A short time later he heard Cam’s car start up and drive away. Eric sat in heavy silence before sliding the recorder from the packet. Then he poured a generous drink and drained it, feeling its slow burn down his throat and into his stomach. Gathering his courage and taking an uneven breath, he pressed Play.
“What is your name?” The Collector demanded.
Something broke loose inside him as he heard Rebecca’s voice for the first time in nearly three years. She stated her name, her words too thin and high, pinched tight with fear.
“And who is your husband, my dear? His full title is desirable.”
“Special Agent Eric Macfarlane,” she replied on a sob. Eric felt his muscles go weak.
“You understand why you’re here?”
“P-please! I—I just want to go home. I’ve got nothing to do with this—”
He startled at the sound of something slamming down, possibly a fist onto a table. “Silence!”
Rebecca whimpered. Eric ran his fingers over his face. Dread nearly closed his throat, perspiration breaking out on his skin.
“He’ll be receiving this audio. If you have a message for him, now is the time. I won’t give you another opportunity.”
The recording picked up her ragged breathing. “Eric? Please, help me! He’s insane! He’s going to kill me if you don’t stop him!”
“He can’t save you, Rebecca. What I’m giving you is the chance to say goodbye.”
She cried out. “N-no! Please! Don’t do this! You don’t understand—we’re not even together anymore—”
“Very well. No goodbyes necessary, then.” A tone of resignation carried in his voice. Eric knew what came next and he swallowed thickly. Rebecca’s frantic pleas were stifled as she was gagged.
Her torture began. Eric clamped a hand over his eyes at the sound of her muffled screams. Pitch-blackness washed over him, pain blinding him as he forced himself to keep listening, to keep breathing. His mind flashed to Rebecca’s decimated corpse and the unspeakable things the sick, fucking bastard had done to her.
So many knife wounds.
An eternity later the screaming stopped as she was strangled to death. He could hear the unsub’s grunts of exertion as he pulled the cording tight around her throat until she was asphyxiated. This time, there was no other woman discernible on the audio. Only The Collector, obviously aroused by what he had done.
“That was for you, Agent,” he panted.
Eric sat immobile for a long time after the digital recorder had clicked off. He wiped his eyes and had another drink, hoping to numb the acute pain that tore at him. But he couldn’t escape the hard truth. Rebecca had been taken because of him. She’d died afraid and in agony, hating him and begging for him all at once. He had failed as her husband and as her protector.
Lost in fresh grief and self-recrimination, he was well into his fourth glass of Scotch when there was a knock at the door.
“Go away, Cam,” Eric warned under his breath, hearing the faint slur to his words. A glance at his watch indicated almost two hours had elapsed. The last light had leaked from the sky a while back. He rubbed a weary hand over his features, trying to pull himself together. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
With a curse, he got up a little unsteadily on his feet and swung the door open.
He hadn’t expected Mia. He hadn’t seen her since Wednesday night when they’d made out like a couple of teenagers. She stood on the porch, dressed in shorts and one of those skimpy tank tops she was so fond of. Her brown eyes were wide and questioning, her dark hair sleek and glossy as it grazed her tan, bare skin. Frowning, Eric peered down the darkened street. She was alone. Going around at night by herself with the angel of death running loose. He grabbed her wrist and hauled her inside.
“We talked about this,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”
She appeared taken aback by his tone. “I wanted to see you. I…heard about Anna Lynn Gomez.”
He briefly squeezed his eyes closed. He hadn’t given her the rental property’s address. “How’d you find me?”
“Jax Beach isn’t that big. I drove around until I saw your car.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, thinking he should call the JSO and arrange for a deputy to tail her home. He was in no condition to drive. “This isn’t a good time, Mia.”
She glanced around the room, then back at him, concern on her pretty features. “I can see that. What’s going on?”
When he didn’t answer she took a tentative step closer. Laying her palm against his chest, she peered up into his eyes, her voice soothing and soft. “You’re upset, Eric. Whatever it is, whatever’s happened, let me help you, all right?”
He’d been carrying so much heaviness and guilt for so long. He had been alone for three long years in a self-imposed exile. Eric stared at her. More than anything, he wanted to forget for just a little while, to let go of the crushing pain. He needed her, needed someone to keep him from drowning. Tangling his fingers in her silky hair, he drew her to him. He pushed the door closed with his foot. His head lowered, his mouth tender and rough against hers all at once.
Mia felt the hard bruise of his lips, his need.
He was hurting—she’d been able to tell that much by his reddened eyes and disheveled appearance. His mouth on hers tasted of fine Scotch. She should push him away, tell him not like this, but instead she responded as he deepened their kiss, his tongue exploring, his mouth demanding more from her.
This was wrong. She should stop him, frame his face with her hands and ask him again what had happened. But she knew instinctively that right now what he needed was her submission.
It was something she was willing to give.
He pressed her backward, his mouth still on hers, his breathing heavy and labored. The wall solidly met her shoulder blades. He pinned her there with his body, his lips eventually leaving hers to travel a wanton path down her throat, over the delicate line of her collarbone. Eric cupped one of her breasts, massaging. Heat raced to her core. He pulled the thin strap of her tank top downward. His mouth, hot, covered her hungrily through the thin lace of her bra. Head back, eyes closed, she arched into him.
He stilled, then raised his head and looked into her eyes. In them, anguish and desire warred with one another.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, caressing his face, giving him permission to go on.
He took in a shaky breath. Then slowly, he drew the top over her head, his fingers unhooking her bra and sliding it down her arms, his mouth returning this time to her bare breasts. The stubble on his jaw was an erotic sensation, dimmed only by the feel of his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking, his teeth rasping sharply over the tightened bud until she thought she might die from the pain-pleasure of it. As he shifted to feed at her other breast, she pulled his tie loose from his collar and dropped it onto the floor, her shaking fingers moving to the buttons on his shirtfront, undoing them, her hands seeking him out. His skin was heated and fevered, his chest hard and covered only by a light sprinkling of crisp hair. He tugged impatiently at the snap on her shorts, then shoved them down until cool air met her thighs.
Her clothing abandoned on the floor, he lifted her easily, coaxing her legs around his lean hips. For a moment she thought he might take her against the wall. But Eric carried her past the sofa and down the hallway. His erection rubbed against her, making her wetter, tighter with need. Mia kissed his jaw, clinging to his shoulders as they entered a small, unlit bedroom. He laid her on the comforter, undoing the straps of her heeled sandals and letting them fall to the floor with twin thuds. Her panties went next. Mia stared up at him, the handsome, serious planes of his face submerged in shadow as he removed his shirt that already hung open, then disposed of his pants and boxers. He lay down alongside her, his long, masculine fingers stroking over her body as he devoured her breasts again, making her moan and writhe.
She stilled as his touch moved to the flat plane of her stomach.
Even in the midst of their passion she hadn’t forgotten the scabbed numeral—The Collector’s mark, his forever claim on her. Eric’s brow furrowed as he looked at it. She cupped his face, gently tugging his gaze back to hers.
Don’t let him come between us.
Mia rolled onto her side, kissing him full on the mouth, wanting to take away the dark thoughts. Her hand moved to his hardened member, gripping him, pumping him, until he could take no more. With a strangled cry, he rolled with her until he was on top of her again, his breathing shallow and labored.
“I want to be inside you,” he rasped, his voice melting her.
Mia felt the hard weight of his body as he positioned himself over her. She gasped, losing her breath as he entered her in a single, deep thrust. He was large, and she felt her body stretching to accommodate the size of him. Throat arched, she gripped his shoulders as he drove into her, until he captured her wrists, pinning them against the bed’s coverlet on either side of her head.
“Look at me, Mia,” he urged huskily.
Her eyes fluttered open at her name. Staring into her face, his strokes gentled and slowed. They found a rhythm. She wrapped her legs higher around him, inviting him even more deeply inside her as his mouth recaptured hers. He rode her until she was half out of her mind, until she was begging for more and his thrusting became faster and more urgent again. Mia felt her own climax approaching as his teeth nipped at her throat.
“Ah, God,” he uttered finally, coming hard. Mia cried out at nearly the same time, her inner walls clenching around him. Panting heavily, he burrowed his face into her shoulder, spent.
A short time later, she lay beside him, having covered them both with an extra blanket from the foot of the bed. Eric’s breathing had slowed and deepened. He was beautiful, unguarded in his slumber, the pain and tension from earlier gone from his face. She suspected he’d had enough to drink to give him a headache in the morning.
Sleep, Mia thought, watching him as she wondered again what had upset him. She slid her fingers through his short, thick hair. Just sleep.
They hadn’t talked after their encounter. There had been no promises or pronouncements of feelings and emotions. Mia had been his escape from something—she understood and accepted that.
She wondered whether to spend the night or slip away under cover of darkness. Whether he would want her there in the morning. Feeling restless and uncertain, she rose carefully so as to not wake him, then padded from the darkened bedroom into the cottage’s no-frills living area with its faux leather couch, low end tables and television in an entertainment armoire. The place was tidy but minimalistic, ready for the use of vacationers. They had left the lights blazing. Nude, Mia closed the curtains.
At the table, she filled the glass tumbler with a generous portion of Scotch. As she sipped, her eyes studied the digital recorder. She suspected what it contained. Another woman’s final screams as she was tortured and murdered. Was it Anna Lynn Gomez? Was that what had shattered him so?
Mia’s journalistic intrigue called to her. But something told her she didn’t want to listen to the audio, didn’t want to invade Eric’s life in that way. His trust was more important to her. He would tell her about it if he chose. She stayed in the living room until she finished her drink, trying to decide whether to go.
Her need for him won out, however. Mia returned to the bedroom and slipped back under the blanket, settling next to him. She took comfort in his warm, smooth skin and steady breathing. He had turned onto his side in his sleep, and she pressed her lips against his back, closing her eyes.
She prayed neither of them would have regrets.
21
The shrill of a cell phone from somewhere outside the bedroom woke her. Mia heard Eric’s voice, low and barely audible as he spoke with whomever had called. Sitting up, she blinked sleep from her eyes. Pale morning light leaked between the window blinds, reminding her of her nudity and her clothes that had been left elsewhere in the bungalow. Climbing from bed, she slipped into the wrinkled dress shirt Eric had discarded the previous night.
He sat at the table outside the kitchen, wearing jeans and a white, V-necked T-shirt, his feet bare and hair rumpled. An open bottle of aspirin was on the table in front of him. She waited in the hallway until he finished his call.
“Something with the investigation?” she murmured, feeling vulnerable as she came forward, her arms crossed against her chest. Eric’s gaze fell over her, causing heat to infuse her face.
“That was Cam…I mean, Agent Vartran.” He offered no details of the conversation. Despite the sleep she knew he had gotten, he still appeared tired.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Like shit,” he admitted. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. I’m afraid I don’t have much else here.”
The digital recorder that had been on the table was now placed out of sight, she noticed. “Coffee’s good.”
In the small, galley-style kitchen, an automatic coffeemaker sat on the Formica counter, and she looked through the pinewood overhead cabinets until she found a partial set of chipped earthenware mugs. The coffee she poured was dark, as if it had been made hours ago.
“There’s no milk or sugar. Sorry.”
Mia turned. Eric stood in the doorway. She merely nodded and took a sip from the mug.
“I have to go in a little while,” he said. “We have a task force meeting this morning.”
Another Sunday meeting. Mia wanted to talk, to tell Eric about the case notes Hank Dugger had provided—she’d already started going through them—but now didn’t seem like the time to bring it up.
“I understand.” Placing the mug on the counter, she added, “And I should probably go find my clothes and start my walk of shame before it gets any lighter outside.”
“Hey,” he whispered as she moved past, turning sideways in the narrow entranceway to get through. Mia stilled and looked up at him. His striking, moss-green eyes appeared serious and troubled.
“I don’t take what happened between us lightly…I want you to know that.” His voice faltered. “It’s just been a long time for me, that’s all.”
“You were upset.”
“And a little drunk.” He clasped the back of his neck, sounding sheepish.
“I’m pretty sure you’re not someone who drinks to excess often,” she noted softly. “There was probably a good reason.”
He released a breath. But he still didn’t reveal to her whatever had been the source of his pain. She stood there, wearing only Eric’s shirt, her legs bare and their bodies nearly touching.
“I’m going to go,” she said, briefly laying her fingers against his chest. “You can take a shower and get where you need to be.”
Eric paced the oriental area rug in the psychiatrist’s office. It was late Monday afternoon and clouds were visible through the large picture window. The rapidly graying sky suggested a building thunderstorm, a common occurrence in the subtropical Florida climate.
“I’m concerned about continuing the therapy,” Dr. Wilhelm said from behind his desk, his fingers templed in front of him. He spoke not to Eric but to Mia. “While your outcomes have been remarkable, not just under hypnosis but also with regard to the repressed childhood trauma you’ve recalled, I’m worried by your adverse reaction to the drug dosage required to access your memories. Your blood pressure rose significantly last time and took a while to bring under control. That’s a potentially dangerous situation.”
Mia sat on the couch and seemed to contemplate what he had said before she spoke. “Karen Diambro is still missing. She’s probably still alive. I’d like to try again.”
Her dark-lashed eyes slid to Eric. “What do you think?”
He frowned. He believed she was close to making a breakthrough—on the verge of seeing or hearing something significant that could lead them to the unsub. But he didn’t want it to come at too high a cost to her. “Dr. Wilhelm, may I speak to Mia alone?”
The psychiatrist hesita
ted, as if he expected Eric to railroad a decision in his absence. He stood, however, and retreated from the room.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said once they were alone.
Mia stood and walked to him. Her eyes held his. “You don’t have any leads and we both know Karen Diambro is on borrowed time. As soon as another woman goes missing—”
“I don’t want you doing this for me.”
Hurt flickered over her features. When she spoke, her voice sounded strained. “I’m doing it for the women he murdered. And for the ones he will murder if he isn’t stopped.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the view outside the window had gotten darker. Eric sighed. Despite her willingness, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was using her. Just as he had two nights earlier to blot out his pain. Even now he recalled her soft skin, her taste. He’d been drunk, but not too drunk to remember every inch of her slender body. He worried that he’d treated her like a one-night stand—the sex had been too hard and too fast. She deserved better, deserved to be more than a distraction from the mess that had become his life. Their growing closeness was a complication.
“I signed a waiver when I began the therapy,” she reminded. “Neither you nor Dr. Wilhelm would be held responsible if something happened—”
“I don’t give a damn about liability, Mia. I care about your safety.” He took a few steps away and raked a hand through his hair, torn by his indecision. He knew how much was at stake here.
“Let me try again,” she urged.
A short time later, they called Dr. Wilhelm back. Eric stood by tensely as he once again prepared her to be put under hypnosis. The tubing around her upper arm, the injection, the lowered lights and the psychiatrist’s subdued voice as he spoke to her—he watched all of it much as a witness watches a death row execution. He knew it was for the common good, but it did little to quell his unease. Since Mia’s time under hypnosis was limited, they had previously discussed the best strategy for the session, which was to try to take her back to the point of her escape.
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