Tara was still incredibly relieved that Botkin had survived. It seemed that Doren had gotten careless in his panic over Tara and Blake’s escape. He and his partner—the man who’d shot at Tara and Blake as they’d run from the gallery—had dumped Botkin’s body on the side of a little-used road on their way to search Tara’s apartment. They’d apparently believed him to be dead. They’d been wrong—though not by much.
Had a couple of teenagers looking for a make-out spot not happened by only minutes after Doren had driven away, Botkin would have died there on that weed-choked side road. It had been several days before he’d been stable enough to tell the police what had happened to him.
And that, Tara thought with a groan, was something else she was holding against Blake. On Monday evening, when Tara was so upset that she’d been enjoying herself with Jeremy so soon after witnessing what she believed to be a man’s murder, Blake had known that Botkin had survived. And he hadn’t said a word to her—then, or at any time during the four days that passed before she finally learned the truth.
When she’d asked Blake why he hadn’t told her, he’d given her vague explanations about Botkin being in such critical condition that he hadn’t been expected to survive the week. He hadn’t wanted to get Tara’s hopes up only to have her upset again if Botkin died, he’d said. And besides, Botkin would be in even more danger if word should somehow get back to Doren that he was still alive. The fewer people who knew the truth, the safer the man had been.
She hadn’t been satisfied with his reasons, but she’d let it drop. There hadn’t been time to tell him exactly how she felt about being kept in the dark about so many things.
Tara had actually talked very little with Blake since Doren had grabbed her backstage last night. And all he’d done when they were together was to fill her in on the details of the case, as if nothing at all personal had passed between them during that week together.
They hadn’t even spent the night together. Claiming he still had loose ends to tie up, Blake had left Tara in his sister’s care after he’d been reassured that Tara wasn’t seriously injured. He hadn’t even seen her off when she’d left Savannah on Jeremy’s private plane this morning. He’d told her goodbye on the telephone, his voice as stilted and polite as if he was talking to a mere passing acquaintance.
He’d broken her heart as painfully as Doren had broken her arm.
Realizing she was crying, Tara dashed angrily at her wet cheeks. She expected to shed many tears over Blake, but she wasn’t ready to begin just yet. Her telephone rang and she considered letting the machine pick it up. But then she answered it, instead, deciding that she could use the distraction.
“How are you?”
Blake’s deep voice almost started the tears up again, but Tara fought them back. “I’m okay. Stephanie left a few minutes ago, and I was just thinking about taking a pill and going to bed for a while.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Are you in much pain?”
“No. Not really,” she fibbed, shifting her arm.
“I don’t like the thought of you being alone there. Would you like me to call your mom for you? Maybe you should have reconsidered her request for you to spend a few days with her—Jeremy was just as willing to deliver you to your mom’s house as to your apartment.”
“I really wanted to come home. My own home,” she replied, her voice as carefully controlled as his. “And I’m perfectly capable of calling someone if I want company.”
“Tara, I—” He paused for what seemed like a long time before speaking again. “I have a new case,” he said finally. “I need to start immediately. I’ll be out of the state for a while.”
It hurt, so badly she had to close her eyes and struggle for composure before she could reply. “Good luck with it,” was all she said.
“If you need anything—anything at all—just call Stephanie, okay? She usually knows how to reach me in an emergency.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll, er, call you when I’m back in town, okay? We’ll talk then.”
“You’re always promising to talk later, but it never seems to happen, does it? There will always be an excuse. Another case. Something else to hide behind. I think—I think it would be better if you didn’t call me again.”
Her words seemed to echo hauntingly through the telephone lines.
“Tara, I—”
“I’m afraid I would never be content with what little you’re willing to share of yourself, Blake. And I won’t resort to dragging reluctant answers out of you one question at a time. I’ve already tried that. I found it very uncomfortable.”
She thought she heard him swallow. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I wish...well, I wish I could offer everything you deserve. But I can’t. I don’t know how.”
He sounded weary. Defeated. But instead of feeling sorry for him, she got angry. “You know how, Blake,” she disputed. “You just weren’t willing to try.”
She sensed that he wanted to argue with her. But all he said was, “You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, lifting her chin and trying to make herself believe it. “Whatever impression you might have gotten last week, I’m not a quitter. I just needed some time to regroup. I’m going to start looking for a new position immediately.”
“You’ll find one, if that’s what you want. There’s nothing you can’t do, Tara.”
Except make you love me. She swallowed those words and settled for a simple, “Goodbye, Blake. Take care of yourself.”