The detour cost Kane only half an hour. It was just after ten-thirty when he got to his office. As usual, his secretary, Sharon Ross, presented him with a dozen messages, which meant he'd spend the remainder of the morning on the phone.
"Shit," he said elegantly.
Sharon grinned. "I can pretend you didn't come in today."
Kane was tempted, but since he only enjoyed ditching work when there was a fun alternative — and today, there wasn't — it didn't seem worth the bother.
"No, I'm officially in today, Sharon."
She nodded. "I didn't add it to the rest, but Dinah called about two minutes ago."
Kane said shit again, but silently. He would have liked the opportunity to finish his discussion with Dinah; being at odds with her screwed up his whole day. "Did she leave a message?"
"Yeah, she said to tell you she just found out her cell phone battery was dead, so not to worry if you don't talk to her until tonight. She's going to be on the run and out of her office most of the day."
"Okay. Thanks, Sharon."
In his office, Kane pushed Dinah out of his mind and concentrated on work. Two hours later, he was frowning down at an engineering schematic of a gravity-defying design when the door opened and Sydney Wilkes strolled in. She looked serene and cool as always, which was not unusual on a nippy October afternoon but earned her astonished stares in the heat of an Atlanta summer. Her business suit was immaculate, the beautifully tailored style and mustard color flattering her tan and pale blond hair, and she walked with the easy confidence of a woman who is beautiful and knows it.
Kane swiveled his chair away from the drafting table and looked at her with lifted brows. "Bored, Syd?"
"Is that the only reason I ever visit my favorite brother? Because I'm bored?" Her voice was slow and lazy.
"I'm your only brother — and yes, usually." But he smiled to remove any sting from the words.
She smiled in return, the pale gray eyes they shared amused and tolerant. "All right, so nothing much is going on today in the residential arm of Macgregor and Payne, and I thought you might like somebody to buy you lunch. I ran into Dinah yesterday, and she said she'd be tied up all day, so ... "
An architect herself, Sydney had chosen to specialize in residential work, whereas Kane's preference was commercial; it was an easy and profitable partnership. There were only three years between them — at thirty-two, Sydney was the younger. Her marriage had kept her working only part-time until her husband's accidental death more than two years previously; she was now fully involved in the family firm.
As for her personal life, though there was certainly interest from just about every male she encountered, she had been unwilling, so far, to begin dating again.
"Well," Kane said, "if you're buying ..."
Lunch was pleasant, and the remainder of the afternoon hectic. In fact, he wasn't able to leave the office until after seven-thirty. Determined not to be late, he rushed to pick up the Chinese food and get to Dinah's apartment, but even so it was well after eight when he got to her building.
Dinah's jeep wasn't in its parking space.
Both relieved and irritated, Kane parked his car and went inside. The security guard knew him well enough just to wave a greeting.
He let himself into Dinah's third-floor apartment with his key, fumbled for the foyer light, and took the food to the kitchen. As usual, the place was very tidy; not only was Dinah naturally neat, but she had a cleaning service come in once a week — and by the fresh scent of lemon in the air, Kane knew the apartment had been cleaned today.
Maybe that was why it felt so ... empty. He went around the living room lighting lamps and turned on the television. He changed out of his suit into jeans and a sweatshirt, and waited.
By nine o'clock, he was hungry and angry.
By ten o'clock, he was worried.
He couldn't remember Dinah being so late before without calling. And even if her cell phone did have a dead battery, there were pay phones, weren't there?
All over the city, there were pay phones.
Kane called her office and got her voice mail. He left a brief message asking her to call him if she came in or checked before coming home. She never carried a pager, so his options were limited.
All he could do was wait.
By eleven he was going often to the front window to look searchingly out at the busy streets. By midnight he was pacing the floor.
He only just stopped himself from calling her boss.
He reminded himself that Dinah was a grown woman, no fool, and able to take care of herself. She would certainly be unhappy with him if he pushed the panic button when she was just tied up with something and had forgotten to phone.
He told himself that several times.
The streets outside got quieter and grew shiny in the streetlights because it had started to rain.
It got later.
And later.
And Dinah never came...
FAITH
She opened her eyes abruptly, as though waking from a nightmare, conscious of her heart pounding and the sound of her quick, shallow breathing in the otherwise silent room. She couldn't remember the dream, but her shaking body and runaway pulse told her it had been a bad one. She closed her eyes and for several minutes concentrated only on climbing down.
Gradually, her heart slowed and her breathing steadied. Okay. Okay. That was better. Much better.
She didn't like being scared.
She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling.
Gradually a niggling awareness of something being different made her turn her head slowly on the pillow so that she could look around the room.
It wasn't her room.
Her other senses began waking up then. She heard the muffled, distant sounds of activity just beyond the closed door. She smelled sickness and medicine, the distinct odors of people and machines and starch. She noted the Spartan quality of the room she was in, the hospital bed she was lying on — and the IV dripping into her arm. All of that told her she was in a hospital.
Why?
It took a surprising effort to raise her head and look down at herself; her neck felt stiff, and a rush of nausea made her swallow hard. But she forced herself to look, to make sure all of her was there.
Both arms. Both legs. Nothing in a cast. Her feet moved when she willed them to. Not paralyzed, then.
Good.
With an effort, she raised the arm not hooked to the IV until she could see her hand. It was unnervingly small, not childlike but ... fragile.
The short nails were ragged and looked bitten, and the skin was milky pale. She turned it slowly and stared at the palms, the pads of her fingers. No calluses, but there was a slight roughness to her skin that told her she was accustomed to work.
Afraid of what she might find, she touched her face with light, probing fingers. The bones seemed prominent, and the skin felt soft and smooth. There was no evidence of an injury until she reached her right temple. There, a square adhesive bandage and a faint soreness underneath it told her she'd suffered some kind of cut.
But not a bad one, she thought, and certainly not a big one. The bandage was small, two or three square inches.
Beyond the bandage, she found her hair limp and oily, which told her it hadn't been washed recently. She pulled at a strand and was surprised that it was long enough for her to see. It was mostly straight, with only a hint of curl. And it was red. A dark, dull red.
Now why did that surprise her?
For the first time, she let herself become aware of what had been crawling in her subconscious, a cold and growing fear she dared not name. She realized — she was lying perfectly still now, her arms at her sides, her hands clenched into fists, staring at the ceiling as if she would find the answers there.