by a whole classroom of pupils, and she didn't have to try and fit in with a bunch of other children.

She looked around at the sailcloth-covered couches and rag rug warming the wide boards of the pine floor. Her toys were long gone, replaced by the computer and a wide-screen television set her parents had recently purchased.

"Mom?"'

Her mother didn't answer, and she hurried down the hall toward the kitchen, where Mom had taught her to cook and bake. But she never reached it. The kitchen had vanished, and the hall stretched in front of her, dimly lit and endless. Heart pounding, she began to run—knowing she had to get away, even when she didn't understand what she was running from.

When she came to a fork, she stopped—confused. Whirling, she saw only a blank wall.

Fear constricted her throat as she tried to decide what to do. Going back the way she'd come was impossible. So she chose the left-hand fork and began to run.

Mist swirled around her, blocking out the walls. And her bare feet thumped against the unseen floorboards.

Then, somewhere behind her, other footsteps sounded, sending a shiver of dread down her spine.

How could anyone be back there? The hallway behind her had vanished. Yet she felt a man's presence behind her. Although he was trying to be quiet, she heard him. Not just with her ears. She sensed him on a subliminal level that was stronger than hearing—stronger than sight.

It was someone she knew and feared.

She wanted to hide. But there was nowhere to go but forward, into the unknown.

She wanted to believe the mist would conceal her. But that was a lie. Because she knew the man felt her presence, just as she felt his.

"Lindsay?" His voice drifted toward her down the corridor, wrapping around her body, sinking into her very cells.

She would have run then, but the floorboards had turned to spongy ground, slowing her steps.

"No," she whispered.

Behind her, the man spoke, his voice whispering in her mind. "You can't escape me. Don't even try."

She had stepped into the hallway wearing a T-shirt and panties. Now she was naked. Defenseless. He was behind her. No, somehow he was in front of her. She longed to run to him. Clasp him in her arms.

Take his essence into her body. At the same time she knew she had to get away—or he would destroy her.

"I can rescue you from all the lonely days and nights." His voice wove itself into her mind.

She felt the promise. And the pain. His pain. His loneliness as well as her own.

She saw his face through a screen of mist. It was Jordan Walker. He stepped from behind a bend in the hallway, and she saw his body, as naked as hers. He was tall, muscular, very male. Challenge, anticipation, yearning all mingled in his blue eyes as he held out his hand to her.

When she'd come home after the party, she'd thought of him, then she'd felt him probing her mind, asking her to take off her bra and turn around for him. She'd resisted the order. Now she should run from him, but her feet were rooted to the spot where she stood.

Her whole body tingled as she waited for his touch. When it came, it was like a bolt of blue-white energy, spreading a newfound sensual pleasure over her skin. Stunned, she melted into his embrace, naked skin clasped to naked skin.