On Dangerous Ground

A blade, long and sharp and deadly flashed before Sky’s eyes. The thick fist slammed into her from behind, exploding air out of her lungs. She went down hard and fast, and before she could scramble up, he was on her. Pain, blinding, numbing, mixed with her terror; a scream tore from her throat in the same instant her eyes flew open.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” She scrambled onto her knees, her legs tangling in the sheets as she dragged in quick gulps of air.

Lungs heaving, pulse pounding, she flailed for the lamp on her nightstand. Squinting against the light, her eyes swept the room. Her ivory robe was where she’d left it, looking like a shimmering ghost draped on the arm of her grandmother’s wooden rocking chair. The neat stack of scientific journals she needed to scan sat undisturbed on the antique desk angled in one corner. On the nightstand, her glasses still lay on top of the thick paperback she’d used to lull herself toward sleep only hours ago. Everything in the room was as it should be.

Everything but me, she thought, scrubbing her palms across her sweat-drenched face. “It wasn’t real,” she whispered. “Wasn’t real.”

Trembling beneath her thin nightgown, she waited on the bed only until she felt certain her legs would support her. Then she fumbled for her glasses, shoved them on and fled down the hall, switching on every light as she went.

When she stepped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, she winced. Her eyes were swollen from lack of sleep, her skin as pale as a corpse’s, her mouth grim.

She splashed icy water on her face, toweled off, then continued to the living room, switching on every lamp. Two nights ago, she had decided Streisand’s was the best music to stay awake by. Fickle, last night she’d changed to the Stones. She clicked on the stereo, engaged the CD player.

Now a graveled-voiced blues singer assured her she could lean on him.

“I’d love to,” she said in a shaky voice. “Come on over.” She closed her eyes and waited for the soothing notes to erase the remnants of the terror that had grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.

“It wasn’t real,” she whispered again. To verify, she looked across her shoulder at the alarm panel beside the front door. A red light glowed, indicating the system she’d activated before going to bed had not been breached.

That knowledge did little to calm her. After all, the monster hadn’t crashed through the door. It had been inside her all the time.

Just the simple gesture of shoving her hair behind her shoulders proved difficult with her hands shaking so badly. Her hands weren’t the only unsteady thing about her. Her legs trembled, her heart stuttered against her ribs and her teeth chattered at intervals.

She was an expert in self-defense, but there was no defense against this internal monster. Like cells gone mad, it had grown and gathered strength, finally forcing itself back into her consciousness after so many years.

Nine, she thought dazedly. It had been nine years since the rape. The horrifying nightmare had started days after, had lasted months. But the monster had faded and eventually gone away. Forever, she had thought. Hoped.

It had returned violently three nights ago. She’d had dinner with Grant, come home, showered, then fallen into bed and slept. Hours later, the terror had slammed into her. She had tried to use logic to shake off the nightmare’s stunning effects, telling herself that by confiding a few details of the attack to Grant, she had stirred everything up.

After the second night of hell, she’d called Dr. Mirren. In her typical soothing manner, the psychiatrist had assured Sky that the nightmare was a result of her recent attempts to come to grips with the rape. After a lengthy discussion, the doctor had offered to prescribe a mild sedative, but Sky had declined. Her problem wasn’t getting to sleep. It was what happened after she got there.

Her flesh had turned to ice; she wished she’d taken the time to put on her robe. She gave a wary glance down the brightly lit hallway. The nightmare was still too real for her to venture back into the bedroom. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to get her breathing under control.

Over the past six months, she had begun to believe she’d made progress. Grown stronger. That maybe the part of her that had shattered would mend—not completely, but enough so that an intimate relationship could be more than just what other people had. No, she realized, she was back where she’d been nine years ago, vulnerable and afraid.

Because she was too shaken to maintain the usual tight control on her thoughts, she found herself suddenly aching for Grant. For the feel of his arms around her. For the soothing sweep of his warm breath as he whispered soft words against her cheek. She pulled in a slow breath. Not only was he not there to do any of those things, she didn’t even know if he was in the state. Two days ago, she’d returned to the lab after a meeting at the M.E.’s office and found a message that he’d called to say he was leaving for Austin. Was he still there, searching for a lead on Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother? If so, for how much longer? Or had he already returned and just hadn’t bothered letting her know?

Biting her lip, she reminded herself that he’d had no obligation to tell her he was leaving, much less contact her when he got back. If you care about me, you’ll let me go. She’d made her feelings clear to him six months ago.

He had let her go.

Now she had a monster to face, and she had to deal with it. Alone.

Her gaze went to the sofa upholstered in pale, muted shades and scattered with earth-tone throw pillows and a wool-soft comforter. She had spent the previous two nights huddled there, fighting sleep. Tonight would be the third.

In what was fast becoming habit, she padded into the kitchen, the sparkling white ceramic tiles cold against her bare feet. The digital clock on the coffeemaker glowed 1:02 a.m. Now that the terror was receding, she could feel fatigue settle in her legs and back. She knew the only way she’d stay awake was with a double kick of caffeine. She dumped an extra scoop of coffee into a filter, filled the pot with water, poured it into the machine, then switched it on.

Just as she reached for a mug, the phone on the counter trilled, nearly sending her out of her skin. “Get a grip. You’re on call,” she muttered, perturbed at her skittishness over the simple ringing of the phone. She grabbed the receiver. No matter how perverse, she welcomed the distraction of working a crime scene.

“Milano.” Sliding automatically into chemist mode, she reached for the pen and pad she habitually kept by the phone.

“It’s Grant. We need to talk about the case.”

Something low in her belly tightened at the sound of his voice. “Are you back in town?”

“Just drove in.”

“Did you find Ellis Whitebear’s twin brother?”

“That’s one subject we need to cover.” His voice came over the phone in a level slide that told her nothing. She furrowed her forehead, trying to remember her schedule. “Tomorrow morning I have a nine o’clock meeting at—”

“Now. We need to talk now.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, thinking about her earlier yearning to step into his arms. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Open your front door, Milano. I’m right outside.”

Sky made him wait in the hallway long enough for her to pull on jeans and a shapeless T-shirt, and sweep her hair back with a clip. She punched in the access code to deactivate the alarm, hoping the second barrage of cold water she’d splashed on her face had put some color in her cheeks.

She knew it hadn’t when she swung the door open and Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he stepped inside.

“It’s the middle of the night, Pierce. Give a girl a break.” She couldn’t tell him that the few details she’d given him about the rape had resurrected her nightmare. Even now, the thought of the throat-clenching terror she’d experienced the past three nights nudged her toward panic. She didn’t trust herself to tell him without losing control. She had fallen apart once in front of Grant, and she wasn’t going to put either of them through that again. The fact that the nightmare had returned after nine years, as crippling as ever, cemented the agonizing knowledge that she could offer him nothing.

“I usually don’t try for the runway model look until after the sun’s up,” she added, forcing lightness into her voice.

He didn’t smile, just gave her a long, hard look that made her want to squirm. “I don’t like the runway model look,” he finally said. He turned, scanned the living room where the blues singer crooned that he’d keep her safe and warm in the arms of love. Grant shifted his gaze to the brightly lit hallway that led to her bedroom. “You alone?”

“What?” She stared up at him, incredulous. Did he really think she was entertaining some other man?

He turned, eyed her steadily. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to tell. I was on my way home and didn’t plan to stop. When I saw your apartment lit up like searchlights on a helicopter, I figured you weren’t asleep.”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten she had switched on every light in the place in an attempt to ward off the shadows. Uncomfortable under his assessing gaze, she arched an eyebrow. “You took this route to get home? Since when is my apartment on the way to the snooty part of town?”

This time he did smile. “I went a little out of my way.”

“About five miles.” She flicked a wrist in the direction of the breakfast bar where her briefcase and purse sat. “I’m up because I brought home lab files to review.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. She’d finished going over the files before she’d gone to bed.

“It’s hell when you have to bring work home,” he commented easily, then nodded toward the kitchen. “Do I smell coffee?”

“I just made a pot.” She turned, glad for any excuse to avoid the steely gray eyes that made her feel as if he could see right through her. That was the problem with cops, she thought. They didn’t take anything at face value. “Want some?” she asked as she walked around the counter and into the kitchen.