by Cynthia Eden
Silence. One beat of time. Two, then… “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you were here.” Her lips curved but the shadows never left her eyes. Her fingers skimmed over his chest. “I’m glad you could give me mouth to mouth.”
She was shutting him out. His jaw clenched.
“Let me freshen up a bit, and then…” She kissed him. A light, biting nip. “You can make me forget all about my bad dream.” Samantha eased away from him. She rose and walked toward the bathroom, completely naked, with her head held up high and her hips swaying.
He watched her, keeping silent. His damn cock was up, but with her around, there was no real way to stop the lust.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
The sound of rushing water filtered through the room.
And he realized that his hands were clenched into fists. That’s what she looks like when she lies.
Sam stared at the image in the mirror. Her hands were wrapped around the faucet, holding on too tightly. The better to stop the trembling in her fingers.
It had been six weeks since she’d had a flashback, and yes, that’s what it was. No nightmare. No freaking bad dream.
A flashback.
She was supposed to be better.
Max had seen her when she was weak. No, no, he shouldn’t have seen her like that. She was with him for sex and pleasure. To push the ghosts away.
She wasn’t there so that he could see her get tangled in the past.
“You looked like you were fighting to get air.”
Dammit. Just… dammit.
Sam grabbed a handful of water and splashed it on her face. But the warm water didn’t thaw the ice in her cheeks.
She couldn’t do this, couldn’t let the past come back and control her. Luke would be watching her every move. All the agents would. She had to hold things together.
A knock rattled at the door. “Samantha? Are you okay?”
“Fine!” She called and stared back into the mirror. Liar, liar.
The knob rattled. Max was trying to get in, but the attempt wouldn’t do him much good. She’d locked the door. “Give me just a minute!”
Get out. Run. The tension had her body tight again. She couldn’t stay with Max. She should not have made the mistake of falling asleep in his bed. Her defenses came down when she slept.
Water dripped down her face and splashed into the granite sink.
“Samantha, open the door.” Quiet. Firm.
Don’t show fear. Don’t ever show fear. She turned off the water. Slowly, taking her time, she opened the door. A smile was already on her lips, the water drying on her skin, when she faced him. “Sorry, Max, I think I’m going to have to take a rain—”
“Stop it.” His gaze raked her face.
Sam let her brows rise. “Uh, stop what?” He didn’t know how fast her heart was beating. Didn’t know that her muscles were locked.
Max grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. “We don’t have to fuck.”
Blunt. But then, she was fast realizing that was his way. He said what he thought and to hell with everyone else.
Must be nice to be able to live like that. She worried too much about others.
Only with him can I let myself go and just feel pleasure. But there wouldn’t be any more pleasure tonight, and she couldn’t risk letting the memories come back.
“Get in bed, baby.” The words were soft but his hold, the grip that pulled her forward toward the bed, was unbreakable.
The back of her knees bumped into the mattress. “I have to go. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. I forgot—”
“Bullshit.” He pushed her onto the bed. She scrambled back, sliding against the cool sheets. Max came in after her, crowding her, and she caught sight of his cock. Big and long and more than ready.
Sam shook her head. “I thought we weren’t—”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. The embrace wasn’t sexual. Max was just… holding her.
And that scared her.
“Go to sleep, Samantha.”
In his arms. Her body stiffened even more.
“If the dreams come back, I’ll wake you up.” Max stretched, snapped off the lamp, and turned his head back toward her. “You’re not the only one with nightmares.”
He didn’t understand.
Max pulled her closer. “Sleep.”
No, he didn’t understand, but—but she didn’t want to be alone. Wasn’t that why she’d gone to that bar in the first place? To find someone else? To feel skin against hers? To know someone wanted her? That someone didn’t see her as twisted and broken?
Moonlight fell on her, pouring through the glass windowpanes. She turned her head away from Max because she didn’t want him to see her face.
Sam licked her lips, felt the comfort of his embrace, and finally, Christ, finally, almost believed she was safe.
Safe, in the arms of a stranger.
She was so screwed up.
• • •
The stench of bleach burned his nose when he entered the house on the end of Sycamore Lane.
He’d cleaned the shack himself, every inch, because he wanted to make sure that the job had been done right. There’d be no mistakes on his watch. This was too important.
The chair sat waiting in the back bedroom. The wooden chair was the only piece of furniture in the ten-by-thirteen-foot space. The oak gleamed now, but it had been stained red earlier. The blood had dripped onto the hardwood floor.
Jeremy Briar hadn’t died easily. He’d slit Jeremy’s throat, not enough to sever the jugular but enough to stop the asshole’s screams. He hadn’t sliced the guy’s throat because he’d been afraid someone might hear Jeremy. No chance of that out here. He just hadn’t wanted to hear the desperate cries and the begging anymore.
Begging didn’t work with him.
Only money stopped his hand. If Briar’s father had just paid the ransom…
Then Morgan Briar wouldn’t have been forced to scrape his only son’s flesh and blood off the driveway.
A car’s engine sounded outside. A soft purr. He glanced over at the window. Right on time.
He turned away from the chair. It wouldn’t be empty for long.
Once the news had time to run Jeremy’s sad story, he’d take a new mark. This time, the bastards would know to pay. No one would screw him over now.
He walked back down the hallway and moments later, he opened the front door and saw the first rays of dawn creeping out against the darkness.
His partner came toward him, hurrying in her heels, her breath fogging in the cold. “I think I’ve got the next one.”
He smiled. “No, I do.” Time to move to the next level.
He’d already picked their next victim. Actually, he’d picked them all, months ago. He’d planned out every move, and he wasn’t going to stop. Not until his list was finished, and he’d gotten everything he deserved.
The bastards can pay or they can bleed.
CHAPTER Three
I need money.”
The steady rap of pounding hammers filled the air around Max. Electric saws cut through metal, sending sparks shooting into the air. It took a second for the demand to penetrate the layers of noise, and when it did, Max shoved back his hardhat, wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and blinked. “Quinlan? Shit, what are you doin’ here?”
His stepbrother never bothered with his construction business. As far as Max could tell, the guy wasn’t much for getting his hands dirty. The fancy parties, yeah; that was his scene.
But a site like this was all Max really knew. Construction had been his life for over a decade. Long before his mother had hooked up with her prince not-so-charming, he’d chosen this path and busted ass to make his business a success.
Quinlan ducked his dark head and came inside what would eventually be a world-class kitchen. One day real soon, if Max could just get the rest of his damn supplies in on time.
“You heard me, man.” Quinlan glanced aro
und, eyeing the workers nervously, but they weren’t even looking his way. “I need money.”
It wasn’t the first time that Quinlan had come to him. “How much?” His construction company had managed to survive and finally thrive through the years, despite the dive the economy had taken. He wasn’t in the same category as his stepfather, didn’t want to be, but he was doing well enough that the invitations to those fancy parties kept finding their way to his door.
Quinlan shook his head. “No, I want my money.”
Ah, now here was the rub.
His brother’s hands were clenched. “My grandfather left me that trust. The money is mine,” Quinlan snapped.
And it was one hell of a lot of money. Enough money to make a man do some damn stupid things. Max sighed. “You only have two more years, then the trust’s yours.”
“I don’t want to fucking wait!”
Now that snarl did have the guys looking their way because they knew Max didn’t take shit like that from anyone, not even his brother.
“Sorry, I think you’re gonna have to fucking wait.” Max shrugged and reached for the blueprints once more.
“Talk to him. Tell my dad I need more. I need it now—”
“Why?” Max shook his head, aware that his brother was sweating when there was no reason to sweat. “Why do you need the cash?”
Quinlan’s lips firmed into a thin line.
Ah, shit. Max dropped the prints and closed the distance between them, fast. He grabbed his brother’s arms, jerked them out so he could shove up the sleeves of his shirt and see Quinlan’s arms. “You using again?” Quinlan had already been through four rehab programs. Four. The docs would say he was clean, then just a few weeks later Quinlan would be using again.
His brother tried to snatch his arms back. Not going to happen. Max just tightened his grip. “Are you?” The guy wanted money to support his habit. Great, just—
“No!”
There weren’t any needle marks on his arms. But then maybe Quinlan was just snorting coke up his nose again.
“I-I only used the last time because of what happened to—”
“Don’t say her name.” Max didn’t want Quinlan talking about his mom or about the tragedy that had happened to her.
“She said we were brothers,” Quinlan swallowed. “Th-that I could count on you.”
Max dropped his brother’s hands. “You can.” He was the one who’d tossed Quinlan’s ass into rehab. Not the old man. Quinlan’s father hadn’t seemed to care about getting him clean.
“Talk to him, Max. Get me the money. I need it.”
Try earning it. He bit the words back. They’d had that fight already. Quinlan didn’t know what it was like to fight your way up from nothing. To work eighteen-hour days over and over until you thought that you’d collapse.
No, Quinlan didn’t know anything but wealth.
And a prick of a father.
Max had worked until his entire body ached, worked night after night as he struggled to get his life on track. Yeah, he could be in an office now, running things from some plush suite, but…
My projects, my job.
“Please, man, I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”
Max gave a curt nod. Fine. He’d talk, for all the good it would do him—and that was none.
“Thanks, Max!” A broad grin split Quinlan’s face, making his dimples flash. “I knew you’d help me!”
Right.
Quinlan spun around and took a few fast steps away. “Oh!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Should have told you last night. That new girlfriend is hot.”
Max stared back at him. Girlfriend? Not quite.
“How’d you two meet?” Quinlan asked.
In a bar. She picked me up. Offered me no-strings sex.
But the strings had come from nowhere last night as he’d just held her and ignored the hard-on that had kept him up until dawn. “Around.” He tilted his head and studied his brother. Were the guy’s hands shaking? Yeah, they were.
Using.
Quinlan gulped. “R-right…. see you, man, okay?”
Yeah, he’d be seeing him again. Max’s lips tightened.
He’d promised his mother that he’d look after Quinlan. A brother, not by blood, but by a mother’s command. He’d promised….
And Max kept his promises. Even the ones he wanted to break.
“Every major newspaper in the area headlined with the Jeremy Briar kidnapping and murder.” Monica Davenport’s cool voice carried easily through the conference room.
Sam shifted in her chair. Yes, she’d seen the headlines. WHO KILLED THE PLAYBOY? Big, bold, in-your-face headlines. But playboy? No, he’d been—
“Some rag even managed to get a picture of Briar’s mutilated body. A shot that looked like one of our crime scene photos.” Monica’s lips tightened, the only change in her expression, but that small flicker was enough to tell Sam that the woman was pissed. Monica, or Ice as she’d been nicknamed back in her Academy days, wasn’t one for much emotion.
The team Luke had assembled for the serial kidnappings case had gathered in the conference room to hear Monica’s update and to find out just what they could expect in the coming days.
“The kidnappings are out in the open now. The families know exactly what will happen if they don’t pay for their sons’ release.”
Sons. So far, only men had been taken. Strong, fit men in their twenties. All had been abducted within a two-hundred-mile radius of D.C.
“Can we expect copycat crimes?” This came from Agent Jon Ramirez. Since he’d recently finished up a serial rapist case in Denver, Dante had pulled Jon onto the team. Jon lounged back in his seat, black eyes watchful, as he tapped a pen against the edge of the long conference table. “Rich boys vanishing… maybe it will tempt others.”
“It might.” Monica crossed her hands over her chest and gave a slow nod. “Expect them.”
Great. More drama to cloud the case.
“And expect the real kidnappers to strike soon. Very soon.”
Sam shook her head. “But there’s usually at least two weeks between—”
“The kidnappers didn’t get their paycheck for the last victim. They’ll make another snatch.”
Snatch. Such a cold way to talk about a person’s life.
“The last four victims all disappeared from bars near college campuses… those are the hunting grounds,” Monica said. “So far, the kidnappers haven’t visited the same place twice.”
That they knew of.
“We’ve canvassed the bars where our vics were,” Luke’s much warmer voice cut through. “We couldn’t find anyone who remembered seeing the men leave.”
Sam cleared her throat. “I tapped into the traffic camera that’s located right down the street from The Core. I was able to retrieve license plate numbers for over a hundred vehicles.”
Luke raised a brow.
“I cross-referenced those tags with the vehicles that we saw from the traffic cameras at the other scenes. There were no matches.” But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. “I’ve got the names and addresses of the people who owned the cars. We can interview those folks; maybe someone remembers seeing Jeremy.”
Now Luke nodded. “Good work, Sam.” He pointed at Ramirez. “Why don’t you and Kim take the witness list? See if anyone was sober enough to remember our vic and the person who took him out of the bar.”
“The perps are smart,” Monica murmured. “I counted at least three exits at The Core. A bouncer is usually stationed at the front, but the other doors would have been clear. If they went out the back way—”
“Then they could have taken the East Benedict Road and not gotten caught on the traffic camera,” Sam finished quietly. Yeah, she knew about the alternate route, and if the killers were as organized as they thought they were, they knew, too.
But everyone made mistakes, and just maybe their killers had screwed up.
“We grill every potential witness.” Luke’s gaze s
wept the room. “And we focus on finding the perps’ next hunting ground.” His stare rested on Sam.
And she knew what he wanted. Sam licked dry lips and said, “I’ve been working on generating a statistical pattern trajectory for possible bars that the perpetrators might hit.” Patterns. She knew them and had always been able to see them where others couldn’t. “Our kidnappers like to hit the most crowded bars, those within a ten-mile radius of college campuses, and they like the bars that stay open until at least 4 a.m.”
“How many bars have you found?”
“Within the kill zone?” Sam asked. The kill zone—that two-hundred-mile stretch that the perpetrators used for hunting. “Twenty-three.” College kids liked their bars.
Ramirez swore. “We can’t cover that much territory.”
“We can,” Luke said. “We just have to get our asses moving. We’ll call in the local police for backup, and we’ll make sure the staff at these clubs are alerted.”
Sam’s shoulders hunched. Field work. Okay, she could do this.
Luke’s attention was still zeroed in on her. “Sam, I want you to keep searching the family’s financials. Dig deeper into their computer systems and see what you can discover.”
Sam forced a curt nod. “Consider it done.” They hadn’t been given access to the other victims’ computers. The families had closed ranks with their lawyers as fast as possible. This time, things were different.
That morning, Sam had already started a scan on the laptop—too easy. The password had taken five seconds to bypass. She had a download program retrieving all of Jeremy’s deleted e-mails and encrypted files now.
The family’s financial records were coming up clean. No major debts. No missing money that couldn’t be accounted for.
Luke rattled off several target areas, bars situated around college campuses. They were focusing on the bigger schools, those with students connected to powerful, wealthy families.
Luke assigned search areas to the other agents, leaving Sam grounded.
“Let’s move, people,” Luke said. “Talk to the bartenders and waitresses, tell them to keep their eyes open—and let’s find these bastards before anyone else gets taken.”