Chapter One
Nate Cancaid sat straight up in bed, gasping like a drowning man who finally reached the surface, each breath wrenched from his chest. His heart galloped. Sweat poured over his skin. Fear, anger and a terrible longing washed through him. He blinked, fighting to orient himself and ran his trembling hands over his face. His skin felt cold and clammy. He blinked again. He was in his bedroom. In his bed. A quick glance at the clock told him it was 2:15 a.m. It was always 2:15 when he woke from the dream.
Taking a deep breath, Nate blew it out slow. Tonight he was alone. He’d begun to prefer it that way. The nightmare was coming more and more regularly now. The events of the dream were so clear it was as if it were really happening. Nate could taste the fear and the blood. He could smell the scent of sweat on the killer’s skin. His wife’s screams echoed in his ears as the bullet from the killer’s gun entered her temple, tore away her life’s light. Horror, anger and madness over took him until he had the man’s neck in his hands, felt bones give way under his grip. The killer’s eyes would narrow and gleam with satisfaction as he put the gun in Nate’s face and pulled the trigger.
Nate tossed the covers off him and made his way to the bathroom. The bare, wood floor was cold and smooth against his feet. It grounded him to reality, if this was indeed reality. The dream always made him question what was real and what wasn’t. He’d installed a night light in his bathroom when the dreams became too regular. The other guys at the Bureau would raze him if they knew.
But they’d never find out.
Making his way to the sink, Nate splashed water on his face. The liquid was light and surprisingly silky, washing away the feel of hot, thick blood on his hands. Nate felt like he’d been eating sawdust. His mouth was dry and gritty. He often wondered if in the end of the dream he hit the dirt. It sure as hell tasted like he had. Gulping some water, Nate rinsed the taste of death out of his mouth and knew he’d be able to go back to sleep. Never afraid of closing his eyes the second time, Nate knew from experience that the dream only came once a night, but once was enough.
It was so damned real.
He wasn’t a superstitious man. Didn’t believe in psychics or any of the sixth sense bull shit. Still, the dream was…real. Real enough that Nate vowed never to marry.
Hell, he didn’t even date brunettes. It was an unspoken rule of his. No brunettes, no blue eyes begging for his help. No wife to watch as she got her brains blown out.
Being alone forever was a small price to pay for the life of a woman he might have loved. Angry, Nate pushed away from the sink. The damned dream haunted him his entire life. It came slowly at first, once or twice a year until he hit puberty. Then it came once a month, but now, now that he was thirty-five it came every damned night.
Swiping a towel across his face, he flung it on the floor. He denied it, of course. Denied he ever had a nightmare. Hell, the shrinks would have a field day with this. They may even take his badge. So he had to deny it.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection farther from the mirror and his gut told him the dream was real. It was going to happen and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it. Heaven knew he’d try.
****
Eva Stanford stopped and backed up the video, then played back the tape. She tapped her pencil and frowned. Video recording patients was a part of standard security at the sleep clinic where she was a partner.
This video—this patient—was the oddest she had ever seen. It was as if the sixty-five-year-old woman had two personalities in one body. In fact, Eva had spent the last three nights reviewing everything she could on multiple personality disorder. It would be a simple diagnosis—one to pass off to a qualified psychiatrist and then move on. Except this one was different. This woman changed personalities at night, during third stage REM. When every other human being on the planet was dreaming, Mrs. Patterson was sitting up, engaging in conversation and even smoking.
A study on this subject would get Eva published.
A paper on this woman might get Eva killed.
She watched the sequence of events over and over looking for something; anything that might mean her patient was faking. The EEG tapes showed third stage REM at the same time the video showed Mrs. Patterson in a lively conversation with an orderly. Eva skipped to the interview she had with Mrs. Patterson at 3 a.m. Eva studied Mrs. P’s hand movements, her facial expressions. Pausing the recording, she switched on the second television. Inside was a 1972 news videotape of Tom and Camilla Kaufman celebrating Tom’s initial victory as the new governor of Kansas. The video was dim from age, but Eva watched carefully as Camilla Kaufman stood beside her husband. She wore her dark brown hair teased up into the most current fashion and a red designer coat with matching dress. The outfit fitted her slender curves. Eva smiled. Camilla was as lovely as Marlow Thomas in the old “That Girl” television show. She wore short, red gloves with matching purse and shoes. Her eyes were accented with black liner and lashes, which drew out the spring green color of her eyes. Eyes that gazed at Tom with such love it was remarked about in the gossip columns. It is rare in politics to find a wife so enamored of her husband, but they were young and it played well in the political scene.
Her body movements were hauntingly similar to the dreaming Mrs. P. It was as if Camilla Kaufman was back from the dead and hidden in Mrs. Patterson’s dreams. Eva sighed and turned off both televisions.
Silence filled her office. She glanced at her watch. It was almost 5:30 a.m. In two hours the day-timers would be arriving and the building would fill with the sound of muzac and people. The dreamers would be awoken and meals would be served. Another night lost to her work. She didn’t regret it. Oh, no, Eva relished getting lost in her work, especially when a case like Mrs. P’s surfaced. It wasn’t a lifestyle that helped with romantic relationships. Not that she cared, but it was a bother staying one step ahead of her mother on the subject.
Eva glanced at the calendar. It was one week to the midsummer’s night fundraiser. Her mother would be kicking her matchmaking into high gear. Eva would have to remember to unplug her phone. If she knew her mother, the phone calls would begin the moment her mother sensed Eva was home. She vowed not to let anything come between her and a few hours of sleep. She grabbed her purse and slipped on her linen suit jacket. If she hurried, she could make it home before the rush hour traffic got underway. If she were really lucky, she’d get there before her mother’s first phone call.
****
Eva was too late. The phone rang as she entered the house. For all of one ring, she debated not answering it, but her conscious wouldn’t let her. Her mother was nothing if not persistent and Eva figured it was better to talk to her now, rather than have her mother pounding on her front door just as she drifted off to sleep.
Picking up the phone in the small hallway that led to her galley kitchen, Eva answered with a sigh.
“This is Dr. Stanford.”
“You really need to start sleeping nights.”
Eva rolled her eyes and tossed her keys in the woven basket on the table next to the phone. “How do you know I wasn’t sleeping?”
“The phone rang four times.”
“And four rings means I’m not sleeping?”
“Exactly.” Her mother sounded smug. “When you’re sleeping you either pick it up on the first ring or it rings forever because you’ve unplugged it.”
“You caught me,” Eva said and slipped off her cream colored pumps and massaged her arches. “I was at work.”
“At work? Really darling, you’re going to work yourself to death.”
“I like it,” she repeated for the millionth time and shrugged out of her linen jacket.
“You just use it to hide from destiny.”
“Destiny, Mother, is what you make it.”
“No, dear, your destiny is what your father made it. Now stop fighting it. I want you to wear the white cocktail dress I bought you tonight.”
“Tonight?” Eva rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Yes, tonight. Don’t tell me you forgot. The Westings are hosting a dinner party and they are expecting you to come.”
“I don’t have a date.” Eva tossed her jacket onto the back of a chair. That rarely worked as an excuse, but she thought she’d try it anyway.
“Of course, you don’t. Everyone expects you to come alone. That’s why they always invite a nice eligible man to pair you up with.”
“Mother-”
“Dan Clemmer and his wife, Susan, are coming. Weren’t you just asking me about him the other day?”
Dan Clemmer was the director of the local FBI. He had access to old files on Camilla Kaufman and her mysterious disappearance. Eva wanted to know more about what was in those files in hopes of helping out her client. Dammit. She was hooked intoher mother’s dinner party, if for no other reason than to get some answers.
“Look, Mother, I need to go and get some sleep. I have a consultation at eleven.”
“Promise me you’ll come.”
“I’ll come,” Eva said, already listing the questions she wanted to ask Dan.
“Wear the white, it does great things for your skin.”
“I’ll wear it. Good night, Mother.”
“Good morning, dear. We’ll pick you up at eight sharp.”
****
Nate knew the moment she stepped into the room. He had his back to the door, but he knew. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself, Nate inhaled a subtle scent that was intriguingly female and expensive.
“Excuse me.” Her voice was rich, sexy, and determined. “I’m looking for Nathan Cancaid.”
Nate shuffled the papers in his hands as if it didn’t matter who had just walked through his door. “You’ve found him.”
There was a space of silence and he knew she was thinking he was rude not to turn around. From the sound and scent of her, he figured she was used to getting immediate attention. He continued to peruse the report he’d been reading before his instincts had warned him she was near. She blew out a small breath and he had to contain a grin.
“I’m Doctor Stanford,” she said her tone just this side of impatient. “I need to speak with you.” She paused. He still didn’t turn around. It was a subtle power play on his part. “Is this a bad time?” This time her tone was more demanding.
“Grab a seat,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” He continued to pretend to read the report he had in his hands, but all of his senses were on her.
Dr. Stanford hesitated for only a minute, then there was the sound of her heels as she took two steps. The swoop of papers as she removed the clutter from one of his chairs, brought a smile to his lips as she sat down. Her movements produced a fine fragrance that enticed him. Nate closed his eyes. She wore something silk; it rustled when she moved. She had on hose, fine weave, expensive hosiery that barely made a whisper when she walked and thin high heels. He could tell from the sound. Probably Italian, he guessed, about three inches high. High enough to set off her legs, but not enough to make her too tall. From the location of her voice he deduced she was about five-foot-eight. Three-inch heels would give her legs nice length and still keep her under six foot tall. Height tended to intimidate people. Nate smiled at the thought. She knew that and kept her own discreet. He heard her tug her skirt and cross her legs. Dr. Stanford was more than uncomfortable. His smile widened slightly. Time to turn around.
Tucking the papers into his folder, Nate closed it, swung around slowly and met her gaze. Damn. Her eyes were the most amazing shade of blue. “Thank you for your patience, Miss Stanford.”
Dr. Stanford cocked her head slightly and studied him. Nate tensed. It took some mental work to relax while she judged him. For some reason her scrutiny made him feel vulnerable. That was not a feeling he was used to.
“It’s doctor.” Her tone was calm and impersonal. “Doctor Stanford.”
He leaned back, grabbed a pencil and tapped it absently against the top of the desk. “What can I do for you, Doctor Stanford?” Nate forced himself to look away from her eyes. They were far too distracting. Instead he concentrated on other details about her. His mental assessment had been accurate. It was a game he played in his head. Details, profiling, it was what he did best. This woman was tall, confident, and stunning. She wore a slim cut business suit made of fine silk and colored to match the peacock blue of her eyes. Her legs were long and slender enough to make a monk drool and he congratulated himself when he noted her three-inch Italian heels.
Dr. Stanford was the kind of woman who garnered the attention of every male from age thirteen to death. Hell, she was a walking wet dream and she took his scrutiny well.
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "I need your help."
He admired her spunk. There was just one thing wrong. She was a blue-eyed brunette. Fate had a funny way of showing up when you least expected it.
