Robert didn’t know how he’d manage it without being caught, but he figured with the 156 IQ, he’d find a way.

How had he let the bitch doctor slip through his fingers?

Actually he knew. It was the sister’s fault. She’d loaned Dr. Bitch her car so she could sneak out of town.

Carine Winter, the jilted nature photographer. Robert had slipped into her apartment one afternoon a week ago and borrowed the set of keys she had to Antonia’s apartment, had them copied and returned them. Then he’d checked out her laptop and read some of her sent e-mails. Pitiful. Really pitiful. Except she had a tough streak—man, he wouldn’t want to be the guy who’d given her the boot.

He’d sent the bitch sister one of the instant messages from the laptop. A stroke of genius, he’d thought.

He’d debated fire-bombing Miss Carine’s dump of an apartment, but he had to keep his eyes on the prize.

Antonia Winter, M.D.

Scared. Sweating. At his mercy, the way he’d been at her mercy with his foot.

Begging for her life.

It was the image he came back to over and over as he considered his next move. He knew he should probably have a master plan, but he loved the spontaneity—hell, he didn’t know what he’d do next, never mind Dr. Bitch Winter.

He honestly didn’t know if he’d kill her. He might, he might not.

Probably he would.

He sat cross-legged on Dr. Winter’s soft, pretty bed in her Back Bay apartment. It was kind of a girly room. Elegant, expensive, but Robert hadn’t expected the framed photographs of flowers—the little sister’s work—and the scented candles, the lace-edged sheets. He’d gone through her lingerie drawer. Nice stuff. Silky. But he got to thinking about how she’d treated him in the E.R., how she was so sweet and caring at first, making him think he might have a real chance with her. That he was right about her, and she just needed him to injure himself to give her an excuse to make a move on him, put out the vibes for him to make a move on her.

Then she turned him in to the cops. She said it was the law, that she had to report any suspected gunshot wound. Bullshit! It wasn’t like he’d committed a crime. He’d shot himself in the foot! Big deal! She could have let it go. It wasn’t as if he’d shot someone else in the foot.