Page 110 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“So am I,” she admitted and struggled against hot tears. She wasn’t used to kindness from a man; it was hard to accept, harder still to understand.

“I thought you might want to talk.”

“I do. Yes.” She nodded, as if he could see her. She had to see him, touch him, feel something solid in her life. Someone she could trust.

Trust him? Are you nuts? A guy who flashes his business cards at a funeral, for God’s sake, a shrink culling clients out of the obits? Come on, Caitie-Did, this is crazy. You want to see him cuz you’ve got the hots for him. That’s it. Kelly’s voice echoed through her head. These days it seemed as if her twin was her conscience as well as her tormentor.

“I can be at your place in half an hour,” he said, and the timbre of his voice touched her heart. He cared. She knew it. “Or would you rather come here?”

She looked around her home, the empty glasses, half-filled bottles, mud the dog had tracked through the kitchen. Beyond all that there was the restlessness she’d felt here lately, the feeling that she was being observed.

“Maybe somewhere in between—neutral ground,” he prodded. “Either the office or a coffee shop?”

“Tell you what, why don’t you come by and pick me up?” She dashed the remainder of her tears away with her fingertips. “We’ll decide then.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

She hung up and, forcing herself to her feet, she gritted her teeth. She couldn’t fall apart. What good could a nervous breakdown do? No, she had to find some inner strength and sort all this out herself. Forcing herself, she pushed all the demons in her mind back into their dark cobwebby corners as she raced around the kitchen, putting glasses in the dishwasher, stuffing the bottles back into the cupboard and swiping at the countertops and floor with a wet dishrag.

“Mission accomplished,” she told the dog as she did a cursory survey of the room. “Make that Mission Impossible accomplished.” Tossing the dirty rag into the hamper in the laundry room, she headed upstairs, then threw on a long cotton dress and found a matching sweater that covered the nicks on her arms. Then she frowned at her reflection. A couple of passes with a mascara wand over her lashes and a quick brush of blush was all she had time for. Her hair—well, forget it. She hurried downstairs and dialed the plantation. Hannah was alone, really alone, for the first time in her life, and Caitlyn wanted to check up on her baby sister. Oftentimes Hannah was a pain, but then, who wasn’t? Kelly, Amanda and Troy weren’t all that great at times either. One ring. She waited, checked her fingernails. Two. “Come on.” No such luck. Three. “Great.” On the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on, and Caitlyn froze as she heard the soft, dulcet tones of her mother’s drawl instructing her to leave a message.

“You all have reached the Montgomerys out here at Oak Hill. If you’d be kind enough to leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you . . .”

Caitlyn’s knees threatened to buckle. Oh, Mama. How could this happen? She remembered sitting on her mother’s lap, smelling the scent of her perfume mingled with smoke, the look of sadness that seemed to linger in her green eyes. Then there had been the nights Caitlyn had awoken to hear the creak of footsteps in the hallway. Sometimes they were a dangerous, scary tread that would pause at her door, open it and steal inside; other times they belonged to her mother as Berneda, an insomniac without her sleeping pills, would pace the upper hallways and stairs . . .

A sharp beep brought her back to the present as the recorder’s tape clicked.

“Hannah? Are you there? It’s Caitlyn. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Pick up if you’re home, okay?” She waited. No answer. “Hannah? Give me a call, okay? Uh, if I’m not here, try my cell. Please. Call me.”

She hung up with the uneasy feeling that something was wrong, but then, what else was new? Everything these days was wrong with a capital W. She heard a car pull up outside about the same time Oscar started barking like a maniac.

“You stay here,” she said as footsteps sounded on the porch and the doorbell chimed. Peering through the narrow window near the door, she caught a glimpse of Adam, his dark hair shining in the glow from the porch lamp, his eyes sober. In jeans, a dark sweater and tennis shoes he stood, hands in his pockets.

Her stupid heart skipped a beat when his gaze collided with hers. She couldn’t help but smile and feel a little thrill of excitement thrumming through her veins. There was something sexy and slightly mysterious about him, a secretive side he’d tucked beneath his college-athlete good looks. It intrigued her. Seduced her. Made her want to find out more about him.

Face it, Caitlyn, you’re attracted to him on a very basic animal level. Female to male. For a split second she imagined what it would be like to make love with him, then caught herself. That was nuts. She couldn’t allow her wayward mind to go there. Hastily she unlatched the door. Before Oscar, hovering at her heels, could make good his escape, she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her.

“Hi. You look—” He let his gaze move up and down her body, then shook his head. “You look damned incredible, but maybe we shouldn’t go there.”

“What? Forget compliments? No way.” She winked at him and blushed. “You look pretty incredible, too.”

He threw back his head and laughed, then took her arm in his. “Enough already. We still

have a patient-doctor relationship to protect.”

“What a bummer,” she muttered and he laughed again.

The night was quiet. Few pedestrians on the streets. No breath of wind ruffling the leaves of the trees overhead. “Where to?” she asked.

“Wherever you want to go. This time it’s your choice.”

She considered for a second. “What about Nickelby’s? It’s three blocks over, past the square. Great coffee. Even greater drinks.”

His smile was a slash of white. “Lead the way.”

“Your wish is my command,” she joked, taking his hand and tugging on it.

Together they walked across the street, making small talk as they angled through the night-darkened streets to the little bistro. Several couples and a few singles were hanging out at small round tables positioned beneath low-wattage bulbs covered with blue shades. A single musician softly strumming an acoustic guitar stood behind a solitary mike. He didn’t sing, just hummed occasionally to a song, presumably of his own creation and obviously without end.

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