Cordie bolted upright. “Really.” She looked thrilled.
Regan repeated the conversation she’d had with the obnoxious woman. “What would you do?”
“Make Aiden fire her skinny little ass,” she whispered. “You should hire his next assistant. He’s obviously looking for the wrong type.”
“What type is that?”
“Young, beautiful, blond, thin…”
“What do you care what she looks like?”
Cordie shrugged. “I don’t care,” she said quickly. “You’re the one complaining.”
Regan sighed. “I can’t fire her. She doesn’t work for me. Besides, Aiden needs help…”
“So? Get someone else to help him.”
Shields’s volume increased as he finished his story. Applause followed. He waited for the noise to die down, then announced that the spontaneous session was over and to please mingle. Within seconds the psychologist was surrounded by women fighting for his attention.
“Is it raining?” Cordie asked. She lifted a strand of her long hair, sighed, and shoved it back behind her ear. “It’s raining, all right. My hair’s frizzing already.”
“Nonsense,” Regan said. “Your hair doesn’t frizz. It curls.”
Cordie dug through her purse, found a hair clip, and went to work pulling her hair into a twist.
“I’ll go get the car and pull up under the overhang. You find Sophie and drag her outside if you have to,” Regan said.
She gathered up her things, tucked the folder under her arm, and headed out. The mood in the room was still jovial, many of the participants laughing nervously and talking with one another. Such eagerness, such hope, she thought. She was sure she heard Sophie’s distinctive laughter. How in heaven’s name could she stomach being so close to Shields?
Regan seemed to be the only person in a hurry to leave. The lighting on the porch and around the building was abysmal. She could barely see her hand in front of her face.
If she had been a pessimist, she would have thought the rain had been waiting for her, because the second she stepped out from under the overhang, the soft drizzle turned into a downpour.
She sprinted across the parking lot, the rain pelting her face. Since she hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, she used the blue folder to try to block the raindrops so she could see where she was going.
By the time she reached the park, her knee was throbbing. She considered stopping and taking off her new, impossible-to-resist, sling-back heels, but it was only about fifty yards to the car, and she didn’t want to stop. She already had her car key out. It was attached to a bracelet chain. Regan had slipped the chain over her wrist so she could grip her purse as she ran.
She could have taken a shortcut through the grass, but then her beautiful, soft, buttery leather shoes would have been completely ruined. God, what an idiot she’d been to wear such high heels.
She was about twenty-five, maybe thirty, yards from her car when she thought she heard someone shout her name. Regan automatically pivoted toward the sound. Her left knee buckled, and she went down hard. Crying out in pain, she let go of her purse and the folder to brace against the fall. She was used to having her knee go out-it happened at least once a month-but the pain usually went away after a couple of seconds. This time was different. It was sharp and close to unbearable.
Half the contents of her purse scattered on the sidewalk. She knelt on one knee as she scooped up her lipstick and billfold. Someone shouted at her again. It was a high-pitched voice, or was that the wind playing tricks on her? She strained to listen for the sound as she stuffed the billfold back into her purse and staggered to her feet.
Nothing. Just her imagination, she decided. All she wanted to think about was getting out of the rain.
She heard him coming before she saw him.
Chapter Eleven
A week had passed since the incident with the runner, and the police hadn’t pounded down his door and dragged him away. For seven days and nights he’d vacillated between stark terror and sheer joy. He’d wake up during the night and think, oh, God, what have I done? and he would hear the demon whisper.
We’ve gotten away with murder.
It was Friday, and the beast was stirring. He had to go hunting again. His last venture out had nearly ended in disaster, but he hoped he had learned from his mistakes and would do better this time, for he couldn’t afford to fail again. Yes, he would be better prepared tonight. In anticipation, he’d packed dark jogging clothes, a new baseball cap-he’d had to throw away the old one because of all the blood on it-and black running shoes. He’d stored the gear under the seat in the back of his car, along with thick, nonprescription, horn-rimmed glasses, a dark brown wig-shoulder-length and tied in a ponytail with a red-and-white bandana like a biker would wear-and the essential pair of new black gloves. He’d even purchased glue and a beard at a novelty store, trimming it just right, so that he wouldn’t look too much like Charles Manson. He still felt he could subdue any woman, but he slipped a knife into his pocket just in case. He spent hours figuring out his approach, trying to cover every possible angle. When he was finally dressed and ready to leave, he took a minute to stand in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom and look at himself. He was pleased with what he saw. Why, his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
The demon would be pleased too.
One thing was certain. He couldn’t return home with more scratches on his face and arms. He could lie well when he had to, but the scratches had drawn attention to him and that was inexcusable. He simply had to be more careful. Whenever he thought about that first deadly encounter, he broke out in a cold sweat. He had come so close to getting caught, so very close.
Tonight would be different. He had been lucky the last time, but he wasn’t about to rely on good fortune coming to his aid again. He had most assuredly learned from his mistakes. Blend in. That was number one on his list. And so tonight he was pretending to be a jogger. He was in wonderful shape, of course. All those nights at the gym-had he been preparing for this and not realized it? He had become a bit obsessive, but now he could see he had started his training when he’d lifted that first ten-pound weight.
Finding the chosen one turned out to be surprisingly easy. She practically strolled up to his car and tapped on his window. That’s how close she was. She walked out the door of the hotel with a friend just as his car turned the corner. And, oh, what a sight. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”
A car backed out of the alley across the street, so he was able to stop and stare at her without drawing attention. He even rolled his window down in hopes of getting a whiff of her perfume.
He was going to follow her and wait for his opportunity, but once again, he got lucky. He heard one of the attendants shout to another, asking if he knew the quickest way to get to Liam House. Her car pulled away, and he tried to tail her, but he lost her when she turned off Michigan Avenue. He drove on to Liam House, found a parking spot a quarter of a mile away, and then jogged back to the conference center.
Adjusting his cap over his wig, he circled the building twice, taking his time as he surreptitiously checked out the area. He’d hoped there would be a jogging path close by so he could pretend he was headed toward it, but there wasn’t. Just streets, parking lots, and a little park in between.
The lighting outside the conference center was quite poor, which he found to his liking, but light did spill out from several windows and the front door as men and women hurried inside. He hung back in the shadows of the trees. He was afraid his chosen one might have gone inside while he was circling.
He waited another half hour or so and then he got nervous. Was she there? He backtracked once again, ran through the parking lot, and finally found her car on the opposite side of the park.