“Emma, I need to call this in. I’m going to have Hunter pick you up and take you back to my place.” His gaze roved over her, concern etched in the pinch of his brows.
She nodded, trying to focus on her breathing. “I’ll be.” Inhale. “Fine.” Exhale.
He didn’t look convinced. Studying her a moment longer, he pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering as he drew a slow deep breath, seeming to take a moment to compose himself. When he released her, his expression reminded Emma much of the one he’d worn the night they met—determinedly stoic. He walked her to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “Sam, get in.” The German Shepherd climbed inside, and Sawyer helped Emma in beside him.
When he let her go, the absence of his touch was like being set adrift. As he stood by the back door and called Hunter, Emma reached up, curling her fist into the hem of Sawyer’s shirt, needing his touch to anchor her. Sam settled in the seat and rested his head in her lap. After hanging up with his brother, Sawyer made another call and reached down with his free hand, untangling her fingers from his shirt and slipping them between his, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Cade, I need you at Ramsey Hospital— No, I didn’t get shot again, smartass. I’m in the south parking ramp, second level. Our unsub just buried a knife in my back tire when I was inside the building. Grab someone from forensics on your way over.”
He disconnected the call and pocketed his cell before poking his head inside the car. “How you doin’?” He reached forward, tucking a fallen chunk of hair behind her ear.
“Okay.”
“Hunter will be here in a few minutes.”
She nodded. “What about you? It’s not safe to be here.”
“I’ll be fine. Whoever did this is long gone. He’s playing with me. Wants me to know he knows who I am. It’s a head game, that’s all this is, Emma. He isn’t the first asshole that’s slashed my tires and he won’t be the last. Hopefully, he left a print behind.”
Chapter 16
The first streaks of pink and orange were breaking through the night sky by the time Sawyer got home. His first impulse was to head upstairs and check on Emma, despite Hunter’s insistence she was okay. He wanted to see her, hold her in his arms. And it was that desire that kept his feet planted right where they were.
Emma was not his and not here by choice. She was a victim and he would do well to remember that. Whatever this was between them would have to wait. He was here to protect her, and that didn’t include taking advantage of her situation. But fuck him if being close to her hadn’t felt good. When he’d seen her coming out of that ER, looking exhausted and defeated, the urge to comfort her had been as automatic as breathing.
She’d been through a lot these past few days, but tonight she’d reached her limit. After a near abduction, learning her car had been tampered with, and then being yanked from her home and placed into his temporary protective custody, the note on his car had pushed her past her breaking point.
Why was the Good Samaritan targeting her? Forensics had lifted a set of prints from the knife and they were running it through the IAFIS now. With any luck they’d get a hit and he’d have a name by morning. But something told him it wouldn’t be that easy. This killer was too smart, too careful with his DNA to get caught because of a fingerprint. Or was he? Stranger things had happened.
Sawyer made it as far as the sofa before dropping into an exhausted sprawl. His muscles ached with fatigue, yet his brain refused to shut down long enough to let him rest. When he wasn’t replaying crime scenes through his mind like a graphic horror film, he was mulling over the victims’ profiles.
Rumor going around the station was that the captain was considering calling in the FBI. He suspected the only reason he hadn’t done it yet was Sawyer’s profiling experience in the military. But if this case didn’t break soon, the feds were going to be crawling up his ass, and the thought of handing his case over to them made him sick. They were good, but they weren’t flawless. The FBI specialized in an inductive and deductive approach to profiling.
They used techniques he’d often employed during his career as an Operational Psychologist for the USMC. The problem with this approach was that it derived general principles about the behavior of a killer by examining and testing particular facts or instances from a large number of solved cases. This method relied on the homology assumption, the belief that there were empirical similarities between offenders of similar crimes. The flaw in this theory and with inductive profiling was that it produced bias in the data. The only assumption Sawyer could safely make in this case was that the killer would strike again. And Emma was his target.
He needed coffee. Bad. Forcing his ass from the couch, he trudged down the hall to the kitchen. His leg had gone from complaining to flat out bitching at him. Using nothing but muscle memory, Sawyer went through the motions of placing a filter in the basket and dumping some grounds inside. He tossed in an extra scoop for good measure and pressed the brew button. Standing in front of the counter waiting for the dark liquid to begin filling the pot, he held his cup in his hand. If he sat down now there was no way in hell he was getting back up.
Bracing a palm against the granite countertop, he leaned forward, stretching out his stiff aching muscles. He closed his eyes, dropping his head back but his lids were like screen projectors flashing images through his mind. Frustration churned in his gut, gnawing at his soul—Karen, Holly, Amanda, Emma… The smiling faces of each woman slowly clicked through his mind, each circuit moving faster than the last until they became nothing but a blur. His grip on his cup tightened, the tension inside him building until his muscles were ready to snap.
Anger and frustration were familiar emotions. What he wasn’t accustomed to was the fear that had begun to seed into his conscious like an insidious poison—fear for Emma, fear of failure. Rage cracked like a whip as his fingers tightened on the mug as he spun around, hurling it at the wall. Ceramic shards exploded like shrapnel.
A startled gasp in the doorway sent his head snapping around, eyes locking on Emma who stared at him with her little dog in hand. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to run to or from him. Well, he could help her out with that one. From. Definitely from him.
Sam walked up beside her, eyeing Sawyer like he’d lost his fucking mind, and who knows, maybe he had. Emma took a cautious step toward him and he held up his hand. “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”
She froze, giving him a wary look. Her mahogany hair was wild and sleep-tossed. Those vibrant verdant eyes a shade darker this morning, but keen and intelligent as always. She didn’t speak, but he could see her mind working as she watched him.
What did she see? An exhausted cop driven mad by his insatiable desire for justice? Or did she see a man as haunted by his own demons as she seemed to be by hers? Hopefully she saw the same thing he did when he looked at her. A refuge in the storm. An oasis in this sea of hell called life. Because right now, he was having a pretty difficult time not noticing how sexy she was in her navy tank top and plaid pajama pants that dragged on the floor, her bare toes poking out beneath them.
He couldn’t draw his eyes away from her plump breasts and firm nipples outlined beneath her thin top. He wasn’t sure when his feet began moving, but a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. She tensed. It hadn’t been his intent to frighten her, but it was probably for the best. He wasn’t sure he had the strength or the self-control to resist her.
“The glass,” he explained, taking her little dog from her arms. “I don’t want you to come in here with your bare feet.” Ceramic crunched beneath his shoes as he carried Paco to the door and let the little guy outside. “Will you let Sam out the front? He doesn’t need the fence.”
When Emma didn’t respond, he glanced over his shoulder. They were already gone. He watched Paco through the door and stepped out to grab him when he struggled up the steps. When Sawyer got back inside, Emma was in the kitchen with a broom and dustpan in
hand, and a pair of fuzzy slippers on her feet. The rasp of broom bristles scraping ceramic chunks across the floor was the only sound breaking the silence stretching between them.
He set the little dog in the hall and came up behind her, putting his hand on the handle above hers. “You don’t need to do this. I can clean up my own mess.”
Damn, she was so small. The top of her head didn’t quite reach his chin. But that little body was throwing off some serious heat. Sawyer couldn’t resist drawing in a deep breath, savoring her intoxicating lavender scent. Being this close to her and knowing he couldn’t— shouldn’t touch her—was pure torture.
“I’m sorry,” her voice was barely above a whisper.
She leaned back, her small frame molding against his body, seeming to need something from him he wasn’t sure he could keep denying. He took the broom and set it aside before wrapping his arms around her. She felt like heaven. “You have nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault.”
Emma turned and slipped her arms around his waist, hugging him so tight he could feel every soft curve of her sexy little body. She could no doubt feel every one of his hard planes, including his desire pressing against her hip. There was no use trying to hide the obvious. He wanted her and nothing was going to change that, nor would the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it. Emma was under his protection, and he refused to take advantage of her. She was confusing gratitude with desire. He told himself to let her go, but his arms refused to obey the mental command. Instead, those rebellious bastards pulled her in tighter.
Her hand soothed up and down his back, as if he were the one that needed comforting. A bit ironic, all things considered, but it felt good against his exhausted body.
“I’m worried about you, Sawyer.”
Her confession made his chest ache with emotion he couldn’t consider. The woman had a madman stalking her and she was worried about him? He tried to let her go, but she held on tighter.
“Emma, I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted,” she countered. “You have to get some rest.”
“I have to catch this bastard,” he argued, frustration churning in his gut.
“You will.”
How could she sound so certain? One slip. That’s all it would take, and Emma would be dead.
“Once you get some sleep things will become clearer. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience. I’ve pulled a lot of thirty-six hour shifts at the hospital. They’re brutal. You need to sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
She tipped her head back, giving him a soft smile. He’d never wanted a woman more than the one in his arms right now. He studied her a moment, considering how lucky he was to have met her and how horribly unfortunate it had to be under these circumstances. She rose to her tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw. Her lips were full and soft—lingering. Fuck him if his mind wasn’t imagining all the places he wanted that mouth. Despite the exhaustion riddling him, a rush of adrenaline was hitting his system and the ache in his groin reminded him just how long it had been since he’d had a woman beneath him.
“Emma,” he warned, his resistance like fine grains of sand slipping through an hourglass.
She snuggled in tighter, which was a feat because if she got any closer, she’d be under his skin. Who was he kidding? This woman was already under his skin and quickly working her way into his heart. Her hand slowly slipped up his back, tracing his rigid spine. Cupping his neck, she tugged him down to reach her waiting mouth.
Fuck it. Honor was overrated. Yet, he felt obligated to warn her, “Emma, this is a mista—”
She cut him off when her mouth crushed against his. She tasted like peppermint—clean, refreshing—invigorating. Who needed sleep? What he needed was to get lost in this woman, to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist for a little while. Emma calmed the ghosts, quieting the voices of victims in his head and banishing the images that haunted his mind.
He exhaled a growl of surrender and backed her against the fridge, taking control of the kiss. His tongue plundered her delicious mouth, wanting more—wanting all of her. Her nipples hardened to little beads, abrading his chest as she returned his kiss with mirroring desire. The soft mewl of her sigh held an edge of need the primal part of him longed to sate. Then, as quickly as he’d succumbed to her tender lips, he pulled back, the cop in him overruling his desire. Panted breaths mingled, but before either of them could say a word, Hunter walked into the kitchen.
“Don’t mind me,” his brother announced, heading straight for the coffee pot.
Her cheeks flushed and Emma broke away. “I’m going to get dressed,” she mumbled, giving Sawyer a regretful glance before making a hasty retreat from the kitchen.
Sawyer glared daggers at his brother’s back, watching as he opened the cupboard, grabbed a mug, and closed it with a loud clap. The coffeepot clanked against the hotplate as he pulled it out and poured himself a cup before replacing it. “You’re welcome…” he told Sawyer, not bothering to turn around.
“For what?”
“For the cockblock. I’m helping you keep your promise. And you’re welcome.” Hunter took a sip from his cup and turned around, a shit-eating smirk tugging the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Apparently, you do,” Hunter challenged as Sawyer brushed past him and went for a new mug since his was in pieces on the floor.
“Watch out for glass,” he warned a second too late.
The crunch was followed by a nasty string of curses.
“That’s karma, brother.”
Chapter 17
Sawyer woke to a shrill scream. Disorientation dulled his senses. He couldn’t tell if the sound had come from his nightmare or downstairs. Shooting to his feet, he grabbed his gun off the nightstand and ran into the hall.
Emma.
The rush of adrenaline sent his heart hammering inside his chest as he ghosted down the stairwell, avoiding the squeaky floorboards. His Sig P226 was a comfortable weight in his hand as he double-fisted the grip, finger resting gently on the trigger-guard, arms extended, muzzle directed toward the floor.
As he reached the landing, Emma’s laughter rang out from the living room. The light, melodic cadence ushered in a blast of relief and he exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans, he headed down the hall to investigate.
“Get over here, Emma.”
“I’m trying! But I’ve never done this before.”
“Maybe if I come in from behind.”
What the hell?
Jealousy detonated in Sawyer’s gut, his steps quickened, stealth all but forgotten. His feet ground to a halt as he entered the doorway.
The sound of automatic gunfire lit up the room.
“I’m hit!”
Sitting side by side with their feet propped up on the end table, were Emma and Hunter. Their attention was fixed on the large screen mounted to the wall as they battled Macarov, a Russian terrorist leader on Call of Duty. Leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, he observed them for several moments. They were so engrossed in saving the world that they didn’t even know he was there.
Hunter was leaving tomorrow. Sawyer didn’t know how long he’d be gone or when he’d see his brother again. He often felt a pang of regret over how difficult it must have been for their parents to have both sons overseas fighting a never-ending war. Hunter was boots-on-the-ground leading his own recon team into battles, while Sawyer had been in the interrogation room breaking insurgents.
“Yes, we got ‘em!” Hunter declared as they cleared the level. He held up his hand and Emma gave him a high-five.
“That was intense,” she laughed. “You saved my ass. For a minute there I thought we were goners.”
Sawyer shifted his weight off his sore leg and Emma must have caught the movement from the corner of her eye. When she glanced his direction and smiled, his heart melted. What was it about this woman that affected him
so strongly?
“Sawyer, you’re up. I hope we didn’t wake you.” She set the Xbox controller on the end table and stood.
“Nah, you didn’t.” Those screams had been in his head. “What time is it?” he asked, patting his pocket in search of his phone. “I have a meeting at three.”
“It’s one,” Hunter volunteered. “You still got plenty of time.”
One? Fuck, he was sleeping the day away.
“I saved you some lunch,” Emma offered. “It’s nothing fancy, just soup and a sandwich. I’ll go heat it up for you.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
When she disappeared, Hunter’s chuckle drew his attention. “What?”
“She’s pretty amazing.”
Sawyer grunted in agreement. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
* * *
Emma turned off the stove and was pouring the wild rice soup into a bowl when Sawyer entered the kitchen. Nervous energy hummed through her veins. She couldn’t stop thinking about their kiss. Admittedly, it had been a while, but kissing Sawyer had been a whole-body experience.
It wasn’t like her to be so forward. Maybe the stress of the last few days was getting to her, or maybe she was falling for the handsome detective who was proving to be a modern-day knight in shining armor.
“I hope you like chicken wild rice soup.”
“I like anything I don’t have to cook,” he said, sitting at the table.
“I enjoy cooking, but I don’t have a lot of free time to do it.” She set the bowl of soup on the table and took the chair across from him.
“Thank you.” The smile he gave her set those dormant butterflies back into flight.
“Cooking is therapeutic for me. My mother used to say she always knew when I was stressed because the house would be full of baked goods.”
The Good Samaritan Page 10