by Elle Kennedy
“I can’t even fathom how you could be invisible to anyone.”
“Well, I was.” She shrugged. “And then I started modeling and suddenly everyone noticed me. I loved the attention, loved the sense of importance that came with it, even if I was only important to a few designers and some drooling men.” Her voice hardened. “Until the wrong person noticed me.”
She stalked past him, nearly slipping on the frost-covered grass. Blake hurried after her and pressed both hands on her shoulders to keep her steady.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sam,” he said quietly.
Her shoulders drooped. “If I hadn’t chosen to put my body on display, he might never have found me.”
“Hey, don’t think like that. You didn’t do a thing to provoke the attack. Neither did Elaine or the others. None of you deserved what that psychopath did to you, none of you asked for it. Bad luck and the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Samantha. That’s all it was.”
He sounded so earnest, so sure of himself, that tears pricked her eyelids. How did this man know exactly what to say and do to make her feel better? And why, when she should be focusing on putting the man who hurt her behind bars, did she want nothing more than to kiss Blake Corwin again? For six months she’d dreaded the thought of a man touching her. Shied away from it. Now she wanted Blake to touch her. Over and over again.
As if sensing her need, he stepped closer. Lazy flakes of snow floated down between them, tickling Sam’s nose and sticking in her hair, but she couldn’t make her hands brush the snow away. She couldn’t take her eyes off Blake. The scent of him filled her nose—heady, masculine. His gaze flickered with desire and uncertainty, as if he were torn between pulling her close and pushing her way.
God, she didn’t want him to push her away. It had been so long since she’d felt this way, since she’d wanted so badly to draw someone close and never let go.
“Blake…”
Her voice trailed, her lips unable to form the words she really wanted to say. So she reached out slowly and pressed one palm to his chest. His coat was unzipped, and even with her hand touching the thick material of his sweater, sinew and rock-hard muscle filled her palm.
A wave of warmth and desire lapped over her breasts, tickled her thighs and settled promptly in her core. And in its wake, prickling shivers teased every nerve ending and caused her pulse to quicken to a fevered rate.
God, this was crazy, how badly she wanted him. So badly that every part of her grew hot and damp.
Heat and hunger mingled in her blood. When she tilted her head and saw the same heat and hunger reflecting in his eyes, an unbearable combination of raw need and unadulterated lust filled her body.
His ragged breaths seared her cheek, her skin tingled and trembled at his nearness. As his brown eyes darkened to a smoldering hue, time stopped. They stared at each other.
He seemed to read her mind again as he reached out and traced the outline of her jaw with his thumb, then stroked her lower lip with his fingers. He dipped his head, his warm breath tickling her face, his hands stirring something hot and primal inside her.
She parted her lips. Waited for his kiss.
It never came.
Before she could blink, he drew back. Broke the contact and sent disappointment spiraling through her.
“The snow’s getting heavier,” he said thickly, avoiding her gaze. “We should go back inside.”
Chapter 8
The next morning Blake received a phone call from Rick, who offered his trademark brand of good, bad and terrible news.
“The lab came back with a report on the dirt we found on Elaine Woodman’s body,” Rick said briskly. “It was identified as a slow-release fertilizer.”
Hope spurted in Blake’s chest, causing him to grip the phone more tightly. “Did you narrow it down to any growers in the area who use that type of fertilizer?”
“Unfortunately, every grower in the damn city uses it. Chasing the trail will only lead to thousands of potential suspects. We need more to go on. But the detectives on the task force are looking into the florist angle as we speak.”
“What about the blood and tissue samples collected at the warehouse?”
“A bust. The blood belonged to one person—Elaine. And the skin cells found under her fingernails were contaminated. The tech only managed to get a partial profile. All we know is that our guy is male. We ran the profile through CODIS. No hits.” Rick’s voice grew somber. “There’s more.”
“There always is.”
“Our pictures were in the paper this morning.”
He nearly dropped the phone. “What?”
“The reporter, Reynolds, he did some digging and found some old photos of us at the press conference Knight held after Butcher Betty was captured.” Rick hesitated. “Reynolds also mentioned running into you and Samantha in the hospital and announced that she was under your protection.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. “So if our guy is watching the news or reading the papers, he knows our faces.”
“And our names. Yep, that son of a bitch Reynolds went ahead and released those, too.”
Just freaking great. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Knight says to keep Samantha out of sight while we look into the florist theory. He doesn’t want her gallivanting around in public and attracting unwanted attention.”
“Don’t worry, she’s not going anywhere.”
He hung up the phone and headed to the kitchen counter, where he poured himself a cup of black coffee. He thought about what transpired between him and Sam last night, how he’d almost kissed her, and heat surged through him, accompanied by a flicker of agitation. Dammit. He needed to stop this. These growing feelings for Sam would only complicate matters.
His chest constricted as he remembered how beautiful she’d looked standing under the falling snow, her dark hair cascading down her slender shoulders, her eyes glimmering with passion. He either deserved a medal for his restraint, or a kick in the shin for the sheer stupidity of pushing away a woman like Samantha Dawson.
He was leaning toward the shin kick when her sleepy voice filled the kitchen.
“Morning,” she murmured, offering a tiny yawn that brought a smile to his lips.
With her thin nightshirt hanging over her knees and her brown hair tousled from sleep, she was the prettiest sight he’d seen in a very long time.
“Good morning,” he responded, leaning against the counter with his mug in hand.
“There’d better be enough coffee left for me. I’m still half-asleep.”
“Isn’t it too early to start making demands?”
“Demands?” She snorted. “A model doesn’t demand. She is simply given.”
He threw his head back and laughed.
“It’s true,” she insisted, her eyes twinkling. “The life of a model has its perks.”
“Yeah, like what?”
She looked thoughtful as she poured herself some coffee. “You know when you go to a fancy-pants restaurant and the maître d’ tells you there aren’t any tables? Well, he’s totally putting you on. There was always a table for me, you know, being a VIP and all.” Her eyes sparkled playfully.
“Of course,” he said graciously.
“And then there was traveling first-class all the time. Seriously, never fly unless it’s first-class.” She stared at him with wide eyes, as if she’d just stumbled upon the Hope Diamond at a garage sale. “Did you know they give you slippers?”
“My God. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on first-class slippers all these years.”
She jabbed her finger in the air. “Hey, those slippers were unbelievably comfortable.” She sipped her coffee, then broke out in a sexy grin. “Oh, and I met Brad Pitt once.”
He faked a jaw drop.
“Yeah, that jaw better be dropping,” she teased. “That one-minute meeting was a highlight of my life. You know what he said to me?” She didn’t
wait for him to hazard a guess. “‘Nice to meet you’! How wild is that?”
“Definitely wild,” he agreed, unable to keep the amusement out of his tone.
He loved seeing her like this. Lighthearted, happy, chattering on about airplane slippers and some actor she’d met. During their first encounter back at the farmhouse, he’d thought the trauma she’d faced had sucked the life out of her. But he was wrong. This was the real Samantha Dawson. The laughter dancing in her stormy gray eyes. The relaxed yet elegant demeanor. The tiny grin curving her full rosy lips.
Dear Lord, he wanted to kiss her. Just pull her into his arms and devour her mouth while he touched every inch of her gorgeous body.
Suppressing the urge, he lifted his mug to his lips and took a long sip. As he watched her to do the same, a thought suddenly came to mind.
“What is it?” she asked, sensing his indecision to speak.
“When this is over…will you go back to modeling?”
The joy drained from her face and he immediately regretted the question. “No,” she answered quietly.
“Because of the scar?”
She paused, biting her bottom lip in a sweet way that made his chest squeeze. “It’s not the scar,” she finally admitted. “The past six months I’ve told myself the scar is the reason I don’t want to pose for a camera again, but I don’t think that’s it, Blake. I got a second chance when I survived the attack and this time around I want…more.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“After the Rose Killer is behind bars, I think I’ll say goodbye to all the excitement of my old life. I find myself wanting things I never imagined I’d want before. A husband, children, family game nights like the ones you described to me. Hell, maybe I’ll even leave the city for good, buy that old farmhouse up in Wellstock.”
He arched a brow. “A few days ago you refused to go back—now you actually look excited at the prospect of returning.”
Sam shrugged. “It really is a pretty town, still close to the city, but quaint, peaceful. The house is old, but with a little fixing up it’ll be good as new. It would actually be a great place to raise kids.”
Blake’s breath caught in his throat as a vivid image flashed before his eyes. Sam, her belly swollen with a baby. Their baby. A little girl with gray eyes like her mother. Maybe a boy, too. And—laughter and the sound of little feet making tracks on that old faded floor of the farmhouse he and Sam would fix up.
Whoa.
As quick as lightning, he shoved the images out of his head, his heart pounding so hard his ribs ached.
“Blake, what’s wrong?”
He gulped and met her look of concern. “What? Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re pale.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Where were you just now?”
Another gulp. “I was just thinking…about the case.”
“It’ll be all right. You don’t need to worry.”
He didn’t need to worry? Like hell he didn’t. He’d just envisioned a future with this woman, right down to the number of kids they’d have.
He tried to gather his composure and regain control. Damn, getting distracted by thoughts like this was outrageously wrong. It was ludicrous. He should be focused on protecting her, which meant keeping his emotions in check, for Sam’s safety if nothing else. Fortunately he was spared from coming up with a response thanks to the ring of his cell phone.
He moved to the end of the counter and glanced at the caller ID. Rick again. “I’ve got to take this,” he said to Sam as he lifted the phone to his ear.
Holding her cup, she drifted to the doorway. “I should get dressed. I should call my brother, too. He’s probably going crazy wondering what I’m up to.”
Blake nodded absently and pressed the talk button on the cell, seeing Sam leave the kitchen from the corner of his eye. He greeted Rick, listened for a moment.
Then he went pale.
Sam knew calling her brother was a mistake the second the connection was made. Pressing the cordless phone to her ear, she sank on the edge of the bed in the guest room and rolled a pair of thick wool socks onto her bare feet, trying not to groan at her brother’s accusatory tone.
“You said it was only going to be one day,” Beau grumbled from the other end of the line, not bothering with pleasantries like Hello or How are you.
She could practically picture that telltale crease of worry on her brother’s forehead. “There was a change of plans.”
Sarcasm poured freely from his voice. “Yeah, everyone knows you’re alive. Tell those FBI agents they did a stand-up job.”
“It was my fault. I’m the one who wanted to visit Elaine again.”
“I never took you for a fool, Sammy. What if this maniac comes after you again?”
“It’ll be okay,” she said, amazed by the steadiness of her voice. “I promise.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one who says that?”
“Yeah, but I know you don’t believe it.”
“Do you?”
Her peripheral vision caught a flash of movement. Turning her head, she found Blake leaning against the doorframe. It only took one glance in his direction to bring a rush of reassurance through her body.
“Yeah, I believe it’ll be okay. The FBI will protect me.”
“They’d better. Tell that agent you’re staying with that if one hair on your head is harmed, I will come after him.”
She smothered back a grin. “I’ll pass the message along.”
She hung up the phone and fixed her gaze on Blake. He looked dead serious, the graveness of his eyes causing a small wave of alarm to wash over her.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment. “Something’s happened.”
“What is it?”
“Someone paid a visit to your house this morning.”
Her heart stopped. “The farmhouse in Wellstock? I thought that location was supposed to be secure!”
“Not the farmhouse, Sam. I’m talking about the house you lived in before your, uh, death.”
“But it was sold two months ago. Someone broke in?” Her anxiety escalated faster than a fighter jet in takeoff. “Were the new owners hurt?”
He shook his head slowly.
The alarm in her chest deepened to full-blown panic, constricting her airways. “Tell me what happened, Blake,” she squeaked out.
He spoke in a flat tone. “The new owners are vacationing in the Caribbean and aren’t due back for a couple more weeks. The neighbor who’d been collecting their mail called the police reporting that the front yard is covered with roses. Hundreds of them.”
Her body shook so hard it was almost impossible to get out the next words. “He was there…at my old house?”
A grim look darkened Blake’s eyes. “It seems the Rose Killer has decided to deliver a message.”
Blake’s gaze swept over the endless carpet of roses. The lush red petals covered the snowy lawn like an enormous pool of blood, the crimson display contrasting sharply with the clean white snow gracing the neighboring yards.
The bastard had been here. He’d approached Samantha’s old home—the one he’d once broken into, the one where he’d attacked her—and sprinkled these flowers on the lawn in broad daylight. The sheer nerve of the madman slammed into Blake like a sledgehammer to the chest. And yet the reason for this sick demonstration hadn’t become clear yet. Was the son of a bitch taunting them? Did he think Sam still owned the house? Or perhaps this wasn’t the handiwork of the Rose Killer at all. Perhaps someone familiar with the case had decided to indulge in a twisted prank.
Although the latter would be a hell of a lot less terrifying, Blake’s gut was screaming that this wasn’t the work of a prankster.
Rick came up beside him. “You should’ve stayed with Sam.”
“Melanie is with her.” He exhaled slowly. “I had to see this for myself.”
“You think it’s him?”
“Don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s him,” Rick said grimly. “My instincts are telling me he was here.”
“Mine, too.”
“The uniforms just finished questioning every resident on the street,” Rick added. “Nobody saw a goddamn thing.”
Blake wasn’t surprised. Most of the people he’d spoken to in the past hour had admitted to being indoors all morning. A few ten-year-olds had been tossing snowballs at each other near the house earlier, but they insisted the roses hadn’t been in the yard when they were out there. The boys had headed indoors around eleven. And just past noon, the elderly neighbor across the street had phoned the police, which meant the Rose Killer had been in the vicinity between eleven and twelve.
One hour. That’s all it had taken for him to dump several hundred roses on his former victim’s lawn. Unfortunately, the snowplows had come through the neighborhood sometime within that same hour, eliminating the hope of finding any usable tire tracks. And the front path leading to the house was devoid of footprints; from the shapeless streaks, they’d deduced that the Rose Killer had kicked the snow as he’d walked to avoid leaving a distinctive mark.
“He knows she’s alive,” Blake muttered. “He wants us to know that he knows it.”
“I think there’s more to it than that…”
He saw the wheels turning in his partner’s head and waited for Rick to continue.
“I think he was hoping to draw her out into the open. Maybe he doesn’t know the house was sold, or maybe he was stupid enough to think we’d bring her along to check out the scene.” Rick rubbed his forehead. “I’m just getting a feeling this is more than sending us a message. I think he hoped to achieve something.”
“God, I hope not.” He paused. “Just in case, we should tell the officers to canvas the neighborhood and check for any suspicious persons loitering around.”
“And look out for a tail when you’re driving home,” Rick added. “He knows our faces. Maybe he’s hoping one of us will lead him to Sam.”