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Cali never had difficulty falling asleep, until now. Meditating hadn’t relaxed her. Sipping a glass of wine with her dinner—a fluffy omelet stuffed with mushrooms and herbs she’d grown in the pots along her kitchen window sill—didn’t help. Listening to a CD of whale songs failed to soothe her. Cleansing breaths cleared her mind but not her soul.
She sensed trouble.
Nothing concrete. Nothing she could name. Just a low-level anxiety, a white noise of uh-oh vibrating inside her skull.
Could she have so seriously misjudged Rick Hennessy? Her intuition had always been pretty reliable. Why should it suddenly fail her now?
Sam had been wrong about Howard; she’d known that from the start, but he’d needed to trek all the way to Akin to learn for himself. Once he had, she’d thought he would trust her when she insisted that someone he suspected—someone with whom she was close—couldn’t possibly be behind the creepy emails.
He hadn’t trusted her. Not only that, but he’d acted as if she were an idiot, willfully ignoring the wise police detective who knew so much better than she did.
What if he did know better? What if she was an idiot?
At midnight, she hauled herself out of bed, reached for her phone, and tapped in the cell-phone number he had given her. His phone rang a few times before transferring her to voice mail. Without leaving a message, she sighed and returned to bed.
She dozed intermittently. When the first milky hint of dawn light seeped through her shades, she rose and trudged to her living room, where she performed Surya Namaskar, the sun salutation. It didn’t energize her as much as she’d hoped it would, but she felt her mood improve as she glided through the steps, stretching, bending, breathing. Once she was done, she prepared herself a yogurt smoothie, blending in a banana, wheat germ, and honey from a jar her mother had given her when she’d visited the farm last fall. She carried the thick beverage back to her bedroom and turned on her computer.
I’ll bang you until you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember your name. You’ll be so sore you can’t walk, but you’ll crawl to me and beg for more. I will own you. You’ll be my slave.
Her last gulp of smoothie stuck in her throat. She groaned, cursed, and reached for her phone. She could call Sam...and he would go chasing after Rick.
She knew in her heart that Rick couldn’t have sent her this note.
Suppressing the urge to delete the email, she printed it, then moved it to her email “save” folder. She would call Sam later, during regular business hours. If she called him now, he’d think she was panicked, and she wasn’t. Revolted, yes, but calm. She’d saluted the sun. She would be fine.
She skimmed the rest of her emails—nothing important among them—and finished her smoothie. Then she showered, dressed, and headed to the Body Shop.
She loved having the place to herself. Of course, she loved having it filled with eager clients, too—earnest yoga students, budding ballerinas, fierce little taekwondo kids in their white doboks and colorful belts. She loved the cacophony of toddler voices emerging from the playroom, as Francie kept her charges busy with arts-and-crafts projects and games. But she also loved the tranquil stretch of time before the start of her first class. She could review the books and the budget, wander through the rooms to make sure the overnight cleaning crew had done its job, set up the diffuser with a little lavender oil, and let the vibe of the place permeate her.
Settling at her desk, she checked her watch. Seven forty-five. Too early to call Sam.
Or perhaps not too early. Perhaps she was just stalling because she wasn’t sure what to say to him, other than that she’d gotten another horrid email and she wasn’t an idiot.
She heard the front door open. It was too early for any of her students to be showing up. “Francie?” she called out. It wasn’t too early for Francie.
“Hi,” an unfamiliar male voice responded.
She sprang to her feet and peered through her open office door. A tall, broad-shouldered man with short hair and mirrored sunglasses stood in the front room. When he removed his sunglasses, she recognized him, although she wasn’t sure why. Not a former student—she remembered all her students, even those who’d tried the Body Shop out when she’d first opened the place several years ago and wound up not continuing their classes.
But she’d definitely met this guy before. She wasn’t sure where, but he looked familiar.
He pulled off his gloves and extended his hand to shake hers. “Remember me?”
She smiled hesitantly. “Sort of. You’re...?”
“John Doherty. Rick’s friend. His blood-brother.”
Right. Rick had introduced them at a Christmas party he’d hosted at his house in Newburyport last December. John had served with Rick in Iraq, as Cali recalled. They’d been Marines together and would be best friends forever. Semper fi and all that.
She smiled, her tension at his unexpected intrusion melting. “Rick isn’t here yet. He usually doesn’t show up until around eight-thirty at the earliest.”
“I’m not here to see Rick,” John said. “If I wanted to see Rick, I’d stop at his house on my way down here. I came to see you.”
The tension returned. John unzipped his parka to reveal a thickly muscled torso, visible beneath a snug-fitting shirt.
He’d stop at Rick’s house on his way down... More memories of that Christmas party were coming back to her. There had been a lot of drinking—more than she was used to. A lot of loud, rowdy friends. Neighbors, ex-Marines, gorgeous, sassy women. Cali had mostly hung out with Francie in the kitchen of Rick’s condo, sipping wine and feeling as out of place as she had during her first year at the University of Vermont.
On his way down... His way down from where? Newburyport was as far up as you could get and still be in Massachusetts.
His way down from New Hampshire?
John Doherty. John Doe. From New Hampshire.
“You’d better leave,” she said, keeping her voice level. “We aren’t open yet.”
“The door was unlocked.” His feet were so firmly planted on the floor, his body so solid, he might as well have been a bronze statue, utterly immovable. “It’s not like I broke in.”
“Yes, well.” Okay. Cali was an idiot. If Sam thought she was, he was correct. She should never have left the front door unlocked. But she always did, because occasionally a student would arrive early and want to work out in the studio. She encouraged that. Yoga didn’t have to be restricted only to classes. It could be practiced wherever and whenever a person felt moved to do it.
Her heart fluttered in her chest, sending tiny bolts of alarm through her body. She did her best to stay calm. Deep breaths. Get rid of him.
Call Sam.
“If you want to see me, you’ll have to make an appointment,” she said, sounding terribly unlike herself. She wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer. She was always open, just like her door.
Sam had warned her to lock her door, though.
It was too late to lock the Body Shop’s door. But she could lock herself.
More deep breaths. She inched back into her office, her eyes never leaving John Doherty. She had no idea why he’d come, why he had sent her the emails, what he wanted from her. At the Christmas party, he’d been friendly enough, but he’d shown no particular interest in her, either as Rick’s colleague or as a romantic conquest. Or a sexual conquest, for that matter.
Just a few more steps and she’d be inside her office. She could close the door, jam a chair under the knob, phone Sam—
John Doherty moved so swiftly, she thought of a snake, darting out of the grass with fangs bared, taking down its prey with speed and surprise. He gripped her wrist, his fingers easily circling the slender bone, and yanked her toward him. “You jerk my buddy around, you answer to me,” he growled.
“I’ve never jerked your buddy around,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice calm.
“Sure you have.” He dragged her down the hall. “Where’s your yoga place? Your touchy-feely place, full of peace and love? Come on, babe. Let’s talk about peace and love.” He peered through the studio’s open door and smiled. “Looks like a dojo to me. You know what a dojo is?”
“Yes.”
“Where martial arts are practiced. We’re going to practice some arts, too, sweetheart.”
“Rick wouldn’t want you to do this,” she said as he pulled her into the studio.
“Rick should be doing this himself. Lucky for him he has me to do it for him. You need to learn your place, girl. You should’ve made him your partner from the start. He brings good money into this joint. He brings you profits. And you treat him like a frickin’ employee.”
He was an employee, she thought, though she didn’t say it. He was a teacher at her place of business. If he wanted to be more, they could discuss the possibility down the road. But threatening emails from his friend weren’t going to persuade her to make him her partner at the Body Shop.
The hell with threatening emails. They were just virtual messages. There was nothing virtual about Doherty’s presence in her studio. He dragged her further into the room, then shoved her to her knees. “Let’s see if you’re worthy enough for my blood brother,” he said, his fingers at his belt. “We’ll start with your mouth and work our way down.”
He might outweigh her by eighty pounds. He might be an ex-marine. He might have surprised her with his sudden appearance.
But she had balance. She had flexibility. She had the ability to stand on her head, to perform splits, to bend her legs backward until her toes touched her skull. Years of yoga had strengthened her.
She slung an arm around one of Doherty’s tree-trunk calves and yanked hard.
If she’d hoped to drop him, she’d failed. But he wobbled, teetered, staggered. She grabbed his ankle and yanked again. He started to fall. She pushed herself to her feet and tried to knee his groin.
He caught her leg and tugged it. She fell backward, hard. If her head hadn’t hit a mat, she might have been knocked unconscious. She had to blink several times until her vision came into focus. She saw Doherty descending to plant himself on top of her, to pin her down, to do whatever it was he planned to do to her. One of those vicious things he’d emailed her about.
With a burst of adrenaline, she slid out from beneath him and kicked upward. Her foot made contact with his abdomen. It was hard with muscle, not vulnerable the way his groin would have been. He fell back a step, emitting an Oooof! With several inches of space between them, she was able to shift onto her hands and knees. She grabbed one of the rolled-up yoga mats, and when he closed the distance, she swung it like a short, stubby bat.
It didn’t do much damage. She would have needed a real bat for that. But it slowed him down.
It didn’t stop him, unfortunately. He swatted the mat away, knocked her onto her back, and dropped on top of her, his knees straddling her hips, his hands flanking her shoulders. His smile was both triumphant and furious.
And then she saw Sam’s face over Doherty’s shoulder, his service revolver drawn.
Was she fantasizing? If so, it was the best fantasy she’d ever had. Because in the fantasy, Sam pressed the barrel against the nape of Doherty’s neck and said, “Move, and I’ll blow your head off.”
***
Sam awakened from the best night of sleep he’d had since the shooting in New York. Maybe it had to do with those cleansing breaths he’d taken. Maybe he’d been lulled by a song floating through his head. I need you, and your love, too.
He needed Cali. He realized it the moment he’d opened his eyes to the faint dawn light. He needed the peace she radiated. He needed her open spirit, her willingness to trust. Her acceptance of what the world had to offer. Her wisdom. Her faith in the goodness of others.
He still thought he was right about Rick Hennessy being behind the harassing emails, but he’d continue his investigation with sensitivity. The guy was her friend and colleague, and Sam would do whatever was necessary to make Hennessy’s arrest as painless as possible for her.
In the kitchen to prepare some coffee, he noticed missed-call light blinking on his cell phone. Tapping the screen, he saw that the call had come from Cali, at midnight. He must have slept through it.
If she’d called at midnight, she’d wanted to talk to him then. To make up with him, perhaps. To ask him to come over to her apartment, to her bed. Maybe those lyrics from the song were humming through her head, too. Maybe she needed him and his love.
He raced through a shower, threw on some clothes, and charged outside. Coffee could wait. He’d have his morning coffee with her. After they made love.
Her apartment was dark and the door was locked. He rang several times, but since her car was gone, he didn’t expect her to answer.
He should have phoned her first. Back in his own car, he dialed her number. No answer.
Where would she be at seven-thirty in the morning? Either having breakfast somewhere or at the Body Shop. He decided to try her studio first.
Seaview Avenue was quiet, and he was able to park right in front of the Body Shop’s entrance. He saw a light on in the front room and smiled. After turning off the engine, he swung out of his car, loped to the front door, and pushed it. It was unlocked. Maybe she had a very early class—a class where the Sun Salutation actually saluted the rising sun.
He strode through the entry to the hall and heard the scuffle in the studio. Shit. Had Hennessy showed up early, too? Had he asked her to come in early, and then ambushed her?
Sam pulled his gun from its holster. He hadn’t confronted a serious crime since the shooting back in New York. He’d spent time recuperating from his shoulder injury, then riding a desk in the precinct house while the shrink worked him over, teaching him strategies for dealing with his PTSD. Once he’d started working as a detective with his new partner, his cases were after-the-fact investigations, not active, in-progress crimes.
Now, hearing the noises coming from the studio and feeling the cold weight of his revolver in his hand, he couldn’t remember a single strategy.
It didn’t matter. One deep Cali-style breath, and he was okay.
He moved silently to the studio’s entry. The man lunging at Cali wasn’t Hennessy. It was no one Sam had ever seen before.
Cali slammed her foot into the guy’s gut, stunning him, then swung at him with a rolled-up mat. Not an effective weapon. She was outweighed, out-muscled, but she was fighting, giving it her best. No peace-love-flowers commune attitude from her. She was fighting for her life.
Sam inched closer, wanting surprise on his side. For all he knew, this thug could be armed, could turn from his intended victim to Sam and blast away. That was how it had happened in New York.
Sam would take a bullet for Cali. For God’s sake, he was a cop. He’d take a bullet for any civilian. It was his job.
As he glided closer, his vision seemed high-def clear. He knew what he had to do: stay calm. Stay focused. Maintain his balance, not just physically but mentally.
The guy tumbled down on top of Cali, and her eyes met Sam’s over the guy’s beefy shoulder. She looked...determined. Confident. Not scared. Not panicked.
Relieved.
Sam jammed the barrel of his revolver against the guy’s neck and said, “Move and I’ll blow your head off.”
The guy froze.
Sam wished he had some cuffs with him, but he didn’t. He did have his gun, though, and that was enough to immobilize the bastard. “Okay,” he said, slowly. “You’re going to stand up now. Nice and easy, so I don’t make any mistakes.”
The guy pushed off Cali and rose to his feet. He started to turn toward Sam. “I’m a Marine,” he said.
“Good for you. I’m a cop.” Sam kept the gun at the guy’s neck. “That means I’m in charge now.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulled out his phone, and speed-dialed the police station. “Send a cruiser over to the Body Shop,” he told Helen after identifying himself. “I’ve got a 10-95, and I could use some assistance.”
“Any injuries?” Helen asked.
Sam glanced at Cali. She’d risen to her feet, and she looked as calm and in control as she looked leading her yoga classes. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, but...no. She was fine. Better than fine. She was magnificent.
“No medical assistance needed. I’ll bring the victim in for a statement, but she’s good.”
“Sit tight. I’ll send a unit over.”
He thumbed the disconnect icon on his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket, all the while holding his gun against the asshole’s head. “I’m not going to read you your Miranda rights,” he said. “I’ll leave that to the officers who are coming to pick you up. But I suggest you don’t say anything that might incriminate you. I don’t want anything to go wrong with this bust. Okay, Mr. Marine?”
The asshole nodded. He looked frightened. Sam appreciated that. He’d had a gun aimed at him. He knew the fear.
But he didn’t feel it now. No PTSD. No racing pulse. No phantom pain in his arm. No images of Maggie on the floor of the apartment building, blood oozing from the wound in her forehead.
Balance. He had found it.
He sent Cali a glance. She was watching him, her eyes still round but the flush receding from her cheeks. “Will I be able to teach my class?” she asked.
He stifled a laugh. What a woman—from assault victim to concerned teacher in three seconds flat. “I’m going to have to get a statement from you. You might be late for class. Can someone cover for you?”
“I have to make some phone calls.”
“Go do that,” he said.
She nodded and left the studio.
He watched her leave, and the song rippled through his head. I need you, and your love, too.
She seemed so poised, so serene. Maybe she didn’t need him. But he’d rescued her. It was his job, his mission, the most important thing he’d ever done in his life. He’d rescued her.
He breathed in through his nose, held his breath, and exhaled through his mouth, feeling peace wash over him like an ocean wave. He’d done what he had to do, and no one had gotten killed. Cali would be fine.
Sam would be fine, too.
