Free The Man She Left Behind by Janice Carter Page B

hair and apply fresh lip gloss. She took her time, reluctant to be offered a ride home when she preferred to walk—alone. Then she headed for the door leading into the toilet section, deciding to make use of the facility, after all. A woman’s loud complaining voice stopped her.
    “It was, too, Leigh Randall. I’d recognize that raven head anywhere. Didn’t I sit behind it for a week at the inquest?”
    “That was fifteen years ago, Phyllis. She could be a redhead by now for all we know.”
    “It was her, I tell you. I’m going to call Trish Butterfield the minute I get home to find out how long she’s going to be here.”
    There was a heavy sigh. “What does it matter now? Let the past go.”
    “Never!” the other voice hissed. “You wouldn’t be saying that if it had been your daughter who’d drowned!”
    Leigh stepped back from the door. The familiar sensations of panic were beginning—the pounding heart, the frenzied surge of adrenaline telling her to run, contradicted by the leaden numbness creeping up her legs. Now she could scarcely breathe and next, she knew, would come the terrifying hyperventilation. She forced her legs to keep moving and escaped just as the inner door swung open.
    The woman’s voice—Laura’s mother, must be Laura’s mother—was still raving inside, but Leigh willed herself up the stairs to the main floor. Don’t stop. Stay calm. Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.
    Sunlight streamed through the glass front doors and she stretched out her palms to push, sending the doors crashing against the jambs and raising nearby heads. Leigh stumbled into the parking lot, blinded by light and tears, legs pumping and asthmatic heaves bursting from her chest.
    Then someone was at her elbow asking if she was okay and guiding her toward a bench beneath an oak tree at one side of the parking lot.
    Leigh sat down and closed her eyes, concentrating on the breathing exercise that she knew would bring everything back into focus again. When she turned to thank her rescuer, all she saw of him was his back as he walked toward Howard’s. But it was a back she knew, even in the sun’s glare.
    “Sit there,” Spencer ordered over his shoulder.
    By the time he emerged seconds later carrying a large tumbler of ice water, Leigh had -herself under control.
    “Drink it slowly,” he instructed, handing her the glass and sitting down beside her.
    “I’m okay now, really.”
    “Drink.”
    Leigh took a sip and then held the glass against her face, tempted to pour it down the front of her halter-top sundress.
    “Here.” Spence pulled a red-and-black-checked bandanna out of his shirt pocket and, taking the glass from Leigh, dipped a corner of the bandanna into it. “It’s all right,” he said, glancing at her, “this is clean.”
    Then he squeezed out the wet corner and very gently dabbed at Leigh’s forehead.
    “Mmm,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
    “Nice?”
    “Wonderful.”
    He sponged her cheeks, and touched each closed eyelid so softly Leigh wondered if she’d imagined it.
    “That’s terrific. Thank you very much.” Her eyes flew open.
    Spence held up a palm. “Wait. I’m not finished yet.”
    Leigh watched him dip the bandanna into the glass again and wring it out. “I’m curious. What’s with the bandanna?”
    “I always take one when I go out on a charter. Some guys forget to bring a sunhat or they need something to mop up the sweat from a tough catch.” He caught the look on her face. “That’s why I use a cloth—it can be washed. Now, why don’t you rest your head against the back of the bench while I—”
    “I’m fine now, Spencer. Seriously.”
    “Humor me.” He pressed an index finger lightly to the center of her brow and tilted back her head.
    She felt the damp cool cloth sweep over her face again and then begin to brush down the length of her neck. Leigh held her breath. The bandanna patted the shallow dip where neck and collarbone met, paused and stroked a