Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Dr. Linda Markus was sitting at the dressing table, her arm raised, about to brush her hair, when she heard a sound.
Her hand froze. On her wrist there was a gold chain from which a charm--a butterfly-was suspended. As she sat suddenly still, listening to the night, the butterfly trembled on its delicate chain, glinting in the lamplight.
She searched the bedroom reflected behind her in the mirror. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. There was the king-size bed on its dais; the satin canopy hangings and mattress ruffle, all a delicate peach color. On the bed lay her white hospital coat, her blouse and skirt, the medical bag she had tossed down after a tiring day in surgery. Italian leather shoes lay on the carpet next to the tan pool of her panty hose.
She listened. But all was silent.
She resumed brushing her hair.
It was difficult to relax. There was so much to think about, so much demanding her attention: that patient in the Intensive Care Unit; the meeting of the Surgical Review Board in the morning; the speech she had yet to write for the annual County Medical Association dinner.
And then, most puzzling, the phone calls she was getting from that TV producer Barry Greene-rather insistent, and not a medical problem, his messages said. She had yet to find time to return his calls.
There was that sound again! A sly, sort of surreptitious sound, as if someone were outside, trying to get in, trying not to be heard. . . .
Slowly lowering her hairbrush and placing it among the cosmetics and perfumes on the vanity table, Dr. Markus drew in a breath, held it, and turned around.
She stared at theclosed drapes. Had the sound come from the other side of the windows?
Dear God, were the windows locked?
She trembled. She stared at the heavy velvet drapes. Her pulse started to race.
Minutes seemed to pass. The ornate Louis XV clock over the marble fireplace ticked, ticked, ticked.
The drapes moved.
The window was open!
Linda caught her breath.
A cold breeze seemed to flood the room as the drapes began to part. A shadow fell across the champagne carpet.
Linda shot to her feet and without thinking ran to the dressing room. Pulling the door shut behind herself, she was plunged into darkness; she groped along the wall for the secret drawer.
There was supposed to be a revolver in it.
Finding the drawer, Linda frantically pulled it open and reached inside. The cold metal felt obscene in her hand; it was long and hard and heavy. Would it fire? Was it even loaded?
Returning to the door of the dressing room she pressed her ear to it and listened. Subtle sounds crept through the spacious bedroom: the creak of a lead-paned window, the whisper of disturbed drapes, the soft hush of rubber-soled shoes on the carpet.
He was in there. He was in the bedroom.
Linda swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the gun. What did she think she was going to do with it? Shoot him, for God's sake? She started to shake. Her heart was pounding.
What if he had a gun too?
She listened. She could hear him moving about. She reached down, grasped the doorknob, and inched the door open. At first she saw only an empty room. Then
There he was. At the far wall, moving aside a painting and contemplating the combination lock of the small safe.
She studied him. Her trained physician's eye saw beneath the tightly fitted black turtleneck sweater and pants the body of a man who kept himself in shape. She couldn't guess his age--a black knitted ski mask covered his face and hair-but he was wiry. Finely shaped buttocks and thighs moved beneath black fabric.
Linda didn't move, she didn't breathe, as she watched him expertly open the safe and reach inside.
Then he turned suddenly, as if he had felt her watching him. He stared at the dressing room door; she saw two dark eyes peer warily through the ski mask; a grim mouth and square jaw were outlined in black knit.
She backed away from the door, holding the gun at arm's length with her trembling hands. The single beam of light that spilled into the tiny room caught on the shivering platinum butterfly that hung from her wrist; it shot silvery reflections over the camisole and nylon slip she was wearing.
She inched back as far as she could and then stood her ground, watching the door, her finger on the trigger.
The door swung slightly at first, as if he were testing it. Then it swung all the way open and his black silhouette stood against the softly lighted bedroom.
He looked down at the gun, then at her face. Although his features were masked, Linda sensed uncertainty about him, thought she detected indecision flicker in his dark eyes.
He took another step toward her, coming into the dressing room. Then another step, and another.
"No closer," she said.
"I'm unarmed," he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle and refined, the distinguished voice of a stage actor. He had spoken only two words and yet in them she had heard a trace Of-vulnerability.
"Get out," she said.
He continued to stare at her. There were only a few feet 8 Kathryn Harvey
between them now; Linda could see the curve of biceps beneath the tight sweater, the calm rise and fall of his chest.
"I mean it," she said, aiming. "I'll shoot if you don't get out."
Black eyes in a hidden face studied her. When he spoke again there was a trace of incredulousness in his tone, as if he had just discovered something. "You're beautiful," he said...
