A baby's Cry by Amanda Stevens Other novels by Amanda Stevens Silhouette
Intrigue TM Stranger in Paradise Silhouette Sensation Fade to Black AMANDA
STEVENS A Baby's Cry by best selling author Amanda Stevens is set in
Memphis, Tennessee. Having lived in that sultry Southern town for the first
five years of her marriage, she says writing this book was like a stroll
down memory lane. Amanda now lives in Cypress, Texas with her husband
of twenty-one years and her ten-year-old twins. DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK
WITHOUT A COVER? If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it
was reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book. All the characters in
this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no
relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not
even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and
all the incidents are pure invention. All Rights Reserved including the right
of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by
arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises H B.V. The text of this publication or
any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without
the written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the
condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser. Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademarks of
Harlequin Books S.A." used under licence. First published in Great Britain
1997 Silhouette Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond,
Surrey TW91SR ISBN 0 373 22388 9 46-9705 Printed and bound in Great Britain
by Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham For Steven Prologue. Taylor Robinson
gasped in pain. The contractions were coming fast and furious. Outside the
Westcott Clinic, thunder crashed and torrents of rain pelted the windows.
Memphis was in the throes of the worst storm all season, and the severe
weather seemed to mirror the anxiety on the nurse's face as she hovered over
Taylor. "Not much longer now, Mrs. Robinson," she said with a Spanish
accent. "Don't give up. We need you to keep pushing." "No more," Taylor
pleaded. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her dry lips. "Please. I...
can't." Wiping the sweat from Taylor's brow, the nurse murmured words
of encouragement. "Sure you can. Come on, honey. You're doing fine." A
wave of pain swept over Taylor, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out
Dillon's name. But Dillon wasn't here. He'd left her. He was never coming
back to her. She had to forget him. She was a married woman now. Tears
streamed out of her eyes. "Where's my husband? Why isn't Brad here?" "Dr.
Robinson will be here soon. The storm probably held him up. Try not to
worry. Just concentrate on your breathing." Something was wrong. Taylor had
been in labor all night. The baby should have been here by now. And
Brad--where in God's name was Brad? He'd been called away on an emergency at
the hospital, but that was hours ago. Why hadn't he come back? Taylor had
never felt so alone. So frightened. With an effort, she lifted herself on
her elbows, but she couldn't see anything. A screen had been situated across
her bed, shielding the other nurse and the doctor who worked to deliver her
baby. Exhausted, Taylor fell back against the pillow. "Why is that
screen there?" she asked the nurse at her bedside. "What's wrong? Why
can't I see?" "Doctor's orders. Nothing for you to worry about." "But I--"
Taylor started to protest when another contraction swept over her, and the
pain intensified to an almost unbearable level. The nurse left Taylor's side
and scurried behind the screen to consult with the others. The murmured
voices sounded ominous. Panic exploded inside Taylor. "My baby!" she
screamed. "What's wrong with my baby?" The nurse came back and clasped
Taylor's hands, trying to quiet her. "It's okay. Everything's okay." The

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other nurse appeared at Taylor's side. "Hold her," she ordered, and then
Taylor felt the sharp prick of a needle in her hip. "No! Don't put me under.
My baby--" She had to make sure her baby was all right. "Oh, Dillon, help
me," she whispered as the room blurred and noises receded. As if from a
distance, she heard the sound of a baby's cry and then everything else faded
to black. Chapter One. Nine years later... The day dawned warm and sunny
with snowy clouds floating across a Memphis sky as clear and fragile as blown
glass. A mild breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the sweet scent
of honeysuckle and, more faintly, the earthy aroma of the
Mississippi. Somewhere hidden in the branches of the mimosa tree shading the
freshly dug grave, a mockingbird trilled its morning song. The notes were
as lovely and lyrical as a wind chime, but for some strange reason, the sound
made Taylor want to weep as she had not been able to do since she'd learned of
her husband's death two days ago. Why did you do it, Brad? she cried
inwardly. What could I have done to stop you? She could almost hear Brad's
accusing voice answering her. You could have loved me. You could have been a
real wife to me. In all those years we were married, you never loved me,
Taylor. It was always him Taylor put trembling fingertips to her lips, gazing
at the grave in despair. Not the open grave in which Brad's casket now
rested, but the tiny grave beside it. The one marked with a simple headstone
that bore the inscription: Patrick Robinson. Beloved Son. A tear rolled down
her cheek, and Taylor palmed it away. Now was not the time to lose control.
She'd lived with her silent grief for nine long years. Now was not the time
to mourn for a baby she'd never even held in her arms. Today was Brad's
day. But even as she stood there and recalled the good times in
their marriage, the deep friendship the two of them had once shared,
the positive memories were all nudged away by the jealousy and guilt. Her
guilt for having loved another man. As Taylor stared at the grave, an
overwhelming sense of being watched stole over her, as if Brad himself were
there, gazing over her shoulder. Taylor tried to ignore the sensation, but
the feeling only grew stronger. Shivering, she turned her head, her gaze
sweeping across the dozens of mourners standing behind her. Some of them she
recognized as Brad's colleagues from the hospital, others she'd never seen
before. Some caught her eye and nodded, while others looked away. But no
one seemed to be paying any undue attention to her. Then, as she started to
turn back to the grave, Taylor's gaze lit on a woman standing apart from the
crowd. Dressed all in black, she was tall and slender with long auburn hair
swept back from a pale, oval face more striking than it was
beautiful. Something about the woman arrested Taylor's attention. She
wasn't grieving. Her face showed no particular emotion at all, and it
crossed Taylor's mind that the woman might be just a curious onlooker, one
of those people attracted to tragedy. But there was something disturbing
about her calmness. Her detachment. Something that made a chill course up
Taylor's spine as the woman slowly lifted her gaze. Her stare was
electrifying, her green eyes blazing with emotion that was in direct
contradiction to the tranquil expression on her face. And at the moment, all
that emotion seemed to be focused on Taylor. With an effort, Taylor tore her
own gaze away and forced her attention back to the service. But the feeling
of being watched persisted. She could feel those green eyes boring into her
back, and she had to resist the urge to keep looking over her shoulder. When
the service finally ended, and she did allow herself to glance back, the woman
had vanished. Taylor had little time to wonder about her, however, as the
mourners began to file by, extending their condolences. Dr. Elliot Westcott
and his wife were among the first to approach. "We were very distressed to
hear of Brad's death. He was a... talented physician," Dr. Westcott said in
an obliging, almost grudging tone as he offered Taylor his hand. Her own hand
was dwarfed by his, and his skin felt cold and smooth. As soon as she could,
Taylor pulled away. She had never really liked Dr. Westcott, even when Brad
had been his protege and she had been his patient. He was too arrogant and
egotistical. Taylor had always thought he wore his God complex like a merit

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badge, but the man knew his stuff. He was a world-renowned obstetrician
who had saved the lives of countless women and their babies. Taylor's baby
just hadn't been one of them. Beside him his wife, a lovely, delicate,
Southern belle of a creature, murmured her condolences in a voice so soft
Taylor had to bend closer to hear her. The woman instantly retreated and
Taylor knew why. Lorraine Westcott's breath reeked of alcohol, and as she and
her husband moved on, Taylor saw her stumble. Elliot grasped his wife's elbow
and propelled her toward their car. Poor Alisha, Taylor thought. No wonder
the Westcotts' nine-year-old daughter, who attended Clay-more Academy where
Taylor worked as a guidance counselor, had so many problems. With parents
like that--a cold father, a drinking mother the child had started life with
too many strikes against her. And Alisha was such a sweet little girl.
She certainly deserved better. But so many people deserved better than the
hand that had been dealt them. Brad had certainly deserved a wife who loved
him. The line of people walking passed her seemed endless. Just when
Taylor thought she could endure no more, a woman dressed incongruously in
black wool stepped up. She wore a hat with a heavy veil that disguised
her features, but Taylor thought the woman looked vaguely familiar. "I'm very
sorry about your husband, Mrs. Robinson." Her voice held the merest trace of
a Spanish accent. "But remember this. Things often seem darkest before the
dawn." She extended a gloved hand to Taylor, and when Taylor accepted it,
the woman pressed a newspaper clipping into her palm, then quickly turned and
melted back into the crowd. Curious, Taylor opened the clipping, but before
she could read it, she heard a soft gasp from the crowd. As she looked up,
she saw Deirdre Robinson, Brad's mother, heading toward her. The look of
uncontrolled rage on Deirdre's face stopped Taylor's heart. Charles Robinson,
Brad's father, reached for Deirdre's arm, but she shook him off. She was
hell-bent on her mission. "This is all your fault!" she screamed, lunging at
Taylor. With a loud crack, Deirdre's pall connected with Taylor's cheek, and
she stumbled backward, putting a hand to her stinging face as Charles grabbed
Deirdre and held her forcibly in his grip. The mourners who hadn't already
left stood gaping at the scene in stunned silence. Taylor couldn't move. She
stood paralyzed by shock. "You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself.
You drove him to this, you bitch!" Deirdre struggled against her husband's
restraint. She was not a small woman. never had been, she was tall and
wiry and surprisingly strong. She pulled loose from Charles's grip and faced
Taylor like an avenging angel. Strands of gray hair sprang free from the
clasp at her nape and hung limp around her pale face, giving her an almost
demented look. She pointed an accusing finger in Taylor's face. "You were
always thinking about that other man. Always wanting him. How do you
think that made my son feel?" Taylor had never felt so helpless. She put a
trembling hand to her throat. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Deirdre glared at
her in fury. "Sorry! You don't know what sorry is. But you will. You'll
pay for this. If it's the last thing I do, I swear I'll make you pay for
taking my son away from me!" Drained, Deirdre collapsed against her husband
as hysterical sobs racked her body. Charles ushered her toward their car and
helped her inside. Even after the limo had sped away, Taylor stood rooted to
the spot, the grieving woman's accusations echoing in her ears. Miranda
Walsh, Taylor's mother, put a comforting arm around her daughter's shoulder.
"The woman's distressed, darling. Beside herself with grief. Don't let her
get to you." Taylor nodded, but she had seen the look in Deirdre's eyes. It
was more than grief. More than just anger. What she'd seen in
her mother-in-law's eyes was hatred. Cold, black hatred. * * * SGT.
DILLON REEVES SAT in his car and watched the bizarre scene unfold across the
street in the cemetery. What the hell was going on over there? Since when
did the creme of Memphis society turn on one another? Outsiders were the ones
who usually faced their wrath. Dillon turned away, muttering a curse as he
rubbed his burning eyes. He hadn't slept in nearly twenty-four hours. He and
his partner had been pounding the streets, trying to get a lead on the murder
of a young woman whose body had been pulled from the Mississippi River two

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days ago. He told himself he should be back on the street right now,
regardless of his lieutenant's orders. Dillon didn't need rest and he sure as
hell didn't need sleep. The last thing he wanted to do was go home to an
empty, silent apartment. But no matter how much it galled him, he'd had no
choice but to comply with Lieutenant McCardy's orders. Since the shooting
four months ago and the ensuing hearing, Dillon had been relegated to a desk.
He hadn't yet been restored to full active duty, and the helplessness of
his situation made him furious. So what the hell are you doing here? Dillon
asked himself grimly. He might not want to face an empty apartment, but Dr.
Brad Robinson's funeral was the last place he should be. Yet for some
inexplicable reason, here he was. And here Taylor was, a widow nearly ten
years after their final parting. Almost a decade since she'd dumped him for
another man. For one of her own kind. Ten long years. Yesterday. Dillon
swore under his breath, his gaze returning to the cemetery in spite of
himself. If he were being honest, he'd have to admit that he'd come here to
see her, to see what she was like after all these years. He supposed he'd
always been a masochist, otherwise he never would have gotten involved with
someone like her in the first place. But it hadn't taken him long to realize
that the son of a Mississippi dirt farmer didn't stand much of a chance with
someone like Taylor Walsh. Not if Miranda Walsh had anything to say about
it. From what he could see, Taylor was still breathtakingly beautiful,
still utterly desirable and still just as completely out of his reach as
she had been all those years ago. The rich really are different, he thought
bitterly. Dillon had learned that lesson ten years ago from Miranda Walsh,
and it was one he didn't ever plan to forget. Chapter Two. The next two
weeks passed in a blur for Taylor. She spoke with friends and relatives on
the telephone, answered all the cards and letters she received and wrote
thank-you notes for the donations that were made to Mercy General Hospital in
Brad's memory. But it was her job that became her real salvation. At
school, surrounded by all the fresh, hopeful faces of the students--and even
the troubled children Taylor dealt with as a guidance counselor--her
guilt over Brad's death finally receded. No matter what Deirdre Robinson had
said, Taylor knew deep down that Brad's death wasn't her fault. There was
nothing she could have done to save him. Staying in a marriage that had
become a living hell wouldn't have been healthy for either of them. That Brad
had been unable or unwilling to let go, even after two years of legal
separation, had been a tragedy that couldn't have been averted, no matter what
she might have done differently. And life does go on, Taylor thought as she
locked up her office and walked through the empty school building. She just
hoped Deirdre would soon find a way to deal with Brad's death and get on with
her own life. It was after eight, and everyone else had long since gone home,
even Mr. Thorndike, the headmaster at Claymore Academy, who always stayed
late. The last rays of light glimmering through the hallway windows cast
deep shadows along the corridor. Taylor's heels echoed eerily in the
now-silent hallway, and the back of her neck prickled. Funny how a place that
had been humming with life only hours ago could now seem so lonely. So
abandoned. And yet Taylor had the strangest sensation that she wasn't
alone. A shiver crept up her spine as she continued down the dim hallway.
A scraping noise, like someone bumping into a desk, sounded behind her, and
she stopped, listening. She turned her head toward the sound, her pulse
accelerating. The light was off in the headmaster's office, but the security
light outside his window illuminated the interior. A shadow moved passed
the frosted-glass door. Taylor's heart jolted. The noise hadn't been her
imagination. Someone was in the building with her! The main entrances would
be locked this time of day, but the staff used a side door at the end of the
hallway. Taylor hurried toward the exit. She shoved down the bar handle,
pressing her shoulder into the door. Nothing happened. She pushed harder,
but the door wouldn't budge. Someone had locked it from the outside. On the
fringes of panic, Taylor shook the handle and beat on the door. Turning, she
scanned the dim hallway behind her. "Is someone in here?" she called. No

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answer. Taylor didn't know what to do. Go back to her office and phone
for help? That would mean walking passed Mr. Thorndike's office again. And
if there was an intruder, he would surely see her. Her heart was pounding so
loudly in her ears that she almost missed the sound of footsteps slowly coming
toward her down the hallway. She gasped as a figure--a boy she didn't
recognize--emerged from the shadows. He stared at her with big, round
eyes. Taylor let out a relieved breath, but her heart continued to race.
She leaned weakly against the door. "Hello," she said. "You startled
me. Are you locked in, too?" The boy said nothing, but continued to gaze at
her intently. The absorbed expression on his face was beginning to alarm
Taylor. Perhaps he was afraid of her, she thought. If he was a new student
and he'd somehow gotten himself locked in, he might think he was in
trouble. "Are you a new student here?" she asked in a calm, neutral voice.
"I don't recognize you." Still he said nothing. He looked to be about nine
years old, and he was thin, with straight dark hair and big solemn eyes. Eyes
that never left Taylor's face. She shivered in spite of herself, and jumped
when a voice called from down the hallway, "David! Where'd you get off to
this time, boy?" At the sound of the voice, Taylor glanced over the boy's
shoulder, but. he didn't move, just stood there staring at her. Stanley
Barlow, the school custodian, came out of the shadows and placed his hand on
the boy's shoulder. The child started, then glanced up. He signed something
to Stanley, and Taylor realized why he hadn't heard Stanley's approach, and
why he had studied her face so intently. The child was deaf. Stanley
squinted at her in the dim light. "Miz Robinson? That you?" "Yes. I'm
locked in, Stanley, and I thought I saw someone in Mr. Thorndike's
office." "Probably saw Davey here," Stanley said. "He's my grandson. He
comes with me sometimes to keep me company, but he has a habit
of disappearing." Stanley signed to David and the boy nodded, then his gaze
moved back to Taylor. Taylor signed, Hello, David. I'm happy to meet
you. The child's solemn expression disappeared, replaced by a beaming
smile. He quickly signed, You can sign! A little, Taylor answered. But I'm
not as good as you. You're so fast! The boy smiled proudly. Stanley patted
him on the back, then said! "Let's see about getting that door open for you."
He walked past her to the door and shook the handle. "Hmm. That door ain't
supposed to be locked from the outside." "I didn't think so, either," Taylor
said. He rattled the handle again. Satisfied the door wasn't going
to miraculously open somehow, he said, "Come on. We'll let you out the front
way." He signed to David to let him know what they were going to do and
the boy nodded, then took Taylor's hand. Stanley said in amazement,
"Well, don't that just beat all. The boy don't usually take to strangers
like that." Probably because strangers didn't usually know how to communicate
with him, Taylor thought. His world was probably a lonely one for the
most part, and her heart went out to him. She and David followed Stanley back
down the hallway, and when they passed the headmaster's office, she cast an
uneasy glance toward the door. There was no movement or sound from inside.
She wondered if her imagination had played tricks on her earlier, or if it had
been David inside. At the end of the hall, Stanley pulled a ring of keys from
his pocket, unlocked the main entrance and he and David walked outside with
Taylor. A breeze had picked up, and the night suddenly felt chilly. "We'll
see you to your car," Stanley said. "Oh, I hate to take you away from your
work. I've caused you enough trouble for one evening." "No trouble at all
helping a pretty lady, is it, Davey?" As he talked, he signed to his
grandson, who shook his head vigorously in agreement. Taylor smiled
gratefully. She fell into step beside Stanley, and David ran along the
sidewalk in front of them. As they rounded the corner of the building, Taylor
fished in her purse for her keys. Up ahead, David stopped short. Beside her,
Stanley gave a little grunt of surprise. Taylor looked up and saw that they
were both staring across the parking lot. She followed their gazes. The
parking area was deserted except for her gray Volvo, parked beneath a street
lamp. The ear sat tilted at an awkward angle, and with a shock, Taylor saw

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that both rear tires had been slashed. Beside her, Stanley muttered, "Damn
punk kids. That's the second time this month a car's been vandalized in this
parking lot. You'd think that cop who came around last time would have done
something." He lifted his cap to scratch his head. "Well, we'd better call a
garage and see if we can't get you fixed up." He signed to David and the two
of them started back to the building. Numbly Taylor followed. She didn't
trust herself to speak. She wanted more than anything to believe the
violation had been a random act of vandalism, as Stanley had said, but she
didn't think kids had done this to her car. There had been too many other
incidents in the two weeks since Brad's funeral. Hang-up calls in the middle
of the night. A car that looked very much like Deirdre Robinson's parked down
the street from Taylor's house. As the three of them walked back into the
building, a dark premonition descended over Taylor. If she was right, and
Deirdre Robinson was behind all this, the woman's hatred had become more than
just disturbing. It was downright frightening. She seemed to be obsessed
with tormenting Taylor, and there was no telling what someone in her frame of
mind might do next. TWO HOURS LATER, Taylor let herself into her tree-shaded
bungalow in midtown, a few blocks from Memphis State. She was almost afraid
to open the door and step inside, scared of what she might find waiting for
her. But everything seemed in order when she finally got up the courage
to enter. The familiarity of the oil paintings on the wall, the red
silk piano scarf draped artfully over her baby grand, the glass wind
chimes tinkling softly in the breeze from the air-conditioner vent, all
gave her a measure of comfort. Though not ostentatious like her mother's
house on Tamarind Street nor as elegant as the sprawling ranch she'd shared
with Brad in Germantown, Taylor's little redbrick, World War II era bungalow
had quickly become a haven for her. She'd decorated it to please her own
eclectic tastes, and was happy with the results. Breathing deeply, she took
pleasure in the cozy security of her surroundings. Laying her purse,
briefcase and keys on the antique pine table in the hallway, she carried her
mail into the living room and sat down at her desk to sort through it. Toward
the bottom of the pile, she pulled out a white envelope that had a handwritten
address but no return address. Thinking it another sympathy note, she slit
the flap with her letter opener. There was a newspaper clipping inside.
Taylor stared down at the headline, which read: Could This Happen To You?
Someone had circled the word you in red ink. The story was about the parents
of a baby born at a private hospital who were filing suit, claiming that the
hospital had been paid to swap the couple's healthy baby for a baby born with
a serious disease to wealthy, socially prominent parents. "Odd," Taylor
mumbled, flipping the article over, but there was nothing on the back to give
her a clue to the sender's identity, and no accompanying note in the envelope.
Why in the world had someone sent her this clipping? Did someone know about
Taylor's own tragic background? About her own baby dying at birth? The
veiled woman at Brad's funeral instantly sprang to mind. The woman had given
Taylor a newspaper article that day, but after Deirdre's verbal attack, Taylor
had forgotten all about it. She vaguely remembered stuffing the paper into
the pocket of her suit jacket and hadn't given it another thought since. Now
she went in search of that jacket, praying she hadn't yet sent it to the
cleaners. She hadn't. Taylor jerked the jacket off the hanger and
rummaged through the pockets. The clipping was wadded up and crammed into
one corner. This article concerned a police investigation into the murder of
a man whose death had origin all been ruled a suicide. In red ink someone
had written in the margin: Things are not always what they seem. What had the
veiled woman told her the day of Brad's funeral? Things often seem darkest
before the dawn. What in the world had she meant? And why had she given this
clipping to Taylor? Had she sent the other one, too? Taylor went back out to
her desk and placed the clippings side by side. An apparent suicide that
turned out to be a murder. A private clinic dealing in baby-swapping. Was
this someone's idea of a sick joke? Could Deirdre Robinson he behind
this? The more Taylor thought about it, the more uneasy she became. Were

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the clippings the product of a disturbed mind? A game devised to torment her
because her own baby had died at birth? Or was someone sending her a message?
Was someone trying to tell her something? Her heart began to pound as She
stared down at those articles. No, she thought. It couldn't be. Her baby
had died at birth. The article about baby-swap ping meant nothing to her. It
couldn't. But what if... She told herself she refused to be drawn into
such dangerous speculation, but like it or not, those articles had unleashed a
maelstrom of memories inside her. Brad had called her the night he died.
He'd been drinking, was barely coherent, but he'd rambled on and on about the
Westcott Clinic, the private hospital run by Dr. Elliot Westcott for women
experiencing high-risk pregnancies. Dr. Westcott had once been Brad's
mentor, had groomed him, in fact, to succeed him at the clinic. But the two
of them had a falling-out several years ago, and Brad's subsequent drinking
and bouts of severe depression had all but destroyed what had once been the
promise of a brilliant career. Just a few weeks before his death, Brad had
been suspended from Mercy General Hospital for mis-diagnosing a patient, and
he'd blamed Dr. Westcott, who was on the board at Mercy, for sabotaging
him. Taylor thought Brad's ranting and raving that night were a result of
his drinking and his bitterness toward Dr. Westcott, but now, thinking back,
something else Brad said came to Taylor's mind, something about the secrets at
the Westcott Clinic. When Taylor had asked him what he meant, he'd insisted
it was nothing important, and then he'd abruptly hung up. The next morning he
had been found dead in the home he and Taylor once shared, the victim of
an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head. As far as Taylor
knew, there'd been only a token police investigation into Brad's death. He'd
tried to commit suicide once before. He had a history of severe depression.
There'd been no reason to believe his death was anything other than a
suicide. Until now. Taylor stared out the window into the deep darkness
surrounding her little tree-shrouded house. What had Brad been trying to tell
her the night he died? What were the secrets at the Westcott Clinic? And why
had someone given her newspaper articles about an apparent suicide that turned
out to be a murder and a baby-swapping incident at a private clinic... like
the one in which Taylor had given birth to her son? Chapter Three. Dillon
stared out the window of his second-floor apartment, watching the ebb and flow
of traffic on Perkins Road. Several squad cars sped by, lights flashing, and
he wondered for a moment if he should find out what was going down. He had a
radio in the apartment. He could turn it on and find out what was happening
in five seconds. Then he decided, to hell with it, he was off duty.
Lieutenant McCardy had seen to that. Turning, Dillon walked back into the
living room and sat down in his battered leather chair, stretching his long
legs in front of him. He had the whole night before him. What the hell was
he going to do? He waited for inspiration. When nothing came,-he got up and
walked into the kitchen to open the refrigerator and stare aimlessly
inside. Not much to work with there. A week-old pizza box, a jar of
dill pickles and a bottle of beer. Dillon took the beer and twisted off
the cap. He should have stayed downtown after his shift was over, he
thought gloomily. Most nights he just grabbed a quick bite at a bar near
the station, then would linger for some pool or a round of darts. Anything to
keep from coming home and facing his empty apartment. But tonight he hadn't
been in the mood for more cop talk, or for the girls that liked to hang out at
the bar. Tonight he'd found himself too damned preoccupied by memories of a
woman with golden hair and beguiling blue eyes. A woman who had once ripped
out his heart without a second thought. Dillon closed the refrigerator and
swore. He didn't want to think about Taylor Walsh, but ever since he'd seen
her that day at the cemetery, he'd been bombarded by memories of her.
Thoughts of the way things had once been between them. You're a damn fool, he
told himself as he crossed the living room floor to answer the knock at his
door. For a moment, he hoped it might be Domino's delivering to the wrong
address, but he knew he wasn't that lucky. More likely it was Nadine from
down the hall, trying to interest him in a game of gin rummy. "Not tonight,

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Nadine," he muttered, opening the door. But instead of Nadine, it was Casey,
the kid two doors down. As usual he was dressed like a waif--grubby jeans, a
T-shirt at least three sizes too large and a baseball cap turned around
backward. Dillon felt sorry for the kid. He was alone a lot. His mother was
a cocktail waitress at a bar downtown, and didn't get home until the
early morning hours. She was usually asleep or gone by the time Casey
got home from school, so Dillon had taken to playing basketball with the
kid on occasion, buying him a pizza once in a while, just so he didn't have to
be alone every night. And besides, the kid was good company. Dillon liked
him. Casey was bouncing a basketball now, not missing a beat as he
said! "Hey, Dillon, how'bout a little round ball, man? Gotta new move I
wanna show you." "Some other time, Casey. I'm beat tonight." Dillon tried
to ignore the crestfallen expression on the kid's face. Tried to ignore the
guilt he suddenly felt. Casey turned away, his shoulders slumped as he
headed for the stairway and the exit. Dillon CURSED under his breath. "Hey,
kid," he called. Casey turned expectantly. "Drop by later. We'll order a
pizza, okay?" Casey's face lit up. He nodded, then made like he was doing a
lay-up at an invisible goal before he disappeared down the stairway. Not
thirty seconds later, someone was again knocking on Dillon's door. He drew it
open and said in exasperation, "I said later--" His words broke off when he
saw who was on the other side of the door. He knew he was staring but he
couldn't seem to help himself. He couldn't believe his eyes. For a moment,
he thought his memories must have conjured up her image. How many times had
he dreamed of opening his door and finding her on the other side? Of having
her look up at him with those big baby blues and beg him for forgiveness? How
many times had he told himself it was never going to happen? Taylor Walsh was
out of his life for good. But here she stood. "Hello, Dillon." He folded
his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe. "Long time, no
see," he tried to say casually. "It has been a long time. I... wasn't sure
you'd remember me." Who was she trying to kid? There was no way he could
ever forget her, and she damn well knew it. Not after what she'd done to him.
He said coolly, "Oh, I remember you, all right. But you're about the
last person I expected to see here." She gave him a tentative smile.
"Actually, this is about the last place I expected to be, but... I need to
talk to you. Is it all right if I come in?" "Door's always been open." He
hadn't meant to sound so accusing, but he knew from the expression on her
face, the sudden flash of anger in her eyes, that his subtle message had been
received loud and clear. Turning, she took a moment to close the door. When
she faced him again, the anger was gone. Or at least it was hidden. She
stepped into the room and gazed around, looking anywhere but at him. She was
thinner than Dillon remembered, more. fragile looking somehow with her blond
hair pulled back and fastened at the nape and her blue eyes shadowed with an
emotion he could only assume was grief. She was dressed in a peach-colored
suit with some sort of silky-looking blouse beneath. A string of pearls--no
doubt real--draped her throat and tiny pearl teardrops hung from her lobes.
She looked polished, sophisticated, expensive. Too perfect to touch. That
much hadn't changed. "So... this is where you live." "Yeah." Dillon waved
a careless hand around the room. "It's not Chickasaw Gardens but I call it
home. Hell, it beats where I grew up. But I'll bet you'd already made that
comparison, hadn't you?" A look of sadness flickered across Taylor's face.
The wounded glitter in her eyes, the air of uncertainty that seemed to
surround her, caused funny things to happen to Dillon's insides. "How did you
find the place, anyway?" he asked abruptly. "I called your mother. She gave
me your address. I... hope you don't mind." "Why should I mind?" She
shrugged, then said hesitantly, "Look... I'm sorry for just dropping by like
this. I know I should have called first, but... I didn't think you would see
me." "Now why would you think that, Taylor?" If she noticed the sarcasm in
his voice, she chose to ignore it. She sat down on the couch with her knees
pressed together and her purse clutched tightly between her hands. When
Dillon took the seat across from her, he saw her moisten her lips with the tip

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of her tongue. He recognized a nervous woman when he saw one, and Taylor's
discomfort in his presence gave him an almost perverse sense of
satisfaction. "I was sorry to hear about Brad's death," he said. Raw emotion
passed across Taylor's face, and for a moment, she looked as if she might
break down. Dillon found that he wasn't enjoying himself, after all. No
matter how much he might wish to, he could take no pleasure in Taylor's
pain. Regardless of what she had once done to him. "This isn't easy for me."
She gripped the purse so tightly her knuckles whitened. Dillon lifted his
gaze to her face. "What isn't?" "Coming here. Seeing you again. Dillon--"
Her fingertips fluttered briefly to her lips, as if she could physically quell
her emotions. It was an action that struck yet another memory inside
Dillon. How many times had he seen her do that same thing when she was
upset? How many times had he taken her in his arms and comforted her when
he'd seen her looking so distressed? You don't know her anymore, Dillon
reminded himself grimly. You never really did. She'd been his fantasy, an
impossible dream. But the woman sitting before him now was all too real, and
his reaction to her was anything but reassuring. "why are you here, Taylor?"
he asked bluntly. Her blue eyes met his, and she straightened, squaring her
shoulders as if mustering the last vestiges of her courage. She took a deep
breath and said, "I think Brad was murdered, Dillon, and I want you to help
me prove it." Dillon stared at her in astonishment. "Did I hear you
right?" Taylor nodded. "I'm convinced Brad was murdered, but no one
believes me. Not even the police." "You've already talked to someone about
this?" he asked sharply. "Sergeant Jackson. He was the one who handled the
initial investigation into Brad's death." "Then he's the one you should be
talking to now." "But I did! He wouldn't listen to me. He thought the
newspaper clippings were some kind of prank. He wouldn't even
consider--" Dillon held up a hand to halt her. "Wait a minute. Are you
saying you have some kind of evidence that Brad was murdered and Jackson
wouldn't hear you out?" She hesitated. "Not exactly." Dillon's dark brows
drew together. "What exactly does that mean?" Taylor folded her hands
together to try to hide their trembling. This meeting was so important to
her. She couldn't mess it up. Dillon had to believe her. He was her last
hope. "I don't have any concrete evidence," she admitted. "But I have
this feeling--" "Feeling?" Dillon glared at her. "Do you have any idea how
many times I've heard that from the relative of a suicide? It's the hardest
thing in the world to believe that a loved one would choose to take his or
her own life." "But that's where you're wrong," Taylor said. "Until two days
ago, I believed with all my heart that Brad had taken his own life. It
was almost too easy for me to believe it. But something happened at
his funeral and again two days ago to make me think otherwise. And I
also remembered something he told me the night he died. When I put it
all together, it started to make some kind of terrible sense, and if
you'll just hear me out, I think you'll agree." Dillon looked as if he were
about to argue with her. He didn't want to hear a word she had to say, Taylor
realized, but then he shrugged and seemed to reconsider. "I'm not going
anywhere," he said. "Take all the time you need." Taylor drew a deep breath.
She hardly knew how to begin. She hadn't expected to be this nervous, this
unsure of herself. She'd known facing Dillon again would be difficult, but
everything about him stirred so many memories. The way he stood. The way he
cocked his head slightly when he listened. The way he looked at her. His
frank perusal a few seconds ago had left her shaken and wondering if the
changes the past ten years had wrought inside her were just as obvious on the
outside. The notion was hardly comforting, and she wished suddenly she
hadn't taken quite so much time with her appearance. She might look as if
she were trying too hard and not succeeding. Better that she had just come
here in the jeans and sneakers she usually wore to school and let him see her
for the way she really was. The woman she had become. If he'd been
disappointed, disillusioned, what did it really matter? Neither of them had
escaped the passing of ten years--hard years for Taylor--and it would be

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foolish to pretend otherwise. As if he'd grown impatient waiting for her,
Dillon got up and paced to the window. Much to Taylor's dismay, she couldn't
seem to tear her gaze away from him. The changes in him were not so much
disconcerting as they were arresting. Not so much disappointing as
intriguing. He looked taller for one thing. Taller and stronger and more
mature, but that look of brooding intensity that had once frightened her as
much as it attracted her still hovered in the depths of his dark brown
eyes, and the small crescent-shaped scar above his left brow made him
seem tough, streetwise, and more dangerous than ever. When he turned suddenly
to meet her gaze, Taylor caught her breath. The anger glinting in his eyes was
perhaps the most disturbing change of all. After all this time, she had
thought--hoped--all the emotions between them would be dead. But if the way
her heart pounded inside her chest was any indication, she'd been
wrong. Terribly wrong. "Well?" he prompted. "I'm waiting, Taylor. What
makes you think your husband was murdered?" He placed a small, but sarcastic
emphasis on the word husband, then added, "And why should I be the one to help
you prove it?" "Because you're a policeman," Taylor said. "And you always
did have a very fine sense of justice." He laughed bitterly. "Did I? Funny,
I don't seem to remember that." "Then why did you become a cop?" He gave her
an enigmatic smile. "After dropping out of law school, I didn't exactly have
a lot of choices." It was on the tip of Taylor's tongue to ask him why he'd
dropped out of law school in the first place, why he'd felt compelled to leave
town so abruptly. Why he hadn't even had the decency to call her. They'd
fought horribly that last night together, and Taylor had known Dillon's pride
was hurt. They'd both said some terrible things to each other, but she'd
never dreamed he'd just up and leave town. Disappear without even
saying goodbye. But now was not the time to go into all that. Taylor hadn't
come here to mend fences. She'd come here for help. She opened her purse and
took out the newspaper clippings. "A woman at Brad's funeral handed me this
newspaper article. I didn't have a chance to read it at the time, so I put it
in my pocket and forgot about it until I received this one in the mail two
days ago." She got up, walked over to Dillon and handed him the
clippings. He scanned the articles and looked up. "Did you know the
woman?" "She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her. There were
a lot of mourners at Brad's funeral, people from the hospital and so on, that
I didn't know. I just didn't give it much thought. But when I received the
other clipping in the mail, I started wondering what the connection could
be." "You think they both came from her?" Taylor shrugged. "It seems the
obvious conclusion" ' Dillon didn't comment. His brow furrowed as he studied
the articles. "Do you have the register from Brad's funeral? Have you been
over the names of the people who attended?" Taylor shook her head. "Brad's
mother took it, and I haven't asked her to see it. I don't... let's just
say, she's not in the frame of mind to cooperate with me just now. She...
blames me for Brad's death." Dillon lifted a brow slightly, but didn't
comment. "You said you remembered something Brad told you the night he
died." Taylor related the strange conversation. She realized now that
she should have questioned Brad further insisted he tell her what he
meant about the secrets at the Westcott Clinic, but that conversation had
been just one of many. Brad had always called her when he was drinking, and
that night, Taylor had just about reached the end of her rope with him. She'd
wanted the phone call to be over with and so she hadn't pushed him for an
answer. "Did you tell Jackson about the conversation?" Dillon asked. "Yes,
but I truly believed at the time that Brad's death was a suicide. It wasn't
until two days ago that I started to think otherwise." Dillon plowed his hand
through his dark hair as he stared down at the clippings. He wore his hair
shorter than Taylor remembered, but it was still just as dark and thick, and
she wondered if it would feel just the same. Wondered how many women over the
years had run their fingers through the luxurious texture. "Look," Dillon
began. "I can see how you might reach the conclusion you've obviously come
to. These articles are a little bizarre, I admit. But they're hardly

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evidence. And as for your conversation with Brad, the secrets he talked about
at the Westcott Clinic could be just the ramblings of a very disturbed and
bitter man." "I know that." Taylor forced herself to remain patient. "I've
told myself all that. But I have this feeling that just won't go away.
I know Brad was murdered for something he found out about the Westcott Clinic,
and I think Elliot Westcott knew about it. I think that's why he got Brad
suspended from Mercy General Hospital. He was afraid Brad might
talk." Dillon gave her an incredulous look. "Are you saying you think
Elliot Westcott killed Brad?" "I'm not accusing Dr. Westcott of anything,"
she said. "I just want the truth. I want to find out what really happened to
Brad, and I want to know if the Westcott Clinic is, or has been, involved in
any form of baby-swapping, as that clipping seems to imply. I have to know,
Dillon. I... can't rest until I do." He gave her a long, hard look. Their
gazes clashed, and, for all his experience, it was Dillon who looked away
first. "It won't bring Brad back, no matter what you find out." "It won't
bring Brad back. But..." Her fingertips fluttered to her lips. She said,
almost in a whisper, "I might find out what happened to my own baby." "Your
baby?" Taylor's voice took on an urgent tone. "Don't you see? My baby
was born at the Westcott Clinic. That's why I can't let this rest. I have to
know. What if my baby didn't die that night? What if he was swapped for
another baby?" She took a long, tremulous breath. "My child would be nine
years old now, Dillon. What if he's out there somewhere and in trouble? What
if he needs me? I have to find him. I'm his mother..." So that was it.
Dillon's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He knew about Brad and
Taylor's baby. His mother had written to him in Houston and told him that the
child had died shortly after birth, and Dillon's first instinct, even though
he was miles away and still hurting from Taylor's betrayal, had been to rush
to her side, to try and take away her pain. But that had been her husband's
duty, not Dil-lows. And from the look and sound of things, Brad Robinson had
done a damn poor job of it. Everything Taylor had told Dillon pointed to one
thing. No matter what she said to the contrary, she was grasping at straws,
trying to make some sort of sense out of the deaths of her baby and her
husband. There was nothing Dillon could do for her. There never had been. He
turned back to the window and stared out. "Go home, Taylor. Find a way to
put all this behind you and get on with your life. I can't help you." "Can't
or won't?" He shrugged. There was a long silence, then Taylor said softly,
"Not even if the child I'm looking for is yours?" Chapter Four. Dillon
didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at her. "Say something,"
she begged. "Please." His stare turned even icier. "What would you have me
say?" "I don't know." Taylor hugged her arms around her middle. "You
can tell me how you feel. What you think about what I just told you." He
turned to her. "I don't know what I feel. I don't even know if I believe
you. For all I know, you could be trying to pull something over on me to get
me to help you." His words stung her to the quick. "I'm not! I wouldn't do
that. I wouldn't lie about something this important." One dark brow rose in
an incredulous arch. "You wouldn't lie? You sure as hell didn't mind
withholding the truth from me, now did you?" "That was different." She tried
to quell the trembling in her voice. The last thing she wanted was for Dillon
to see how very near the edge she was right now. But he was relentless,
merciless. Taylor thought the years as a cop had trained him well, because he
went straight for the jugular. "How was it different, Taylor? Please tell
me. I can't wait to find out how you justified not telling me you were
pregnant with my baby." Taylor fingered the pearls at her neck, trying to
find the right words to make him understand. But the bitterness in his tone,
the anger in his eyes, frightened her. Would she ever he able to make
him understand? "I wanted to tell you. More than anything. But we'd had
that horrible fight, remember? We'd broken up. By the time I found out for
sure I was pregnant, you'd already left town. I didn't know how to
reach you." "You could have found me if you'd really tried. My mother always
had my address." "I know, but... I guess after everything that happened

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between us, I didn't think you'd want to be found." His eyes were cold and
distant, but in spite of his remoteness, Taylor found herself wanting to reach
out to him, to take away the bitter pain that flashed through his dark eyes.
She'd hurt him terribly, but there was nothing she could say to undo what had
been done all those years ago. "You didn't think I'd want to know about the
baby? Our baby? You knew me better than that, Taylor." "Yes," she agreed,
"I did know you. I knew all the hopes and dreams your family had for you and
the ones you had for yourself. I didn't want you to feel trapped." He swore
viciously, then strode away from her and stood with his back to her, his hands
shoved into his pockets. "Were you ever going to tell me?" Taylor bit her
lip. "I don't know," she answered truthfully. "After our baby was born...
after they told me he had... died, I didn't see the point. Why put you
through the same grief that I'd gone through?". He turned to glance at her
over his shoulder. "How very noble of you. And just where and when did
Robinson come into the picture?" "He guessed I was pregnant before I even
admitted it to myself. He was a good friend to me." "Oh, I'll bet he was."
Dillon's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "He was," Taylor said, refusing to
back down in the face of Dillon's anger and resentment. "He made me see how
difficult it would be to raise the baby on my own, and because I knew what it
was like to grow up without a father, I finally agreed to marry him." "Just
like that." Dillon turned and stared at her. "How simple it all was. You
must have been quite proud of yourself for the way things worked
out." Taylor's temper flared. "How dare you? How dare you sit in judgment
of me? Where were you? Why weren't you there when I needed you? You'd left
town without a word. I didn't know where you'd gone, how to reach you, or if
you even still cared. Brad was there for me when I needed him, and if there
was anything I never doubted, it was how much he cared." "Just tell me one
thing. Did he know the baby was mine, or did you somehow manage to convince
him it was his? Were you with him while you and I were still together?" His
dark eyes seemed to dare her to admit the truth. Taylor wanted to hit him at
that moment. Slap that accusing look right off his handsome face. She had
always been faithful to Dillon, even for a long time after she'd married
Brad. It was little wonder that even after she no longer thought of
Dillon every waking second, Brad had still not managed to banish him from
their bedroom. Little wonder that Brad had grown to resent Taylor's past
to the point of desperation. She turned away, wanting to leave that apartment
and Dillon Reeves's accusations far, far behind. But like it or not, she
still needed his help. She had no one else to turn to, and so she swallowed
her pride and her anger and said, "Brad knew the baby was yours from the
first. He said... it didn't matter to him." "And did it?" Taylor closed
her eyes. "Yes. It mattered. It mattered until the day he died." She
lifted her tormented gaze to his, and suddenly Dillon had a brief, agonizing
glimpse into the way Taylor's life must have been for the past ten years.
Brad's drinking. His jealousy. His battered ego that she must have tried
valiantly to repair. Was that why she'd stayed with him all those years, even
after the baby had died? Or had there been another reason? Dillon wasn't
sure he wanted to hear the answer, but at the same time, he couldn't bear not
knowing. Something inside him, that masochistic part of himself, made him
ask, "Did you love him?" Her gaze met his, then glanced away. She sighed
deeply. "There was a time when I loved him very much." Dillon put his hands
to his face and scrubbed his eyes. He thought he'd known pain before.
Thought he'd dealt with his jealousy years ago, but now to find out that
Taylor had loved another man--it hurt. He didn't want it to, but it did and
Dillon knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Taylor spread her
hands in supplication. "I'm sorry you had to find out about the baby this
way. I'm sorry for a lot of things, but don't you see? None of that really
matters anymore. What matters is finding out the truth. Knowing what really
happened to our baby." Dillon turned away from her. Emotions tumbled inside
him. Anger. Resentment. Hurt. Disbelief. And a glimmer of grief. If what
she said was true' Can we put the past behind us?" Taylor asked desperately.

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"I need your help, Dillon. That's all I'm asking for." "I know," he said
bitterly. "But you just may be asking for too damn much." DILLON TOSSED and
turned all night, unable to get Taylor out of his mind. Unable to forget what
she had told him about Brad... and the baby. About everything. To make
matters worse, he'd had to disappoint Casey again last night when the kid had
come back later for his pizza. Dillon had ordered the food, paid for it, then
sent the whole box home with Casey, who had wanted the company as much as the
pizza. After Taylor's visit, Dillon had needed to be alone, to try and sort
out his thoughts. But this morning, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his
mind was still in chaos. Finally he got up, showered and dressed, then stood
drinking his coffee at the window, staring out as dawn broke over the
cityscape. The meeting with Taylor had ended badly last evening. She'd tried
to press him into helping her, which had only made Dillon all the
more resistant. The argument had finally heated up until she'd stormed out of
the apartment, accusing him of not caring whether their child was alive or
not. What the hell did she expect, dropping a bombshell like that on
him? How the hell was he supposed to react? Justified or not, Dillon wasn't
particularly proud of the way he'd behaved with her, but he'd be damned before
he'd admit that to her. He didn't even want to think about Taylor anymore.
He didn't want to think about the possibility that what she had told him last
night could be true. Because if it was... If he had a kid out there
somewhere... Don't fall for it, he warned himself. Don't take everything she
said at face value. Taylor Walsh had betrayed him before. Why should he
believe her now? She was rich and beautiful and she was used to getting
everything she wanted, no matter who she stepped on in the process. Dillon
had no intention of being her victim again. After all these years, he wasn't
about to let her back in his life. HE WASN'T GETTING rid of her that
easily. Taylor stood at her kitchen window, watching the rising sun streak
the eastern sky with fire. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night and
she suspected Dillon hadn't, either. She'd told herself when she went to see
him that she was prepared for his disbelief. She could deal with his
anger. But the bitterness, the cold contempt in his eyes when she'd left
him last night, had been something Taylor hadn't expected. It had been almost
ten years since they'd last seen each other. Ten years! How could he still
harbor so much bitterness? So much hate for her? * * * Taylor felt her own
anger surge. He wasn't the only one who'd been hurt back then, and she wasn't
the only one who'd made mistakes. Even though she'd told herself over the
years that the breakup had been her fault, she realized now she'd never quite
forgiven Dillon for leaving the way he had. For telling her the two of them
were never meant to be. She'd said some terrible things to him, and his pride
had been hurt. But to just leave like that... Taylor took a deep breath and
tried to calm herself. It was all water under the bridge as far as she was
concerned, and at this point, it didn't matter if their past was ever
resolved. All Taylor wanted was her future. All she cared about was finding
her child. Hers and Dillon's. You just may be asking for too damned much,
his voice taunted her. Chapter Five. Taylor clutched the plain white
envelope in her hand as she waited downstairs in the visitor's area of the
police station. Finally the officer at the desk motioned her over. "Sergeant
Reeves has already left for the day, but his partner's still here. If this is
in regard to one of their cases, you can talk to Sergeant Heywood." Taylor
fingered the envelope, wondering what to do. When she'd gotten home from
school today, the envelope containing a third newspaper clipping had been
waiting for her. In spite of their argument the night before, Taylor's first
instinct was to find Dillon. Now he would have to believe her. He couldn't
ignore this last message. He would have to do something to help
her. "Perhaps Sergeant Heywood can help me," she told the officer. After
passing through the metal detector, Taylor took the elevator to the eleventh
floor where the Homicide Division was located. Sergeant Heywood, a
pleasant-faced man in his mid-thirties, stood when Taylor approached and
motioned her to a chair across from his desk. "How can I help you, Mrs.

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Robinson?" "I really need to speak with Sergeant Reeves," she said. "I
thought perhaps you might be able to tell me where I can find him." "He's off
duty." "I know, but I really need to speak with him. It's...
urgent." "Regarding?" Taylor hesitated. "Is this a Personal matter?" he
asked gently. Her cheeks colored as she glanced at him in surprise. Neal
Heywood smiled. "I recognized your name. Dillon's mentioned
you before." Taylor was even more surprised, and secretly a little pleased
that Dillon had spoken about her. Then she wondered exactly what he had said.
Their parting ten years ago--and last night--hadn't exactly
been amicable. There was a spice of mischief in Sergeant Heywood's eyes as he
studied her. "Don't tell him I told you. He probably doesn't even
remember. We were both a little soused at the time." It was all Taylor could
do not to ask him what Dillon had said about her. But she managed to smile
and say, "I won't tell him." Sergeant Heywood gave her a conspiratorial wink
and seemed to relax a bit. He leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms
across his desk. "Dillon left here about an hour ago. Have you tried
his apartment?" "I called and left a message on his machine." "Then you
might try the Riverside Bar and Grill. It's on Union, between Front Street
and Riverside Drive. He goes there after work sometimes." Taylor stood and
offered her hand to Sergeant Heywood. "Thanks for your help." "Not a
problem." He stood, too. "I'm glad to finally meet you in person." "I hope
I wasn't a disappointment." "Not in the least," he said, his eyes warm and
curious. On her way out, Taylor ran into Lamar Jackson, who had
investigated Brad's death. He stopped her in the hallway. Sergeant Jackson
was tall and slim with a boyish face and thinning blond hair. With his hand
still on her arm, he smiled down at her, but his steely gray eyes were hard
looking, almost cruel. Taylor remembered how uneasy he'd made her feel when
he'd come to interview her after Brad's death, and again when she'd talked to
him a few days ago about the newspaper clippings she'd received. It was
all she could do now not to move away from his touch. As if sensing her
discomfort, Jackson dropped his hand from her arm. His smile vanished. "What
brings you down here, Mrs. Robinson? You haven't received any more of those
newspaper clippings, have you?" Remembering how uncooperative and sarcastic
he'd been when she'd come to see him before, Taylor was glad she'd slipped the
envelope into her purse before leaving Sergeant Heywood. There was no reason
to assume Jackson would be any more helpful now. Besides, she didn't trust
him. "I'm here on personal business," she said. "Nice seeing you
again, Sergeant." "Oh, likewise, I'm sure. If you do get any more of those
clippings, you be sure and let me know, you hear? Or if you need help with
anything else, anything at all, you just let me know." His gray eyes
drifted over her in a manner that made Taylor's skin crawl. His gaze
lingered on her legs, and she had to resist the temptation to tug down the hem
of her short navy skirt. "I'll be sure and do that," she said, backing away.
As she turned down the hallway, Taylor could feel Jackson's eyes on her, and
she couldn't help shivering. As IT TURNED OUT, Dillon wasn't at the Riverside
Bar and Grill, either. Taylor was about to give up her search when it
suddenly occurred to her where he might be. Why hadn't she thought of it
sooner? She drove south on the interstate. It was just after six and
traffic was still heavy. Taylor fought her impatience. Every car that got
in her way seemed to be an impediment to her finding out the truth. Finally
she exited the freeway and took Elvis Presley Boulevard to the cemetery. A
dark green Firebird sat alone in the parking lot, and Taylor pulled alongside
it and parked. She got out of the car and walked through the wrought-iron
gates. The warm, humid air smelled like rain. On the horizon, dark clouds
began to pile, and as she made her unerring way to the grave, Taylor wondered
if they were in for a storm later. A breeze fluttered through the trees,
loosening strands of her hair. Absently she brushed them back as she spotted
Dillon standing over the grave. She caught her breath at the sight of him.
He looked so lonely, standing there. So... wounded. In the fading sunlight,
Taylor saw the starkness of his features, the raw emotion in his eyes as he

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gazed down at the tiny grave. A lump filled her throat. She'd come here so
many times herself, all alone, with no one to share her grief. No one who
understood the pain and emptiness that just wouldn't go away, no matter how
many years passed by. As she stared at Dillon's rigid features, she wondered
if he would ever be able to forgive her for what she'd done. She'd made so
many mistakes. Done so many things in the past she regretted. As if sensing
her silent plea, Dillon looked up and captured her gaze with his. The
intensity of his stare, the cold contempt in his brown eyes, stole Taylor's
breath away. "What are you doing here?" She took a faltering step toward
him. "I thought I might find you here. I had to see you, Dillon." "I'm not
exactly up for any more of your confessions, Taylor." He looked hard, grim,
completely unapproachable. But Taylor had to try, anyway. This was too
important. She took a deep breath. "I know what you must be feeling," she
said softly. He looked up. "Do you? I don't think so. You've had nine
years to accept the death of our baby. I've had less than twenty-four
hours." In spite of his coldness, his anger, Taylor saw the grief shimmering
in his eyes. She walked over to the grave and stood beside him. "That's why
I'm here. That's why I have to keep trying to make you under stand." She
paused for a moment, searching for words. "I've never accepted the death of
our baby, Dillon. No matter how many times I've visited this grave, no matter
how many tears I've shed, deep down I don't think I ever really believed he
was dead. I still dream about the night he was born." She closed her eyes,
remembering the terrified moments in the delivery room before she blacked out.
She remembered calling out Dillon's name, wanting him to be with her so badly,
to help her through the hardest hours of her life. Through the drug-induced
haze, she'd heard her baby's first cry, and she'd fought so hard to remain
conscious, but the drugs had been too strong. When she'd awakened, she'd been
told the baby had died shortly after birth. She hadn't even been allowed to
see him. The grief had been overwhelming, consuming. Taylor's arms had felt
so empty. Her heart had ached. She'd wanted Dillon's child more
than anything in the world, and in the end, she'd lost him and his baby. But
even during those darkest hours, even when the grief threatened to consume
her, a tiny part of her had refused to believe. Fighting back her tears,
Taylor gazed down at the tiny grave and marker. "All these years, I've heard a
baby crying in my dreams. What if he's crying for me, Dillon? And for you?
What if he's out there somewhere and he needs us?" She stared hard at the
grave. "He's alive, Dillon. I know he is." "How can you be so sure?" His
eyes were still bleak and still cold, but Taylor saw a flicker of something
that might have been hope in those dark depths. He wiped a furious hand
across his eyes. "How do you know you're not trying to make some fantasy of
yours come true?" "You make me sound crazy," Taylor said with a flash of
anger. "I'm not. I'm perfectly sane and I know what I have to do. What we
have to do. Until we find out what really happened at the clinic that night,
we'll never have peace. You know that as well as I do. And the only way
we can learn the truth is to find out why Brad was murdered. Find out what he
knew before he died." "If you're so sure what happened to our son is tied to
Brad's death re Dillon slowly lifted his dark gaze to hers. "Does that mean
you think he was somehow involved?" Taylor glared at him in shock. The color
drained from her face. "My God," she whispered. "How could you even ask such
a thing?" "You said he was the one who told you the baby was dead." "Yes,
but Brad wouldn't have taken my baby! He loved him, too. He wanted him just
as much as I did. He told me he never thought of the baby as..." "Mine?"
Dillon's voice was like a blast of frigid air. "That's what you were about to
say, isn't it?" Taylor shivered. "Yes. Brad wasn't involved. God knows he
had his problems, most of them because of me, but he wouldn't have done
anything to hurt me like that. He... loved me." And you loved him, Dillon
thought, staring at her in the darkness. Like the sultry Memphis twilight, the
past seemed to be closing in on him. Memories flashed through his mind. The
closeness he and Taylor had once shared. The intimacy. The love. So much
love and all wasted. Bitter regret stabbed through Dillon but he forced it

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away. There was no going back. What he and Taylor had was gone forever, and
what they'd lost could never be replaced. He stared down at the grave,
fighting a wave of emotion. Even though he'd told her last night he didn't
know if he believed her about their child, he realized now that he did. The
baby Taylor gave birth to nine years ago was his. His. The months of
planning, anticipating, sparring over names should have been his. The hours
spent together in labor should have been his. Even the grief should have been
his. Not Brad Robinson's. Rage welled inside Dillon, so quick and so
blinding, he thought for a moment he might not be able to control it. He
didn't think he had ever felt so betrayed. SUDDENLY he couldn't stand at that
grave any longer. Without a word, he turned and began walking back toward his
car. Outside the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, there was a small
park like area with marble benches and a reflecting pool. Dillon sat down and
stared at the water. He heard Taylor approach, but he didn't look up. His
anger with her was still too great. She sat down beside him and placed a
tentative hand on his arm. Dillon had to work hard not to flinch away. He
didn't want her to touch him. He didn't want to remember what that touch had
Once done to him. What it was doing to him now. "I know you're hurt and
angry," Taylor said. "I know you must hate me. But please try to see this
from my perspective. I did what I thought was right. For all of
US." "Forgive me if I find that a little hard to swallow," Dillon
said bitterly. "Call me old-fashioned, but I think a man has the right
to know when he's about to become a father." "Then why didn't you stay around
long enough to find out?" she said, not without her own bitterness. "You
weren't the only. one who was hurt back then, Dillon. I was hurt, too. When
you left like that--" "Wait a minute. I had a damned good reason for leaving
the way I did, and I'm pretty sure you know what it was." "All right!" she
cried. "All right! Your leaving was all my fault. Everything was all my
fault. Is that what you want to hear?" She gave a little sob as she got up
and walked over to the edge of the pool. Dillon didn't want to see her tears.
It made it hard to hang on to his anger. As long as he had his anger, as long
as he could remember her betrayal, it didn't matter that his body responded to
her every time she came near him. But as soon as she got vulnerable, as soon
as she looked as if she needed taking care of, he started remembering things.
He started wondering what it would be like to hold her again, to feel her body
next to his. He started fantasizing things he had no business thinking. He
said gruffly, "Why did you want to see me?" She turned and walked back over
to the bench. Her face was composed, but a single tear slipped down her
cheek. Dillon had to resist the urge to reach up and wipe it away. She
brushed the tear away with the back of her hand, then pulled an envelope from
her pocket and handed it to him. "I received another clipping in the mail
today." Dillon studied the envelope, then opened the flap and took out
the article. He read the headline in the dying light. Court Awards
Natural Parents Custody Of Child Swapped At Birth. Unlike the other two,
nothing was written or circled on this clipping. The headline seemed to speak
for itself. "It's a Memphis postmark," Dillon said. "We can at least track
down the post office, find out what area of town it was mailed from." "Will
that help?" "Not much," he admitted. "I probably shouldn't have touched it,"
Taylor said. "But I'd opened it before I realized what it was. Is there a
chance you could still lift fingerprints from it?" "I doubt that would help
much, either. Unless the person sending these has a criminal record." He
glanced at Taylor. "I'm not sure at this point there's much we can do except
wait for the person who's sending these to tip his or her hand." "But you're
a cop," Taylor said in frustration. "Can't you at least talk to Dr.
Westcott, find out where he was the night Brad died?" "No, I can't. This
isn't my case, Taylor. I can't go interfering in someone else's
investigation. By all rights, you should have taken this clipping to Lamar
Jackson." "And you know as well as I do how much good that would have
done!" Dillon did know. To his way of thinking, Lamar Jackson was a
lazy investigator. He wasn't willing to put in the time or patience

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it sometimes took to get a lead, let alone solve a homicide. He and Dillon
had butted heads on a case a few months ago, when Dillon had picked up a lead
on one of Jackson's cases that he refused to follow up. When Dillon had done
the legwork himself and the lead panned out, Jackson had been furious. "Maybe
I can check out a few things unofficially," Dillon said. "But we'll have to
be careful. It could get a little sticky. I'll try to take a drive out to
the clinic, see what the setup is there. Sometimes you can scare up a little
information just by flashing around a badge." "Actually," Taylor said. "I've
already been out to the clinic." Dillon's glance was sharp. "When?" "A
couple of days ago, right after I talked to Sergeant Jackson. When he
wouldn't agree to reactivate the investigation, I decided to go out there and
ask a few questions myself." Dillon glared at her. "And just what were you
hoping to find out? Did you think someone would openly admit to stealing your
baby?" "Of course not," she said defensively. "But I thought... I hoped
that somehow I could get a look at the records, find out who else was
a patient at the clinic the night my baby was born. There was a
terrible storm that night, and a lot of the staff couldn't get through.
The clinic was shorthanded, and there was a lot of confusion. "I remember
hearing one of the nurses complain about all the patients going into labor at
once. It was an exaggeration, of course, but other babies must have been born
at the clinic that night. I thought if I could just find out who the other
patients were..." Taylor trailed off with a shrug. "Did it never occur to
you," Dillon asked slowly, "that if something illegal is or was going on at
the Westcott Clinic, if Brad was killed because of something he found out, you
could be putting your own life in danger by going out there and asking all
those questions?" Her chin lifted defiantly, but her tone sounded uncertain.
"I ... did think about that. But I decided it was worth the risk if I could
find out what happened the night our baby was born." "And if you find out the
baby really died that night," Dillon said. "Will you finally be able to
accept it? Will you be able to accept the fact that Brad's death was a
suicide?" "If that's what really happened. But I don't think it is," Taylor
said softly. "And I don't think you do, either." Chapter Six. "Lord have
mercy, it's hot out there." Neal Heywood ambled into Dillon's cubicle the
next day and threw his jacket onto one of the metal chairs across from
Dillon's desk. He yanked on his tie. "I must have walked that vacant lot a
hundred times." Dillon glanced up. "I take it nothing turned up." "Nada.
I'm beginning to think Danny Quinlan ate that damned gun," he said, referring
to one of the cases he and Dillon were working on. "No, it's out there
somewhere." Dillon tossed down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "You
just have to keep beating the bushes until you find it." "That's easy enough
for you to say. You've had your butt planted in here under the air
conditioner all day." Dillon grimaced. "Don't remind me. I'd change places
with you in a minute if I could." He'd caught hell a few days ago from
McCardy when he'd learned Dillon had been pounding the streets with
Neal. "Yeah, that's the weird part," Neal said. "I believe you would."
He rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled white shirt. "So what've you
been working on all day?" He craned his neck to get a look at the open folder
on Dillon's desk. "Oh, you know, just trying to clear away some old files."
Dillon closed the folder, but not before his partner was able to glimpse the
name on the tab. "Brad Robinson," Neal mused. "That wouldn't be the
high-society doctor who whacked himself a couple of weeks ago, would it? What
the hell are you doing with that file? That was Lamar's case." "I'm not
doing anything with it," Dillon said.-"I just wanted to have a look at the
autopsy report." "Why?" I'm... curious." ' "Hmm." Neal sat down and
folded his arms over his chest. "My guess would be that it has something to
do with the Widow Robinson's visit here yesterday." "She was here?" "Didn't
she tell you?" "No, she didn't mention it." A look of triumph glinted in
Neal's eyes. "So she did manage to find you, then." He leaned forward and
lowered his voice. "Mind telling me what's going on? If Lamar catches you
with that file, all hell's gonna break loose around here. He'd like nothing

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better than to find a way to fry your ass. What are you thinking, messing
around in one of his investigations?" "I'm not doing that." Not yet, anyway.
"I just wanted to see for myself if there's any basis to think that Robinson's
death might not have been suicide." "Is that what Taylor thinks?" Dillon
gave him a hard look. "Taylor?" "Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. She and I
had a nice little chat yesterday. After everything you'd told me about her, I
felt like I'd known her forever." "I never talked to you about
Taylor." "Sure you did." Neal arched a brow. "Donoran's bachelor
party? Tequila shooters? Need I say more?" Dillon groaned inwardly, not
just from wondering what the hell he might have told Neal about his
relationship with Taylor, but also from the memory of the headache he'd
carried around for two solid days after that party. Neal propped his feet on
the corner of Dillon's desk. "So she thinks her old man was' murdered he
mused. "How did she reach that conclusion?" Dillon hesitated for a moment,
then took a quick glance around the squad room. He lowered his voice, too.
"She's been receiving anonymous newspaper clippings in the mail. One was
about a suicide that turned out to be a homicide, and the other two were about
baby-swapping incidents." "Baby-swapping?" "Taylor had a baby nine years ago
at the Westcott Clinic. She thinks someone's trying to tell her that her baby
didn't die as she was led to believe. She thinks her husband somehow found
out about it and was murdered to shut him up." Neal rubbed his chin. "That's
kind of a large assumption isn't it?" "Maybe." "The Westcott Clinic. Would
that be connected to Dr. Elliot Westcott? The Dr. Westcott?" "Oh,
yeah." Neal gave a low whistle. "Good Lord," he muttered. "You don't like
to wade into hot water, do you, Reeves? You like to just dive right in. That
man has a pedigree a mile long." "I know. Any kind of investigation into the
clinic could get pretty hairy." "To say the least." Neal stared at the
ceiling for a moment, then said, "This is all a pretty farfetched theory,
Dillon." "Yeah. But Taylor's convinced she's right, and I guess I'm
beginning to think it might be worth a look myself." Neal nodded toward the
folder on Dillon's desk. "Did you see anything interesting in the autopsy
report?" Dillon shrugged. "It was pretty much handled by the book. A
trace metal test was done on the hand that presumably fired the weapon,
along with the usual toxicology tests. Substantial amounts of cocaine
and alcohol were found in his bloodstream." Neal flicked a piece of lint from
his slacks. "Dosed himself up for courage. Nothing unusual about
that." "No. But it would make it a good deal easier for someone else to
put the gun in his hand and pull the trigger." "Been done before," Neal
agreed. "What about a suicide note?" Dillon shook his head. "No note ever
turned up, which isn't unusual, either. The only thing that stands out about
this case are those damned clippings Taylor's receiving." "Could just be
someone messing with her mind. Lot of crazies out there. Someone could have
read about her husband's death in the obits, and decided to have a little
fun." "Yeah, I thought about that." Neal reached over and took the file from
Dillon's desk. He opened it and thumbed through the contents. "She have any
enemies that you know of? Anyone who might have it in for her for some
reason?" Again Dillon shrugged. "She mentioned some: thing about
the mother-in-law blaming her for Robinson's death." "Well, then, that would
be the logical place to start." Neal slid the file across the desk to Dillon.
"If this were your case. Which it isn't." "I know." "But that isn't going
to stop you, is it?" Neal shook his head in disgust. "Damn. We've been
partners for what--two, three years now? Ever since you transferred up from
Houston. I was just beginning to like you, Reeves." ** ** ** TAYLOR GLANCED
NERVOUSLY at her watch. She'd been dreading this meeting with the Westcotts
all day. Although she'd asked them to come to her office at Claymore Academy
to air her concerns regarding their nine-year-old daughter, Alisha, Taylor
wasn't at all sure she could manage to keep her suspicions regarding Dr.
Westcott out of the discussion. How was she supposed to look the man in the
face and talk to him about his daughter when all she could think about was
what he might have done to her baby? But when she thought about Alisha's sad,

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sweet little face, Taylor knew She had to somehow put her suspicions aside and
make the Westcotts listen to her. They had to realize that their daughter had
problems. Serious ones. No parent liked to be told his or her child was
experiencing difficulties in school, but Taylor feared Dr. Westcott would take
the news worse than most. Brad told her once that Westcott was
a perfectionist, both in and out of the hospital, and he expected no less--in
fact, demanded more--from those around him. Taylor suspected his daughter was
no exception. Alisha was an adorable child, but so quiet and reserved. Too
quiet. At times, she exhibited the kind of withdrawal that was
sometimes characteristic in children from abusive homes. Taylor fervently
hoped that wasn't the case. Elliot Westcotts reputation as a doctor was
impeccable, but if what she suspected about him was true, if he had played God
with her life and her baby's, then there was nothing she would put past
him. As an educator, Taylor was required by law to report even a suspicion
of abuse to the proper authorities. It was a drastic step, and one she
was fully prepared to take if necessary. But for everyone's sake, especially
Alisha's, Taylor hoped this meeting would ease her mind to the contrary. "I
don't know what could be keeping Elliot," Lorraine Westcott
murmured apologetically. She'd arrived several minutes ago for the meeting.
"I know I told him two o'clock." "Perhaps he got held up at the hospital."
Taylor studied the woman sitting across from her desk. Lorraine was
beautifully dressed in a royal blue linen suit accessorized with thick, silver
jewelry. Her makeup was perfect, but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes
glassy. Taylor wondered if she'd been drinking before she arrived for
the meeting. The hands clasping her leather purse were visibly trembling, and
when the door to the office opened suddenly, she whirled like a startled
cat. Elliot Westcott, tall, slender and conservatively dressed in a
somber gray suit, starched shirt and striped tie, strode into the room
exuding an aura of power so potent the very air seemed to quiver with
awareness. His hair was dark but silvered at the temples and his eyes were a
light gray but so piercing they seemed much darker. His lips were
thin, almost cruel looking, and his features were sharp and angular,
very distinct. Taylor found herself slightly awe struck as she gazed up at
him. When he'd been her doctor years ago, she'd been intimidated by his
arrogance, his cold, emotion-less visage. To her irritation, she realized the
man was still intimidating, still cold and still arrogant. His attitude
seemed to suggest that they both knew she was in the presence of greatness and
she damned well better not forget it. "What's this all about, Mrs. Robinson?
I'm due at the clinic in exactly--" he checked his gold watch"--twenty-two
minutes." "I'll try to be brief, then." For God's sake, they were here to
talk about his daughter. Couldn't the man spare even a half hour?
Taylor cleared her throat and tried to hide her own exasperation. "As you
know from the progress reports the school sends home, Alisha is an
excellent student. Her grades are perfect and her behavior in the classroom
is above reproach." "Then why have you called us in here?" Elliot Westcott
demanded. "I called you here because I'm very worried about your daughter.
She's always been quiet and shy, with-drown even, but the behavior seems to
be getting more pronounced. Your daughter has no friends. She spends
her lunches and recesses completely alone. When I've tried talking to
her about it, she withdraws even more. I'm wondering if you've noticed
this same behavior at home." Lorraine Westcott opened her mouth to speak, but
Elliot cut her off. "I don't see what the problem is. What you're telling me
is that my daughter is a quiet, well-behaved, studious child--exactly the
qualities I would expect her to possess. If Alisha doesn't run around like
a delinquent at school, it's because my wife and I have instructed her in the
appropriate way to conduct herself." He rose, staring down at Taylor with
undisguised contempt. "And I must say, I deeply resent your attitude. There
is no problem with our child so you insist upon creating one. I'm afraid
that's characteristic of society in general today." "I'm sorry you feel that
way," Taylor said stiffly. She rose, too. The contempt in Westcott's voice

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turned colder, more menacing. His eyes narrowed. "And while I'm here, I may
as well voice my other concerns. I'm aware of your visit to my clinic the
other day. I understand you were talking to my staff, asking a lot of
questions about your husband's suicide. Just what are you trying to prove,
Mrs. Robinson?" "I'm not trying to prove anything," Taylor said, her gaze
never leaving Westcott's face. She probed his eyes, looking for a glimmer of
emotion. "I'm looking for the truth. And I only talked to one person at
the clinic, a nurse named Doris Rafferty. You'll probably be happy to
know she was most uncooperative." "Mrs. Rafferty is a loyal employee. She
knows the value of discretion. If you have business at the clinic regarding
your husband's suicide or... anything else, perhaps you'd be good enough to
take it up with me the next time." "Perhaps I will," Taylor murmured. "But I
must warn you, Mrs. Robinson. I have little regard for busybodies. It has
been my experience that when one goes looking for trouble, one is apt to find
it. You would do well to remember that." "That almost sounds like a threat,"
Taylor said, trying to hide the shiver that suddenly coursed through
her. "Take it however you wish," Dr. Westcott said coldly. "As long as
you mind your own business." He turned and strode across the room to the
door, pausing to call over his shoulder, "Lorraine?" Lorraine Westcott slowly
stood. She seemed torn by some internal conflict, wanting, Taylor suspected,
to stay and talk more about her daughter, but not daring to defy her powerful
husband. "Thank you for your interest in Alisha," she finally murmured. The
displeasure on Westcott's face deepened as he watched his wife carefully
navigate the space between the chair in which she'd been sitting and the door
by which he waited. When she walked up beside him, he took her arm and
steered her through the door without so much as a backward glance. IT WAS
afternoon by the time Taylor was finally able to tear herself loose from her
desk. She'd had three other parent meetings that afternoon--none of them as
nerve-racking as her encounter with Dr. Westcott--and had stayed on to finish
up her reports. Just as she was leaving her office, the phone rang. Her
heart began to race when she heard Dillon's voice. "How soon can you get
downtown?" he asked tersely. "I'm leaving my office right now," Taylor told
him. "Give me twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic, There's a
restaurant on Front Street called Pier Twelve. I'll be waiting for you
there." And then he hung up. Taylor took Poplar downtown, and since she was
going against what little traffic remained from rush hour, she made it in less
than fifteen minutes. She parked on the street across from the
restaurant. Dillon was waiting for her inside. He stood when she approached
the table, and then they both sat. A waitress appeared to take
their orders--coffee for Taylor and a bowl of chili and a beer for
Dillon. After the waitress left, an awkward silence fell over the
table. "Sure you don't want something to eat?" he finally asked. "No, I'm
having a late supper with Mother." Dillon's mouth tightened almost
imperceptibly. "How is Miranda?" "Busy. You know Mother. She always has a
lot going on." "Miranda has her fingers in a lot of pies, that's for sure,"
Dillon said, not kindly. Taylor took a long breath. "Look, I'm sure you
didn't call me down here to talk about my mother. What did you want to see me
about?" She tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice, but every time
she saw Dillon she seemed to get so rattled. At first she'd thought it was
his anger that disconcerted her so, but looking at him now, Taylor was forced
to admit that it wasn't his anger or her guilt or their past that caused her
to tremble in his presence. It was something deeper. Something more
complicated and a lot more frightening, It had something to do with the way he
made her feel on a primal level. Dillon had always been ruggedly handsome.
His appearance, she had to admit, was what had attracted her to him in the
first place. But now it was more than just his dark good looks that drew her.
Even with his angry eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw and chin, he exuded
the kind of raw sexuality that made women's knees go weak. And Taylor was
very much afraid she was no exception. He was looking at her now, those dark
eyes probing her so intently she felt her pulse quicken. "Why did you call me

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down here?" she asked again, her voice wavering in the wake of his seductive
gaze. "I had a look at Brad's autopsy report today." "Did you find
anything?" Dillon shook his head. "If I'd been the investigating officer,
given the same evidence, I would have come to the same conclusion. There's
no reason to believe Brad's death was anything other than suicide." "What
about the clippings?" Taylor shoved a lock of hair behind her ear. "How can
you explain those?" "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
He started to take a bite of his chili, then put the spoon back down. "Is
there anyone you can think of who might be doing this to you? For
any reason?" Taylor frowned. "I don't know what you mean." "I mean, do you
have any enemies, someone who might want to hurt you, mess with your head? It
could be anyone. An irate parent of one of your students, a jilted boyfriend,
anyone." His dark gaze studied her. Taylor's scowl deepened. "No. No.
There's no one like that." "What about Brad's mother? You said she blamed
you for his death." "Well, yes," Taylor admitted, feeling a little quiver of
apprehension in her stomach. She didn't like the tone of this conversation.
Dillon seemed to be getting sidetracked from the real issue at hand. "She
made a scene at the funeral, but that didn't have anything to do with
the newspaper articles." "Has she done anything else? Threatened you in any
way?" Taylor hesitated. "Not really." "What does that mean?" "There's
been... an incident or two." "Like what?" "Like hang-up calls in the middle
of the night. Once I thought I saw her car parked down the street from my
house. Things like that." "Why didn't you tell me this before?" "I didn't
think it was important." Taylor paused, then said, "Look, I'll admit her
behavior has made me a little nervous during the past couple of weeks, but I
still don't think she has anything to do with the clippings. If Deirdre
blames me for Brad's suicide, why would she send me a newspaper article about
a suicide that turned out to be a murder?" "Maybe it's a subtle kind of
message," Dillon suggested. "Meaning I'm the murderer? I see what you mean."
Taylor bit her lip, not willing to be persuaded so easily. "But what about
the other two clippings? What would baby-swapping have to do with Deirdre's
animosity toward me?" Dillon took a swallow of his beer. "I don't know.
Unless she's trying to make you think your baby didn't die at birth. Like I
said, maybe she's just trying to mess with your mind. Make you believe--then
take it away." ' Taylor stared at him in shock. "My God. Could anyone
really be that cruel?" Dillon nodded, his expression grim. "I've seen what
death, especially a suicide, can do to the family members left behind. Some
people can't handle it. Their own guilt makes them look for someone else to
blame. Sometimes they go completely off the deep end." "I think I see where
you're headed." Taylor shoved aside her coffee. "You don't want to pursue
the investigation, do you?" "I told you before, it's not my investigation to
pursue. I said I'd do some checking unofficially and I have. Based on what
I've learned--" "You've decided not to believe me." Dillon dragged his
fingers through his hair. "It's not a matter of believing you. We don't have
any evidence, Taylor. Nothing concrete to go on." "I see." Taylor gathered
up her purse and stood. She planted her hands on the table and leaned toward
him, anger pulsing through her. "You can bury your head in the sand if you
want to, Dillon, but it isn't going to change things. Our child is alive
whether you want to believe it or not. He's out there somewhere, and I intend
to find him. With or without your help." She turned and all but ran out of
the restaurant. Even when she heard him call her name, Taylor didn't stop.
She had to get away from him, had to be alone, had to figure out why he' found
it so hard to accept the fact that they had a child together, And that the
child was alive. Was he afraid of being tied to her? Afraid she would expect
more from him than he was willing to give? Why did he have to make things so
difficult? Why couldn't he see that she was right about this? Blinded by
angry tears, Taylor stepped off the curb. As she crossed the street, she
wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The car came out of nowhere. The
headlights were off and the street was dark. Even when Taylor heard the
engine running and looked up, she didn't immediately see the vehicle. It was

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almost upon her before she realized she was standing in the middle of the
street, and a car was speeding toward her. Chapter Seven. Fear froze
her. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. As if trapped in
a nightmare, Taylor stood paralyzed, staring at the car racing toward
her. From a distance, she heard someone yell, "Look out!" But she still
couldn't move. Her heart pounded in disbelief. This wasn't real. It
couldn't be real. At the last possible moment, some remote instinct for
survival took over and she started to run, but something hit her in the back
and sent her flying through the darkness to land with a hard smack against
the pavement. Death roared by only a breath away. Tires screamed as the
driver took a curve without slowing and disappeared into the night. Then all
was quiet. Taylor lay facedown on the street. For a terrifying moment, she
thought the car must have hit her. She couldn't feel anything, couldn't
move, couldn't breathe. Panic rose inside her. How badly was she hurt?
Why couldn't she move her arms and legs? Then suddenly a weight was lifted
from her, and she realized that someone had been lying on top of her. That
same someone was calling her name tenderly, over and over. Taylor tried to
get up, but Dillon's hands gently turned her over. "Easy now," he said.
"We'd better see if anything's broken." Taylor became aware of his hands
moving over her arms and legs. She still couldn't believe what had almost
happened. "That car tried to run me down," she said. "No shi--uh, tell me
something I don't know." Dillon examined her palms and whistled. "Your hands
and knees got the worst of it. Other than that, you seem to be okay. How do
you feel?" "Like I was almost hit by a car." He gave a relieved little
laugh. "At least you can still joke about it." "To keep from crying," she
assured him. She glanced up. "You saved my life." "You would have gotten
out of the way in time." "I froze. I couldn't move. It was like a dream.
If you hadn't pushed me out of the way--" He shrugged. "Forget it. I did
what I've been trained to do. Let's not make more of it than it was. Can you
sit up?" Taylor struggled to rise, aware of Dillon's arm around her,
supporting her. She wished his arm didn't feel quite so strong and sturdy.
Quite so familiar. She wished her heart would slow down, now that the danger
was over. But Taylor had the sudden thought that, for her at least, the danger
was just beginning. When she looked at Dillon, her pulse raced even faster.
I can't let this happen, she thought. I can't let myself feel anything for
him. But he was so close and the memories were so strong. He'd once
meant everything to her and he'd just saved her life. How could she
fight that? Several people had come out of the restaurant to gather around
them, and Taylor thought it was probably a good thing they weren't alone. She
was glad she didn't have to put her shaky resolve to the test. "Did anyone
see anything?" Dillon called out. One man stepped forward. "The license
plate was missing on the car. I happened to notice because I was just getting
out of my truck--" he turned to point down the block"--when the car came
around the corner. I saw that the lights were off; so I tried to get the
driver's attention. When he just sped up, I glanced down and saw that the
license plate was gone." "You said the driver was a he," Dillon said. "Did
you get a look at him?" The man hesitated. "Actually, I guess it could have
been a woman. The windows were tinted, and with the lights off, I couldn't
see inside." "Did you notice what kind of car it was?" The man scratched his
head. "I think it was a BMW. Or maybe a Mercedes. Dark blue or black."
"Anything else?" The man shrugged. "No, that was it. It all happened too
fast. Hey, shouldn't we call the police or something? It looked to me like
the guy was trying to hit her." He nodded toward Taylor, and she felt a
nasty shiver creep over her. Dillon pulled back his sport coat to reveal the
shield clipped to the waist of his jeans. "I'm Sergeant Reeves. Did anyone
else see anything?" When no one came forward, Dillon took down the man's
name, then broke up the crowd. He turned back to Taylor. "Maybe I'd better
drive you to the hospital." She shook her head. "No, I'm okay. It was just
a fall. The car didn't touch me, thanks to you." He looked as if he wanted
to argue, but then he shrugged. "All right, I'll take you home. You're not

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in any shape to drive. We'll have someone pick up your car later." Taylor
nodded gratefully. She was much too shaky to get behind the wheel. Reaction
was setting in, and the thought of being home, safe and sound, was
irresistible. Her knees were starting to hurt and her palms stung like
wildfire. Stiffly she allowed Dillon to lead her across the street and help
her into his car. He gave her a long once-over as she slid into the front
seat. "You may feel okay now, but trust me, tomorrow you'll feel like
hell." TAYLOR ALREADY FELT like hell and it wasn't even morning. It was just
a few minutes later, and she was sitting on her couch, staring at her
raw hands. Her knees still hurt, too, and her head throbbed. But
she couldn't seem to muster enough energy to go into the bathroom and dig out
the first-aid kit. All she could do was sit there on her couch
and shiver. Someone wanted her dead. The words were like a mantra inside her
head, echoing over and over through her mind until she wanted to cover her
ears and scream. Someone had deliberately tried to kill her tonight. Hot
tears rolled down her cheeks as it all came rushing back to her. Every nuance
of the terror and disbelief she'd felt the moment that darkened car had
come out of the night, racing straight for her. If it hadn't been for Dillon,
she'd be dead right now. She couldn't stop shaking. She reached for a throw
pillow and hugged it tightly to her chest, wondering if she would ever feel
safe again. Ever since Brad's death, strange things had been happening to
her. Taylor took a deep breath and let it out. She'd refused to make
the connection until now, but there it was. Brad's death. Everything
that had occurred to her in the past few days all came back to her
husband's suicide. Only now, she was more certain than ever that Brad
hadn't taken his own life. Someone had killed him because of something
he knew. And now that someone wanted to kill Taylor before she found out what
it was. She closed her eyes as the terror replayed itself over and over in
her mind. After a few minutes, she heard Dillon hang up the phone in the
kitchen, and then his footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor as he walked
back out to the living room. She looked up and their gazes touched. In spite
of all that she'd been through--or maybe because of it--a spark of awareness
flashed through her. His dark hair was all mussed, as if he'd run his fingers
through it several times in the past few minutes. Taylor hadn't really noticed
earlier what he'd been wearing, but now she took it all in--the jeans and the
white collarless shirt that looked incredibly soft and inviting.
Comforting. Taylor wanted that comfort now. She wanted him to take her in
his arms, so that she could press her cheek to that softness. But it was
never going to happen and she knew it. The past would always be between
them. Dillon sat down in an armchair, a safe distance away, and steepled
his fingers beneath his chin as he studied her in the lamplight. "How are you
feeling?" "Not bad, considering." She held up her palms. "My hands sting
a little." "Do you want me to put something on them for you?" Taylor wanted
it more than anything. But she shook her head. "I'll do it myself in a
minute." One of those electric silences fell between them. It seemed so
strange to have Dillon here in her house. To have his sport coat thrown
so casually over the back of her sofa. With a start, Taylor realized that,
other than repairmen and deliverymen Dillon was the first male she'd invited
into her home. Maybe that's why his presence in her living room seemed so
dominating. So overpoweringly masculine. "Do you want me to call Miranda for
you?" Taylor looked up at him. "Why?" He shrugged, not quite meeting her
gaze. "She could come over and stay with you. You probably shouldn't be
alone tonight." Meaning he had no intention of staying any longer than was
necessary. Taylor read him loud and clear. She said coolly, "No, thank you.
I'm meeting her for supper later, so I'd better get myself cleaned up. She'll
be upset if I don't show." "Still jumping through Miranda's hoops, Taylor?"
Anger flared inside her, but before she had time to respond, Dillon held up
his hand "Sorry That was uncalled-for." Dillon and Miranda had never gotten
along. Taylor used to feel like the rope in their endless game of
tug-of-war. She said wearily, "If you don't want to drive me over there, I

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can always call a cab." "I don't mind driving you. Taylor--" He hesitated
for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think we need to talk about
what happened tonight. You were almost killed." She raised her blue eyes to
meet his, and something drifted through Dillon. "A memory as elusive as it
was precious. He had always felt a powerful need to protect Taylor. He felt
that need now. Felt an almost irresistible urge to pull her into his arms
and hold her until that frightened, haunted look faded from her eyes. But he
wouldn't. He would keep his hands to himself even if it killed him. And at
that moment, Dillon thought that it just might. He had never wanted to
touch anyone as badly as he wanted to touch Taylor. "Is there any chance...
it could have been an accident?" "With the lights off?" Dillon shook his
head. "I don't think so." His words sent a shiver of dread up his own spine.
The thought of someone deliberately out to get Taylor made him break out in a
cold sweat. "Tell me everything Deirdre Robinson has been doing to you. Don't
leave anything out." "Then... you think she might have been the one driving
the car tonight?" "I don't know. But I want you to tell me everything you
can about her." Taylor hesitated for a moment, as if she were going to
refuse, then to Dillon's relief, she nodded. "Like I told you earlier, she
blames me for Brad's death. She... threatened me at his funeral, and since
then, I've been getting a lot of hang-Up calls in the middle of the
night. Once I thought I saw her car parked down the street from my house."
She faltered again, pressing her hand to her throat. "A few days ago someone
vandalized my car at school." "Vandalized it how?" "The tires were slashed,"
she said, her voice quivering. "Why haven't you reported any of this?" "I
thought she'd stop. I thought she would finally give up and get on with her
life. But she seems so ob Dillon could see the growing terror in Taylor's
eyes, and he wished he could just leave her alone, let her try to forget what
had happened tonight. But he couldn't. She'd almost been killed, and he knew
he wouldn't rest until he found out who was responsible. Until he made sure
it never happened again. "What kind of car does Deirdre drive?" Taylor
lifted her gaze to meet his. "A BMW," she said. "I think it's dark
blue." WHILE TAYLOR C herself up and changed for dinner, Dillon wandered
around her living room. He couldn't help thinking how very different
this house was from the one she'd grown up in. When Dillon had thought about
Taylor over the years--and he'd tried very hard not to think about her--he'd
pictured her in her mother's huge mansion on Tamarind Street. That image had
always served to remind him of the fool he'd once been, harboring delusions
that someone like him could have someone like her. Dillon had learned a lot
from that experience. He knew his place in life now, and he was comfortable
with it. He certainly wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. Absently
he picked up a framed photograph on Taylor's piano and studied it. The
picture was of Taylor flanked by a group of kids all wearing Claymore Academy
T-shirts. Dillon was familiar with Claymore, a ritzy private school located
in the heart of midtown that catered almost exclusively to the offspring
of Memphis's elite. Taylor had probably gone there herself. "Those are some
of my students," she said from the doorway. Dillon, still holding the
photograph, turned. He glanced up. And caught his breath. She'd changed
into a soft, floral dress of some airy fabric that floated around her legs as
she walked across the room toward him. She'd removed the clasp from her hair,
and the blond tresses fell softly past her shoulders, gleaming like polished
gold in the lamplight. The high heels she'd worn earlier were gone, too,
replaced by a pair of delicate beige sandals that bared most of her feet and
enhanced the light pink polish on her toenails. Blushing slightly, as if
aware of his perusal, she took the photograph from him and studied it. "It's
hard to imagine you as a teacher," he said. "You always wanted to be an
artist." "Things don't always work out the way you want them to."
Taylor shrugged. "I wanted to be an artist and you wanted to be a
lawyer. Look at us now." She turned and set the photograph on the piano
behind her. The scent of her perfume, a light, floral fragrance with just
a hint of something deeper, drifted up to him. "I'm a guidance counselor and

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you're a police detective. Not bad choices, considering. Maybe things worked
out for the best." "Maybe they did," Dillon agreed, glancing away from the
earnest look in her eyes. He didn't want to think about the stab of pain her
words caused inside him. Didn't want to think why he suddenly,
irrationally, felt angry toward her again. He deliberately moved away from
her. "I don't see any pictures of Brad in here. Did you put them away
already?" "There weren't any to put away. Brad never lived here." ' Dillon
glanced at her but didn't comment. Taylor watched him prowl restlessly around
the small confines of her living room. She wasn't sure what had brought on
his anger this time. It didn't seem to take much. Just being around her was
enough. "I heard you and Brad were separated." Dillon stopped pacing and
stared at her from across the room. "We were legally separated for almost two
years." "Why not simply divorce?" "Things were... complicated." She tugged
at the crystal earring dangling from her lobe. "Brad had a lot of problems.
He had trouble adjusting to our being apart and he asked me to give him some
time." How had the two months he'd first requested become two years? How
had she allowed her life to hang in limbo for so long? Taylor turned away
from Dillon's stare, afraid suddenly that he would see more than she wanted
him to. "I was never the wife Brad wanted or needed me to be," she said
softly. "I felt I owed him at least my loyalty. In some ways, I still owe
him. That's one of the reasons I need to find out what really happened to
him. If Brad was murdered, I can't let his killer go free." "And if he was
murdered, you still think Elliot Westcott may have had something to do with
it." Taylor nodded. "I know there's no real evidence, Dillon, but
I've thought about this a lot since I received that second newspaper clipping.
It's almost impossible to get an appointment with Dr. Westcott. He usually
accepts patients only on referral, but because of his association with Brad,
he agreed to take me on even though my pregnancy was perfectly normal at
first. "I can't help wondering if perhaps part of the reason Dr.
Westcott agreed to accept me as his patient was because he'd screened me and
my baby from the very first examination. There was nothing wrong with me. No
reason for a doctor specializing in high-risk pregnancies to accept me. It
was only later in the pregnancy that I developed complications. And now I
can't help but wonder if he didn't cause those complications somehow, or at
least fabricate them, so that I would have to be admitted to the Westcott
Clinic." "I still find it difficult to believe a man in Westcott's position
would do anything so risky," Dillon said. "What's his motive? Other
than monetary compensation, and he certainly doesn't need that. He
has everything to lose and nothing to gain by involving himself in such
a scheme." "You don't know him." Taylor wrapped her arms around herself and
rubbed her bare arms, suddenly chilled as she remembered Dr. Westcott's
veiled threat in her office. He's cold; Dillon. The coldest man I've
ever met. It's more than just professional aloofness. He seems
completely devoid of feelings. The God complex you've heard about in some
doctors is true. I've seen it, but never so obvious as in Dr. Westcott.
I've thought about this a lot, too, and I think I know why he would
be involved in something like this. Because he has the power to do
it. Because he thinks he has the right." Dillon remained silent for a moment,
considering, Taylor hoped, everything she'd told him. "Dr. Westcott was in
my office earlier today for a meeting concerning his daughter," she told him.
"He knows I was at the clinic asking questions. He warned me to mind my own
business, and he all but threatened me if I didn't. I wouldn't be a bit
surprised to learn that he was the one driving that car tonight." "We can
easily find out what kind of cars he owns." Taylor caught her bottom lip
between her teeth. She gazed at Dillon as hope fluttered to life inside her.
"Does this mean... are you finally starting to believe me?" He studied her
for a moment. "Someone tried to kill you tonight. I can't ignore that fact.
If Elliot Westcott or Deirdre Robinson had anything to do with it, believe me,
I'll find out." "And What about the baby? Our child?" "What about
him?" "Will you find that out, too?" "If there's anything to find out,"

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Dillon said, his tone grim. "There is. I'm right about this," she said
softly. "Our baby didn't die. He's still alive." Dillon's eyes closed
briefly. "And what if he is, Taylor? Have you really thought about that?
Thought beyond just finding him? What if he's happy and healthy and has a
family who loves him? What then?" Taylor rubbed her temple with her
fingertips. "Of course, I've thought about that. You don't know how much I
hope that's true. I want him to be happy and healthy. I want him to have a
loving family." "And if he does," Dillon said slowly, his gaze studying her
intently, "you'll be able to walk away?" Her blue eyes filled with sudden
tears. "All I want is the truth, Dillon. That's all I've ever wanted. I
would never do anything to hurt our child. You have to know that." He let
out a long breath. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I believe you. Come on. I'll
drive you to your mother's house." "But then where are you going?" Taylor
followed him reluctantly to the front door. "I'm going out to be a cop." A
subtle challenge glinted in his eyes. "After all, that is why you looked me
up after all these years, isn't it, Taylor?" DILLON PULLED INTO the circular
driveway of the white brick mansion on Tamarind Street and parked. The house
was brilliantly lit, both inside and out, and the towering stained-glass front
doors glowed like gemstones. He sat for a moment, staring up at the imposing
facade. He remembered the first time he'd ever seen Taylor's home, how
completely overwhelmed and intimidated he'd been. Miranda Walsh had done
everything in her power to foster those feelings of inadequacy. She'd made
her disapproval plain from the moment Taylor introduced them. Though he'd
managed to get through that first evening without any embarrassing mishaps,
Dillon had left the mansion that night feeling as if he'd escaped from
prison. From then on, he'd always made excuses for not coming in when he
dropped Taylor off. He had to study. He had to work. He had a million
reasons why he couldn't come in and say hello to her mother. The feeling of
deja vu was so powerful that when Taylor turned to him and asked, "Would you
like to come in?" Dillon immediately declined. And was immediately annoyed
with himself for giving in to those old memories. The old insecurities. For
the entire time he and Taylor had been together, he'd done everything he could
to avoid Miranda Walsh. To his irritation, Dillon realized he was still trying
to avoid her. He shrugged and reached for the door handle. "What the hell,"
he muttered. "I'll walk you in." Taylor's mother, perfectly groomed in loose
flowing silk blouse and pants, answered the door herself. "Taylor! Where on
earth have you been? I've been worried sick." "Sorry I'm so late," Taylor
murmured, brushing her mother's cool, unlined cheek with her lips. She felt
Miranda stiffen as she saw Dillon over Taylor's shoulder. "You remember
Dillon Reeves," Taylor said. Silence. The thought crossed Taylor's mind that
for the first time in her mother's life, Miranda Walsh might actually be
speechless. Then she seemed to collect herself as she stepped back from the
door. "Of course," she said formally. "Won't you come in?" Dillon followed
Taylor through the entry hall with its high, vaulted ceiling, past the
elegant, curving staircase, into the room Miranda referred to as the drawing
room, with its paneled walls, stained-glass skylights and floor-to-ceiling
windows that looked out on a walled courtyard and fountain. One of the French
doors had been left open to the sultry June night, and a breeze stirred the
crystal teardrops of the Waterford chandelier. Miranda followed them into the
room. "May I offer you something to drink... Dillon?" She pronounced his
name very succinctly, making it sound cold and hard. "I can't stay." "A
pity." A look of pure relief swept over Miranda's features. "If you'll
excuse me, I'll tell Maria it will be just two for supper." When she'd left
the room, Dillon turned to Taylor. "Are you going to tell her about
tonight?" Taylor winced. "I'm not sure how much I'm going to tell her. I
know she's bound to find out about my visit to the Westcott Clinic. She's
on the board. Once we start asking more questions--" "Wait a minute," Dillon
cut in. "What do you mean, we?" "Well, I just thought--" His expression
hardened. "Don't go back out there asking questions, Taylor. In fact, the
best thing you can do is stay the hell away from that place. If your

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suspicions about Brad turn out to be true, then the real killer is still out
there somewhere. If you start asking a lot of questions, he could come after
you. In fact, he may already have done so." "Then you think there is a
possibility that Dr. Westcott is involved?" "Anything's possible. You've
already been out to his clinic asking questions once, and tonight someone
nearly ran you down with a car. Until we find out who was responsible, the
best thing you can do is lay low. Let me handle it." Taylor's heart gave a
little leap. "Then you are going to help me. Oh, Dillon, thank you. Thank
you. I can't tell you how much this means to me." "Don't thank me yet,"
Dillon warned, his eyes still hard. "I have an idea when I bring all this up
to my lieutenant tomorrow, he's going to laugh me right out of the
department." But Taylor couldn't contain her relief. She knew now that
Dillon would find a way to help her, no matter what. Together they'd prove
Brad was murdered because of what he'd found out about the Westcott Clinic.
And if that something proved to be baby-swapping--as the anonymously
sent newspaper articles seemed to suggest--then the next step would be to find
their child, and make sure he was safe. Taylor walked him to the front door.
Before he left, he turned back and stood staring down at her, searching her
face as if there was something more he wanted to say to her. Something else
he wanted to do. For one heart-stopping moment, Taylor thought he might
actually mean to kiss her. Her heart started to pound as she gazed up at
him. Suddenly she wanted very much for him to kiss her. Wanted to find
out if that dark, seductive quality in his eyes was more than just
a promise. Desire ignited inside her, and Taylor's breath quickened. This is
a mistake, something inside her warned. She couldn't let this happen. She
couldn't let him kiss her. Because if he kissed her... If he kissed her, she
would be reminded too painfully of everything she had lost. Everything she
had missed for the past ten years. And Taylor didn't want to be reminded of
what she had lost. She wanted to think only of what she had to gain. The
truth, she told herself. The truth was all she wanted. Something of her
turmoil must have shown on her face for a frown flickered across Dillon's
features. Then he turned toward the door. "I'll be in touch" was all he said
before he disappeared into the night. Taylor turned and saw her mother
watching her from the drawing room doorway. "What was he doing here?"
Miranda didn't bother to disguise the contempt in her voice. "He drove me
home earlier," Taylor said. "And then knowing I didn't have a car, he
volunteered to bring me over here." Miranda looked at Taylor as if she'd
taken leave of her senses. "Drove you home? Where were you, and what
happened to your car? How on earth did you end up with... that man?" Taylor
sighed as she lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "It's a long
story, Mother. Maybe you'd better sit down." She ushered Miranda into the
drawing room and, once they were both seated, told her mother everything that
had happened since Brad's funeral, only leaving out the incident earlier that
evening. Taylor didn't see any sense in worrying Miranda needlessly. When
she concluded her story by explaining that she'd gone to see Dillon to enlist
his help, Miranda's face visibly paled. The hand she placed on Taylor's ann
trembled. "My God, what have you done?" Taylor had anticipated her mother's
shock. She'd even prepared herself for Miranda's scorn. But the look of
panic in her eyes took Taylor completely by surprise. "what do you mean, what
have I done?" She shook off her mother's hand. "I'm doing what I have to do
to find out the truth. I would think you'd want that, too. After all, we're
talking about your grandchild, you know. Or hadn't you thought of that?" If
possible, Miranda's face grew even whiter, more drawn. She closed her eyes
for a moment. "We already know the truth. Your baby died. Yours and Brad's.
He died the night he was born." "You know as well as I do that he was not
Brad's baby. Dillon was the father, and our child is very much alive. I know
it. I feel it." Taylor pressed her hand to her heart, feeling the rapid beat
inside her chest that hadn't quite calmed to normal since Dillon's
departure. "You're distraught," Miranda said in a rush. "Brad's death has
done this to you. It was such a shock to all of us--" "It wasn't a shock to

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anyone who knew him. That's why it was so easy for his killer to get away
with murder. Think about it, Mother." Taylor began to tick off the reasons
on her fingers. "Brad had a history of severe depression and alcoholism.
He'd tried suicide at least once before. And he'd just been suspended from
the hospital. Given all that, it's little wonder no one questioned his
suicide. Until now." "Taylor, please." Miranda took her hand. "Don't do
this to yourself. I can't bear it." "Why?" Taylor demanded. "What is it
you can't bear? The truth? Well, I'm sorry, Mother, but I can't bear not
knowing. I can't bear thinking that my child is out there somewhere... and
may need me. That's what I can't bear. That's what I can't live with. I have
to know he's all right. Don't you see?" Miranda shook her head sadly. "All
I see is that you're letting yourself in for more heartache." "Well, I should
be used to that by now, shouldn't I?" Taylor was surprised by the bitterness
welling inside her. Miranda got up and paced to the French doors. Her
emerald silk blouse fluttered in the breeze. "I'm sorry your marriage to Brad
turned out so miserably. I blame myself for pushing you into it: You were so
young, frightened. I blame myself for so many things." She wrung her hands
as she stared into the darkness. "But you were my only child, Taylor.
I always did what I thought was best for you. You do believe that,
don't you?" Taylor stared at her mother's back, wondering about Miranda's
reaction. "I don't blame you for anything, Mother. My mistakes were my own.
But don't want to think about the past anymore. I'm tired of living
with regrets. All I want to do is find my child. Surely you can
understand that." When Miranda finally turned, her eyes were bleak, haunted.
She fingered the pearls at her throat. "I do understand. I just hope you
will..." Chapter Eight. Dr. Charles Robinson and his wife, Deirdre, lived
in a Spanish-style mansion surrounded' by an eight-foot stucco wall a few
blocks from Tamarind Street. Dillon pulled up to the security gates, pressed
the intercom button and a female voice with a light Spanish accent asked
him his business. When he told her who he was, the gates slid silently open,
and Dillon drove through. A uniformed maid, presumably the same one who had
let him in the gates, answered the front door. Dillon showed her his ID and
badge, then told her he wanted to speak to the Robinsons. "Wait here." She
ushered him into the foyer. Within seconds a tall, distinguished-looking man
with gray hair appeared. "May I help you?" he asked with obvious concern as
he approached Dillon. Then his brows drew together in a frown. "Do I know
you?" Dillon recognized Charles Robinson right away. He and his wife,
along with their son, Brad, had been members of the country club where
Dillon had worked during college. He removed his ID again and presented it to
Dr. Robinson. "Dillon Reeves," Robinson muttered. "I didn't recognize the
name at first, but now I remember you. You were Taylor's friend." "You have
a good memory." "What can I do for you Mr." er, Sergeant Reeves?" "Does
your wife drive a dark blue BMW?" "Yes." Robinson's eyes grew even more
wary. "What's happened?" "A car matching the description of your wife's was
involved in a vehicular assault attempt," Dillon said. "Vehicular assault
attempt? I don't understand." "Someone tried to hit Taylor Walsh with a
car earlier tonight. An eyewitness described the car as a dark blue BMW. I'd
like to talk to your wife about her whereabouts this evening." "This is
ridiculous," Dr. Robinson sputtered, but Dillon thought he glimpsed a flash
of fear in the man's eyes. "I'm not here to accuse your wife of anything,"
Dillon assured him. "I'd just like to ask her a few questions." Dr.
Robinson shoved his hands into his pockets. He had the look of a man trying
to appear calm. "She's already retired for the evening, I'm afraid. Surely
this can wait until morning. My wife... hasn't been well, Sergeant." "I
understand. Does anyone else have authorization to drive your wife's car?
Any of the household staff perhaps?" "I believe Deirdre has lent her car to
Rosa on occasion." "Rosa?" "Rosa Sanchez, my wife's housekeeper." "Charles?
What's wrong?" a weak voice called from the top of the stairs. The staircase
led straight up from the foyer. Dillon lifted his gaze, following the sound
of the voice. A woman stood on the landing staring down at him. Her thin,

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frail shoulders were stooped, and one CLAWLIKE hand clutched the fabric of her
robe at her throat while the other clung to the wrought-iron banister. Like
Dr. Robinson, her hair was almost completely gray, but without the rich
silver highlights. It was dull and stringy, as lifeless as the eyes that
stared down at Dillon. A chill went through him as the woman's gaze clung to
his. At first, he thought she must be Dr. Robinson's mother, and then he
realized with a shock that this was the once-elegant Deirdre Robinson. In the
weeks since Dillon had seen her at Brad's funeral, she'd changed so much
he hadn't recognized her. "Go back to bed, Deirdre," Robinson said wearily.
"I'll handle this." "Where were you tonight between the hours of eight and
nine?" Dillon called up to her. Charles Robinson said angrily, "Now see
here. I won't have you badgering my wife. I told you she hasn't been
well." Hasn't been well? Dillon thought. That was a gross
understatement. The woman looked devastated. Demented. "Did you take your
car out tonight?" he persisted. "I've been home all evening," she said in
her feeble voice. "Isn't that right, Charles?" Dillon glanced at Robinson.
Doubt flickered in the man's eyes. Then he nodded. "She's been in her room
resting." "I've spoken with Taylor Robinson. She said you threatened her
at Brad's funeral." Suddenly the thin string of self-control that had been
holding Deirdre Robinson together snapped. She clasped the banister with both
clawlike hands as she bent toward Dillon, her eyes blazing with
righteous indignation. "That woman deserves to die," Deirdre screamed.
"She's responsible for my son's death. She drove him to do what he did. All
those years sharing his bed when the whole time she was thinking about another
man. He knew. Do you know what that did to a man like Brad? Do you have
any idea the pain that woman caused him?" Deirdre collapsed at the top of the
stairs, still clinging to the banister. "Get out of my house! How dare you
come here? How dare you?" she sobbed. Charles Robinson took the stairs two
at a time. he carefully picked up his wife and cradled her spent body in his
arms. "If you have anything further to say," he told Dillon, "you can talk to
our attorney. Otherwise, I'll thank you to get out of my house." He turned
and strode down the hallway, carrying his wife as easily as if she were a
child. FOR THE SECOND TIME that evening, Dillon found himself parked in
front of the house on Tamarind Street. He got out, ran up the marble
steps and rang the bell. Once again, Miranda Walsh answered the door.
She stared at Dillon for a moment, then wordlessly stepped aside for him
to enter. "I need to see Taylor." "She isn't here. She had Carl take her to
collect her car." ' Dillon had no idea who Carl was but assumed he was one
of Miranda's flunkies. He turned to go. "Just a minute," Miranda said
imperiously. "I'd like a word with you." Dillon waited. "Taylor told me
what she's planning. I want you to stop this ridiculous investigation. Have
you any idea what my daughter is letting herself in for? How could you, in
good conscience, encourage her in this... lunacy? "I'm not encouraging her in
anything," Dillon said. "I agreed to listen to her because--" "Because you
saw a perfect opportunity." Miranda's voice dripped venom as she cut him off.
"The beautiful young widow. Vulnerable. Wealthy. And here you come along at
just the right moment, telling her exactly what she wants to hear." "Let's
get one thing straight." Dillon lowered his voice. "Taylor came to me
because she had no one else to turn to. No one else who would listen to her,"
he added pointedly. Two bright spots. of red painted Miranda's pale cheeks.
Her blue eyes glittered angrily. She said through gritted teeth, "We had a
bargain. Or have you forgotten?" Dillon gazed down at her in distaste. The
sight of Miranda Walsh's anger no longer had the power to intimidate him.
Nothing about the woman intimidated him anymore. She merely disgusted him.
"I haven't forgotten," he said quietly. "I've never forgotten." "Then stay
away from my daughter. I'm warning you. Don't encourage her in this
investigation. I could make things very... unpleasant for you if you
do." Dillon's eyes narrowed on her. "What are you so afraid of,
Miranda? Are you really worded that Taylor will get hurt, or are you scared
of what she might find out if she digs too deeply? You are on the board

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at the Westcott Clinic, I understand." The color in Miranda's cheeks
deepened. "How dare you?" "I dare," Dillon said coldly, "because I know you.
I know better than anyone what you're capable of." ** ** ** TAYLOR STOOD at
her bedroom window and stared into the darkness, too restless to sleep. The
night was very still with a waxing moon just rising over the treetops. Her
backyard lay in deep shadow, shapes indistinguishable in the blackness, but
she could smell the roses. The scent was nostalgic, haunting, reminding her
of summers past. And love lost. Memories rushed through her. Angry voices
echoed inside her head. After all these years, she could still remember
almost every word of the fight she and Dillon had that night, could still see
the hurt and disillusionment in his eyes. It had seemed like such a small
thing at the time, but Taylor had been young, barely twenty. She hadn't
understood the depth of Dillon's pride. She'd lived such a privileged life,
had always gotten everything she wanted, and so when the subject of the
Christmas dance at the country club came up and Dillon informed her that he'd
agreed at the last minute to work that night, the most natural thing in the
world for Taylor to say was, "I'll pay you not to work." ' In all these
years, Taylor had never forgotten the stricken look on Dillon's face as he
gazed down at her. They had just made the most glorious, tender, passionate
love, but suddenly there was a gulf between them. "I can't believe you said
that. What do you think I am?" He got up and started putting on his
clothes. Taylor reached for him, but he shrugged off her hand. "Oh, for
heaven's sake," she cried. "What's so wrong with what I said? I just want us
to be together, Dillon. I want you to come to the dance with me. I want us
to have fun." He turned and glared at her coldly. "Don't you think I want
that, too? Don't you think I'd give anything to be able to take you to that
dance?" He picked up her cashmere sweater from the floor and crushed it in
his fist. "It kills me that I can't buy you nice things like this. That
I can't give you what your mother can. But I won't take money from
you, Taylor. Not now, not ever. If you can't accept that, then we may
as well call it quits here and now." The argument had accelerated from there.
He'd called her selfish and spoiled, and she'd retorted that his stupid pride
meant more to him than she did. She'd stormed out of his dingy apartment,
knowing she was in the wrong but too stubborn to admit it. That stubborn
streak had allowed her mother to talk her into going to the dance with Brad
that night. The Robinsons and Walshes had been friends for years, and Brad
had always been like a big brother to Taylor He was eight years older and a
resident at Mercy General Hospital. She wore her new white Valentino gown and
the diamond bracelet her mother had given to her for Christmas. Her blond
hair was swept up and back, her head was held high, and she knew she looked
fantastic. But the moment her eyes met Dillon's, Taylor felt only shame. He
wore a white shirt, black slacks and a black bow tie, the same as all the
other waiters and bartenders wore. He would be working for hours, on his feet
well into the morning, trying to earn money for his last year of law school,
while Taylor and all her rich, spoiled friends would dance the evening
away. But Dillon had more character than any of Taylor's friends. More
honor and integrity than anyone she'd ever known. And what had she
done? She'd tried to take it all away from him. In that split second when
their eyes held, Taylor realized what she had done. Suddenly she couldn't
stand the sight of the expensive dress that clung to her body, or the cold
diamond bracelet that encircled her wrist like a chain. But most of all, she
couldn't stand the sight of herself, reflected over and over again in the
dozens of mirrors lining the ballroom. "Dillon!" She called his name, but it
was too late. He'd already turned and left the room. Taylor started to
follow him, but Brad caught her arm. "Don't go after him, Taylor. He isn't
worth it." She paused only for a moment. "You're wrong," she said. "I'm the
one who isn't worthy." Then she turned and ran after Dillon. She caught up
with him in the parking lot. "Dillon, wait!" she cried. "I'm sorry! I'm so
sorry for everything." He gazed down at her coldly. "You'd better get back
inside, Taylor. Robinson's waiting for you." "I don't care. I don't care

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about anything but you!" He shook his head in disgust. "You certainly have
a strange way of showing it." Taylor caught at his arm. "Dillon, listen to
me. Brad doesn't mean anything to me. Not the way you do. He's just a
friend. I only came here with him because Mother asked me to. And to make
you jealous," she admitted, hanging her head in shame. "I'm so sorry, Dillon.
Please forgive me." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It's too late for
that. Look at you. You look like a princess. You and Robinson--you're two of
a kind. You come from the same world. You and me... we were just never
meant to be, Taylor," he said sadly. "Don't say that," she pleaded. "I love
you, Dillon. Please don't leave me." But he was already getting into his
car. He sat there and stared at her for a moment, as if fighting his own
resolve. Then he started the engine and drove off. Taylor was devastated,
but Brad was there to take care of her. To take her back to his apartment and
let her cry herself to sleep. In the days that followed, when it Seemed that
Dillon had disappeared off the face of the earth, Brad was the only one who
understood Taylor's torment. A few weeks after the dance, Taylor found out
she was pregnant. She knew she had to get in touch with Dillon somehow. He
had a right to know about the baby. Their baby. Decisions had to be
made. But she couldn't quite bring herself to call his family's home
in Mississippi. She knew Dillon's parents had never approved of her.
They thought she was a spoiled, rich brat who would end up ruining their son's
life. Dillon was the first of the Reeves children to go to college. They
were all enormously proud of him, all had high expectations for him. Taylor
wondered what they would all think of her when they found out she was pregnant
with his baby. Dillon was an honorable man. She knew he would insist on
doing the right thing. She had no doubt he would marry her, but she also
knew what that meant. He wouldn't accept help from her mother and so he would
have to drop out of law school and go to work full-time to support her and the
baby. All his dreams of becoming a lawyer would be destroyed because of
her. Dillon's family would be proven right. Taylor would have ruined
his chances for having a better life. And one of these days, he would come to
resent her for trapping him. For once in her life, Taylor wanted to do the
right thing, wanted to think of someone other than herself. But as the days
and nights dragged on and she still had no word from Dillon, she became
desperate. What if something had happened to him? What if he was sick or had
been in an accident? What if he needed her? Finally gathering her courage,
Taylor called his parents' home only to have Dillon's older brother, Caleb,
inform her that Dillon had left town and he wasn't coming back. Ever. As the
memories flooded through her, Taylor shivered, gazing out into the darkness.
She put her hand to her cheek and wiped away a stray tear. It had been a long
time since she'd cried over those memories. She'd been to blame for a lot of
things that had gone wrong in her relationship with Dillon. She'd been
spoiled, selfish and insensitive. She hadn't understood Dillon's fierce sense
of pride, and it had cost her dearly. A moth fluttered past her cheek and
Taylor started to bat it away, then froze. Out in the garden, a shadow moved.
The hair on her nape prickled. Absently she rubbed the back of her neck as
she gazed at the spot in the darkness, wondering if she had imagined the
movement. And even if she had seen something, there could be any number of
explanations-like a tree limb blowing in the breeze. Except the breeze had
died away. There was nothing in the air but a kind of waiting silence. The
calm before the storm. You're being crazy. Paranoid. There's no one out
there. But even as she tried to convince herself there was no need to
worry, something Dillon said earlier came back to her. If your suspicions are
true and Brad was murdered, then the real killer is still out there somewhere.
If you start asking a lot of questions, he might come after you. In fact, he
might already have done so. THE PHONE AWAKENED Taylor in the middle of the
night. The alarm clock next to her bed read 2:13 in icy blue neon. She
stared at the phone, not wanting to answer it, afraid that it would be another
hang-up. The sound of nothing but soft breathing on the other end of the line
was particularly disturbing in the middle of the night. But as the phone

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pealed again, something inside Taylor made her reach out and pick it up. She
didn't want to give in to the cowardice inside her. Didn't want Deirdre--or
whoever was on the other end--to know that she was afraid. "Hello?" "Mrs.
Robinson?" said a female voice. "Did you get my messages?" Taylor's heart
tumbled as she recognized the woman's Spanish accent. "Messages?" "The
newspaper articles." "Yes, I got them." Taylor gripped the phone so tightly
she could feel her knuckles whiten. "But I'm not sure I know what they
mean." "Of course you know what they mean," the woman said impatiently.
"Your child is alive." Taylor gasped. "How do you know? Who are
you?" "Someone who wants to help you." "Why?" "Because your husband was
murdered. He knew what I know, and I don't want to be next." Taylor's hand
was shaking so badly she could hardly hold the phone. "Then why don't you go
to the police? Tell them what you know?" "Because the police won't listen to
me. They'll listen to you. You're somebody important. I'm counting on
that." "who are you?" Taylor asked desperately. "Tell me your
name." Silence. "Who killed my husband?" Silence. Taylor swallowed a cry
of frustration. "Please," she said. "Where is my child?" "Close," the woman
said. "Closer than you realize." Taylor's heart slammed against her chest.
"Please," she whispered. "Oh, please, tell me, is he all right--" "Check the
records," the woman said. "It's all in the records." Then the phone clicked
in Taylor's ear as the woman hung up. Chapter Nine. "Thank God you're
home." "Taylor?" Dillon roused himself and stared at the dock. It was
after two in the morning. An alarm jolted through him. Something else
must have happened. He sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the
side. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" "Yes, I'm fine." Her voice sounded
shaken. He could almost see her pressing her fingertips to her lips. "She
called me, Dillon." "Deirdre Robinson?" He reached for his jeans. "No.
Her. The woman at the cemetery. The one who's been sending me the
messages." "How do you know it was her?" "She spoke with a Spanish accent.
She said... oh, Go Dillon... she said our child is still alive." "Hold on.
I'm coming over." TAYLOR MET HIM at the front door. She was wearing a
paisley print robe trimmed in blue satin over white satin pajamas. Even with
no makeup and her hair all tousled from sleep, she looked incredibly
beautiful. Dillon followed her into the living room. They both sat down on
the sofa and Taylor turned to him, her eyes shining with excitement. "What
time did the call come in?" Dillon asked. "It was 2:13. Exactly. I looked
at my clock." "I don't suppose you have caller-ID?" Taylor sighed. "I wish.
I thought about getting it when I was receiving all those hang-up calls, but I
assumed Deirdre was behind them. Now, I'm not so sure. I'd give anything to
know who placed that call tonight. She said our child is still alive, Dillon.
She said he was close So close--" "Hold on," Dillon said. "Slow down. Tell
me everything you can about the conversation, in the order that you remember
it." Taylor complied, her brows drawn together in a frown as
she concentrated. When she finished, she put her hand on Dillon's
arm. "Don't you see? This is what we've been waiting for. Now they'll
have to m-open the investigation into Brad's death. After what happened to me
last night, and now this... we have proof he was murdered." Dillon hated to
burst her bubble, but she had to face facts sooner or later. "We don't have
any proof, Taylor. The police department gets anonymous calls like this all
the time. Most of them never pan out." "But... this is proof." Her voice
rose in frustration. "What more do you want? What else can I say or do to
convince you?" "It's not a matter of convincing me. It's a matter of keeping
our perspective. Taylor..." He searched for the right words. "The odds
of our child still being alive are pretty remote. You have to know that. You
have to be realistic about all this." "Then why did someone try to kill me
last night?" "I don't know. That's what we have to find out. I'm not ruling
Deirdre Robinson out as a suspect in all this. Not after what I saw
tonight." "What do you mean?" "I went to the Robinsons' house to try to find
out if she was the one driving that car earlier. The woman's definitely lost
it. Dr. Robinson tried to cover for her, but I could tell he had his own

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doubts about her." "That still doesn't prove she was the one driving that
car. And even if she was, what does that have to do with those newspaper
articles and the phone call tonight?" "I don't know yet," he
admitted. Exasperated, Taylor got up and walked to the front window to stare
out at the street. "Why can't you just accept the fact that we have a
child together, Dillon? Is the idea so totally repulsive to you? Do
you still hate me that much?" "I don't hate you, Taylor," he said quietly.
"I never hated you." At times, it would have been so much easier if he
had. Dillon knew she was hurting and he wanted to ease her pain, but in
more than eight years as a cop, he'd seen his sham of dashed hopes
and shattered dreams. He didn't want Taylor setting herself up for something
that might never happen. The odds were against them and she had to know
it. And even if the child were alive, even if they found him--what
then? They were playing with fire, and someone, sooner or later, would have
to get burned. He got up from the couch, and a moment later, Taylor sensed
his presence behind her. Even though he didn't touch her, she felt the heat
of his body, smelled the faint scent of his masculine cologne and
remembered... too much about the way things used to be between them. Once, he
wouldn't have hesitated to wrap his arms around her, to draw her close and
offer his protection and comfort. But that had been a long time ago. Taylor
hugged herself against the chill that suddenly seeped into her heart. "I want
you to face the reality of this situation," he said, his warm breath searing
her neck. "I don't want you living in some fantasy world, thinking that we're
going to find our child tomorrow and live happily ever after. And even if we
do find him, we can't--" "Can't what?" She whirled to face him. "Can't take
him away from his family? You're assuming he has a happy home with loving
parents who take care of him, but what if he doesn't? What if he needs us?
Have you thought about that?" Endlessly. Especially in the dead of night
when sleep was hard to come by. He'd made himself think about every
possibility, and he had to make sure Taylor did, too. For all their
sakes. "You have to be realistic, Taylor." "I'm being realistic," she said
stubbornly. "You're the one who isn't. We had a child together, Dillon.
That's real. And that child is still alive whether you want to believe it or
not." "You have no idea what I want," Dillon said. "I'm not sure you
ever did." Silence quivered between them. Their eyes locked for a long,
heated moment. Then Dillon muttered a curse as he grabbed her forearms
and dragged her against him. Before Taylor had time to move away, his
mouth descended on hers in an angry, almost savage kiss that stole her
breath away. She resisted, but only for a second. Her hands flattened
against his chest. She meant to push him away, but instead she clung to him
as his tongue thrust into her mouth. Blood thundered in her ears. Her
heart beat wildly against her breast as she opened her lips to receive
him. Standing on her tiptoes, Taylor automatically fit her body to his, as
if they had never been apart. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and
their thighs touched intimately, Oh, God, it had been so long, she thought
desperately. So very long. Needs, almost forgotten, surged through her. She
closed her eyes tightly, letting the feelings, the desire and the longing,
wash over her. With just one kiss, Dillon had always been able to make her
feel this passion, this urgency. He had always had power over her. His hands
moved up her back to thread through her hair, tilting her head back until she
was completely exposed and vulnerable to him. His body was pressed so tightly
against hers, she could feel the heat of him through their clothing, could
feel the powerful beat of his heart. It had never been this way with anyone
but Dillon. She had never been able to forget him, to erase the memories of
the way he made her feel, even when she was married to another man. It had
always been Dillon her first love. Dillon, the father of her baby. Dillon,
the man who had left her... Taylor tried to push the thought away, to
concentrate only on the sensations storming through her, but a tiny part of
herself wouldn't let her forget. He had hurt her as no one had ever crushed
her before or since. She would be a fool to let herself in for that kind

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of pain again. Crazy to allow him that kind of power over her now. The
moment she resisted, Dillon released her. Taylor took a step back from him.
She struggled for breath as her heart continued to pound. "That was...
stupid," she said, unable to meet his eyes. "Probably." "I don't know what
came over me. I--" "It was bound to happen." His voice sounded strained.
"Things used to be pretty... hot between us. I guess it's only natural that
some of the attraction would still be there." "I ... suppose so. But we
can't give in to it again. We can't let it get in our way. There's too much
at stake... and..." Taylor lifted her gaze to his. "I don't want to be hurt
again." Anger flashed in Dillon's dark eyes. "I'm not exactly looking to get
my teeth kicked in again, either. We kissed, Taylor. Let's not make more of
it than it was. I don't want a relationship with you any more than you want
one with me." "Good." She tried to ignore the hurt his words inflicted "I
think you'd better leave now." "I think you're right. I'll call you tomorrow
after I talk to the lieutenant." "I'll be waiting." Just as she had waited
for him ten years ago, Taylor thought, but he hadn't come back to her
then. And a part of her wondered now if he would really call her
tomorrow. As SOON AS DILLON got to work the next morning, he went straight to
John McCardy's glassed-in office in Homicide. McCardy was already
there, hunched over a mountain of paperwork on his battered desk. He
glanced up when Dillon rapped on the glass, then motioned him inside. "Got a
minute?" "That depends." McCardy rotated his shoulders, then
stretched. Dillon sprawled in the chair across from his desk. "I want to
talk to you about the Robinson suicide." McCardy glanced up. "That's Lamar's
case." "I know. But under the circumstances, I thought I'd better run this
by you first." "Use me as a referee, you mean. Okay," he said, leaning back
in his chair. "What have you got?" Quickly Dillon ran through the events
that had unfolded in the past few days. When he finished, Cardy looked
unimpressed. "Now let me get this straight." He crossed his arms over his
broad chest. "Mrs. Robinson thinks that Dr. Elliot Westcott,
a world-renowned obstetrician, is or was involved in some kind of
a baby-swapping scheme at his private clinic. That he, in fact, swapped her
baby nine years ago. The estranged husband found out about the scheme,
threatened to expose the good doctor and so Westcott took Robinson's own gun
and blew the poor SOB's brains out, making it look like a suicide. Is that
about the size of it?" Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I know
this sounds crazy--" "Crazy? That's putting it mildly. And the only
evidence Mrs. Robinson has to offer are these newspaper clippings she received
in the mail and an anonymous phone call in the middle of the night." "A woman
handed her one of the clippings at her husband's funeral. She thinks it's the
same woman who called her early this morning." "Could she identify this
woman?" "She was wearing a veil. Mrs. Robinson didn't get a good look at
her face, but the woman spoke with a Spanish accent. So did the woman on the
phone. She said Brad Robinson was murdered for something he knew, and she
didn't want to be next." McCardy drummed a pencil on his desk. "You say Mrs.
Robinson's already talked to Lamar about this?" "Yeah. But that was before
she almost got run down last night. And before she got the phone call this
morning." "You said yourself you think the mother-in-law may have been the
driver of the vehicle." "I think that's a real good possibility, given her
animosity toward Mrs. Robinson, but I don't think we can afford to discount
the other possibilities just yet. Think about it for a minute. Mrs.
Robinson goes out to the Westcott Clinic asking a lot of questions about
her husband's death and the night she gave birth, and then a day or so later,
someone tries to run her down with a car. I don't know if that's a
coincidence or not, but I think it bears checking out, especially in light of
the phone call." McCardy got up and opened the glass door to yell across the
squad room at Lamar Jackson who had just reported for the morning shift.
"Lamar! Come in here for a minute." Dillon saw Jackson nod briefly, then
make his deliberate way through the labyrinth of desks. Despite Jackson's
baby face, he was somewhere in his early forties, at least a decade older than

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Dillon. He wore his experience with an air of superiority that was often
grating to the younger investigators in the department. He ambled into the
office, calling a greeting to someone over his shoulder, but the moment he saw
Dillon, his expression turned hostile. Closing the door behind him, he leaned
against it with arms folded across his chest. Dillon knew he was treading on
dangerous turf. Interfering in another officer's investigation was serious
business. Jackson had every right to resent the fact that Dillon had gone
over his head to McCardy. But Dillon also knew that if he'd gone to Jackson
himself, he would have been cut down before he'd opened his mouth. Without
formality, McCardy filled Jackson in on the details Dillon had just given to
him. "I must admit, all this seems a little on the peculiar side to
me," McCardy said. "But this is your case, Lamar. Do you see any need
to reactivate the investigation?" Jackson glared at Dillon. "Hell, no.
Based on anonymously sent newspaper clippings and a phone call?" "There's a
little more than that," Dillon said. "Mrs. Robinson was almost killed last
night." "You have no evidence tying that to the case." Jackson stalked
across the room and sat down in a chair next to Dillon's. Dillon caught
a whiff of the strong after-shave Jackson always wore. "It could have been
nothing more than a drunk driver." "Whoever was in that car was trying to hit
her," Dillon said. "There's a witness." "But neither you nor this witness
could get a plate number or an accurate description of the car," La-mar
countered. "For a cop, you make a lousy witness, Reeves." "The license plate
had been removed," Dillon explained again, trying to hang on to his patience.
"The car was a foreign make, probably a BMW" dark blue or black. The reason I
didn't get a better description myself was because I was too busy trying to
save Mrs. Robinson's life." "I'm sure she was appropriately grateful." "You
checked out the car?" McCardy asked, ig-noting Jackson's sarcasm. Dillon
nodded. "Deirdre Robinson has a dark blue BMW. Dr. Westcott's wife has a
black one." "That doesn't prove a thing," Jackson said. "Half the doctors'
wives in this town own BMWS. The other half own Mercedeses. Look, Reeves,
I've already talked to Mrs. Robinson about those newspaper articles, and
I gotta tell you, I think the woman's a little... out there, if you know what
I mean." Dillon knew exactly what he meant. He'd thought himself that
Taylor might be living in a fantasy world, but he couldn't deny that
someone had tried to kill her last night. She hadn't made that up, and
Dillon sure as hell didn't like Jackson's implication. He took a deep breath.
"I'm just saying that in light of everything that's. happened, I think the
case bears looking at again." "And I'm saying it doesn't. Neither myself nor
the coroner found any evidence that suggested anything other than
suicide." "Yeah, but the M.E. knew he was looking at a probable suicide when
the autopsy was performed," Dillon argued. "He might not have looked too hard
for any inconsistencies." "Are you saying I botched the investigation?"
Jackson was sitting on the edge of his seat now, glaring at Dillon with
undisguised contempt. "It was suicide, Reeves, pure and simple. Robinson had
filled himself up with pills at least once before. He'd been suspended from
the hospital. His wife had left him. He was a user, an alcoholic, a
manic depressive. Hell, from everything I found out, the guy was a
walking stiff for the past five years." "Which would make it pretty damn easy
to cover up his murder, wouldn't it?" Dillon said. "Where's the
motive?" "According to the woman on the phone, he knew something. Mrs.
Robinson thinks it has to do with the Westcott Clinic." Jackson snorted.
"That doesn't wash and you know it. Elliot Westcott's reputation is
squeaky-clean. And besides, people at the hospital told me he'd given
Robinson more breaks than the guy deserved. Westcott covered for him several
times when Robinson wasn't up to speed--if you'll pardon the pun." "Why did
he do that?" Dillon countered. "From what I've heard, Westcott isn't exactly
a warm, caring, nurturing kind of guy. Why would he risk his reputation
coveting for a colleague?" "And why are you asking all these questions?"
Jackson's eyes narrowed as he regarded Dillon with angry suspicion. "What the
hell is this case to you?" "I'm interested in seeing justice done, just like

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you should be." Jackson gave a little bark of laughter. "Yeah, right. I've
seen Taylor Robinson. She's hot enough to--" Both men were suddenly on their
feet, eyeing each other nose to nose. "You watch your mouth," Dillon said
through clenched teeth. "And you watch your step," Jackson said. "I'm-sick
to hell of your interference in my case. You got something to say about one
of my investigations, you come to me next time. You hear?" McCardy stood,
slapping the palm of his hand against his desk. "All right, that's enough,
the both of you. Lamar's right, Dillon. You should have taken this
information straight to him. Let him decide the merits." Jackson's smile was
infuriatingly pompous. "Yeah, well, we all know Reeves likes to do things his
own way around here." McCardy came around the desk and leaned against the
edge. "Based on what you've told me, Dillon, I have to agree with Lamar here.
There's no reason to reactivate the investigation. Robinson's death was
a suicide. Lamar's satisfied. And so am I. That's the end of it.
These newspaper clippings and anonymous phone calls probably amount to
nothing more than a hoax. Some SICKO's idea of a joke. We've got enough on
our plates right now without worrying about some high-society doctor
doing himself in. As for the car that almost hit Mrs. Robinson last
night, Lamar'll do the follow-up. You got that, Reeves?" "Yeah, I got
it." "That's all, then." Both men turned to leave, but as soon as Jackson
left the room, McCardy called Dillon back. He nodded toward Dillon's leg.
"What's the status on the knee?" "I have an appointment next Wednesday,"
Dillon told him. "I expect to get a clean bill of health from the
doc." McCardy nodded. "Good. I'll let you know as soon as all the
paperwork comes through." Dillon turned toward the door. "Just one more
thing." McCardy picked up another file from the stack on his desk and thumbed
it open. He didn't look up when he said, "I meant what I said. Leave the
Robinson thing alone. It's not your case. If anything else turns up,
Lamar'll handle it. You just forget about it." "I hear you,
Lieutenant." McCardy looked up, his expression sober. "I hope the hell you
do, Reeves." ** ** ** OVER THE YEARS, Taylor had discovered that her
undergraduate degree in art history was of immeasurable help to her in her
career as a guidance counselor at Claymore Academy. It was amazing how a
child's innermost thoughts could be revealed in a simple drawing or
painting. Taylor's gaze rested on Alisha Westcott. She was a beautiful
little girl, with long, silky blond hair and amazing blue eyes, but the
sad look in those eyes tore at Taylor's heart. She thought about the child's
parents--Dr. Westcott, so cold and forbidding, and Lorraine, so... out of
touch--and it struck Taylor again how ironic life could be. The Westcotts had
been blessed with such a beautiful little daughter whom, by all indications,
they completely ignored while Taylor's child, the baby she would have showered
with love and affection, had been so cruelly taken from her. She walked
across the room and knelt beside Alisha. "May I see?" When she nodded,
Taylor picked up the drawing Alisha had been working on and studied it. The
subject was a little girl, presumably Alisha, standing in a bedroom, staring
out a window. The whole picture had been done in pencil, without any color,
and it conveyed an air of almost unbearable loneliness. "This is very good,
Alisha." Taylor pointed to the little girl in the scene. "What is she
looking at, do you suppose?" Alisha stared up at her with those incredible
blue eyes. "She's looking for something." "Well, what is she looking
for?" Alisha shook her head. "She doesn't know." The words, so loaded with
meaning, tugged at Taylor's heart. She wondered how often Alisha was
relegated to her room, how many lonely hours the little girl spent inside
those four desolate walls. Across the table, Taylor heard someone mutter
something that sounded suspiciously like "pervert." She glanced up sharply,
just in time to see Nicholas Baker duck his head to keep her from seeing him
laugh. Nicholas was a classic troublemaker. His antics in the classroom
were always designed to attract as much attention as possible. He was
just the opposite of Alisha. Precocious, and not a little obnoxious,
his behavior kept him in constant trouble with Quentin Thorndike,

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the headmaster at Claymore. But in spite of his problems, Nicholas was
a likable kid, and a little too clever at times for his own good. Taylor got
up and walked around the table. She placed both hands on Nicholas's
shoulders. "Let's see what you've done." She reached down and picked up his
drawing. As usual, the macabre scene utilized as many mutilated body parts as
Nicholas could crowd onto the paper. The child had talent, no question, but
the gruesome subject matter of his drawings had always been a source of
concern for his teachers. Taylor suspected his grisly art was yet another way
of attracting attention. The other children loved the monsters and the poor
helpless victims Nicholas created, and Taylor had to admit it was astonishing
to see how very much the monsters and demons from Nicholas's imagination took
on the visages of the people around him. The green-eyed, forked tongue demon
in this picture bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Thorndike. Taylor
smothered a smile as she studied the drawing. Nicholas and the little boy
next to him snickered uncontrollably, obviously awaiting with bated breath for
their teacher's reaction. "Very creative, Nicholas," Taylor complimented.
"I'm impressed. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep this." Nicholas stared
at her agog. She could almost hear the wheels turning inside his head.
That's it? No yelling or screaming? No trip to Old Man Thorndike's office?
No detention after school? You're not even going to call my parents? Taylor
hid another smile as she moved on to the next child. "Let's start putting the
supplies away, boys and girls, then get your backpacks ready to go
home." DILLON STOOD in the doorway of the classroom, watching Taylor as
she wandered from student to student. She was a natural with the kids, moving
with an unconscious grace that was an art form in itself. She wore jeans and
a white cotton shirt that managed, even though they were loose fitting, to
convey the impression of feminine curves and long, sexy legs. Her blond hair
was pulled back into a ponytail, and all but a faint trace of pink lipstick
had long since been eaten away. Dillon was struck by how sweet she looked.
How unpretentious she seemed. He watched as she knelt beside a little blond
girl and tried to coax a smile from the child. He couldn't help grinning at
the way she handled the two little demons who nudged each other and made KISSY
faces behind her back. One of the little boys, the more vocal of the two,
spotted Dillon in the doorway and said, "Hey, who's the geezer?" Taylor
turned and visibly started when she saw Dillon. She walked across the room
toward him. "That kid called me a geezer," he complained when Taylor followed
him out into the hallway. She laughed. "Don't take it personally. Anyone
over twenty is a geezer to Nicholas." Her fingers toyed with the thin gold
chain around her neck. She looked nervous, and Dillon wondered if, like him,
she was thinking about the kiss they had shared. As for himself, he hadn't
been able to stop thinking about it all day. His gaze lingered on her lips,
making him remember vividly the way they had felt beneath his. "How soon can
you get away from here?" he asked her. Taylor glanced at her watch.
"Fifteen more minutes. Can you wait?" When he nodded, she said, "Why don't
you sit at my desk? I need to make sure all the art supplies are put away,
and then I have to walk the kids back to their homerooms." As he entered the
room, the sights and smells filled Dillon with nostalgia. He stared back at
the faces gazing at him in open curiosity Had he once been this young? He
must have, but for the life of him, he couldn't seem to remember. The things
he'd seen and done as a cop had aged him, made him sometimes feel far older
than his years. Maybe he was a geezer, he decided wryly. By comparison,
Taylor still seemed so young. So untouched, though he knew her life hadn't
been easy. Money hadn't bought her happiness. Thinking again how different
their backgrounds had been, Dillon watched her kneel beside the little blond
girl. After a moment or two, the child broke into a smile. Her whole face
lit up, reminding Dillon of a sunburst after a rainstorm. He wondered what
Taylor had said to cause such a transformation. It was obvious all the kids
adored Taylor, even the dark-haired little hellion. He was tugging on her arm
now, demanding attention. The boy said something, then pointed to Dillon.
Taylor glanced up, caught Dillon's eyes and blushed, leaving Dillon to wonder

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just what the hell the kid had said to her. After they'd all gathered up
their belongings and exited the room in single file behind Taylor, the class
room fell into an almost eerie silence. Absently Dillon picked up the drawing
Taylor had placed on her desk and studied it. Absorbed in the gruesome scene,
he didn't hear her return until she said from the doorway, "That child has
quite an imagination as I'm sure you can tell." "Who the hell are his
parents? Ax murderers?" "Actually, I believe he lives with his grandmother."
Taylor had discovered Nicholas's parents were out of the country when she'd
called to ask why they hadn't responded to the note she'd sent home
with Nicholas, requesting to meet with them in person. So far,
the grandmother had refused to come in and talk to her, but Taylor
wasn't giving up. She'd been known to make house calls. Unannounced. "So
who is he?" Dillon asked. "His name is Nicholas Baker." Taylor began to
straighten the already tidy supplies. "You know what his problem is, don't
you?" Taylor glanced up. "I have my suspicions, but I'd like to hear what
you think." Dillon shrugged. "It's pretty simple. Claymore Academy is a
ritzy private school that caters to kids from privileged backgrounds.
Judging by the clothes the kid had on, he comes from a working-class family.
God only knows how they managed to get him admitted here. He feels
inferior to the other kids, but he'll be damned if he lets anyone know
it." Taylor put away a stray crayon, then looked up. "I'm impressed.
And you deduced all that in just fifteen minutes?" "More or less." Dillon
shrugged again. "I guess I have the advantage of having been there, done
that. I know exactly what it's like to feel you don't belong. It makes you
do things... you wouldn't ordinarily do." What was he trying to tell her?
Taylor wondered. Was he trying to explain why he'd left ten years ago without
telling her? Had his own insecurities driven him away? Taylor found it
difficult to believe. Although she knew better than anyone how hard it had
been for Dillon to accept the disparity of their backgrounds, he wasn't the
kind of man to run away from his problems. And yet he had left town. That
fact remained indisputable. "So what's the story with the little girl?"
Dillon said, as if to change the subject. "Her name is Alisha Westcott.
She's Dr. Westcott's daughter." He raised a brow but didn't comment. "I'm
afraid the child's badly neglected," Taylor said. "I just hope it's nothing
worse." "You mean abused?" "I don't know." Taylor bit her lip as she gazed
in earnest at Dillon. Then she said, "When I see these unhappy children...
when I think about all the years we've missed with our child... I sometimes
can't help feeling resentful. These parents are throwing away such a
precious, precious gift." Dillon knew exactly what she meant. He'd always
felt sorry for the kid down the hall in his building for having to spend so
much time alone, but now Dillon found himself feeling anger toward the kid's
mother. How could she just ignore her responsibilities like that? How could
she not want to spend time with a good kid like Casey? "Why don't you tell me
what happened at the station today?" Taylor was saying. "Is the
investigation into Brad's death going to be reopened?" "No." She stared at
him incredulously. "No? But... what about the car that almost hit me last
night? And the phone call I got this morning? The woman said Brad was
murdered. Did you tell them that?" "I told them everything "Dillon said
wearily. "But without any new evidence, hard evidence, the investigation
won't be reactivated. There are too many other cases on the books and not
enough investigators to go around." "So Brad's murderer just walks free?" "I
didn't say that." "It's pretty clear," Taylor said bitterly. "Unless you
have an alternative." He paused for a moment, then glanced up at her. "I
guess it's up to us now. If you're still willing to help me, that is." "I'll
do anything," she said simply. "That's what I'm afraid of." He raked his
fingers through his hair. "Look, it's not going to be easy. Everything we do
will have to be done unofficially, without sanctioning by the department.
That means we won't have access to information we could otherwise demand, nor
will people feel they have to cooperate with us." Taylor thought for a
moment. "What will this mean for you?" "What do you mean?" "You said you

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couldn't interfere in another officer's case. If you investigate Brad's death
as well as the Westcott Clinic, won't that have repercussions for you in the
department?" He glanced away. "Don't worry about it. I can handle the
department." But Taylor had to worry. She was the one who had dragged Dillon
into all this. She hated to think he might be putting his career on the
line for her. But what else could she do? Once, she'd tried to do the noble
thing. She'd tried to put Dillon's future ahead of her own needs, but this
time the stakes were too high. If they had to sacrifice both their careers in
order to learn the truth, Taylor would do so and gladly. Because all that
mattered was finding her child. Hers and Dillon's. She gazed up at him. An
awareness passed between them, and Taylor felt herself tremble at his
nearness. "She said our child is close, Dillon. Closer than we realize.
That must mean he's still in Memphis." "He or she. You can't be sure the
baby was a boy. If they lied about the baby dying, then they could have lied
about the sex. We can't be sure of anything at this point." A girl, Taylor
thought. Her child might have been a little girl. A vision of blond hair and
blue eyes flashed across her mind. Alisha Westcott was nine years old. The
same age as Taylor's child. Dr. Westcott had delivered her baby. What if...
She put a trembling hand to her forehead. She had to stop this. Dillon was
right. She couldn't afford to dwell on fantasies. She had to be realistic.
To think that Alisha Westcott could be their child was utterly
ridiculous. Too much of a coincidence. Too much to hope for. "What is it?"
Dillon asked in concern. "Nothing." Taylor shook her head, dispelling the
images. "I was just remembering what else the woman told me. She said to
check the records. It's all in the records." "Then I guess it's time to pay
the Westcott Clinic a little visit," Dillon said grimly. Chapter Ten. The
Westcott Clinic;-a two-story, pink-brick building with dozens of diamond-paned
windows glinting in the afternoon sunlight, sat back from the main road on
several acres of tree-shaded lawn. A small, indiscreet sign placed in the
brick wall that surrounded the wooded grounds announced the name of the
facility, and a curving driveway led to a paved parking area in front of the
building. But other than those two things--and the sight of several women
well along in their pregnancies strolling the grounds and reclining in
lounge chairs under the giant pecan trees--the place might have been a
very luxurious private home. Brick steps led up to a wide covered porch with
white wicker furniture and clay pots spilling over with scarlet geraniums. A
ceiling fan whirled sluggishly overhead, barely stirring the warm, humid
air. Not exactly your typical hospital, Dillon thought as he opened the
front door and stepped through. A woman stood behind a counter talking on the
phone. When she caught Dillon's eye, she smiled and held up one finger,
indicating she'd be with him in a moment. Dillon used the opportunity to look
around, resisting the urge to let out a whistle. The lobby was large and
airy, with plenty of sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling
windows. Framed paintings lined the pale pink walls, while statues and
sculptures of varying subjects and sizes were strategically arranged on
marble pedestals. Lacy ferns hung in front of the windows and huge
crystal bowls of pink and white gladiolus adorned counters and table
tops "May I help you?" The receptionist had concluded her conversation
and was smiling at him from across the counter. "I'd like to speak to the
administrator." A brief frown touched the woman's brows. "What is this in
regard to?" He showed her his badge and ID. "I'm Sergeant Reeves, Memphis
P.D." "Oh, dear." The woman's hand fluttered to her throat. She looked
just flustered enough to cooperate without asking too many questions.
"I'll see if she's in." Within moments Dillon was ushered into Allison St.
James's outer office. The secretary offered him coffee, which he declined,
and then she went back to her work. Absently Dillon picked up a magazine
entitled Expectations. The pregnant model on the cover looked a little like
Taylor. Blond hair, flawless complexion, blue eyes. The woman smiled
radiantly for the camera and her eyes sparkled with joy. Dillon wondered what
Taylor had looked like when she was pregnant. Had she been radiant?

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Joyful? Or had the haunted look he glimpsed in her eyes now been there
even then? Had she been frightened to face her pregnancy alone? Was that why
she'd married Robinson? Who are you trying to kid? Taylor had told him that
she'd once loved Brad. There was no reason to assume she'd married him for
any other reason. No matter how much Dillon might want to believe
otherwise. "Sergeant Reeves? You may go in now." Dillon laid aside the
magazine and got up. The secretary opened the door of the inner office for
him and he walked through. Allison St. James, the administrator of the
Westcott Clinic, was a surprise. She was younger than Dillon had expected,
probably no more than thirty-two or thirty-three, and very petite. In her
gray fitted business suit, with her dark hair swept back in a bun and
tortoise-tim glasses perched on her nose, she reminded Dillon of a child
playing dress up. But there was nothing childish--or subtle--about the
perusal she gave him when he walked into her office and sat down. She gave
him a deliberate once-over, no doubt calculating his age, marital status
and probably his net worth. He saw her gaze linger on his ring less hand, and
when she looked up, interest sizzled in her brown eyes. She leaned an elbow
on her desk. "So... Sergeant, what is this little visit in regard to?" "Dr.
Brad Robinson's death." "I understood his death was a suicide." "It's still
under investigation," Dillon said. "I'm sure you'll want to do everything you
can to cooperate." Unlike the receptionist outside, Allison St. James didn't
look in the least flustered by the prospect of having the police on the
premises. She sat back in her chair and smiled coyly. "Of course I'll
cooperate. I take my civic duty very seriously." She was openly flirting
with him, and Dillon wasn't above using it to his advantage. He let his gaze
linger approvingly on the smooth column of her throat and the faint shadow of
cleavage exposed by the deep V of her suit jacket. A knowing look came into
her eyes as he deliberately lifted his gaze to meet hers. She cleared her
throat, then reached up and removed the tortoise-rim glasses, absently
twirling them in her hand. Her eyes never left Dillon's. "What exactly do
you want?" A subtle huskiness invaded her voice, and her tongue flicked out
to moisten her lips. Dillon smiled. "I'd like to get a look at the patient
records. Dr. Robinson's wife was admitted here nine years ago. She had a
baby in June of that year. I need to know who else was a patient at the
time Mrs. Robinson gave birth. Are the records kept here?" Allison smiled.
"Of course. We have an elaborate record-keeping system. Dr. Westcott is a
stickler for detail, and he insists that all the clinic files be kept on the
premises and readily available, should he or one of the other doctors need to
consult. However, those records are confidential. I can't let anyone down
there without a court order. Not even you, Sergeant Reeves." "Call me
Dillon." "I'd like to help you... Dillon, I really would, but my hands
are tied." She shrugged regrettably. "No one is allowed down in the
file room without signing in and out. I couldn't let you in even if I
wanted to." "How well do you know Dr. Westcott?" Wariness crept into her
eyes. "As chief of staff and chairman of the board of directors, he's my
immediate supervisor. I answer directly to him." "How long have you worked
for him?" "Less than a year." "What about your predecessor?" "He was here
for about a year and a half, I believe." ' "Do you know why he
left?" "Irreconcilable differences. Dr. Westcott is not the easiest person
to work for. He's very demanding." "Do you know why Dr. Brad Robinson left
the clinic?" "That was years ago. Long before I came." "You haven't heard
any talk around the clinic concerning their falling out? It's a small
hospital." "And people love to talk. Yes, I know." She smiled but her
eyes glinted with suspicion. "Are you really here investigating
Dr. Robinson's death?" "Why else would I be here?" She studied him for
another long moment. "Mrs. Robinson was out here a few days ago. I didn't
talk to her myself, but the gossip around the hospital has it that she was
asking more questions regarding the birth of her child than she was about her
husband's death." Allison uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, folding her
arms across her desk. "What's this really all about, Sergeant?" Dillon

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hesitated, not sure how much he was willing to reveal to Allison St. James.
There was something about the woman that didn't seem quite right. It wasn't
just her youthful appearance in contrast to her severe business attire that
gave him the feeling she was playacting. There was something in her eyes.
Something dark and not altogether pleasant. "How can I help you if I don't
know what you really want?" she said softly. "Level with me, Dillon." They
measured each other for another long moment. "All right," he said. "Taylor
Robinson was told her baby died at birth, but since the death of her husband,
she's been receiving anonymous messages and phone calls, which seem to suggest
that the child might still be alive." Allison looked taken aback by the
revelation, as if she'd been expecting almost anything but this. "You mean...
she thinks her baby was stolen? Here at the clinic?" Dillon nodded. "Stolen
or swapped. Mrs. Robinson was put under for the birth. She never saw the
child." Allison looked genuinely shaken. "My God," she said. "That poor
woman. No wonder she looked so desperate. I can only imagine how she
must feel." "I thought you said you didn't see her." Allison blinked. "I...
didn't talk to her. I saw her in the lobby. I asked one of the nurses about
her, and she told me the woman was Dr. Robinson's widow." "You can see why
it's important for us to get a look at those records," he said quietly. "But
if this is a police matter, why don't you just get a court order?" "It's not
as simple as that." "I see. If I made a call to your supervisor at the
police department--" "I'd be in a lot of trouble," Dillon said candidly. "So
what is Mrs. Robinson to you?" "A friend." Allison St. James smiled
knowingly. "Of course. Well, we all could use a friend like you, Sergeant.
But I'm afraid I still can't let you see those records without a court
order." "What about the employee files? It would be helpful to know who was
on duty that night." Allison shrugged: "Same problem, I'm afraid. The
personnel files are also confidential." Dillon stood and handed her his card.
"If you think of some way we can get around that court order, why don't you
give me a call? You can reach me at home if you need to." She accepted the
card, letting her fingers brush across his. Then she stood, too, and came
around the desk, leaning one hip against the edge. "Perhaps we could discuss
the possibilities over dinner some evening, Sergeant." Just as Dillon was
wondering how he could gracefully make his exit, someone knocked on the door
and then opened it. A tall, dark-haired man, elegantly dressed in a gray
pin-striped suit, stared at them from the doorway. "Dr. Westcott." Allison
St. James stood up from the desk. For a moment, Dillon thought she might
even come to attention and salute. A woman in a white, starched nurse's
uniform stood just behind Dr. Westcott. She was around fifty-five, with iron
gray hair, faded blue eyes and thin, dry lips drawn into a disapproving
line. "What's going on in here, Ms. St. James?" Dr. Westcott
demanded. "Doris said the police are hem." Allison St. James looked plenty
flustered now. She swept her hand nervously toward Dillon. "This is Sergeant
Reeves from the Memphis Police Department. He's investigating Dr. Robinson's
death." Dr. Westcott scowled at Dillon. "I understood that investigation
was closed." "Inactive," Dillon corrected. "But new evidence has recently
come to light that sheds some doubt on the cause of Dr. Robinson's
death." Westcott looked arrogantly skeptical. "And just what is this
new evidence?" "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge that
information." "Then what makes you think either my staff or myself has any
reason to cooperate with this bogus investigation of yours?" Dillon shrugged.
"No reason. Except that Brad Robinson once worked at the clinic. I believe
you were his mentor. Seems to me you'd want to see justice done." "I believe
justice has already been done," said Dr. Westcott coldly. "Mrs. Robinson
thinks otherwise." "Then the woman is obviously unbalanced. Who in their
right mind would believe the utter nonsense she's been spouting?" "Then
you've talked to her," Dillon said. "Yes, I've talked to her. And it only
confirmed my suspicions. She is in no way fit to supervise the welfare of
children, and until she gets the professional help she needs, I think she
should be removed from her position at Claymore Academy. Now, if you will

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excuse us, I'd like to have a private word with Ms. St. Dillon threw Allison
a glance. The woman looked positively petrified. She didn't even look at
him. The nurse in the doorway said sternly, "I'll show you out." At the
door, Dillon turned and said, "I'll be in touch," but neither Allison nor Dr.
Westcott acknowledged him. Outside the office, Dillon made a point of
studying the name tag on the woman's uniform. Doris K. Rafferty. "How long
have you worked at the clinic, Ms." uh, Rafferty?" "Long enough," she said
curtly. "Were you working here nine years ago? The night Dr. Robinson's
wife gave birth?" Her features hardened. Her eyes snapped with suspicion.
"You're working for her, aren't you? That's what this is all about." "I'm
not a PI. if that's what you mean." "I told him she meant trouble," Doris
muttered. "I told him the minute I saw her walk through the door that
day." "Who?" At his sharp question, Doris Rafferty seemed to collect
herself. She gave Dillon a long, pointed stare. "After all these years, I
don't know why she's come back to cause trouble for Dr. Westcott. Her baby
died that night. There was nothing anyone could do." "Then you were on
duty when it happened?" Doris Rafferty's mouth thinned even more. "It's all
a matter of public record. What happened that night, I mean. The birth and
death certificates were filed with the proper authorities." "I've seen them,"
Dillon said. "But they don't really prove anything, do they? There was a
storm that night. The clinic was shorthanded. It would have been a simple
matter to swap two babies, and in the confusion, no one would have been the
wiser." Doris's eyes narrowed on him. "You tell her if she keeps on like
this, she'll be sorry. He could have her job. And yours. Dr. Westcott
has a lot of influential friends in this town." "You're one of Dr.
Westcott's friends, aren't you, Doris? You seem very loyal." Doris's heavy
chin lifted. "The man's a saint in my book. Mrs. Robinson should be down on
her knees, thanking God every night of her life that she had a doctor like him
to look after her. She had a lot of complications with that birth. Did she
tell you that? If it hadn't been for the doctor, she'd have died with her
baby that night." In spite of his outward calm, Dillon was shaken by the
woman's words. Taylor hadn't told him that she'd been in danger that night.
In his mind's eye, he could see her pale and weak, all alone and fighting
for her life. And then when she woke up, to be told her baby was dead... For
the first time, Dillon had an inkling of what she had gone through. What she
had felt. An aching emptiness settled around his heart, and he wondered if
that was what Taylor had lived with all these years. Doris left him at the
front door. Outside, he put on his sunglasses and stared at the opulent
grounds. The setting of the Westcott Clinic was lovely. Idyllic even. But
there was something in definably creepy about the place. An oppressiveness
that couldn't quite be dispelled by the sunshine and elegance that hung over
the place like an expensive designer dress that didn't quite fit. He hadn't
noticed how the clinic had affected him or how on edge his nerves were until
he was leaving. Now, he experienced the same sense of overwhelming relief he
used to feel leaving the house on Tamarind Street. Crossing the parking area
to his car, he paused for a moment to stare up at the building. movement at
one of the second-story windows caught his eye, and he wondered if one of the
patients was looking down at him. Whoever was up there was making a point not
to be seen. They stood well away from the window, a mere shadow in the
afternoon sunshine. An uneasy shiver crept up his spine as those invisible
eyes continued to watch him. "HE's BACK," Nicholas Baker drawled as he
pointed toward the doorway of the art room. Taylor gazed over her shoulder.
Like yesterday, Dillon stood in the doorway, watching her with a sort of
brooding intensity that set her heart to pounding. "You've got a funny look
on your face," Nicholas accused. "Who is that guy, anyway?" "He's a
policeman." Taylor gave Nicholas a meaningful look. Nicholas looked
impressed in spite of himself. "What's a cop doing in this joint?" "He's
here on official business." Gasps of "Wow!" and "Cool!"" exploded from the
other kids in the room. Nicholas tried to hide his own reaction to the news,
but Taylor could tell he was just as excited as the other kids. "Is he

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wearing a gun?" he demanded. "I hope not." Across the table from Nicholas,
Alisha sat staring at the doorway, obviously enraptured by the visitor. When
Dillon caught her eye and grinned, she ducked her head. But to Taylor's
astonishment, she saw that the child was smiling. Taylor had never seen
Alisha so receptive to anyone so quickly, but she had to admit Dillon's
presence was pretty overwhelming, even to her. She crossed the room, then
followed him out into the hallway. "What do you remember about a Dr. Jillian
Forster?" he asked her without preamble. "She was a resident at the Westcott
Clinic while you were a patient there." The name sounded vaguely familiar.
Taylor searched her memory, but she couldn't put a face with the name. She
shook her head. "I don't remember anything about her." "From what I've been
able to learn, she and Brad were friends. She was on staff at Mercy General
when he was dismissed, and she went to bat for him with the hospital review
board, pitting herself against the most powerful doctor at the
hospital." "Westcott?" "You were right about him," Dillon said. "He was the
one who instigated the charges against Brad and brought him before the review
board. It was his testimony that got Brad suspended." Taylor nodded. "I'm
not surprised. That's exactly what Brad suspected." She thought about her
last conversation with Brad, the way he'd ranted and raved about Dr.
Westcott, his one-time mentor. What had caused their falling out? What had
turned Westcott against Brad? "So where does Dr. Forster fit in?" she
asked. "I figure she could shed some light on the relationship between Brad
and Westcott, give us the real story about what happened. She might even have
been on duty the night the baby was born." "Have you talked to her?" "That's
why I'm here. She won't see me. In fact, I couldn't get past her
receptionist. I want you to call and make an appointment." "You mean pretend
I'm a patient? Is that ethical?" Dillon shrugged. "You want ethics or
answers?" Taylor glanced up at him, thinking again how very much he'd changed
over the years. "Is this how you conduct all your investigations?" "When
it's necessary. I learned a long time ago you can't always get what you want
by playing by the rules. I get results, Taylor. Isn't that why you came to
me for help?" She'd been asking herself that same question for days now.
Wasn't that why she'd gone to Dillon in the first place? To get his help? To
get, as he put it, results? Or had there been another reason? A motivation
so deeply hidden Taylor herself wasn't even aware of it? The thought made her
shiver as she turned back to the classroom to dismiss the students. As IT
TURNED OUT, Dr. Forster's receptionist was quite helpful. There'd been a
last-minute cancellation that afternoon, and if Taylor could come to the
office in an hour, Dr. Forster would be able to see her. As soon as Taylor
was free at school, she and Dillon got into his dark green Firebird and drove
west on Union Avenue, toward downtown. Dr. Forster's office was in a medical
center. After Taylor filled out the necessary paperwork, she and Dillon
were ushered into an examination room. The nurse left them alone, and
Taylor sat on the exam table fully dressed while Dillon paced the
floor. Exactly as if they were expectant parents. Taylor couldn't help
remembering all the times she'd been in similar examination rooms when she'd
been pregnant. Her emotions had run the gamut back then. She'd been thrilled
to hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time, ecstatic at the first
ultrasound. But through it all, she'd kept thinking what it would be like if
Dillon were by her side, sharing with her the anticipation of their
baby's birth. Brad had been kind and considerate, infinitely patient. But he
hadn't been Dillon. And everything about her pregnancy had only
reinforced that fact in both their minds... until finally Taylor had
stopped talking about the baby altogether. She'd kept her emotions--the
highs and the lows--to herself. And then one day, seven months into her
pregnancy, Dr. Westcott warned her of a possible complication. He
recommended complete bed rest, preferably at the Westcott Clinic where she
would be looked after by experts twenty-four hours a day. Taylor had been
devastated by the news, certain that something she'd done--or hadn't done--had
caused the problem. She'd been so frightened that something might happen to

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her baby she'd readily agreed to enter the clinic. Now, as she gazed around
the stark and sterile room, she wondered if that had been the biggest mistake
of her life. If that one decision had cost her the baby she'd wanted more
than anything in this world. She lifted her gaze to meet Dillon's. "I'm
sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, too." There was no need to say anything
more. Somehow Taylor knew he was feeling exactly what she was experiencing.
She had the almost overpowering urge to reach out to him, to take his hand in
hers and draw him to her. In that moment, she had never felt as close to
another living soul. "How did it happen?" she asked. "How could we lose so
much?" Dillon's eyes looked distant, bleak. "Because we let it happen,"
he said simply. His words were like a dark and heavy cloak descending over
Taylor. Like frames from a movie, the past ten years of her life flashed
through her mind. Finding out Dillon had left town. Her rushed marriage to a
man she didn't love. Being told her baby was dead. The subsequent
problems with Brad--his drinking, the drugs, the depression, the threats.
And through it all, the killing loneliness. Taylor had convinced herself she
was doing the right thing for her baby by marrying Brad. A child needed a
father. She'd told herself she was being noble and selfless by not tracking
Dillon down and telling him about the pregnancy, by not trapping him into a
marriage that would have taken away all his dreams. But as she stared at him
now, the full weight of what she had done hit her. She'd changed both their
lives, and there was no going back. Ever. As if unsettled by his own
thoughts, Dillon glanced at his watch. "I wonder what's keeping her." No
sooner had he spoken the words, then the door opened and a woman, wearing a
white lab coat and carrying Taylor's file in one hand, walked into the exam
room. Dr. Jillian Forster was in her late thirties, tall and slender
with auburn hair and green, slightly tilted eyes. She was not
just attractive, but striking-, exuding an air of superiority and
supreme confidence. Taylor stared at her in shocked recognition. Dr.
Jillian Forster was the woman she'd seen at Brad's funeral. The woman who had
seemed to be staring at her. Dr. Forster's gaze immediately fastened on
Taylor and widened with her own recognition. She quickly scanned the file in
her hand. "Mrs. Reeves?" "Actually, her name's Robinson," Dillon cut in.
"Taylor Robinson." Dr. Forster glanced sharply at Dillon, and then her gaze
went back to Taylor, raking her from head to toe. "I'm sorry I gave you a
false name," Taylor said. "But I was afraid you wouldn't see me
otherwise." "Then I assume you aren't here because you're pregnant." "No,
I'm not." Dr. Forster tossed Taylor's file onto the table. "I'm a very
busy woman, Mrs. Robinson. I don't have time for games." "This isn't a
game, I assure you," Taylor said. "I'd like for you to tell me about Brad. I
want to know why he was dismissed from Mercy General." "What makes you think
I know?" "Because you were there. You spoke to the review board on
Brad's behalf." Annoyance flickered across the doctor's stunning features.
"You were Brad's wife," she said with an air of resentment. "Didn't he tell
you what happened?" "Only that Dr. Westcott accused him of mis diagnosing a
patient. He said Dr. Westcott was the one who got him suspended." Dr.
Forster sat down on the stool near the table and rubbed her eyes. She sighed
deeply. "It's true. The accusation came from Dr. Westcott. He carries a lot
of clout at the hospital. Once he'd convinced the review board that Brad was
a potential liability, they couldn't wait to get rid of him." "Did Dr.
Westcott have a basis for his accusations?" Dillon asked. His voice seemed
to startle Dr. Forster, as if she'd forgotten he was in the room with them.
Then her eyes narrowed. "You're the cop," she said coolly. "The one who's
been trying to get in touch with me. I should have recognized your
name." "Why didn't you return my calls?" Dillon inquired. "I didn't see the
point. As I said before, I'm a very busy woman, and I'd already spoken to the
police regarding Brad's death. There wasn't anything else I could add." "I'd
still like to hear your opinion concerning Dr. Robinson's suspension. Did
Westcott have a basis for his accusation?" Dillon asked again. For a moment,
Taylor thought Dr. Forster would refuse to answer. Then finally she said,

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"Brad had his problems." She threw Taylor an accusing glance. "We all knew
that. But he was a fine doctor. He never let anything interfere with his
professional judgment." "Not even the pills and the booze?" Dillon asked.
Dr. Forster's tone turned bitter. "Hospitals are like small towns. Rumors
circulate about everyone from time to time. Nothing was ever proven about
Brad." Taylor knew for a fact that the rumors about Brad were mostly true,
but she refrained from saying so. Instead, she asked, "Do you know why
Brad and Dr. Westcott had a falling-out all those years ago when Brad
was still at the Westcott Clinic?" She gave Taylor a cold stare. "Just
because Brad and I were colleagues doesn't mean he confided in me." "You and
Dr. Robinson were a little more than colleagues," Dillon said. Dr.
Forster's reaction to Dillon's statement fascinated Taylor. The cool facade
melted away, replaced by a rapid play of emotions across the woman's face. A
muscle throbbed in her temple and her lips thinned almost imperceptibly. "I
don't know what you mean." "Word at the hospital is that the two of you were
friends. Close friends. Had been for years." He might as well have said
lovers because that was certainly the implication in his voice. Two bright
points of color ignited Dr. Forster's pale cheeks. Her fingers trembled
slightly as she picked up Taylor's file and stood. "I don't like the tone of
this conversation. I've said all I have to say to the police. Now, if you'll
excuse me, I have patients to see." "Just one last question," Dillon said as
Dr. Forster started for the door. "Were you on duty at the Westcott Clinic
when Mrs. Robinson gave birth? That would have been nine years ago. On
September third." Dr. Forster paused at the door. Her green eyes studied
them with open hostility. "You can't possibly expect me to remember that.
I've seen hundreds of patients since that night." "No," Dillon agreed, "I
wouldn't expect you to remember. Unless, of course, you and Dr. Robinson
were... friends even back then." Dr. Forster glared at Dillon for a long,
silent moment, then said through clenched teeth, "Get out of my office. Both
of you. And don't ever come back." "SHE WAS LYING," Taylor said as she and
Dillon sat across from each other at a booth in the lounge at the Peabody
Hotel. They'd ducked in for a quick drink after leaving Dr. Forster's
office. "If she couldn't remember whether or not she was on duty when my baby
was born, how did she happen to know that it was at night?" "So you caught
that, too," Dillon said approvingly. He took a sip of his coffee, eyeing her
over the rim of the cup. "You did good back there." Taylor smiled weakly.
"I was nervous," she admitted. "Especially when the nurse was asking me all
those questions. I've never done anything like that." "What, lie?" "We
didn't exactly lie. We just didn't--" "Tell the complete truth." She gave
him a look. "Okay. So we lied. But we did get results, just like you said
earlier. We found out Dr. Forster was lying, too." "For whatever that's
worth." Absently Dillon watched the ducks swimming in the fountain in the
hotel lobby. "She wasn't exactly forthcoming with information." "Neither
were you." Dillon glanced up. "What do you mean?" "The implication that
Brad and Jillian Forster were lovers. Why didn't you tell me that
earlier?" "Because it was mostly a guess. I put two and two together from
some of the things I'd heard at the hospital and decided to test my
theory." He looked away from Taylor's probing eyes. "Okay," he said with a
sigh. "I didn't know how you'd take it." "Brad and I were legally separated
for almost two years." "I know." "What he did or who he saw was none of my
business. ' "Right." It was Taylor's turn to glance away. "But you're
saying their relationship may have gone back farther than our separation.
That they may have been... lovers a long time ago, even when I was
pregnant." "I'm only guessing." Dillon paused, then said carefully, "How
would you real about that?" "I don't know." Her voice sounded hollow. She
put up a hand to absently tuck her hair behind one ear. At that moment,
Dillon had never seen anyone look so vulnerable, so lost, but when she lifted
her gaze to meat his, it was anger, not hurt, he saw reflected in those soft
blue depths. "If it's true," she said quietly, "I can't bear to think of all
those years I spent feeling guilty. All those times I tried to make up

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for not having loved him the way a wife should love her husband..."
Her fingertips touched her lips. "I blamed myself for all his problems,
his weaknesses, but it wasn't me, was it? It was him." Dillon saw what it
cost her to make that statement. Knew the years of anguish it had taken her
to come to this very simple and obvious conclusion. He wanted to take her in
his arms and hold her until the hurt and lies and disillusionment of the past
all faded away. But they were in a public place and a table separated them.
So instead he reached out and took her hand in his. But the moment their
fingers met, he realized what a mistake it was to touch her. A current of
desire shot through him. I don't want this, he thought. I don't want to feel
anything for this woman. For as long as he lived, Dillon didn't think he
would ever forget how much Taylor had once hurt him. Like a strobe, memories
flashed through his mind. In the space of a heartbeat, he was once again
sitting in his car parked across the street from Brad Robinson's apartment,
watching Taylor emerge the morning after the Christmas dance. In his mind, he
could see Robinson put his arm possessively around Taylor's shoulders and draw
her close for his kiss. For a moment, Taylor clung to him. And then Robinson
opened the car door, Taylor slid inside and the two of them drove off in his
brand-new Porsche. And Dillon had sat there in his twelve-year-old Chevy,
numb with shock and hurt and thinking what a fool he'd been. What a damn
stupid fool As the memory drifted away, he stared at Taylor sitting across the
table from him and told himself he'd be an even bigger fool to forget
that night, to erase how easily Taylor had once gone from his arms
to Robinson's. He would be a fool to think the differences that had once torn
them apart had simply disappeared during the intervening years. What he had
told her that night years ago was still true. They were never meant to be.
It was as simple as that. He withdrew his hand, and something that might have
been hurt flashed in Taylor's eyes, but she tried to quickly mask it by
glancing at her watch. "I have to get back to work," she said hurriedly.
"Tonight?" "The end of the term is always hectic," she explained, standing.
"I have several reports that have to be filed with the State Board
of Education by the end of the week." Dillon threw some bills on the table.
"I don't like the idea of your being in that building alone. Especially at
night." "I won't be alone. A lot of the teachers are working late this
week." "I still don't like it," Dillon insisted. "When you leave, make
sure you have someone walk with you to your car. You have to be
careful, Taylor." He gazed down at her, his eyes hard. "Someone tried to
kill you once. There's no reason to assume he or she won't try it again." A
HOURS LATER, Carde Hutton, one of the third-grade teachers at
Claymore Academy, popped her head into Taylor's office. "Debbie and I are
going out to grab a pizza. Want to take a break and come with us?" Taylor
glanced at her watch. It was a little after nine. She couldn't believe how
the time had flown. "No thanks. I still have a couple of reports I need to
get finished tonight." Carded shrugged. "Suit yourself. At least you won't
be here alone. Old Man--I mean, Mr. Thorndike's still burning the midnight
oil, but most of the others have already left. Don't stay too late, okay?
This neighborhood's not as safe as it used to be, and I wouldn't want to
put Thorny's machismo to the test, if you know what I mean." Taylor grinned.
"I won't be much longer." Once Carde had gone, the office seemed to grow
uncomfortably quiet. Rationally Taylor knew it was no more silent or noisy
than it had been before Carde had popped in, but now that Taylor knew there
was no one else in the building except for Mr. Thorndike, an uneasiness
settled over her and she couldn't help remembering Dillon's earlier
warning. Someone tried to kill you once. There's no reason to assume he or
she won't try it again. Had someone really tried to kill her that night? Or
had the car racing toward her been just an accident? A case of being caught
at the wrong place at the wrong time? She had stepped into the street
without looking. But why were the car's lights turned off if the driver
hadn't been intentionally trying to hit her? In spite of her disquiet, Taylor
forced herself to settle down and finish her work. By nine-thirty, the

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reports were completed, printed and stacked neatly on her desk, ready for
mailing in the morning. She stood and stretched, then grabbed her purse from
her desk drawer, secured her files and locked the office door as she left. A
light still burned in Mr. Thorndike's office, and even though she couldn't
see him through the frosted glass, Taylor was glad for the headmaster's stoic
presence. As she walked past his office, she couldn't help thinking about the
night her car had been vandalized in the parking lot. But at least tonight
she knew she wasn't alone, and she heard no unexplained noises coming from the
classrooms and saw no sinister shadows drifting through the offices. There
was nothing at all out of the ordinary at Claymore. Taylor continued down the
hallway toward the exit. A staircase to her left led to the second-floor
classrooms, and beneath the stairway was a door that led down more steps.
That door was always kept closed and locked to prevent any adventuresome
students from wandering down into the boiler room and getting hurt. As Taylor
approached the exit, she noticed that the door under the staircase stood open,
but there was no light emanating from the boiler room. The blackness below
was complete. Taylor wondered if she should close the door. But what if
Stanley was down there? What if he'd fallen and hurt himself? Or worse, what
if one of the children had somehow gotten down there? An image of Stanley's
grandson, David, flashed across her mind. Perhaps he was the one who had left
the door open. He might be down there hurt, and if he was, he wouldn't be
able to hear her call to him. As Taylor stood wondering what to do, a sound
came from below. A soft little whimper that sent a shiver of dread up her
spine. She stopped dead still, listening. The noise came again, and
Taylor's blood froze as she recognized the sound for what it was. A baby's
cry. Chapter Eleven. A baby was crying in the basement! But... how could
that be? How would a baby have gotten into the boiler room? The obvious
answer was that someone had put it there, left it maybe, like the horrible
stories one heard on the news. But... Taylor tried to quiet the hammering of
her heart as she listened to the darkness below the steps. The cries grew
louder, more demanding. Taylor's skin crawled, thinking about a baby all
alone in that dank dark hess. She wondered fleetingly if she should go and
get Mr. Thorndike to help her, but the baby was crying frantically now, its
desperate wails echoing pitifully up the staircase. There was no way Taylor
could ignore those cries. They sounded too much like the cries in her
dreams. Tentatively she moved to the top of the steps. Her palms roamed
over the cool cinder-block wall, searching for the light switch. She
flicked it on. The dim bulb illuminated the stairway but very little of
the boiler room. There was probably another light switch below,
Taylor reasoned. She started down the stairs, but halfway to the bottom, the
light was suddenly cut off. She stood on the steps, completely submerged
in darkness. The cries continued somewhere below her, but there was something
strange about the sound now. Something not quite right. She turned back up
the steps, toward the doorway. Blood pounded in her ears and every nerve
ending in her body screamed in warning. Something was wrong. Terribly
wrong. At first, the blackness was so complete she couldn't distinguish
any shapes. Then, near the top of the stairs, something moved
downward, slowly toward her. Taylor screamed and whirled. Her heel caught
the edge of one of the steps, and she tumbled headlong into the darkness,
rolling over and over until she reached the bottom of the stairs to land on
the concrete floor, her left hand trapped beneath her weight. She felt the
sickening snap as the bone in her wrist gave way. She screamed again, in pain
and terror. The figure, swathed in black, emerged from the darkness above
her. Ruthless hands grabbed her, turned her over and encircled her
neck. Still stunned from the fall, Taylor lay paralyzed, for a split second
an easy victim. Then pure instinct took over, and she clawed at the
face hidden beneath a woolen ski mask. Frantically she struggled, kicking
at her assailant with both of her legs as hard as she could. She heard a
grunt of pain, and kicked again. The hands released her throat as the
assailant stumbled backward. Within seconds, he came at her again. Taylor

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scooted backward, trying to get away from the silent killer. Her right hand
closed over a piece of loose metal pipe on the floor as the figure grabbed her
ankles and dragged her toward him. Beyond terror now, Taylor flung the pipe
toward him, and heard it connect with solid flesh. This time there was no
sound, but Taylor could Sense the killer's rage. His cruel hands were all
over her now, jerking her toward him, tearing at her clothes. He straddled
her, pinning her to the floor, when suddenly footsteps sounded at the top of
the stairs. The light came on, and over her assailant's shoulder, she caught
a quick glimpse of a small boy's face, his eyes rounded with terror. David!
It was useless to call out to him, to warn him of the danger. He wouldn't be
able to hear her. Oh, God, don't let him come down here, Taylor prayed. He
wavered at the top of the stairs, then turned and ran away. A kind of
breathless waiting descended over Taylor and her would-be killer. Taylor
tried to scream but no sound came out. She lay gasping for breath as the
figure abruptly released her and melted into the darkness. Lying spent on the
concrete floor, she heard the sound of a door opening behind her, felt the
rush of night wind on her face and then the door slammed shut. "You ARE ONE
lucky young woman," the doctor told her. Taylor sat on a cart in the
emergency room at Mercy General Hospital, her ann still numb from the local
anesthetic. She held up her hand and admired her new cast. "Do you know,
this is the first broken bone I've ever had?" "The first that you know of,"
the doctor, a pleasant, freckle-faced young resident wearing green scrubs and
a white lab coat, amended as he jotted something on her chart. He glanced up.
"You'd be surprised how many people break bones and never even know
it." "Fascinating." Taylor leaned back and stared at the white
ceiling. Amazingly, she heard herself humming an inane little tune as she
shut her eyes. The doctor chuckled, told her he'd check on her later,
then left the room and closed the door. A moment or two later the door opened
again. With an effort, Taylor roused herself and opened her eyes. A woman in
a jade dress stood at the end of the bed, examining her chart. As if sensing
Taylor's eyes on her, the woman glanced up. With a jolt, Taylor recognized
her. "What are you doing here?" Dr. Forster gave her a brief, enigmatic
smile. "I was in the E.R. when you were brought in." She studied Taylor
dispassionately. Her auburn hair was swept up and back, making her seem even
taller and more regal than usual. The green dress complemented her eyes and
hair to perfection, but the bodice was stained by a thin streak of
blood. "Are you in pain now?" she asked Taylor. "Not at the
moment." "Well, don't worry." The cool smile flickered again. "As soon as
the medication wears Off, I daresay you'll be in a great deal of pain." She
started to say something else, but the door swung open and Dillon strode in.
Dr. Forster brushed past him to exit the room without another word. Dillon
looked after her. "What was that all about?" "I have no idea," Taylor said.
"I think she wanted to tell me how much pain I'll be in when my medication
wears off." "Helluva bedside manner," Dillon muttered, walking toward her.
He looked as if he'd gotten to the hospital in a huge hurry. He wore faded.
jeans with holes in the knees, an old Memphis State T-shirt un-tucked and his
bare feet were thrust into boat shoes. As he moved to stand beside her bed,
his gaze lit on the cast. An emotion Taylor couldn't quite define flashed
through his eyes. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" His voice
was oddly tender. For some reason, it made Taylor want to burst into
tears. "I fell down some stairs," she tried to say lightly, but the
false euphoria created by the medication had already begun to ebb. A
tear slid down her cheek. Impatiently she wiped it away with her good
hand, but another followed in its wake. She finally gave up and looked up
at Dillon. "He was going to kill me," she whispered. Suddenly Taylor was in
his arms, being held against the solid warmth of his chest. He pressed his
hand to her hair, soothing her. "Hush, now," he said softly. "It's all over.
You're safe." "I... know... but..." "Shush. I'm here. I won't let
anything else happen to you." Taylor believed him. She had never felt so
safe. So protected. She wanted to stay in the circle of his arms forever,

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but after a few moments she lifted her tear-streaked face to look at him.
"How did you know where to find me?" "Neal was still at the station when the
call came through. He tracked me down and told me what happened. The basics,
anyway." He handed her a tissue from the box on the stand beside the bed.
Taylor wiped away the last of the tears, then blew her nose. "Can you tell me
what happened?" he asked gently. "I believe that's my line," said a gruff
voice from the doorway. Sergeant Jackson strode into the room and glared at
them both. "What the hell are you doing here, Reeves?" "Mrs. Robinson is a
friend of mine," Dillon said coolly. "You have a problem with that?" "I
don't. But I'll bet the lieutenant would sure find it
interesting. Especially with the fuss you've been kicking up over Mr.
Robinson's death." Taylor lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
She didn't need this. Not tonight. The pain medication was wearing off fast,
and other parts of her body besides her wrist were starting to throb. "I'm
sorry to bother you, Mrs. Robinson, but I have to ask you a few questions."
Sergeant Jackson pulled out a worn notebook and a stubby yellow pencil from
his rumpled brown suit coat. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.
"Let's start at the beginning, shall we? What were you doing at Claymore
Academy at nine-thirty at night?" The way he phrased the question made it
sound as if he suspected Taylor of something. She glanced at Dillon to find
him scowling across her bed at Sergeant Jackson. Obviously he didn't like the
question, either. Taylor sighed. "It's the end of the term," she explained
wearily. "There's always a lot to do during the last week of school." "You
weren't frightened to be alone in that big building at night?" "I wasn't
alone. Mr. Thorndike, the headmaster, was still in his office, and I assumed
Stanley Barlow, the custodian, was around somewhere." Sergeant Jackson took
out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He was sweating profusely even
though the room seemed quite chilly to Taylor. "There'd been a recent attempt
on your life. Allegedly. A car almost ran you down a few nights ago, isn't
that what you claim?" "What are you getting at?" Dillon interrupted
sharply. Sergeant Jackson shrugged. "I just want to make sure I get a
clear picture of everything that's happened. When you got ready to
leave tonight, did you tell anyone you were going?" Taylor shook her head.
"No. Mr. Thorndike doesn't like to be interrupted and I didn't see Stan "So
you just left." "I started to leave. But I saw that the door to the boiler
room was open. It's always kept locked. I was afraid one of the children
might have somehow gotten in and was lying down there hurt." "So you decided
to check it out yourself?" "Not at first. I thought about going to get Mr.
Thorndike, but then... I heard something." Taylor shoved back her hair with
her good hand. "Look, I've already told all of this to the officers at the
scene. Do we have to go over it again?" Jackson swept her with his
penetrating gaze. "I'm afraid we do. What did you hear?" Taylor hesitated.
Her gaze went uncertainly to Dillon. "I heard something that sound like
someone crying." "You mean a woman? A child? What?" Taylor paused again,
her gaze still on Dillon. "A baby. I heard a baby crying." Something
flashed in Dillon's eyes, and for a fleeting moment, Taylor wondered if it was
disbelief. Her heart plummeted. If Dillon didn't believe her, what chance
did she have of convincing Sergeant Jackson? "You heard... a baby crying in
the boiler room?" Jackson's tone was clearly skeptical. "That's what I
said." Jackson exchanged a glance with Dillon. "All right. What
happened next?" Taylor recounted everything she could remember about the
attack. When she finished, Sergeant Jackson closed his notebook and carefully
put away his pencil. He glanced across her bed at Dillon again. "Could I see
you outside for a minute, Reeves?" "I'll be right back," Dillon assured her.
Taylor nodded. She closed her eyes again, willing away the fresh horror the
retelling of the story had brought her. At that moment, she didn't care if
they believed her or not. She knew what had happened that night. She knew
someone had lured her down in that basement and tried to kill her. If it
hadn't been for David frightening the assailant away, Taylor wouldn't be
here now. She owed her life to that child, and when she got out of here,

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she'd somehow find a way to repay him. OUTSIDE TAYLOR'S ROOM, Jackson folded
his arms and leaned against the wall. "You buying any of that?" "What do you
mean?" Jackson snorted. "A baby crying in the boiler room? Come on." "No,
you come on," Dillon blazed. "I didn't like your tone in there. You were
treating her as if she were a suspect. Someone's trying to kill her, Jackson,
What the hell will it take to convince you? Her body on a slab?" "If you'd
think with your head for a minute instead of your--" The crudity, loudly
spoken, elicited disapproving stares from two nurses walking down the hallway.
Jackson acknowledged them with a cocky grin, but when he continued, he at
least lowered his voice. "The head honcho she was talking about, that
Thorndike guy. He was working late tonight just as she said. He heard Mrs.
Robinson leave her office and walk down the hall, but he didn't hear anything
else. No baby crying, no nothing." "And?" "Same with the janitor. He was
lurking around there somewhere and he didn't hear anything, either. If his
deaf grandson hadn't seen her go down into the basement, no one would have
known she was anywhere around. None of them heard a baby crying except for
Mrs. Robinson, who just happens to be obsessed with her own dead baby. Now
what does that sound like to you, Reeves?" "Damn you," Dillon said. "Don't
you turn this around on her. If you want to look at the facts take a look at
her wrist in that cast. Or is that just a figment of her imagination,
too?" Jackson shrugged. "Oh, she broke her wrist, all right. I spoke
with her doctor. But she freely admits that she fell down those stairs.
She wasn't pushed." "Someone attacked her after she fell down the stairs.
You know that's what she said." "And somehow that someone got away without
the janitor and his grandson, who were both standing at the top of the stairs,
seeing him." "There's got to be an outside exit to the boiler room." Jackson
smiled. "Oh, there is, but it's always kept locked. It was locked when I got
there tonight. No one could have gotten out that way." The look of triumph
on Jackson's face infuriated Dillon. He wanted to slam his fist into that
slimy smile, but he restrained himself. Losing his temper, getting himself
suspended for assaulting a fellow officer, certainly wouldn't help Taylor's
cause. He scrubbed his face with his hands. "She's not lying,
Jackson." "How can you be so sure? Did you hear the phone call she
allegedly received from the woman who told her that her child is still alive
and that her husband was murdered? Did you personally hear
that conversation?" Jackson's eyes narrowed on Dillon. "Have you heard any
of the hang-up calls she's claimed to have received? Or seen her
mother-in-law following her? Doesn't it strike you as just a little
questionable that someone who's receiving a lot of hang-up calls doesn't do
something about it? You'd think she would have reported them, or at the
very least gotten caller-ID or call-trace from the phone company. But Mrs.
Robinson didn't do anything. Why?" "Her car was vandalized at the school a
few days ago," Dillon informed him coldly. "She didn't make that up. The
custodian and his grandson both saw it." "Yeah, well, good ole Stanley's
probably got a few screws loose himself, and as for that kid, it's obvious
he's got a thing for Mrs. Robinson. I could see that right off the bat when I
tried to talk to him earlier. He'd say--or sign--anything he thought she
wanted him to." Dillon clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides.
"You're forgetting one thing. I was there when she was almost hit by that
car the other night. Are you saying I lied for her?" "I don't know," Jackson
said. "Did you? The woman's WACKO, Reeves. Delusional. Psychotic. Maybe
even psychopathic, for all we know. Her husband committed suicide, and she's
obviously cracked under the guilt." "You are way off base, you son of a
bitch." "No, you are," Jackson said, jabbing a finger toward Dillon's
chest. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll stay the hell away
from Taylor Robinson. The woman is trouble, Reeves. Bad trouble. Now,
you know that. You just don't want to admit it." TAYLOR WAS RELEASED a
little while later and Dillon drove her home. He helped her out of the car,
up the porch steps, then took her key and let them in the front
door. Flipping on the lights, he said, "Wait here." Then he

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systematically searched the house. When he came back, he handed Taylor her
key. "All clear." "No monsters in the closet? That's a relief," she tried
to joke. "You don't have to pretend it didn't happen, you know." Taylor
looked up and found his eyes, darkly intense, watching her. Her heart skipped
a beat. "That would be a little difficult, considering," she said, lifting
her cast. Dillon scowled. "You avoided talking about what happened all the
way home. Now you're trying to make light of it." Taylor sat down on the
couch, suddenly bone tired. She didn't know if she even had the strength to
go bed, no matter how appealing pulling the covers up over her head seemed
right now. "I'm all talked out," she said with a deep sigh. "First the
officers on the scene questioned me before the ambulance arrived, and then
Sergeant Jackson in the E.R. I don't want to go over it again, Dillon. You
were there. You heard." Saying it again wouldn't make it sound any more
believable. But Taylor knew what she'd heard. She knew what had happened.
She wasn't lying and she wasn't crazy, no matter what the police
thought. Dillon rubbed the back of his neck as he began to pace her living
room. "I've been wondering about that cry you heard." "A baby's cry," Taylor
said softly. "Exactly. Someone knew just how to lure you down into that
boiler room. Someone knew you wouldn't be able to ignore a cry like
that. You'd have to check it out." ' "Then... you believe me?" Dillon
stopped pacing and stared at her across the room. "All I had to do was take
one look at your face when I walked into that hospital room. I believe you,
Taylor. I believe... everything." "You believe me about our child?" Their
gazes met. Slowly Dillon nodded. Taylor drew the back of her hand over her
eyes. "Thank God," she said, her voice trembling. She wanted him to take her
in his arms and hold her close as he'd done in the hospital earlier, but he
didn't. He remained steadfastly where he was. But acknowledging his belief
that their child was still alive created a powerful bond between them. Taylor
felt it, and she knew Dillon did, too. Maybe that was why he kept his
distance. Maybe it was a bond he didn't necessarily want. She glanced away.
"I know Sergeant Jackson didn't believe me about what happened tonight. I
could tell. He thinks I'm either lying or I'm crazy." "Jackson is an
as--jerk," Dillon said in disgust. "What's worse, he's a lousy investigator.
He doesn't want to make more work for himself. He doesn't want to hear
anything that might poke a few holes in his original investigation." "But
where did the cry come from if I didn't imagine it? That's what I keep asking
myself. The police didn't find anything in the basement." "I've been
thinking about that. You said that once you started down the stairs, the cry
sounded strange. There was something about it that wasn't quite right. I'm
thinking what you heard was a tape recording of a baby crying. The suspect
planted it in the basement when he heard you leaving your office, then
retrieved it when he was scared off by the janitor's grandson." Taylor stared
at him in excitement. "Yes! That would explain everything. Oh, thank God,"
she breathed. "For a minute, I was beginning to doubt myself." "Don't do
that," Dillon warned. "That's exactly what he wants you
to do." "Who?" "Whoever wants you dead." The stark statement hung in the
air between them like a bomb waiting to explode. Inside, Taylor felt oddly
numb, almost immune to the fear, but she knew once the shock wore off, the
terror would begin all over again. "What are we going to do?" she asked
weakly. Dillon sat down in the chair opposite the couch. "I don't think even
Jackson will be able to ignore this latest attack, no matter what kind of spin
he tries to put on it. I'll talk to the lieutenant again myself. There'll
have to be an investigation into these threats on your life, but as far as
the Westcott Clinic goes--" "What?" He shrugged. "I can tell you right now,
they won't open that can of worms unless they absolutely have to. Westcott
has too much clout in this town." "But he's the most likely suspect!" Taylor
said in credulously. "They have to investigate him." "Not without probable
cause." "Then how do we show probable cause?" "You let me worry about
that." "But--" 4 Baby's Cry "I'm serious, Taylor. We've got to be a lot
more careful from now on. You'll have to leave the investigation up to me,

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but I promise you, I'll do everything I can to find out what happened to our
child." Taylor's eyes filled with tears. "Our child," she whispered.
"Oh, Dillon--" "I know. It's incredible." Taylor put her fingertips to her
lips to try and control the powerful emotions surging through her. "You
haven't told me how you feel about... our having a child together." He
reclined his head against the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling. He
looked indescribably weary, and Taylor's heart melted a little as she watched
him. "I haven't wanted to get my hopes up," he said. "Hopes?" Hope was such
a positive emotion. He lifted his head and looked at her. "What did you
think I would feel?" Taylor shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. "I don't
know. I had no reason to think you'd want a child. My child. When you left
town--" "When I left town, I didn't even know you were pregnant." "I know,
but you made it clear it was over between us. I had no reason to believe my
being pregnant would change your feelings toward me." "You knew what we'd had
together. You knew me, damn it." His voice turned cold, bitter. He leaned
forward in his chair and glared at her. "After everything we meant to each
other, how could you do what you did?" Taylor's hand crept to her throat.
The intensity in his eyes was frightening. "I wanted to tell you about the
baby, but--" "I'm not talking about the baby. I'm talking about you and
Robinson." His hands clutched the arms of the chair. "You left my bed and
went straight to his. You were mine, damn you, and you let him touch
you. You betrayed me." Taylor gasped, his words like an arrow through her
heart. "What are you talking about? I never betrayed you. I never slept
with Brad. Not even for a long time after we were married." "I saw you."
Dillon scrubbed a hand across his eyes, as if to wipe away the hurtful images
in his mind. "I was there, waiting outside his apartment the morning after
the Christmas dance. I saw you leave with him. It was obvious you'd spent
the night together." "But not that way! I was upset because of the fight you
and I had. When I saw you at the dance, I knew how wrong I'd been to say
those hurtful things to you. All I could think was that I wanted to spend
the rest of my life making it up to you. But... you told me it was too late.
You said we were never meant to be, and then you left. I thought I'd lost you
for good, and Brad... he comforted me. I spent the night crying in his
arms." "You expect me to believe that?" Dillon asked coldly.
"Especially since you married him not two months later." "It's the truth!"
Taylor cried, her own anger flaring. Then the arrow pierced more deeply into
her heart. Her hand flew to her mouth. "My God," she whispered. "That's why
you left town, isn't it? You thought--" The truth shone like a light in
Taylor's eyes, and the wall around Dillon's heart began to crumble. All these
years, he'd believed Taylor had betrayed him. All this time, he'd let himself
think the worst, let the image of her in Brad Robinson's arms fuel his
bitterness and anger because it had somehow made his loss easier. Made it
easier for him to accept the inevitable. But now he knew the truth. Taylor
hadn't betrayed him. He'd betrayed her. A crushing weight of regret replaced
the wall around his heart. "How could you?" she whispered. "How could you
believe that about me? Why didn't you come to me?" "Because I didn't see the
point." Dillon's anger drained away with the dawning of the truth. He saw it
all so clearly now. The elaborate deception. The threats. How easily he had
played into Miranda Walsh's scheme. He stared at Taylor, saw the anger and
hurt warring inside her, and he wondered if it was time for all the truth to
come out. Maybe it was time she learn just how far her mother had been
willing to go to keep them apart. But as he watched a silent tear slip down
her cheek, Dillon knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself look
better in her eyes by destroying her relationship with Miranda. Taylor had
lost her baby, her husband and whatever fantasy she might have been harboring
about him. He couldn't take away her mother, too. What good would it do,
anyway? What he and Taylor had was over a long time ago. If it had been
real, even Miranda Walsh wouldn't have been able to destroy it. Maybe it was
time they both face reality. Maybe it was time they both accept the fact that
what might have been was never going to be. Chapter Twelve. With the

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exception of a few old-money neighborhoods in midtown, the farther east one
drove in Memphis, the more prestigious the addresses. Maneuvering the car
carefully, trying to avoid undue stress to her broken wrist, Taylor took
Poplar Avenue all the way into Germantown, an enclave for the Memphis
elite. Despite Dillon's objections that morning, she had insisted on going
in to work. Except for a few lingering aches and pains from her tumble down
the stairs and the cast on her left wrist, she felt pretty much back to
normal. No, that wasn't exactly true, she thought grimly. Someone was trying
to kill her. How could she possibly feel normal? And then, on top of all
that, to learn after all these years why Dillon had left town. If only he'd
come to her, faced her with his suspicions about her and Brad, how different
their lives might have been. But she couldn't blame him for what happened, no
matter how much she might wish to. Her selfishness, her unwillingness to see
his side of things, had brought them to that point in time, and had led Dillon
to believe her capable of betraying him. Spoiled little rich girl,
he'd called her that night. Never had those words rang with more bitter truth
than they did at that moment for Taylor. She sighed as she braked for a
light. She'd resolved this morning after another sleepless night that she
wasn't going to do this. Wasn't going to dwell on the past, on what might
have been. It was all water under the bridge, and there was nothing she could
do about it now. She and Dillon had both made mistakes, but there was no
going back. There was no fixing what had been broken, she thought with a
sudden ache in her heart. The light changed and she turned left, following
the directions Lorraine Westcott had given to her earlier that day when she'd
called, asking to meet with Taylor. But not at school, Lorraine had
insisted. Could Taylor please come out to the house? Dr. Westcott would be
tied up at the clinic until late. They could talk for as long as they
needed to. A wrought-iron gate with interlocking was woven into the design
marked the entrance to the Westcott property. The security camera
acknowledged Taylor's arrival with a red blink, and the intercom sputtered to
life as a clipped voice invited her to enter. After a moment's hesitation,
the gates silently parted. Taylor drove through, admiring the sculpted
shrubbery and fountains and dazzling flower beds that artfully dotted the
grounds. As she rounded a curve in the driveway, the late afternoon sun fired
the seemingly hundreds of windows in the house, dazzling her. Taylor had been
raised in the lap of luxury. She was accustomed to gracious living. Her
mother's home on Tamarind Street had been featured in Southern Living a few
years ago, and the homes of their friends had been equally as elegant. But
the Westcott home was something beyond even Taylor's experience. It was quite
simply breathtaking. She sat for a moment, staring up at the palatial estate,
trying to imagine what it must be like for a little girl to grow up in such
a place. Taylor remembered how lonely her own childhood had been, how dwarfed
and insignificant she often felt with her every need and desire tended to
by people--not loved ones--who had been paid handsomely to do it. The massive
wooden door swung open as she raised her hand to ring the bell. A young man
with blue-black hair slicked straight back and wearing a severe dark suit
beckoned her to enter. "Mrs. Westcott is expecting you," he said, and then
without another word turned on his heel to lead her through the spacious
marble entrance hall to a sunlit morning room that overlooked the gardens. He
motioned her toward a dark green settee and withdraw. MOMENTS later, Lorraine
Westcott entered. She wore white silk pants topped by a white silk tunic
trimmed in gold. Her feet were clad in gold sandals and her hair had been
swept back, highlighting her delicate features. Her face was carefully made
up, her expression devoid of emotion. She sat down on a brocade armchair
across from Taylor and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes widened when she
saw the cast on Taylor's arm. "What happened to you?" "I had a little
accident," Taylor evaded. "But I'm fine." ' The stony-faced young man
appeared silently in the doorway and Lorraine said, "Would you care for
something to drink? Tea, perhaps?" "Nothing, thank you." The man's gaze cut
to Lorraine. She deliberated, then said, "Bring me my usual, Matthew." Her

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apologetic gaze met Taylor's. "I hope you don't mind if I have a cocktail.
It's been one of those days." It was painfully obvious the woman had already
had several cocktails. She'd probably started with a Bloody Mary for
breakfast, graduated to a couple of screwdrivers at lunch, perhaps a glass or
two of wine in the afternoon, and now at five, she was ready for
Scotch. Taylor knew the scenario well. For years, she'd watched Brad drink
away his career, his life and whatever relationship the two of them might have
been able to forge. "I'm sorry for having you drive all the way out here like
this, but I didn't want to come into your office," Lorraine said, accepting
the glass from Matthew. She turned to Taylor. "I ... haven't been
feeling well lately." "I understand," Taylor murmured. "I was happy to
come." Lorraine took a long swallow of her drink. "I'm sure you know why
I wanted to see you. I'd like to talk to you about... my daughter." Taylor
nodded. "I had the impression you wanted to say something in my office the
other day." "Things have been... difficult for Alisha." "What do you
mean?" "I suppose it's obvious that Elliot and I had Alisha late in life.
I was forty-two when she was born, Elliot was fifty. I'd just about given up
hope of ever having a child. The doctors all said it was next to impossible
and then... it happened. It was like a miracle..." She took another sip of
her drink. In the silence that followed, Taylor could hear the clink of ice
against the crystal. "I thought at our ages, we would be ready for
parenthood," Lorraine continued. "But Elliot's career means everything to
him. It always has. When Alisha was born, I'd hoped things would be
different. That he would want to spend more time at home with his family, but
the opposite' has been true. I know now the real reason he agreed to have
a child was to keep me occupied. Keep me out of his hair." She shrugged, as
if nothing she'd said so far mattered, but Taylor saw that her hands were
trembling. "I'm afraid his absences have taken a toll on Alisha. On both of
us. It's hard living with a legend," she concluded, expressing a bitterness
Taylor hadn't witnessed before. She leaned forward, addressing Lorraine
earnestly. "Mrs. Westcott, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what an unhappy
little gift Alisha is. I'm afraid if something isn't done to remedy the
situation, her problems will only grow more serious as time goes on. She'll
become even more withdrawn, perhaps depressed. We don't want that to
happen." "I find your relentless interest in my daughter more than a
little troubling, Mrs. Robinson," said a deep voice from the doorway of
the morning room. At the sound of her husband's voice, Lorraine's hand
jerked, spilling her drink down the front of her silk tunic. Her expression
was one of horror as she gazed up at Elliot. "For God's sake, Lorraine," he
said in disgust. Matthew miraculously appeared in the doorway. Dr. Westcott
said! "Bring my wife a towel, Matthew. She seems to have had an
accident. Again." While Lorraine Westcott ineffectually dabbed at the
moisture down the front of her clothing, Elliot Westcott trained his light
gray eyes upon Taylor. "I don't appreciate your coming here and upsetting my
wife. I thought I made my feelings on the subject of my daughter perfectly
clear in your office." "Yes," Taylor said. "You did." "Then why are
you here?" She cast a quick glance at Lorraine, who shook her head
almost imperceptibly, as if imploring Taylor not to give her away. "Well?"
Dr. Westcott demanded. "Why are you here, Mrs. Robinson?" "I'm worded
about Alisha. Dr. Westcott, don't you care about your daughter's happiness?
Don't you want her to have friends, a normal childhood?" Dr. Westcott strode
across the room and stood behind his wife's chair. He waved grandly with one
ann. "Take a look around you, Mrs. Robinson, then tell me how my daughter can
possibly have a problem. She has everything a child could ever want or
need." "But a child needs more than possessions," Taylor countered, her
anger rising. "She needs attention. She needs love. Does Alisha get
either of those things in this... monument?" To your greatness, she
silently added. Dr. Westcott's eyes narrowed on her. "You are way out of
line. And I'm warning you, if you pursue this any further, you will soon
discover exactly who and what you are up against." Taylor had the impression

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he was referring to more than just his daughter. She stood, refusing to give
ground. "I think you should know that as an educator, I am bound by law to
report even a suspicion of abuse to the proper authorities." Lorraine
Westcott gasped, but Taylor's gaze was fixated on Dr. Westcott. For the first
time, his icy facade slipped, revealing his emotion. The fury in his eyes was
astounding. Frightening. At that moment, he looked like a man capable of
anything. Even murder. "Get out." "I'll go," Taylor said. "For now. But
I'll be back because I don't give up, Dr. Westcott. I never give up,
especially where a child is concerned." "Then you are in for a great deal of
trouble, Mrs. Robinson." His gaze dropped to the cast on her left arm.
"More, perhaps, than you've bargained for." "You SPENT THE NIGHT with her?
Are you crazy?" Dillon cast a quick glance around the squad room. "Keep it
down," he warned. "It's not what you think." "Then what is it?" Neal
demanded. "Look, Dillon, I've tried to give you the benefit of a doubt here
because I know you and Taylor Robinson have a past. I know you still care
about her--" He raised his hand when Dillon started to protest. "Don't bother
denying it. It's written all over your face. But I'm seriously beginning to
wonder about your judgment." "I'm telling you, it's not what you think."
Dillon sat back in his chair and glared at his partner. "Someone tried to
kill her last night. What was I supposed to do? Let her stay there
alone?" "This isn't your case and Taylor Robinson isn't your
problem." Dillon swore, raking his fingers through his hair. "I'm so damned
tired of hearing that. We both know Lamar won't do anything about this.
He's convinced himself Taylor is either lying or delusional. He refuses
to accept the fact that someone is trying to kill her." ' "Has it ever
occurred to you that he might be right?" A loaded silence fell between them.
Dillon stared at Neal in disgust. "I didn't expect this from you." Neal
leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of Dillon's desk. "I'm just
trying to keep things in perspective, which is more than you can say. The
story you told me the other day about baby-swapping at the Westcott Clinic...
I gotta tell you, Dillon--the more I think about that, the more Looney Tunes
it sounds. Do you really believe Dr. Elliot Westcott swapped Taylor's baby at
birth? What the hell was his motive?" "I don't know." Dillon shook his
head. "I don't know. I just know I have to find out the truth." "For
Taylor?" "And for me." He took a deep breath and released it. "The baby
she gave birth to nine years ago Was mine, Neal." "Yours?" Dillon nodded.
"I just found out about it myself. If that baby didn't die..." Neal stared
at him, stunned. "You could have a kid out
there somewhere." "Exactly." "Wow." Neal draw his hand across his eyes.
"Wow. I guess I see now why you've been so stubborn about investigating this
case." Dillon didn't say anything. He stared out across the squad room. "I
hate to ask you this," Neal finally said. "But can you trust her?" Dillon's
eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" "Look, your history with this woman
hasn't exactly been all rosy and romantic, has it? She dumped you for another
man. That's what you told me." "There were extenuating circumstances,"
Dillon said uncomfortably, not liking the defensive note in his own
voice. "Even so, you haven't seen her in almost ten years. You don't know
her anymore, Dillon. Are you willing to risk your whole career for
her?" "It's not just about her--" "Don't kid yourself," Neal said grimly.
"It's all about Taylor and we both know it. If Lamar ever finds out what
you're doing, he'll have your badge. Interfering in an investigation is one
thing, but interfering for personal reasons is another. You better
watch yourself." "I intend to." Neal stood and stared down at Dillon. "I
hope she's worth it, buddy." ** ** ** "HELLO, MARIA" Taylor said as her
mother's housekeeper pulled back the door. Maria's eyes lit on Taylor's cast
and her smile of pleasure vanished. "What happened? Are you all right?" The
woman's concern touched Taylor. Maria had worked for Miranda for as long as
Taylor could remember. She was a part of the family and, at times, Taylor's
staunchest ally. She patted Maria's arm as she walked passed her into the
foyer. "I'm fine: I just had a little accident. Is Mother home?" Maria

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closed the door behind Taylor. Her eyes were clouded when she turned. "She's
home, but she has... company." "Oh." Taylor glanced toward the open drawing
room doorway. She could hear the faint murmur of voices coming from inside.
"I'll wait, then. You don't happen to have any of your famous chocolate chip
cookies out in the kitchen do you?" Maria smiled but she still seemed
nervous. Her gaze flashed to the doorway where the subdued tones suddenly
grew louder. Taylor recognized her mother's voice followed by a deeper,
masculine voice. A voice that Taylor thought she also recognized. "Who's in
there with Mother?" Maria looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Never mind. I'll
see for myself." Taylor walked to the drawing room doorway. Her mother,
dressed in black knit and pearls, sat on the sofa with her legs curled beneath
her and a glass of wine in one hand, while Charles Robinson reclined in
an armchair opposite her. Taylor stared at the cozy scene in surprise. When
Miranda saw Taylor, she immediately rose, setting aside her drink. "Taylor!
I wasn't expecting you." Obviously. Taylor walked into the drawing room.
"Sorry for interrupting." Miranda saw the cast on Taylor's arm and rushed to
her. "Darling! What happened?" "It's not important," Taylor said absently.
"We'll talk about it later." Charles Robinson slowly stood and faced her.
The gray eyes regarded her coolly for a moment, then he nodded. "Hello,
Taylor" "Charles. I'm surprised to see you here." "I don't see why,"
Miranda said, almost defensively. "Our families have always been friends.
There's no reason we can't remain so." "His wife accused me of murdering
their son," Taylor said. "That would put a strain on any
friendship." "Brad's death has been hard on Deirdre, as I'm sure you can
imagine," Dr. Robinson said softly. "She hasn't been herself since the
funeral and that awful scene. I just hope one day you and she will be able
to sit down and work things out. For the sake of Brad's memory." Taylor
doubted very much that would ever happen. She could still see the hatred
blazing in Deirdre's eyes. If it's the last thing I do, I swear I'll make you
pay for taking my son away from me! It was on the tip of Taylor's tongue to
ask Charles Robinson where his wife had been last night. If she'd had
anything to do with the attack in the boiler room. But Taylor's assailant had
been a man. Of that she was quite certain. "Well, I suppose I should be
going." He walked over and brushed his lips across Miranda's smooth cheek.
"It was good seeing you again, Miranda. Taylor, take care of that arm." "I
will," she murmured, watching him leave. Charles Robinson was still an
attractive man. Tall, elegant and as graceful as an athlete. If Brad had
lived, Taylor wondered if he would have looked like his father in thirty
years. Or would the drugs and alcohol have taken their toll? Miranda shook
her head sadly as the front door closed behind Charles. "That poor man.
First his son and now this..." "What?" Miranda sat down on the sofa and
pulled Taylor down beside her. "Deirdre has been admitted to the psychiatric
ward at Mercy General." Taylor gazed at her mother in shock. "When?" "Last
night, or rather early this morning. Evidently Deirdre had quite an episode
during the night. She disappeared and no one knew where she'd gone. Charles
drove the streets for hours, looking for her. Then when Deirdre
finally showed up at home, she was like a wild animal. She physically
attacked Charles. You know how strong she's always been. He had to sedate
her before he could take her to the hospital." Taylor sat back, digesting all
that her mother had told her. Could Deirdre have been the one who attacked
her last night? She'd been sure her assailant was a man, but her mother was
right. Deirdre Robinson had always been strong and athletic. Brad used to
complain that she could still beat him at tennis. "Is that why Charles was
here? To tell you about Deirdre?" "Of course. What other reason could there
be?" You tell me, Taylor thought, still not able to forget the intimacy
of the scene she'd walked in on. "Now," Miranda said briskly. "I want you to
tell me what really happened to your arm." "I was attacked in the boiler room
at Claymorn. Someone tried to kill me." Miranda's hand flew to her throat.
Her fingers en-twined with the pearls draping her neck. "No!" she whispered.
"Oh, God, no. Were you... are you..." "I'm fine, Mother. The assailant was

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scared off before he could really harm me. I broke my wrist when I fell down
the stairs." Miranda flinched, as if in Pain herself. She glanced down at
Taylor's cast. "My poor baby! Did the police catch whoever did
this?" Taylor shook her head. "The police don't even believe me. Except
for Dillon." At the mention of Dillon's name, Miranda's concern vanished.
Her jaw tightened. "What does he have to do with this?" "He thinks as I do
that my attack had something to do with our investigation into the Westcott
Clinic." "Oh, dear God. I was afraid something like this would happen."
Miranda got up and strode over to the window, staring out into the darkness.
She put her hands to the sides of her face. "I knew no good would come of all
those questions you've been asking." Taylor got up and went to stand beside
her mother. She grabbed Miranda's arm and forced her to face her. "What do
you mean? You sound as if you know something." Miranda bit her lip. "I
don't. I just know no good can come of poking into the past. Haven't we all
suffered enough? Poor Brad and now Deirdre--" "Leave them out of this. I'm
talking about you, Mother. Why have you been so adamantly opposed to my
finding out the truth? What are you so afraid of?" "I'm afraid for you,"
Miranda insisted. "You were almost killed, for God's sake. I should never
have let it come to this." Taylor stared at her mother. "How could you have
stopped it? How could you have known that someone would try to kill me for
asking a few questions?" Miranda turned back to the window. She took a
deep, trembling breath. "Elliot Westcott called me right after he'd
heard you'd been to the clinic. He told me to get you to back off, or
else--" "Or else what?" Taylor demanded. "Or else we'd both be sorry."
"He threatened you?" "Not directly. I thought perhaps he was talking about
my seat on the board. I never dreamed," "Why didn't you tell me this before,
Mother?" Miranda glanced at Taylor, then looked away. "Because I wanted you
to drop the investigation myself. I didn't want you getting involved with
that man again. He's no good, Taylor. He'll only hurt you." "Dillon is the
only one who believes me," she said angrily. "He's the only one who's stood
by me in all this." "Because it suits his purposes to do so!" Miranda turned
and gripped Taylor's shoulders. "Listen to me, darling. I know that man. I
know exactly what he wants. Think about it. You're young, beautiful
and wealthy now in your own right. Why wouldn't he help you? Why wouldn't he
stand by you now?" Taylor stepped back from her mother's grasp. "It's not
like that. It's never been like that." Miranda just shook her head. "You're
being taken in by him again. I can see it in your eyes. Oh, darling, don't
you see? Dillon Reeves left you once. What makes you think he won't do it
again when he gets what he wants?" Even THOUGH SHE'D fortified herself with a
hot bath and two pain pills before going to bed that night, Taylor still found
herself tossing and turning. Her nerves were on edge, and no wonder. Someone
was trying to kill her. Someone had deliberately lured her down into that
cold, dark basement and attacked her last night. But if she were being
completely honest with herself, she'd have to admit that the real reason she
was so restless tonight had less to do with her fear of what had almost
happened to her, and more to do with her acute awareness of Dillon, who was
just one thin wall away from her in the guest room. He'd been waiting for her
when she'd gotten home from her mother's that evening, and he'd insisted on
spending the night again. Taylor knew she should have sent him away, but a
tiny part of herself knew it was too late to prevent the inevitable. It had
been too late the moment she'd gone knocking on his door. Hearing him move
about the room next to her filled Taylor with an unexpected yearning. The
bedroom door opened, then the bathroom door, and in a moment, Taylor heard the
shower start up. She lay there, picturing the water sluicing down his naked
body, remembering the way he looked when he She took a deep breath, trying to
quiet her rioting heart. It would be a simple thing to slip into his bed and
wait for him to get out of the shower. She didn't think he would turn her
away. For a few hours they could lose themselves in each other's arms,
but what about afterward? Would a one-night stand be enough for her?
Or would it simply make her want him all the more? Would it make her realize

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all over again just what she had lost when Dillon had walked out of her
life? DILLON STOOD with his hands propped against the shower wall as the
cold water peppered his skin. He hated cold showers, but he found he'd
been taking too damned many of them lately especially when he woke up in
the middle of the night, thinking about Taylor. He wished he could get her
out of his head once and for all, but he couldn't. He'd never been able to
forget her. Not even when he thought she'd betrayed him. She'd always been
there, in the back of his mind, teasing him, taunting him with her beauty, her
sweetness, making him want what he knew he couldn't have. He still wanted
her. I never betrayed you. I never slept with Brad. Not even for a
long time after we were married. Dillon pounded the shower wall with his
fist. If only he'd known. If only his pride hadn't kept him away from her,
they might still have been together today. He and Taylor and their child. A
family. But he hadn't trusted her. He hadn't had enough faith in their
love, and so he'd walked away and spent the past ten years alone with
his pride and his memories. He slicked back his hair as Lamar Jackson's words
came back to haunt him. The woman is trouble, Reeves. Bad trouble. Now, you
know that. You just don't want to admit it. And then Neal saying, are you
willing to risk your whole career for her? Dillon closed his eyes. Was he?
Was he willing to risk it all--his career the least of it--for what might have
been? Maybe if he could have her, just one more time, he would finally be
able to get her out of his system. Maybe making love to Taylor again
would finally give him the closure to their relationship that he'd
been searching for. Because being with her couldn't possibly be the way he
remembered. The fireworks. The explosions. The sweetness. All of that had
been built up in his mind to exaggerated proportions. Reality could never
measure up to his memories. Maybe it was time he prove that to himself once
and for all. Chapter Thirteen. "Sergeant Reeves." Dillon cradled the phone
against his shoulder as he thumbed through the file on his desk. "This is
Allison St. James, Sergeant. Do you remember me?" Dillon shifted the phone
to his other ear. "Dark hair, big brown eyes, legs that won't quit." She
laughed. "You play the game well, but I can tell when a man's heart isn't in
it." "I guess I'm out of practice." "Or maybe you're just in love." Dead
silence fell across the line. Then Allison laughed again. "Did I hit a
nerve?" "Missed by a mile," he said, shifting the phone again. "What can I
do for you, Ms. St. James?" "Allison, please. And it's not what you can do
for me. It's what I can do for you. I have something I think you
want." "And what would that be?" Dillon asked cautiously. "Don't sound so
suspicious." "I'm a cop. That's my job." "I'm trying to help you," she
said, sounding a little peeved. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm wondering why you'd
do that." There was a pause, then Allison said, "Let's just say, I have my
reasons and leave it at that. Do you want the information or not?" "I want
it," Dillon said. He'd worry about her motives later. "What have you
got?" "The name of a nurse who used to work at the clinic. To be
more specific, she was on duty the night Mrs. Robinson gave birth." Dillon
felt the adrenaline start to pump in his veins. He grabbed a pen. "Who is
she?" "Her name is Lara Mendoza. She was only employed at the clinic for
a few weeks before Mrs. Robinson delivered, then she left a week or so later.
No one here seems to remember much about her except for one thing. She spoke
with a Spanish accent." THAT AFTERNOON, Quentin Thorndike summoned Taylor to
his office. The headmaster at Claymore Academy was a thin, taciturn man of
about fifty who seemed to labor under the misconception that if he smiled his
face might crack. His expression grew even more dour than usual as
Taylor walked into his office and closed the door. "Sit down, Mrs.
Robinson." He nodded curtly to the straight-back chair across from his
desk. Taylor sat, her stomach fluttering in apprehension. Mr.
Thorndike removed his wire-rimmed glasses and laid them aside. He folded his
arms across the desk and sat staring at her for a long, tense moment,
during which time her trepidation continued to mount. She wondered if this
was how Nicholas Baker felt, being faced down by "Old Man Thorndike." "I

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suppose you're wondering why I called you in here," he finally said. His pale
eyes narrowed. "I had a most disturbing phone call earlier today. Concerning
you, Mrs. Robinson." "Really?" Taylor tried to keep her voice even, but she
was beginning to have a glimmer of what this meeting was all about. "Yes, I'm
afraid so. It seems Dr. and Mrs. Westcott are extremely upset by the way
you've been handling the situation with their daughter. Dr. Westcott went so
far as to accuse you of harassing his wife and fabricating stories about his
daughter." Taylor gasped and leapt to her feet. "That's not true. All I
did--" "Sit down, Mrs. Robinson." Taylor sat and took a deep breath. "All
I did was express my concern about Alisha's behavior--" "Which is exemplary,
I understand from her teachers." "Well, yes... I mean, she's never had a
disciplinary problem. I'm talking about her shyness, her withdrawal from the
other children. She doesn't have any friends, and seems unable or unwilling
to socialize with her classmates--" "I understand her grades are perfect."
Thorndike slipped on his glasses and studied the open folder on his
desk. "She's very smart," Taylor agreed. "Then I'm afraid I don't
understand. Exactly what is the problem?" He gazed at Taylor over the rims
of his glasses. "I just told you." Taylor counted to ten under her breath,
trying to keep firm control on her temper. Why could no one but her see what
was happening to Alisha? Why did no one else seem to care? Was she the only
one who felt a connection with the child? Her own thoughts stopped her. A
connection with Alisha... No, it wasn't possible. Taylor knew it wasn't
possible. Alisha couldn't be her child. But the coincidences were startling
to say the least. Alisha and the child Taylor gave birth to were the same
age. Dr. Westcott had been Taylor's physician and delivered her baby in his
private clinic. The little girl's coloring was similar to Taylor's, and there
was a connection between them. A bond Taylor had never been able to
explain. But perhaps most compelling of all was Lorraine Westcott's own
words. I'd just about given up hope of ever having a child. The doctors
all said it was next to impossible and then... it happened. It was like
a miracle... Stop it! Taylor ordered herself. She couldn't afford to get
carried away by her thoughts. Dillon had told her more than once she had to
be realistic. She couldn't allow herself to get caught up in the fantasy. It
was too dangerous. With an effort, she reined in her thoughts and tried to
concentrate on what Mr. Thorndike was saying. He removed his glasses again
and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.
"Alisha's grades are perfect and her behavior in the classroom is above
reproach. I'm afraid I have to agree with Dr. Westcott. The problem here
seems to lie with you, Mrs. Robinson." Taylor stared at him for a long
moment, unable to believe what she was hearing. Finally she said, "Are you
asking me to apologize to the Westcotts?" "I'm afraid it's a little too late
for that," he said with an ominous sigh. "The Westcotts are removing their
daughter from Claymore. Dr. Westcott suggested there might even be legal
ramifications if your... persistence doesn't cease." "Legal ramifications?!
You mean he's threatening to sue? Of all the nerve! He's the one in the
wrong here. Not me." Mr. Thorndike seemed unmoved by her anger. He let her
vent and then said disdainfully, "Are you quite finished?" No, she wasn't
finished. Not by a long shot. If Elliot Westcott thought he could get rid of
her with his threats, he was in for a rude awakening. Even if Alisha was
nothing more to Taylor than her student, Taylor had an obligation to the
child. She had to make sure Alisha was in a safe, wholesome environment.
"Under the circumstances," Mr. Thorndike was saying, "I'm sure you can
appreciate why I asked to see you this afternoon. Claymore simply cannot
afford the kind of publicity a lawsuit would generate. Do you understand what
I'm saying, Mrs. Robinson?" "I'm not sure I do. Are you asking me to leave
Claymore?" Taylor's heart sank to the bottom of her stomach as she said the
words. The students she worked with meant everything to her. The thought of
never seeing them again was almost more than she could bear. "I'm not asking
for your resignation," Thorndike said, but before Taylor could draw a relieved
breath, he added, "Yet. Alisha will be leaving Claymorn at the end of the

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term. You will have no further contact with her or with her parents. Is that
clear?" "Perfectly." Taylor stood. "Is that all?" "For the moment." As
Taylor exited Thorndike's office, her thoughts were still on Alisha and the
bond they shared. Would the little girl understand why she was being taken
out of school? Would she blame Taylor? The thought was unsettling. Alisha
had obviously never had anyone she could count on and now, at least in her
eyes, Taylor would be letting her down, too. Taylor's eyes filled with tears,
her heart with longing as she pictured that sad, sweet little face. How could
anyone not want the best for a child like that? If she were Taylor's...
Alisha is not your daughter, she told herself firmly as she headed back to her
office. But even as she tried to shove the notion aside, she couldn't quite
dispel the image of soft, blond hair and haunted blue eyes. THE MINUTE Taylor
opened the door that night, Dillon knew something had happened. Her eyes were
puffy and her nose was red. Taylor had never been a very subtle
crier. "What's wrong?" He walked passed her into the living room. "It's
Alisha Westcott. She's..." Taylor seemed to wrestle with her emotions for a
moment. "Dr. Westcott is taking her out of Claymore. Because of me." "How
did this come about?" "He called the school and told Mr. Thorndike that I
was making up stories about Alisha and harassing him and his wife. He
threatened to sue the school if I didn't stop." She put her hand to her
temple. "I can't stand to think what this will do to Alisha." Dillon stared
down at her. "This is not your fault. You know that, right?" "I was just
trying to help, but Alisha won't understand that. She'll think I let her
down, that I don't care about her. She won't have anyone to turn to."
Taylor's eyes flooded with tears again, and before Dillon realized what was'
happening he pulled her into his arms. She resisted but only for a second.
Then he felt her body relax against him. "Do you always tear yourself up this
way over your students?" he asked softly. She nodded miserably against his
shoulder. "I know I shouldn't. I need to develop a more professional
attitude, like Dr. Westcott or Mr. Thorndike, but--" God forbid, Dillon
thought. She should never be like anyone but herself. She was Taylor. His
Taylor. Dillon tried to banish the unwelcome thought from his mind, but there
it was. His Taylor. He'd always thought of her that way, even during the bad
times. Even after she was married to another man. That's why the image of
her in Brad Robinson's arms had nearly killed him. Dillon's hand found her
hair and smoothed down the silky tresses. He closed his eyes, breathing in
the scent of her, loving the feel of her. The idea of her. He had only meant
to offer her comfort, but suddenly the emotions rushing through him had gone
way beyond that. His arms tightened around her waist. His lips skimmed her
hair. She was standing very still in his arms, but he heard her breath
quicken. A tremor coursed through her, and for a moment, neither of them said
or did anything. They just stood there, letting the tension mount to an
almost unbearable level. And then slowly Taylor lifted her face to his. Her
eyes were startlingly clear, so lovely Dillon felt everything still inside
him. His hand came up to caress her cheek, her hair, the back of her neck,
and he felt her shiver again. What am I doing? he thought. Why can't I
resist her? Why couldn't he remember how she'd once hurt him? But it didn't
matter anymore. Nothing mattered but the way she was looking at him
now. "Dillon?" Her voice trembled with emotion. She reached up and
stroked his cheek. He closed his eyes as a wave of emotion washed over him.
He lowered his mouth to hers and the moment their lips touched, Dillon's
heart exploded. Not with passion but with tenderness. With wonder. He was
a cop who had witnessed the darkest side life had to offer, and yet he could
still experience something this pure. This good. This right. The gentleness
of the kiss stole Taylor's breath away. She'd known the moment she'd first
seen Dillon again that she was still wildly attracted to him. But she'd told
herself she could control it. She could get past it. But this was
different. This wasn't passion. This was... She wouldn't allow herself to
form the word in her mind. Because if she did, she'd realize how badly
she wanted it to be true. Had always wanted it. Dillon's hands wove through

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her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth moved over hers, deepening the
kiss. Taylor's heart pounded inside her. The emotions storming through her
were more intense than anything she'd ever experienced. More profound. She
felt dazed, weak, overwhelmed. She felt... loved. Dillon lifted his lips
from hers and Taylor laid her head against his chest. She could feel the
uneven rhythm of his heart, and it thrilled her to know the kiss had affected
him, as well. A deep sigh shuddered through her. "I don't know what to say."
His voice sounded shaken. Taylor pulled back to gaze up at him. His eyes
were soft and clear, his smile tender as he gazed down at her. Taylor felt
everything inside her tremble. "Maybe words aren't necessary." "Maybe
not." When she would have moved away, he pulled her back against him.
"Not just yet," he murmured against her hair. Taylor sighed as she melted
against him. "I can't believe this is happening."-" "It's been a long
time." "How did things go so wrong for us, Dillon? We had
everything--" "Shush. I don't want to talk about the past. Not
now." "But--" "Taylor." His hand swept down her hair. "In a few minutes,
I'm going to have to tell you why I came over here. We're going to be pulled
back into the past whether we want to be or not. But right now, I don't
want to talk. I just want to hold you." Taylor smiled tremulously. "I want
that, too." At that moment, she had never wanted anything as much. BUT an
HOUR LATER, just. as Dillon had promised, the past was very much with them
again. They were in Dillon's car, crossing the Hernando Desoto Bridge
into Arkansas. Behind them, the lights along Riverside Drive shone in
long, wavering beams against the river, while ahead of them the town of
West Memphis crept toward the fringes of cotton and soybean fields, a
rather plain stepsister to the more glamorous and somewhat more dangerous
lady across the river. Taylor turned to Dillon, studying his profile in the
dim light from the dash. His features were set in a determined line, the
tender moments they'd shared earlier long since forgotten. Or at least put
aside for the moment because they had what they had been looking for for days.
A lead. As Dillon exited the freeway and turned down a street that took
them passed the dog track, Taylor's excitement mounted. What if they
were about to learn what really happened the night their baby was born?
What if they were about to discover the truth about their child? "I know what
you're thinking." Dillon spared her a brief glance. "But try not to get your
hopes up, Taylor. This woman may not be able to tell us anything. She may
have had nothing to do with sending you those clippings." Taylor nodded. "I
know. But you don't really believe that, or you wouldn't have brought me with
you. You would have just gone without me." Dillon lifted a hand' from the
steering wheel to massage the back of his neck. "If she is the one who sent
you those articles and called you, then obviously she's trying to tell you
something. I thought she might be more receptive to you than to a Memphis
cop." "I hope you're right," Taylor murmured. Using a flashlight, she
located Lara Mendoza's address on the key map and gave Dillon
further directions. Then she turned and stared out the window, watching
the streetlights fade away as they approached the edge of town. Lara Mendoza
lived in a run-down subdivision that had sprouted in the middle of a soybean
field. The houses all looked alike, though some of them had been maintained
better than others. The neighborhood was probably no more than fifteen years
old, but the line of cars in varying degrees of disrepair parked against the
curbs and the boat trailers hanging out of garages gave the whole area a
disreputable look. They turned down the street Lara Mendoza lived on, and
Dillon slowed to a crawl, checking the faded addresses stenciled on the curbs.
Some of the numbers were hidden by the parked cars, which made the search
a little more difficult, but they finally located the house near the end of
the dead-end street. Dillon parked in the driveway and they got out. Like
the rest of the neighborhood, the house wore an air of neglect. The concrete
walkway to the front door was badly cracked and the flower beds overgrown
with weeds. The curtains were tightly drawn at the front window, but a
thin stream of light showed at the bottom. The night was sticky hot.

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Taylor's cotton blouse clung to her back as they approached the front door.
She wondered if it was the heat or her nerves causing her to perspire
so. Dillon, on the other hand, seemed perfectly calm. He rang the bell, then
quickly checked the mailbox. He pulled out two newspapers. One was a Miami
paper, the other the New York Times. He stuffed them both back into the box,
then rang the bell again. "Maybe she's not home." Taylor glanced around,
uneasy. Voices rose in an argument across the street, a car door slammed and
a dog began to bark. The neighborhood suddenly seemed a very unfriendly place
to be. Taylor shivered in spite of the heat. Dillon reached out and rapped
on the door with his knuckles. Still no answer. "I'm going to have a look
around back," he said. "I'm coming with you." Taylor wasn't about to wait
behind. She followed Dillon around the side of the house, through the wooden
gate that stood open and into the backyard. The property lay in almost
complete darkness, but Taylor could make out the silhouettes of the crepe
myrtles lining the fence and a few pieces of lawn furniture scattered under a
large tree. One of the chairs lay overturned, as if someone had bumped into
it in the dark. The night suddenly seemed unbearably still. Taylor glanced
around. There was no breeze, no moon, no anything to break the deep,
dark silence that fell over the yard. And then off to the left, the bushes
rustled. Taylor turned. At the same instant, something whizzed past her
cheek with a curious humming sound. One of the bricks in the wall of the
house behind her exploded. Before Taylor had time to react, the hum sounded
again and another brick exploded. Then another. "Get down!" Dillon grabbed
her arm and pulled her to the ground, taking cover in the small, recessed area
that served as a patio. He pushed her behind him. "Stay down!" he
whispered, whipping out his own gun. Taylor's heart hammered in her throat.
Someone was shooting at them with a silenced gun. Someone was trying to kill
them! Crouched against the wall of the house, she scanned the darkness for
the would-be killer. The window above her head shattered, showering her with
bits of glass. Taylor screamed; Dillon bit out a curse. He fired into the
darkness, the report of his weapon cracking open the stillness of the night.
Taylor lay on the concrete floor amidst the shards of glass and waited for the
next round of bullets. After a few seconds, when none came, she crawled to
the edge of the patio, her blood pounding in her ears. "Is he gone?" she
whispered. "He's going over the fence," Dillon said. "I'm going after
him." At first Taylor saw nothing, but as she peered through the blackness,
a dark shape took form just before he disappeared over the fence. Dillon was
right behind him, leaping to the top of the fence, then down with a soft grunt
of pain as his feet hit the ground on the other side. Taylor sat down on the
concrete patio in the darkness, wrapping her arms around her legs and
trembling uncontrollably. Someone had tried to kill them, and that someone
was still out there, possibly waiting for Dillon. DILLON FLUNG HIMSELF over
the fence and tried not to think about the white-hot pain shooting through his
knee. He concentrated instead on the dark figure several yards ahead of him,
hurtling through the dark BESS. A trash can went clanging to the ditch. Dogs
barked like crazy in the backyards along the alley. Lights were coming on,
and he heard someone holier, "Is that you out there, Josie? I'll blow your
friggin' head off." Dillon ignored the warning as he plunged on through the
darkness. Another fence was coming up, and he wasn't sure his knee would hold
out. "Stop! Police!" he yelled. The figure stopped long enough to squeeze
off another silenced round, then turned and easily leapt to the top of the
fence, then over. "Damn," Dillon muttered, but he didn't stop. He
concentrated on his steps, tried to time it just right so he could use his
momentum to scale the fence. He was up, over and landing with a soft thud
that sent waves of jagged pain streaking through his knee. He kept going. He
was young, he had stamina, he could do it. He could catch him. They were on
an open street now, sporadically lit by porch lights and street lamps. For
the first time, Dillon got a good look at the shooter. He wore dark pants and
a black, hooded sweat-shirt pulled up over his head. He was tall and slender,
obviously in good physical condition. But he was firing, and Dillon was

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gaining on him. The steps pounded against the pavement. "Police!" Dillon
shouted again, though he hated to use any of his wind power. But if he had to
use his weapon, he wanted to make damned sure he followed procedure. He'd be
in enough hot water as it was, just being here. They were off the main street
again now, cutting through a yard back toward the alley. Another fence was
coming up. Even the suspect had trouble getting over this one. He hung at
the top for a minute, then rolled over, losing precious time. Time Dillon
intended to use to his advantage. As he neared the fence, he took a deep
breath, once again timing his stride. He made it to the top easily, but when
he landed on the ground, his heel caught a rock and turned just enough to
throw him off balance, shifting all his weight to the injured knee. Dillon
cursed as he fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Seconds later a door
slammed somewhere up the street, an engine started up and then a car roared
off into the night. THE MOMENT TAYLOR SAW Dillon limping through Lara
Mendoza's backyard, she got up off the patio and hurried to him. "My God,
you're hurt. What happened? How bad is it?" She took his arm and helped him
toward the house. "I'm okay," Dillon said. "It's just an old injury acting
up, but the suspect got away." "I didn't know what to do." Taylor bit her
lip worriedly "I didn't know whether to call the police or 9-1-1 or...
what." "Obviously no one else did, either," Dillon said dryly. If
he'd expected to hear sirens screaming in the night, he would have been sorely
disappointed. As it was, he felt only relief. "Let's take a look
around." "But... are you sure you're okay?" Taylor said anxiously. "Do
you need to go to the hospital?" "Later. I'd like to find Lara Mendoza
first, find out why the hell someone at her house tried to kill us." "How did
anyone know we would be here?" "I don't know. But I sure as hell intend to
find out." The back door of the house had been left wide open, as if someone
had left in a great hurry. Dillon walked over and drew his gun. "I don't
like this." Taylor glanced over her shoulder. She was still scared out of
her wits from being shot at. From worrying about Dillon. "This always
happens in the movies, and then you go inside and someone is always waiting
for you. We're not going inside, are we?" "What do you think?" He stepped
across the threshold. "Police!" he called again. "Anyone in here?" Taylor
followed close on his heels. The kitchen was dark, but as they walked through
the door into the living area, a lamp shone from one of the end tables,
illuminating the room in a pale, sickly glow. The carpet was green, faded and
worn, and the walls were a dirty beige. A wet bar with a dripping faucet
occupied one corner of the room, while a TV blared from another. Dillon
walked over and turned down the set. Though the furniture had obviously seen
better days, Taylor was surprised to see that the few pieces scattered
throughout the room were of good quality, had once been quite elegant. But
what was even more surprising were the rows of newspapers, head high, stacked
against one whole wall and overflowing into the hallway beyond. Lara Mendoza,
if nothing else, was an avid reader. "I don't think we should be in here,"
Taylor said. But she found herself heading for the newspapers. She rifled
through one of the stacks, amazed to find papers from all over the country,
and some from out of the country. She picked up a Spanish newspaper.
Something had been clipped from the front page. "Look." She held up the
newspaper for Dillon to see, but he'd already disappeared into another
room. Taylor returned the paper to the stack. "Dillon?" "In here." She
followed him down the hallway. Light spilled from an open doorway and she saw
Dillon glance in, then duck inside. When she found him, he was kneeling down,
his back to the door, examining something on the floor. Taylor moved into the
room to get a better look. Dillon said quickly over his shoulder, "Don't come
in here." "What is it?" She walked up behind him, then gasped, her hand
flying to her heart. The woman was lying crumpled on the floor, her knees
bent at an odd angle and one arm flung wide. Her hair was long and black and
matted, and the shapeless blue romper she wore was splashed with red. Above
the elastic band of the romper, blood had recently gushed from the hole
that had been blown in the woman's chest. But the blood poured no

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longer. "Oh, God." Taylor's stomach started to churn. She turned away,
holding her hand to her mouth. "Go back outside," Dillon said. "There's
nothing we can do for her." "She's... dead?" A shudder wracked Taylor, and
for a moment the nausea rose to her throat. Waves of dizziness rolled over
her, but she couldn't move. Couldn't leave the room as Dillon had instructed.
In spite of the terror rushing through her, something held her to the spot, a
kind of perverted fascination that drew her gaze to the floor again. I won't
look at the body, Taylor thought weakly. I can't. But she did. She couldn't
help herself. And as her horrified stare fell on the woman's pale face,
recognition slowly dawned. IT WAS HOURS before they were able to leave West
Memphis The police came, then the coroner, and both Taylor and Dillon were
questioned extensively. Afterward, Taylor sat huddled on the sofa, numb with
fear and shock as the officers moved methodically through the house, searching
for evidence. Although the officers who had responded to the call had seemed
initially hostile toward Dillon--a cop from the big city intruding on
their turf--their attitude had quickly changed to one of grudging
respect, even though Dillon was several years younger. But the air
of competence, of quiet confidence, that surrounded him commanded
the officers' respect, and Taylor saw the investigator assigned to the
case defer to Dillon's opinion more than once. A thrill of pride raced
through her. She had always felt a measure of regret and guilt that he had
dropped out of law school, had thought of his career in law enforcement as a
second choice for him. But it occurred to her now that Dillon liked being a
cop and he was good at it. Very good. He caught her staring at him and walked
over to her and sat down. Grimacing, he straightened his leg as best he
could. "We're almost through here." He glanced over his shoulder where the
body, encased in a black plastic bag, was being wheeled toward the front
door. Taylor shuddered, averting her gaze. "I can't believe she's dead.
She was our only lead." "At least now we know exactly what we're dealing
with," Dillon said. "If someone was willing to commit murder to shut her up,
they very well could have done it twice." Taylor glanced up. "Then you think
Brad was murdered, too?" "I wouldn't bet against it. You said Lara Mendoza
was one of the nurses in the delivery room with you the night our baby was
born. She was also the one who handed you the newspaper clipping at Brad's
funeral, and probably the one who called you. She knew something, and she
must have been trying to tell you." "But why not go to the police, if she
suspected Brad was murdered? And if she knew about my baby being stolen, why
wait until ten years later to get in touch with me?" Dillon shrugged.
"Brad's death probably triggered her. She figured out it was murder, and
decided her silence might not be enough to keep her alive anymore. Or maybe
she'd been blackmailing someone all these years and the well suddenly ran dry.
It appears she once had some money." Taylor nodded. "I noticed that, too.
But to keep a secret like that for almost ten years and then to suddenly send
me those obscure messages. It just seems so odd." "It might have been a
simple matter of her conscience finally getting the better of her," Dillon
said. "We'll never know for sure now. But at least we can pretty much assume
we're on the right track. Both Brad and Lara Mendoza were at one time
connected to the Westcott Clinic and to you, and now they're both
dead." Taylor shivered at his words. Two people once connected to her
were dead. Would she be next? "Do you think Lara's death will
warrant reopening the investigation into Brad's death?" "We'll know the
answer to that soon enough." Dillon inwardly winced. There was no way in
hell he could keep his participation in the events that had unfolded this
evening a secret from Lieutenant McCardy. The West Memphis P.D. had already
asked for cooperation, which meant they'd have to be brought up to speed on
the Robinson case and the possible connection to the Mendoza homicide. Lamar
Jackson would take over, and just how much help he would be willing to give
was anyone's guess. One thing was for sure, though. After tonight, Dillon
wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the case. He'd consider himself damned
lucky if he didn't get suspended. He said none of this to Taylor, however.

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She looked as though she'd had about all she could handle for one night. He
stood and drew her to her feet. "Come on. Let's get you home." For a
moment, she leaned against him and Dillon could feel her trembling beneath the
protective arm he put around her. He wished to hell they could turn back the
clock and it could be several hours earlier, when he'd stood in her house,
holding her as if he'd never let her go. But a lot had happened in the hours
since they'd left Taylor's house. They'd been shot at. They'd witnessed
death. They'd been the preliminary suspects in Lara Mendoza's murder. And
Dillon had a bad feeling that their troubles were just beginning. Chapter
Fourteen. Taylor sat in front of the Westcott mansion the next day, staring
up at the elegant facade. When she'd learned earlier that Alisha was
absent from school, that the Westcotts hadn't even bothered to call in,
Taylor had panicked. What if something had happened to the little girl?
What if Dr. Westcott had vented his anger at Taylor on his daughter? What if
they were taking Alisha and leaving the country? In spite of Dr. Westcott's
warnings, or maybe because of them, Taylor had driven over to the mansion
right after school. To her surprise, Lorraine Westcott agreed to see her.
She pulled through the security gates and parked in front of the house. The
same solemn young man ushered her in and led her into the morning
room. Lorraine was already seated, drink in hand. She tried to rise
when Taylor entered the room, but couldn't quite manage it. She fell
back into her chair, smoothing a loose tendril of blond hair from
her forehead. For a moment, Lorraine's eyes seemed to clear and harden as
they focused on Taylor. "I knew you'd be back. I told Elliot you were not
the type to give up." "It seems you were right, my dear." Dr. Westcott had
the uncanny ability to materialize from nowhere. Both Lorraine and Taylor
jumped at the sound of his voice. Apparently he'd just come in. Matthew
appeared at his shoulder and Westcott handed him his briefcase. Then he
turned back to Taylor. "You don't give up, do you, Mrs. Robinson? What will
I have to do to keep you away from my daughter?" "I don't understand why you
feel you need to keep her away from me," Taylor challenged. "I have her best
interests at heart. Surely you know that. I don't understand why you feel so
threatened by me." "Threatened?" He laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound.
"You come into my home, disrupt my household, upset my wife and daughter. You
are an annoyance to me, Mrs. Robinson. No more, no less." "Alisha wasn't at
school today," Taylor said. "Is she all right?" "That's none of your
concern." Before Taylor had time to respond, she saw a shadow at the
doorway. Alisha stood just outside, hugging the doorframe. Taylor rose when
she saw the little girl and smiled. "Hello, Alisha. I've been worried about
you." The little girl straightened and reluctantly joined them in the sitting
room. She glanced at Dr. Westcott as she crossed the floor to stand
beside Taylor. "Say goodbye to Mrs. Robinson," Dr. Westcott said coldly.
"You won't be seeing her again." Alisha lifted her gaze to Taylor's.
"Goodbye," she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. "Goodbye, Alisha."
Taylor's throat knotted. It was all she could do not to grab the child up and
spirit her away from this cold mausoleum of a home. Instead, she glanced at
Lorraine, hoping she would offer some measure of comfort. But Lorraine seemed
to be in some drunken haze. She stared at Alisha's back, her expression
frozen. "You may go back to your room now, Alisha," Dr. Westcott
said. Alisha turned obediently and started toward the door. Halfway
there, she whirled in defiance. "Alisha!" She ignored her father's stern
admonition and ran straight to Taylor. Taylor reacted instinctively. She
opened her arms and then wrapped them around the little girl. "Don't forget
me," Alisha whispered. "Please don't forget me." "Never," Taylor promised,
hugging her tightly as tears spilled down her cheeks. ** ** ** THE SQUAD
ROOM was abuzz with activity as the evening shift began to arrive, but somehow
in the milieu, McCardy managed to spot Dillon before he could get away. The
lieutenant opened the door of his office and bellowed across the room,
"Reeves! In here, now!" Curious eyes followed him as he made his way across
the room. The events of last evening had spread like wildfire throughout

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the department, and now everyone was waiting to see what form of disciplinary
action--at best a reprimand, at worst a suspension--would be taken. Dillon
sat down in McCardy's office and waited. The lieutenant glanced up from his
paperwork. "Mind telling me what happened last night?" "It's all in the
report, Lieutenant." "I doubt that. Just what in hell did you think you were
doing?" "I got a tip yesterday afternoon from someone who works at the
Westcott Clinic. She gave me the name of a nurse who was on duty the
night Taylor Robinson gave birth. She's the nurse--Lara Mendoza--spoke with a
Spanish accent. I figured there was a good chance Mendoza could have been the
woman who has been sending Mrs. Robinson those newspaper clippings and the
same one who called her, claiming Brad Robinson was murdered." McCardy glared
at him. "Did I or did I not make myself clear on that point when we last
talked?" "You did, but when she called--" "You should have gone straight to
Lamar. We have procedure around here whether you like to follow it or not. I
can't cover for you this time, Dillon." Dillon looked at him in alarm. "What
do you mean?" "I mean this. Complaints of harassment from outside sources
have been lodged against you. Internal Affairs has been called in." Dillon
swore. "Who lodged the complaints? Westcott?" "I don't know," McCardy said,
"and that's the truth. But I do know you've gotten in way over your head with
this thing. You're playing with some pretty powerful people, Dillon." "So
what you're saying is that someone with connections is manipulating the
department. I never thought you'd be a party to this, Lieutenant," Dillon
said. McCardy just shook his head. "I don't have a choice. We all have
to play by the rules, Dillon. Even you." "So what are you saying? I'm being
disciplined? Suspended pending a formal investigation?" McCardy withdrew a
piece of paper from his top drawer and laid it on the desk. "I'm afraid it's
more serious than that." More serious than a suspension? For the first time
since he'd entered McCardy's office, Dillon began to feel real fear. What the
hell was going on here? "Here are the results of your latest physical,"
McCardy was saying. "They came in this morning." Reluctantly Dillon glanced
down. He didn't want to read what was on that paper, but certain words leapt
out at him. Words like irreparable damage and unfavorable prognosis. His
heart banged against his chest. He glanced up at McCardy, who was frowning,
then forced himself to go back and read the whole report. When he was
finished, he still couldn't believe it. "This has to be a mistake." McCardy
just shook his head. He couldn't quite meet Dillon's eyes. "There's no
mistake." "I'm being forced out, just like that." McCardy shrugged. "Early
retirement due to injuries sustained in the line of duty. Consider yourself
lucky. At least this way, you get all your benefits and your pension. If
you'd been suspended--" "I'd have gotten to tell my side of the story,"
Dillon said bitterly. McCardy shrugged again. "I'm sorry it came to this.
You're a good cop, Dillon. A damned good investigator. But this time, you
leaned on the wrong person. It happens." "Not to me it doesn't." Dillon got
up and placed his hands on McCardy's desk, leaning forward. "This isn't over.
You can tell whoever hand-delivered you that. report that I'm not giving up.
I'll get to the bottom of this case, one way or another. I'll find out who's
behind this, and when I do--" "When you do," McCardy said grimly, "we might
be fishing your body out of the river." THE PHONE WAS RINGING when Dillon
walked into his apartment that night. He set down the box of personal
belongings he'd cleared out of his desk and picked up the receiver.
"Hello." Taylor said, "Neal just called and told me what happened." "Word
travels fast," he muttered. There was a slight hesitation, then she said,
"Dillon, I'm so sorry." He rubbed his fingertips over his eyes. "Don't be.
It's not your fault." "I feel as if it is. If I hadn't dragged you into all
this--" "Taylor, don't." "I want to see you, Dillon. Can I come over?" He
stared out the window at the darkened street. "I don't think that would be a
good idea. I'm not very good company right now." "Then we won't talk. I'll
fix you some dinner. We can watch TV... I just don't want you to be alone
tonight." He sighed wearily, rubbing the back of his neck. "All right. I'll
come over there, then." "Dillon?" "Yeah?" There was another pause, then

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Taylor said softly, "Hurry." It was enough. SHE MET HIM at the door, dressed
in a long flowing skirt and a soft short-sleeved sweater that clung to her
curves. Dillon took one look at her and folded her in his arms. "God, I
needed this. I didn't realize how badly." "So did I," Taylor whispered
against his shoulder. "I don't know how I survived ten years without your
arms around me." Dillon felt the same way, though at times it was still hard
to forget that another man's arms had been around her during those years.
He closed his eyes, willing the images away. He didn't want to think
about anyone or anything at that moment but Taylor and the way her body
felt against his. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly. "No.
Right now I.just want to kiss you. And kiss you... She wrapped her arms
around his neck, and Dillon felt his breath suspend somewhere inside him as
she molded her body to his and parted her lips. His tongue danced over hers,
and she gave a soft sigh that sounded highly erotic to Dillon. "I've been
waiting a long time to do this," he murmured against
her mouth. "Dillon--" "It's inevitable, Taylor. We both know it." She
didn't say a word. Instead, she pressed her mouth to his. Blood pounded in
Dillon's head. He couldn't believe the moment was here. Taylor had been a
part of his past for so long and now, suddenly, here she was, in his arms,
kissing him as though she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Which was
impossible. No one could want anyone as much as he wanted Taylor. He'd
always wanted her, and he knew now that he always would. He rained soft
kisses over her face, and she shuddered, nipping at his neck. Her fingers
stole to the buttons on his shirt and began to undo them. As her hands
skimmed over his bare chest, Dillon's blood pumped faster, hotter. When she
pushed his shirt down his arms, he shrugged out of it and flung it toward a
corner. Then he kissed her again, their bodies straining together in a frenzy
of desire. Dillon pulled away long enough to tug her sweater and
lacy camisole upward, over her head and arms to join his shirt on the
floor. He backed her against the wall, planting his hands on either side of
her face as he captured her mouth again in a kiss that became as desperate as
it was passionate. His hands moved downward, finding her breasts, and her
gasp of excitement electrified him. He watched, impossibly aroused, as her
head fell back wantonly and her eyes closed in abandon. "From the moment you
walked into my apartment..." His breath was short and fast. "I've wanted
this. I told myself I didn't but--" "I know." Taylor clung to him, pressing
herself against the long, hard length of him. "I wanted you, too, but I was
scared..." She arched against him as his thumbs drew circles around her
breasts. And then his mouth--his hot, greedy mouth--re-placed his hands,
and Taylor thought she would die from the thrill of it. Waves of
ecstasy washed over her and all she could think was the one word She'd said
to him on the phone earlier. Hurry. He unfastened her skirt and the silk
billowed around her feet. Her fingers dug into his broad shoulders when he
slid down, trailing hungry kisses down her stomach. Then he straightened to
capture her mouth again, sending her spinning wildly out of
control. Desperate, she tugged at the buttons on his jeans. Her fingers
fumbled and he reached down to help her. Then he was lifting her, wrapping
her legs around him, settling her against him in a way that was
exquisitely intimate. Taylor heard him groan as she took him into her. She
saw his eyes, dark and dangerous, fixed on hers as he began to move. And then
she closed her eyes tightly as the passion swept her away. SOMETIME LATER
they had moved into her bedroom, and now they lay tangled in her sheets. The
evening had become night, starlit and balmy. A mild breeze fluttered the
curtains at the open window. Taylor lay on her side, the warm, smoothness of
her back pressed against his chest. Dillon's arm curled around her, grazing
her breasts, and he felt his body immediately respond. He buried his face in
the scented SILKINESS of her hair, remembering the frenzied moments of
their lovemaking, and he realized how desperately he wanted her again. But
instead of waking her, Dillon pulled away and sat up. Moonlight pooled on her
pillow, silvering her hair and turning her skin to porcelain. She looked like

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a doll, a china figurine that was beautiful to look at but too fragile to
touch, too precious to possess." Especially for a man like him. He got up
and drew on his jeans, then went to stand at the open window, staring out.
He'd thought making love to Taylor would exorcise his demons. That having her
again would prove to him his memories of her had been exaggerated and
unrealistic. But, if anything, their lovemaking had been better than he
remembered. In the past he'd always held her as if she were a fairy-tale
princess, someone he could admire from afar but never really have. But
tonight, in his arms, she'd been a woman, nothing more, nothing less. And
therein lay the danger. If he started to believe there might actually be a
chance for them. That he might be able to have her, he was only fooling
himself. He was a man without prospects. A law school dropout, an ex-cop
with a banged-up knee. He didn't exactly have a lot to offer and it was
time to face the grim reality that he would never be able to give Taylor
the kind of life she'd always been accustomed to. What kind of fool would be
caught in the same trap twice? He bent to rest his hands on the windowsill.
Why was it that every time Taylor Walsh entered his life, trouble seemed to
follow? He wasn't blaming her. He'd made his own choices. But Dillon
couldn't help remembering what he'd told her that night so long ago. You and
I... we were just never meant to be. They came from two different worlds.
And if he hadn't been aware of how disparate those worlds had been when he'd
first fallen for her, he'd soon learned that lesson the hard way. Dillon
lifted his hand and pushed back the filmy curtain as he peered out into the
darkness. But he didn't see the moonlight or the shadows, the dancing
silhouettes of tree limbs in the breeze. What he saw was Miranda Walsh's face
when she'd told him that unless he left town, unless he had no further contact
with her daughter, she would ruin not only his chances for becoming lawyer,
but she would bring down his whole family, as well. And Dillon had known she
could do it. Miranda served on the board of the bank where Dillon's father
had done business for years. With one phone call, Miranda could have seen to
it that Earl Reeves never got another loan. Without a loan, there would have
been no crop. Without a crop, no way to pay the bills or put food on the
table. If it hadn't been for Taylor's betrayal--one he now knew had been
part of the elaborate deception--Dillon might have stood up to
Taylor's mother. But after he'd seen her in Brad Robinson's arms the
morning after the Christmas dance, when it had seemed perfectly obvious
that she'd spent the night with him, there hadn't been any point in
fighting any longer. So Miranda had won, and Dillon had left town. He'd
thought Taylor was out of his life for good. Then one day, out of the blue,
she'd shown up at his door and told him they had a child together, a powerful
bond that would link them together forever. A child that perhaps they had no
right to claim. Dillon didn't know how long he'd been standing there, lost in
the past, when he heard Taylor rouse. He turned toward her, feeling the
familiar tightening in his gut. She looked so soft and vulnerable, completely
feminine with her hair tousled from their lovemaking and the cover slipping
just enough to reveal her bare shoulders and a hint of something more. "I had
the most wonderful dream," she said, smiling. "What did you dream?" "I
dreamed about you and me... and a little girl. Our little girl. We were all
together and we were so happy." Dillon turned slowly to face her. "But it
was just a dream." Taylor's smile faded. Her gaze took in the fact that he
was dressed. At least partially. "What's wrong? Why are you up?" Dillon
shrugged. He had no wish to hurt her, but he could see the soft vulnerability
in her eyes, making him dread saying what he knew had to be said. Taylor sat
up, hugging the sheets to her chest as she studied him in the moonlight.
"You're already regretting tonight, aren't you?" He took a deep breath. "No.
Tonight was wonderful. You were wonderful. It's just--" "You still haven't
forgiven me for not telling you about the baby." Her voice was flat,
emotionless, but her eyes... those incredible eyes revealed her pain. "It's
more complicated than that." He turned away. "I don't know if we can trust
our emotions right now, Taylor. I'm not sure that what we're feeling isn't

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just... memories." "I see." When he glanced backed at her, she was still
hugging her knees, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright in the
moonlight. He scrubbed his face with his hands. "I'm not sure if any of this
is right." "What do you mean?" "The dream you had. Don't you understand?
It's all part of the fantasy. You, me, our child. It's not real. We may
never be all together--not in the way you want. If our child is still
alive..." He blew out a long breath as he gazed out the window. "If our
child is still alive, Taylor, then he or she already has a family." "We've
been through this already." "I know. But I saw the look in your eyes just
now when you talked about the dream you had, about all of us being together.
And I guess I'm wondering if, when the time comes and we do find our child,
you'll really be able to walk away." Taylor wanted to assure him that her
feelings hadn't changed. That all she wanted was the truth, and to make sure
their child was all right. That he or she was happy and healthy. But now...
Now she wasn't so sure she would be able to walk away. And why should she?
The child was hers, taken from her through no fault of her own. Why should
she have to give her baby up a second time? "You're assuming our child has
been with a wonderful, loving family all these years, but what if that isn't
the case?" Taylor asked softly. "What if our child has been badly neglected,
maybe even abused? What if he needs us, Dillon?" "And what if he doesn't?
Will you be able to walk away?" He sat down on the bed and grasped her arms.
"Will you?" Tears filled her eyes as she gazed up at him. "I don't know,"
she whispered. "I don't know." His eyes hardened. "You have to think about
what this means, Taylor. We both do. "Uprooting a child from the only family
he's ever known, dragging him through a long, ugly custody battle--" "Is it
wrong to want to hold my child in my arms?" she cried, the tears spilling
down her cheeks. "Is it wrong to want to have him with me, to watch him grow
up, to see him with children of his own someday? I didn't give my child away,
Dillon. He was taken from me. Don't I have any rights in this?" "If you're
asking me to help you take our child away from the only family he's ever
known, I won't do it, Taylor. I won't help you." "Then I guess I know where
that leaves us, don't I?" she said sadly. Chapter Fifteen. Taylor felt as
if her heart were breaking when she drove into work the next morning. She
told herself it didn't matter what Dillon said. She would find her child with
or without his help, and she would hold that child in her arms. And yet a
small niggling voice in the back of her mind warned her that maybe Dillon was
right. The child's well-being was all that mattered.. But she was the
mother. Didn't she have rights? She hadn't willingly given up her baby. The
child had been taken from her. Nine precious years had been stolen from her.
Taylor couldn't bear the thought of losing even more time. She'd lost Dillon
and her baby once before. Was she doomed to suffer both losses all over
again? THE PHONE WAS RINGING when Taylor walked in the door after work.
She flung her purse and keys aside and hurried to answer it. "Hello?" "It's
Dillon." A long silence followed, during which time Taylor could hear
the pounding of her heart in her ears. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed,
wishing the mere sound of his voice didn't have such a profound effect on
her. "Taylor? Are you there?" She moistened her lips with her tongue.
"Yes, I'm here. What do you want, Dillon?" Another pause, as if the bitter
edge to her voice had taken him by surprise. Then, "We've got another
lead. I'm coming by to get you." "But what--" The phone clicked in her
ear. HALF AN HOUR LATER they were pulling into the parking area of
the Westcott Clinic. Taylor stared at the pink-brick building, softly lit by
the dying sun, and myriad memories stormed through her. She remembered the
day Brad had brought her here, how scared she'd been for her unborn child, how
guilty she'd felt for wishing it had been Dillon with her instead of her
husband. And now Dillon was with her. Except... not really. Since last
night, there was barrier between them, a gulf Taylor feared might never
he bridged. She glanced at his silent profile. His gaze met hers, his dark
eyes reflecting the sadness, the uncertainty, that she herself was
feeling. Taylor longed to have him hold her in his arms, whisper to her

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that everything would be all right, but she knew he wouldn't. Because
things might never be right between them. Without a word, they both got out
of the car and climbed the steps to the clinic. Allison St. James met them
in the luxurious lobby and escorted them personally back to her office, where
she closed and locked the door behind them. Then she picked up the phone and
told the switchboard to hold all her calls. Having done all that, she folded
her arms on top of her desk and gazed at Dillon, who had sat down in one of
the two leather chairs opposite the desk. Taylor saw the look the two of them
exchanged, and felt a tiny prick of jealousy. Allison St. James was a very
attractive woman with her dark hair, creamy complexion and expressive brown
eyes. Eyes she couldn't seem to take off of Dillon. Almost reluctantly
Taylor sat down beside Dillon, and Allison's gaze shifted to her. "Mrs.
Robinson," she said. "I don't believe we've formally met. I'm Allison St.
James." "Taylor Robinson." She leaned forward and the two women shook
hands. "I guess you're wondering why I called you," she said, sitting back
in her chair. Dillon looked perfectly at ease as he sprawled his long legs in
front of him. "You said you had something for me." The innuendo in her smile
made Taylor's jealousy strengthen. "I do. Something I think you'll agree was
worth the drive out here." She unlocked her desk drawer and pulled out a
folder, then handed it to Dillon. "It's a list of patients who were admitted
to the Westcott Clinic a few days prior and subsequent to the night in
question." Dillon accepted the file but he didn't open it. He said instead,
"Why? Why are you doing this for us?" Allison shrugged. She looked as if
she were about to make a flippant retort, then her expression changed. Her
eyes clouded, her mouth hardened and she suddenly looked ten years older. "I
had a baby that died, too," she said, her eyes glittering with grief. "Only
there was no mistake. I was there when he died. I held him in my arms--"
She broke off and looked away, struggling with her emotions. "My husband and
I split up after that. I'd give anything to have a second chance with both of
them. There's no hope for me, but you two..." You two. The words echoed
inside Taylor's head. Allison straightened, as if physically shoving the
memories aside, and said, "According to the records, there were two other
women who gave birth at the clinic the same night you did. Melanie Baker and
Sara McHenry. Both had healthy boys." Dillon finally looked at Taylor. "Do
either of those names ring a bell?" Taylor thought for a moment. "Baker is a
pretty common name and McHenry..." She shrugged. "It's been almost ten
years. I'm not sure I'd remember any of the other patients even if I met them
in person. But I was kept pretty isolated, primarily because Dr. Westcott
said he was worried about my blood pressure. I had to have complete bed
rest." "The social security numbers of both the women are in the
files," Allison said. "They shouldn't be too hard to track down. I
also checked the personnel files. In addition to Lara Mendoza, there
was another labor and delivery nurse assigned to Mrs. Robinson that
night. It was Doris Rafferty." Dillon looked up in surprise. "I met her the
day I was out here before. She escorted me out of your office, as a matter of
fact." Allison nodded. "That was her." "I got the impression she was almost
fiercely loyal to Dr. Westcott," Dillon said. "If he asked her to do
something--" "She'd do it," Allison agreed. She nodded toward the file. "I
checked backward, several days prior to the birth of Mrs. Robinson's baby,
just to make sure I didn't overlook anything. I came across a name
that jumped out at me. Lorraine Westcott was admitted to the clinic on
the same day you were, Mrs. Robinson. She had a little girl two days before
you went into labor. She was still at the clinic the night you gave
birth." Stunned, Taylor turned to stare at Dillon. "Dillon--" He met her
gaze. "I'm almost afraid to say what I'm thinking." "Then don't," Dillon
said harshly. "We don't have a shred of proof." "I don't need proof," Taylor
said. With trembling fingers she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I've thought about this before, but I pushed it to the back of my mind
because I didn't think it was possible. But you've seen us together, Dillon.
There's always been a bond between Alisha and me. I've never quite understood

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it, never been able to explain it. Until now." Dillon tore his fingers
through his hair as he got up to pace away from her. "I could say the same
thing about the little boy who lives down the hall from me. He needs me, too,
but that doesn't mean he's my son. We have to keep an open mind, Taylor. At
this point, we can't afford to close ourselves off to any possibility." "Then
don't," she said softly. "Don't close yourself off to the possibility that
Alisha Westcott could be our daughter." DORIS RAFFERTY LIVED in a section of
East Memphis known as Parkway Village, not far from Dillon's apartment on
Perkins. The house was probably at least thirty years old, but the lawn was
well-kept and the trim work and shutters looked freshly painted. A basketball
hoop had been mounted over the garage door, and a skateboard lay upside down
on the sidewalk. As Taylor and Dillon approached the front door, someone
yelled at them from the street. They both turned to see a boy on a bicycle
racing up the driveway, missing Dillon's car by a hair. He screeched to a
halt on the sidewalk beside them, and Taylor stared at him in shock.
"Nicholas?" Nicholas Baker got off his bike and let it drop with a loud
clatter to the pavement. "Am I in trouble? Am I being expelled or arrested
or something?" He threw Dillon a wary glance, but he squared his shoulders,
ready to face whatever might come. Not for the first time, Taylor admired his
spunk. "No, nothing like that," she assured him. "We want to talk to
your grandmother. Is she home?" His gaze shifted from her to Dillon, then
back to her again. A kind of fierce protectiveness came over his features.
"She don't like company on her day off. She needs to rest." Taylor knelt and
placed her hands on Nicholas's shoulders. "I understand. Your grandmother
works hard, doesn't she? But we really need to talk to her. Her name's
Doris, isn't it? Doris Rafferty?" "Yeah, that's her." The wary look on
Nicholas's face turned to fear as he studied Taylor. "Is Gram in
trouble?" Taylor shook her head. "No. Dillon and I just want to ask her
some questions. I promise, Nicholas. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you
or your grandmother. You trust me, don't you?" He hesitated for a moment,
then nodded. "Okay. I'll go get her." He opened the front door and motioned
for them to enter. "Wait down here," he ordered. After a few moments, he
came running to the top of the stairs, his eyes bulging with terror. "It's
Gram!" he shouted. "I can't get her to wake up." Dillon took the stairs two
at a time with Taylor close behind him. When they pushed into Doris Rafferty's
bedroom, the sight that met Taylor's eyes sent her heart racing with
fear. Doris Rafferty lay on top of the bed, fully dressed, her right
hand curled around her left arm. Her face was colorless, the lines
and creases standing out sharply in contrast. Pills lay scattered across the
nightstand top while a glass lay overturned on the floor. Nicholas ran and
knelt beside the bed. "Gram," he whimpered. "Don't die, Gram." Dillon
quickly bent over the bed, checking Doris's vital signs. He listened to her
heart, then cleared her mouth and nose to begin CPR. "Call 9-1-1," he told
Taylor. : . She did as she was told, then came back to pull Nicholas out of
the way. He resisted her, but Taylor said firmly, "Let him do his job,
Nicholas. Let him help your grandmother." Doris's eyes were closed and Taylor
could see no sign of life. Not so much as a flutter. But Dillon didn't stop.
He worked tirelessly until the sirens sounded outside, and even then he
continued until the emergency medical technicians practically shoved him out
of the way. Then EMTS took control, continuing the CPR. As soon as they had
a faint heartbeat, they got her onto a stretcher and loaded her into
the ambulance, starting an IV drip immediately. Nicholas clung to
Taylor, fighting back tears "Where are you' taking her?" she asked. "Mercy
General," one of the technicians told them. "I want to go with her," Nicholas
begged. All the bravado had drained from his face, and now he looked like
what he was--a scared, lonely little boy. Taylor's heart went out to him.
She knelt and gripped his shoulders. "Your grandmother is in good hands, but
the technicians have to have room to do their job. We don't want to get in
their way." "Then take me to the hospital," he pleaded. "In a little while.
Come back into the house. Tell me who I can call to come and stay with

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you?" "There's no one." He turned away, trying to hide the tears running
down his pale cheeks. "Just me and Gram." Taylor exchanged a look with
Dillon. Dillon hesitated, then put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Where are
your parents?" he asked gently. Nicholas wiped his face fiercely. "My
mother's dead. My old man took off before I was born. It's like I said.
There's no one here but me and Gram." "Okay." Dillon squeezed his shoulder.
"You let me take care of everything, okay? I know someone you can stay with
tonight while Taylor and I go to the hospital to check on your grandmother.
He's got a son about your age. You like basketball? Yeah? Well, you two
should get along great, then." Dillon left them alone in the kitchen while he
went to make some phone calls. When he came back in, Taylor glanced up
anxiously. "It's all set," he said. "Neal said we could bring him right
over." "Who's Neal?" Nicholas asked suspiciously. "He used to be my
partner." "He's a cop?" Dillon grinned. "Yeah. But he plays a mean game of
round ball." "Does he--can he do... what you did upstairs?" Nicholas asked
hesitantly. "You mean CPR?" "I mean the way you saved my gram's life," he
said. He gazed up at Dillon, his eyes brimming with admiration. "I didn't
think I liked cops, but... you're not so bad." "Thanks." Dillon held out
his hand. The two solemnly shook hands, and Taylor felt her throat knot
with emotion. She could see what a struggle Nicholas was putting up to
hide his fear. Suddenly she wanted to take him into her arms and hold
him, comfort him, but she also knew he was dangerously close to breaking down.
If she made him cry in front of Dillon, someone he'd obviously come to respect
a great deal, he might never forgive her. As if sensing what she might do,
Nicholas straightened his shoulders. "when can I go to the hospital?" "Soon.
But for right now, Taylor and I will go stay with your grandmother," Dillon
promised. "And you have my word that we'll call you just as soon as we know
something." Nicholas nodded. He stared up at Dillon, and this time he didn't
try to hide his terror. "If Gram dies..." He swallowed hard. Taylor put
her arm around his thin little shoulders and felt him tremble. "If Gram dies,
what'll happen to me?" THE EMERGENCY ROOM at Mercy General was the usual
chaos. Taylor and Dillon could find out very little from the nurse at the
desk, only that Doris Rafferty was still unconscious and her condition was
being carefully monitored in the coronary care unit. "Should we call
Nicholas?" Taylor asked, accepting the cup of coffee Dillon handed her. She
took a sip and grimaced. "Let's wait until we know something. No sense
worrying the poor kid more than he already is." Dillon sat down beside Taylor
and sipped his coffee. "I couldn't believe it when I saw Nicholas tonight. I
had no idea Doris Rafferty was his grandmother. When I spoke with her on the
phone, she told me her name was Baker, Kay Baker, and she said Nicholas's
parents were out of the country. That's why they couldn't come in and meet
with me. Why did she lie to me? ' "I don't know." Dillon set his coffee
cup aside. "I guess we'll have to wait until she regains consciousness to
tell us." But Doris didn't regain consciousness. She'd suffered a
massive coronary and the prognosis did not look good. After several hours,
Dillon said, "Look, you may as well go home. There's no sense both of us
staying here." ' But Taylor wouldn't budge. "I'm staying. If she regains
consciousness, she might be able to talk to us." "I'll go see if I can find a
doctor who can tell us something," Dillon said. "You want to come?" "No, you
go on. I'd like to call Neal and check on Nicholas." After Dillon left,
Taylor walked around the corner of the waiting room to the bank of pay Phones
lining one wall. She punched the number Dillon had given to her and listened
as the phone rang once, twice, then on the third ring, someone reached over
her shoulder and disconnected the call. Thinking it was Dillon, Taylor turned
and said, "Hey, why did you do--" A doctor wearing green scrubs, mask and cap
stood staring down at her with eyes that were cold and gray, completely
without emotion. As recognition filled Taylor with terror, she whirled to
run, but the man grabbed her and pulled her roughly toward him. His hand
clapped over her mouth, and as Taylor struggled to free herself, she felt the
sharp jab of a needle in her arm. Chapter Sixteen. "My baby! What's wrong

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with my baby?" "It's okay," said the nurse with the Spanish accent. Lara
Mendoza smiled down at her. "Everything's okay." The other nurse appeared at
Taylor's side. "Hold her, "Doris Rafferty ordered, and then Taylor felt the
sharp prick of a needle in her hip. "No! Don't put me under. My baby--" She
had to make sure her baby was all right. "Oh, Dillon, help me, "she
screamed. As if from a distance, she heard the sound of a baby's cry and
then people whispering beside her. A woman's voice, anxious and distraught,
"If anyone ever finds out what we did tonight--" "They won't, "said a
familiar male voice. "We've covered our tracks. The records have all been
changed. Who's going to tell? Doris? She's got what she wants. Lara?
Bought and paid for. That leaves you and me, babe..." As the dream faded
away, Taylor's lids fluttered open. The first thing she became aware of was
the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. As her senses slowly returned, she
felt her terror returning. Images rushed through her mind. The pay phone.
The doctor. The prick of a needle in her arm. She gazed at the gurney she
was lying on with dawning horror. What had he done to her? Taylor tried to
get up, but her arms and legs were too weak. The walls were moving around
her, and she closed her eyes tightly, trying to stop the motion. When she
opened them again, she realized it wasn't the Walls that were moving. It was
her. The gurney was being pushed down a long hallway. She tried to speak,
but her words came Out in a kind of whispered croak. "Don't try to talk," a
man advised behind her. The Sound of his voice sent terror spiraling through
Taylor again. She recognized that voice. "You don't want to strain
yourself." Taylor lifted her head slightly. In front of her, elevator doors
slid open, and she was pushed inside. Another doctor--also dressed in
scrubs and mask--entered the car. A bell sounded as a floor was pushed,
and the doors slid closed again. Taylor felt detached, surreal. This
couldn't be happening. She lifted her head again to gaze around and saw that
both doctors were staring down at her. Green eyes and gray eyes. A woman and
a man. Slowly the man with the gray eyes reached up to take off his
mask. "You're a fighter," Sergeant Jackson said with admiration. "I'll
give you that. I still owe you for a cracked rib you gave me that night
in the boiler room." "Why?" Taylor managed to whisper. He shrugged. "Let
her tell you." "Fool," the woman rasped. "Keep your mouth shut." ' "Why?"
Jackson asked. "In a few minutes, it'll all be over, anyway." The woman
jerked at her mask, and Taylor gasped. Dr. Forster gazed down at her with
those cold, green eyes. "Yes," she said. "In a few minutes, it will all be
over. Finally." She took out a needle and a small vial and carefully filled
the syringe. Taylor was beyond terror now. She couldn't believe what she
was hearing. Sergeant Jackson and Dr. Forster were going to kill her?
But why? Why? "Yes," Dr. Forster continued as she laid the syringe on the
gurney. She fished in her pocket again and this time withdrew a pistol with
a silencer attached. She leveled it at Jackson. "In a few minutes it will
all be over and no one will ever know." Then she pulled the trigger. "what
the hell--" Jackson looked down in disbelief at the red circle forming above
his heart. Slowly his gaze lifted. "You said... you loved me..." he
gasped. "And you were stupid enough to believe it," Dr. Forster said.
The weapon spit again and another circle of red appeared on his coat.
This time he said nothing. His eyes rolled back as he silently crumpled
to the floor. "Fool." Dr. Forster gazed down at Jackson in disgust. Then
she shifted her gaze to Taylor. "And now it's your turn. I've waited a long
time for this." Taylor shook her head. "why?" she whispered. "Why are you
doing this?" "Because you've gotten too close to the truth," Dr. Forster
said angrily. "You and that police detective. You just wouldn't leave things
alone, would you? Brad was the one who stole your baby, you fool. All those
years you were married to him, sharing his bed, he was the one." Taylor
closed her eyes. Voices inside her head were screaming to be heard. "We've
covered our tracks. The records have all been changed. Who's going to tell?
Doris? She's got what she wants. Lara? Bought and paid for. That leaves
you and me, babe..." It was Brad's voice she'd heard as she was coming out of

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the anesthesia. Taylor had thought she'd been dreaming. When she'd opened her
eyes, his face had been swathed in concern and sympathy and grief. And it had
all been a lie. Tears streamed down Taylor's face. "He couldn't stand the
thought of raising Dillon Reeves's child, you see. He thought if he could get
rid of the baby, all your ties to Dillon would be severed. He thought you
would love him. But you can't make someone love you," Dr. Forster said
bitterly. "I learned that lesson the hard way." "You... helped him?" "I
was in love with him. I thought I could make him love me if I helped him. I
was the doctor who delivered your baby that night. It wasn't Dr. Westcott as
you've always thought. There were five people in that delivery room. You,
me, Brad, Lara Mendoza and Doris Rafferty. I just told you Brad's reasons.
Lara wanted money. And Doris wanted the baby. Her daughter had just given
birth to a stillborn baby. Doris was beside herself with grief, and half-crazy
with worry that her daughter wouldn't be able to handle what had happened. So
she decided to give her daughter your baby." "You mean Doris's
grandson--" "is your son." Taylor couldn't believe what she'd just heard.
Nicholas Baker was her son. Hers and Dillon's. "Unfortunately, Brad couldn't
live with what he'd done," Dr. Forster was saying. "His conscience got the
better of him, and he wanted to tell you the truth. I couldn't let that
happen. I have my own career to think about. In another five years, I'll be
the chief of staff here. Do you have any idea what that means?" She smiled
dreamily. "Money, power, prestige. It'll all be mine." "Did you kill Lara
Mendoza?" Taylor whispered. She nodded, eager now to share her story.
"After Brad's death, Lara got scared. Even the promise of more money wouldn't
calm her down. So now Brad and Lara are both dead. Doris will be by morning.
That just leaves you, Mrs. Robinson." She circled around the gurney so Taylor
could see the loathing in her eyes. Taylor gazed up at her, her fear
momentarily replaced by her anger. "You're insane," she said. "You'll never
get away with this." "I've already gotten away with it. Everyone thinks Brad
committed suicide. Lara Mendoza is just another statistic, and Doris, well,
poor Doris had a coronary. Nothing suspicious there." "You did that to her."
Taylor gasped. "There's no proof, and luckily, you won't be around to stir up
any more trouble for me." Taylor looked around, frantic for something to use
as a weapon. The only thing she could think of was the syringe Dr. Forster
had placed on the gurney. She eased her fingers toward her. The elevator
doors slid open and Dr. Forster glanced out. As she turned away, Taylor
grabbed the syringe and plunged the needle into Dr. Forster's back. Dr.
Forster gasped and dropped the gun. It skittered across the elevator floor,
out of Taylor's reach. Dr. Forster was on her knees, clutching at her back,
trying to reach the syringe to pull it out. Taylor didn't waste time
struggling with her for the gun. Instead, she jumped up from the gurney and
dashed out the elevator doors. The whir of machinery rumbled around her.
They were in the power plant, deep in the bowels of the hospital. The sound
of the powerful turbine was deafening. Dr. Forster had chosen wisely. No
one would hear Taylor scream down here, and no one would think to look for her
down here. Fighting her panic, Taylor ran across the concrete floor, casting
about for a way out. A bullet ricocheted off a metal pipe over her head,
and she screamed and ducked. She flattened herself against a massive concrete
pillar, then risked a glance back toward the elevators. Dr. Forster stumbled
toward her, clutching the gun in her right hand. When she saw Taylor, she
fired again. The bullet missed by inches but chips of concrete peppered
Taylor's face. To her right, half-hidden by a steel wall was a set of metal
steps that rose at least thirty feet to a metal cat-walk that crisscrossed
over the power plant. Taylor lunged toward the stairs and another bullet
sounded. She didn't take time to look back. She clattered up the stairs,
disregarding the pain in her left wrist as she used her hands to help propel
her upward. She was halfway up when she sensed more than felt Dr.
Forster's presence behind her. She looked down. The woman was on the steps.
She took aim, and as the breath backed up in Taylor's lungs, Dr.
Forster pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. With a cry of dismay, Dr.

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Forster tossed the weapon aside. She turned her gaze back to Taylor, her eyes
even harder, deadlier, as she started up the stairs. Taylor was still dizzy
from the drugs she'd been given. The higher she climbed, the more the vertigo
claimed her. She stood at the top of the stairs, unsure which way to go. The
catwalk ran in several directions, crisscrossing over the giant turbine. On
the other side was a wall and a door with a red glowing exit sign. Taylor
headed toward it. The rumble of the turbine thirty feet below vibrated the
metal beneath her feet. She could feel the shimmy all the way through her as
she started across. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Dr. Forster had
followed her onto the catwalk. The woman lunged at her. Taylor tried to run,
but the vibration of the catwalk, coupled with her vertigo, made
everything swim before her. Her hands whipped out in front of her, trying
to steady her balance, but it was too late. Dr. Forster was upon her. The
momentum of her body crashing into Taylor's sent them both flying backward.
Taylor landed on the metal catwalk, and then, horrifyingly, she felt herself
slip over the side. She lashed out blindly for a handhold. Her right hand
gripped the edge of the metal catwalk and clung for dear life. Grunting with
pain, she brought her left hand up to cling precariously to the edge.
Red-hot pain shot through her broken wrist and up her arm, all the way to
the socket. Half-blinded by fear and pain, she glanced downward to the giant
machinery. She couldn't see it so much as she could hear it, feel it. The
reverberation pounded at her heart like a jackhammer. Above her Dr. Forster
was getting to her feet. Her auburn hair had come loose and flowed around her
shoulders like a crimson halo as she stood gazing down at Taylor. "It was
always you!" she screamed. "I did everything for him, but it was always you
he wanted! Well, now he can have you!" She lifted her foot, then brought it
down ever so slowly to grind against Taylor's right hand. Taylor screamed in
pain. Her fingers, crushed beneath Dr. Forster's heel, slipped from the
metal and Taylor was left hanging by her left hand. The broken wrist screamed
in protest. Sick with dizziness and pain, Taylor tried to hold on, but it was
no use. Her hand was too weak. Slowly her fingers began to slip from the
metal. "Taylor! Hang on!" She heard Dillon calling her through the haze of
darkness that had already begun to descend over her. As Dillon emerged from
the stairway onto the cat-walk, Dr. Forster turned and ran toward the
exit. "Just hang on," Dillon said from above her. He was on his
knees, reaching for her. "I can't," Taylor whispered. "I can't--" Her
fingers slid over the edge just as Dillon's hand fastened around the wrist.
She screamed in agony, but within moments, he'd hauled her up onto the catwalk
and was cradling her in his arms. "How did you find me?" Taylor said,
burying her face in his shoulder.. "I'll tell you all about it later. Let's
just get you out of here." ** ** ** "Oh, Dillon, you were so right," she
said. "You were right about everything. I've been so selfish--" "Taylor,
hush," he said. "You don't know the whole story." "Nicholas is our son," she
told him. "But you were right. We can't take him away from Doris. I saw how
much he loved her. And I promised him I wouldn't do anything to hurt him or
his grandmother--" "Taylor, I know about Nicholas. Doris regained
consciousness and confessed to everything. I have it all on tape. Now just
relax and let me get you out of here." Taylor started to close her eyes and
do as she was told, but something flashed behind Dillon's shoulder. Her eyes
widened in horror as. the shadow came into focus. "Dillon, look out!" Dr.
Forster, a metal rod lifted over her head, came rushing across the catwalk
toward them. Dillon whirled, crouching for the blow, but it never came. Over
the roar of the turbine, a shot rang out. Then another. The rod dropped from
Dr. Forster's hand. As if in slow motion she tumbled over the side of the
cat-walk, into the jaws of the machinery thirty feet below. As Taylor
staggered to her feet, supported by Dillon, they gazed over the side of the
catwalk. Sergeant Jackson, leaning against a concrete pillar for support,
slowly lowered his weapon. TAYLOR WAS BACK in the emergency room at the
hospital and the same young, freckled-faced resident who had set her wrist
before was now removing the cast with an electrical cast saw. Dillon stood

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watching nearby. In spite of the doctor's protests, he'd refused to
budge. After the cast was removed, the terrible pressure and some of the
pain began to ease. But the heaviness around Taylor's heart didn't
lighten. The doctor finished his work, and she lay back against the
pillows. Dillon came to stand beside her. Her eyes fluttered opened and she
stared up at him. "Dillon--" "You don't have to talk right now if you don't
feel like it." She shook her head. "No, I have to say this, while I still
have the courage." She paused then said, "Tonight, when I found out
that Nicholas is our son, my first instinct was to run to him as fast as
I could. To hold him in my arms and tell him that I'm his mother. That's what
I wanted. I wanted it more than anything..." "I know." "But I keep thinking
about that story from the Bible, the one about the two women who both claimed
the same child. The real mother loved him enough to give him up, and that's
what I have to do. I can't tear that child apart, Dillon. Doris is the only
family he's ever known. I can't take him away from her, no matter how much it
hurts to let him go." Dillon took Taylor's right hand in his. The fingers
were swollen and sore from Dr. Forster's heel, but none of them were broken.
"Taylor, there's something I have to tell you." Oh, no, Taylor thought. This
is it. It's all over. He's leaving... "Doris Rafferty died tonight.
Nicholas has no other family. He's going to need us. Both of
us." "But--" He brought her battered fingers to his lips. "Later," he said.
"You need to rest now. I've got a lot more to say to you, but it'll have
to wait. Doctor's orders." "Just tell me one thing," Taylor whispered. He
gazed down at her. "Do you love me, Dillon?" "Until the day I die," he said
simply. TAYLOR OPENED HER EYES and gazed around. "Dillon?" "He'll be back,"
Miranda said as she crossed the room to stand beside Taylor's bed. "Don't
worry. He hasn't gone far." There was no bitterness in her voice, which
surprised Taylor. Miranda reached down and smoothed back Taylor's hair. "I
was wrong about him. I was so wrong about so many things." "Mother--" "No,
let me say this. You have to know the truth. It's time for everything to
come out." She drew a deep, shaky breath, as if preparing herself for an
ordeal. Then she said, "There's no easy way to say this, I'm afraid. Taylor,
I arranged for Dillon to see you at Brad's apartment the morning after the
Christmas dance. I told him where to find you because I knew, with his
temper, he'd jump to the wrong conclusion. And with his fierce sense of
pride, I was reasonably certain he wouldn't confront you. But just to make
certain, I... threatened him." Taylor's heart slammed against her chest. She
gazed up at her mother in horror. "What did you do?" "I told him that if he
didn't leave town, I would not only make sure he never finished law school, I
would see to it that his whole family suffered. I ... threatened to withhold
a bank loan from his father that would have mined him." "My God. Mother,
why?" She bit her lip. Her eyes filled with tears. "He frightened
me, Taylor. He had the power to take you away from me." "All these years,"
Taylor whispered. "You let me believe that Dillon left me. How could you do
it?" "I did it for you. At least, that's what I told myself. I knew
you didn't love Brad. Not the way you loved Dillon. Not the way I loved your
father. I thought Brad was safe. He couldn't come between us, you see. He
wouldn't take you away from me. Oh, Taylor, can you ever forgive me?" Taylor
didn't know if that was possible. All the wasted years. The hurt, the anger,
the guilt. The lies. "Dillon told me everything when he called tonight,"
Miranda said. "He even told me about Nicholas." "Dillon called you?" Her
mother nodded. The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "He's
forgiven me, Taylor. I just hope someday you'll be able to." WHEN TAYLOR
OPENED her eyes, Dillon was sitting beside her. He got up and bent over the
bed to brush his lips against her cheek. "Can you ever forgive me?" she
whispered. "For what?" "For not trusting you. Not having more faith in you.
I should have known you wouldn't have left town like that. Not without a
good reason." "You've been talking to Miranda," he said, running his fingers
through his hair. you tell me?" He glanced away and shrugged. "You'd lost
so much already. Your baby, your husband. I didn't want to be responsible

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for taking your mother away from you." "I've been so selfish, Dillon. So
stupid. I blamed you for leaving me when all along..." She shook her head
sadly. "When I think about all those wasted years... "Shush." He put a
finger to her lips. "Don't think about the past. Think about the future.
Our future." "Does this mean you forgive me?" "If you can forgive me. We
both made a lot of terrible mistakes, and we both paid for them. Maybe it's
time we forgive ourselves." ' "What did I ever do to deserve a second chance
with you?" she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "I'll be a good
wife to you, Dillon. I'll make you happy." He smiled tenderly. "You already
have." He bent down and touched his lips to hers. Taylor thought her heart
would burst with joy. Then he straightened quickly and gazed down at her in
alarm. "I didn't even ask," he said contritely, "How are you feeling?" "Like
I've never felt before," she said, smiling. "It's certainly been a night of
revelations." Dillon grinned. "You have no idea. You had another visitor
while you were sleeping." "Who?" "Dr. Robinson. He had a few confessions
of his own to make, namely that he knew his wife was the one who slashed your
tires and tried to run you down that night. That's why he finally had her
admitted to the hospital." "So Deirdre was behind that." "Yeah. And when
you reported the incidents to Lamar, he turned it around and used it against
you." Taylor shook her head. "I still can't understand why he went along
with Dr. Forster." "He said it himself," Dillon said. "A woman like that
can make you do things you wouldn't ordinarily do." "He was willing to kill
for her. And she was willing to steal my baby for Brad. Is that love,
Dillon?" "No. That's a sickness. But what you and I have..." He took her
hand and held it in his. "This is love, Taylor." "After everything we've
been through, to still feel this way... we're lucky," she said. "So very
lucky." Dillon smiled down at her. "So if you feel up to it," he said.
"How about we go get our son?" "I'm a little frightened by how he'll take the
news," Taylor admitted. "So am I." "He'll be so upset about his
grandmother." "We'll be there for him." "What if he rejects us?" "We'll be
patient. Whatever happens we'll face it together. All three of us." Taylor
smiled. "I do love you so much. I always have." ' "I know," he said.
"And, believe me, the feeling is mutual." Epilogue One year later... Taylor
gasped in pain. The contractions were coming fast and furious. "Not much
longer now, Mrs. Reeves," the nurse said. "Don't give up. We need you to
keep pushing." "No more," Taylor pleaded. Her tongue flicked out to moisten
her dry lips. "Please. I... can't." "Sure you can," the nurse soothed.
"You're doing fine." A wave of pain swept over Taylor and she called out
Dillon's name. "I'm right here," he said at her bedside. He grasped her hand
in his. "Miranda's just outside, and so is Nicholas. He told me to tell you
to hurry. He has a date tonight." "A date? He's too young," Taylor
wailed. "Tell that to Alisha Westcott. Lorraine's taking them
ice-skating." Since Lorraine Westcott had left her husband and joined AA,
Taylor had never seen such a rapid change in anyone. Both she and her
daughter were like new people. Alisha and Nicholas were both back in
Claymore and had become quite close in the past few months. Before Doris died
that terrible night, she'd confessed everything to Dillon. She'd told him how
her daughter had died just a few months after Nicholas had been born, and how
there had been no one else but Doris to take care of the boy. She could
hardly give him back to Taylor without implicating herself in the kidnapping
scheme. Overcome by guilt for what she'd done, Doris tried to compensate
by giving the boy everything he would have had with his real mother.
She worked double shifts to save enough money to send Nicholas to
Claymore, and Dr. Westcott, her employer and friend for many years, had
arranged to get Nicholas into a special program offered by the academy
to underprivileged but gifted students. But nothing she'd done for the boy
had ever taken away her guilt, until she'd confessed to Dillon on her
deathbed. He said she'd died peacefully. "Hey," Dillon said gently. "Don't
quit on me now, Mrs. Reeves. Keep breathing." "Easy for you to say," Taylor
panted. "You think you're so smart now that you've finished law school and

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passed the bar." "And none too soon," Dillon said. "I'm tired of having my
wife support me." "As if you'd ever let me," Taylor grumbled. They had so
much to be thankful for, she thought. So many blessings. It hadn't always
been easy. Nicholas had gone through some rough times. They all had.
But everything had been worth it, because now they were really and truly
a family. Everything Taylor had dreamed of. She and Dillon were
finally together, they had their son, and a daughter on the way. "Here she
comes," the doctor announced. "Another push should do it." And then through
a haze of pain and joy, laughter and tears, Taylor heard the precious sound of
a baby's cry.

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