“I don’t know,” she admitted with blunt honesty.
His fingers skimmed down the line of her jaw, his light caress sending a tiny shiver through her body.
“Annie, if you’re having second thoughts we can go back to Newton.” He leaned forward, his bronzed face savagely beautiful with the hint of beard that shadowed his cheeks. His hand slid beneath her chin. “Hell, we can go anywhere you want.”
She grimaced, refusing to allow herself to even consider the temptation of telling Rafe to turn on the engine and just start driving.
Anywhere . . .
“It’s just so strange,” she instead forced herself to share. “A week ago I believed that my mother and brother died in a car accident and that my father was a farmer named Don White who murdered seven women before committing suicide.” She gave a shake of her head, wise enough not to risk fate by claiming her life couldn’t get any stranger. Every time she thought that . . . it got stranger. “Now I find out my entire past is a lie. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
His hand shifted to cup the back of her head, his head lowering until they were nose to nose.
“I’m real.”
The hysteria eased as she became lost in the melting darkness of his eyes.
Her entire life was spiraling out of control, but when she was this close to Rafe, none of it seemed to matter.
How was that possible?
She reached up to grasp his wrist, but she made no effort to pull away.
“Out of everything, you’re the most unreal of all,” she admitted in soft tones.
His warm breath brushed her cheek before she felt his lips press against her mouth.
It was brief. More like a promise than a true kiss. But it was enough to warm her chilled body and soothe her frayed nerves.
Okay. His touch wasn’t exactly soothing. But the tingles currently making her heart race were a hell of a lot more fun than the mind-numbing panic that threatened to consume her.
“Do you need me to prove how real I am?” he asked, using his tongue to trace her bottom lip.
She sucked in a deep breath, another shiver exploding through her body. He smelled so good.
Raw, delicious male.
“I think you’ve done enough proving,” she choked out as he branded a trail of kisses over her cheek and along the curve of her ear.
He chuckled, tilting her head to the perfect angle to claim another kiss.
This one was deeper. Longer. More of a prelude to paradise than a promise.
“I’m just getting started, sweetheart.”
Her breath tangled in her throat as his tongue dipped between her lips. Just that fast her body was going up in flames.
Good . . . Lord.
She pressed her palms flat against his chest. “Rafe, we’re in a parking lot.”
“I can solve that.” Nuzzling a spot just below her ear, his fingers traced down the curve of her neck. “There’s a motel just down the street.”
“You are . . .” Her words broke off as he deliberately molded her breast through the thick sweatshirt.
“I am what?”
“You really are a hero.”
He lifted his head, his gaze lingering on her lips that still trembled from his kiss. “Because I can’t keep my hands off you?”
She wasn’t fooled for a minute.
She didn’t doubt that he desired her. He’d been more than clear on the subject.
But he’d kissed her to distract her from the mess that was her life.
Her hands smoothed over his chest, enjoying the power of his hard body.
Was it any wonder she felt safe when he was near?
“Because you know exactly how to keep me from freaking out.”
He heaved a small sigh. “I wish I could make all of this go away.”
“Me too, but I have to face this myself,” she said.
She wasn’t just trying to act brave.
Martin Emerson was her brother.
The only family she had left in the world.
She had to meet him.
“But not alone. Never again,” he growled, peering down at her with a fierce intensity. “No matter what happens.”
She grabbed his sweatshirt, a nasty premonition inching down her spine. “You suspect something.”
“I’m trained to be suspicious.” With a smooth motion, he released his grip on her to turn and push open his door.
“Rafe.”
“We should go in.”
Before she could demand to know what his instincts were telling him, he was out of the truck and headed toward the building.
With a sigh, Annie quickly followed him.
Clearly he wasn’t in the mood to share, and she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.
Right now it was enough to prepare herself to meet the brother who she’d thought dead and buried twenty-two years ago.
Chapter Seventeen
Rafe waited for Annie to reach his side before pulling open the glass door and crossing the polished white tile floor toward the reception area cloaked in an expensive hush.
The octagon-shaped room was filled with light and decorated with sleek furnishings in soothing shades of gray and silver.
Annie was right, he ruefully acknowledged.
It did look like a fancy-ass hotel.
The sort of place where they left chocolates on your pillow and you could order lobster with a push of a button.
This kind of luxury didn’t come cheap.
In fact, Rafe was willing to bet his left nut that Annie’s grandparents dished out more every month to keep Martin here than he made per year when he was in the military.
Seated behind a low desk, the receptionist was attired in a gray dress that perfectly matched the decor. She lifted her head at their entry, a professional smile attached to her lips that transformed to one that was far more flirtatious as she caught sight of Rafe.
“May I help you?”
Rafe moved forward. The woman looked like a mannequin, with her pale face perfectly covered by a layer of makeup and her blond hair so rigidly smooth, it barely moved.
It might be the fashion, but Rafe far preferred the natural beauty of the woman walking next to him.
Still, he was willing to play the game. Conjuring his most charming smile, he leaned his hip against the desk. The receptionist no doubt assumed he was checking out her too-thin body. In truth, the angle gave him an unblocked view of the computer and phone system.
“We’re here to see Martin Emerson.”
The mannequin perfection was briefly marred as the woman stiffened in shock, her pale eyes darting toward a door across the reception area.
“Martin Emerson?”
Annie moved closer to his side. An unconscious staking of ownership?
He hoped so.
“Yes,” she said.
The receptionist discreetly pushed a button on the phone before she tapped on her keyboard, pretending to check her computer.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured with faux regret. “I don’t have any visits scheduled for Mr. Emerson.”
“Surely I don’t need to schedule a visit. I’m his sister,” Annie insisted, her tone stubborn.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Sister?”
“Yes. Annie . . .” She stopped, her throat convulsing before she managed to finish. “Emerson.”
Rafe instinctively placed his hand on her lower back, offering a silent comfort.
During the long drive he’d tried to convince himself that they were going to discover Martin Emerson safely stashed at Greenwood Estates, living out his life in peaceful surroundings with the necessary drugs to keep his demons at bay.
The last thing he wanted was for Annie to endure even more pain.
But the knot in his gut hadn’t eased. Deep inside, he knew Martin was somehow connected to the most recent disappearances.
And the receptionist’s growing discomfort only increased his concern.
“I see,” the blon
de was saying, once again pressing the button on the phone.
“Is there a problem?” Annie asked.
The woman’s smile remained pinned in place. “Not precisely a problem, but I do think it would be better to reschedule your visit for another day.”
Annie folded her arms over her chest. Uh-oh. He recognized that look.
Beneath Annie’s sweet, rather shy exterior was a spine of steel.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Our therapists prefer not to upset the patients’ schedules,” the receptionist smoothly explained.
Annie shrugged. “I assume family is allowed to visit?”
“Yes, but it would be better to call ahead so Martin’s daily activities can be rearranged,” the woman insisted.
Annie narrowed her eyes. Unaware of Rafe’s suspicion that Martin was missing, she clearly assumed she was just being jerked around.
“Are you saying I can’t see Martin?”
The woman held up a manicured hand. “Please, if you would just—”
“I’ll take care of this, Jasmine,” a male voice interrupted.
Swiftly turning, Rafe stepped to the side, half blocking Annie from the slender, middle-aged man standing in the center of the reception area.
Rafe made a silent inventory of the dark hair that was threaded with silver and brushed from the lean face that had recently seen the inside of a tanning bed. His gaze lowered, his brow cocked as he took in the designer suit that was a light shade of smoke.
Christ. Did everyone dress in gray?
“You are?” he asked.
The older man’s gaze flicked from Rafe to Annie, then warily back to Rafe.
“Dr. Roger Palmer,” he said, his tone polite although he made no move to shake Rafe’s hand. Unconsciously Rafe lifted his fingers to rub his whiskers. He really needed to shave. “I’m the director of the Greenwood Estates. And you are?”
“This is Annie Emerson,” Rafe said, careful to avoid giving his own name. “Martin’s sister.”
“Sister?” The director visibly jerked before he lifted his hand to smooth his burgundy tie. His attention shifted to Annie. “This is . . . unexpected. You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“No.” Annie tried to step around Rafe, only to make a sound of impatience when he moved to block her. It wasn’t that he feared the man would hurt Annie. Not in the middle of the reception room. But he sensed Dr. Palmer would do whatever was necessary to protect his ass. “I lost track of my brother years ago. Now I’m anxious to be reunited.”
“Of course.” The man flashed a blindingly white smile. “Perfectly understandable.”
“Then can we be taken to his room?” Annie snapped.
Rafe could sense Annie’s temper rising. She might be nervous about meeting her brother, but she was clearly tired of being blocked from her self-imposed task.
So was Rafe.
Dr. Palmer cleared his throat. “Actually, we prefer visitors to call ahead and make an appointment.”
“I’ve driven a very long way.” Annie stubbornly refused to concede defeat. A knowledge that Rafe tucked in the back of his mind. It was no doubt something he was going to encounter over the next fifty years. “I really must insist on seeing my brother.”
Dr. Palmer smoothed his tie again. “Unfortunate, but there is really nothing I can do.”
Annie sucked in an angry breath. “Are you refusing to allow me to visit with my own brother?”
The man’s gaze darted toward the receptionist, as if seeking inspiration.
None was forthcoming, so he repeated his lame excuse.
“As I said, we prefer not to disrupt our patients without prior notice.”
Rafe stepped forward. Enough.
He’d let Annie take charge because he truly hoped Martin Emerson was safely tucked in one of the expensive rooms and she could enjoy a long-overdue reunion without it being marred by Rafe’s ugly suspicion.
Now it was obvious Dr. Palmer was going to continue to stonewall them unless he took command of the situation.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist,” he said, his low tone edged with an unmistakable command.
The man licked his lips, his gaze taking in Rafe’s casual attire.
“Are you related?”
“Not exactly.” Reaching into his back pocket, Rafe pulled out the leather wallet and flashed the badge Teagan had made.
The director leaned forward. “Agent Torres,” he read out loud, his face paling beneath his tan. “FBI?”
Rafe flipped the wallet shut and shoved it back into his pocket.
“That’s right.”
“Is this an official visit?”
Rafe shrugged. “I can make it official.”
“No, please.” Turning to the side, the director pointed toward the door nearly hidden in a shallow alcove. “Can we speak in my office?”
“If you want,” Rafe agreed.
The director nodded toward the wide-eyed receptionist. “Jasmine, hold my calls unless it’s an emergency.”
Without waiting for her agreement, Dr. Palmer headed toward his office, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the tile floor.
Rafe returned his hand to Annie’s lower back as they followed in the man’s path. Even through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt he could feel the tension that hummed off her body.
She wasn’t stupid.
She knew this was about more than disrupting a patient’s schedule.
They entered the office that was surrounded by tinted glass walls. The furnishings were the same as in the reception area . . . modern, sleek, pretentious, but instead of tiled floors there was an expensive gray and silver carpet.
The director instantly took the position of power behind his desk, waving his hand toward the two black leather chairs across from him.
“Have a seat.” Waiting until they were settled, he glanced toward a silver machine set on a low table. “Coffee? Espresso?”
Rafe grimaced. The office was making him nervous as hell.
Who had glass walls? It was a sniper’s paradise. And the seats were so low and deeply curved there would be no way he could get his gun out quickly enough.
If the stalker had managed to follow them to Greenwood Estates, then Annie was a sitting duck.
A knowledge that wasn’t doing anything to improve his temper.
“No, thank you,” he said in clipped tones.
The director cleared his throat. “I assume this has something to do with Martin’s disappearance?”
Annie sucked in a shocked breath. “He’s—”
Shit. Rafe reached out to grab her hand, giving her fingers a warning squeeze.
“As you might have guessed, I’m a friend of the family.” Rafe firmly took command of the meeting. He needed Dr. Palmer to believe he was an FBI agent investigating Martin’s disappearance. Otherwise the man was going to clam up and not give them a damned thing. “They asked me to come with Annie and discover exactly what happened.”
The director carefully placed his palms on his desk, his expression revealing the perfect combination of regret and sympathy.
Rafe briefly wondered how often the man practiced the look in front of the mirror.
“Martin was last seen at breakfast three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks?” Annie breathed.
Dr. Palmer gave a nod. “Yes.”
Rafe leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands casually dangling between his legs. The position meant his fingers were just inches from the gun holstered at his ankle.
“He just left?” he demanded.
The thin face hardened with a defensive expression. “This is a residential center, not a prison.”
Rafe glanced toward the windows that overlooked the gardens. The building was isolated enough to make it difficult to approach or leave without being noticed, but it wouldn’t be that hard to slip away.
Obviously it had been decided that Martin Emerson would be treated as a victim
instead of a criminal.
Still, he would have assumed there would be some sort of limitations to his movements.
“Your patients are free to come and go as they please?” he demanded.
“We strongly discourage them from leaving the clinic unless they have a suitable chaperone, but on occasion they do decide to spend a few hours or even a few days on their own,” the director confessed.
Great. Just fucking perfect.
“Do you have surveillance cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
The man squared his shoulders, his lips thinning. “Not without a warrant.”
Rafe didn’t press. This man would know the laws regarding patients’ rights far better than he did.
“Did the surveillance tape show Martin leaving?” he instead asked.
Dr. Palmer nodded. “It did.”
“Was anyone with him?”
The man looked surprised by the question. Which meant Martin rarely had visitors.
“No, he was alone.”
“No one picked him up?” Rafe pressed. “Not even a taxi?”
The director shook his head. “Not as far as we could tell. He walked out the door and through the gardens. He must have used a side entrance to leave the grounds.”
Rafe grimaced. There was no way to know if Martin had called for a taxi to meet him. Or if he had someone waiting down the street to pick him up.
Or hell . . . he might have hitchhiked.
He turned his attention to what might have prompted Martin’s sudden departure.
“How was Martin before his disappearance?”
The director shrugged. “He seemed fine.”
“There was nothing strange in his behavior?”
Dr. Palmer tapped a slender finger on the desk, clearly annoyed at being put in a position of having to answer questions from nosy officials.
On the other hand, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do anything that might provoke unwanted attention on his clinic. People didn’t pay an enormous fee for pretty gardens and smiling receptionists.
They paid for discretion.
“Not that we could detect,” Dr. Palmer assured him.
“No unexpected guests?”
The man’s gaze briefly flickered toward Annie before he answered. “Martin didn’t have guests.”
Kill Without Mercy Page 19