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  Long minutes later, they collapsed onto the sweat soaked sheets. Cassie turned her head to one side, found the strength to open her eyes. Drake's hands idly feathered their way over her back. His face was smooth, unlined with worry for the first time in days.

  Raising a hand to comb through the sparse, dark hair on his chest, she sighed in contentment. She could lie forever just like this, let the rest of the world go to hell. She had all that she needed, right here.

  How many people could say that? A tingle of awe at her luck ran through her. For all his annoying habits–she still hadn't trained him to put the toilet seat down–Drake was all she ever wanted to make her life complete. And to think, before she met him, she'd given up on men completely. No surprise, given her disastrous marriage to Richard King. A fairytale romance turned into a bloody nightmare.

  A nightmare she'd walked away from, she reminded herself. She was no victim. A fool occasionally, but never a victim. She took responsibility for the people she brought into her life. For better or worse. A lesson hammered into her by the grandmother who raised her, her father's mother, Rosa.

  Cassie traced her finger along Drake's strong jaw line, that enchanting scar on his chin, those luscious lips, and smiled. It was a gift, a very precious gift to find this. It wasn't that Drake made her happy, rather she was happy merely because he was there with her.

  He opened his mouth and sucked on her finger.

  "Breakfast?" she asked. She pulled her finger away from his playful nip.

  "Too hot."

  No surprise, he seldom ate before noon. Not her—her stomach growled at the mere thought of food.

  "It'll be cooler up at the Lake," he continued. After his shift, they were driving up to his Aunt Nellie's house, meeting his mother and aunt for the weekend. "I could call in sick, we could leave this morning." He gazed down at her. "Why don't we do that? We could be there in a few hours."

  His voice was eager, and she hated to disappoint him. "Can't. I have to meet with the District Attorney about my testimony in the Mary Eamon case."

  "I've got a gun," Drake muttered. His hands tensed into fists at her back. "How about if I just take the bastard out and shoot him like the dog he is?"

  She arched up and looked at him full in the face. This wasn't Drake. He was the one who worked within the law, used the system to get the bad guys. Usually it was Cassie who ran afoul of authority with her casual disregard of rules and regulations.

  She laid a finger over his lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "You don't mean that. I'll take care of Ronald Brickner. I'll bury him in court. The jury will convict him so fast it'll make his head spin."

  He kissed her hand, but the shadows had returned to his eyes. What the hell was this case that had him so worried? She hated being powerless to help him. "I'll call, see if we can meet earlier," she promised him. "Maybe we can leave by lunch."

  His expression lightened a little. "You going in to work on the clinic this morning?"

  Of course. Where else did she have to go, after losing her position in the ER at Three Rivers Medical Center? "Almost done hanging drywall on the first floor." She forced her voice to remain light. "Told Tammy I'd meet her there by eight."

  Drake nodded at that. Once the construction on the Liberty Center was finished, he'd be free to return to his apartment on the third floor of his building, get back to work on the paintings he'd left neglected in his studio. But first he had to deal with the sick sonofabitch stalking him.

  He wanted tomorrow to be over with, wanted Hart safe at the Lake, wanted to get his hands on whomever was stalking him. He saw the frown crease her forehead and forced himself to smile.

  After tomorrow, he'd tell her everything, he vowed. Just had to see her safely through the eleventh. Just had to get the hell out of this city.

  Before he lost his mind.

  CHAPTER 2

  Drake was the first out the door. He paused on the porch, scanning the street for anything suspicious, while Hart got her stuff together and set her house alarm. His car, a candy apple red '68 Mustang convertible, sat parked at the curb. Everything seemed fine.

  None of the envelopes had come here. Hart's house was his last safe refuge. In more ways than one, he thought, remembering how accepting of his silence she'd been, never once bringing him to task for his recent irritability.

  Just had to make it through today.

  He had a plan. Hart was a master improviser; while Drake liked to know where he was going. Even when he began a painting he knew the exact effect he wanted to achieve. Which was why it had taken him so long to finish the triptych his agent was currently yammering at him to deliver.

  The paintings were a series titled Steadfast. In the first panel, a dark-haired angel knelt, her wings folded around her, head bent low, seemingly defeated, shrouded in shadow. In the second, her face brightened, wings beginning to unfold, shoulders lifting, eyes blazing in defiance. And in the final, she rose to her full power, wings unfurled, brilliant banners of light and color bathing her face and body, her face calm but determined as she continued her battle.

  Drake created special mixtures of vegetable dyes and oils to get the right consistency and transparency. He played with the light and shadow, wrestled with negative spaces and contours for weeks before he was happy with the end result that matched his memory.

  The figure was Hart, of course. Most all of his work was anymore. He'd done the original sketches the first week after he met her. A time when he'd seen her brought low by the murder of her best friend, by threats on her own life and the shadows of suspicion cast onto her, and, finally, had witnessed her triumphant emergence from the darkness.

  He settled his forty-caliber Glock into its accustomed place at his right hip. Hart hated guns, insisted he remove his service weapon and the Baby Glock he wore in an ankle holster as soon as he came into her house. He kept a Beretta as a backup in a lockbox in the Mustang's trunk when it wasn't sitting close at hand below his driver's seat. Hart didn't know about that one–no sense asking for an argument.

  Satisfied that at least the morning was starting out good, Drake crossed the porch. He stopped short. Saw the envelope centered on the cushions of the porch swing. Jagged red letters spelling out his name scratched across the front.

  His breath caught. He glanced through the living room window to ensure Hart wasn't watching as he approached the swing. Generic manila envelope, but the first one with handwriting on it. Not enough to identify the actor, he was certain. To be safe, he pulled out a clean handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand as he opened the thin package.

  Drake knew he should wait until he got to the station house to open it. But none of the others yielded any useful evidence and he desperately needed to see what was inside, to weigh any threat his stalker might be announcing. Particularly if that threat involved Hart.

  He slid the photos out, just enough to take a quick glance at them. Photos of Pamela's death scene. And a new twist: photos of Drake lying in a pool of his own blood.

  The message had changed as well, now a single word: Tomorrow.

  Drake's breath hissed out as if he'd been sucker punched. The photos of him were computer generated but eerily accurate. The actor must have read the police report of his shooting five months ago. Or talked to someone who'd been on scene. Paramedics, state troopers, the list was too long to be helpful.

  "I thought you'd left already." Hart's voice made him jump. "What's that?"

  He fumbled the photos back into the envelope before turning around. He held it by its edges, turned so that she couldn't see the writing on it.

  "Just something I need for my case," he told her, keeping his voice steady, his face impassive.

  She looked at him hard, but didn't challenge his lie.

  "How about if I drive you to the clinic?" he suggested. "I need to grab some things from my place anyway."

  "I need my car to go downtown to the District Attorney's office, remember?"

  "Right, I forgot. I'll follo
w you, then." He gestured for her to precede him down the porch steps, hoping she didn't notice his hand on his Glock. He almost ran into her when she stopped to wave to her across the street neighbor, Mrs. Ferraro, who was watering her Impatiens.

  Go, go, he thought. They were sitting targets out here. His gaze boomeranged up and down Gettysburg Street. Everything quiet except his pulse jackhammering through his brain. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, while the small hairs on the back of his neck prickled in warning.

  He saw her safely to her car, a blue Subaru Impreza, parked two spaces down from his. Bomb? He whirled to grab the keys from her, but too late. She started the car before he could intercept her. He couldn't stop the flinch that interrupted his inhalation. Turning, he got behind the wheel of the Mustang, all focus and attention on Hart's car in front of him.

  By the time they drove two blocks, he was already exhausted from his vigil. Christ, how long could he keep this up?

  <><><>

  Cassie stared at Drake in her rearview mirror. Hunched over the wheel of the Mustang like a tank commander going into battle.

  What the hell was going on? she wondered, and not for the first time. For once in her life she was following the rules. Hadn't pried, had tried to give him time, space to deal with whatever worries this new case brought. But this was getting out of control.

  He wasn't sleeping. He was constantly on edge, jumping at the slightest thing. And for some reason all the more solicitous of her. Taking her to the clinic, coming by to get her for lunch, picking her up, spending more time at her house. No matter what he claimed, it wasn't the dust from the clinic renovations that had driven him from his building and to her house the past week. Nothing could keep him from his art.

  The only other time he stopped painting was after he'd been shot, when he suffered from post-traumatic stress, having panic attacks, fearful something might happen to her.

  She almost stalled the car at the light on Beechwood. Drake once stopped painting because he was anxious about her.

  Could his current case have something to do with her? She decided to test her theory. The next light was yellow. She hit the accelerator and crossed the intersection just as it turned red. Looking in her rear view mirror, she watched as Drake followed her, not even bothering to check for traffic.

  Damn, she'd been a fool. This did have something to do with her. As usual, Drake was too busy playing the knight in shining armor to bother her with any trivial details.

  Once heated, her temper moved quickly from a simmer to a boil. She thought he trusted her, why not with this?

  Cassie screeched to a stop in the parking lot of The Liberty Times building, Drake's building at the end of Ravenna Way, originally home to a 1920s newspaper. She slammed her car door.

  Not waiting for him, she flung the back door open and sprinted up the steps to the first floor, which would house the medical clinic, counseling offices, and legal services. The second floor was almost done, ready to receive the food bank and daycare. The Liberty Center Community Clinic had been Drake's dream, his and her old boss's. Together, he and Ed Castro scrounged the funding necessary to make the dream a reality.

  Cassie ignored the dust-coated oak floors, stepping through framed but empty walls to assess the work before her. She had insulated and drywalled the main dividing walls, giving the social services' offices and the legal clinic in the front of the building their own space. The rear two-thirds of the first floor was the medical clinic, which was only rough framed so far. She put her hands on her hips, turning in a circle, deciding which project to tackle first.

  Besides tackling Drake. If he didn't trust her enough to talk to her, confronting him would only make things worse. That much she'd learned in the five months they'd been together.

  Feeling the urge to pound something, Cassie strapped her leather tool belt around her hips and spotted a likely candidate. She'd hammer together the two by fours she cut yesterday to make a radiator cover.

  Hard to worry with a tool in your hand, Gram Rosa, would say. Cassie swung the hammer a few times and smiled. As usual, Rosa was right.

  Who could Drake be protecting her from? Cassie thought, settling into the rhythm of her work.

  Or what?

  CHAPTER 3

  Drake ran after Hart, following her up the outside steps into the rear of the building. Then he spotted the determined set of her jaw and angry blush coloring her cheeks. Should have told her sooner. He stepped forward, ready to fill her in, to convince her to leave for the Lake immediately, until she started to swing the damn hammer loud enough to wake the dead.

  He watched her for a few moments before beating a retreat upstairs to his apartment on the third floor. He'd tell her later. After she calmed down. Otherwise, there was a very good chance she'd rush out, determined to do something, and end up causing more harm than good.

  Hart was like that. She acted before she thought, relying on her instincts and gut level determination to pull her through any situation. So far it had worked. Drake thought about some of her close calls and grimaced as he crossed the open space of his living room and dining area.

  Better to stick with his plan. Safer for all involved.

  In the bedroom, he shoved the few things he'd need for the Lake trip into a gym bag. He wouldn't be staying there long. Once Hart was safe at Nellie's house, he would return to the city and find his stalker. Or rather, let his stalker find him.

  It was a game of cat and mouse. One Drake intended to win. Now that he knew this actor was serious, he'd bring Jimmy Dolan, his partner, on board. Maybe Sarah Miller, Commander of the Major Crimes Squad, as well. As soon as he had Hart safely out of the way.

  Drake tucked extra ammunition into the bag and zippered it shut with a final glance at the chrome headboard. Hart’s hand-carved one was so much better. Her face, flushed with their love-making as the old bed creaked and sang beneath them, flashed through his mind.

  He just needed to make it through the day. Then their lives could get back to normal.

  He ran down the steps, pausing on the first floor landing, the scent of fresh-cut lumber filling the air. Hart hammered in synch with the Aerosmith that echoed through the high-ceilinged space. He smiled. Her taste in music was even more eclectic than his own. On any given day her MP3 player shuffled between heavy metal, classic rock, Irish folk music, R and B, jazz, and zydeco.

  At least she wasn't still mad. One good thing about Hart. She had a quick temper but never held a grudge.

  Drake stood in the doorway. He admired the way her lithe muscles, rock hard from her Kempo training and the construction work she'd done on the Liberty Center, rippled beneath the fabric of her denim overalls and tank top. She swung the hammer with efficient movements. Tap, tap, bang and a nail was in. She mouthed the words to "Love in an Elevator" while she swiveled her hips in time with Steven Tyler's warble.

  The slam of a car door sent Drake's hand flying to his gun, shattering the moment.

  He pivoted and saw a familiar figure climb the outside stairs. Tony Spanos. Drake dropped his bag and moved to intercept the burly ex-policeman. At six-four, Spanos had four inches and several pounds on Drake. That didn't worry him; he and Spanos had tangled before and he'd always come out on top.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Drake asked him, pitching his voice so Hart wouldn't hear them. He kept advancing, forcing Spanos to retreat out the door, onto the concrete stoop, and two steps down the handicapped ramp.

  "Cassie invited me. Didn't she tell you?" Spanos asked with a smirk.

  Drake clenched his fists and resisted the urge to wipe that superior grin from Spanos' face. He wasn't worth it. After resigning from the force two months ago, Spanos was now a civilian and thus off limits.

  But damn, it would feel so good. Drake had little sympathy for the younger man. Once upon a time he thought Spanos might make a good cop, even if they didn't get along. That was before Spanos lost his nerve during a hostage situation, forcing Drake to take a dangerous
headshot to take down a gunman.

  Since Hart had been the hostage in question, Drake would never forgive Spanos for jeopardizing her. Hart didn't know she was the reason Spanos lost his badge. To his credit, the ex-cop tried to make up for almost getting her killed by helping out at the Center, but that didn't mean Drake had to like him hanging around.

  "How's life been treating you, DJ?" Spanos used Drake's nickname as if they were old drinking buddies. "I figure if Cassie's calling me to come over, maybe you guys are having a bit of trouble. Guess years and booze will do that to a man." Spanos hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. He was twenty-eight, six years younger than Drake, with brown hair, dark eyes and a smile he seemed certain drove the ladies mad.

  Drake ignored his jibes, noting the logo embroidered on Spanos' denim work shirt. Guardian Security. Hart had mentioned the alarm system installation this week.

  "Hi, Tony." Hart's voice came from behind him, interrupting the crude reply Drake was formulating. Drake's bag was slung over her shoulder.

  "Thanks, honey," he said, taking the bag from her. Before she could protest his use of the hated saccharine diminutive, he kissed her passionately. Only after he left her breathless and flushed by the unexpected display of public affection, did he release her.

  "I'll call you about lunch." He strode to the Mustang, tossing the duffle into the back seat of the convertible.

  As he drove out of the parking lot, Spanos gave him a middle-fingered salute.

  <><><>

  Cassie walked down the steps. Drake peeled out of the parking lot like an adolescent trying to impersonate James Dean. She put her hands on her hips and turned to Tony who wore a look of extreme innocence on his face.

  "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

  Tony shrugged. "Drake's a nut job. I don't get what you see in him."

  Cassie knew the ex-cop had a crush on her. Five months ago, they started off on the wrong foot, but she had since earned Tony's admiration and he'd apologized, blaming his rude behavior on his animosity with Drake. Now he often helped out with the Liberty Center. Even convinced his new boss to give them a break on the security system the Center needed.