not only for him but also for her own runaway thoughts.
His eyes narrowed, glowing darkly. "I guess I'd better be going." For a moment he didn't move, then abruptly his hands jerked upward, stopping in mid-air.
She froze in place, desire and fear struggling inside her. Was he going to wrap his fingers around her throat and strangle her before Dixie could reach him? Or was he going to put his arms around her, lower his face to hers and kiss her just as if they were two normal people at the end of an evening together? She wasn't sure which possibility she feared most.
But he halted abruptly with his hands only waist high, and dropped them to his sides, clenching them into fists. "Goodnight, Leanne," he said tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Eliot."
He walked around his car and got in. She stood on the sidewalk, let out a long breath and waved as he drove away.
So apparently normal.
But Eliot was not normal. Their relationship was not normal. He was a mentally ill person, and she was a doctor committed to helping him, though not to sacrificing her own soul in that effort, not to caring for him too much and allowing his illness to tear her heart into shreds.
In spite of her confident assertion that she could take care of herself, a shiver ran down her spine. The really odd thing was, she wasn't sure if that shiver came from fear or anticipation. Either way, Eliot was a dangerous man, a very real threat to her.
Chapter 9
For the second day in a row, Eliot left work early. A successful career wouldn't matter if he went to prison for murder.
Or if one day Edward took over his—their—body and he himself never came back.
Both possibilities were equally terrifying.
He'd gotten Wayne Palmer's home and work addresses by calling Patsy at Executive Styles. She was reluctant to tell him and warned him that Wayne was big and could be mean. But she finally relented when he reiterated how much he needed to find out what happened to Kay.
Ironic, he thought, that Patsy was concerned about his safety when he might be a murderer.
Palmer's Paint and Body Shop sat between an adult book store and a vacant lot in a seedy section of town. The sound of a grinder and the acrid smells of paint and other chemicals greeted him as he walked into the place.
A man in torn blue jeans, sweat stained tee shirt and safety goggles looked up from sanding a large chalky-looking repair on the fender of an older model sedan. He glanced toward the other side of the room then went back to his work.
Eliot followed the direction of his glance to see a large man in paint-stained coveralls set his sprayer on the floor and lift the visor of his helmet. The man's expression was grim, his bushy eyebrows looming over bloodshot brown eyes.
"Whadda you want?" he demanded.
"Are you Wayne?"
"Yeah, I'm Wayne."
"I wanted to talk to you about Kay...about your wife."
Wayne slammed a huge fist onto the hood of the car he'd been working on, seemingly oblivious of the wet paint, of the fact that he's just put another dent into the metal. "Damn straight she was my wife. Guess you forgot that when you were boffing her."
Eliot cringed. He had assumed that Wayne wouldn't know who he was, had hoped he'd be able to talk to him anonymously. "I'm sorry about Kay's death." More sorry than you can ever imagine. "Is there some place we could talk?"
"Did you kill her?" Wayne demanded. "If I find out you killed her, I'm coming after you. She didn't stand a chance against the likes of you with that fancy car, taking her to those fancy places." Wayne yanked off his helmet and tossed it to the floor, taking a threatening step closer.
This wasn't going at all the way Eliot had hoped. He moved a step closer to Wayne, refusing to let him control the situation.
"Did I kill her? From what I hear, you're the prime suspect. What did you do when she asked you for a divorce?"
Wayne's big face crumpled from within. For a second, Eliot thought the man was
His eyes narrowed, glowing darkly. "I guess I'd better be going." For a moment he didn't move, then abruptly his hands jerked upward, stopping in mid-air.
She froze in place, desire and fear struggling inside her. Was he going to wrap his fingers around her throat and strangle her before Dixie could reach him? Or was he going to put his arms around her, lower his face to hers and kiss her just as if they were two normal people at the end of an evening together? She wasn't sure which possibility she feared most.
But he halted abruptly with his hands only waist high, and dropped them to his sides, clenching them into fists. "Goodnight, Leanne," he said tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Eliot."
He walked around his car and got in. She stood on the sidewalk, let out a long breath and waved as he drove away.
So apparently normal.
But Eliot was not normal. Their relationship was not normal. He was a mentally ill person, and she was a doctor committed to helping him, though not to sacrificing her own soul in that effort, not to caring for him too much and allowing his illness to tear her heart into shreds.
In spite of her confident assertion that she could take care of herself, a shiver ran down her spine. The really odd thing was, she wasn't sure if that shiver came from fear or anticipation. Either way, Eliot was a dangerous man, a very real threat to her.
Chapter 9
For the second day in a row, Eliot left work early. A successful career wouldn't matter if he went to prison for murder.
Or if one day Edward took over his—their—body and he himself never came back.
Both possibilities were equally terrifying.
He'd gotten Wayne Palmer's home and work addresses by calling Patsy at Executive Styles. She was reluctant to tell him and warned him that Wayne was big and could be mean. But she finally relented when he reiterated how much he needed to find out what happened to Kay.
Ironic, he thought, that Patsy was concerned about his safety when he might be a murderer.
Palmer's Paint and Body Shop sat between an adult book store and a vacant lot in a seedy section of town. The sound of a grinder and the acrid smells of paint and other chemicals greeted him as he walked into the place.
A man in torn blue jeans, sweat stained tee shirt and safety goggles looked up from sanding a large chalky-looking repair on the fender of an older model sedan. He glanced toward the other side of the room then went back to his work.
Eliot followed the direction of his glance to see a large man in paint-stained coveralls set his sprayer on the floor and lift the visor of his helmet. The man's expression was grim, his bushy eyebrows looming over bloodshot brown eyes.
"Whadda you want?" he demanded.
"Are you Wayne?"
"Yeah, I'm Wayne."
"I wanted to talk to you about Kay...about your wife."
Wayne slammed a huge fist onto the hood of the car he'd been working on, seemingly oblivious of the wet paint, of the fact that he's just put another dent into the metal. "Damn straight she was my wife. Guess you forgot that when you were boffing her."
Eliot cringed. He had assumed that Wayne wouldn't know who he was, had hoped he'd be able to talk to him anonymously. "I'm sorry about Kay's death." More sorry than you can ever imagine. "Is there some place we could talk?"
"Did you kill her?" Wayne demanded. "If I find out you killed her, I'm coming after you. She didn't stand a chance against the likes of you with that fancy car, taking her to those fancy places." Wayne yanked off his helmet and tossed it to the floor, taking a threatening step closer.
This wasn't going at all the way Eliot had hoped. He moved a step closer to Wayne, refusing to let him control the situation.
"Did I kill her? From what I hear, you're the prime suspect. What did you do when she asked you for a divorce?"
Wayne's big face crumpled from within. For a second, Eliot thought the man was
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