“That helped, right?”

“My father wouldn’t take any chances. He sent me to Italy until the divorce was final.”

Trish stopped there, but Whitney felt there was more to the story. She stood up and went over to the sofa and sat next to Trish. She looked into the older woman’s eyes. “That wasn’t the end, was it?”

“No. I came home and found Carter had moved to Miami and had taken a job with another law firm,” she responded in a low, tormented voice. “He made no attempt to contact me for over six months. I thought, ‘Okay, so he lives here. It’s a big city. Forget him. Go on with life.’

“Then one evening when my parents were out, I came into the living room and there was Carter aiming a gun at me. He said if he couldn’t have me-no one would.”

Whitney put her hand on Trish’s trembling knee and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “What did you do?”

Stains of scarlet appeared on Trish’s cheeks. “Nothing. I froze. All I could think was that I was alone in a huge house with a maniac. I honestly thought I was dead.”

“What happened?”

Trish clicked her fingers twice and Brandy bounded over. She threaded her long nails through the soft fur on his ears. “My father’s boxer raced into the room, snarling and barking like crazy. It distracted Carter just long enough for me to run out of the house.”

“This sounds like a nightmare that just wouldn’t end.”

Trish nodded. “Exactly. The police came, but Carter was long gone. When they interviewed him, he had an alibi.”

“No way.”

“He found some guy that was willing to swear they’d spent the evening playing Texas Hold ’Em.”

“What did you do?”

“I moved away. With my father’s help, I changed my name and got a new start here.” A tense silence enveloped the gallery. Trish stopped petting Brandy and the dog settled at her feet. “It worked. Carter’s remarried and doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“You never married again?”

“No. Why put myself through all that? I’m happy, successful. If I need an escort, there are plenty of men available.”

The man had ruined Trish’s life and left her bitter, distrustful. How sad. Trish had suffered and continued to suffer. Whitney wondered if there was any way to help.

“I didn’t mean to make this all about me.” Trish paused, but her melancholy eyes prolonged the moment. “I rarely discuss my past, so please keep what I’ve said to yourself.”

“I will,” Whitney quickly assured her.

“I only told you so that you would realize I understand what you’re going through.”

Whitney wanted to protest that her situation was nothing like what Trish had experienced, but the woman had shared so many deeply personal things that she didn’t want to discount those confidences.

“I put the past behind me until you came along, Whitney. I instantly knew I had to help you, and I’m afraid I may have given you bad advice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes a restraining order can be a death warrant. You’ve heard about women who are killed by their husbands or boyfriends after they’ve obtained a restraining order.”

“I’ve seen it a lot on television. I can’t understand why-”

“They say-shrinks say-when the man realizes he’s lost power over the woman, he goes nuts. The restraining order represents a higher power. My divorce showed Carter a higher power had taken over, and he couldn’t accept it.”

“Makes sense.” Whitney hadn’t given much thought to spousal abuse until the incident yesterday morning. She still doubted Ryan would resort to real physical violence.

Trish leaned closer. “Don’t file a police report unless you have bruises they can photograph or a broken bone. Then-”

“I’m sure Ryan would never-”

“Never say never. This is the worst-case scenario. Here’s what you do. Keep a journal.” Trish rose and walked over to her desk. She took a leather folder the size of a paperback book out of the second drawer and handed it to Whitney. “Write down the time, date and place of each encounter. If there’s a witness like there was yesterday, put down the complete name, address and any other contact information.”

Whitney thought about Adam Hunter. How much of the argument had he seen and heard? Would he help her if necessary? Granted, she was attracted to Adam-but after hearing Trish’s story about an abusive man, Whitney should keep in mind how physical Adam had become on the night they’d met.

CHAPTER NINE

ADAM RELAXED IN the dark living room of his uncle’s home, his feet up on a leather ottoman that didn’t appear to ever have been used. Now that he thought about it, the whole house seemed more like a model home than a place where anyone had actually lived. The only room here with a “lived-in” look was his uncle’s office.

When he’d come in, he hadn’t bothered to turn on a single lamp. The only light bled in from the nightscaping outside that artistically illuminated the plants and trees. There was no movement in the house other than the slight whoosh of his own breath and the barely audible hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen nearby.

The night had become his friend, a lesson he’d learned in Iraq. Their enemies avoided darkness, preferring to strike during the light of day. Darkness soothed, took the sharp edge off Iraq’s blistering sun. The night welcomed him in a way that daylight did not. Night posed less threats, offered more possibilities.

Allowed him to think.

Daylight hurled distractions at him. In the dark, Adam could concentrate. He mentally reviewed the events of the day. He’d visited the forensic accountant who had been assigned his uncle’s case. Adam had been expecting an older man in a staid office. Instead, a punk kid who lived and worked out of a loft in the Marina District had been hired to review his uncle’s financial records. Despite Max Deaver’s tattoos and gelled hair that shot up like a rooster’s comb, Adam liked the accountant and could tell he knew his business.

Deaver had just gotten started on the case, but already described Calvin Hunter’s finances as an elaborate shell game. According to Deaver, his uncle had switched his funds back and forth between various Swiss and offshore accounts to other secret accounts. Why? Deaver claimed it was too early to tell exactly what his uncle had hoped to accomplish with these maneuvers.

Click. The faint sound made Adam jerk upright. A key in the back door’s lock. Whitney. He stood up and quickly switched on the lamp next to his chair. The amber light revealed Jasper huddling under the nearby coffee table.

“Jasper,” Whitney called softly. “Here boy. Are you in there?”

Adam scooped up Jasper and headed toward the kitchen. “He’s here. I’ve got him.”

He rounded the corner and found Whitney standing by the oven, wearing shorts that emphasized her tanned, trim legs and a T-shirt that hugged her breasts in a way he found damn sexy. Her cheeks were pink and her mane of blond hair was tousled. Her SUV hadn’t been in the carport when he’d arrived home a short time ago. He’d bet she was still out, rushing around, taking care of a pack of dogs.

He could have called to say he would feed Jasper, but he hadn’t. His mind refused to turn off. He kept thinking about Whitney all day. He wanted an excuse to see her.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” Whitney said a little anxiously, as if she was still afraid of him. “Has Jasper eaten?”

Hearing his name, the Chinese crested licked Adam’s hand and gazed up at him. Swell. Get used to it. For reasons Adam couldn’t fathom, the little dog had a thing for him.

“No. I just got in. I haven’t fed him. Why don’t you go ahead since you’re here? I’m not exactly sure how much to give him. Show me.”

“Okay.” She opened the walk-in pantry, where a large bag of kibble was kept. Adam noticed there wasn’t much else on the shelves. Another sign of a house not really being used. “I didn’t have time to walk him. I thought I would take him out after he ate.”