by Elle Kennedy
Compassion filled his voice. “I know you want to help her, but at what cost, Sammy? Goddamn it, I can’t let myself even think about losing you. I almost did once—I’d rather not go through that again.”
She understood her brother’s concerns, and knew where they came from. Even before their parents died in a car accident nearly a decade ago, Sam and Beau had only relied on each other. Growing up with workaholic parents who couldn’t concern themselves with their children, she and her brother had formed a strong bond. As kids they’d banded together against their strict nanny, as teenagers they’d rebelled when their parents tried to force law school down their throats, and as adults they’d only grown closer. Beau was her constant pillar of support and the only person in her life who offered the unconditional love her mother and father hadn’t been capable of.
The first couple of months after the attack had been tough for him. For her, too. The Bureau had encouraged her to cut off contact with Beau, worried that the man who’d tried to kill her might be watching her brother. They’d kept surveillance on Beau for as long as they could justify the cost, but after months without any sign of the Rose Killer, they’d finally called off the guards. It was still too dangerous for Beau to drive up to see her, but they were allowed to speak on the phone now. And each time they hung up, he always made sure to tell her he loved her, as if he were afraid that if he didn’t he’d never get the chance again.
She knew he was scared for her, worried, uneasy about this situation. Hell, so was she. But Beau would never understand what Elaine Woodman was feeling at the moment.
Only she understood.
“I want to help her,” she finally said, balancing the cordless on her shoulder so she could wrap her arms tightly around her knees. “I want to help catch this guy.”
“Revenge, justice—is that it?”
“No, not entirely. I’m just…sick of living in fear.” She exhaled shakily. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live in this isolated old house, miles away from civilization. I can’t keep jumping at every noise and shadow. I can’t put my life on hold anymore.”
Beau made a frustrated sound. “Don’t tell me you want to start modeling again.”
Even if I did, I can’t.
The silent reminder only made her eyes sting. No, she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction of crying one more tear. What he’d done to her had ensured that she’d never be able to model again, though only the hospital staff was aware of that. The nurses had seen the scar; of course, they’d been polite enough not to comment. But every time she stepped out of the shower she was reminded that her career was over.
Right now, however, that didn’t matter.
“I’ll never model again. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something else. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about writing a novel.” She laughed humorlessly. “I’m supposed to be a writer now—might as well live the lie.”
“Then write a book. You don’t need to go back to Chicago to do it. Just lie low until this psychopath is caught.”
“But what if I can help catch him?”
Beau grew silent. She could picture the crease in his forehead growing deeper, more defined. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I have.”
The pressure in Blake’s temples eased the second he hung up the phone. A grim smile crossed his mouth as his partner’s words echoed in his head. She says she’ll do it.
He’d known she would, had sensed that Samantha Dawson wasn’t the type to sit idly by and twiddle her thumbs while the maniac who’d nearly killed her roamed the streets. He hadn’t, however, expected her to make up her mind so soon.
Hadn’t expected her to call Rick, either.
Shrugging out of his shirt, he headed for the motel’s tiny bathroom, which was no bigger than a closet and made him feel slightly claustrophobic. As he tugged at the zipper of his pants, he couldn’t help but frown. It shouldn’t bother him that Samantha had called to tell Rick what she’d decided to do, and not him. Both his and Rick’s numbers had been printed on that business card—so what if she hadn’t dialed his?
Still frowning, he stepped into the minuscule shower and turned on the faucet. He wondered, as the warm water splashed down his body, if it was inappropriate to be turned on by the woman.
Probably.
No, absolutely.
She was a victim, after all. Not to mention a witness in his case, which made his desire for her not only inappropriate but unethical.
You’ve been celibate for too long.
Blake reached for the small complimentary shampoo bottle, squeezed a glob into his hands, then lathered his hair. Celibacy. It wasn’t a state he liked, but since this damn case began sex was the last thing on his mind.
He’d learned the hard way what happened when he indulged in sex and relationships during a case. When he’d first joined the Bureau it had been easy separating his job from his personal life; back then his cases had hardly been life-threatening.
But when he’d transferred to the “Serial Squad,” as Rick jokingly referred to their unit, Blake’s ability to compartmentalize had been blown to bits. Bigger cases meant higher stakes. Higher stakes meant no distractions. And he quickly learned that his personal life was a distraction he couldn’t afford.
If she were alive, Kate Manning could probably vouch for that.
Hard as he tried to stop it, the thought of Kate slid into his head, making him sag against the tiled wall. He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Too much. Probably because this case reminded him of the case he’d been working when Katie died. The Rose Killer was as sadistic as the man Blake had killed two years ago, the man Kate had been profiling for him.
He dunked his head under the stream of hot water and tried to clear his mind of the serious redhead who’d gotten under his skin and grabbed hold of his heart. The serious redhead who was dead because of him.
This time he paid attention to the authoritative voice in his head. Yes, he had to focus. He had a case to solve. A witness to protect.
And feeling any sort of attraction to that witness was out of the question.
“God help me,” he muttered, his voice sounding oddly muted in the enclosed space.
Shutting off the water, he stepped out of the stall and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he wiped away the steam on the mirror and examined his foggy reflection, wondering if he appeared as tired to others as he did to himself. Because, hell, he was tired. Tired and bone-weary and so close to the breaking point he could practically feel the ground under him beginning to give in. If they didn’t get a lead in this case—and soon—he knew he’d burn out. He just hoped he could hold on a little while longer.
“Whoa! Keep that towel on, pal,” Rick cried as Blake walked out of the bathroom.
Quickly tightening the terry cloth over his lower body, Blake stared at the blond man sitting on his bed as if he owned it. “How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.
Rick shrugged. “You left the door unlocked.”
“And the concept of privacy never entered your tiny pea of a brain before you waltzed in here?”
“Nope.” Rick grinned. “My pea brain and I wanted to talk to you about Samantha Dawson.”
Blake sighed. “Let me put on some clothes first.”
After he’d changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt, he stepped back into the small room.
Rick was still lounging on the bed, so Blake headed for the stained table in the corner and sat in one of the plastic chairs. The room was far too cramped for his liking, but what else could he expect from the only motel in Wellstock?
“So I figured we’d pass her off as Elaine Woodman’s sister,” Rick started, getting right to the point. He crossed one leg over the other, looking as uncomfortable on the hard mattress as Blake knew he’d feel sleeping on it. “As much as I like the doctor treating Elaine, I don’t want him knowing who Samantha is.�
��
“He’s been really good about keeping Elaine’s presence a secret,” Blake said, then paused. “Mel’s still posing as a nurse there, right?”
“Knight plans to keep her there until Elaine is ready to be discharged. From what Mel says, Elaine is safe.”
He didn’t miss the way Rick briefly averted his eyes at the mention of Melanie Barnes. A subtle hint, but it wasn’t the first time Blake suspected that Rick and their fellow agent might be romantically involved. He just hoped his partner knew what he was doing. Rick’s divorce wasn’t even final yet, and from what Blake knew about Patty Scott, he had a feeling the woman wouldn’t hesitate to squeeze more cash out of her ex if she knew he was seeing another woman.
“Well, at least the media camped outside have no idea Elaine is alive.”
“Then why don’t they get the hell out of there?” Rick grumbled.
“We both know why. They’re hoping to find someone in the hospital willing to give them details. Maybe even autopsy photos.”
Rick shook his head in disgust. “That’s sick, man.”
“Don’t tell me.” Blake rubbed his eyes. “If even one picture of Samantha is taken, however unintentionally…All we need is one nosy reporter taking a good look and thinking, ‘Hey, she looks familiar.’”
“I know.” Rick’s expression grew serious. “We’ll have to take her in from the back, maybe through a service elevator. Give her some dark glasses, a wig, alter her appearance with makeup.” He shrugged. “Elaine’s doctor won’t object to sneaking her in. We’ll also try to bring her after visiting hours, when fewer reporters will be around, and we’ll make sure Mel is on duty, just in case.”
Blake’s headache reappeared as swiftly as it had disappeared. Temples pounding like a tribal drum, he went over the plan in his head. Chances were, nobody in the hospital would even be aware of Samantha’s presence, and if they were, her cover as the sister of a patient wouldn’t raise any suspicions. Yet it still worried him, plucking Samantha from her safe, isolated farmhouse and shoving her right back into the path of a killer.
“She’ll be okay.” As usual, Rick seemed to read his mind.
“One visit,” Blake muttered. “That’s all we can allow. One visit to try to get Elaine to open up. After that, Samantha returns to this invisible town and goes back to being Lori Kendall until this guy is caught.”
Rick nodded in agreement. “That’s the plan.”
They both grew quiet, somber, and Blake used the silence to go over all the possible risks they might face in bringing Samantha into Chicago. He figured his partner was doing the same, so he was surprised when Rick, in a low voice, uttered, “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
Well, at least he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
“Yeah.” His voice came out rough.
“I subscribed to Sports Illustrated just to see her spreads in the swimsuit edition,” Rick admitted, looking sheepish. “That is, until Patty canceled my subscription. But those photos…man. Always classy, sensual as hell, but classy.”
It struck Blake as odd, even wrong, that they were discussing her in this way. She may have been a sexy model in her past life, but in this life she was a victim and a witness. Hardly deserving of their scrutiny, even if it was appreciative.
“You think she’ll go back to modeling when this is all over?” Rick asked.
The question brought a cheerless smile to his lips. “I doubt it.”
“Because of the scars? There are surgeries available these days that can remove them.”
“After what that bastard did to her, I don’t think she’ll ever want to put herself on display again.”
A lump of sadness lodged in the back of his throat, not so much for Samantha Dawson as for all the other victims. The Rose Killer didn’t try to hide his handiwork—hell, he seemed damn proud of what he did. When Blake saw the first victim’s body, he’d been sickeningly amazed by the sheer intricacy of the carvings. Though they were still unsure of what it all meant, for some inexplicable reason, the bastard had a fascination with roses.
Why else would he carve them into his victims’ skin?
At least Samantha had been spared the full effect of the killer’s madness. Blake had been surprised when he’d studied her photos and seen only one rose. The profilers at Quantico suspected that the lack of mutilation had something to do with the fact that Samantha’s body was “well known.” Maybe the guy wanted to keep her as untainted as possible; maybe he thought a body like hers deserved to remain uncluttered. Who the hell knew? Blake didn’t need to be a profiler to figure out that this killer was a monster. Analyzing his motives didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.
Yet the guy was human. He had to be. Because humans made mistakes, and this guy had already made two big ones. He’d inadvertently left Samantha Dawson and Elaine Woodman alive, and in the end, that’s what would finally put him behind bars.
Chapter 3
“Where’s your partner?” Sam asked the next afternoon. She peered past Blake’s impressively broad shoulders in search of Rick Scott. All she saw was a heap of fresh powdery snow and her barren yard. A black SUV idled in front of her garage, and when she glanced through the tinted windows, she realized that Blake had come here alone.
“We came up in separate cars in case one of us needed to leave,” he answered. “Rick drove back to Chicago last night to get a few things in order before we bring you to the hospital.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded blue jeans, and her gaze instantly took in how snugly the denim fit against his powerful legs. He looked good in jeans. And the thick cable-knit sweater that stretched over his lean chest looked darn good, too.
She was a little startled to notice how tall he was. He’d been sitting down during most of yesterday’s visit, and now, standing right next to him, she was able to appreciate the sheer size of him. He was at least six-three, but there was nothing bulky about him, just a broad chest that tapered into a lean waist, and a whole slew of sculpted muscles. God, this man had the whole package, didn’t he? Classically handsome features, drool-worthy body.
“Are you ready to go?”
Their eyes locked, and his slightly wry expression told her that he’d caught her studying him. An unexplained rush of heat scorched her cheeks, which only reddened further when she remembered the dream she’d had last night.
Blake. Kissing her. Just a soft, slow kiss, a far cry from those sweeping cinematic kisses that left the audience in breathless awe, but it had enough of an effect on her that she hadn’t been able to get the dream out of her mind all morning.
She hadn’t felt anything close to desire for a man since the attack, and it shocked her that her body was capable of producing such a reaction. Hell, it had surprised her so much she’d actually jarred herself awake from the disturbing dream, heart pounding and brain demanding to know how she could envision such a thing.
Six months ago, the thought of kissing a man wouldn’t have scared her. Though she was far from promiscuous, she’d had her share of lovers, and she’d certainly enjoyed making love. Until her entire life had shattered before her eyes. Now, the thought of being with a man came with fear that gnawed at her like a raccoon in a trash can. Aside from her brother, any man who came into her presence brought on terrifying suspicion, bone-deep worry that he might hurt her.
So why wasn’t she scared of this man?
“Samantha?”
“What? Oh, sure, I’m ready. Let me just lock up.”
She could feel Blake’s intense gaze on her as she stuck her key in a lock and latched the front door. She slung the strap of her overnight bag over her shoulder before following Blake down the porch steps toward his SUV.
She’d already called Virginia and informed her that she’d be out of town for a couple of days. Her excuse had been that she was going to Chicago to do some research for her novel, and her neighbor had wished her luck and demanded a copy of the book when it was released. Althoug
h she hadn’t gone out of her way to be friendly with anyone in town, Sam knew the older woman cared about her, and it reassured her knowing that someone would keep an eye out for any strangers who might approach the house in her absence.
“Here, let me put this in the back,” Blake said, reaching for her bag.
Their fingers brushed as he took it, and for one brief second, Sam faltered. It wasn’t as if she’d expected a spark of electricity or anything, but the feel of his warm hand grazing hers was just as alarming.
Trying not to focus on anything other than the reason she was going with him, she sank into the passenger seat of the car and settled into the cushy leather interior. Blake closed the trunk and rounded the vehicle. From the corner of her eye, she saw him slide into the seat next to her.
“How’s your butt?”
Indignation colored her cheeks. “Excuse me?”
For the first time since they’d met, he shot her a grin. “I mean, is it cold or anything? This car has top-of-the-line seat warmers. I could turn yours on if you’d like.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay,” she stammered, still feeling winded by the unexpected smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. Lord, this man looked gorgeous when he smiled.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and turned on the ignition, then pressed a button under the dashboard and gave a contented sigh. “God bless seat warmers.”
Oh to be the seat under that man’s ass.
The sly little thought popped into her head before she could stop it. It was exactly the type of thing she would’ve thought once upon a time, when she’d had a successful modeling career and a parade of men at her door. Her best friend, Susan, had always teased her about the mischievous little comments she’d used to make.
God, she missed the days when she’d been…carefree. Happy. She missed Susan, too, but she knew that temporarily severing ties with the people in her life was for the best.
She leaned against the soft headrest behind her, shooting Blake a sideways glance as he backed out of the driveway and turned the SUV around. They didn’t speak as he drove down the icy road. She listened to the sound of snow crunching underneath the tires and the soft strains of country music floating out of the stereo speakers.