by Cynthia Eden
She swallowed down her fear and lifted her chin. “I’m ready.” They had the all clear to go into that little house, and waiting longer—well, that would just give the man inside a chance to either attack or flee.
He won’t get away from me.
George Farris lived in that quiet house on the cul-de-sac. George Farris...a twenty-seven-year-old software designer. A man who hadn’t shown up for work in the past two days and who had withdrawn from his friends and his family after exhibiting increasingly paranoid behavior. A man who...
Fits my profile to a T.
“You still think he has the victim in there?” Blake asked her.
“Missy Johnson has been missing for two days.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “If he’s our guy...he has always kept the victims alive for seventy-two hours.” That was the reason they were moving in on the house. They couldn’t afford to waste time. This was it.
“Then let’s do this,” Blake said, his voice little more than a growl. “I’ve got your back.”
They advanced toward the house. She could see a car sitting in the driveway. Her left hand touched the hood, found it warm. Used recently, so our perp is probably inside. It was late afternoon, and there wasn’t exactly a way to hide their advance with so little cover. Those twisting pine trees weren’t going to cut it—
“Movement,” Samantha whispered as her body tightened. “Curtain near the right front window just slid back. He’s watching us.”
And he’d either panic and try to run...
Or he’d attack.
I made the profile on this guy. He’s been deteriorating, losing his humanity more and more. He won’t go down easy. He—
The front window shattered and the muzzle of a gun poked through the broken glass. “Go!” Samantha yelled. “Weapon!”
She ducked and ran, even as Blake did the same. A bullet thudded into the ground near her foot, and she felt the heat of another as it seemed to lance across her arm. She ran fast and hard, and she got to the front door even as bullets kept flying. Blake was right behind her.
“FBI!” Samantha shouted. “Put down your weapon!”
If his victim was inside, George Farris could be turning that gun on her.
She nodded toward Blake. One powerful kick, and he had the door flying inward as the lock shattered beneath his foot. She heard the frantic thud of footsteps running inside and then—
Samantha slammed into Blake, knocking him down just as a bullet sank into the wood near his head.
“Fuck,” his deep voice rumbled.
“You’re welcome,” she said, then jumped back to her feet.
George was rushing down the hallway—she could see the back of his red hair.
“Farris!” Samantha yelled. “Stop! Put down your weapon—”
He swung toward her, his eyes seeming to bulge from his face. Terror and fury strained the lines of his pale skin and—
He’s firing.
“Don’t,” Samantha ordered, but he wasn’t listening. Please, don’t. He was going to shoot. Shoot her, shoot Blake.
Her finger squeezed the trigger, two fast pops that came from a hand gone dead steady. George’s mouth dropped open in shock even as a red circle of blood appeared on his chest. His gun fell from his fingers and he staggered back. George slammed into the white wall behind him, and a picture frame fell to the floor, shattering.
Blake rushed forward and kicked the weapon farther away from the downed man. Samantha stood there, her gaze locked on George as he shuddered. Blood bubbled at his lips.
“Where’s the victim?” Blake barked at the man. “Where is Missy Johnson?”
Samantha shoved past the shock that had held her in its tight grasp. She rushed toward George. His bloody lips were curling. He was smiling.
“Where is she?” Samantha demanded.
But...
George started wheezing. When she’d fired, there had been no time to think—she’d just reacted. He’d been aiming for her heart and she’d aimed for his.
She hadn’t missed.
The wheezing lasted only an instant, and then there was no breath at all. No gasps. No shudders. He was just gone.
Her desperate gaze shot toward Blake. His face was grim, his green eyes flashing as he stared back at her. “Self-defense,” he gritted out. “You saved our asses. You—”
Something crashed—a sound that had come from down the hallway. Her head jerked at the noise, but Blake was already moving. He raced down the hallway with his gun drawn. Samantha was right behind him, and she caught sight of the shut door on the left.
There was a thump from behind that door. A pitiful moan and then...
Blake grabbed the knob and thrust the door open. She was two steps behind him and when they got inside that little room, all of the breath left her in a quick rush.
Missy Johnson was huddled in the corner, naked, her hands and feet tied, a gag in her mouth. Cuts covered her body, but she was alive.
Alive.
They’d gotten to her in time. “It’s okay,” Samantha said, voice soft. She put her gun in its holster and lifted her hands, palms out, toward the terrified woman. “We’re FBI agents, and we’re here to take you home.”
* * *
THE LITTLE CUL-DE-SAC was illuminated by a thousand lights.
Samantha sat in the back of an ambulance, her gaze on the house. She’d protested—adamantly and, apparently, uselessly—but the EMT had insisted on checking out her arm.
Turned out that one of George’s bullets had grazed her. Not bad enough for stitches, but the EMT had still wanted to patch the wound.
Cop cars and FBI vehicles had swarmed. Yellow police tape was already up, sectioning off the crime scene. Neighbors were out, staring in that kind of numb, shocked horror. The kind that said, This shouldn’t have happened here. We live in a good neighborhood. It’s a safe place.
When would people see? Sometimes, there were no safe places.
News crews were there, too. Reporters who were broadcasting live, almost giddy with the rush of covering a story this big.
A serial killer—taken down by the FBI. A victim rescued. A nightmare ended. Talk about a killer story.
And right in the middle of all that chaos...well, there was FBI Executive Assistant Director Justin Bass. The guy’s chest was puffed out, and his authoritative voice rang out clearly as he assured the reporters that his crack team had been confident of their success in locating Missy Johnson, that he’d known all along they would be bringing that victim back alive.
Samantha just shook her head.
“You’re all done, Agent Dark,” the EMT said, her voice cheerful, her brown eyes gleaming.
“Thanks.” Samantha slid out of the ambulance, her movements slow. Bass was in charge of the circus out there, and she knew he liked to be the only one to handle the press. That was more than fine with her. Samantha didn’t exactly enjoy the limelight.
The coroner had arrived earlier, and now she saw the black body bag being wheeled out. The reporters turned as one swarm to get video footage.
Samantha sucked in a sharp breath, one that chilled her lungs.
“You okay, Samantha?”
His voice. A voice that she’d be able to recognize anywhere, anytime. Dark and deep, a voice that sank right beneath a woman’s skin.
And made her think about things that—under the circumstances—she shouldn’t.
Her head turned and she found herself staring up into Blake’s green eyes. Concern was on his face, worry in those eyes.
Samantha made herself smile for him. “Barely a scratch. I didn’t even need stitches.” The sun was starting to set, and the sky behind Blake was a dark red.
“I’m not talking about your arm.”
She lifted a brow.<
br />
“That wasn’t an easy scene.” He stepped closer to her. Instantly, she seemed to feel the heat that swept out from his body. “Taking a life is never easy.”
No, it wasn’t. Her gaze slid away from him and went back to the house. Except for the broken window out front, the place looked so normal. But it isn’t normal. George Farris probably killed two women in that house.
I killed him in that house.
Blake’s hand rose and touched her shoulder, such a light, careful touch. “Samantha?”
She swallowed. “It’s just a house.” She turned away from the house and began walking back toward the SUV that waited. They’d driven over together when her profile had paid off and she’d been so sure that George was the man they were after. So sure...
“It’s just a house,” she murmured without looking back again. “Just a house on a street.” And I killed a man inside.
She made it to the vehicle. Samantha was reaching for the driver’s-side door, but Blake’s hand rose, and his fingers—slightly calloused—curled over hers. Startled, she glanced up at him.
“Why don’t I drive?” He smiled at her, what she thought of as his million-dollar smile. The smile Samantha was sure had charmed too many women.
She wasn’t in the mood to be charmed.
Before she could speak, he leaned in closer to her. “It was...your first, wasn’t it?”
Samantha gave a jerky nod. It was her first time to kill in the line of duty. She’d shot a suspect before, but it had been a flesh wound. Nothing like this. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“No.” His voice was even rougher. “You didn’t.” His smile slipped away. “Why don’t you let me drive?” Blake said again.
“You’re such a nice guy.” That was what everyone said about him. She knew exactly what he was trying to do. Take care of the agent before she falls apart. “I promise you, I’m in no danger of breaking.”
“Never thought you were.” He held her stare. “But leaning on someone else isn’t a crime.”
No, it wasn’t. “Drive,” she ordered, and Samantha hurried around the vehicle. She jumped into the passenger side. Pulled on her seat belt, then she just shut her eyes. She didn’t want to see the reporters. Bass could keep dealing with them. She’d do her paperwork, close out the case, and she wouldn’t focus on the way George Farris’s eyes had looked when she shot him. The way the life had just drained out of them at the end. She wouldn’t think about that.
A few moments later, she heard the engine crank. The vehicle backed up and moved away.
“You’re wrong about me.”
She didn’t open her eyes. Samantha felt so weary. The adrenaline in her system had to be crashing—and the crash was taking her down with it. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a profiler. I know people.” She knew killers.
But then, she’d known all about killers for a very, very long time.
Since she’d been thirteen and she’d survived a night of blood and hell.
“You don’t know me, Sam.”
Sam. Just the way he said her name was palpable. Her eyes opened. They were walking a very thin line, she knew it. The attraction was there, just simmering between them. But FBI partners couldn’t get personally involved. They couldn’t sleep together. They couldn’t give in to a hunger that had been there, right from the first touch.
“You’re a former soldier,” she told him. “Enlisted when you were eighteen. Then went to college, studied criminal justice. You fought the bad guys in the war, then you came home to fight the bad guys on our own soil. You requested to work in Violent Crimes because you’re not afraid of a challenge—you want to take down the worst of the worst. A good-guy mentality at its finest.” A hero mentality.
He drove in silence.
Her gaze slid to him, and she realized that his hard jaw was tightly clenched. A muscle jerked in his cheek. Uh-oh, someone didn’t like being profiled.
Someone looked pissed.
“Sorry,” she said. Sometimes, she just did that. Couldn’t turn off her brain when she met someone. “People are like puzzles to me. I always... I have this need to figure them out.”
He pulled off the road—just pulled right off that quiet highway until they were sitting on the shoulder. He shifted the SUV into Park and then turned to stare at her.
Her brows rose. “Blake?”
“You have me squared away in your head, don’t you? The safe guy? The rule follower?”
“Um...there isn’t anything wrong with that.”
His fingers tapped along the steering wheel. His gaze had turned dark. Turbulent. And that hard stare of his drifted down to the bandage on her arm. “I don’t like you getting hurt.”
“I don’t like being hurt.” She tried to lighten the sudden, thick tension between them. She could almost see the line between them—a line they couldn’t cross.
“When I saw your blood, I wanted to rip George Farris apart.”
Tread carefully.
“The dead don’t feel pain,” she said. She’d given herself comfort with those words so many times over the years.
“No, that luxury is just for us, isn’t it?” Now his gaze had come back to her face. “You’re damn good when it comes to killers. Don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone work quite the way you do. Bass and the other agents on our team—they weren’t looking at Farris.”
No, they’d focused their attention on another man, one county over. A man who was recently divorced, a loner now, but... He didn’t fit my profile. He still had too many strong ties. He hadn’t been pulling away from society. Not like George.
“You see things that others don’t...” A slight pause. “When it comes to killers.”
“You’re saying I don’t understand you?”
His fingers stilled. “Do you think I’m a killer?”
Oh, yes, she would need to tread very carefully here. “Just because you fought and fired in the line of duty, it doesn’t mean—”
“You read my fucking confidential files.” Anger thickened his voice. It was the first time his anger had been directed at her. She didn’t like it.
“No.” Samantha fought to keep the emotion from her voice. That was one of her talents. When it came to locking down her feelings and giving the world a perfect mask to view, she was at the top of the class. “I didn’t.” But his words had just confirmed what she’d suspected when she’d begun to build a profile on him.
I profile my friends. I profile my lovers. I can’t turn it off. I wish that I could.
She cleared her throat. “We need to get back to the office.” They were just outside of Richmond, and the drive back to DC wouldn’t be an easy one, not at this time of the day. “Let’s just go, okay?”
He hesitated, and Samantha thought that he was going to push her to determine just how much she really knew about him. She tensed, but he gave a grim nod. He cranked the engine once more. Shifted to Park and—
“Just because you have to fire,” Blake said, not looking at her, “in order to save yourself and your partner... That doesn’t make you a killer, either.”
No, but it did make her someone...who had killed.
CHAPTER TWO
SAMANTHA DARK WAS a mystery.
Blake Gamble watched her as she shut down her computer and carefully arranged all of the items on her desk. She liked to position things just so...the stapler at a ninety-degree angle to her keyboard. The cup of pens just to the right of her mouse. And that little black picture frame...a picture of an older cop in his uniform...
Her fingers skimmed over the top of the photo, as if saying goodbye. She did that every night, right before she left the office.
Then she looked up and her gaze locked with his. There was no flash of surprise in her golden eyes. Absolutely beautiful eyes. Before S
amantha, he’d never met a woman with eyes that particular shade. Her straight black hair fell around her face—a beautiful face, but one that she didn’t adorn with any makeup. Not that the woman needed any makeup. Her lips were full, naturally a light pink. Her lashes were long, thick. Her cheekbones high.
She wore no-nonsense clothes, usually dress pants and a tailored top. Sometimes a suit. He suspected she was trying to hide her curves, and the first day that he’d come across her—wearing slim-fit athletic pants and a tight top while she worked out at the FBI gym—he’d realized her curves were damn close to perfection.
She’d been sweating, her hair had been pulled back, her bare feet with their bright red toenail polish had seemed to dance over the sparring mat and then—
Then she’d tossed her two-hundred-plus-pound opponent on his ass with barely a blink.
“You’re staring.”
He still hadn’t gotten used to her voice. Soft and husky sometimes, sure with authority other times. But always—always—sexy.
He had such a serious problem when it came to Samantha Dark.
“It’s rude to stare,” she added as she pulled her bag onto her shoulder. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you that?”
His shoulders rolled back. “My mom didn’t have the chance to teach me much. She died when I was a baby.”
She stilled. Sadness flashed on her face, coming and going in an instant. “I’m sorry.” Her voice said she truly was.
He pushed to his feet. “Me, too. From all accounts, she was a pretty incredible lady. I wish I’d met her.”
“Growing up without a parent... I know how hard it can be.”
He’d grown up with a military father who hadn’t exactly had a whole lot of room in his life for emotions—or for his young son. But Blake just shrugged. “I made out okay.”
“I guess I did, too.”
His eyes widened because that was the first personal tidbit she’d ever shared with him. But before he could speak, she was already hurrying toward the door. They shared that little office on the fourth floor of the DC FBI building, an office that looked out onto the busy street. Darkness had fallen, so right then, all he could see were city lights out of the glass, lights glimmering in the night.