Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride by Tess Gerritsen Page A

a voice she thought, in that confused moment, she must have known all her life. Its very timbre seemed to blanket her with the warmth of safety.

    Again he called her name, and this time she heard panic in his voice. He’s afraid. Why?

    She opened her eyes and dazedly focused on his face. That’s when she registered exactly who he was. All illusion of safety fell away.

    “Don’t.” She brushed his hand aside. “Don’t touch me.”

    “Lie still.”

    “I don’t need you!” She struggled to sit up, but found herself unable to move under his restraining hands. He had her pinned by her shoulders to the grass.

    “Look,” he said, his voice maddeningly reasonable. “You took a mean tumble. You might have broken something—”

    “I said, don’t touch me!” Defiantly she shoved him away and sat up. Pure rage propelled her to her knees. Then, as the night wavered before her eyes, she found herself sinking back to the grass. There she sat and clutched her spinning head. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “Why can’t you just—just go away and leave me alone.”

    “Not on your life,” came the answer, grim and resolute.

    To her amazement she was suddenly, magically lifted up into the air. Through her anger she had to admit it felt good to be carried, good to be held, even if the man holding her was Chase Tremain. She was floating, borne like a featherweight through the darkness. Toward what? she wondered with sudden apprehension.

    “That’s enough,” she protested. “Let me down.”

    “Only a few more steps.”

    “I hope you get a hernia.”

    “Keep up the damn wiggling and I will.”

    He swept her up the porch steps and in the front door. With unerring instinct he carried her straight to the bedroom and managed to flick on the wall switch. The room—the bed—sprang into view. The bed where she’d found Richard. Though the blood was gone, the mattress new and unstained, this room would always remind her of death. She hadn’t slept here since that night, would never sleep here again.

    She shuddered against him. “Please,” she whispered, turning her face against his chest. “Not here. Not this room.”

    For a moment he paused, not understanding. Then, gently he answered, “Whatever you say, Miranda.”

    He carried her back to the living room and lowered her onto the couch. She felt the cushions sag as he sat beside her. “Does anything hurt?” he asked. “Your back? Your neck?”

    “My shoulder, a little. I think I fell on it.”

    She flinched at the touch of his hands. Carefully he maneuvered her arm, checking its range of motion. She was scarcely aware of the occasional twinges he evoked from her muscles. Her attention was too acutely focused on the face gazing down at her. Once again she was struck by how unlike Richard he was. It wasn’t just the blackness of his hair and eyes. It was his calmness under fire, as though he held any emotions he might be feeling under tight rein. This was not a man who’d easily reveal himself, or his secrets, to anyone.

    “It seems all right,” he said, straightening. “Still, I’d better call a doctor. Who do you see?”

    “Dr. Steiner.”

    “Steiner? Is that old goat still in practice?”

    “Look, I’m okay. I don’t need to see him.”

    “Let’s just be on the safe side.” He reached for the telephone.

    “But Dr. Steiner doesn’t make house calls,” she protested. “He never has.”

    “Then tonight,” Chase said grimly, dialing the phone, “I guess we’re going to make history.”

    Lorne Tibbetts poured himself a cup of coffee and turned to look at Chase. “What I want to know is, what in blazes are you doing here?”

    Chase, leaning over Miranda’s kitchen table, wearily rubbed his face. “To tell you the truth, Lorne,” he muttered, “I don’t know.”

    “Oh.”

    “I guess I thought I could…figure things out. Make sense of what’s happened.”

    “That’s our job, Chase. Not yours.”

    “Yeah, I