Chapter Two

AT SIX-FOOT-FOUR, he towered over Tess with more than a foot to spare. Yet, Dr. Michael Adams never looked down at her. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that? In the past two hours, there was a lot she had never noticed that she now saw. It was probably due to the fact that she’d never touched him before.

Nor had she ever been in his arms. She’d forgotten how warm real touch was. And his was exceptionally warm.

She waited for pain, the usual headache, but none came. Give it time, she thought.

She sat in his office finishing with Marilyn, the best police artist she’d ever been given the chance to work with. The details and the way Marilyn brought back memories were amazing. The profile she drew of the killer with dark hair was frighteningly perfect.

Michael leaned over her left shoulder and looked at the sketch. Tess glanced sideways at him. He still wore his white lab coat, and in his blue eyes, Tess saw signs of fatigue. His dark blond hair fell haphazardly down into his eyes, and he absently raked his fingers through it to set it back in place. “So you really feel you should know him?”

Tess shook her head slightly. “I don’t know.” She waited until Marilyn stepped away, taking the sketch with her to make copies before she continued. “In the vision, he seemed familiar, but perhaps I was only feeling fragments of the victim’s feelings since she knew him well enough to call him Raymond, because now that I look at him, he doesn’t look familiar at all.”

Jake Williams stepped into the room. “We’ll distribute this sketch as soon as possible. And we’ll see if the computer can match anything to the name Raymond. Is there anything else you can add, anything else you remember?”

Tess had described the room, complete with the dirty walls and small fish tank from her past visions, and all of the five other women as she remembered them. She even described the killer’s voice and the way he moved. “No, if I think of anything else, I’ll call you, Detective Williams.” She rubbed her forehead absently, feeling too tired to remember another memory of anything.

Jake looked at her squarely. “Call me Jake.”

Tess nodded slowly. Twice now, like a small child, she’d been given permission to move to another plane.

“You know I have to give a report to the FBI,” he told her.

“I know.”

“What do you want me to tell them—that I got this information from a psychic?”

Tess took a deep breath and absently scratched her head. Her entire past was filled with being shunned because everyone thought she was “different.” During her growing up years, people labeled her as witch, psychic or psycho, weird or strange. It didn’t matter. Regardless of the label, they were afraid to touch her. She had the feeling that the moment word of her ability got out now, she’d experience that all over again, at least from most people. Until now, Jake Williams had managed to use her ability and blend it with other evidence to protect her. Perhaps this was where the pain would come in—from being ostracized by the few people she’d befriended here.

When the memory came back of what the woman lying on a slab in the cooler had gone through at the hands of this monster, it suddenly didn’t matter any longer. It didn’t matter if anyone knew of her “gift.” It didn’t matter if there was pain. All that mattered was saving those other five women. “I don’t care what you tell them.”

“I’ll tell them it came from an unidentified informant and see how that flies, but don’t expect any miracles. They brought with them three other unsolved cases from the past year, from other parts of the country. Every case matches the profile of these recent murders. It looks like our man’s a busy guy, especially if he’s got five more waiting for her turn.” Jake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Good night, Jake,” Michael said.

“I can hope for a good night, can’t I?” Jake left, walking out with a heavy tread, as if he were tired and much older than his thirty-something years.

A moment later, Tess was alone with Michael. For a full minute, the room was perfectly quiet. Tess lowered her head and closed her eyes, letting her body relax. Forcing herself to relive the vision over and over in order to grasp every detail for Jake and the police artist had left her feeling beaten.

“Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

Michael’s offer touched her with almost the same warmth his hands offered. And Tess couldn’t help smiling. “What about my car?”

“We can leave it here, and I can pick you up and bring you back when­ever you’re ready to come get it.”

“I couldn’t impose on you like that. I’m sure you’ll have to go out of your way to take me home, and you look exhausted. You need to go home to bed.”

“I’m used to long hours,” he said, as he looked at his watch. “Be­sides, as of one hour ago, when Riley showed up for the next shift, I was officially off duty for a week, so I have plenty of time to catch up on my sleep.”

“Taking a vacation, are you?”

He grinned at her. “My boss told me I needed to use up some of my accumulated vacation time or I was going to lose it. I plan on stopping for breakfast before heading home. Care to join me? I promise I won’t force any coffee on you.”

Tess smiled again. She also recalled his touch. There was no deny­ing his warmth, his goodness. Nor could she deny the clean, blue aura she saw around him, as well as the clean aura that was left on everything he touched. She wondered why she’d never seen it until he touched her.

Best of all, there was still no pain, no headache. Perhaps there wouldn’t be. Tess found herself wishing for that.

She must have hesitated too long before replying, for he went on, “Or if you don’t care to hit the diner across the street, we could go to my place. It’s not too far and I make a mean omelet.”

The grin he offered her played across her heartstrings like the bow of a fine violin. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go home yet. After feeling his touch, she found she couldn’t just walk away. Not now, perhaps not ever, but she couldn’t let herself think about that when the horror of her previous vision was so fresh and raw. No matter how much she thought spending time with him wasn’t a good idea, her desire to do just that won over. He’d helped her and held her after one of the worst visions she’d ever experienced, and the last thing she wanted right now was to face the rest of the world or her empty house alone.

His place would be better, she knew from past experience. At the diner, she’d be bombarded by feelings left by previous patrons where something as simple as touching the salt shaker could give her headache behind her eyes.

What really made up her mind was the fact that she was starving. Breakfast sounded like a great idea. Her stomach growled with anticipa­tion. “Your omelet sounds great. I’ll be happy to join you for breakfast, but I can drive myself.” She didn’t add that she wanted to drive herself so she could leave if any feelings she experienced at his house were too much for her to handle. A shiver passed through her. She knew without a doubt that any feelings regarding Michael might grow into something more. Maybe that was what she wanted . . .

Thirty minutes later, after following him in her own car, Tess was in his home. Talk about jumping in with both feet, she thought wryly, as she stood on the far side of the kitchen island and watched him move around as if he cooked gourmet breakfasts every morning.

Michael couldn’t believe Tess was in his kitchen. He had clearly seen the tug of war in her eyes when he’d asked her to come home and have breakfast with him. But then, since she’d awakened in his arms, he’d seen that tug of war in her expression more than once when she looked at him. He was beginning to wonder what the hell she’d “seen” when she woke in his arms and had tried to jump away from him. He decided it didn’t really matter. She was here with him, and that’s what he’d wanted.

“Sausage with my killer omelet?” he offered, opening the fridge.

“That’d be great,” she replied.

He heard the anxiety in her voice and wished he could put her at ease. “Pancakes, English muffins, or bagels?”

He stood up and met her gaze. She looked like a deer surrounded by wolves.

“Whatever you want.”

He didn’t look away. Enough was enough. He couldn’t let her spend the entire meal being afraid of him. “You’re nervous,” he pointed out. “You don’t have to be nervous in my house.”

She licked her lips, and he couldn’t help staring at the motion of her tongue. Maybe he should look back into the fridge. Maybe he should climb into the fridge and cool off. He still didn’t look away from her.

“You really know how to read me, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’d like to,” he replied honestly, knowing instinc­tively that it was the only way to deal with her.

“You don’t understand. I’m not used to spending time in anyone else’s kitchen.”

“I noticed the way you haven’t moved an inch since we arrived, and you’ve been careful to not even touch the counter.” He paused. “Tess, you can touch things here. I’m not afraid of your touch, and you don’t have to be afraid of mine. I don’t have anything to hide. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m not used to having anyone in my kitchen for breakfast, either.”

She offered him a small smile.

“Now, what is it—pancakes, English muffins, or bagels? Or do you want all three?”

She laughed, even if it did sound a bit forced. “Only if I want to wind up fat as a pig. I think I’ll just have the English muffin.”

“Great.” He pulled out a tray of eggs and the package of sausage, then moved to another cabinet to get out the toaster.

“Do you always eat this much for breakfast?” she asked.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Well, just don’t expect to find all that in my refrigerator.”

“And what will I find in your refrigerator?” he asked, taking it as sub­tle invitation that he would soon get to spend time in her kitchen.

“Skim milk, orange juice, maybe some eggs, but I wouldn’t trust eat­ing them. They may be petrified.”

He shared her grin as he pulled out a pitcher and a can of juice con­centrate and slid them both over the counter to her. “Would you care to mix the juice?”

“Sure.”

He couldn’t mistake the hesitancy in her voice, and he wished for a way to help her relax.

The smell and sizzling sounds of cooking pork filled the room within moments.

“I understand what you see when you take the hands of the dead,” Michael said without turning toward her, pretending he was too busy poking the sausage with a fork. He sensed that it would be easier for her to talk if he wasn’t looking at her. “But what do you see when you touch other objects?”

“It’s hard to explain. I don’t really see anything. I just feel. And it’s only sometimes, not all the time.” She zipped the lid off the juice.

“Like what?”

“Like a feeling of goodness or badness or uncleanliness.”

“You’re right, I can see where that’s hard to explain since I don’t re­ally understand what that would feel like.” He risked a glance at her. “Can you expound on that a little?”

She shrugged lightly. “It’s like a few weeks ago. I was in the diner eat­ing lunch. I like being in the diner. I can have a great meal and still be around people.”

It tore at him know her worry ran that deep, but he said nothing, wanting her to keep talking. “Anyway, when I picked up the salt shaker to salt my potato, I felt the lingering feeling of dirtiness, like an illness. I know that sounds funny, but I’m almost positive the person who held it last is probably sick with something like cancer or in the end stages of some other disease. Usually, I feel nothing. The vibes, or whatever they are that I feel, have to be very strong. That’s why I usually feel things like extreme happiness or extreme excitement or like with this serial killer, extreme evil. And the most frustrating part is that I don’t feel it all the time.”

“Why’s that the most frustrating part?”

“Because it’s like anticipating something all the time and it only shows up half the time, so you can never relax because you never know if this will be the time. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely.” He pulled out a plate and covered it with a paper towel for the cooked pork. “So why don’t you like the FBI?”

He asked his question with his back to her as he cooked because he again felt she’d be more open with him if she wasn’t being watched.

“I never said I didn’t like the FBI.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to. It was writ­ten in your expression when you said those three initials. If you’d like to have a glass of that juice before we eat, glasses are in that cabinet right there.” He nodded toward a nearby cabinet.

“Would you care for some, too?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

It must be getting easier for her to touch his things, he thought, as he watched her out of the corner of his eye. He saw no hesitation when she opened the cabinet and reached in for two glasses. She also got out two plates and set the small table.

He also knew his request for juice gave her an opportunity to ignore his question about the FBI which was why he was surprised when she went on with, “I don’t have a problem with the FBI—just one agent.”

He couldn’t believe she’d just admitted that to him. And those three words brought up so many questions—which agent? Why? What hap­pened? Michael fought the urge to blurt them all out, wishing she trusted him enough to share this with him. He wished, too, that he knew how to put her at ease. She was obviously so surprised she’d let her thoughts slip.

Tess clamped her mouth shut. Her heart suddenly raced.

She couldn’t believe she’d even allowed herself to think about Markus Black, much less mention him. She’d thought she’d managed to tuck him so far back behind the locked doors of her mind that he could never escape.

“I see,” Michael said absently.

Tess knew there was nothing for him to see. Yet, it was as if Markus Black was suddenly in the room with them. He filled the room with his filth. Tess even smelled him—that horrid mixture of aftershave and man and a strong deodorant that tried to mask the other smells and couldn’t. There was even an underlying hint of the coffee he’d bought for her. For a moment, she actually tasted bitterness and thought she might throw up, but there was nothing in her stomach. Still, she nearly heaved.

From far away, she heard Michael’s voice. “Tess?”

She took a deep breath and looked at him, wondering just when he’d crossed the room and touched her arm. His hand on her arm was . . .

Inviting.

Pleasing.

Alluring.

Safe.

And not the least bit painful.

“Are you all right?”

Tess couldn’t respond to his question. Why was she reacting this way to the memory of Markus Black? And why now? It had been nearly four years. She’d long ago moved on with her life and left the horrid memories of Markus Black at the side of the road.

Then she realized what was making her react this way.

“It was the smell,” she said out loud, forcing the words through her tight throat.

“What smell? The sausage?”

“No! That smells good.” In all reality, Markus Black smelled good, too—alluring. It had been what drew her to him. It had been discovering later just how rotten he was inside that turned his scent vile. “I just remembered the smell of the killer’s house. I need to call Jake and tell him.”

“You smelled his house?”

Tess took slow, even breaths and worked to clear away the memory. “Yes, now that I think about it, everything in that vision was exception­ally vivid—the smell, the feel of the wood of the chair arms where my, I mean her, hands were bound. I even had goose bumps be­cause I was sitting there in nothing more than my underwear and the house was cool. It was the strongest vision I’ve ever had.”

The sausage began to burn, and even though they both glanced to­ward the stove, Michael didn’t leave her side. “What did his house smell like?”

“Like a locker room—musty and sweaty, like dirty socks with air freshener working to cover it up. Our breakfast is burning.”

For a long moment, they remained still. Close enough that Tess again smelled the clean, pure, enticing scent of him; close enough that she felt the heat of his body. She instinctively felt the urge to move away, to create some space, but she didn’t give into that urge. She didn’t move at all. After all, his touch, his smell, his very closeness, was nice, inviting, as it wiped away the remnants of her locker room memory.

Michael didn’t move his hand from her arm for a long moment. Then, as if he feared he’d invaded too much of her space, he suddenly stepped away and pointed to the phone next to his computer. “My land­line is there if you don’t want to use your cell.”

Tess was still hesitant to move away from him. Yes, closeness was frightening to her, but at the same time, Michael came with a safe feeling. With him, Tess didn’t see or feel the coldness she felt from so many other people. Was it really possible he accepted her, gift and all, when all her life she’d been abandoned to the wolves? Tess was afraid to hope, despite how she was drawn to the warmth Michael offered. Finally, she forced her legs to move, pulled out her cell, and called Jake to report her memory.

Yet, for her, breakfast was ruined after she made the call. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to bury memories of Markus Black. They lin­gered, along with the memories of her vision and the haunting odor of a locker room.

Much to her surprise, Michael was observant enough to notice her lack of appetite because he said, “You aren’t eating.”

“I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”

“Why not? Was it because you remembered the smell or the feel of the chair?” He’d polite enough to wait until they were both finished eating before he brought up the subject. “Or did it have more to do with the one FBI agent you don’t like?”

For a long moment, Tess stared at her nearly empty plate. “I know they say one bad apple doesn’t make all the apples in the bucket bad. But for me, I find it hard to work with any of them knowing they hire men like him.”

“Men like whom?”

She shook her head. In Michael’s line of work, he dealt with many law enforcement people. Chances were he knew Markus Black. “I shouldn’t say, and it’s not important anyway. Unless they find another body, I probably won’t meet up with him. Besides, he probably won’t even be one of the agents assigned to the case. And if he is, well, I’m a big girl and I know how to remain professional. I should have never brought him up. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

She offered him a small smile, knowing it wasn’t anything close to an explanation, but right then she was too tired to give any more. She was relieved when he returned her smile.

She helped him wash dishes, then insisted she had to go. They both needed sleep. Despite the fact he had the next week off, they both knew there were five potential victims that could show up on the slabs in his cooler. She suspected he’d cancel his vacation if that started happening. And her vision had wiped her out. If she didn’t get some sleep soon, she’d collapse right where she stood.

Michael walked her to her car. The world was waking up to a per­fect, early spring morning, complete with a pink sky. The neighborhood was quiet as the sun peeked over the housetops. Somewhere down the street, an early worker slammed a car door.

“Thanks for sharing breakfast with me,” he said.

“It was fun. Thanks for not forcing any coffee on me.”

He rolled his eyes. He knew it wasn’t as fun as it could have been had she not had to call Jake Williams with more information about her vision. “Now that I know you don’t like it, I won’t offer it again.” He reached out and took her hand. “What about hot chocolate or tea, do you like those?”

She smiled and let him hold her hand, enjoying the leathered soft­ness of his skin and the warmth it infused in her. She wondered what he’d say if she told him that when he held her hand, she’d do whatever he wanted. “Yes, I like both.”

“If you like, we could do something this week while I’m off. If the sun stays out, maybe we could go on a picnic or something,” he sug­gested.

She concentrated on his hand in hers and still didn’t sense any cold­ness or anything that felt dirty or distrustful. More importantly, there was no pain. She was afraid of the pain. But she decided to take the chance. “I’d like that.”

“If the sun doesn’t stay out, we could take in a movie. Do you like butter on your popcorn?”

“Of course, extra. But if it’s all right with you, I’d rather just rent a movie. Movie theatres are too . . . full of people.”

“I get it,” he said. “We can rent something and I’ll make the pop­corn.”

She watched him for a long moment. “Do you know you’re sur­rounded by a blue-green aura?”

He raised his brows at her question. “Is that good?”

“Yes, it’s very good.” And something she wanted to trust.

Without another word, or without giving her warning, he leaned close and tenderly touched his lips to hers. The kiss was quick but soft, over in the span of a heartbeat. Yet, her heart fluttered as if it was filled with a million butterflies.

She stared up at him for a long moment, surprised—surprised that he’d kissed her and surprised by her own reaction to his kiss. She fought the urge to lick her lips, not wanting to lick away the lingering taste of him or the way her lips tingled from his contact. Long ago, thanks to Markus Black, she’d given up the idea of ever kissing anyone again.

But with Michael, every cell of her being was suddenly alive, awake, and alert. And craving more. She was instantly reminded how wonder­fully good flesh against flesh could feel.

Yet, he apparently mistook her surprise for anger, because he said, “I won’t say I’m sorry for that kiss, Tess, because I’m not. And don’t try to convince me you didn’t like it. It may have been quick, but I felt the way you responded.”

“All right, I won’t try to convince you. And I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, either. But I do have a question. Why are you working with dead people? You should be a medical doctor, healing and saving patients’ lives.”

He gave her a small grin and shook his head. “That life isn’t for me. I’m right where I need to be.” He opened her car door for her. “Why are you working with dead people? With your voice, you could choose to be on any radio show you wanted.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He merely grinned at her. “Can I call you later?”

“Okay.” She was startled by how quickly she’d agreed. She was do­ing more than taking chances with him. She was not only jumping into the pool with both feet, but into water that was probably over her head. She climbed in behind the wheel. They said good-bye, and she drove off, refusing to watch him in the rearview mirror.

As Michael watched Tess go, he thought about her suggestion that he should be treating live patients. He could never be a practicing physi­cian. He couldn’t heal the sick. That’s why it was best he simply cared for the dead. Emma had taught him that.

Emma.

For the first time in four years, his heart didn’t ache at the thought of her. He wondered what Tess would say if he told her that he needed her touch as much as she needed his.

TESS’S LIPS STILL tingled, and she felt Michael’s warmth rolling through her for the entire drive south, out of Chicago. Not until she pulled to a stop in her own garage in the small village suburb of Willow did she hesitantly lick her lips. Her heart skipped a beat when she still tasted Michael.

She climbed out and looked around at the familiarity of her neighbor­hood. Named for a small grove of weeping willow trees that had grown wild a century before, Willow seldom changed. It maintained its own public schools, had four churches and three gas stations, as well as five bars and a small grocery store. Yet, unlike the ever-changing windy city of Chicago, Willow’s population stayed relatively the same.

Tess lived in a bungalow at the corner of First Street and Chestnut. She had a waving acquaintance with her neighbors, but never got close enough to have to touch them. She maintained her yard and house and lived among the residents as if she were one of them, which she knew she never would be. Despite the charade, she’d made a quiet life for herself. She was on the payroll of the Chicago Police Department, under Detective Jake Williams’ supervision, leaving behind a childhood of being shunned and called names while doing her best to keep her chin up and ignore the taunts.

Now, as she looked at the little stone house she’d grown to love, her lips still tingled. Tentatively, she reached up and gently fingered them, as if she might actually still feel the remnants of Michael’s lips. Could she trust this? Could she trust him and the goodness she felt in him?

She’d walked into his cooler over two years ago, and he’d never treated her with anything other than respect, even after witnessing her “gift” in action. Did that mean he was trustworthy?

It had been four years since that single night with Markus Black re­minded her that sometimes the taunts of school children simply grow into something bigger, something worse. It had been four long years since she’d smelled that expensive aftershave scent she knew he used to mask his rotten soul. And yet her vision about the killer’s house had brought it all back in an instant, and just when she was beginning to feel almost comfortable in Michael’s kitchen, too. Why had it had to surface then?

Would she have not been lured in so easily by Markus Black if she had never gone to Grandmama’s funeral? How different would her life be if she had just walked past Grandmama’s casket without taking her hand and discovering her ‘gift’ before her entire family? Would she have grown up with friends instead of being called a freak, or a weirdo, or a witch, or psychotic? Would she have had the self-esteem to recognize Markus Black for the user he was? Perhaps. Would she perhaps have a husband—a husband who was nice and good-looking like Michael Adams? And would there be kids playing in this yard and filling the two empty bedrooms of her house?

As she asked herself those questions, her lips still tingled from Michael’s kiss.

That tingle scared the hell out of her. That tingle sent a buzz through her that caused her insides to shake and make all of her feel antsy and needy and lonelier than ever because it was making her want to dream of a home and a family. It was making her want a life she knew she could never have.

But then again, Michael filled her with warmth, and she’d seen noth­ing but goodness when his lips touched hers. Dare she hope for more?

MICHAEL MADE HIS way to his bedroom, thinking how empty and lifeless the house felt now that Tess was gone. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since Emma.

When he stepped into his bedroom, he walked to his chest of draw­ers where he kept one last photograph of Emma on display. He had snapped the picture of her the summer before she’d gotten sick, the summer before he’d discovered the lump in her breast, the summer before the radical mastectomy and all the radiation that did nothing to stop the disease that coursed through her.

Lifting the framed photo, he walked to his mattress and flopped down onto his bed. Holding the picture above him, he looked up at Emma, his wife of ten short months. He could almost imagine her long blond hair cascading down toward him. In her smile, he saw her open­ness. She’d been bubbly and outgoing, beautiful and quick to laugh. There’d been no mystery to her. He’d never had to wonder what she thought. She’d shared everything with him and wore her heart and emo­tions on her sleeve for the entire world to see and love.

He’d loved her completely, would have done anything for her. But he hadn’t been able to heal her.

It was when Emma died in his arms that he made his decision to care for the dead. He had nearly gone crazy with wonder as to what was done with her after she was taken from her hospital bed for the last time. Did anyone care if she slid off the stretcher and hit the floor? Did any­one think she felt any pain? Did anyone care if she was naked and cold on a cold table in a cold room for anyone to see?

He’d cared, and he’d realized that the dead needed as much, if not more, care than those who lived because they could no longer be their own advocate.

After Emma’s death, he’d spent time in what he called limbo. Now he devoted his life to his work, taking care of the dead, especially for those who died for no apparent reason. He searched for answers, for the missing puzzle pieces, to give to the families regarding why and how their loved ones died and to give to the police so they could catch the criminals who cut someone’s life short. The dead had so much to tell, and Michael took the time to listen. At the same time, he cared for them as he had wanted Emma cared for. He maintained their dignity. He made sure none of them landed on the floor. He kept them covered, even though they needed to be kept cool.

The dead often held many secrets, but they couldn’t speak so they couldn’t share them with him. Over the years, he’d learned where to find those secrets, and he’d made it his life’s work to speak for them.

And Emma, who had shared so little time with him in her life, had, in her death, taught him to care, to listen and to value every aspect of life, even death.

It was Emma who had taught him patience, a virtue that was defi­nitely needed with Tess, another woman he wanted in his life, a woman who was nearly as untouchable as Emma considering the barricades she put around herself.

He held the framed photograph of Emma to his chest and closed his eyes for a long moment as he allowed himself to relax. When he opened them, he saw Emma standing in the doorway. She wore the pretty purple nightgown he’d given her, and she silently stepped closer.

“Where have you been hiding?” he asked.

She merely offered him a soft smile. She drew closer and placed her hand on his chest, as if to tell him she was always in his heart. Her hand was warm, and she smelled of lilacs, as she so often did.

“I miss you,” he said.

“I miss you, too,” she whispered. “But I can’t be with you now, and you need something more in your life besides work.”

“But work keeps me busy. People die every day.”

She sat down on the bed beside him. “But it doesn’t get rid of your loneliness. I feel it, even here.”

“It’s not that bad.”

She laughed, and the soft sound echoed off the silent walls. “You could never lie to me, M.D. So don’t try now.”

He smiled at the sound of the nickname she’d given him. M for Michael. D for Dwayne, his middle name after his father. Yet, she’d often teased that it was simply what he was meant to be—an M.D.

He reached out to touch her and thought he actually felt the soft­ness of her curls. His fingertips brushed her cheek, and he felt that, too.

“She needs you.”

“Who?” he asked.

“You need to ask?”

No, he didn’t, he thought, but he said nothing.

Emma smiled, as if she read his thoughts. “Tess. And yes, I can talk about her with you. I can’t be with you, but I don’t want you to be alone. You’re a wonderful man, and you deserve to be happy, so don’t let the way she tries to shut out the world frighten you away. It’s just what she’s used to doing. She needs you. She just doesn’t know how much, yet. She needs time to get close to you.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me.”

“She’s doesn’t want me. I feel the way she hesitates when I invade her space or get too close. After she fainted, she would have rather fallen on her face than to be in my arms.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Besides, she didn’t move away when you kissed her. I think she wants to be in your arms. She’s just afraid to be there.”

“She has no reason to be afraid of me.”

“So show her. Let her get to know you. It’s not you. It’s the close­ness she fears, the closeness she can’t trust.”

“I don’t want to scare her away.” He brushed the softness of her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Be patient.”

“Maybe . . .”

Something banged three times on the front door and drew his atten­tion and he jerked awake. The room was dark and he was alone.

Stiff and feeling groggy, haunted by the remnants of his dream of Emma, Michael sluggishly put his feet on the floor, only to step on Emma’s picture. He let out a heavy breath and picked it up. Something compelled him to open the drawer of the nightstand and place the photo in there, face down. Then he forced himself to a standing position as more knocking reverberated through the house.

“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he yelled as he shuffled out of his bedroom and toward the front door.

By the twilight darkness in the house, he realized he’d slept the en­tire day. Not only was the sun gone, but so was the clear, warm weather. He heard rain pelt against the roof, and the sound grew louder. When he opened the front door, cool, damp air rushed in.

As he stared outside, he saw rain coming down in what looked like solid sheets. But he barely noticed the rain because Tess stood on his front porch. Completely soaked from the downpour, her wavy hair and clothes were plastered to her.

And she stared at him with wide, fear-filled eyes that appeared too large for her face.