down her private practice—since the cops had no idea where to find her lunatic stalker. He’d already proved himself frighteningly resourceful, and she wasn’t willing to sit around like a tethered goat waiting for him to pounce on her again.
Finished with the fax, McCourt compared her to the blue-eyed redheaded woman in the photograph on her driver’s license and pulled a folder from a drawer behind the counter. “Your temporary clearance is in order.”
“It shouldn’t be temporary. I had it updated when I did some work at Randolph Electronics.”
“Yes, but we have additional requirements here.”
Before she could make any further objections, he handed her a form and said, “Sign here.”
When she’d written her name along with the date and time, he initialed the entry.
“I’m Chip McCourt. Glad to have you with us,” he said, obviously still withholding judgment. “I’ll take you to the headquarters building, Dr. Kelley.”
Kathryn pushed back her chair. “I can find my way if you’ll just give me directions.”
“I am required to escort you,” he said firmly.
Her fingers tightened on the strap of her purse, as she fought the impulse to blurt out that she’d changed her mind. She was only a few hours away from Baltimore. She could turn around and drive back. But then what? She wouldn’t feel safe in her apartment. Or her office. And she couldn’t camp out permanently at her friends’ houses. Instead of resenting the security here, she should be grateful, she told herself.
With a sigh, she stood and let him usher her outside, where he stopped and conferred briefly with another man who had arrived in a Jeep Cherokee.
“All set,” he said, turning back to her.
Manufacturing a smile, she led the way to her burgundy sedan, thankful that McCourt slid into the passenger seat instead of demanding her keys.
Her escort wasn’t much for small talk, simply giving her toneless directions. So she took stock of what had been described as the Stratford Creek campus as he co-piloted her up a winding road lined with white pine trees, then past low, red-brick buildings that might have been constructed as a garden apartment complex in the fifties or sixties. Some campus. The lawns were half dirt, and the wood trim on several of the buildings was flaking. Although she’d been assured by Mr. Emerson that Stratford Creek was well funded, apparently the U.S. government wasn’t putting much money into exterior maintenance.
Many of the windows had a dusty blankness that told her some of the offices were empty. Adding to the ghost-town atmosphere was the lack of traffic. She met no other cars, and as she rounded a corner, she made the mistake of swiveling her head to look at the remains of a flower bed in the center of a weed-choked lawn.
As she turned back to the road, she caught a blur of motion to her left. With a start, she realized that a man had materialized from behind a nearby stand of bushy pines and was on a collision course with the car.
McCourt shouted a warning as Kathryn slammed on the brakes, sending the vehicle to a bouncing halt. But the man must have had lightning reflexes, because he’d already halted.
Time seemed to slow as she stared at him. He stood on the balls of his feet, breathing hard, his body glowing with a fine sheen of perspiration and his hands flexed at his sides as if he were ready for an attack. A myriad of impressions assaulted her at once, the way they often did when she was meeting someone who sparked her interest. She let the perceptions flow, hoping she could sort them out later.
Physically, he was magnificent. His damp tee shirt was stretched across a broad, well-muscled chest, and his running shorts showcased impressive masculine details beneath the skimpy fabric. Below the shorts were long, muscular legs, the legs of an athlete.
He moved his hand to swipe a lock of dark hair away from his forehead, drawing her gaze to his chiseled face. It was all sharp angles and acute planes that were arresting in themselves. But it was his fierce, deep-set eyes that captured her attention as they regarded her with a kind of uncensored curiosity.
They were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, she thought, as they found hers through the windshield, telegraphing a message that he asked nothing from her or anyone else. He stood alone, which should mean nothing. Yet something about the look on his lean features conveyed a sense of isolation that made