Chapter 18

Haunting music wafted down the hallway. Determined to discover who was singing, Delaney stomped toward the shadows at the end of the corridor. As she was alone on this floor and it was long after closing hours, this was not the smartest thing she’d ever done. At the moment she didn’t care. Feeling reckless, she pushed open the stairwell door. Nothing. Silence blanketed her.

“What the heck?” She listened, her head cocked so her right ear angled toward the gloomy stairs. She held her breath but only heard the soft beat of her own pulse thrumming in her ears.

Delaney exhaled. Completely baffled, she let the heavy fire door close. It whispered into place with a hiss of hydraulics. The music had been so clear, so compelling, she knew it couldn’t be her imagination. Besides, she was a psychoanalyst. She didn’t have an imagination. Just ask anyone who knew her. Deciding she must have heard someone’s radio, she turned back toward her office. And smacked into a man. A man with a hard chest and strong hands that gripped her biceps. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out—not even a squeak.

“Shhh, cailín.”

She swallowed a few times and tried her voice again. “Who are you?” At least her mouth worked and she thought the words came out though hardly any sound whispered from between her lips.

“’Tis hardly important.”

She had to lick dry lips to open her mouth. “It’s very important to me.”

He smiled and she got lost in the swirling colors of his eyes. “Aye, ’twould be now wouldn’t it. Most call me Abhean, though I have many names.”

“Ay-veen? What sort of name is that?”

“A very proper sort for one such as me, cailín.”

Delaney blinked, breaking the hypnotic spell spun by the man’s eyes—and gasped. She no longer stood in the corridor outside her office. Stone walls closed around her and she choked back a sense of claustrophobia. Ghostly figures bustled around her. The sweet, yeasty scent of baking bread tangoed with the pungent, greasy odor of roasting meat. Her stomach growled. She stood in the corner of a kitchen, but a kitchen unlike any she’d ever seen before.

“Delaney!”

Startled, she stared at the girl who’d called her name. An overwhelming sense of familiarity swamped her. Delaney knew this girl and though she didn’t look like her sister and the voice was wrong… “Nessa?”

The teenage girl shoved a bowl into her arms. “Why are yee standin’ there starin’ into the corner like a moonstruck calf? The troops’ll be arriving all too soon. We’ve food t’get on the table and I want to put on a fresh dress. Get yer chores done. I’ll be back in a nip.”

Her arms automatically supported the bowl. Filled with some sort of stew, her nostrils flared and her stomach growled as the scent wafting from the bowl enveloped her. Delaney stood as still as a statue while people, both women and men, bustled around her. Their clothing matched that of her sister’s—if that girl was indeed Nessa. Homespun materials, long skirts, boots or slippers and the occasional pair of bare feet.

“Delaney!” She whipped her head around at the demand.

“What’s got yee dreamin’ so, cailín?” The older woman had laughing eyes that didn’t match the frown on her lips or the fisted hands braced on her hips. “Get that food to the table and come back here. I need yee to stir up the black puddin’.” The woman grabbed her shoulders, rather more gently than Delaney thought she would, turned her around and gave her a little shove toward an arched doorway.

She walked through the door, her feet shuffling through the layer of straw on the stone floors. Delaney just thought the kitchens had been busy. This room boasted a vaulted ceiling, a massive fireplace and rows of sturdy wooden tables and simple benches.

“A dream,” she muttered. “I’ve never had such a lucid dream but there is no other explanation. No matter what Bronnie says.” She approached the first table and a woman brushed past her with a trencher piled high with roasted meet.

“Don’t be dawdlin’, cailín. Put it there on the main table.”

Her gaze followed the woman’s pointing finger. A single table angled across the rows and sported high-backed chairs instead of benches. She ducked around and through the bustling…servants? Interesting that she would dream about being a servant and that Nessa would be in the dream with her. “Ha. Talk about comeuppance.” She snickered but decided to play out the dream, curious as to where it would lead her.

A few moments later, she was back in the kitchen and the pretty woman who someone called Siobhan handed her a large wooden spoon and pointed her toward a heavy metal pot hanging from a chain near one of the hearths. She gamely stuck the spoon in and tried to stir the contents before realizing it would take both hands. The stuff in the pot really was some sort of black pudding, but it didn’t look or smell like chocolate—more like blood and something she didn’t’ want to think about. As she churned the spoon in the pot, Delaney assessed her surroundings. No student of history, she remained clueless as to time or place. The accents sounded lyrical to her ears, though some of the words didn’t make sense. The human mind was an amazing place, as she well knew from both her studies and her practice, but that her own imagination could create such a layered and realistic dream space astounded her.

Shouts from the other room cleared the kitchens as people rushed to the great room. She had the presence of mind to grab a rag and push the big pot further from the fire so it wouldn’t scorch. Once again, she boggled a bit at the intricacies of her brain. She was so not a cook in any way, shape, or form. Still clutching the rag, she reached the archway just as the massive front doors banged open.

She gaped. Her jaw dropped and her eyes felt like they might pop out of her head. The man who strode through the open doorway looked like a god surrounded by a golden nimbus. She gulped and worked to close her mouth and keep it closed. Raven black hair, tall, handsome, and even with the backlighting she could see the color of his brilliantly blue eyes.

“CIARAN!”

Whipping her head around, she watched a woman dash down the stairs, her feet barely touching the treads. She launched into the man’s arms. Becca? She shook her head. No. This wasn’t possible. What were Connor’s parents doing in her dream? Stunned, she stepped behind the arch and leaned against the cold stones, gulping in air. From her hiding place, she watched other women greet their men. Men? No, these were warriors, complete with swords belted to their waists.

“Keegan!”

At her brother’s name, she jerked her head back and forth between the tall boy who had just entered and a lovely girl descending the stairs. Ciara? That sort of made sense, since Connor’s parents peopled this dream. Why not his sister?

“Conor!”

Nessa flew past her, knocking her against the arched doorway so hard she banged her temple on the corner of it. Stars danced across her vision for a moment. When they cleared, she found herself staring at…Rory. Only…not. Oh, this man was just as tall and well-muscled, but flowing auburn hair brushed his shoulders and he looked wild. Untamed. And she wanted him, the need to feel his arms around her an actual physical ache that pierced her heart.

His gaze seemed to slide right past her and his warm amber eyes lit up as a small woman threw herself into his arms. He lifted her so he could kiss her without bending over and Delaney doubled over as a pain, sharp and intense as a razor slicing her skin, pierced her heart. Rory. Kissing another woman. Sick to her stomach, she turned away and stumbled back to the safety of the kitchen.

Another man sat on one of the benches drawn against the wall. He fingered a small harp-like instrument, and the notes he plucked from the strings were so achingly sweet tears welled in her eyes.

“Yee’ve missed so much, cailín.”

Ohhhh. The sound sighed in her heart. His voice was a sweeter sound than even his music. She wanted to cry. And laugh. And doubt her own sanity. This was the same man from the restaurant—the one who sang to her, who… She blinked, returning to the whole question of her sanity. “Who are you?”

“Aye, now ’tis a telling question, that one. Mortals call me Abhean.”

“I saw you in the restaurant.” She tilted her head, a curious bird. “And in the corridor at my office. Just now.”

“Yee did. Yee’ve seen me many times in each life, Delaney, though yee’ve hidden from the memories.”

“Where are we?”

“Long ago, this was your home, though yee’ve had many in the course of your lives.”

Delaney furrowed her brows, mulling that over. “Lives? What do you mean?”

He laughed. At her. And she shivered as the dulcet tones caressed her cheeks and an unseen hand teased her hair.

“Ahhh, cailín. Yee’ve forgotten so many of the lessons yee were supposed to have learned. Time is running out, though. The king himself has declared it so. Yee have one last chance t’get it right. You and him.”

“Him who? The king? And who is this king?”

He strummed the harp and hummed a tune she didn’t recognize. “Why the King of Tir Nan Óg, himself, cailín. Manannán mac Lir .”

She backed away, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re crazy.” She blinked. “Or I am.” Delaney couldn’t help but wonder if she was having some sort of psychotic break. This man couldn’t be real. This place couldn’t be real.

She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the moan welling in her chest. “I want to go home.”

He tilted his head, a half smirk twisting his full lips as he watched her. “Yee are home, Delaney.”

“Delaney?”

The hand on her shoulder felt warm. And real. Even so, she whimpered and refused to raise her head despite the realization she’d curled up in the corner at the end of the corridor.

“Doc? What’s wrong?”

Doc. Only one person called her “Doc.” Rory. She raised her head and his face swam in her vision for a moment while she blinked away tears. Rory. Not that other man, that…warrior who only resembled him. Close-cropped hair, eyes the color of the topaz ring on her pinkie finger, and a worried frown. Without thinking, she touched his mouth with trembling fingertips to smooth his anxiety away.

“Are you okay?” The words whispered across her fingers, and his lips brushed her skin.

No. Yes. What could she say? He’d found her curled in all but the fetal position in the hallway outside her office. And she wondered about her own mental condition. She inhaled slowly through her nose, the breath hitching in her chest though she fought through it to fully expand her lungs.

“I am now.” The tightness in her chest eased, and she discovered that statement was the truth. With Rory kneeling before her, his strength and concern radiating like an aura, she was okay. She offered a sheepish smile. “I suppose I should explain…”

He shook his head. “Not unless you want to. C’mon.” With the fluid grace of an athlete, he stood. Reaching for her outstretched hand, his fingers wrapped around hers and she jumped as an electric jolt raised the hair on her arms. She stared up at him and licked her lips, her mouth suddenly so dry she couldn’t speak. He looked as stunned as she felt. Even so, he tugged her to her feet and steadied her while she regained her balance.

“May I buy you a drink?”

He arched a brow as he stared at her, one corner of his mouth quirked in a quizzical smile. “No, but I’ll buy you one. Do we need to stop at your office?”

Delaney shook her head. “No. I-I was leaving for the day. Before…” She waved her hand in a vague gesture.

He nodded as if he understood exactly what she meant. Still holding her hand, he led her toward the elevators. She almost balked but held her tongue. It was bad enough she’d had something of a psychotic break. To admit she was claustrophobic, among other fears, was more than she could own up to. Her own phobias were one reason she’d gone into psychotherapy. The elevator doors slid open, Rory tugged her inside, and guided her to turn around. He let go of her hand but his arm circled her shoulders, and he tucked her in close to his side.

Twenty minutes later, a hostess had them installed in a back booth at Celtic Crossroads. The place had the feel of an authentic Irish pub—no blaring TVs with 24/7 sports, no loud music, and the guy behind the bar who called out a greeting to Rory had a voice full of Ireland. She sat across from him in the booth and immediately missed the warmth of having him close. When a glass of dark, foamy beer arrived, Delaney chugged about half of it.

“Whoa, Doc. This stuff is a little more potent than what you buy at the store.”

She licked the foam off her top lip. “I should explain.”

Rory leaned back against the faux leather banquette and waited. His face remained perfectly blank, and Delaney made a mental note never to play strip poker with him. She gulped another swallow and almost choked. Strip poker? What the heck am I thinking? That at least got a reaction from him. Concern showed in his expression as he reached for her hand.

“Can you breathe?”

She coughed and sputtered but managed a nod.

“Can you talk?”

Delaney nodded.

“Then say something.”

She coughed again and dragged in a ragged gasp of air. “Something?” The word came out strangled. Her throat hurt as it worked to force air back out, but she didn’t think she was going to die now. After several attempts, she managed a few pain-free breaths.

“Thought I might need to do the Heimlich. And you don’t need to explain.”

“Yes, I do. A person shouldn’t find their therapist curled up in a ball.”

He released her hand and leaned back, putting both physical and emotional distance between them. “I thought we were past that. I don’t need a therapist, Doc. And after the other night, there’s no way you could treat me.”

She bit back her protestation and chewed her lips. Who was she to say whether or not he needed a therapist? He appeared to handle his trauma far better mentally than she was dealing with her own fantasies. And she had signed off on his full reinstatement to duty—not that he’d ever actually taken off. After several deep breaths, she forged ahead despite her misgivings. “That remains to be seen.” She held up a hand to stay any comment he might make. “I have to ask you something that will probably sound totally off the wall.” She watched him watch her. “Okay. I take that back. This will sound crazy. Reincarnation.”

He blinked but that was the only change in his expression.

“Yes? No? Do you believe in it? Believe in soul mates? In past lives?”

Rory very deliberately reached for his glass, raised it to his lips, and took a slow drink. He turned his head slightly to the right so he didn’t look at her face-on. He set the glass down before speaking. “No. Not really.”

Something akin to fear fisted in her belly, and she now regretted the half-downed beer. Somehow, some way, she needed to convince him otherwise. But why? Especially since she didn’t believe in it herself. Granted, she’d had patients under hypnosis who seemed to slide into a dream world where they claimed to be someone else, where their memories seemed as real and solid as their recollection of the here and now.

A song played softly in the background, and she noticed that Rory cocked his head to listen. She concentrated on the lyrics but only one phrase stuck—“But time keeps us apart.” A sense of profound sadness settled over her.

“What is it, cailín?”

Startled, she stared at Rory. “What did you just call me?”

His eyes narrowed in a perplexed expression. “Delaney. That’s your name, right?” He shrugged and looked away, his gaze roving across the room as nervous energy gathered around him. “What did you think I said?”

She shook her head. “I… Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I thought you called me something else. A word I don’t hear…often.” A word I’ve never heard before this one particular hunky figment of my imagination used it.

“Yee think me to be a hunk then, cailín?”

Laughter burbled in her ear, and she jerked her head around looking for the source of that voice. No one. The music continued above the bass hum of conversation and the sharp clink of glasses at the bar. The song ended and she made a mental note to track it down. While listening to it, she’d almost felt a key turning in her mind, a key in a lock to a closed door and she longed to open that door.

She sipped her beer and watched Rory. He still checked the room, his eyes darting into all the corners only to focus on the front door each time it opened. The eyes were the same, she decided. Perhaps that bit of folklore was true—the eyes were the mirrors of the soul. There were subtle differences between Rory and the warrior of her dream, if it had been a dream. She needed to do more research on lucid dreaming. And reincarnation.

“That still doesn’t explain things.”

Delaney blinked several times in an attempt to focus her attention. “I’m sorry?”

“Your question about reincarnation. It doesn’t explain why I found you sitting in the corner of the hall outside your office.”

She avoided his gaze, following his move earlier and watching the other patrons in the pub. “No, I don’t suppose it does. I need to do some research—”

“No.” His brusque statement cut off her excuse. “You need to tell me what the hell was going on, Doc.”

Could she tell him? Explain she thought she might be losing her mind? “Answer me this. What do you think about déjà vu?”

He tilted his head and watched her from eyes slightly askew. He didn’t want to face her straight on. He didn’t trust her. And that hurt far more than it should, both professionally and personally. Especially personally.

“What about it?”

“Does it happen to you? Do you feel like you’ve been some place before, done something before…” She swallowed hard. “Feel like you’ve known someone before?”

One corner of his mouth tugged upward. At least he didn’t smirk at her. He tossed a one-shouldered shrug into the mix as she tried to read his expression. Delaney inhaled slowly and waited for his answer.

“Yeah. Sometimes. We talked about this, after the party.”

She exhaled. “I know. But.”

“But what?” He didn’t quite blink as he asked but his eyelids lowered so that look he favored her with appeared almost feral.

“I’m a trained and licensed therapist, Rory. While the human mind is not built of hard scientific facts, the study of it is. I’m supposed to keep an open mind. I’m supposed to look for the best way to relate to my patients in order to help them relate to their environment.” Now she got the smirk from him but she forged ahead. After all, she had no place to go but down, right? “When you found me…” She paused for another fortifying breath. “When you found me in the hall, I think I was having some sort of lucid dream. Or something.”

“Or something.”

She bit back a retort. Rory had no intention of making this easy for her. “That’s why I need to do research. I’m not sure what I experienced.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it, Doc.”

Delaney rolled her eyes. “Right. So you can make fun of me? I think not.”

His hand descended on hers and enfolded her fingers in his strong ones. “It’s called CISD, Doc. Remember? Whatever you experienced, it’s left you shaken. It might not have been a critical incident like a hostage situation, but the stress is definitely showing. Let’s debrief. Besides, if I can lucid dream, so can you.”

He would throw her own words back at her. Critical Incident Stress Debriefing made sense for cops and firefighters, for EMTs and soldiers, even for people caught up in the middle of a traumatic event. The only trauma she’d suffered was wondering if she’d lost her mind. Heat from his hand warmed hers, and the warmth calmed her. Deep down, she knew he was right.

“I was… I experienced…” She sighed, searching for an explanation that would make sense. Then she realized that nothing she said would make sense. “I don’t know what happened.”

Her hand trembled in his, and Rory squeezed her slender fingers gently, surprised at how cold her hand felt. “Don’t worry about making sense of it. Just describe what occurred.” He watched her inhale, hold her breath and then exhale and did his best to focus on her face, not the luscious curves stretching the front of her sweater.

“Okay.” A few more breaths and then she began, but she focused her gaze on their joined hands, not his face. “I was leaving the office for the day. I locked my door and then I heard…music. Then singing.”

He wanted to interrupt her but remained silent. This was her story to tell.

“The voice… It was so sweet and…” She angled her head to the left as if she listened for some far off song. “Compelling. I felt compelled to find the man who was singing. So I went looking. Only no one was around. I even checked the stairwell. Nothing. When I turned around, I smacked into this guy and he grabbed me—”

“What!” He snarled and his hand tightened around her hand until she yelped. Now it was his turn to breathe deeply and calm down. He loosened his grip and soothed her by rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “Sorry. Did he—” Rory had to squelch the growl threatening to erupt from his chest.

“Hurt me?” she finished for him. “No. It wasn’t… It was… I swear he was there. I felt his hands on my arms, but then things got a little fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?” Had the man drugged her? How long had she been alone with him in that corridor before he arrived? Rage churned inside him, but he managed to keep his voice even.

“Yes. Sort of swirly and dark and when I opened my eyes, I was…someplace else.” She cleared her throat and continued before he could interrupt. “And this is the crazy part. It was some time else. I was in what looked like a medieval kitchen. Or something. Big hunks of meat roasted on spits in a massive fireplace and pots hung from chains cooking. And the people…” She glanced up to see if he believed her. He had his poker face on and didn’t even blink. Evidently reassured, she continued. “The people wore historic clothes. Including me. And I wasn’t…me. I was a young girl. But I felt like me. The me I am now. Nessa was there. And I knew she was my sister, and her name was Nessa. Or…no. It was Neasa. There’s a slight difference in the nuance. And there was a woman there. I felt like I knew her.” She swallowed and looked down again.

Rory squeezed her hand and tugged a little. When she looked up, he offered a smile he hoped would encourage her. “What are you not saying?”

“Everyone was there. Connor’s parents. His sister. My brother. And…” She gulped in a breath. “And you.”

“Me.”

“You. Only not you. You looked different. Your hair was long and darker and you…you had a sword.”

“A sword.”

“Yes. You were…” She blinked. “You looked like a picture in one of the books I had as a kid. You looked like a Finian warrior. Do you know about them?”

His stomach twisted. The sharp clang of metal on metal and the stench of death surrounded him. He could taste the copper of fresh blood on his tongue. He felt fierce and…exhilarated. His right hand clenched and unclenched, as if searching for feel of something tangible and real…a sword. Rory pulled back from the brink and stared at Delaney. “I know enough.”

She watched him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, and then she nodded. “We’d been preparing a feast, waiting for the warriors to arrive. You saw me. But it’s like I didn’t exist.”

“No, you saw Connor and I didn’t exist.” He clamped his jaw shut and prayed he hadn’t said that out loud.

Delaney favored him with an odd look. “I ran from the great hall and the man from before—the one who I’d seen in the corridor outside my office—was there in the kitchen. Sitting on a bench against the wall and playing a harp. I asked him who he was, and he kept giving me riddles to answer. Ayveen, he finally told me, though I’ve never heard that word before.”

“How do you spell it?”

“A-y-v-e-e-n. I think. That’s the way he pronounced it.”

Rory shook his head. “It’s A-b-h-e-a-n. The Harper of the Tuatha de Danaan.”

She leaned back against the seat and tugged at her hand but he didn’t relinquish it. “How do you know that?”

“I’m not sure. Probably the same way I know about Fenian warriors. I read a lot as a kid.” She shrugged at his explanation. She didn’t believe his rationalization any more than he did, but he wasn’t ready to talk about his conversation with Kieran MacDermot yet. “So what happened then?”

“Abhean talked. I listened. He told me that some king decreed I’d screwed up in all my previous lives, and I had to get it right this time.”

“A king.”

“Yeah. Manannan? Something like that. Of Tirenanoog.”

“Tir Nan Óg.”

Both of them jerked their heads around at the intrusion of the new voice. The little waitress smiled at them. “‘’Tis the fae land of the ever young,” she explained. “You’d be speakin’ of Manannán mac Lir , the fae king who decides which souls can go there.”

Her lilting accent danced toward them, and Rory smiled despite himself. “You sound like you should know…Alys.” He glanced at her nameplate before calling her by name.

Dimples appeared on her cheeks. “Aye, I’m from Ireland, and the stories of the fae and of the feuds between Abhean and Manannán mac Lir are legendary. Me mum filled m’head with the tales when I was a wee cailín.”

Delaney gasped. “Colleen? That word. What does it mean?”

“Cailín is a girl, miss, in the Gaelic.”

Rory watched Delaney’s reaction. She seemed almost relieved, but she said nothing until Alys set fresh glasses in front of them, cleared the empty ones, and retreated. With reluctance, he released Delaney’s hand and sipped his beer for a few moments to regain his composure.

“So, you think you’ve been enchanted by the fae?”

She laughed, the sound high-pitched and a bit hysterical. “In my line of work, if a patient came to me and claimed all this stuff, I’d refer them to a psychiatrist for heavy duty drugs.”

“But.”

Delaney nodded. “But. It felt so real, Rory. And…”

He recognized the fear in her eyes and reached for her hand again. “And?”

“Tonight wasn’t the first time.”

Rory schooled his reaction and very carefully asked, “Oh?”

“At the restaurant. The day Connor and Nessa met? When I bumped into you?” She searched his face, her expression anxious. He nodded slowly and she continued. “I was coming from the ladies room. Abhean—or whatever his name is—he was there. And…” She shrugged and looked out toward the front windows for a long moment. “And I watched another scene. I was an on-looker, not a participant. There was a little girl and this humongous dog—”

“Hiding in the straw from raiders.”

Delaney stared at him, her mouth slack-jawed and her eyes wide with disbelief. How did he know that? From her expression, he’d obviously guessed right. Only it wasn’t a guess. It was the truth. And he knew with absolute certainty that he’d walked into that barn, found that child—found Delaney—and carried her to safety.

She shook her head, denying his words. “I have to go.”

The words whispered from between the dry lips she licked to moisten. His groin tightened as he watched her tongue. The need to kiss her almost overwhelmed him.

“No.”

She tugged her hand, but he refused to surrender it. “No. I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

A shadow appeared across the table, and they both looked up, startled. The man blocking out the light was a stranger. Or was he? Rory narrowed his eyes, squinting to better see the man’s features.

“A lover’s spat? ’Tis no time for that, children.”

Rory blinked as the man’s voice washed over him. He’d heard that voice before, he’d swear an oath on it. It sounded like cotton candy tasted—so sweet it made your teeth hurt even as it melted away on your tongue. And he knew. “Abhean.”

“Aye, Riordan MacDermot.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Yee found me all those lives ago and begged me to save her, fool that you are.”

Shaking his head back and forth, Rory stared without blinking. “No.”

“You.” Delaney’s voice sighed out the word, breathless and shocked.

“Aye, cailín. Me. Time has run out. Mac Lir will wait no longer. Yee have precious little time left, Riordan. I will return then and escort you to Tir Nan Óg.”

He never took his eyes off the man even as he opened his mouth to protest. Darkness yawned, swirled, swallowed up the colors of the room and then winked out. The man disappeared, leaving them both blinking.

“What’s he mean, Rory? What’s going on?”

He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, his lips hungry for the touch of her skin. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out. Nothing is going to happen, Delaney. I’m not going anywhere.”

Wide-eyed, her forehead furrowed with worry, she shook her head slowly. “No. This is all my fault. I know it is. And he called you the fool? I’m the foolish one.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Rory. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Shhh, Doc. There’s nothing to fix. I’m not a believer in all this New Age shit. But I do feel a connection to you, have since the first time I heard your voice, to be honest.”

Delaney sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “When was that?”

“A couple of months ago. That hostage negotiation with the two gangbangers at the jewelry store.”

“Music Man.”

He wondered if she remembered that day as vividly as he did. Far from a poetic guy, he had to admit that meeting her added something to his existence—like color, love, life. He’d fallen in love with her voice and then with the woman herself. He’d continued his sessions with her simply to bask in her presence.

“Yes.” He stumbled over the word and nothing followed, his tongue too twisted around his thoughts to add anything coherent.

Delaney looked guilty, and he realized she hadn’t shared his feelings. Then or now. Connor. Despite the fact the jerk abandoned Delaney for her sister, despite the night they’d spent making love, she was still in love with the asshole. Yeah, Abhean was right. He was a fool. Rory dug some bills from his front pocket and tossed them on the table.

“I have to go.” He made it to the front door. Made it out onto the street. Breathe. He had to get home. He started walking, remembered his truck, found it, climbed in, and sat. Breathe. He could survive this. He’d get home. Think things through. Breathe.

****

Daylight brought no peace. The buzz of his cell phone only added to the sense of unreality—and the unease that had dogged him for hours. A call out? This was the last thing he needed, but he headed to the station, suited up, and responded with the team.

Working to find his focus, he climbed to the top of a building and set up. Ready, with his eye fixed on the scope, he acquired target. His heart stopped as if someone had sewn a block of dry ice into his chest and froze that fist-sized muscle solid. Rory couldn’t breathe for a minute.

The captain’s voice barked through his headset. “Where is she? She’s been called and paged. Why isn’t Dr. Burns on scene by now?”

Rory knew. Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, he choked over the words his brain hadn’t wrapped around yet.

“Say again, Alpha One. You broke up.” Dutch’s voice, calm and collected, cut across the captain’s.

Rory cleared his throat, but it felt like swallowing sandpaper down a throat raw with emotion. “The doc’s already here.”

“Where the hell is she? Why isn’t she at the command post?” Captain Davis, abrupt and demanding, overrode Dutch.

“Because she’s the hostage.”