And the purple cashmere sweater she almost always wore to auditions— her lucky charm, as she used
to call it.
Ironic. She hadn't been wearing it at that last audition, but she'd gotten the part anyway—even though she'd never known it. But lucky? No. Maybe if she'd been wearing the damned sweater, she'd have
been detained at the audition for so long that Gordon's boat would have left without her and—
Taylor gazed down at the ground. Obviously, her aunt and uncle had been here recently; there was an elegant floral arrangement gracing Steph's headstone. Taylor took it all in for a long, silent moment. Then she bent down, placing the delicately wrapped bouquet of silk roses on the grave. A dozen of them in shimmering red. You'd never know they were silk. They looked as real as if they'd come off a rosebush.
But they hadn't. Real flowers died. These would last forever.
"It's opening night, Steph," she murmured. "I'm so proud of you. You busted your tail, and you got the part. You would have stolen the show. These are for you. They're for all the opening nights and all the standing ovations I know you would have basked in." A hard swallow. "I miss you, Steph."
With a long-drawn-out sigh, she sat back on her heels. This whole thing still seemed so surreal. A manicured plot. A peaceful, natural setting. An unfair, untimely, and violent death.
She didn't need this sanctified environment to feel close to her cousin. Not a day went by that Steph wasn't with her—she'd hear the song "Memory" from Cats on the radio, smell hot chocolate with whipped cream at Starbucks, glimpse two friends laughing together as they walked out of Pookie & Sebastian—all those things would trigger snippets of memory.
And a heavy sense of loss.
She was still tormented by the feeling that she should have done more to prevent this.
That part would never go away.
"I should have stopped you," she said aloud. "I knew Gordon was trouble. I should've shoved that
down your throat. I tried—but not hard enough. I'm sorry."
There was nothing more to say.
Shivering, Taylor pulled out her leather gloves and slipped them on. "I'm going to head back to the city now." A bittersweet smile touched her lips as she imagined what her cousin's reply would be. "No, I
don't have a date," she supplied. "Not tonight. Tonight I have paperwork to do. But tomorrow I have a self-defense lesson from a very complex and intriguing Park Avenue lawyer. Yes, he's great-looking. You'd say he was a hottie. For now, he's just an acquaintance. I'll let you know if that changes ..." A shaky pause. "If I'm capable of letting it change."
Blinking back tears, Taylor started to rise.
A twig snapped behind her.
Her head jerked up. She leaped to her feet and whipped around, her senses immediately on high alert.
She scanned the area.
Nothing. Nothing but the descending shadows of dusk.
Even as she told herself that, she had the oddest feeling she was being watched. It crept through her like
a dark, ugly specter. And, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake it.
Her breath came faster. She was imagining things. She had to be. This was a wooded area. The noise
she heard must have been a bird or a squirrel.
She'd just about convinced herself when there was a rustle from the nearby cluster of trees. Her gaze followed the sound, and she spotted a shadowy form moving among them.
A human form.
Fear gripped her. "Who's there?" she called out.
Silence.
"I said, who's there?" She was already starting to back away, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Footsteps thudded in the grass. Footsteps headed in her direction.
Taylor took off.
Panting, she dashed across the grounds, using the last filaments of daylight to find her way back to her car.
The footsteps drew near. Grew louder. Taylor slipped on a patch of ice. She caught herself before she fell, regaining her balance and sprinting on, cursing herself for the seconds she'd lost.
She fumbled for her car key as soon as the coupe came into view. Pulling the key out of her pocket,
she aimed it at the car and pressed the button that unlocked the doors and disengaged the alarm.
A few rhythmic chirps and headlight flashes let her know she'd made contact. She was almost there.
Just another ten feet or so and she'd be home free.
She reached the coupe, yanking at the door handle, half expecting someone to grab her from behind.
It was then she realized that the footsteps had ceased. The cemetery was eerily quiet.
Where was her pursuer?
She wasn't waiting to find out.
Scrambling into the driver's seat, she locked the doors, her breath coming in ragged pants as she stabbed the key into the ignition.
Abruptly, she heard the muffled sounds of someone running—not toward her, but away.
She twisted around, peering in that direction, trying to make out something tangible in the dusky sky.
A flash of movement caught her eye. A figure darting toward the gates. Obviously not another mourner.
It vanished.
Whoever he was, he was gone.
Trembling violently, she leaned back against the headrest.
Damn. She thought she'd gotten beyond this. But there it was. That sense of helplessness.
She drew in a sharp breath, trying to slow her breathing and the racing of her heart. Stop it, she commanded herself. This wasn't personal. Maybe the guy had relatives here, or a thing for hanging around cemeteries. Maybe he'd seen an easy target and gone after it to try to score some quick cash.
Maybe.
But then why hadn't he approached her while she was kneeling at the grave, rather than waiting till she saw him and then chasing after her?
Most of all, why couldn't she shake the feeling that he'd been there the whole time she was?
Watching her.
FEBRUARY 2
10:30 A.M.
WEST SEVENTY-SECOND STREET
Taylor didn't sleep a wink that night. She got up at dawn, busying herself by setting up cartons and packing up her kitchen appliances. She wasn't moving until March 1. But she needed to be busy.
She was standing on a step stool, taking down mixing bowls, when her doorman buzzed to announce Reed's arrival. She scooted off the stool and over to the intercom, advising Harry to send Reed up.
Three minutes later, he knocked.
"Hi," she said, a trifle breathless as she opened the door.
"Hi, yourself." His brows rose as he took in her disheveled state, her dark red hair pulled back in a scrunchie, her T-shirt and Lycra pants already damp. "Looks like you got started without me."
"What? Oh, no." She gave a self-conscious laugh, realizing how rumpled she must look. "I was packing."
"Already? That's pretty ambitious." Reed unzipped his parka and hung it on the hook. He was wearing black sweats, which made him look ruggedly sexy. The L.L. Bean side of him was obviously as striking as the Brooks Brothers side.
"I guess I'm just a get-it-done kind of person," Taylor replied, keeping her tone light.
Reed's gaze narrowed, and he studied her intently. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. Why? Do I look that awful?"
He wasn't sidetracked by her typically female question. In fact, his expression told her he knew it wasn't typical—not in her case. It was an attempt to dodge the question he had asked.
"I'm not taking the bait," he informed her. "This isn't about your physical attributes. It's about how exhausted you look, like you didn't shut an eye last night. And it's about the fact that I think this burst
of energy stems from tension, not from a determination to get a jump-start on your packing."
Taylor's brows rose, and she folded her arms across her chest. "I'm beginning to wonder if there's as much difference between law and psychology as I thought."
A co
rner of his mouth lifted. "Probably not. Reading people is the foundation of both our professions. Now, do you want to tell me what's wrong, or is it none of my business?"
"Yesterday was February first," she explained simply. "It would have been Steph's opening night.
I went to the cemetery to commemorate the occasion. I guess the experience was rougher on me
than I expected."
Reed nodded. "I can understand that. Would you rather postpone our lesson?"
"No." Taylor wished she hadn't blurted out the refusal so quickly and adamantly. "I've already canceled on you twice," she hurried on, seeing curiosity flicker in his eyes. "Tuesday night I was held up at the radio station, and Thursday we got walloped with that snowstorm, not to mention you were in a meeting till midnight. The truth is, the weekend's really the best time for both of us. My energy level is higher in the morning, and neither of us has to be at work—do we?" she asked quizzically, realizing that Reed might very well put in Saturday and Sunday hours.
"Nope. Not today." He gestured toward the living room. "Shall we?"
Taylor followed him in. "I've got a dozen bottles of water in the fridge. We can grab them as needed."
Reed began to laugh. "Don't sound so grim. I'm not going to put you through military maneuvers. This
is just basic stuff. If my nieces, who are eight, nine, eleven, and twelve, can handle it, so can you."
"Don't be too sure. Kids are a lot more elastic than adults." Taylor stopped in the center of the living room and turned to face him. "What made you learn self-defense?"
"My brother Rob's a cop. He's a stickler for safety, especially when it comes to his family."
"Are any of your nieces or nephews his?"
"Nope. He and I are the only single Westons left. I was in law school when he was getting his tactical training, and Cambridge was close enough for me to get home a lot. So I was around a lot more than
the rest of the crew. Learning self-defense took the edge off studying twenty-four/seven. Rob taught
me as he learned."
"And you passed that knowledge on to your other family members, particularly the female ones."
"Uh-huh." One dark brow rose. "So, do I meet the criteria? Do I get the job?"
Taylor laughed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrogate you. I just find this aspect of your life fascinating. Frankly, I've never had the experience of a big, close-knit family. I'd love to hear more—after I've mastered a few basic skills."
"How about we make it an incentive?" Reed sounded half teasing, half serious. "For each technique
you master, I'll tell you about one of my siblings."
"And if I'm a quick study? Can we move on to your nieces and nephews?"
"Sure. But only if we order up lunch. With that much talking, I'll need sustenance."
"Fair enough." Taylor was finding the lighthearted banter a welcome relief. It seemed so ... normal,
like a balm after yesterday's creepy episode. "I'm ready."
"Good." Reed sobered, looking more like the all-business guy she'd met two weeks ago in his office. "We're going to start by helping you develop a sense of distance. We'll experiment with long, middle,
and close range until you're able to maintain exactly the distance you want without thinking about it.
After that, we'll move on to circling. Both those skills are essential. Once you've developed them,
we'll go over some basic intercepting techniques. Later, I'll introduce some attack techniques, and an acronym to help you remember them. Okay?"
"Okay." Taylor nodded, wondering if there was anything Reed Weston wasn't proficient at. No
wonder he was skyrocketing his way to the top at Harter, Randolph & Collins.
She was actually looking forward to this—both the outcome and the process.
An hour and a half later, she wasn't so sure.
She was exhausted, more mentally than physically, having spent a good portion of the time training her mind to issue instant commands and her body to simultaneously follow them. The coordination and
timing were more difficult to master than the maneuvers.
"That's it." Wearily, Taylor dropped onto the overstuffed couch they'd shoved against the living-room wall to maximize the open floor space. "Between the strategizing and the circling, I'm starting to feel
like a hawk. A very tired, very dizzy hawk."
Reed strolled over, grinning. Damn if the man didn't look as collected as if he'd just walked out of a meeting, with only the barest sheen of perspiration on his brow, and his breathing as even as a yoga instructor's.
"I could grow to hate you," Taylor muttered.
"Nah." His grin widened. "Because not only am I going to help you feel more empowered, I'm going to provide you with sustenance. Stay put. I'll call and order up some sandwiches. And when I return, I'll bring two cold bottles of water."
"Okay, maybe 'hate's' too strong a word. Maybe I'll just resent you." She shot a dirty look in his direction. "Couldn't you at least break a decent sweat? Or don't you do that?"
"Oh, I do that." There was no mistaking the wicked gleam in Reed's eye. "Just during more strenuous workouts than the one we just shared."
Taylor felt herself flush. She'd asked for that one. "Cute. Very cute. Getting back to the subject, I'd like
a roast beef on rye with the works and a big fat sour pickle. While you order I'll start thinking of all the things I want to know about your family."
"Sounds like a plan. Be right back."
Forty minutes later, they were sitting at the kitchen counter, munching on their sandwiches and gulping down their water.
"Time to talk about your family," Taylor reminded him.
"Shoot."
"You said there were seven of you. Where do you fall in the ranking?"
"Fifth." Reed put down his turkey club. "Why don't I give you an overview? It'll save time, and answer your first round of questions."
"Okay." Taylor put down her food, too.
"Going oldest to youngest, we'll start with my sister Lisa. She's thirty-nine. She and her husband, Bill,
live in Phoenix. She's a teacher; he's a high-school administrator. They've got two kids, Shari and Katie, who are twelve and nine. I'll save my bragging about them for later, when we get to the nieces-and-nephews chapter of my life; otherwise we'll never get through this list."
Taking a deep swallow of water, Reed continued. "Next is Kyle. He's thirty-eight. He's a crackerjack salesman at his wife Joy's family's car dealership in Cleveland. They've got twin sons, Jake and Scott, who are ten. Third comes Shannon. She's thirty-seven. She and her husband, Roger, are both techno-whizzes. They work in the IT department of a company out in Denver. Their daughter, April,
is eight."
Another gulp of water and a breath. "Mark's thirty-six. He and his wife, Jill, are still in New England. They own a ski lodge in New Hampshire. Their kids, Kimberly and David, are eleven and seven. Then comes me. After that, there's Meredith, who's thirty-four. She's a natural-born mother. She and her husband, Derek, have two sons, Craig and Andy, and a third one on the way. They live in Dallas, since Derek works for the city. Meredith makes the most amazing cookies you've ever tasted. She's got a small baking business that she runs from home. Those lucky Texans. Last, but not least, there's Rob, who I've already told you about. He's the baby. He's thirty-two and a detective in the San Francisco police department. When he decides to settle down, hearts are going to break all over the West Coast. How's that for starters?"
Taylor's head was reeling. "Wow. That's pretty impressive. You weren't kidding when you said there were Westons scattered all over the country. What about your parents? You said they're still living in Vermont?"
"Yup. In the big, old stone farmhouse where we all grew up. They own a pottery store in town. They have for forty years. My mom loves to sculpt. She makes the pieces for the shop. They're beautiful and unusual. Not a tourist who drops in leaves empty-handed. Even the year-roun
d residents still buy pieces. She's very talented."
Reed's pride was obvious. So were his strong ties to his family.
"I envy you," Taylor said wistfully. "It must be amazing to have so many caring people in your life."