Twisted

by Cynthia Eden

  She headed toward the back of the old bar. The cops hadn’t even repaired the door they’d kicked in. Emma slipped under the police tape and headed inside.

  Faint lights spilled through the windows. Sure, the old owners had tried to board them up, but the glass wasn’t completely covered. The furniture had been hauled out of the place, and it was obvious from all the scattered pieces of clothing and the trash on the floor that more than a few folks had made this old bar their home in the last few weeks.

  People like Julia.

  Like Stan.

  Her gaze fell on the wall. On the bright graffiti there and on the words that appeared in dark red spray paint. You’re next.

  “You worked in the FBI,” she said, as her gaze slid toward him. “Did you ever see anything like this back then? A guy telling his prey that he was coming after them?”

  He shook his head.

  Right. She inched closer to the wall. Her gaze slid over the letters. She thought of her own apartment. The police had said she could return to the place now, but . . .

  I don’t want to go back alone.

  She’d lied to Dean before. She was afraid. Emma just didn’t like admitting her fear. But this guy was targeting her, freaking obviously, and she didn’t want to find herself—

  Missing.

  Lost.

  Like Julia.

  Dean was carefully studying the material left in the old bar.

  “The clothes look like they belong to a man,” he said. “Probably Stan’s.”

  She shook her head. “When you’re on the street, you take anything you can find.” Just because the clothes were for a man, well, that didn’t mean that a woman hadn’t been using them. On the street, everything was unisex.

  His gaze sharpened as he glanced up at her. Oh, crap. Had she just revealed too much? Emma quickly looked away from him. “But you don’t leave your things behind. You never give up what’s yours.”

  “Then the stuff has to be Stan’s. He’s the one who was here last night, ready to attack us.”

  He had been, but . . .

  Emma went closer to the graffiti-covered wall. A few old newspapers were there. Cover? During the cold nights? The temperatures had dipped a bit after the bar closed. Been there, done that, too. She didn’t want to think about those days. About the fear that had pumped through her. About all the nights when she hadn’t been able to sleep for fear someone would get too close to her. That someone would hurt her.

  Then she’d realized that there was a way out.

  Her father had left her with talents. She just needed to use them.

  She brushed aside the newspapers. Something glinted on the floor, catching her gaze. She bent and saw that a delicate chain had gotten stuck, right in the crack near the bottom of the wall. Emma tugged on the chain.

  When it came free, Emma noticed that a locket was on one end. She opened it up and saw Julia’s picture staring back at her. Only . . . Julia looked older. Her hair was darker.

  Not Julia. Because there were two pictures inside. One was of the older version of Julia, the dark-haired girl. The other . . .

  Young. Blond. Julia.

  “What did you find?”

  He was right behind her, but, then, she’d heard his soft footsteps, so Emma didn’t jerk or gasp. She just stared at the locket and understood. “Julia lost her sister.” Because the locket was a bit worn. As if it had been touched often. Stroked. She stared at those images. “That’s why she ran away, isn’t it?” Emma glanced over her shoulder at Dean.

  He gave a grim nod. “It was a car accident. Julia and her sister . . . they were in the backseat.”

  She rose and offered him the locket. “Who was driving?”

  “Julia’s stepdad. He’d been . . . drinking.”

  Right. The pieces clicked into place for her. “And where is he now?”

  “He’s in jail.”

  Good.

  “Julia is all her mother has left. She’s desperate to find her daughter. The cops told her there was nothing she could do, so she—”

  “Turned to you and your team,” Emma finished. Her hands twisted in front of her.

  He nodded.

  She bit her lip, and said, “You know that Julia wouldn’t have left that locket behind.” The chain was broken, as if it had been torn from her neck. “She obviously looked at the pictures a lot. It appears to be the only thing that she brought with her from her former life. She wouldn’t have left it.”

  He pulled out a small, plastic bag from his pocket. An evidence bag? My, isn’t he the prepared one? She bet that, back in the day, the guy had even been a Boy Scout.

  “You think he ripped it off her neck,” Emma said as she drew in a deep breath. The place reeked—piss, garbage. Blood? I want to get out of here.

  Because it reminded her of another time. Of a dark cabin that had smelled of rot. Of a nightmare that had changed her world.

  “If he did,” Dean said, “then maybe some of his DNA is left behind. Maybe we can find the SOB that way.”

  They did another sweep of the bar. Found nothing else they could use. When they went back outside, Emma shielded her eyes against the light. The sun seemed too bright after the dim interior of The Mask.

  She started to lower her hand and move forward, but Dean snagged her wrist. “Why do you talk about being homeless as if . . . as if you’ve . . . been there?”

  Been there? Emma looked down at his hand. So strong and so much darker, tanner than her own. “What did you think would happen to a fifteen-year-old girl—a girl who didn’t even have a driver’s license or her high-school education—when her father died? When the only family she had was dead? Did you think folks would be lining up with job opportunities for that girl?”

  “Emma . . .”

  She pulled away from him. Pity was the last thing she wanted. From Dean or anyone else. “I survived.” That was all she had to say. Emma started marching away from him. Her pace was fast because she wanted to be away from the place. She cleared the corner. Headed down another block. They should check in with some of the local bar owners and see what—

  He grabbed her. Pushed her back against the wall of a nearby restaurant. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

  “Nothing.” She’d been trying to get away from him.

  But Dean shook his head, and his eyes swept over her face. “Emma Castille.” He said her name as if tasting it. “I have the feeling you keep a thousand secrets.”

  She did, on any given day.

  “I’ll learn them all.”

  No, he wouldn’t.

  His head came closer to hers. “And you will never, fucking ever live on the streets again.” Then his mouth was on hers. Crushing down with a wild fury and passion that she hadn’t expected. Her buttoned-down agent seemed to be on the very edge of his control.

  I’ll push him past the edge. If it’s the last thing I do.

  She licked the curve of his lower lip. Loved the way he growled against her mouth. When his tongue swept past her lips, she arched toward him.

  There was no pity between them. Not then. Only white-hot desire consuming them both. Perfect passion.

  Emma had never feared passion. Her hands were on his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. She’d love to rip that fancy shirt away, and she would—just not there.

  Not then.

  Because he was already pulling back. Pulling back but staring down at her with a dark stare that seemed to burn with desire.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?”

  Whatever you want. No . . . whatever I want. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

  He backed up a step and sucked in a deep breath.

  “But first, let’s talk to these bar owners before the crowds come back.” She was impressed that her voice only trembled a little.

  So did her knees.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw.

  And Emma smiled.

  HE NEVER FORGOT a voice o
r a face. Especially not the face of a person who’d wrecked his world.

  Special Agent Dean Bannon.

  It had been years since he’d seen that bastard. Bannon’s hair was shorter, his face harder, but he easily recognized the other man.

  Last night, he’d thought it was him . . . thought that, for an instant, he’d seen a ghost from his past when he peered inside The Mask.

  But Bannon wasn’t a ghost. Not yet.

  You fucking will be.

  Bannon had just been kissing the woman. Right there, on the street. And it was a woman that he’d already marked. The one who knew too much.

  Does Bannon know I’m hunting here? Is that why he’s in New Orleans? He’d hoped to lure in his prey, but Bannon had moved even faster than he’d anticipated.

  Bannon and the woman—the lying fortune-teller—slipped into a bar. He eased back down the street, making sure to keep his head down. Now wasn’t the time to attack. Not yet. He still had sweet Julia to take care of first.

  Julia.

  She wouldn’t last much longer. She wasn’t a fighter. But then, at the end, they never were. People had to fight for survival. They had to show that their lives meant something to them. If they didn’t . . . they died.

  But Julia had served her purpose for him. She’d brought Bannon back into his web, just as he’d wanted.

  The time of reckoning is here.

  His gaze slid back to the bar once more. He couldn’t see Bannon any longer, but he knew where to find the man.

  Wherever the woman is . . . he’ll be close.

  Because it sure seemed like Bannon was planning to fuck the dark-haired beauty.

  But will you fuck her . . . before I kill her?

  He whistled as he walked away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHAT THE HELL? YOU SERIOUSLY JUST LET the guy walk away?” Wade Monroe demanded as he glared at the uniformed cop who was currently barring his way.

  The fresh-faced kid lifted his chin. “There was no reason to hold Mr. Tatum. He was sober. He hadn’t broken any laws—”

  “What about trespassing?” Wade tossed out. “The guy had broken into that bar!” So had Dean, but Wade wasn’t about to mention that fact right then. “And assault. He came after my teammate—”

  “He’s a homeless guy who got confused.” Pity flashed on the cop’s face. Right. The cop was so green that he didn’t recognize how dangerous the “confused” people around him could be. “We sent him down to the shelter an hour ago. If you want to talk to Stan Tatum, find him there.”

  Dean spun away from the cop. He found Sarah watching him, one brow raised.

  “What?” Dean growled as he stalked past her. Sarah didn’t speak but followed on his heels. They’d passed the shelter on their way in, so he knew the place was just a few blocks away.

  “Sometimes,” Sarah said from behind him, “you could try finesse. Or charm.”

  He opened the door. Held it for her as she walked through. “Sweetheart, we both know I’m not heavy on charm.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, just a bit, as she glanced back at him.

  Shit, a slip-up. Sarah hates it when anyone ever gets too close.

  Wade cleared his throat. “You’re the one who’s supposed to play the mind games with people.”

  More silence. Sonofabitch. He could never say the right thing with her. Maybe there wasn’t a right thing.

  They were outside. Heading toward the shelter. Her silence was driving him insane, and—

  “Is that what you think I do? Play mind games?” Her voice was soft, totally devoid of emotion.

  But Sarah was good at keeping her emotions in check. Probably too good. “No, I think you do a whole lot more than that.” He wanted to stop walking. To reach back. To touch her.

  Touching Sarah was dangerous. Her skin was too soft. She smelled too good. She made him want too much.

  So he kept walking. They didn’t speak again until they reached the shelter. He tried really hard to use some finesse when he talked to the director. He tried because he didn’t want Sarah to think he was a total jerk. But the director hadn’t seen Stan Tatum. No one else there remembered him stopping by that day, either.

  “There are lots of other shelters in the city,” Sarah murmured.

  Yes, there were. And he knew they’d be hitting them all, but his gut told him . . . “The guy is in the wind.” Because Stan Tatum knew the city. He knew all of its dark spots—so he’d be able to disappear so very easily.

  And if Stan had sobered up and realized that he’d watched a man abduct a woman . . . hell, yes, that guy would be wanting to hightail it out of there.

  They might have just lost their best lead.

  HER APARTMENT WAITED for her. Emma squared her shoulders and unlocked the door. She knew a disaster waited inside—cops weren’t exactly big on cleaning up messes, and seeing the destruction in her place was like a punch right to her gut.

  “You don’t have to stay here.”

  She glanced back at Dean’s low, rumbling voice. They’d pounded the pavement for most of the day, and they’d turned up nothing. The bar owners and workers on Bourbon Street hadn’t remembered a sixteen-year-old girl named Julia. They saw too many people, every single day, for one blonde to stand out in their minds.

  If they’d seen her, they’d forgotten Julia the minute she was out of sight.

  Maybe that was the problem. Everyone was forgetting her.

  Emma cleared her throat. “If I don’t stay here, I think my only other option is the cot in the back of the crystal shop, and I’ve got to tell you, that cot is extremely uncomfortable.” She could still feel the knots in her back.

  “You could stay with me.”

  Oh, but temptation had never sounded so good.

  “I mean, the point was for me to protect you, wasn’t it?” Dean continued in his I’m-in-Control voice. “You think the killer is going to come after you . . . and you wanted me close.”

  Right. In other words, he wanted her near him because of the jackass out there. She paced toward her balcony—the balcony she loved so much—and headed outside. Voices and music drifted in the air, rising from the street.

  Dean followed behind her. He was on that balcony, close enough to touch, but she’d noticed that the man had been working very hard to keep his hands away from her. Ever since that kiss.

  “You should stay with me tonight,” Emma said. And not take us back to your place. “Because I need to be here. If he’s out there, watching, I need him to know—”

  “That you’re ready for him to take?”

  Emma glanced at him. “But he doesn’t get to take me, remember? That’s why you’re here. The big, strong agent. Ready to save the day.” Just like a superhero.

  He took another step toward her. “You’d better not be playing me.”

  She tried to look insulted. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re smart, Emma Castille, probably a fucking genius.”

  She’d sure never been called that before. Lots of other names, of course, but never a genius. The guy was obviously trying to flatter her.

  “Maybe you saw that writing on the wall at The Mask awhile back, and you thought you could use it. You wrecked your place, you spray-painted your wall, you—”

  “Wait! Stop.” She shoved her hands against his chest and pushed, hard. “Just stop and get the hell out.” Because his words had her seeing red.

  He didn’t back away. And her push had sent the man nowhere.

  He just accused me? Seriously? “I offered to help you because I wanted to find that girl. And you think I’m what? Scamming you? Why the hell would I do that?”

  Like father, like daughter . . .

  Those had been Wade’s words. Dean had better not be thinking the same thing.

  “I don’t know,” Dean said softly as he stared down at her. “But then, there’s a lot about you that I can’t figure out.”

  Her hands were still flat against his chest. “Then l
et me clue you in on a few things. First, I want to find that girl. I close my eyes, and I see her. She’s right in front of me, and she’s scared, and when she runs away, I can’t stop her.” That haunted Emma. “I need to find her. I need to help her.”

  “Emma—”

  “Second, I love this apartment. It’s my home.” The only real one she’d ever had. “I bought everything here with my money. Money that I scrimped and saved so I could have something. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to have only the clothes on your back, but I do. This stuff isn’t fancy, but it’s mine, and I would never wreck it. The bastard who did this? He tried to destroy everything I had, and he left me a very clear message.”

  “You’re next.”

  She nodded. “But I won’t be. Julia won’t be. We’re going to stop him—you and I. So whether you trust me or not, well, screw it. We’re working together, and we’re going to find her.” Her breath heaved out as she came to a fast decision. No way are we staying in and playing it safe. We won’t wait for the bastard to come—we’ll hunt him down. “We’re going to keep looking tonight.”

  “Uh, we are? I thought we just got back.”

  They had . . . but this time they were headed out to a different location. Yes, maybe I’m running from this wrecked apartment. I don’t want to face it yet. And so she wanted someone watching her back while she hunted, was that wrong? Hell, no, it was smart. The move of—as he’d astutely said—a genius. “I’m going to take you to the darker side of New Orleans”—the side most people would never see. “And we are going to find her.”

  He waited.

  “Say something!” Emma snapped at him.

  Dean blinked. “I thought there might be a ‘third’ coming in there. You were counting off, remember?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t push me.”

  His fingers rose and curled under her chin. “I could say the same to you.” His mouth was too close to hers. He was too close. And she was suddenly far, far too aware of the long, hard length of his body. “You need to be careful with me,” he said, his voice a rumble that had her breath coming a bit faster.

  But he was wrong. With him, careful was the last thing she wanted to be. She stared up at him and thought about all that she did need.