“Right now I’m freezing my bal—” He bit off his words. “Are you going to let me in?”
She scowled. “Now?”
He shuddered as a blast of wind nearly knocked him off his feet.
“The sooner the better.”
For a long minute she debated, clearly wanting to slam the door in his face. At last she pulled it wider.
“Fine.” She gave a wave of her hand. “Come in.”
“Very gracious,” he drawled as he stepped into the cramped room.
She shut the door behind him with a force that was just below a slam.
“You’re lucky I didn’t make you get on your knees and beg.”
He watched as she marched to stand in the center of the room. She was wearing a short terry cloth robe that allowed him a stunning view of her legs, and her hair was tangled around her flushed face.
Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach. She looked deliciously disheveled. As if she’d just crawled out of bed.
“Were you sleeping?” he asked, trying not to glance at the bed that was only inches away.
She hunched a shoulder. “It was a long trip.”
He snorted. A long trip? Did she endure an elderly woman poking her in the ribs with her knitting needle? Or a kid kicking the back of her seat for three hours straight?
“No crap,” he muttered.
She took a step backward, as if wanting to put some space between them. A futile effort. The room was the size of a closet.
“How did you find me?”
He turned away to toss his backpack on the chair and pulled off his leather coat. He needed an excuse to hide his expression, since there was no way he was confessing that he’d used his hacking skills to track her down.
It didn’t look like she was hiding a weapon beneath the skimpy robe, but better safe than sorry.
“I knew you would try to track down information on the women in those pictures,” he instead said. “You’re like a dog with a bone when you decide on a goal.”
She released a short laugh. “Thanks a lot.”
He shrugged, laying his coat on a nearby chair. “It’s true.”
Griff sensed her gaze burning a hole in the side of his head. “Okay, I’ll concede I can be stubborn, but you couldn’t have known I’d be at this hotel.”
He turned back to meet her suspicious gaze. “Where else would you go?” he asked. “It’s the only place you know for certain the killer was at.”
She jerked, a strange expression touching her face. “The killer? Does that mean you believe me?”
He considered his answer. Only a fool would encourage her to continue her investigation. On the other hand, he needed her to understand that if the pictures were real, she was in danger.
The kind of danger that got people dead.
“I believe someone sent you those pictures,” he finally said. “And that there’s a good possibility those women were murdered.”
She clutched her hands together, her knuckles white with tension.
“Did you send the pictures to your FBI contact?”
“This morning before I headed to the airport.”
“What did you find out?”
His lips twisted at her impatience. “Nothing yet. The pictures won’t arrive until tomorrow,” he pointed out in dry tones. “Plus, when I called my contact I was reminded that it’s the holiday season. My ears are still ringing.” He grimaced. “And not from ‘Silver Bells.’”
She blinked. As if shocked that he might have a sense of humor.
To be fair, it surprised most people. Apparently, computer nerds weren’t supposed to be funny. At least not ha-ha funny.
“Then why are you here?”
He held her gaze. “I noticed something in the pictures when I was packing them up to send to my contact.”
“Noticed what?”
“The women were all blond.”
“So?”
He stepped toward the chair, unbuckling the straps on his backpack to pull out the book he’d stuck in before leaving his house.
“I was looking at Neal Scott’s victims,” he said, swiveling back to Carmen as he flipped through the pages to find the pictures that had been included at the end of the chapter.
“You have my book?”
He glanced up to discover Carmen looking at him with an odd expression. On cue, he felt a flush crawl beneath his skin.
“It was a present,” he said, silently assuring himself that it was close enough to the truth. He’d used a gift certificate to buy it at the local bookstore.
“Of course.”
He ignored the disbelief in her voice, moving to stand at her side. He held the book so she could see the pictures.
“Scott’s victims had one thing in common, right?”
She frowned, as if he’d just asked her a trick question. “They were all prostitutes who worked at truck stops.”
“Exactly,” he said. “They were all various ages and ethnicities.”
“If you read my book, then you know that I thoroughly researched the victims,” she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. “There was no obvious connection. They were all from different towns, they all worked different truck stops, and they had different pimps. As far as I could tell they’d never met one another.”
“So if there is a copycat killer out there who is following Scott’s pattern, then his victims should look like this.” He tapped the tip of his finger on each picture of dead women. “Young, old, black, brown, and white.”
“What’s your point?”
He tossed the book on the rumpled bed and returned to his backpack. Reaching in, he pulled out the photocopies of Polaroids she’d left on his desk.
“Look at the newest victims,” he said, moving back to stand at her side.
Reluctantly accepting the papers he shoved in her hand, she glanced down at the pictures.
“I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
He once again pointed to each picture. “They’re all young, they’re all white, and they’re all blond.”
She stilled, her gaze locked on the pictures. Even in the dim light Griff could see her face lose a shade of color. Then, sucking in a deep breath, she gave a shake of her head.
“It could be a coincidence,” she said. “A lot of hookers bleach their hair.”
“Carmen.” Before he could halt the impulsive gesture, he reached to cup her chin in his palm, tilting back her head to meet his worried gaze. “They all look like you.”
Chapter Six
Carmen cleared the lump from her throat. “There might be some similarities,” she conceded.
“Too many,” he said.
She wanted to argue. There were millions of women in the world. And a huge number of them were young, white, and blond. It could be that simple.
But as soon as he’d pointed out the obvious, a familiar chill had snaked down her spine.
She hadn’t consciously associated the women with herself. It had been more of a vague sense of dread that she hadn’t wanted to accept.
Now, however, Griff had made sure she couldn’t ignore the ugly suspicion any longer.
She dropped the photocopies on the bed and folded her arms around her waist. Having Griff standing so close, staring at her with such genuine concern, was unnerving.
Perhaps because she was still feeling raw after she’d traveled to California to plead for his help. Or because he was the last person she’d expected to see.
Or because she was acutely aware that her hair was a rat’s nest, and her robe was wrinkled, and there was a distinct possibility there was drool on her chin.
Not the way she wanted any man to see her. Let alone this one . . .
She slammed her mind shut on her ridiculous thoughts, glaring at Griff, who was watching her with a searching gaze.
“Okay, I’ll agree it’s creepy,” she said. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
The lean, chiseled face was impossible to read in th
e muted light. “I wanted to warn you that I think you might be in danger.”
“You could have called.”
“I tried.”
With a frown she glanced toward the nightstand, then she grimaced. Oh yeah. After she’d stumbled into the shower to wash off the blood dripping down her arm, she’d felt like a zombie. She had a vague memory of leaving the bathroom and pulling on her robe before she’d collapsed on the bed.
She hadn’t even thought about plugging in her phone. Which meant that the battery was probably dead by now.
She glanced back at Griff. “Why would you care?”
“You came to me for help.”
“And you turned me away.”
He frowned, as if he didn’t want to be reminded that he’d been less than encouraging when she’d been on her knees pleading for his help.
“Are you saying you don’t want me to stay?” he demanded.
She pivoted away. She wanted to tell him to march his very fine ass out the door and return to California. He’d had his opportunity to be a part of her investigation and he’d refused.
But she wasn’t stupid.
She had many talents, but Griff was a tech god. And she suspected that he had the ability to tap into law enforcement resources. The sort of resources she didn’t even know existed. Plus, she was still jittery from the weird encounter with the stranger.
On cue, Griff reached out to grasp her upper arm. His touch was light, but it was enough to press against her tender wound.
A sound of distress was wrenched from her throat before she could squash it. Instantly Griff released his grip and Carmen started to blow out a breath of relief.
Then her eyes widened when she felt the belt of her robe being undone so Griff could peel the thin material off her left shoulder.
“Hey.” She glanced around in shock, her hands lifting to keep the robe pinned to the upper curve of her breast as he continued to tug the material down her arm.
Not that Griff was interested in her naked body. Instead, he was unwrapping the layers of tissue paper that she’d stuck to the thin cut to sop up the blood that had thankfully stopped leaking in the past couple of hours.
“What the hell?” he rasped.
“It’s nothing,” she said, taking a step back.
His gaze continued to study the gash that marred her pale skin.
“That’s a knife wound,” he growled.
Her brows lifted in surprise. Was he psychic?
“How can you tell?”
He reached to pull up the faded Green Day T-shirt that he had tucked in his jeans.
For a second, Carmen’s mind went blank. The hard ripples of his abs were sculpted to perfection. She liked her men to be lean rather than bulked up with muscles. It was no wonder she’d been physically attracted to him from the minute she’d seen him jogging on the beach.
Thankfully unaware of the unwelcome lust that sizzled through her veins, Griff pointed to the long scar that angled from his hip bone across his lower stomach. There were pinpricks of paler skin that attested to the fact that he’d been stitched up by a doctor who was more worried about speed than skill.
“What happened?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “My neighbor decided he wanted my bike when I was twelve. I disagreed. He ended the argument by slicing my stomach open.”
Carmen abruptly sat on the end of the bed, her knees feeling weak.
Delayed shock.
“Mine isn’t nearly so dramatic,” she said, relieved when her voice didn’t shake at the memory of the stranger grabbing her arm.
“What happened?” he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not really sure.”
“Carmen.”
“I mean it.” She tilted back her head to meet his fierce glare. “I’d just checked in to the hotel and was walking to my room when some man bumped against me,” she explained. “I didn’t realize I was really hurt until I took off my coat.”
His jaw tightened, his dark eyes flashing as if he was personally angered that she’d been injured.
“Was he a guest?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see him coming out of a room.”
“Did he go into the office?”
“I’m not sure.” She shivered. “I was in a hurry to get into my room and lock the door.”
“Did you notice any cars in the parking lot?”
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember back to the moment she’d arrived at the hotel.
“There was a pickup and a compact car parked at the far end of the hotel,” she said, picturing what she’d seen as she’d pulled to a halt in front of the office. “And I think there were a couple cars near the café. I didn’t notice any other vehicles.”
He moved to pull aside the heavy curtain, glancing out the window.
“The SUV near the office belongs to you?” he asked.
“Yeah. I rented it at the airport.”
“The pickup and the compact car are still here,” he said. “I can run the plates, but I doubt the man who attacked you would have been stupid enough to be staying here.” Allowing the curtain to drop back into place, he returned to stand directly in front of her. “What about the man? Did you notice anything?”
She paused, searching her mind for anything that might help. Then she grimaced. The memory was blurred. Like a Monet painting where nothing was quite in focus.
“No. It was freezing and I was in a hurry,” she admitted. “Besides, he was wearing a huge parka and a stocking hat, plus he had a scarf wrapped around most of his face. I could pass him on the street and not recognize him.”
She braced herself for the typical male response. The roll of his eyes. The patronizing smile that said Of course a woman was too emotional to recall details of her attack.
Instead, his expression was one of sympathy, as if he completely understood her inability to recall specific details.
“You’re sure it was a man?”
The question made her pause before giving a firm nod. That was the one thing she was certain of.
“Yes.”
“White? Black? Hispanic?”
“He had his head lowered, and with the scarf I really couldn’t see more than a sliver of his face, but I think he was white.”
“Height? Weight?”
She reached up to wrap the robe tighter around her body as a cold shiver shook her.
“He was hunched over and wrapped in a puffy coat, but I would guess that he was average height and weight.”
Another nod before he was leaning down to pick up the coat that she’d dropped next to the chair. He ran his fingers over the sleeve until his fingers located the slash that penetrated the thick layers of fabric.
“The blade must have been sharp,” he said, speaking more to himself than her.
“Sharp enough to ruin my favorite sweater,” she tried to tease.
He dropped the coat, his expression tight. “This isn’t a joke, Carmen.”
She pursed her lips. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Without warning he was kneeling in front of her, reaching up to grasp her hands in a tight grip. “There’s a very good chance that you were cut by the lunatic who sent you those pictures.”
She tried to be angry at his chiding. She wasn’t a child.
But his skin was warm and his touch was easing the anxiety that churned deep inside her.
“If it was the killer, then why didn’t he just slice my throat instead of my arm?”
“Because he isn’t done with you.”
The soft words hit her like a sledgehammer.
A ruthless blow that she instinctively tried to avoid.
“If he was the killer, he could have forced me into a car or even into one of the hotel rooms,” she said.
He made a sound of impatience. “Are you trying to convince yourself that this was some random attack?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’
m scared.”
The grip on her fingers tightened. “Good.”
“Good?”
“You should be scared,” he assured her. “You need to go home and lock your doors.”
She jerked her fingers free. She’d spent her entire life being told to hide from the monsters that lurked in the shadows.
Don’t go looking for trouble, Carmen. . . .
The words of her grandmother whispered through her mind.
A fine idea in theory, but life had taught her that those monsters didn’t stay in the shadows. They pounced without warning, destroying her life.
“And then what?” she demanded. “Wait for him to sneak into my house and kill me in my sleep?”
His jaw tightened. “Let the authorities deal with it.” “Which one?” She surged to her feet, glaring down at him. “The deputy who called me a liar? Or your FBI contact who will look at the pictures when he manages to clear his desk of every other case he’s working on?”
“She,” he muttered in distracted tones.
“What?”
He slowly straightened. “The FBI agent I contacted is female.”
“Of course she is,” Carmen said with a roll of her eyes. Griff looked confused. “Does it matter?”
Yes. It did matter. But Carmen didn’t have a clue why, so she pasted a smile to her lips.
“Of course not.”
He heaved a sigh. “You’re not going home, are you?”
* * *
Griff did everything in his power to keep his thoughts from straying to the woman who was standing naked in the shower just a few feet away.
A herculean task, considering the thin walls of the hotel allowed him to hear the splash of the water and catch the scent of lemons that laced the humid air. What man wouldn’t be imagining his fingers running over her slender curves, which were damp and slick with soap? Or pressing her against the wall of the shower and wrapping her legs around his waist?
Grimly he headed out of the room. He had hopes the frigid air would clear the fog of lust from his brain. And he needed to get his computer bag, which he’d left in the passenger seat. While he was out he also took the opportunity to stroll down the icy walkway, snapping a picture of the two vehicles at the end of the hotel before returning to Carmen’s room.
He could hear the hair dryer coming from the bathroom as he booted up his laptop and used his phone as a hotspot for the Internet. Then he quickly typed in the license plate numbers of the two vehicles in the lot, along with the names of the hotel owners. He might as well run a search on them. The fact that the truck had been stolen from their lot, and the killer had been there at the precise moment to attack Carmen . . .
What Are You Afraid Of? Page 7