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wasn’t, he couldn’t be, it was a ruse. He was here to hurt her.
    â€œThe phone,” she said, because she was going to die and it didn’t matter what she said. “It was someone who called and he scared me.”
    As she spoke, she slowly rose and began backing away from him.
    He wondered if she had a gun. He wondered if she’d turn and run to get that gun. He didn’t want this to turn nasty. He lunged for her, grabbed her left arm as she cried out, twisted about, and tried to jerk away from him.
    â€œI’m not going to hurt you.”
    â€œGo away! I won’t go with you, I won’t. Go away.”
    She was sobbing and panting, fighting him hard now, and he was impressed with the way she jabbed him with her knuckles just below his ribs where it hurt really good, then raised her leg to knee him.
    He jerked her back against him, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her until she quieted. She had no leverage now, no chance to hurt him. She was a lightweight, but the place where she’d gotten him below his ribs really hurt.
    â€œI’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, his voice calm and low. He was one of the best interviewers in the FBI because he could modulate his voice to make it gentle and soothing, mean and vicious, whatever was necessary to get what he needed.
    He said now, in his easy and soft tone, “I heard you cry out and thought someone was in here with you, attacking you. I was just trying to be a hero.”
    She stilled, just stood there, her back pressed against his chest. The only sound breaking the silence was the dial tone from the telephone.
    â€œA hero?”
    â€œYeah, a hero. You okay now?”
    She nodded. “You’re really not here to hurt me?”
    â€œNope. I was passing by when I heard you scream.”
    She sagged with relief. She believed him. What should she do now?
    He let her go and took a quick step back. He leaned down and picked up the telephone, dropped the receiver into the cradle, and set it back on the table.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked as white as a cleric’s collar. “Who are you? Did you come to see Amabel?”
    â€œNo. Who was that on the phone? Was it an obscene caller?”
    â€œIt was my father.”
    He tried not to stare at her, not to start laughing at what she’d said. Her father? Lady, they buried him two days ago, and it was very well attended. If the FBI weren’t investigating him, even the president would have been there. He made a decision and acted on it. “I take it that he’s not a nice guy, your father?”
    â€œNo, he’s not, but that’s not important. He’s dead.”
    James Quinlan knew her file inside out. All he needed was to have her flip out on him. He’d found her, he had her now, but she was obviously close to the edge. He didn’t want a fruitcake on his hands. He needed her to be sane. He said very gently, his voice, his body movements all calm, unhurried, “That’s impossible, you know.”
    â€œYes, I know, but it was still his voice.” She was rubbing her hands over her arms. She was staring at that phone, waiting. Waiting for her dead father to call again? She looked terrified, but more than that she looked confused.
    â€œWhat did he say? This man who sounded like your dead father?”
    â€œIt was my father. I’d know that voice anywhere.” She was rubbing harder. “He said that he was coming, that he’d be here with me soon and then he’d take care of things.”
    â€œWhat things?”
    â€œMe,” she said. “He’ll come here to take care of me.”
    â€œDo you have any brandy?”
    Her head jerked up. “Brandy?” She grinned, then laughed, a small, rusty sound, but it was a laugh. “That’s what my aunt’s been sneaking into my tea since I got here yesterday. Sure, I’ve got