'That depends on you. I'm going to check out downstairs, pay for the room in cash and get that clerk to cancel the charge on my card. If you cooperate, I'll let you go.'

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'No record?'

He smiled. 'No record anywhere.'

She considered it. 'I can live with that.'

Newport News, Virginia, Monday, May 3, 8.00 P.M.

Clay sat in his car outside Mrs Klein's condo for the second time that day, frustrated and tired. He was no closer to finding Margo Winchester than he'd been when he'd arrived hours ago. In fact, he'd taken several steps back in that department.

The last few hours had not gone well. The clerk at the morgue had, unfortunately, done her job. In other words, she'd revealed nothing of use to him. He'd gone in looking for word on his 'brother-in-law' who'd 'disappeared while on vacation'. Clay told the clerk he was checking all the hospitals and morgues. He'd given Evan Reardon's description, but the clerk had no record of any such John Doe.

The body found in the house fire had to have been brought to this morgue. That there was not even a spark of interest in the clerk's eyes told him that either the description of Evan was so far off that they could immediately eliminate the possibility or they had an idea of who the fire victim really was.

Which meant that Evan probably wasn't dead. Which bothered Clay more than Evan falling victim to an insane female stalker. If Evan was alive, he had much to explain. Any way Clay cut it, he was nowhere and Evan was still missing.

His cell phone began to ring. Clay grabbed it, hoping it was Nicki, but it was Alyssa. His sense of dread began to climb. Where was Nicki? And what had she done? She couldn't have missed all these clues. Something was so very wrong.

'Have you found her yet?' Clay asked without greeting.

'No, and I've been calling hotels for three hours. If Nicki's in Ocean City, she's not staying at any of her usual places or any of the major hotels.'

'She could be staying with someone, or not checked in under her own name.'

'What if something happened to her, Clay? She could be hurt somewhere.'

Or worse. The picture had already formed in his mind. She could be lying in a morgue, murdered by one of her one-night stands. Or by her own hand. He closed his eyes. She'd been behaving so strangely before she left. I should have known. I should have asked. I should have pried.

'Try Nicki Triton. It was her married name, years ago. Sometimes she still uses it.' But the last time had been when she'd been forced to leave DCPD and gone on a bender that had lasted for days. Clay had been the one to find her after her parents contacted him, frantic because they couldn't find her. Clay had dried her out, offered her a job with his agency. A second chance. Things had gone well. Until recently.

Now everything had gone to hell. 'We have other problems. I found Margo.'

'How?' Alyssa demanded.

'I tracked her cop father. He's on the force in the next town.'

'So that's good, right? You found her.'

'No, it's not good. Margo's been locked up for four months, in rehab. She's in a private facility her parents are apparently mortgaging their home to afford. One of the parents' neighbors filled me in. The real Margo does have a record for assault and does look like the woman Nicki met here two months ago. But she is not the woman we're looking for. And Evan's not the man killed in the fire here last week.'

Alyssa let out a slow breath. 'Evan played us.'

'He played Nicki,' he said. 'And me. You've done nothing wrong here.'

'So what next?'

'I find the woman who Nicki actually met. She danced at a club on the beach, but they don't open until nine. I'm going to try to find Klein's granddaughter right now.' He looked up at Mrs Klein's front door and hoped this visit would go better than his first.

'What should I do?'

'Keep calling hotels around Ocean City. Focus on the area near the boardwalk.'

'How do you even know she's there, Clay?'

'Her car is there.'

There was a moment of silence. 'You can track her car?'

'Yes. And she can track mine. It's for protection, in case we run into a situation we can't handle. We're not tracking your car, if you're worried.'

'I was, a little. Clay.' She hesitated. 'Should I call the hospitals or police?'

A worry nagged at him, the knowledge that Nicki should have seen any one of the inconsistencies in Evan's story. What did you do, Nic? 'Not the police. Not yet. But try the hospitals.' He made himself say the words. 'I'll call the morgues.'

'I'm sorry,' Alyssa whispered.

'It's nothing you've done,' he said roughly. 'I have to go. Call me if you find anything.' Forcing the thought of the morgue from his mind, he climbed the stairs to Mrs Klein's apartment and rapped the knocker. Inside he heard nothing. He'd seen her car parked outside, so she was probably home.

'Mrs Klein?' he called. 'I don't mean to bother you, but I'm still looking for the same woman. I really need to talk to your granddaughter. I think she knows her and I know they were both here. Your granddaughter has a cobra tattoo.'

There was no response. 'Mrs Klein? Are you all right?' He froze at the sound of a footstep behind him. He turned slowly to see two uniformed cops cautiously climbing the stairs. How the hell did they get here so fast? Unless the old lady had better eyes than he'd thought and saw his car in the lot below.

'Sir?' one of them said. 'Is there a problem here?'

'No. But I'm assuming I've frightened the resident,' Clay said. 'That was not my intent. I'm looking for information on her granddaughter.'

'So we heard,' the first cop said. 'Would you step away from the door, please?'

Clay complied, holding his hands where they could see them. Behind him the door opened and he looked over his shoulder to see Mrs Klein peering out.

'I told you I'd call the cops,' she said, satisfied.

Clay sighed. 'Fine. I'll leave. I don't want any trouble.'

'It's a little late for that, sir,' the second uniform said. 'You need to come with us.'

Clay took a step back. 'Where? Why?'

'To the precinct,' the second cop said.

'Am I under arrest?' Clay asked.

'No,' the first cop said. He was older and, Clay hoped, wiser. 'Mr Maynard, you match the description of a man who visited the morgue a short time ago.'

Clay's brows lifted. His questions had gotten someone's attention. 'I've committed no crime.' Technically. He'd bent the truth a bit, that was all.

The older cop nodded, soberly. 'Then you shouldn't have any issues coming in and answering a few questions.'

Clay dropped his hands to his sides. The man had handled it just like Clay might have when he'd worn a badge. 'Okay. I'll follow you in, driving my own car.'

The younger cop started to protest, but the older one cut him off with a sharp glance. 'That would be fine, Mr Maynard,' the older man said. 'This way, please.'

Clay sighed again. This day is really starting to suck.

Chapter Eleven.

Baltimore, Monday, May 3, 9.15 P.M.

JD shook his head as he took the highway exit for the morgue. 'You are not going to change my mind, so don't even try.'

Lucy's stunned discovery of a local band's CD in his car had spurred a lively discussion on the merits of all the local bands, and for an hour she'd simply enjoyed talking with a man for the first time in a very long time.

The last hour had been . . . fun. They'd stopped at a drive-thru for dinner. Nothing fancy or pretentious. They'd listened to music and talked, about everything and nothing at all. But especially not the case or Mrs Westcott or her brother or his friends. Which she had deeply appreciated.

She also appreciated that he knew music, all types. It made her wonder what he'd think about hers. If things went well, then . . . someday I might trust him with it. Someday.

But now she shook her head at him, disagreeing with his assessment of local talent. 'You can't really prefer Bromo Bay to Silver Fish. Please.'

He shrugged. 'Bromo's lead guitar's got superior finger control.'

She sighed. 'You're missing the point, JD.'

He pulled into the parking garage next to the morgue. 'Which is what?'

'That finger control is just technique. Any decent musician can master technique. Bromo's missing heart, and there is a world of difference between technique and heart.'

'I guess I'll have to concede that point to the musician in the car.' He found a parking place, then reached over to take her hand, running a thumb over her calloused fingertips. 'I felt the calluses earlier. You said Mr Pugh was your music teacher.'

Suddenly the easy conversation was over and he was looking at her with an intensity that assured she'd never be cold again. 'In high school,' she said.

'What do you play?'

'Violin, mostly,' she hedged, unnerved by the overwhelming urge to tell him about the club. About her music. To see his response. Maybe to gain his approval.

'You took only a few belongings from your apartment today. One was a violin.'

She frowned. 'The CSU cop told you what I took from my apartment?'

'Procedure,' he said. 'Don't be upset. She also said that one of the neighbors commented on your "concerts". What did she mean?'

'I play for Mr Pugh when he becomes agitated. It calms him. I made a recording for Barb to play for him when I can't be there.'

He studied her a moment more, then got out of the car. 'I'll walk you to your office.'

He opened her door and once again pulled her to her feet. But this time he simply stood, studying her face. Her cheeks heated under his scrutiny and she dropped her gaze to the knot of his tie, her heart starting to pound in her ears.

'Thank you,' she whispered. 'I needed to be there for the Bennetts, even if it didn't end as I planned. Thank you for taking my mind off unpleasant things for a little while.'

'Lucy.' He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted until she met his eyes. He didn't smile and she could see he was as nervous as she was. 'All the way back I kept thinking about earlier. When I kissed you. And you kissed me back.'

Blood rushed low and her deepest muscles clenched. 'I did do that, didn't I?'

'Yes, you did.' He leaned closer until all she could see was dark, dark blue. 'I'm hoping you'll do it again.'

'I . . .' She was unsure of what she might have said, but it didn't matter. His mouth was on hers, warm and demanding and so very sexy. His hands in her hair, he moved her head one way then another, layering on sensation after delightful sensation.

But there was something missing. She needed more. She heard herself whimper and he exploded, his mouth going from skillfully seducing to ravaging. His hands ran down her sides, pausing to cup her breasts, his thumbs flicking her nipples through too many layers of fabric before skimming her body to close over her butt, kneading almost desperately.

He hauled her up on her toes, trapping her between a hard car and a very hard man. His hips surged and she sucked in a harsh breath as she felt him. All of him. He'd said he found her desirable. He had not been lying. Not one little bit.

She tried to wriggle closer, cursing her straight skirt for the second time that day. A growl of frustration vibrated in his throat and he ripped his mouth away, his breath hard against her temple. For a moment they hung there, panting.

His hands flexed, his fingers drawing her skirt higher. 'I hate this skirt,' he said.

'So do I.'

He pulled back far enough to pin her gaze with his. His dark eyes were intense. Hot. Lucy stared, mesmerized. Narcotic.

'I want to see you out of it,' he whispered.

She swallowed hard. Her heart was pounding, her body needing. She wanted him. A lot. Way more than was wise. 'So do I.'

His eyes flashed. Dangerously. 'It's been a long time for me. There's been no one, nothing but work. And then this morning I saw you and . . .'

'And?'

'It was like a freight train. All of a sudden . . . It's like . . . Hell, I don't know.'

'All of a sudden it's like you're alive again?' she asked quietly.

Relief flickered amid the heat in his eyes. 'I'm afraid I'll rush you. That I'll blow it.'

'I know. I don't date much. I'm not sure how to handle this.'

He rested his brow on hers. 'But you want me?' he murmured smoothly.

Everything inside her clenched, then went liquid. 'Yes. God help me. But it's late. We've both had a very long day. Why don't you go home, get some sleep?'

'I was going to say the same thing to you.'