What Are You Afraid Of?

by Alexandra Ivy

  Carmen swallowed a sigh and sat back in her seat. Ah. So that was the reason for the big chill.

  It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might have read The Heart of a Predator. Stupid, really. The real estate agent who’d rented her the cabin had probably told the entire community that they had a famous writer coming to stay.

  Which might have been fine if she’d written a top-selling cookbook.

  Instead, she’d written about serial killers and had defiantly shared her opinion—although the local authorities hadn’t shown much interest—about finding the missing women. And that the killers would have been caught much sooner if the victims had been from prominent families instead of whores and runaways.

  She tried to keep her smile in place. “I’m sure this sheriff’s office is quite competent.”

  “Why would you assume that?” His gaze made an insolent survey of her tense body. “You made the police departments look like a bunch of fools.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” she said, even knowing that he wasn’t going to believe her.

  He didn’t. If anything, his expression darkened. “No. You were all about making stone-cold killers into some sort of cult heroes.”

  Carmen shook her head. She wasn’t going to argue the merits, or lack of merits, of her book.

  “Look, I’m sorry if you were offended by my book, but I need your help to find out who sent those pictures.” She attempted to bring the man’s attention back to the reason she’d braved the icy roads to drive to town.

  The deputy took a long, insulting minute before glancing down at the Polaroids.

  “Did you touch them?” he demanded.

  Carmen clenched her hands in her lap. “Of course.”

  “Then there’s not much use in searching for fingerprints,” he said, as if her touching the Polaroids magically rid them of any other prints. He grabbed the envelope and turned it over. “No postmark?”

  “The original envelope was thrown away.”

  The deputy loudly cleared his sinuses. He sounded like a drunk goose.

  “Convenient.”

  Carmen studied him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “It might have cleared up some things,” the deputy said.

  “Things?”

  He made a production of tucking the photos back into the envelope.

  “Right now all we have is some pictures that might or might not be that of dead women,” he said, his tone dismissive. “We don’t have a date or place where the pictures were taken. Or even any indication where the supposed bodies might be now. I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.”

  Was he being serious?

  “Obviously, I want you to investigate,” she said, unable to hide her irritation. “Don’t you want to know who sent them? And whether those women are really dead?”

  His lips pursed. “Tell me, Ms. Jacobs, this wouldn’t have anything to do with your book, would it?”

  Carmen counted to ten. Then twenty.

  At last she spoke. “Obviously, Neal Scott was one of the killers that I profiled,” she admitted.

  “I meant . . .” He tapped a blunt finger on the envelope. “Don’t you have a new book coming out?”

  She frowned. Why was he so fixated on her book?

  “Not a new one,” she said with a small shrug. “Just the paperback edition.”

  “Yeah, but having Scott back in the headlines would pump up the sales, right?” he drawled. “A few mysterious pictures that just happen to show up on your porch and all of a sudden the public is eager to snatch up your book.”

  Wham. The accusation slapped her in the face, making her flinch.

  So that’s where he was going.

  She leaned forward, slamming her hands on the edge of his desk.

  “Are you implying that I brought you these pictures as some sort of publicity stunt?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

  Angered by the man’s stubborn refusal to listen, Carmen scowled.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t a woman show up at your signing claiming to be the mother of one of the victims in your book?” the deputy accused. “I read that she later admitted that she was an actress and that she was paid to create that scene.”

  Carmen flinched. It was an incident she’d tried to forget.

  “No one ever could prove that the woman was actually paid to show up at my book signing, but it’s possible one of the interns at the PR firm that represents me might have thought it was a good idea,” she grudgingly admitted.

  The deputy’s lips curled into a sneer as he tapped his finger on top of the pictures.

  “Maybe you should check with your PR people and ask them about these.”

  “I’ve already talked to them. They don’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Easy to say.” The man leaned back in his chair, looking as smug as a cat who’d just cornered a wounded rat.

  Muttering beneath her breath, Carmen reached for the purse she’d set on the floor next to her feet.

  “If you don’t believe me, you can talk to the head of the PR firm yourself,” she said, pulling out her phone. “They’ll assure you that they didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  He shrugged, ignoring the phone she held toward him. “That doesn’t prove anything. It could be your own idea this time.”

  “If I wanted to use the pictures as a publicity stunt, I would have sent them to The New York Times or the Today Show, not to myself.”

  He shrugged. “But then you wouldn’t have been the center of the story.” He sucked some air through the gap in his front teeth. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Ms. Jacobs. Women like you are always desperate for attention.”

  “Women like me? You mean journalists?”

  “Women who’ve been featured in the scandal rags their whole life,” he corrected. “You just can’t stand for the spotlight to go away.”

  Her whole life?

  Carmen forgot to breathe as her gut twisted with horror.

  The deputy wasn’t just referring to her book. He clearly knew about her parents. And the shocking details of their deaths that had rocked and dominated the headlines for months.

  Her fingers curled tightly around the phone. Briefly she had an image of whacking the man across the face. He wouldn’t look so smug with a bloody nose.

  Then sanity made a timely return and she shoved the phone back into her purse.

  Spending Christmas in a jail cell wasn’t on her agenda. Not if she wanted to actually do something to try to discover the creep responsible for sending her the pictures.

  “Can I assume that your only response to the photos is to call me a liar?” she bluntly asked.

  The deputy suddenly appeared vaguely uncomfortable. As if he hadn’t expected her to demand he come out and bluntly spell out what he preferred to imply.

  “I’m saying the timing of these unknown pictures suddenly appearing when you’re about to pimp another book is more than a little coincidental,” he hedged.

  “Fine.” Carmen reached to pluck the envelope from his chubby fingers as she surged to her feet.

  “Hey.” He blinked, making a belated grab for the envelope. “Where are you going with those?”

  Carmen was already headed toward the nearby door. “You don’t believe me. I’ll find someone who will.”

  She half expected him to rush and block her path. What respectable law officer wouldn’t be anxious to ensure there wasn’t a new killer out there?

  But the deputy merely muttered a curse, his chair creaking as he settled himself into a more comfortable position.

  “Merry Christmas, Ms. Jacobs,” he called out.

  “Jerk,” she muttered, marching across the outer reception area and back into the frigid cold.

  She shivered, slipping and sliding across the small parking lot to climb into her Jeep. Then, starting the engine, she flipped on the heater and stared out the frosty window.<
br />
  She wasn’t looking at the nearby slopes that were packed with brightly attired skiers clustered in small groups. Or even the dramatic, snow-covered mountains that loomed just beyond the ski lodge.

  Instead, she tossed the envelope into the passenger seat and dug through her purse to pull out her phone. It was obvious she couldn’t depend on law enforcement to help her. She’d burned too many bridges when she’d written her book. Not only by implying the police should have been more concerned about the missing women, but she’d been more than a little aggressive in demanding details that they hadn’t wanted to share with the public.

  Plus, as the deputy had so painfully exposed, there would always be those people who assumed she was somehow deranged because of her past.

  She had to have proof. Absolute, inarguable proof.

  So who could help her?

  She scrolled quickly through the names. Most of them were from the publishing world. Or the media. But she did have a few connections who worked on the fringes of law enforcement.

  She froze, her thumb hovering over the one name that could offer genuine assistance.

  If only he didn’t consider her a life form barely above a mold spore.

  Chapter Three

  December 21, California

  The cottage was far enough from the beach to avoid the hordes of tourists who flocked to California every year, and hidden from the neighbors behind tall fences to offer a sense of privacy. The actual home had once been a traditional farmhouse with a screened-in porch and massive stone fireplaces. It also had a second floor where Griffin Archer had converted the cramped rooms into a spacious master suite when he’d moved in three years ago.

  At the moment, Griff was seated at the shaded patio table that was perched near the drought-tolerant garden he’d chosen instead of the predictable pool. The landscaper he’d hired to design the yard had regarded him with a horror that Griff thought was excessive when he’d refused to contemplate even a shallow koi pond.

  Rich people were supposed to be addicted to excess.

  Griff liked things simple.

  Polishing off his usual breakfast of a warm bagel with cream cheese and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, he studied his companion.

  Rylan Cooper was a lean man with angular features and golden brown eyes. His hair had been bleached light blond by the California sun and his skin was richly tanned despite the fact the younger man had recently returned to Missouri to live with his new wife, Jaci.

  Since the day the two men had moved to the West Coast to set up their tech firm, which specialized in cutting-edge software for law enforcement, Rylan had looked perfectly at home.

  Rylan had bought the elegant condo on the beach. He wore designer clothes that were perfectly tailored. And dated scantily clad models.

  The clichéd California dude. At least until he’d returned home to marry the girl next door.

  Griff, on the other hand, had never truly fit in. His brown hair was always a few weeks past needing a trim. This morning it was worse than usual, flopping onto his wide brow and curling over his ears. His skin was pale despite the fact he never missed his early morning run on the beach. He assumed it had something to do with being born in Chicago. Chi-Town skin was made for icy winters and dreary summer days, not sun-drenched beaches.

  His face was average, with the usual nose and mouth. He’d always considered his eyes his best feature. Like his mother’s, they were a dark brown and framed by thick lashes. Still, more than one woman had complained that they always looked distracted. As if he was thinking about something besides them.

  They were right.

  Oh, he liked women. A lot. But when he was working on a project, he found it difficult to think about anything else.

  This morning he was wearing his running shorts and a loose sweatshirt. But even when he tried to dress up, he never could pull off Rylan’s sleek sophistication.

  And the truth of the matter was that he didn’t care.

  There was a reason Rylan was in charge of sales, while Griff concentrated on creating the actual product.

  Thankfully unaware of Griff ’s inane thoughts, Rylan glanced at his wrist.

  “I think that’s all,” he said. “I want to get to the airport early. This time a year it’s always a pain in the ass to travel.”

  Griff set aside his orange juice. The two men had spent the past few weeks working on a new program that might very well revolutionize how countries around the world could track money that ended up in the hands of terrorists. Which meant Rylan had racked up enough frequent flyer miles to buy an airline.

  “I want to schedule another round of tests before we start to install it.”

  Rylan rolled his eyes. Griff knew his friend and partner thought he was being obsessive. They’d run hundreds of simulations and the program had performed flawlessly.

  “Homeland Security wants to have the program installed and ready to go by the first of March,” Rylan said, as if Griff might have forgotten the looming deadline.

  “They’ll have to wait until I’m satisfied every bug is worked out,” Griff said, his tone stubborn. “You know my philosophy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Perfection is always possible.” With a sigh, Rylan rose to his feet. He knew when Griff wasn’t going to budge. “I’ll give my contact a call.” Planting his hands on his hips, Rylan glanced down at Griff. “At least tell me you aren’t planning to work during the holidays?”

  A lie hovered on his lips.

  Rylan was his best friend. Hell, he was Griff ’s only truly close friend. But there were times when he nagged like he was Griff ’s grandmother, not his partner.

  He wasn’t really in the mood for a lecture.

  But meeting his friend’s steady gaze, he heaved a resigned sigh. Rylan could smell bullshit a mile away.

  “I plan to catch up on some side projects that I put on the back burner over the past few months,” Griff admitted.

  Rylan narrowed his gaze. He was gearing up for a sermon. Probably one he’d already rehearsed in his head. Then, catching a glimpse of Griff ’s long-suffering expression, he threw his hands up in resignation.

  “Jaci is never going to forgive you if you miss Christmas dinner,” he instead warned.

  “I’m not an expert on women,” Griff said, ignoring Rylan’s choked laugh. “But I suspect that your beautiful new bride would prefer to spend her first Christmas alone with her husband. Especially after she’s had to share you for the past six weeks.”

  “That’s what you would think, right?” Rylan demanded. “What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to serve me a romantic dinner in bed and then unwrap me like a Christmas present?”

  Griff blasted his friend with an appalled glare. “Christ, Rylan, that’s not a visual I want stuck in my head.”

  The younger man sniffed, conjuring up a wounded expression. “Instead, my wife has spent the past week cooking enough food to feed an army and complaining that I haven’t tried hard enough to strong-arm you into traveling to Missouri.” He paused, clearly hoping to instill maximum guilt. “She insists the holidays won’t be the same without our family together.”

  “Family?”

  Rylan smiled. The two men had met in college, and later moved to California.

  “That’s how she sees you,” he assured his companion. “You got a problem with that?”

  Griff ’s heart swelled with warmth. He hadn’t been acquainted with Jaci until his friend had married her. But in the months since the wedding, he’d had the chance to get to know the sweet, levelheaded woman who’d instantly claimed him as an honorary brother.

  He’d never openly admit that deep inside he’d been worried that once Rylan was married he’d turn his back on the business and his old friend. That’s what usually happened when men fell in love.

  Instead, he’d gained a little sister.

  “No,” he said. “No problem.”

  “Then you’ll be there for dinner?” Rylan smoothly pounced.
<
br />   Griff released a short laugh. There was a reason his friend was such a successful businessman.

  “You just don’t give up.”

  Rylan shrugged. “It’s part of my charm.”

  About to inform Rylan that his charm was a figment of his imagination, Griff was distracted by the buzz of his phone.

  His lips tightened, his fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to knock it off the table.

  The calls had started yesterday. One glance at the name flashing on his screen and he’d sent them straight to voice mail. He’d hoped that after a dozen tries the woman would get the hint.

  Futile, of course.

  Carmen Jacobs was nothing if not determined.

  Rylan glanced at him in puzzlement, easily reading the annoyance that was etched on Griff ’s face.

  “A dissatisfied client?”

  “Carmen Jacobs,” he answered in clipped tones.

  Rylan frowned. “Do I know her?”

  “She wrote the book The Heart of a Predator,” he reminded his companion.

  “Ah. I remember.” Rylan paused, studying Griff ’s clenched features. “She wanted to interview you, didn’t she?”

  Griff abruptly rose to his feet. As if going from sitting to standing could halt the image of Carmen Jacobs from searing through his mind.

  No such luck.

  With annoying clarity, he envisioned Carmen’s curly blond hair that formed a halo around the perfect oval of her face. Her big eyes that were the precise color of bluebells, and the disarming flash of dimples.

  It was the sort of face that inspired men to act like idiots.

  Something he’d learned the same way he usually learned things about pretty women.

  The hard way.

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  The phone stopped buzzing, only to start up again ten seconds later.

  “What does she want now?” Rylan asked.

  Griff was uncomfortably aware of a heat crawling beneath his skin. It had to be anger, right? Maybe embarrassment that he’d been so easily fooled by blue eyes and dimples.