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 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 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 ra**st 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.
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.