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As afterglow finally faded, his lips found hers again and they made love—more slowly this time—exploring and touching, rekindling old fires that flamed and sizzled, becoming intimate as naturally as if they’d never separated.
Afterward, Kaylie sighed contentedly against him as he drifted into a deep sleep. Closing her eyes, she knew that she loved him. It was that simple. And that complicated.
Moaning, he rolled away from her, then sighed, still sleeping. His face, in slumber, was carefree, his mouth a soft line, his lashes dark against his cheek.
Kaylie touched his hair, and her heart nearly broke. Why was she doomed to love a man who was so smothering? Pressing a soft kiss to his lips, she rolled over, intending to fall asleep and deal with her feelings in the morning with a clear head. Maybe she and Zane could work things out. He was a reasonable man, and she was now a mature woman. If she only explained….
She noticed a reflection of moonlight on the floor—a dazzling flash of silver in the dark pile of his clothes. Her heart stopped when she realized that she was staring at his keys as they poked from the pocket of his jeans.
She closed her eyes for a second, wishing the vision away, but when she lifted her lids, the keys still lay there. Beckoning. Offering escape and freedom.
Her mouth turned to cotton.
Oh, God, she thought, shaking inside. Could she leave him? She glanced at his peaceful, trusting profile, tanned skin in relief against the white pillow, and her heart felt as if it were tearing in two.
She had no choice. She had to control her own life. She couldn’t allow him to manipulate her.
Holding her breath and fighting tears, she slipped slowly from the bedcovers and silently picked up his keys. As her fingers closed around the cool metal, she hardly dared breathe. They jangled softly, but Zane just snorted and turned over.
For a few precious seconds Kaylie stood silently in the room, staring longingly down at Zane. If only they could love each other again—if only…but it would never work. Wasn’t the fact that he kidnapped her proof enough that he always intended to force her will to his?
She couldn’t let him control her! Her heart in her throat, she grabbed her clothes and sneaked out of the room.
She dressed quickly on the landing and fought the overpowering urge to run back to him.
Instead she slipped silently downstairs and outside. The air was fresh from the rain, and the first streaks of dawn illuminated the eastern sky.
Kaylie braced herself, then strode off the porch.
The Jeep waited for her.
Chapter Nine
Rick Taylor jabbed at a broken piece of pottery with his broom. Rolling his eyes, he cocked his head toward the patient. “He’s been this way ever since Friday.”
Dr. Anthony Henshaw rubbed his chin as he surveyed the damage in the small room. Books were thrown haphazardly on the floor, the desk chair was overturned, a bulletin board ripped from the wall, papers scattered on the floor and the pieces of clay pottery and dirt smashed against one corner. “What’s the matter, Lee?” Henshaw asked the patient with the flaming red hair.
“He won’t talk about it,” Rick said, tossing the trash into a plastic bag. “But it started the other day during that show he watches, West Coast Morning. The woman who usually does the interviews—Kaylie whatever-her-nameis—wasn’t on that day; out for ‘personal reasons’ the other guy said, and ol’ Lee, here—” he cocked his head toward the patient again “—went ’round the bend. I’ve been cleaning up this room once a day.”
Henshaw frowned. This didn’t sound good. He’d just returned from a symposium in Chicago and discovered from Dr. Jones that Lee Johnston had relapsed. “You miss Kaylie, Lee?” he asked, but the patient, sitting on the end of the unmade bed, didn’t reply, just stared blankly ahead, hands clasped prayerlike on his lap.
Dr. Henshaw scratched his chin. Lee was a difficult case; always had been. He sat next to the patient. “Does it bother you when Kaylie isn’t on the show?”
No reply, just a slight movement of Johnston’s thin lips.
“Even people who work on television take vacations. They need time off, too.”
“He’s not talkin’ today,” Rick said, shaking his head as he restacked books and magazines in the bookcase. “Won’t say a word. Not one. Not to me, nor to Jeff or Pam, either. If you ask me, he’s waitin’ for the show.” Shoving the last book on the bottom shelf, he glanced over his shoulder at the doctor. “Let’s just hope she’s back. Then maybe Lee here will calm down.”
Rick left the room, and Henshaw tried communicating with Lee, but to no avail. Quiet, but obviously still upset, Lee refused to acknowledge the doctor’s presence. After ten minutes, Henshaw gave up. He had other patients to see and a staff meeting in half an hour.
Ramming his hands deep into his pockets, he walked down the long hallway, rounded a couple of corners to the administrative offices. His own cubicle was near the back, with one window and a view of the gardens.
Dropping into his chair, he scowled to himself. Johnston obviously still had problems. Henshaw doubted if the man would ever fit into society. Yet there was talk that he might be released soon. Aside from a few incidents like the trashing of the room, Lee had been a model patient.
Henshaw picked up a pen and clicked it several times. Then there was the matter of Johnston’s privacy. Several people were interested in his case and wondered about his freedom. Henshaw had been called by Kaylie Melville’s ex-husband often enough. The man was obviously still hung up on her. As, apparently, was Lee. And then there was Kaylie’s costar, Alan Bently, a man who seemed always linked with her. There were even rumors of their engagement. Not that Henshaw cared. What she did with her life was her business—until it involved his patient.
Henshaw had met Kaylie a couple of times and even he, happily married for twenty-seven years, a proud father and grandfather twice over, understood a man’s fascination with Ms. Melville. Whether she knew it or not, she had a way of stirring up a man.
