Power in the Blood

By Margaret Koch

Psychologist Barb Stark has enough to do -- her recovery from a murder attempt is almost complete, but she has a complex puzzle to solve. Aunt Allie left Barb a fortune, but she also left undefined problems -- problems that put Barb squarely in the gun sights of another killer. And if that weren't enough, a religious cult leader wants to use "full blood atonement" to teach Barb to respect men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Koch
• Release date: Nov 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458093509

Margaret Koch

Margaret J. R. Koch, Ph.D. is a psychologist with many years of experience. She's returned to her first love, writing, and rather than write self-help books, she's turned to suspense and mystery.So don't expect her to address your bad habits. She hopes to become one of them.

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Power in the Blood

Margaret Koch

Copyright 2010 MargaretKoch

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author’s Notes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to those who were willing to carefully read, provide honest criticism and help me to forge an entertaining story. To Kris and Alan, Callie and Larry, Jane and Charlie, Mary and Timm, Myrene and H.Dee, Susan and Bill, Mary Ann and Charles, Cathie, Sylvia, Claire, Judy, Gayle and others, thank you. To Connie, who seems to believe that writing is a normal thing and who helped with contacts, thank you. And to Allison, who has gone above and beyond with her astute editing, technical skill and her patient assistance to the chimp at the keyboard, thank you, thank you, thank you. To my son Clifton, whose unceasing efforts to drag me into an increasingly techie world made an ebook possible, I will be eternally grateful.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

December 26, The Hyatt-Regency Hotel, Atlanta, Georgia

Aunt Allie had died and nobody had even told me until I received the invitation to today’s reading of her will. Now her lawyer’s smile had become strained as he studied my face. I could understand that. My eye was twitching like a piston and my brain had frozen. I tried to smile and my lips twisted into a lopsided sneer as I watched attorney Eldee Dupree frown and pull yet another official-looking envelope from his briefcase.

We sat in a huge echoing conference room at the Hyatt Regency in Atlanta where Dupree had just read Aunt Allie’s will to my ex-husband’s extended family and me. She wasn’t really my aunt. She was my ex-husband’s aunt. Allie had made several specific bequests, and then she had written in plain, straightforward language that I, Barbara Stark, was to get the rest – house, money, personal belongings, the services of her housekeepers and lawyers, and any and all incidental debris, including dust bunnies under the beds, no matter how large or small.

She’d left me her whole damned interrupted life. It didn’t make sense. I was an outcast ex-niece-in-law, and Allie had refused to speak to me for years. After I’d divorced her nephew, she’d cut off all contact with me, although she’d frequently sought the company of my sons when they’d visited their grandparents in Atlanta.

I’d loved and respected Allie. She was special. Losing her friendship had hurt.

When they heard the terms of Allie’s will, my ex-husband’s tribe, the prominent Starks of Atlanta, had turned whiter shades of pale and stampeded as a group into deep and ugly shock. Some of them had behaved abominably before they’d been shooed out of the room so that Dupree could tell me in private about her estate.

Money was the way the Starks kept score, and Allie obviously had wanted to keep them guessing. Then Dupree told me the size of the enormous estate I’d just inherited. Now I was at risk for behaving abominably – whining and curling into a fetal position from sheer shock – as he offered me the envelope.

She wrote this for you, Dr. Stark. It might explain a lot.

I took the envelope, we shook hands and I staggered out clutching two heavy packages – one full of Aunt Allie’s jewelry, and the other full of financial information to review before I made decisions.

Luckily, I wasn’t entirely alone while I was surrounded by a school of angry Starks. Walter Chandler was with me. He’s an ex-FBI agent whom I’d met while he was undercover – replacing his ailing father as police chief of my hometown, Duncan, Tennessee. Only Walter could pull off an undercover role as a police chief.

Walter and I stopped at the front desk and put the unopened jewelry bundle into the hotel safe. I’d look at it later. We went up to the suite and I opened the parchment envelope engraved with Allie’s return address – the address I’d just inherited. Allie’s note was brief. She’d hand-written it on more of her engraved ivory parchment stationery. Allie loved good paper and fine pens.

"Dear Barb,

This is by way of apology. I was lazy and foolish after you divorced Kenneth. I have been single my whole life. I never married because I never wanted to be owned the way that the Stark women seemed to become the property of the men they married. Then I blamed you when you did not want to be owned in the same way by a man who had betrayed you. I am not proud of that, but I am proud of the way I have lived my life.

Whatever you do with the money, use it to be free and be proud of what you do. But most of all, do whatever you want to do with it. I’m certainly not going to ever criticize you again.

I managed to dodge the consequences of being a Stark woman, and I was a free woman for a long time, but as you’ve probably noticed, dear, I wasn’t quick enough on my feet to make it out of this one alive, and the end came so quickly that I had no chance to find kind and gentle solutions. And I never did anything harshly, except when I refused to speak with you.

I am so very sorry. You will make of this what you will. We’d talk further, but…I’m dead.

Love, Allie."

Her letter didn’t explain a damned thing I didn’t already know, except that she’d left something unresolved, and that it would require a kind and gentle solution.

I’m not a detective. I’m a psychologist. Inheriting money and property is usually a good thing, but I didn’t delude myself. Allie had generously, lavishly, expertly, boxed me into resolving whatever it was that she couldn’t solve – kindly and gently. If a problem had baffled Allie, it was going to be a real barn-burner. Allie loved problems and puzzles, and she’d always come up with absolutely brilliant solutions.

If that weren’t enough, this would drag me back into contact with my ex-husband’s parents. They’d given me nothing but aggravation from the day we’d first laid eyes on each other when we instinctively backed off warily and began to circle, all defenses on red alert. For years, I’d resolved to be nice to them despite their hostility. My civil behavior over the years had just convinced them that I was spineless.

But I’d never been able to refuse Allie, so I took a deep breath in that luxurious Atlanta hotel suite, rolled up mental sleeves, and vowed to be equal to the task…just as soon as I finished an unrelated consultation contract for the FBI.

January 2 to February 21

Then, less than a week later, because of that unrelated consultation contract for the FBI, I got myself sliced up and shot down in an Atlanta Starbuck’s parking lot.

Obviously, I survived that attack, but I’d have to be a little crazy to hit the ground running hard again so soon after a near-death experience like that one – especially to search for and solve other peoples’ impossible predicaments.

Fortunately for Aunt Allie’s secret agendas, and thanks to last year’s traumas and my shredded illusions of what constituted normal life, I was more than crazy enough.

CHAPTER ONE

February 21, Highland Lane, Duncan’s Landing, Tennessee

I stood on the brakes so suddenly and forcefully that the Ford Escape skittered on the loose gravel and ended up sideways across our lane. The scene in my neighbor Bonnie’s driveway stopped me like slamming into a brick wall.

Bonnie, staggering, blood on her face, hands outstretched in a pleading gesture of appeal, stood in the center of a circle of children – small darting ragged children in dark clothing with stones in their hands. It had looked like the children…those children… were trying to stone … were stoning ... Bonnie!

I grabbed my purse because it had a gun in it and sprinted back to her driveway – no time to even let my big dog Malcolm loose. Bonnie was on her knees now, holding her face, hands streaming blood. A little girl clumsily threw a stone that hit Bonnie’s shoulder and then she turned around to select another stone – no expression on her small face. A long-haired boy about ten years old picked up a larger stone and wound up to throw with all his might.

Stones in piles.

Somebody had collected big stones – stones in piles spaced a few feet apart. Somebody had planned this. The children darted in and out like drab dark sparrows, silently choosing stones from the piles and hurling them, intent on the task. No apparent anger. No noise. Just stoning the woman to get it done. Scary as hell.

Stop that! Get away from her! You’re hurting her!

I shoved them aside roughly, yelling at the top of my lungs. I smelled the acrid tang of unwashed sweaty youth. They turned solemn faces up at me briefly, then turned back to their task – no words, no protests, no child-noise at all.

I knelt at Bonnie’s side, trying to assess her injuries. I deflected one stone with my purse, and barely dodged another aimed at my head. Bonnie was pale, eyes closed. A gash on her forehead was bleeding heavily.

I tried to sort out the scene… a pile of rusty bikes and book satchels by the garage where the letters HOR were scrawled in dripping green paint. HOR? The kids were dirty, with long hair and clothes like 1950’s funeral wear – boys in loose dark pants and scuffed brogans, girls in long flapping dresses, ages ranging from five-ish to pre-teen.

A big rock hit hard on my thigh, almost knocking me over. Bonnie was completely out of it – flat on the ground now. She had impact injuries on her face and arms, plus the gash and bump swelling on her forehead, and blood – a lot of blood. And the stones were still coming. The pre-teen boys could do a lot of damage.

Enough.

I stood over Bonnie, pulled the little snub-nosed revolver out of my purse and fired a couple of shots into the air. The children paused for only a moment. They looked at me, then turned back to selecting the next stones. Their faces were closed, solemn, eyes beady and fixed, like a bunch of child robots. What the hell? I couldn’t shoot children. If I chased after one of them, the others would close in on Bonnie.

Our lane was deserted. Bonnie’s husband Jack was making the rounds of his franchises in Memphis. Simon was in New York. My sons wouldn’t be home until 6:00. My big mixed breed was locked in my house. We were on our own.

I aimed my small revolver this time and emptied my remaining four bullets into the pile of rusty bicycles and book satchels, aiming for any sizeable piece that would make noise and shake the pile. One of the larger boys let out a wail and ran for his bike. The whole ungodly bunch turned tail, snatched and scrabbled their satchels out of the gravel and ran, pushing the bikes or riding – some riding double. There were eight children with five bicycles fleeing across the road and into the woods. In seconds we were alone, as if it had been a horrible dream. I shivered. It had seemed so unreal – so organized.

But Bonnie was flat on the ground, her face covered with blood. No dream.

Barb? Don’t shoot them…didn’t shoot the children, did you? Bonnie moaned as I helped her up and half-carried her to the SUV, lifted her in, pushed a clean tee-shirt from my gym bag against the gash on her forehead and headed for Duncan’s ER.

I shot up their bikes. Who the hell are those kids? We’re going to the hospital. They were trying to kill you.

Byrds, Bonnie mumbled through the bloody tee-shirt. All Byrds. Hill people. Religious. May be a cult. Their father’s the patriarch, may be a preacher. Objects to sex education in hygiene class. Hell. Their father objects to hygiene.

Bonnie’s a fourth-grade teacher. She’s a pleasantly plump blue-eyed strawberry blonde, usually full of energy and slightly flushed as she tries to make life better for everyone around her. She’s childless, but she cares for her neighbors, her students, her extended family and church like a universal all-purpose mother, and she doesn’t have an atom of ugly, tacky or cruel in her entire body. Nobody had reason to hurt Bonnie.

Birds? They’re birds? I wanted her to keep talking – keep her conscious – organizing and explaining information while her head bled like an open faucet and a big golf ball-sized lump grew on her forehead. She seemed able to do that. On the other hand, maybe she really thought birds had attacked her.

B-Y-R-D. Live up on Byrd Mountain. Lots of Byrd families. All under control of patriarch. Rev Byrd. Don’t want their children to know about sex until they present them with grandchildren. Byrd women have babies nonstop. After thirty, they look like they’re eighty and don’t have many teeth, but they’re surrounded by herds of babies. No escape if you’re a Byrd woman.

Can of worms, I said. I picked up my cell phone. I’ve figured out what H-O-R spells, and Max Hunt needs to be in on this. Maybe Ollie, too.

Ollie – Oliver Randolph – was my lawyer. I’d just come from meeting with him to discuss the changes that Alexandra Stark’s estate was going to make in my life. Now that I had deep pockets, secret as my inheritance was, Ollie would want to be informed whenever I opened fire on children.

Max will document your injuries, I said. I want to tell him what happened before we’re burned as witches, and I want to make sure they don’t come after you again.

Bonnie just held the bloody tee-shirt to her face and groaned.

Max Hunt, our acting police chief, walked into the ER waiting room and warily scanned me for trauma, head-to-foot, taking his time, not happy to be meeting in an ER. My hurried call hadn’t told him much.

You’re looking thinner, Barb. What’s up? Out trolling for more trouble before you go back to work? He smiled as he said it.

Thirty minutes ago, eight children from a fundamentalist hill family tried to stone Bonnie Weber to death in her own driveway. For teaching hygiene. Beginning of sex education. Fourth grade.

Max opened his mouth to speak, but I couldn’t stop talking.

No, it’s not too soon. They’re hitting puberty at eleven now, and Bonnie proceeds slowly and reasonably. This isn’t Bonnie’s fault. I shot up their bicycles.

Max’s eyes changed as he shifted gears and paid attention.

She’s in there getting her head stitched up. She’s covered with big, deep bruises, lumps and cuts. They were going to kill her, Max, and they wouldn’t stop when I yelled at them, and then when I stood over Bonnie, who was on the ground bleeding by then, they started stoning both of us. I’ve got a bruise on my leg, too.

Max stepped back a little as I slid my skirt up an inch or two to show him.

Nothing I said would make them stop, so I shot at their bikes to get their attention. They grabbed their precious bikes and ran. They’re the Byrd family. B-Y-R-D. Bonnie has to press charges. I want the police to scare the hell out of them. It was nightmarish crazy. They were like little robots. Silent, no expression except for those beady little black rabbit eyes while they tried to kill their fourth-grade teacher. Max…Max?

Robots? Rabbits? Max stared at me, trying to get a foothold in my rush of words. He held up his hand, closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened his eyes again.

You shot up their bikes? You’re still carrying a gun? Max said, homing in on the wrong details. I nodded, and shut off my babble machine. I was behaving like a hysteric, losing credibility. Eight months ago, I was a calm, credible, working psychologist. Max knew me when.

Our relationship had begun three years ago when Max was a desk sergeant. He came for therapy when his anger got out of control during a difficult divorce. He’s not the smartest guy in the world, but he’s tenacious and careful, and good at his job. He’s also huge, with uniforms made to order because his chest and arms just don’t fit into regular sizes. We’d successfully ended our sessions a couple of years ago.

My last eight months of nonstop turmoil had brought Max back into my life – in his policeman role. Every time we’d thought it was over, I got caught squarely in the middle of a new crisis. Now, not only would Max hesitate to have me as his therapist, he probably broke a cold sweat whenever he saw me coming down the street.

If I ever go three months without getting shot at, Max, I’ll disarm. At this point, it’s six weeks and counting.

Max sighed. Okay. Let’s go over it slowly. We’ll have to get Sheriff Steve Kaiser involved. Byrd Mountain’s his territory. I know the Byrds. They’re not going to be reasonable about much. I’ll talk to Bonnie, and I assume the ER doc has already shot photos. We’ll need to shoot your leg, too. I mean photograph it. I saw Oliver Randolph parking his car. He’s here because you called him? He can listen in as we go over it.

I smiled at Max. He was really growing into the acting police chief job he inherited from Walter Chandler. It was hard not to call on Walter when I was in trouble, but he’d given up his undercover police chief role, had taken a leave of absence from the FBI, and was building a security training facility downriver from my place. The Walter-cat was hard to catch these days.

Simon Majors, my love and upstream neighbor, was hard to catch these days, too. He’d been in New York for over a week, signing contracts and overseeing arrangements for a showing of his paintings in May. I was the only one who wasn’t busy. I’d taken a six-month leave of absence from my group practice, Psychological Services, Inc. (PSI). Thanks to Allie’s estate, I could afford to buy myself some time. I’d needed the break to recover my health, strength and sanity before I began slogging through the mystery Aunt Allie had left me along with her estate. But it was time I got back into my life and took care of business…whatever that business turned out to be.

Ollie Randolph pulled my thoughts back into the present as he strolled through the ER’s sliding glass doors. Ollie never hurried. A lock of sandy gray hair had escaped to fall over his forehead since I had left his law office, but he looked polished and spiffy, suited up for the courthouse and ready for anything. He gazed at me benignly over the thin gold rims of his glasses.

Third time, Barb. Third time I’ve met you in the ER. Got to stop meeting like this.

I thought it was only the second time, but then, a few chunks of the last few months were missing from my memory banks.

I brought Ollie and Bonnie back home for dinner and called Ollie’s wife Penny to join us. It was too cold to sit on the deck and gaze at the lake, but we’d comforted ourselves with slow-cooked beef stew and then sprawled in front of the fire to finish off plates of Jack’s deli’s hot apple pie. Bonnie relaxed on the family room couch, a towel-wrapped bag of frozen peas on her head and painkillers on board, about ready to retire to my guest suite. We’d arranged for a substitute teacher to cover her classes.

From all indications, she’d have no residual effects after the forehead lump went down, the ugly bruises faded and the stitches were out. Her husband Jack (of Jack’s Delicatessens) was on his way home. He’d get here around midnight or after, but he had a key to my house and he’d come on over to check on Bonnie. Jack knew where all the light switches were.

Rob and Jim had grown weary of adult conversation and were about to abandon us for homework and their downstairs media kingdom. They’re fraternal twins, fifteen years old. I’d just turned 21 when I gave birth to twins – before I even voted. Rob has my thick unruly blonde hair and blue-green eyes, and Jim is running on Stark genes – clear blue eyes and more manageable light brown hair.

I watched as they walked side-by-side to the stairs. They were so tall – it seemed like they grew an inch a week. Both of them had my family’s tall, rangy build. Jim’s body was only slightly more compact than Rob’s – less than half an inch difference in height.

Malcolm, the Great Laboodle, was stretched out full-length in front of the fireplace, one floppy ear over his eyes, his curly russet pelt catching the firelight. He twitched in hot pursuit of dream varmints while Ollie and I wrapped up strategies and trouble-shot what-ifs in front of the glowing embers.

You’ve made a full report, and the authorities can take it from here, Ollie said. You won’t likely be in trouble for shooting at bicycles. You have all the permission that’s required for carrying concealed, you had good cause, and nobody was injured…at least, not by you.

Ollie was ready to call it a night. He got up to help a groggy Bonnie down the hall to the guest room while Penny and I drained the last of our wine.

It was going to take Bonnie a while to put together what had happened. She’d heard a noise, looked out, and had seen children in her driveway. She’d walked out into the group of children to see what they wanted, had gotten a glimpse of letters painted on her garage door, and had been whammed in the head with a rock. Then there had been a lot of pain, some loud noise, and then I was suddenly there lifting her into the Escape and asking questions.

Penny was talking to me. My mind wouldn’t stay on track. I tuned in again.

When are you planning to go down to Atlanta? Penny asked. You told me you had to go down and see to your Aunt’s house sometime soon.

She was Ken’s aunt. She left me some things when she died, and her Atlanta house was one of them. She had a live-in couple who took care of it, and they’re still there, but I have to go down soon. Maybe this week. I’ll have to talk to the twins…see what their schedule is for this weekend.

What kind of house is it?

Oh, Lord. How could I answer Penny without lying?

It was a damn three-story mansion on a whole city block in intown Atlanta. It had indoor and outdoor pools, a pool house that could act as a guesthouse, a tennis court, a greenhouse, gazebos, fountains, sculptures, and a large carriage house with the Agee’s luxurious 2500 square foot apartment above a six-stall garage and workshop. There were two kitchens, an elevator, and a ballroom in the 17,000 square-foot main house, and the entire property – several acres – was completely encircled by a scalloped eight-foot tall white brick wall that had an attached brick gatehouse with an efficiency apartment in it, including a kitchen, bathroom, closed-circuit electronics up the kazoo and cable TV. What kind of house was it? It was a damn campus. There was probably a secret university hidden somewhere on it. I just hadn’t located the football stadium yet.

It’s a big place, I said carefully. Too big for me, but the will called for it to be maintained as is until the Agees, who take care of it, either die or decide to leave it. She left money in trust to support whatever the house needs and to pay the Agees their salaries, so it doesn’t cost me anything. It’s not like I have to go down and do maintenance, but all of her personal effects are still there, and she wanted me to oversee things. The lot it’s on (har! The damn park it’s on!) is probably valuable – it’s close to downtown Atlanta.

All of that was true.

It sounds like a big job. Are you up to it? Less than two months ago we all thought you’d been killed…and you darn near were. Penny gave me a questioning look.

I just nodded. Ollie kept confidential matters secret, but Penny was very observant. She was a trim brunette with a quick sense of humor and sharp brown eyes full of curiosity. She’d have asked Ollie about it, and when he wouldn’t tell her, she’d have guessed that something substantial was hidden. Allie had kept the size of her estate hidden from her own family. I’d assumed it was just because they irritated her and she wanted to tease them – they had not respected her, and net worth was the way they kept score. However, there might have been other reasons.

After I’d been sliced and shot, I’d had one of those strange experiences – a near-death conversation with the most certainly completely dead Allie. She’d told me she had powerful secrets that she’d never resolved. Then her letter to me, which she wrote shortly before she died, had mentioned kind and gentle solutions. This could get dicey if that talk with Allie hadn’t been just a near-death dream conversation.

Ollie and Penny said their goodbyes, got their coats and I walked them out to their car and started back into the house. As they pulled out of the driveway, Walter Chandler’s truck pulled in.

Walter-cat. My pulse picked up. I stood leaning against my open front door frame and watched him get out of the mud-splattered truck. He was dressed for hard labor in well-worn jeans and work boots. I’d never realized what a toll Walter’s two law enforcement jobs had taken on him until I’d watched him recover after he left them.

He still moved with that unconscious grace that let you know he was a powerful player in fighting trim, and his eyes still did that changing thing, when they went from bourbon brown to sunlit forest green depending on his mood and whether his pupils were dilating or becoming pinpoints in an emerald sea. The rumpled dark hair was the same – just a little longer since he no longer had to be the clean-cut FBI guy. His intelligence shone through just as brightly, but the fatigue was gone, and with it the wary, weary tension at the corners of his eyes. When Walter was tired now, it was because he had been throwing plans, drywall and lumber around all day, not because he’d been facing down the scum of the universe. He smiled more now, he was gentler, and he had begun showing a quirky sense of humor every bit as irreverent as my own Internal Bitch’s philosophy of life.

He walked across the porch and unexpectedly hooked an arm around my waist, whirled me inside and closed the door in one fluid swoop. The man could move.

Why didn’t you call me? Walter didn’t just ask. He bent down and moved his lips against my ear as he spoke, setting off goosebump cascades. I pulled back a little, breathing a bit harder, and looked up at him as Malcolm ambled over for attention.

Who told you? I watched Walter one-hand Malcolm a quick ear scratch and pat.

Everybody in town called me to tell me that you and Bonnie got stoned today and shot up the Byrd family’s transportation…Max, Trevor, Bonnie’s school principal, and Ollie…there must have been more. You’re the only one who seems to remember that I’m a private citizen now. Walter was trying not to smile. Max and Trevor worry about you carrying a gun. Max asked me to check you out for vigilante-itis. People who cross you seem very likely to die. You after anybody today?

I think it’s going to be okay. Ollie thinks I have all the legal bases covered. Those children were going to kill Bonnie. It has to be prosecuted. What if I hadn’t come home at that moment? She was already down, bleeding, and they had piles of stones left.

I want you to call me. Walter pulled me in again and stroked my back, his warm hand coming to rest over the bullet scars at my waist. He probably didn’t realize that he did that now every time he got his hands near me. Seven weeks ago, in that Atlanta parking lot, Walter had frantically tried to stop the bleeding with both hands. Ever since January 2nd it was as if he needed to make sure I was really alive, flesh intact and not leaking. Malcolm snorted, yawned, and went back to his rug near the hearth.

You’re not the law now, I said, leaning into Walter, resting my head on his shoulder. It had been a long and tiring day. It felt good to lean up against Walter. We could have a conversation while I was leaning against him, couldn’t we?

You’ve got your Camp Soul deadlines. There’s no need for me to call you whenever I shoot up a bunch of bicycles. Hey, are you going to change Camp Soul’s name?

As I talked my lips brushed softly just below the hollow of his throat, the way it sometimes happens late at night in bed, when a lover moves his lips against your skin, but you’ve already made love, and you’re just talking now, maybe with closed eyes, not looking at each other, but all tangled up in each other, and both of you can feel the brush of lips still swollen with passion and warm breath on your…oops. Stop that, Barb.

The room got very hot and I could feel myself blushing. I knew I had to control myself around Walter, but I’d foolishly gone with the flow, and now I seemed to be welded to him, unable to move. Step away from the Walter, Barb. Was he really holding onto me that tightly, or was I maybe clutching Walter like a deranged barnacle? Maybe Walter wanted to get away now, and I had attached myself until someone pried me loose with a crowbar. How could that be so hard to sort out? Where were my damn hands? I pulled my head back and looked up at him.

Don’t change the subject, he said. I protect my employees. Part of the benefits package. When I open up, you’re going to work for me.

Yes, I am, I said, and sighed. He started rubbing the back of my neck. Okay – he wasn’t trying to get away. Walter-cat was playing a cat and mouse game with me – only this game was about tweaking the mouse’s libido, and with this particular mouse, he was playing with fire. He probably knew that, and it just increased his fun. He gently pushed my head back onto his shoulder, nuzzled his face into my hair and took a deep breath.

Walter, are you smelling my hair?

You smell like a fresh-cut pear, he said. I think I’m hungry.

Would you like a glass of wine? I croaked. The air seemed dense with lust. I cleared my throat. Or anything else? Walter threw back his head and laughed with delight. Score one for the cat.

No, I’ve got a late meeting at the complex. And yes, it’s no longer a bad guy hangout, but a security training facility for good guys, so we have to come up with a new name. I just stopped in to see if you were okay. Are you okay?

I straightened up to look at him again. I’m okay. I’m heading back down to Atlanta to figure out what Allie wanted me to do. Walter looked me squarely in the eyes and frowned, and I gave him a confident smile. Walter’s frown didn’t waver.

The last time we went charging down to Atlanta, you just missed coming home in a coffin. I still think your ex-in-laws took a contract out on you. Give it more time.

It’s time, Walter. I’ve worked out with Chuck every day. I’m as strong as I ever was, maybe even stronger. My full lung capacity is back. I go to Bo’s range five days a week and shoot the hell out of a whole forest of paper target people who believe I’m a vengeful goddess. They leave little paper sacrifices to appease me. I’m a force to reckon with.

I’ll go with you.

No – you have contractors lined up. You need to be here. Allie’s attorney Eldee Dupree will show me around, the Agees will be there, and Simon has entertained at Allie’s house in my absence, so even if he’s in New York, his gallery manager and his Atlanta group know of me. Maybe Rob and Jim will come along, and Malcolm, too. It’s a walled estate – great for a dog. I’ll have back-up to confront the Starks if I need it.

When you head down I’ll let David know, then. He’ll be on your doorstep. David Olson was Walter’s FBI partner last year. He was currently living in Walter’s house in Buckhead, north of downtown Atlanta.

Okay. Tell David I’ll drive down on Friday. Rob and Jim are more likely to come with me if they know David will be there. I’ll call the Agees to arrange for dinner at the house Friday and Saturday night. They’ll put a gateman on duty. David is invited for the whole weekend, if he has that much free time.

Gateman? The Agees? You have ‘people’…‘peeps’…now, don’t you? You’re stepping into another world.