by Layla Reyne
Three blocks away, he finally found a spot at the curb, pulling in behind a departing SUV. He shot off a quick text to Gabby and Elena, letting them know he’d arrived, then climbed out of the Wrangler. Certain the Jeep would be towed, he hauled out his belongings—luggage, gun case, messenger bag with laptop, and guitar case, the last he slung over his back—and patted down his jeans and coat pockets—wallet, phone, keys. Assured he had everything important, he took off toward the house, trudging through the slush. By the time he reached the front porch, he wished like hell he’d traded his Chucks for the winter boots in his luggage. His toes were numb, and his socks soaked through, and as if that wasn’t insult enough, that damn Welcome, Winter banner hung over the front porch, mocking him. He shot it the bird just as the door swung open.
To the last person Lincoln expected.
The last person he ever wanted to see again.
Special Agent Carter Warren—the trainee of his nightmares, and of the occasional fantasy—stood over the threshold of Lincoln’s “home,” dressed in jeans and a blue cashmere sweater.
Suddenly the party all made sense. Classic Carter Warren. The loudest, brashest kid in class. Always had to be the center of attention. And by that megawatt smile stretched across his face, the flush that softened the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the mischief that sparkled in his green eyes, and the artfully messy mop of dark curls atop his head, he was eating it up tonight.
“Is that any way to greet your new partner?” Carter smirked as he flicked his gaze to Lincoln’s raised middle finger.
Lincoln was tempted to thrust it more directly in his face. “What the hell is going on here?”
Carter tugged at the V-neck of his sweater. “I need you to roll with this.”
Lincoln snapped his gaze up from where it had strayed to the dark curls peeking out from beneath Carter’s collar. Roll with what? “The party?”
“Carter?” a woman called from behind them, her high heels clicking on the hardwood as she approached. “Is that your husband finally? I’m dying to meet him.”
Lincoln dropped his messenger bag. “Your what?”
Reflexes lightning fast, Carter caught the bag before it hit the ground, and Lincoln was grateful for the save. Until Carter, in a booming voice, announced, “Honey, you’re home.”
Appreciation flew out the window on the wings of honey.
Carter lightly bussed his cheek. “Go with it, please.”
Would this night of what-the-fuckery just quit already?
Carter drew back and tugged the gun case and luggage from Lincoln’s hands. “Here, let me take these too.” He set the computer bag and gun case atop the rolling suitcase and moved them to the foot of the stairs.
What was that about being cold? Lincoln’s ice-blocks-for-feet were quickly overshadowed by the wave of angry heat that scorched his skin and brought him to the edge of explosion. Not the good kind. He tore out of his coat and chucked it at the overtaxed coat rack in the corner. He was leaning on the guitar case, propped at his side, when Carter turned back around, his eyes widening, though not as big as the approaching woman’s.
“A musician too?” she said, brown eyes big, her blond topknot accentuating her doe-like features.
Lincoln had had enough of deer tonight. He especially hated being made to feel like one caught in the headlights.
“He had one last gig to play in DC before heading down,” Carter said. “Isn’t that right, dear?” He moved to take the guitar but paused, hand an inch from the strap, his eyes locked with Lincoln’s. Mischief lingered there but also an entreaty, an ask from one partner to another.
Fuck. Lincoln didn’t know what was going on here, but between the two of them, Carter was the field agent. A damn good one if Bureau talk was true. As much as it chafed, Lincoln should follow his lead, for now. “That’s right.” He tilted the guitar toward Carter. “Put it someplace safe, please.”
“Always.” Carter smiled, a genuine one, maybe the first Lincoln had ever seen from him, and fuck if it didn’t make him more attractive. He picked up the guitar and moved it, along with the luggage and bags, into a dark room off the foyer. An office, maybe?
Before Lincoln could get a better look, the lady beside him extended her hand. “It’s so great to meet the other Mr. Polk. I’m Susanne Geiger. I teach English Lit at Apex. I’m also the president for the Sardis Woods homeowners association. Guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you at the library, around the neighborhood, and at HOA meetings. We’re so happy to have you both.”
A warm hand slid across Lincoln’s back, an arm settled low on his waist, and Carter’s body fit alongside his. Too perfectly. Lincoln hoped the shiver that raced up his spine didn’t bleed into his voice. “Happy to be here,” he told Susanne. It was mostly a lie, but a traitorous ounce of it was the truth.
* * *
Why did Lincoln Monroe have to be so fucking hot?
That had been Carter’s first thought the day he’d stepped into the prickly professor’s lecture hall, and eight years later, it had been his first thought opening the front door to him. His next thought... Lincoln Monroe had actually gotten hotter.
Carter occasionally passed through Quantico, between one undercover assignment and the next, but he was never there long enough to visit his favorite Academy instructor. He was glad for that now, the swooping sensation in his gut rare and exciting. He was an adrenaline junkie, and this was some potent shit. Lincoln’s blond hair was sprinkled with silver, tiny lines radiated out from the corners of his light brown eyes, the warm color of honey, and a fire burned in them that hadn’t existed there eight years ago. It spread from his eyes down to his reared-back shoulders and on down his rigid spine, holding up his long, lean body with an attractive air of fuck-you confidence. As it spread, the fire clashed with all the things that made Lincoln Monroe appear unbearably delicate—the porcelain pale skin, the too thin lips, the lanky runner’s build, and his argyle sweater. The combined effect was devastating. So much fucking hotter.
And all that hotness damn near burned Carter alive as he walked with Lincoln toward the living room. Twenty-four-year-old Carter would have killed to stand this close to him. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, arm snaked around his slim waist. Thirty-two-year-old Carter was likewise thrilled, though more about the fact he hadn’t been throttled. He was surprised Lincoln hadn’t tried to punch him in the foyer; he’d looked angry enough to give it a go. Regardless, a near-brawl between the supposedly smitten newlyweds was the last thing Carter needed, and Susanne, bless her gossiping heart, had swooped in like his own Tammy Faye painted angel.
Lincoln leaned close as they trailed behind her. “Why do they think we’re married?”
Carter resisted the urge to angle in his face and lower his chin, just enough for their lips to brush. That would surely instigate a brawl. “Our cover,” he said.
“Beverley didn’t say anything about that.”
“Because he trusted me to handle it. This—” he gestured at the townsfolk milling around the living room “—is what I’m good at.”
Lincoln arched a brow. “Thought you were a forensics expert?”
“No, that’s you,” he replied with a smile.
Lincoln wasn’t charmed. “Why do they think we’re married?” he asked again.
Carter nudged him to the side, just shy of the living room, and spoke quietly and quickly. “I’d barely gotten the keys from the Realtor when the neighbors came snooping around. I couldn’t exactly tell them we’re feds.”
“So you thought telling them we’re married was a good idea?”
“Just married.” He shifted so his back was to the living room and reached into his jeans pocket. He withdrew a braided silver band, a match to the one on his own ring finger, and held it out to Lincoln. “Newlyweds.”
Lincoln glared at the band like he wanted to toss it into the fires of Mordor. �
�Because that’s so much better.”
Carter stepped closer and affected one of the many accents he’d cultivated, drawling in Georgia molasses, “Aww, come on, honey—”
Fiery eyes darted to his, and Carter stopped before taking another step, before saying another word. He lifted his other hand, palm out. “Whoa, okay, I’m sorry. My bad. Just go with it, please, and I promise I’ll lay it all out once everyone’s gone.”
Lincoln hesitated a few horrible seconds during which Carter feared he’d gone too far and cratered this opportunity, one he’d likely never get again, but then Lincoln snatched the ring from him and shoved it onto his finger. It caught on his knuckle, and Lincoln scrunched up his nose adorably as he fought to push it down. When sheer force didn’t work, he put his mouth on the knuckle and licked over and under it with his tongue. Carter bit back a groan. Fucking hell, why had he thought this was a good idea?
The ring slipped past Lincoln’s knuckle and notched into place at the base of his finger. Successful, he lifted his gaze, the angry heat in his eyes replaced with thinly veiled challenge. “You have thirty minutes to wrap this shindig up.”
Smiling to cover the hungry growl that threatened to escape, Carter returned to Lincoln’s side and settled his hand on the professor’s lower back, just above his perfect, perky ass. “They’ll be gone in twenty-nine, promise.”
Chapter Three
Twenty-eight minutes later, after finally getting Susanne and her wife out the door, Carter strolled into the kitchen, eager to face the one-man firing squad that awaited him. He liked a challenge, liked it even better when it was six-feet-plus of gorgeous goodness. He found Lincoln behind the island, his back to the room, shifting his weight side to side.
“Ants in your pants, Professor?”
Lincoln scowled over his shoulder. “More like ants between my toes.”
“For real?”
“Of course not for real.”
He turned back around, and Carter took that as invitation, circling the island. But once he got a clear view of Lincoln, he still wasn’t quite sure what the professor was doing.
Leaning back against the island, Lincoln lifted one foot, then the other, in front of the open stove. “Chucks aren’t exactly snow-proof,” he explained.
Ah. But there was an easier way to get heat and blood flow back into frozen feet. “There’s a fireplace in the living room. Comfy chairs, roaring fire, blankets. Everything you need to defrost.”
“Did you see me get anywhere near that fireplace tonight?”
Carter replayed the many swift introductions he’d made and realized each time he’d started in the direction of the fire, Lincoln had nudged them the opposite direction. Those were the only times Lincoln had leaned into him. “You avoided it.”
Lincoln nodded. “I’m pyrophobic.”
Afraid of fire, and yet... “You’re standing in front of an open stove.”
“Electric.”
That didn’t mean it couldn’t still catch fire, but Carter let the professor have that one. The mind often made rationalizations for one’s own well-being, even if it did stretch the bounds of logic doing so. He’d chased enough criminals to know how truly twisted, how very far from reality, those rationalizations could be. And he’d chased his own past, made his own far-fetched rationalizations, long enough too.
He shook off the dark thoughts and rested back against the opposite counter. “How did you get through explosives training at Academy?”
“Very carefully.” One corner of Lincoln’s mouth tipped up. “Second worst week of my life.”
“What was the worst?”
The hint of a smile vanished. “The week my preemie daughter spent in the NICU, struggling to live.”
“She’s okay now, right?” Carter could swear he remembered Lincoln mentioning his kid a time or two in class.
Lincoln’s smile returned, both sides now. “Nowadays it’s more likely she’ll send me to ICU.” At Carter’s raised brow, he added, “Teenager.”
Carter laughed, as much at the thought of a teenager’s typical antics as what Teen Monroe must be putting her very ordered father through. “Oh, God, you poor thing.”
“Accurate.” Lincoln bent to pick his socks up off the floor, and Carter admired his firm, round ass in well-worn jeans. He’d never seen Lincoln this dressed down before. Not that the professor wasn’t handsome in slacks, a button-down, and argyle, but jeans, a tee, and said argyle was a look Carter could get behind.
Literally.
That gray tee and pink-and-purple argyle rucked up around his torso, those jeans stretched around lean, muscular thighs, that perfect ass in the air, pale skin flushed for the kisses Carter would like to...
A sharp clap broke through the fantasy unspooling in Carter’s head. Lincoln was on his way back from the mudroom off the kitchen, exasperation painting his face, as if he could see inside Carter’s head. “Explain this,” he said, using his ring finger to gesture between them. “Beverley said I was going undercover as the new librarian at Apex U and that my partner on this case would be teaching a survival course to Apex PD. He said nothing about living together or pretending to be married.”
“Because I asked him not to,” Carter replied. Lincoln opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Carter spoke again first. “It wasn’t only Agent—Senator—Kirk who asked for you on this case. I asked for you too. You are the Bureau’s resident expert on Dr. Fear. But it doesn’t take an expert to know who Dr. Fear targets.”
“Couples.”
Carter nodded and waited for the implication to register.
It took a few seconds, but then Lincoln paled and braced a hand on the end of the island. “You want us to be bait?” he squawked.
Carter dipped his chin to hide his grin. When he was sure his face was in order again, he lifted it and said, “If they’re active again, or even if this is a copycat, who better to lead the killer to than to two trained agents instead of to more innocents?”
“But why would Dr. Fear strike at us here, in Apex? They’ve never attacked anyone outside of DC Metro.”
“That we know of,” Carter said. “And they’ve never had to deal with a copycat before either.”
Lincoln crossed his arms. “So you believe it’s a copycat?” Voice level again, he seemed to be regathering his composure as they continued to talk case specifics.
Carter gave him more of what he needed. “Given the letter to Kirk, and that Dr. Fear never had a connection to their victims, yes, I think there is a copycat at work, at least with respect to Ruby and Chase.”
“But not with respect to the first couple in this cycle, Zia and Quinn?”
“Zia and Quinn match Dr. Fear’s MO. Diagnoses found where they were taken from. DC Metro based couple killed in the DC Metro area after being held captive seventy-two hours. Relatives confirm the deaths were connected to known fears. No evidence at either scene. That set reads like Dr. Fear.”
“Aside from the connection to Kirk, so do Ruby and Chase.”
“Except that connection is a huge fucking deviation. Do you think it was at random? The killer just happened to abduct the daughter of the former FBI agent who tracked them?”
“I don’t. And you’re right, it doesn’t make sense for Dr. Fear.”
One thing was for sure, Lincoln was going to make him work for everything on this case. Same as he had in class, even when Carter had delighted in throwing him off course at every opportunity. The professor was just so damn attractive when ruffled.
“So,” Carter said, “if we posit that Zia and Quinn were Dr. Fear’s victims, and we attribute Ruby and Chase to the copycat, then the copycat interrupted Dr. Fear’s cycle. That is not going to sit well with a highly organized, methodical serial killer who is likely protective of their work. Even if the copycat means to flatter, Dr. Fear is likely to be angered that someone
hijacked their routine, which might lead them to change things up. To escalate or make a mark somewhere else.”
“Here,” Lincoln said, drawing the conclusion Carter had led him to. “What makes you think they’re in Apex?”
“Ah...” Carter moved past Lincoln toward the table. “This is the part where you tell me I’m not an expert.”
If looks could kill, Carter would be laid out on the table.
Which was not a bad mental picture in another context. He pressed pause on the fantasy before it went too far in favor of keeping Lincoln’s attention.
“You’re right,” Carter conceded. “I’m not the expert, which is why you’re also here.”
Lincoln sat at the head of the table, to Carter’s left. “Why were you here in Apex?”
“Personal reasons.” Answering Lincoln’s cocked brow, he explained, “I’m looking for someone and that search led me here.” Chasing his past, following up on one of those far-fetched rationalizations. “As I was looking through the county hospital records, I noticed two names—Zia Powell and Anthony Becker.”
Lincoln lurched forward. “A present and past victim. Any names from the other two sets of victims in between?”
“Hadn’t gotten that far in my search yet.”
“Fuck, Zia and Anthony were both in the hospital here...”
“Only an exit up on the freeway.” Carter reached behind him, into the bottom part of the china cabinet where he’d stashed the work folders he’d barely unpacked before being descended upon by nosy neighbors. He opened the top folder and unfolded the two sheets of tabloid-sized paper inside. Charts of the sort Professor Monroe had taught him how to make. He pointed at the single box on each chronological line graph. “Zia was in the county hospital three months before she was killed, Anthony a year before. So this is the activity window for each.”
Lincoln drew the graphs closer. “Dr. Fear got more efficient.”