The Perfect Couple (31 page)

He removed the lid and dumped them into his palm. The label said the bottle contained forty-eight tablets. If she'd taken two, there should be forty-six. But a quick count turned up only forty.

"Did she take eight?" he muttered and counted them again.

There were forty, all right. That could explain why she was so disoriented, but he had a hard time believing she'd overdo it with Samantha still out there somewhere.

He got the garbage can and pulled it into the bathroom, too. Since she'd just bought the pills, there should be a pharmacy sack somewhere. He was hoping to find a receipt, to be able to tell where she'd stopped and at what time. Maybe the person who rang up her purchase would remember 202

more about her condition and behavior.

But there was no trash, no sack, no receipt.

He thought of her phone. Maybe she'd spoken to someone who'd be able to tell him about her frame of mind, someone he could reach. But without her permission, it was too much of an invasion of privacy.

He sat in the chair where he'd fallen asleep earlier, thinking about the way he'd found her and how confused she'd been--and decided he didn't care about invading her privacy if it was for her own good. A lot of women who'd been drugged blamed it on the alcohol they'd drunk. And those same victims typically reported extreme hangover-like symptoms afterward. If something had happened tonight that shouldn't have, he needed to know about it.

Carrying her purse into the bathroom, he pulled out her phone and checked her Sent folder. Besides the one to him, she hadn't sent any text messages. And her recent call history showed no calls originating from that number after 5:33 p.m. As far as incoming calls went--he scrolled through a few more screens--she'd received four from him, one from Detective Thomas and one with a southern California area code. He guessed it was from her father's lady friend, the woman they'd met at his trailer.

Last, he opened her in-box. There he saw the message he'd sent telling her to contact him, and another one from Anton. Her ex-fiance's had come in after his. But the odd thing was--they both registered as having been read.

If Zoe had received his urgent message, why hadn't she responded?

For all she knew, he was trying to tell her that Toby had come out of his coma, or that he'd managed to obtain some information on Sam.

She loved Sam so much and yet tonight it seemed as if she didn't care at all. As if she'd just decided to throw it all to the winds. That wasn't like her, which was why it bothered him.

His finger hovered over the Select button that would show him Anton's text. He told himself he shouldn't read it, but he was confused enough about what had gone on this evening to give himself permission.

You're not easy to get over, Zoe, it said. Seeing you tonight, knowing you no longer welcome my touch, broke my heart.

When Jonathan had talked to him, Anton had said he hadn't seen Zoe.

Had he meant that he hadn't spoken to her? Or had he been lying? Had he drugged her and--

Picturing Zoe as he'd found her--lying across the spread as if she'd been hastily dumped there--Jonathan stepped out of the bathroom and gazed at the bed. When they were in San Diego, Zoe had said she wouldn't take a sleeping pill. Even if she'd changed her mind, he was pretty sure she would've returned the text she'd read from him first, and probably gotten 203

ready for bed, as well.

What the hell had gone on tonight? If she'd been fine when she arrived here, as the desk clerk said, what had happened afterward? Had Anton met her here--or followed her? Had someone else?

Jonathan didn't know, but he thought he should try to ascertain that she hadn't been raped.

She stirred and rolled onto her back when he flipped on the light.

"Jonathan?"

"It's me." Leaning over her, he grasped her chin and tilted her face from side to side as he examined her eyes, cheeks, nose, throat.

Frowning, she shaded her eyes. "What're you doing?"

"Checking for injuries."

"Why would I be injured?"

"I'm hoping you're not."

She pulled a pillow over her face to block out the light. "I just need more sleep."

"Can I take off your shirt, Zoe? Can I see if you have any scratches or bruises on your chest?" He'd dealt with enough rape cases to know that if there were marks, he'd probably find them there. He'd worked one case, in which teeth impressions left by a rapist on a woman's breast had actually led to his conviction.

She didn't respond.

He set the pillow aside and gave her shoulder a gentle shake. "Zoe?"

She mumbled something, but it was incoherent; he wasn't going to get a clear answer right now. So he quickly undid the few buttons that were still fastened and took off her blouse.

He found the strap of her bra all twisted in the back and hanging together by a single hook, which added to his suspicion. No woman would put on her bra that way, would she? Not unless she was extremely drunk.

But the desk clerk claimed Zoe's clothes had been perfectly straight, and she'd been perfectly sober, when she came in. So why had she subsequently removed her clothes, taken enough sleeping pills to risk a potential overdose, then dressed again, but in a haphazard manner?

Someone else had dressed her. That was what it looked like. And if that was the case, whoever it was had probably undressed her, too--or why bother?

Convinced that something had happened, he slid off her jeans and examined the rest of her--what he could see without removing her panties.

But besides a red line on one ankle, which could've come from a ligature but certainly wasn't conclusive, he saw no evidence of abuse or injury.

204

While he was studying that mark, she roused again and gazed up at him from beneath heavy eyelids.

"I want to take you to the hospital, have you checked out," he told her as he lowered her leg.

"What for?" she mumbled sleepily.

She'd been through so much. Did he really want to tell her? "It's just...a precaution."

She didn't say anything, but when he started to put on her blouse, she stopped him--and guided his hand to her breast. "I have a better idea."

Every muscle in his body tensed as he allowed himself to cup her. He wanted her. He'd wanted her from the first moment he'd met her. Despite Sheridan. Despite the fact that she was a client.

But now wasn't the time.

Gently freeing her grip on his wrist, he ran a finger over her cheek instead. "You deserve more than you've ever gotten, Zoe."

Her breathing had gone as shallow as his. "Does that mean you're going to give it to me?" Her husky voice and sexy smile indicated she'd interpreted his words in a sexual way. It wasn't what he'd meant, but he didn't correct her. He knew she didn't want a relationship that went any deeper than the physical; she was no longer willing to take the risks associated with it.

"Jon?" she prompted when he hesitated.

His pulse was racing. It wasn't easy to keep his mind where it needed to be. But he didn't have a choice. "No."

Zoe hadn't been raped. As he leaned against his car in the parking lot of Sierra College, listening to Colin organize the searchers, Jonathan wasn't even sure she'd been drugged. With no physical injuries to prove foul play, the emergency-room doctor attributed her behavior and memory lapse to too much stress and too much alcohol. He'd ultimately agreed to run some toxicology tests, but only because Jonathan insisted on it. The results wouldn't come back for a few days.

Jonathan was infinitely relieved by the doctor's findings. But he still didn't have answers to the questions that nagged at him. And after another night with so little sleep, he felt like roadkill as he watched Colin pass out maps to his lawyer friends and several volunteer neighbors. The press and the police were there, too. Detective Thomas had already spoken and was now circulating flyers provided by the police department.

Jonathan hated the fact that Zoe couldn't join them. He knew how much she wanted to, but the doctor had insisted on keeping her in the 205

hospital until she'd fully recovered. Something last night had made her ill.

She'd tried to argue with the doctor's decision, of course, but she'd been too weak to be effective. When Jonathan left, she'd told him she'd never speak to him again because he wasn't taking her with him.

He sort of hoped that was true. Then maybe he could stop replaying those few moments when she'd guided his hand to her breast....

As the searchers got into their cars and started off for their designated areas, Colin approached. "Morning."

"Morning." Jonathan smiled, but he was surprised by Colin's appearance. Although he was as meticulously groomed as always, his eyes were bloodshot enough to suggest that he, too, had passed a hard night. "You okay?"

"Me?" He raised a hand to his chest. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

"You look like I feel."

"I was up late," he said with a sheepish grin. "What's your excuse?"

"Same thing."

He bent to peer inside Jonathan's car. "Where's Zoe? I thought she'd be here."

"She's not feeling well."

He frowned. "That's too bad. What's wrong?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe you can help me figure it out."

"How can I help you?"

"How many glasses of wine did she have last night?"

Colin rubbed his clean-shaven chin. "Three, maybe four. I wasn't really counting. Why?"

"Did she seem tipsy when she left?"

"Hell, no. Or I wouldn't have let her drive."

"Did she eat much?"

"Not as much as we would've liked."

Four glasses of wine could do it, especially on an empty stomach.

"We're worried about how she's holding up through all this," Colin went on. "Sounds as if it's beginning to wear her down."

"Maybe. Where's Tiffany?" Jonathan had been hoping to speak with her. She might have a different perspective on Zoe's behavior than Colin did.

"She left for my father's cabin. Until Sam went missing, we were planning to spend the whole weekend there."

"She went without you?"

"I'll join her when this is over. She wanted to lug the groceries up there and do a little cleaning while she had the chance."

It made sense. Everything made sense except Sam's disappearance 206

and Zoe's condition last night.

"Too bad we can't offer the reward Zoe mentioned at dinner," Colin said. "These flyers would be a lot more appealing if they looked like this."

He scrawled $10,000 Reward across the top. "That'd motivate the casual observer, eh?"

On their way back from L.A., Zoe had told Jonathan about the reward.

She hadn't said plans had changed, but he could understand why they might have. "Anton reneged?"

"He dropped by this morning to tell me I could go ahead and advertise it--he'd come through. But now that they've broken up, I don't know whether to trust that. Could be a ploy to get Zoe back. Once he realizes it won't work, then what? And I couldn't reach her, so..."

Jonathan wondered what Zoe would've said about it. He knew she'd do anything to find Sam. He also knew she probably wouldn't want to feel beholden to Lucassi. "Let's keep Anton out of it."

"Right. Maybe I'll post the reward myself," Colin said.

Jonathan couldn't tell if Colin was just bragging, but he suspected that was the case. "Tiffany wouldn't mind?"

"Are you kidding? She cares as much about Zoe and Sam as I do."

"You two have been good to her."

"We should be good to her. We're her neighbors. Well, we were her neighbors."

Jonathan's BlackBerry rang before he could respond. Caller ID

revealed a southern California area code, but it was a different number than the one he'd seen on Zoe's cell phone.

"Thanks for all your help," he said, and answered, but before he could determine who it was, Colin interrupted.

"You gonna stick around today?"

"I've got an appointment. I just came over to make sure everyone got off okay. I'll stay in touch with Detective Thomas to see how it goes."

"Okay." He handed Jonathan the flyer he'd written on. "Tell Zoe I hope she feels better."

"Will do." Staring down at Sam's picture, Jonathan turned his attention back to the phone. "Hello?" he said again.

"Is this Jonathan Stivers?" It was a male voice. "Yes, it is."

"This is Franky Bates."

The man who'd raped Zoe at fifteen. Jonathan had given him a card but hadn't really expected to hear from him. "What can I do for you, Mr.

Bates?"

"Um, I know you probably...well, Zoe probably doesn't want to hear 207

from me. But...I've been doing a lot of thinkin' and...I'd like to help. If I can.

I mean, if she'll let me."

Jonathan sank into the driver's seat but didn't start his car. "I appreciate the sentiment behind your offer, but there's nothing you can do, Franky."

"I figured you'd tell me no. But I'm here in Sacramento. I'm willing to do whatever you ask."

Jonathan sat straighter. Did Franky's presence have any connection to last night? "When did you get into town?"

"Couple hours ago. I just grabbed some breakfast. I didn't want to call too early."

"What are you doing here? Maybe that's a more relevant question."

"I was hoping you'd believe I'm for real if I came all this way."

"Did you fly or--"

"I drove. I figured, hey, why keep stressing over the situation. I'm gonna go up there and see what I can do."

"Have you had any contact with Zoe?"

"No, no, of course not. But my grandma sent her a few things. I mean, it's just baked goods and a crocheted afghan, and a little gift for her daughter if...if we can find her. Nothing to get excited about. But Gran really wants her to have it."

If Franky had been driving all night, there'd be ways to prove it. "You got gas receipts to show where you were last night, Franky?"

He hesitated for a second, but his voice was strident when he answered. "Yes, sir. Would you like to see them?"

"It's likely. Hang on to them for me."

"Okay."

Jonathan rubbed his eyes. Franky wasn't their problem. Not this time.