The Arms Of The Law

By Jenna Ryan

Nothing can make a woman feel safer than the secure embrace of a loving lawman

Psychiatrist Nikita Sorensen was shaken by the unexplained deaths at the Beldon–Drake Hospital and unsettled by the too–sexy homicide cop sent to investigate the crimes.

Officer Daniel Vachon's bold approach toward suspects squared him with Nikita, who was bound to protect her patients' privacy, But it was soon clear someone at the hospital a doctor with a secret, a patient out of control? was a murderer after Nikita. And only in the protection of Daniel's strong arms did she feel safe. Only in his eyes did she see that his commitment ran beyond his badge.

Would their love have a chance with a killer closing in ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460864456

Jenna Ryan

Growing up, romance always had a strong appeal for Jenna Ryan, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod. Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. She loves reader feedback. Email her at [e-mail] or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.

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Prologue

January 25

Dear Diary,

Do you believe in murder? Hordes of people do, and I am one of them. I’m capable of committing murder, too. Now how many people can make that unwholesome claim? Only one that I know.

I couldn’t always have done it, but times and circumstances change. One’s hand is occasionally forced, sometimes out of necessity, sometimes out of passion and every once in a while out of sheer perversity.

Poor Lally and Nikita; poor foolish Deana. Poor Martin whom Deana still might love in spite of all that has happened. Poor everyone involved, because I doubt if any of them—excuse me, any of us—came away from the nightmare unscathed.

I keep thinking back on it, rolling it over in my mind. My own idiocy in the matter can’t be topped. Death came knocking at the door of the Beldon-Drake Hospital nine days ago. It presented itself openly at my feet, and what did I do? Did I kick it away? No, I strutted past it like a cocksure prizefighter, the master of my own private dance.

Oh, yes, I heard the accusing whispers loud and clear—or I should have if I didn’t, but I was very busy at the time, being clever. Difficult then to pay attention to anything as insignificant as a whisper.

So here I am, surrounded by death, with the thought of murder raging white-hot in my blood. It isn’t over; I won’t let it be over. This nightmare must end as it began.

And this is how it began….

Chapter One

January 17, 10:05 p.m.

Lally Monk covered her ears and cried, I hate blizzards, Dr. N. The wind and snow get inside my head and I can’t think any more.

You have to look past those things, Nikita Sorensen soothed her. She went to her knees on the carpeted floor and laid a hand on Lally’s clammy neck. Think of flowers instead. Tiger lilies and big columns of lavender.

I can’t. Lally’s voice barely rose above the storm and the pandemonium it had created within the walls of Hubert Hall, now known as the Beldon-Drake Psychiatric Hospital. It’s too confusing.

It was that, all right, Nikita had to admit. Using a firm but gentle touch, she urged Lally to her feet and gestured to one of the orderlies. She’d worked at the hospital for only two weeks and couldn’t remember his name, but as long as it wasn’t that creepy Sammy Slide, she knew Lally would be well attended to.

It’ll be all right, Lally, she promised, pushing loosened strands of dark brown hair into her French braid. I’ll check on you later, okay?

Lally seemed mollified; however, she maintained the look of a frightened fawn as she was led away.

Niki! Nikita’s sister-in-law, Deana Sorensen, in temporary charge of the hospital, beckoned to her. Over here. Mrs. Brewster needs help.

So did at least two dozen other distraught patients, Nikita reflected, glancing at the storm outside the diamond-paned window.

Beyond the bars, violent gusts of wind in excess of sixty miles per hour drove angry pellets of snow and ice into the tiny panes. The building seemed to be shuddering right down to its two-hundred-year-old foundations. Nikita marveled that the converted mansion didn’t crumble into a pile of toothpicks, or barring that be lifted up and blown in circles to Oz.

In Phoenix, they say that New England is picturesque in the winter, she remarked to Deana as they endeavored to hoist dear, terrified Mrs. Brewster to her feet. Her swollen knees and ankles wobbled. Her arthritic fingers clutched at the lapels of Nikita’s lab jacket as she tried to steady herself.

Deana smiled faintly. Snow is picturesque. Blizzards are hell. Can you manage?

At Nikita’s nod, she moved off.

Why is it so dark? Mrs. Brewster whimpered, burying her wrinkled face in Nikita’s shoulder. I don’t like the dark.

Nikita smoothed her hair, pulling out a loose pin curler. Neither do I, but the power’s finicky this far from Boston, and our generator only has the capacity for half power.

More like a quarter, if you ask me, a man’s droll but familiar voice offered. Her brother Martin strode up, scowling. What’s going on here, Niki? It’s like a carnival fun-house. Where’s Deana?

Nikita shot him a cutting look. She loved her brother very much, but sometimes—most times—he had the sensitivity of a baseball bat. Give your eyes a few minutes to adjust, Mrs. Brewster, she said, ignoring him. You’ll be able to see then.

Martin sighed, yanking at his frozen scarf. Damned loony—

Deana’s over by the desk, Nikita interrupted firmly. Dealing with Mr. Fitch.

Mrs. Brewster began to whimper again. Around them, the few dim lights that burned flickered wildly, then slowly settled. The roof’s going to blow off, Dr. N.

No, it isn’t, Nikita promised. These old manor houses were built to withstand worse storms than this.

Obviously, Dr. N. hasn’t been on the roads tonight. Martin flicked bits of icy snow from the shoulders of his black leather coat. This is as bad as it gets, even in Massachusetts.

Nikita forced a smile. Her light tone required a far greater effort. Go away, Martin, she told him, or forget driving—you’ll be flying out of here headfirst.

He never changes, does he? a woman remarked softly in his wake. Verity Whyte, Nikita’s old friend and currently a patient at the hospital, touched Mrs. Brewster’s back. "I’ll take her, Niki. I can’t say the storm and all this cacophony is doing my nerves any good, but I am a psychologist, after all."

A psychologist who’d recently suffered a nervous breakdown. But too well thought of and too long a friend for Nikita not to trust her.

Mrs. Brewster transferred her leechlike grip to Verity’s ivory robe. That boy looks like a rock star, she whispered furtively.

Nikita gave the old woman’s shoulder a reassuring rub and whispered, That’s what he wanted to be, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. So he married Dr. Deana and settled for becoming a lawyer.

Verity’s expression grew strained. Let’s go, Mrs. Brewster. Niki, one of the orderlies said that Admissions is looking for somebody in authority. Something about a new arrival courtesy of the Boston Police.

Just what we need. Nikita’s gaze flicked again to the frost-encrusted window. I’ll tell Deana the good news when I have a chance.

The winter storm worsened as the minutes ticked by. The lights refused to stabilize, which only added to the confusion. Across the hall, Deana looked harassed, her mass of red-brown ringlets breaking free of the combs that usually subdued them.

Her sister-in-law was coping admirably, Nikita realized as she placated a young man with darting eyes and a severe muscle tremor. She deserved the temporary post of hospital director, just as she’d deserved her original position at Beldon-Drake.

Nikita had resolutely squashed all remaining feelings of envy in that area two weeks ago. She was a good doctor, but so was Deana. It was their childhood rivalry, almost as long-standing as their friendship, that had caused her to apply for the same post as Deana three years ago. Apply and lose by a hair, she’d been informed later. If that hair had a name and if that name happened to belong to Deana’s father—but no, that wasn’t fair. She didn’t know for a fact that Dean Hawthorne had done anything to affect his daughter’s chances. Anyway, they were both here now, and Deana was still Nikita’s very close friend as well as her brother’s wife. If only, Nikita thought darkly, her playboy brother would take the trouble to remember that last thing.

Wind howled like a shrieking banshee around the corners of the converted mansion. Nikita heard a crash then felt a blast of wind on her cheek. She sought, and quickly located, the source. Behind the bars, several panes of glass had been smashed.

Mr. Bedrosian, the awed young man beside her whispered.

Nikita, three feet away, halted. What about him?

I think he—threw something.

Nikita sighed. Mr. Bedrosian, destroyer of all things shiny and clear. How had he gotten out of his room? More to the point, where had he gotten to now?

Deana ran up beside her. What happened?

David says Mr. Bedrosian threw something.

Damnation. Martin! Now where did he go? Deana searched the shadows for her husband, balled her fists and barked for assistance. Susan, Laverne!

Laverne’s not here, someone called from the darkness.

Neither is Martin, Deana muttered.

Nikita read between the lines of that remark, but she was too busy stuffing the lining of the damask curtain into the jagged hole to respond.

Ice and snow pummeled her as she pushed the heavy fabric through.

Where did he go? Deana shouted above the storm’s increasing fury.

If you mean Bedrosian, I didn’t even see him do it. I can handle this, Deana. You go and, uh— Nikita stopped the order just in time and returned to her task.

Rubbing the frosted pane with her fingertips, she peered downward. Through the swirling snow, she made out several dark shapes along the winding drive. Cars, she presumed. God help any poor soul who wound up stranded on this miserable excuse for a night.

Has anyone called maintenance? she asked over her shoulder.

I doubt if they’d hear a red alert with this ruckus, a man’s placid voice remarked.

Probably not Without looking, Nikita wedged the last bit of lining through the hole. Does that help? she wondered out loud, blowing on her frozen fingers.

A little, came the amused reply. But I’d have it boarded up before the wind and broken glass turn your curtains to rags.

Well, maybe you could just run down and get—

She turned as she spoke, then broke off when she realized the speaker was not an orderly, but a complete stranger.

And what a stranger he was. The shadows might be obscuring the details, but even by dubious lamplight she could see that he was six feet tall, possibly a little too lean and dressed entirely in rumpled black—a long wool coat, pants, rugby shirt, boots and belt. His hair was shoulder length and appealingly unkempt. It only missed being the same color by a fraction of a shade.

His features were undeniably handsome, narrow and poetic. His eyes glittered black-brown. He had a two-day growth of stubble on his jaw and a sexy mouth that conveyed an expression of ironic amusement very well.

Lucky for her, she was no sucker for a pretty face. Still blowing on her fingers and frowning as she endeavored to pigeonhole this strangely intriguing man, Nikita asked point-blank, Who are you?

His easy reply, Daniel Vachon, told her nothing, except from it and his very slight accent, she deduced that he might have lived in the area around New Orleans once.

Should I know you?

He moved a lean shoulder. More likely you’d know Manny.

The name’s not familiar, Mr….

Just Vachon. Manny’s last name is Beldon.

As in Beldon-Drake? Nikita was surprised, but only mildly. She’d been informed during her hazy period of introduction that old Ezekiel Beldon, the man who’d willed his estate to Haskell Drake fifty years ago on the strict condition that it be turned into a medical facility, had two great-grandchildren, both of whom resided in the New England area. One was a female, married and immersed in her husband’s horse farm; the other was a male, younger than his sister and a police officer in Boston.

Nikita drew the logical conclusion. You’re a cop.

Detective, Vachon replied. Humor gleamed in the dark gaze that managed to inspect her thoroughly without straying from her face. Plainclothes. Homicide.

Damn, Nikita thought with a silent sigh, he would have bedroom eyes and a mouth as mobile and well-shaped as any she’d seen in her thirty-year lifetime. More disturbing than that, however, Detective Daniel Vachon also possessed what could only be called an aura, something to do with shadow and mystery and the cobwebbed alleys of New Orleans at the height of Mardi Gras.

A compulsive studier of human behavior patterns and presence, Nikita was instantly fascinated. She was also wary enough not to let him know that.

Deana scurried over to join them, as helter-skelter tonight as the winter wind. She had a man in tow who reminded Nikita strongly of an angel, a fine-boned reed of a man with a crown of golden blond hair, pale hazel eyes and features similar to those of a sad puppy.

"Niki, this is Detective Manny Beldon. The Beldon. I see you’ve met Vachon. Fingers spread, she beseeched her old friend with round brown eyes. They’ve brought us a new patient"

I know. Suspicion furrowed Nikita’s smooth brow. Why is Boston Homicide sending us a patient?

She asked the question of Vachon, who was inspecting her makeshift window patch. He continued to study it while he murmured, Wollace isn’t dangerous. The regular patrol got stranded, so Manny and I were asked to stand in. When he straightened to face her, Vachon’s expression was enigmatic, his eyes too shadowed to read. The most vicious thing your new arrival will do is ask you every five minutes when Johnny’s coming back, and do you know Pat and Vanna.

His countenance solemn, Manny regarded the women before him. Now that that’s settled, I have a question for you, doctors.

Did Deana’s agitation diminish a fraction? No question about the dimpled smile that appeared on her face. What would that be, Detective Beldon?

From the pocket of his tan overcoat, Manny produced a heavy, beaten brass doorknob. Which one of your inmates launched this cannonball at the windshield of our Chevy Blazer?

YOU ONLY LOOK like Peter at the Gate, right?

Vachon moved through the lower-level admissions area of the hospital well ahead of his partner. His black coat blew around his ankles like a cape. He was well aware of the air he possessed, of mystery and mist-shrouded darkness. Something about his veiled eyes and the dark curling hair that he allowed to float carelessly to his shoulders. The look had worked for him in New Orleans and later on the streets of Boston. Would-be dealers in most things illegal usually resembled dark angels.

The ironic state of affairs never failed to spark Vachon’s perverse sense of humor. He’d been dealt the shadows and mystery while Manny possessed the outward demeanor of Saint Peter. Yet it was Manny who’d gone out of his way to agitate an already touchy situation tonight.

His partner caught up at a trot. I only asked who tossed the damned doorknob through the window. He defended himself in a sullen voice.

You couldn’t have guessed they already knew about it?

Patients are supposed to be monitored. And don’t give me that ‘half the staff isn’t here’ garbage, Vachon. Laverne Fox is the only no-show. I checked.

Flipping up his collar, Vachon prepared to brave the elements. It’s my Blazer, Manny, not yours. If I’m not complaining about a cracked windshield, why should you?

He ducked into the blizzard before his partner could respond. He had the door shut and the engine roaring by the time Manny arrived, gasping with a blend of cold and indignation.

What’s with this damned high horse you’ve climbed onto, Vachon? You’re no saint, Deana’s no Fanny Fall-Apart, and that other one looked like she could take care of herself just fine.

Vachon sent him a steady sideways look while blowing into his frozen hands.

Manny sighed and let his fair head fall onto the rest. All right. You want the truth? It bothers the hell out of me to come here. Old Ezekiel had no right leaving this place to that buzzard business crony of his. He had a son, and his son had a son, and that son had a son and a daughter, neither of whom have more than a few thousand dollars to their names. He scowled ripely at Vachon. How would you have felt if that rich grandmother of yours had left the French Quarter mansion you grew up in to an old flapper friend?

Pissed off. Vachon searched for, and failed to find, a break in the storm. That doesn’t mean I’d go around trying to goad whoever happened to be in the place. This hospital’s gained a lot of notoriety in the past twenty years since Sherman Drake took over as director.

Most of it pure hype.

Vachon swallowed a weary sigh. Manny got like this sometimes. He’d learned that during their two-year partnership in Homicide. It shouldn’t annoy him. God knew he had his own demons to deal with; he should be able to understand his partner’s. But they’d had little to do with the Beldon-Drake Hospital during their stint together, and in any case Manny had a slight phobia about the patients here.

Vachon didn’t know if he had a phobia or not. He’d never given that or the hospital much thought. Then again, he’d never seen the beautiful Dr. Nikita Sorensen before tonight.

She was long-legged, tall and slender. Her elegant bone structure spoke of Eastern Europe and reminded him strongly of the torchlight songs he used to hear in smoky New Orleans clubs. Not of the singers themselves—her features were too fresh and clear for that—but of the general mood of the clubs and the mystique that had fascinated him as a child.

Son of a magician and a magician’s assistant was Daniel Vachon’s heritage. Holy terror, defier of teachers, nannies and especially of the antiquated servants who’d littered his grandmother’s elegant home. He’d loved his grandmother deeply and mourned her death to this day. He had resented her dismal slide into depression, a state of mind during which she’d felt compelled to take her own life.

Not that that should have anything to do with Nikita Sorensen. However…

Resentment toward psychiatrists in general had lingered long after Isadora Vachon’s death. That and a vague sense of revulsion at the intrusiveness of their profession.

Next to him, Manny slapped the dashboard. Watch it, Vachon. You nearly skidded into that drift

Vachon corrected automatically. It’s slippery.

Yeah, right. I know you, partner. You were thinking about that pretty new doctor, Niki something.

Nikita Sorensen.

Let me guess. You really like them dark-haired and blue-eyed. That’s why you never called blond, green-eyed Luz again after all the trouble I took to arrange a blind date for you a couple years back.

Vachon kept his eyes on the road. I wasn’t looking for a date, blond, dark or otherwise. I was in Vice then. I’d just come off eight months on the street, for Chrissakes. Live with junkies, especially one like Paulie Warsaw, for over half a year, Manny, and see how eager you are to meet new people.

Manny grinned, his first sign of humor since leaving the hospital. You took the assignment, Vachon. Reckless plunges are your specialty, not mine. I’m a planner, dull and methodical. In the warmth of the Blazer’s interior, he unbuttoned his coat. She isn’t married, by the way.

Vachon frowned. What did you do, interrogate her?

"Deana. They’re old friends. Sherman Drake recruited Nikita before he took off on his vacation to Borneo. She’s beautiful and bright. Not quite as good as Deana, but popular with the patients and staff. Only one drawback, as far as I can see."

Knowing Manny, it would be a bombshell. Vachon sent him a skeptical sideways glance. That is?

Her brother is Martin Sorensen, the same Martin Sorensen who, through loopholes and a lot of slick flimflamming, got your bastard junkie drug dealer, Paulie Warsaw, acquitted on a murder charge eighteen months ago.

Chapter Two

It was Spellbound and then some.

Nikita loved the hospital, which was much more like a country rest home than a sterile institution. The onetime Hubert Hall was a charming cluster of gray stone and mortar segments, or wings, as Dr. Drake preferred to call them. The central and east wings housed the patients; the west wing held supplies, storerooms and labs. The north was entirely residential. That is to say, several of the doctors and some of the senior nurses lived there.

Deana didn’t, of course. She and Martin had a condo in Boston. She had a small room for resting on the night shifts, but nothing as lovely as the suite Nikita had been offered.

Each apartment had a bed-sitting room, a living room, a compact kitchen and a full bath. Nikita could have moved in with her paternal grandmother in Boston, but she’d decided to take the suite, instead. Although she adored Adeline Sorensen, she wasn’t sure she would have been quite so fond of her after two weeks under the same roof.

Dawn broke with delicate threads of light that stole through the surrounding woods like the glow of a candle. A morning person by custom if not strictly preference, Nikita was up, showered and dressed by six-thirty. By seven-thirty she’d eaten, skimmed the newspaper, watched The Flintstones and made several notes in Lally Monk’s everthickening file. She’d also paused more than once to think about the intriguing man she’d met last night.

Daniel Vachon. She tested his name on her tongue as she surveyed the delicate panorama of white landscape from her third-floor vantage point. For all the havoc last night’s blizzard had wrought, the morning promised to be a Norman Rockwell painting. She wondered if Vachon liked Norman Rockwell.

Snow coated evergreens and bare-branched trees alike. A fluffy white mantle graced the lawns and paths of the estate. The wind must have died sometime deep in the