She’d never been drawn to the dark, silent, cautiously brooding type of man, but this one…
She stopped herself short. What the hell was she thinking? About Shane Carter? Get real, Jenna! She hurried outside, thoughts of Carter refusing to be dislodged from her brain. Yes, he was handsome. And single. And sexy. But who needed it? He was off limits. And he obviously had no use for her. She remembered some of his advice.
Buy a pit bull…Hire a bodyguard…Yeah, right!
Hiking her collar against the wind, she crossed the snowy parking lot to her Jeep. Carter was just one more example of a burned-out lawman who had already seen too much. And what more could she expect? That he’d kiss her feet because she’d once been a movie star?
She climbed into her Jeep and told herself to take a quick reality check.
“I’ll be there Wednesday morning. Early.”
“Seven?” Dr. Randall asked, glancing at his watch. It was late, nearly eleven o’clock at night. He’d already turned out most of the lights in his condo and was waiting for the latest news report on the television that was glowing in his den.
“Six, if that works for you.”
The psychologist wanted to argue that the appointment at that hour would be too early, but held his tongue. Let the man make his own decisions. That was part of his makeup. A take-control individual who never could quite get it together. Oh, on the outside he appeared calm and determined, a man who knew his own mind. Macho type. But inside…that was a different story.
And an interesting one.
Not for the first time, Randall was tempted to tape the session covertly, to keep records. There was a book in the making here, he was sure of it. Yet he’d promised. And so far, he’d never lied or broken his own personal code of ethics.
He was a man of his word.
But wouldn’t the press have a heyday with this one?
Or the law enforcement agencies. Wouldn’t they love to uncover what Dr. Emerson Randall knew about his client?
That was the problem with his job, the dichotomy of it. Perceived truth vs. reality. And what was reality, anyway? There were all kinds of philosophical arguments about what was real and what wasn’t.
Then there was the ethics angle.
An interesting one.
He felt the chill of winter seeping through the walls of his condominium and smiled. Unlike his client, he enjoyed the cold weather, loved the change and variety of the seasons, even the snow and ice. It was cleansing somehow, and the violence of weather, the power of Mother Nature, or the strength of God, whatever you wanted to call it, made man more humble, more aware of his place on this rapidly spinning planet.
The winter cold was good.
His hand was still gripping the receiver and he forced himself to let it go. Thoughtfully, he rubbed the beard covering his chin as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck the hour.
His responsibility was to his client.
But as he stood on the thick carpet, he speculated that if his patient ended up dead—and considering the circumstances, his death could happen at any time—then what would it hurt to write that book?
He pulled out a small recorder, pressed the red button, and as the tape began to turn, began speaking. A few notes, that’s all he’d keep on this case, just to refresh his memory. Then he’d lock up the tiny cassette in his safe. He wouldn’t use the information for his own gain.
At least as long as his client was alive.
CHAPTER 18
“Sheriff? It’s Montinello. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little party up at Catwalk Point.”
“A party?” Carter repeated, slowing his rig, then making a quick one-eighty on the plowed road. The snow had stopped for the time being, another lull that was only temporary, according to the weather service.
“Teenagers.”
“Great. Hold ’em. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Shouldn’t I call the State Police? This is their crime scene.”