Part 20 (2/2)

”I'm sure the police are checking it out,” Blanche said, then scrounged in her purse for her keys. ”I've really got to go.” She cast a glance at Jenna as she retrieved an oversized key ring. ”I've cancelled my private lessons this week because of the weather, so tell Allie to keep practicing. We'll catch up once the storm pa.s.ses and the roads are clear again.” She caught a glimpse of the icy window. ”I hope it's soon. I hate this weather.”

”Don't we all,” Rinda tossed over her shoulder, though she was watching Wes work with the computer.

Jenna promised, ”I'll make sure Allie spends some time at the piano.”

”She'll hate you for that. Most kids love to play outside in this weather. Sled, build snowmen, ice skate.” Blanche was already halfway out of the office. ”Piano practice will be low on her priority list, I'm afraid.”

”We'll see.”

”Mmm. That we will.” Blanche's footsteps faded through the old theater.

”Strange old bird,” Wes said, as if to himself.

Jenna agreed, but didn't say so. These days everyone seemed to be acting oddly. Maybe it was the weather. Or all in your mind...She wasn't going there. Not today.

”That should do it.” Stretching, Wes leaned back so far in the desk chair that his back cracked. ”Oh, that's better.” Straightening, he added, ”The program's working now, it's just slow.”

Scott scowled. ”Isn't that what I said?”

”Geez, Scott, did you get up on the wrong side of the bed or what?” Wes asked, and made the mistake of rumpling his nephew's hair. ”A little heavy-handed with the sculpting gel, kid.”

Scott cringed, stumbling backward. ”Knock it off!” He blushed as red as his hair and his round eyes took on a sinister gleam. ”I'm not a kid.”

”Yeah, right. You need to quit using all those women's hair products,” Wes needled. ”They're sissy stuff.”

”Knock it off, Wes,” Rinda cut in.

”He doesn't bother me,” Scott growled. ”Old fart.”

”Ouch!” Wes's grin stretched from one side of his face to the other. ”Okay, I get it. I embarra.s.sed you. Let's forget what I did, okay?” He offered his hand.

Scott wanted to pout, but thought better of it, though he didn't shake his uncle's outstretched palm. ”Fine. No sweat.” He shrugged sulkily, then inched toward the door, where he stopped. ”So, Jenna,” he said uncomfortably, ”if you want help with the alarm system, let me know.”

Jenna wanted to drop through the floor as Wes turned toward her. ”You've still got problems with your security system?”

”Of course she does,” Rinda said.

”Then I'll come fix it.”

”You don't have to-”

”That's a great idea,” Rinda cut in and motioned to her son, who was glaring at his uncle. ”Take Scott with you, Wes.” When Rinda noticed Jenna about to protest even further, she added, ”Look, Jenna, do this for me, okay? So I worry less. Getting the alarm system up and running only makes sense.”

Jenna stopped arguing. If a security system would make the place safer for her and the kids, she may as well use it. Hadn't she already decided as much? So what if both Wes and Scott made her nervous? It seemed that everyone did these days. Even the no-nonsense sheriff with his cold, judgmental eyes.

Because of her fame she was used to curious stares, interested looks, furtive glances, and even out-and-out gaping at her. But she'd rarely come across the cool, clinical detachment the cop had shown. He'd been all business to the point of being brusque the first time out of the chute, a little warmer the second, but there was still mistrust between them. Or, as Rinda had suggested, was it something worse than mistrust?

Wasn't it true that she found the lawman attractive?

How ridiculous.

She'd never been drawn to the dark, silent, cautiously brooding type of man, but this one...

She stopped herself short. What the h.e.l.l was she thinking? About Shane Carter? Get real, Jenna! She hurried outside, thoughts of Carter refusing to be dislodged from her brain. Yes, he was handsome. And single. And s.e.xy. But who needed it? He was off limits. And he obviously had no use for her. She remembered some of his advice.

Buy a pit bull...Hire a bodyguard...Yeah, right!

Hiking her collar against the wind, she crossed the snowy parking lot to her Jeep. Carter was just one more example of a burned-out lawman who had already seen too much. And what more could she expect? That he'd kiss her feet because she'd once been a movie star?

She climbed into her Jeep and told herself to take a quick reality check.

”I'll be there Wednesday morning. Early.”

”Seven?” Dr. Randall asked, glancing at his watch. It was late, nearly eleven o'clock at night. He'd already turned out most of the lights in his condo and was waiting for the latest news report on the television that was glowing in his den.

”Six, if that works for you.”

The psychologist wanted to argue that the appointment at that hour would be too early, but held his tongue. Let the man make his own decisions. That was part of his makeup. A take-control individual who never could quite get it together. Oh, on the outside he appeared calm and determined, a man who knew his own mind. Macho type. But inside...that was a different story.

And an interesting one.

Not for the first time, Randall was tempted to tape the session covertly, to keep records. There was a book in the making here, he was sure of it. Yet he'd promised. And so far, he'd never lied or broken his own personal code of ethics.

He was a man of his word.

But wouldn't the press have a heyday with this one?

Or the law enforcement agencies. Wouldn't they love to uncover what Dr. Emerson Randall knew about his client?

That was the problem with his job, the dichotomy of it. Perceived truth vs. reality. And what was reality, anyway? There were all kinds of philosophical arguments about what was real and what wasn't.

Then there was the ethics angle.

An interesting one.

He felt the chill of winter seeping through the walls of his condominium and smiled. Unlike his client, he enjoyed the cold weather, loved the change and variety of the seasons, even the snow and ice. It was cleansing somehow, and the violence of weather, the power of Mother Nature, or the strength of G.o.d, whatever you wanted to call it, made man more humble, more aware of his place on this rapidly spinning planet.

The winter cold was good.

His hand was still gripping the receiver and he forced himself to let it go. Thoughtfully, he rubbed the beard covering his chin as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck the hour.

His responsibility was to his client.

But as he stood on the thick carpet, he speculated that if his patient ended up dead-and considering the circ.u.mstances, his death could happen at any time-then what would it hurt to write that book?

He pulled out a small recorder, pressed the red b.u.t.ton, and as the tape began to turn, began speaking. A few notes, that's all he'd keep on this case, just to refresh his memory. Then he'd lock up the tiny ca.s.sette in his safe. He wouldn't use the information for his own gain.

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