He thought she might—for days he’d felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach that wavered between terror and excitement. He’d gone to bed with a snootful of whiskey, hoping Dr. Jack Daniels might render him immune to her. But his eyes had flown open with her first rasp on the screen, as clear-headed as if he’d never touched a drop of liquor in his life. So much for Jack D. Even the mighty doctor is powerless against Bett Lovelace. She scratched again, cat’s claws on slate. He sat up in bed and turned toward her. It always gave him goose flesh, the way she stood there, staring at him with those near-colorless eyes. Tonight her skin looked like untracked snow, her hair a mass of long, black curls. A scarlet cape draped across her shoulders. It matched the shade of her lips, exactly. “Bobby?” Her voice sounded the same as always—low, but musical, as if he’d just done something she found amusing. “You awake?” He nodded, knowing it was pointless to feign sleep.
