To the Edge (26 page)

She didn't hold herself above them but was one of the people as she juggled her purse and her taco, laughing as Ramon teased her about bean breath and giving back as good as she got.

But to him, she was a client, Nolan reminded himself for about the hundredth time as a flare of jealousy crept in over the familiar way Ramon touched a finger to the corner of her mouth to wipe away a smear of sour cream.

Nolan's scowl wasn't the only thing that was dark by the time the police chief finally made an appearance. The sun had long set when someone shouted, "There he is!"

Albert Fielding, a slim, fit man with a marine haircut, a no-nonsense glower, and dark eyes creased at the corners from nights of burning the midnight oil, finally appeared. Fielding was flanked by two of his senior officers and two men sporting lawyerlike suits and official airs as he made his way somberly to the podium.

It became pure pandemonium as reporters, Jillian included jockeyed for closer position, thrusting mikes toward the chief and lobbing questions like artillery rounds.

"Good afternoon," the chief started, quieting the crowd. "Or should I say, good evening. I'm sorry about this delay. We had intended to speak with you much earlier, but some last-minute legal issues cropped up and set us back a bit.

"That said, the purpose of this press conference is to announce that we've made an arrest in the Colburn murder case."

The reporters migrated toward the podium like a swarm of angry bees to a field of flowers. Jillian got bumped and hassled in the process and Nolan had to muscle his way in between her and an overzealous reporter from a competing station.

Nolan didn't hear another word of Fielding's statement or any of the questions the reporters machine-gunned at the chief. He had his hands full sticking to Jillian's side and keeping her on her feet, for that matter.

"Back the hell off!" he shouted when one particularly jealous newshound shoved an elbow in his ribs.

There were people everywhere. The crowd seemed to shift and swell like a rising tide in hurricane season. He didn't like it. He didn't like it a bit that Jillian was exposed to so many bodies in such tight proximity. And when one of the network vans with a satellite dish sprouting from the roof blew a major fuse, the crowd reacted to the sizzle and pop and mini-fireworks display with screams and a stampeding crush. Jillian's arm was wrenched out of his grasp.

The mob sucked her in ... and Nolan went ballistic.

"Get the fuck out of my way!" He parted the sea of bodies like they were curtains and he was desperate for daylight.

When he finally got to her, Jillian was on her knees on the grass.

He swept her to her feet, held her steady against him. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah... I think so."

He didn't wait to find out. Tucking her under his arm and leading with his shoulder, he wedged his way through the mass of bodies, stopping only when they'd cleared the knot of shouting reporters by a good ten yards.

"Goddamn it!" he swore, looking down on her with a mixture of rage and concern. His voice and his hands shook with it. "I never should have—"

His heart stopped when he saw the blood. "Christ. You're bleeding."

Panicked, he turned her toward the glow of a streetlight. All the blood drained from his head. A crimson stain the size of a golf ball spread like a huge, ragged ink spot from under the jacket pocket covering her left breast.

His gaze flew to hers. She blinked down at the blood, shock etched on her face.

"I... I don't feel anything." She lifted a hand to the bloody jacket. Blood spurted between her fingers and ran down her wrist when she applied pressure.

Swearing under his breath, wondering how she was even able to stay on her feet, Nolan wrenched her jacket open so he could get to the wound, then blinked in confusion and relief when her pale, perfect flesh was exactly that—pale and perfect beneath a lacy flesh-colored bra.

"What the hell?"

He folded the jacket back over her breasts, reached carefully inside the breast pocket... and pulled out a plastic bag, soggy and almost empty of blood. Inside the bag was a note that had been laminated to protect it.

Three blind mice,

see how they run.

The blood isn't yours,

but wasn't it fun?

Soon, Jillian...

"OK," Jillian said, her eyes wild, her hands shaking as she clutched his arm. "That's it. Get me out of here."

The green eyes that met his begged. "Please. Get me out of here."

17

"DID I
 
NOT TELL YOU I
ONLY
WEAR STRIPES?"

Wellington roared at the shell-shocked intern who'd been unfortunate enough to draw wardrobe duty for tonight's newscast and the bad luck to pick out a paisley tie.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wellington. I'll replace it right away."

"Damn right you will. And make it blue. Do you think you can handle that?"

The young woman was close to tears as she nodded and scurried off in search of the perfect tie.

Wellington was the biggest ass known to man, Nolan decided as he listened with half an ear to the coanchor's tirade.

For the man whose star was fading it all came down to ego, and Wellington's ego, had taken a major hit in the past twenty-four hours. Not only did it stick in his craw that Jillian delivered the news with more style than he did, but now she
was
the news after the incident at the police press conference last night.

The story had aired on all the major stations in the area and it had made front page of the
Palm Beach Post
and several Miami papers. The phones had been ringing off the hook with viewers expressing concern for Jillian. The station's e-mail was clogged with questions about her. Even Diane Kleinmeyer had dropped her drill sergeant reserve and pulled Jillian aside for an awkward but supportive pat on the back.

Wellington had been in a snit all day.

Nolan wanted to grab him by his pricey lapels and shake him until his porcelain veneers popped loose. Jillian's life was in danger and it was high time Wellington got off his high horse and got a clue. She did not need his crap or the snide remarks Erica Gray was making behind her back.

"Pity about what Jillian's going through," Erica had offered, sidling up to Nolan a few minutes ago and making a point to touch his hand. Lingeringly. "Must be such a trial," she added, leaning in close and "accidentally" brushing her generous breasts against his chest, "for both of you."

"For both of us?"

"Well, it's no secret Jillian isn't exactly ... how do I say this? The friendly sort?"

"Like you?"

"Yeah. Like me." She'd tucked a slip of paper in his hand, folded her fingers over his, and lifted a very friendly brow. "Hang on to that. You're going to want it when this is over."

Nolan had known without looking that her phone number was written on the paper. He'd tossed it in the nearest trash on the minute she sauntered away.

Talk about a head case. The more he was around both Erica and Wellington, however, the less likely they seemed as suspects. While they both had motive—at least in their minds—and opportunity, in Nolan's opinion, neither had the backbone necessary to get their hands messy by actually carrying out a murder plot.

Then there was Jody. "If you're not up to it, Jillie, you know I'll fill in for you tonight."

As usual, Jody's on-the-spot offer just didn't ring true.

Cute and Perky grated on his nerves in a way that instinctively warned him to beware of her. And yet, again, like Wellington and Erica, Jody didn't feel right as the star contender. Which, in his experience, meant all three bore watching.

Last night after the fiasco at the police station and Jillian's going to bed, he'd stayed up and read the reports he'd retrieved from his brother earlier in the afternoon. Lydia's had been interesting, but the woman was spooked by her own shadow; he couldn't really figure her for the bad guy, either. Then again, it was always the one you least expected.

Then there was the report on Jillian's friend Rachael Hanover. Nothing much pointed any fingers her way, either, but buried deep in the material had been a mention of an ER visit when she'd been twelve. He'd dug deeper, but that was it. No more info. He'd called Ethan first thing this morning and told him he wanted him to locate that ER report So far. Nolan hadn't heard anything back.

It could be he was fishing for sharks with a dip net, but something about Rachael bugged the hell out of him. So did Marian Abramson and John Smith. They were his most viable suspects. The potential for violence and the need for retribution on those fronts had red flags waving all over the place.

Nolan also had Darin Kincaid to deal with. He was livid over the latest incident, had cracked a few heads down at the West Palm PD for letting the story get out—as if they could have stopped it with the department crawling with media. And because of the news Jillian's stalker had made, Clare was now aware of Jillian's danger. Apparently, she wasn’t handling it too well.

Nolan dragged a hand through his hair as he stood in the makeup room doorway. He tuned out Wellington's ranting behind him and the dressing-down Kincaid had given him on the phone and watched the makeup artist work on the dark circles beneath Jillian's eyes. She couldn't take much more of this. The wondering when, wondering if, wondering who... wondering how.

She looked bruised. Battle weary. And that wall of restraint he butted up against daily when it came to her buckle a little more because of the strain she was under. As she eased out of the makeup chair and walked to the set in preparation for the late newscast he realized that if ever a woman needed a man to shore her up, she was that woman.

And he sure as the world couldn't be that man even though last night she'd allowed herself one brief moment and turned to him.
Get me out of here. Please get me out of here.

After that, she'd sucked it up like a soldier facing combat, because of course he hadn't been able to take her anywhere, at least not for a while. Ramon and Jake had come looking for them, spotted the blood, and closed ranks around her in a protective ring even as she assured them she was fine.

Only she hadn't been fine. But she'd held up. Through the police questioning. Through the ride back to the studio. Through the newscast she'd insisted on doing last night.

She hadn't even broken down on the ride home. She'd sat quietly in the car beside him, then walked straight to her bedroom and shut the door. Now here they were. Over twenty-four hours had passed since the attack and she was still rock steady. At least that's what she wanted everyone to think.

Not one tear had yet leaked down that porcelain cheek. Not once had her full lower lip quivered. As he stood out of camera range while she completed the news, he thought of all her strength. But as she finished the Thursday evening newscast with her trademark, "Until tomorrow... may all your news be good...," he detected the slightest bit of corrosion in the wall of steel she'd erected around herself.

He didn't think anyone else noticed that her hands were shaking as she unclipped her mike. Didn't think anyone noticed that her gaze sought his and locked on him like a laser beam in a silent plea for help that she wasn't even aware she'd issued.

But he saw it anyway, all the while trying to ignore the clutch of compassion and pride and concern that tightened in his chest and drew him toward her. He needed to get her the hell out of here before her steel will rusted through. She was about to crash, and he knew her well enough by now to know she wouldn't want anyone to see it happen. She, no doubt, would perceive a justified case of the screaming "oh my-gods" as a weakness when most mere mortals would have collapsed under the pressure long ago.

He'd just reached her side when she stiffened to stone. He searched her face. What color she'd maintained during the newscast drained to pale as her gaze locked and held on something over Nolan's shoulder.

He turned to see a man whose photo he'd studied in a file and whom he'd detested on sight. Until that moment, Nolan hadn't realized how much he'd been relishing a confrontation with the creep.

"Jillian." His brows beetled in concern, Steven Fowler walked toward her, his arms extended. "I just heard. I flew in from Chicago immediately. I've been so worried about you."

Snake oil and scams came to mind. Fowler was slick to the point of being oily in his custom-tailored beige suit and with his hundred-dollar manicure, the picture of support and concern.

Nolan stepped in front of Jillian. "Back off."

Behind him, she pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades, as if she simply could not take one more hit and needed him to keep her upright.

"Who the hell are you?" Incensed, Fowler looked Nolan up and down.

"I'm the man who's just itching for a reason to rip off your head and shove it up your ass," Nolan assured him with a deceptively congenial smile. "So back off, jack. The lady does not want to speak with you."

Fowler's face turned the color of a stop sign. Nolan could see he was thinking about challenging him—for all of two seconds—before he backed away.