Primal Obsession

by Susan Vaughan

  He swallowed. Hard.

  “As compulsive as you are about your work?” he choked out. “No, you had more reason than needing a change.”

  “How would you know I’m compulsive about work?” She folded her arms. Her gray eyes flashed storm clouds at him. “Supposing I am, that is.”

  “One, it looks like stress forced you to take a time out.”

  She hitched her shoulders at that. “So you say.”

  A swing and a hit. “Two, you brought your tablet. What’s the hot story you can’t let go?”

  “None of your business.”

  Correction—stand-up double. He was on a streak. “Top secret, huh?”

  She started toward the lake. “I have lobsters to cook.”

  “Take it easy. I didn’t mean anything.” He clasped her hand to halt her.

  To his relief, she turned back to him, set down the case. “That really wasn’t you in the bushes back there?”

  He traced an X on his chest. “Cross my heart.”

  Her cheeks paled. “Could it have been a bear?”

  She hadn’t tugged her hand away, so he stepped close enough to inhale her freshly shampooed hair and feminine scent. His breath hitched. “Doubtful. Maybe a porcupine. These campsites smell too much of humans. Bears stay away.”

  “So I’m safe?”

  “From bears, yes.” He sent her a lazy grin, flicked a finger at the towel over her shoulders, let his hand drift down her bare arm. Soft, smoother than the wood of a new ash bat. “But if you do see a bear, don’t run. You’d have more chance stealing home plate than escaping a charging black bear. Wave something, like this towel. Look big and scary.”

  She maneuvered until she held the towel out like a cape. “Like this?”

  Man, there was that navel again, a sweet little innie in a smooth white belly. His gaze cruised to her mouth. How soft were her lips? He longed to run his tongue along her full lower lip and taste her. His blood rushed south.

  “Sca-a-ary. Man, if I was a bear, I’d high-tail it.” He just couldn’t help it; he slid his hands around her narrow waist and pulled her close. He’d promised Ben he wouldn’t have sex with her. A few kisses wouldn’t hurt, might take the edge off, like pre-game warm-ups. “But I’m not a bear.”

  Her eyelashes drifted lower as she tilted her head back to look up at him. Her lips parted, inviting his kiss. “O-o-oh, Sam?” Her voice was breathy, sexy, inviting.

  “Yes?” He circled his thumbs over the silk of her bare midriff. He lowered his head.

  “You’re no bear. You’re a shark. And if you want to keep the family jewels intact, let me go now.”

  Her voice floated so low and sweet to his ears that at first he didn’t comprehend her words. He lifted his head and backed up, releasing her. “That was a dirty trick.”

  “Merely a defensive tactic.” She draped the towel around her shoulders like a royal mantle and stalked off.

  Annie exhaled a shaky breath at her narrow escape. Her skin tingled where he’d caressed her, her nipples tightened, and her heart clattered. So much for resisting her attraction to Sam Kincaid. The man was walking temptation—hard body, killer grin, and more than a conman’s share of charm. She’d wanted to kiss him, oh, she’d wanted. She still wanted.

  But she didn’t want the distraction from studying her Hunter notes. Involvement with another jock who thought he was sex on a stick?

  No, thank you. She didn’t do casual. Her emotions would sneak in, and her heart would get broken.

  ***

  Augusta, Maine

  Justin tossed his necktie on the conference table. Wile E. Coyote flattened again. After what he’d seen this afternoon in Baxter State Park, that’s exactly how he felt. Only he wasn’t sure he could bounce back like a cartoon critter. Hikers had stumbled over another murdered young woman’s shallow grave. That made six. With each victim, the mutilations and violation increased. To what depths could the sick bastard’s depravity sink?

  A glance at the bland sameness of the Major Crimes Unit headquarters calmed him. The state of Maine sure knew how to take care of the MCU. The brick building had all the ambience of a warehouse. He wrinkled his nose at the stale coffee, stale bodies, and musty files. A warehouse might smell better.

  At least this conference room, designated as the Hunter Case Command Post, had all the information the investigators had collected. A new phone bank, computers, and other machines kept them on top of developments. His gaze was drawn to the pictures of the victims and other missing women splashed across a bulletin board. Which one was she?

  He collapsed in a swivel chair and opened the top shirt button. With the heels of his hands, he massaged his eyes.

  “You look like you could use this as much as me.” FBI Special Agent Mark Tavani set a mug of coffee in front of him.

  Justin sucked down a swallow. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Tavani flopped on a metal folding chair that squeaked in protest. He took a tentative sip from his coffee mug. “This crap is worse than the industrial sludge brewed at Quantico.”

  Justin blinked at the FBI profiler. Was that a joke? The man hardly ever cracked a smile. And yet Justin liked him, liked his professionalism and candor. “We try.”

  Tavani was about Justin’s age, mid-thirties, maybe older. Silver threaded his dark hair, and deep lines made furrows between his brows and around his mouth. Maybe caused by the horrors he catalogued and analyzed every day.

  The two men drank in silence until another detective approached. “Yo, Wylde, Bonnie asked me to give this to you. Just came in.”

  Justin scanned the print. “Positive ID by the mother. It’s Lacey DePalma all right.”

  “This guy’s all over the state. No apparent pattern to where he picks up his victims.”

  “Only pattern is where he leaves them.” The latest body was a young art student who’d disappeared during April vacation from Southwest Harbor, where she’d been painting on a deserted shoreline. Justin and the profiler had spent most of the day on the case. And would probably spend the night.

  “Even that’s all over the state.” Tavani deposited his empty mug on the floor. “There are two more missing women unaccounted for?”

  “One in June, a teenager in Waterville who didn’t make it home from babysitting. Another this month in Rockland. She disappeared in the middle of the crowd attending the North Atlantic Blues Festival. Her friends thought she’d gone off with some guy she met.”

  “She just might have. The wrong guy.”

  “Tavani, can’t you give me something, anything to go on?”

  The agent opened his briefcase. From a thick file, he plucked a single sheet. The lines between his straight, black brows deepened. “I think I have a handle on this guy. Seeing an actual crime scene only verified what VICAP says and what I think.”

  The FBI Violent Criminal Apprehension Program provided data on similar crimes and criminals around the country. That and the agent’s expertise ought to provide some clues. Anything would be an improvement over the nothing they had.

  Justin drained his mug. “I’ll set up a meeting. I want this perverted fucker. Before he can snatch another woman.”

  He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that Annie was stashed away on her canoe trip.

  At the so-called hardships she must be enduring in the wilderness, he allowed himself a half grin.

  SEVEN

  Northern Maine woods

  When Annie skidded into camp, the others were relaxing around the campfire. She stopped to let her heart recover.

  Pungent wood smoke swirled up from dancing red and yellow flames. Carl tossed a handful of empty peanut shells into the fire, shells from the giant bag open on the picnic table.

  “Help yourself. Supper will take awhile.” Sam snagged a handful of nuts, crunched a shell, and popped the nut into his mouth. “Anybody see my Buck knife? I left it on the table.”

  “It was there a few minutes ago,” Nora said. “Maybe you put it in your t
ent.”

  When Annie saw that Ray had two pots of water boiling, she said, “Give me a minute to change and I’ll pitch in.”

  In her tent, she shimmied into jeans, pink turtleneck, and black sweatshirt. She tugged on socks and sneakers before crawling out with insect repellant and a flashlight.

  In spite of advice from all quarters, she and Ray managed to prepare the food. When the meal was ready, the aromas of melting butter and shellfish lured everyone to the table.

  Including Frank. Tin plate in hand, he slouched toward the steaming pots.

  Sam headed him off. “Remember the deal, Frank.”

  Stubbornness defined the taut line of the boy’s mouth. “I put up my dumb tent.”

  “Nice work too. Erecting your tent’s for your comfort. Once you’ve done your shared chore, you can eat.”

  Frank turned to his mom, standing beside the table.

  Crimson flagged her cheeks, and she drew a deep breath. “You were supposed to help me gather firewood. Remember?”

  Annie gave Nora credit for sticking to her guns. The others had helped her with the wood, so they had plenty, but Frank didn’t need to know that.

  The teen stomped off, spitting anger that singed the pines. Words Annie hadn’t even heard on New York streets.

  “Hang in there,” she mouthed to the boy’s mother.

  During the confrontation, the adults had watched in tense silence while going through the motions of filling their plates. Now that it was over they sat down to eat.

  Murmurs of appreciation stifled conversation. Annie counted the potential damage on her plate. At this rate, no amount of paddling could combat the calorie intake. So much for the ten pounds she was going to lose. Oh, well. She dipped succulent claw meat in melted butter.

  After the clean-up, Annie, Nora and Ray sat on the picnic bench facing the fire. Sam and Carl arranged upturned logs by the fire ring. The crisp evening air, birdcall, and the wood smoke lent the illusion of autumn.

  Sam grinned as his gaze browsed her body.

  She rolled her eyes. Would he ever give up?

  He’d changed into warmer clothing, as had everyone. Except for his Sox cap and rakish air, he looked every inch the woods guide in his windbreaker and green trousers tucked into laced woods boots. He was describing the rest of the expedition route to the group.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder toward the rebel’s tent. Pretty quiet in there, not even a lantern glowing. Poor kid, he was probably waiting for someone to cave and feed him. Forcing his hand seemed the right thing. Sam’s tactic was clever, admirable. He’d make a good father.

  Not that she cared. He was a jock, they had nothing in common and she wasn’t interested.

  Footsteps crunched the sandy soil, and Frank appeared. Not sulking in the tent after all. He dumped a load of arm-sized logs beside the fire ring. “There. You satisfied?”

  Sam smiled warmly. “Nice load of wood, Frank.”

  “So’d you leave me anything?” Distrust narrowed his eyes. His spiked hair smeared across his head like finger-paints.

  When Sam nodded, his mom pointed to a pan at the edge of the fire. “I saved you a lobster and some corn.”

  “Sorry, kid,” Carl said, covering a grin, “but we ate the rest of the brownies.”

  “I hate brownies.” Frank carried his booty to the table and snorkled in his food fast enough to suck up the shells.

  “Now’s as good a time as any to break a little ice.” Sam jabbed a stick into the crackling blaze. “I’d like each person to tell why you came and what you hope to get out of the trip.”

  “I’ll start, if y’all don’t mind.” In the firelight, Carl’s florid face glowed like a sunset. “I wanted to get away from email and cell phones. And I remembered canoeing with my grandpap when I was a tadpole.”

  “What about you, Ray?” Sam smiled encouragement to the slighter man.

  Annie noticed that behind her Frank had finished eating and was tossing corn toward the firelight’s edge. A chipmunk hunkered in the shadows. It gobbled each kernel that fell close. Annie smiled. A good thing this hurt and confused boy could behave like a normal kid.

  “I came because I need to experience something real, something I can feel and live.” His voice soft, diffident, Ray stared at the fire, apparently not willing to face anyone. Tension hunched his shoulders, crimped his prominent brow.

  “What do you mean, real?” Sam said.

  At the far end of the bench, Ray threaded fingers through his pale hair. “I design software for a medical technology company in Boston. On weekends I create game software freelance for different toy companies.”

  Frank stopped feeding the chipmunk. Computer geeks were probably his heroes.

  “From blood-test analysis software to the Mutant Killer Slugs from Saturn game, my life is virtual,” Ray continued. “It’s all I have. Out here in the wilderness, this is real.”

  “Slugs from Saturn.” Awe filled Frank’s voice. “The one with the exploding orbs?”

  “Nah, the orbs are in Moon Moles. But I did both.”

  “Eipc cool.” Frank returned to his meal.

  Silence held them for a minute. How sad for Ray to feel that he existed only via electronic wizardry. How brave to seek reality in primitive nature, as alien an environment for him as it was for her.

  “That’s very commendable.” Nora patted the man’s arm. “You dared to enrich your life, to grow. Not everyone would have had the courage.”

  As the others murmured in agreement, Ray slanted her a smile of gratitude.

  “I’ll go next,” Nora said. “I’m here to regain some peace of mind and to reconnect with my son. The divorce has been—”

  “Holy crap, Mom! Do you have to tell the whole world?” Knocking his plate to the ground, Frank bolted to his tent.

  Nora started to apologize. Tears welled in her eyes.

  Annie said, “It’s okay, Nora. I think we all see why this trip’s important to you.”

  “The kid needs to build his confidence again,” Sam offered. “He’ll get a chance tomorrow during the bushwhack.”

  His whiskey-gold gaze homed in on Annie. “That leaves you.”

  She wanted to hear more about the so-called bushwhack, but decided knowing might interfere with a good night’s sleep. Something she sorely needed.

  “I’m a journalist in Portland and no outdoorswoman. My friend Emma and I were going to do this trip together. But Emma... died.” Murmurs of sympathy before she continued. “She would’ve wanted me to come, and I needed to get away. So here I am.”

  “Seems like everyone has reasons for getting away from it all.” Sam stirred the fire and tossed in another log. “I wouldn’t think covering automobile crashes and Portland City Hall scandals would be that tough on a reporter.”

  He was probing again. Nice try. “I was... involved in a challenging story that gave me sleepless nights. No biggie.”

  A thoughtful expression pursed Nora’s mouth. “You write for the Messenger?”

  Annie’s stomach knotted. She nodded. She so did not want to get into this.

  “You the reporter who broke the story on the Hunter?”

  Annie pressed clasped hands to her stomach. “I cover a lot of different news.”

  “What hunter?” Carl asked.

  “The Hunter, the murderer.” Ray leaned forward to eye Annie eagerly. “I read about it in this morning’s paper.”

  “That Hunter?” Sam asked. “You’re the reporter who put the murders together?”

  “I don’t—”

  Carl stood and waved his arms. “If there’s some damned crazed killer on the loose, what are we doing here?” He glared at Sam. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  “Take it easy, man.” Sam held up his hands. “That killer’s not within fifty miles of here.”

  “More like a hundred miles.” Ray’s head bobbed up and down with excitement.

  “Just what the hell did this so-called Hunter do?” Carl
wasn’t tall, but the waning fire backlighting his stout form made him an imposing figure.

  “Carl.”

  Sam’s soothing voice seemed to defuse the man’s anxiety. As if only then realizing his intimidating stance, the contractor relaxed his shoulders. He sat. “Sorry, y’all. Reckon I’m used to being the boss.”

  Sam saw reluctance in Annie’s down-turned mouth. So that’s the reason she avoided the fine points of why she left town. Delving into the details of those murders would give anyone nightmares. “I see discussing it is hard on you. Why don’t we move on?”

  “No, it’s all right, Sam.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll explain if everyone will agree not to bombard me with questions the rest of the trip.”

  Sam waited for everyone to nod. “Go ahead, then.”

  She lowered her hands to her lap, but kept her fingers laced as if locking in emotion. “During the past three years, an unknown assailant has murdered young women in New Hampshire and Maine. As of today’s newspaper, there are five. I uncovered the connection among them and broke the story, but the police already suspected a link.”

  “Why is he called the Hunter?” Ray asked. “I didn’t see that in this morning’s story.”

  “That’s the horror of it.”

  Her haunted gaze chilled Sam. This wasn’t the way this ice-breaker was supposed to go. Restless, he rose and added a log to the fire. The killer wasn’t just a story to her. He’d bet his cleats on it.

  “Have you ever read a story by Richard Connor called ‘The Most Dangerous Game’?” Annie continued.

  “My seventh grade students read it,” Nora said. “A man falls off a ship and swims to an island. The owner, a general, is tired of hunting animals. So he causes shipwrecks. When sailors get to shore, he tracks and kills them. Oh.”

  “Bingo. It’s a play on words. You can take it one way, that the most dangerous endeavor is hunting humans. Or that the most dangerous game, meaning prey, is man.” Annie gave a shiver, and Sam doubted it was from the cool night air. “In this case, woman. The Hunter strips them naked except for shoes and dumps them somewhere in the woods. He forces them to run so he can hunt them.”