Taken (Second Sight)

by Hunter, Hazel

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Note from the Author

  Copyright

  TAKEN

  A SECOND SIGHT NOVELLA

  Book 3

  By Hazel Hunter

  CHAPTER ONE

  Isabelle had never seen Mac so angry and, of all people, with Ben.

  “I have thought about it,” Mac seethed, glaring across the gleaming wood of Ben’s desk. “And I say no.”

  The call from Benicio Olivos, Assistant Director of the FBI in charge of the Los Angeles Field Office, had come as a surprise to Mac, but it had shocked Isabelle. Despite the fact that both she and Mac had helped to rescue his daughter from the serial killer known as the Chameleon, Ben had made it clear what he thought of psychics.

  “Maybe Isabelle has an opinion,” Ben retorted and swung his stare to her.

  When Ben’s secretary had called and asked for an appointment with the two of them, Isabelle had assumed they’d be confronted about their relationship. Special Agent Gavin “Mac” MacMillan’s work as an FBI profiler and hers as a psychic had placed them in an odd working association. But it wasn’t the work that the FBI minded. It was their personal relationship.

  Isabelle looked at Mac’s rugged profile, the jut of his strong jaw, the dark, thick, short-cropped hair. Even under the suit and long-sleeved shirt, she could see the outlines of his powerful body, now rigid and tense.

  They had come ready to talk to Ben about their relationship but Mac’s mentor and friend didn’t want to talk about them, he wanted to talk about her.

  Isabelle opened her mouth to reply but Mac interrupted.

  “Ben, I’m telling you,” Mac said, his jaw clamped tight. “This isn’t going anywhere. Isabelle is not going to be used as bait for the Chameleon.”

  Bait, thought Isabelle. It’d sounded so much more reasonable when Ben had used the word ‘decoy.’

  “You’ve said it yourself,” Ben said, sitting back in his chair. “Isabelle is his IVT. From the very beginning, he’s been fascinated with her. First, he demands she be brought back to one case, then he demands she participate in the next. Now, at a crime scene, he leaves a piece of paper with her name written on it.”

  Though Isabelle knew that Mac would have included her reading of the stethoscope in his report, Ben would put no stock in that. The Chameleon had left it with a message that only she could see. As his last victim had touched the stethoscope, the Chameleon had told the young woman that Isabelle would be next. He was coming for her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Isabelle. “IVT?”

  “Ideal victim type,” Ben answered. “A brunette, petite, pretty.” He paused. “Like Esme.”

  The resemblance between all the victims, including Ben’s daughter, Esme, hadn’t escaped Isabelle.

  Ideal victim type.

  Isabelle nodded.

  “I’m not saying there isn’t risk,” Ben said to her. “You have to go into this with that understanding.”

  She had seen the last ideal victim–her bloodless face and staring eyes. Isabelle had felt her pain and utter terror in reading the stethoscope. If anyone knew there was risk, it was Isabelle. Even now she only had to cast her mind back to the grisly scene of a few days ago to feel a mixture of nausea and dread.

  But she’d also seen how Ben and Anita had suffered over their daughter’s abduction. Isabelle knew that all the families of all the ideal victims were dealing with loss and grief, no matter how long ago their loved one had disappeared.

  And the Chameleon knows my name. How long will it take for him to find me?

  Mac abruptly stood up.

  “Stop it, Ben,” Mac growled. “I’ve said no.”

  “But I say yes,” Isabelle said, looking up at him. “I have to.”

  • • • • •

  Mac stared down at Isabelle, dumbfounded.

  This is not happening.

  His hands immediately balled into fists.

  “Isabelle,” he ground out slowly, the warning tone in his voice one step below rage.

  “Listen to her,” Ben said.

  Mac spun on him. Of all the people in the world, Ben should know better! He had even met Lynn! Mac couldn’t believe Ben would ask this of him.

  “Clear your head,” Ben said to him as Mac’s blood pounded in his ears. “I shouldn’t have been the one to think of this. It should have been you.”

  Mac blinked as though he’d been struck.

  “Think of what, exactly?” Mac said, keeping his voice tightly under control, though just barely. “Some half-baked idea? Some dim-witted plan to acquiesce to a murderer?”

  Ben’s face turned a slightly darker shade of red.

  “Clear your goddamn head, Mac,” he said loudly. “From the moment you told me that you and Isabelle were involved, I’ve watched you. You’re not running on all cylinders. Your head is barely in the game. If you insist on staying in L.A. and not going back to Quantico, then I suggest you get with the plan. Rapidly.”

  Mac smiled coldly at him.

  “Are you taking the lead on this investigation, Ben?” Mac asked. “Is that what this is about? You want to take charge?”

  Ben’s face twisted in anger and he moved his feet as though he’d stand up but apparently thought better of it.

  “You know that’s not what this is about,” Ben replied. He paused and looked directly into Mac’s eyes. “I think we both know what this is about.”

  There, thought Mac. He’d as much as said it. This was about Lynn.

  Mac quickly took Isabelle’s gloved hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “I can no more put Isabelle in that kind of danger,” Mac said, returning Ben’s gaze, “than you could Esme.” He saw the words sink home. Esme was the only person who could testify against the Chameleon and they both knew it. They both had something at stake. “This discussion is over.”

  • • • • •

  Prentiss gave himself the once over in the bathroom mirror but was careful not to wash his hands. Otherwise the body make-up would come off.

  How would that look? A Hispanic man with white hands.

  The bizarre image almost made him laugh out loud. As he adjusted the heavy, black duty belt, he checked his mustache–thick, black, and glued firmly into place. It was a perfect match to his dyed hair, that he now wore in a new crew cut. He’d decided against a wig this time. Just the feel of the military-style hair helped him get into character. He was Officer Felix Aguilar, on patrol. He gave himself a quick wink, picked up the lumpy manila envelope, and turned to leave.

  The costume and props had come together very quickly. The police uniform had come from an adult shop not two blocks from his apartment. He still had to snicker at the “Fetish Attire” sign that had hung over the clothes section. The handcuffs had come from there too.

  As he took up his slow stroll in the wide hallway of the seventh floor of the Federal Building, he took care to swagger, though not too much. He puffed out his chest, stood up straight, and pointedly met people’s gazes. He was a cop. They were worried about him, not the other way around.

  It’d been no trick to find Sergeant Dixon and FBI Director Olivos. All he’d had to do was collect articles from the L.A. Times. He’d have collected them anyway for his scrapbook but they’d come in quite useful when it came to finding Isabelle. He’d seen Dixon only yesterday. The sergeant’s post here was part of the precin
ct that policed this building in Westwood. Dixon didn’t wear a uniform but Prentiss had seen him on the news, pushing reporters back from the last victim’s house. He’d spotted Director Olivos a couple of days ago, recognizing him from the television coverage of Esme’s abduction.

  Prentiss pressed his lips into a thin line and his fingers tightened on the wide belt.

  Esme. The kill that had been thwarted by psychic Isabelle de Grey. He narrowed his eyes. She would pay.

  Where Dixon and Olivos were, Isabelle wouldn’t be far away. They had to be using her psychic ability to track him. It was the only explanation for the way they were always on his heels–ever since Esme. Always careful to never leave a trace of evidence, Prentiss knew, without a doubt, it had to be Isabelle. If he had to walk these halls, day-in, day-out, forever, that’s what he’d do. Either that or find another victim to flush her out. That plan had merits too.

  A couple at the end of the hallway drew his attention.

  Is that…?

  At first, it’d been their quick movement, the man tugging her along behind him. But as Prentiss stared, he realized who it was.

  “Isabelle,” he muttered, before he could catch himself.

  It took every bit of acting prowess he possessed not to stare. The man with her, in a dark suit and tie with a crisp, white shirt, had to be an FBI agent. He was pulling her in a fast walk and they were headed right toward him. Prentiss looked away.

  Will she recognize me?

  He chanced a cautious peek. She wasn’t even looking at him and it seemed as though they weren’t going to pass him. They’d stopped at the elevator, which was opening. Prentiss picked up the pace.

  Though she was still several yards away, Prentiss felt the familiar thrill of the stalk. Isabelle was pretty–very pretty. Her dark hair was lustrous, falling halfway down her back. The form-fitting, sleeveless dress clung to her curves and the high heels accentuated her attractive legs. For just a moment, he visualized his knife puncturing the smooth flesh of her thigh, just above the knee. But as she entered the elevator, he had to move quickly. Taking her now was not the right time but getting a better look at her couldn’t hurt. As the doors began to close, Prentiss strode slowly by and looked inside.

  Though she was looking at the agent, Prentiss saw her eyes. They were the most amazing color of amber he’d ever seen and he had to wonder briefly if she wore colored contacts. But then the doors closed. He looked at his reflection in the polished metal and felt the lumpy manila envelope under his arm. They had obviously been on their way out. The timing had not been right. But Prentiss knew eventually it would be. He smiled at his reflection and resumed his slow stroll, idly wondering what Isabelle would sound like when she screamed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Mac,” Isabelle pleaded. “Talk to me.” He’d silently fumed the entire way home. “What’s going on?”

  If he’d yell at her, scream something, she would understand. But this. His stony face greeted her as he turned from closing the front door.

  “What’s going on,” he said, using that same steely voice he’d used with Ben, “is that a serial killer has threatened to make you his next victim.” He stood with his hands on his hips and glared at the floor between them. Peeking out from under his jacket, she could see the harness of the handgun he’d started wearing. “Why do I have to remind everyone of that?”

  Ever since they’d discovered Angela’s body, Mac had never left her side. It was wonderful to have him with her, be in L.A., but maybe it was taking its toll. Even Isabelle could see that Ben was right. Mac was different. But what she didn’t understand was how Mac didn’t see it.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said, setting her purse down on the small table next to the door. “What’s going on with you?”

  She stepped directly in front of him and put her hands on his taut, narrow waist. His broad chest loomed in front of her and, as she looked up into his intense and deeply blue-green eyes, she waited for him to wrap his arms around her.

  But he didn’t.

  His square jaw clenched repeatedly but, other than that, he didn’t move. Isabelle could only blink in surprise. Any other time she’d so much as stood this close to Mac, he’d have had his hands on her. There was no end to the embraces, the subtle and not-so-subtle touches, that let her know that he was near. But this new side of Mac, the cold one, was frightening.

  “I want to be with you,” he finally said, as though each word were pain. “Twenty-four hours a day. I can’t do that if you’re bait.” He bit the last word off as though he’d uttered something filthy. “It’s the very nature of being bait.”

  Though Isabelle wanted to shrink away from the harsh tone, she stood her ground and kept her hands on Mac’s waist. He had to touch her. Sooner or later, he would put his arms around her. This was still Mac. She searched his stern face, looking for some clue, anything to indicate what was going on inside. His steady gaze held hers, waiting her out.

  But she wasn’t giving up so easily. Something had passed between him and Ben, something that had quickly ended the meeting.

  “What was Ben talking about?” she asked. Still nothing. Just the unending stare and a silence that seemed to stretch forever. “Damn it, Mac,” Isabelle implored, trying to shake him but not moving him at all. “Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Read me,” he said.

  Now she did back up, stumbling a couple of steps.

  “What?” she gasped.

  He took his hands off his hips and extended one to her.

  “Take off your glove and touch me.”

  Isabelle’s gift of psychometry had been a gift and curse her entire adult life. To lay her hands on people meant that she would know their thoughts and see into their past. Not a single relationship had survived her touch and, even if it meant she’d have to wear gloves all day, every day, she had no intention of losing Mac.

  “Mac, we’ve been through this.”

  “Why ask me when you can know everything?” he said, stepping toward her. She immediately stepped back and clasped her hands in front of her chest. “You can’t wear them forever,” he said, stepping forward again as she continued to back up. “You know you can’t.”

  What was that in his face? Pain? Anger?

  “Why are you doing this?” she blurted out. “You don’t have to do this!”

  “Apparently I do,” he said, walking forward again, reaching his hand to her. She backed up again, stumbling, but catching herself. “Haven’t I said that I loved you?” he asked. “That I won’t leave you? Not for a second?”

  “Yes!” she yelled, feeling panic start to rise.

  “Then why can’t you believe that?” he said, taking another step.

  Though Isabelle tried to step back, she collided with the wall, felt the light switch in her back and the corner of the hallway that led to the bedroom. Mac stopped advancing but thrust his hand in front of her.

  “I do believe it,” she yelled, staring at his hand. “I do!” She pressed her back to the wall and looked up into Mac’s face. But it betrayed nothing–not even his desire for the reading. She gaped at the impassive face. The reading wasn’t the issue. Something had happened–between him and Ben–something that had turned Mac to ice, to the man who stood in front of her. “By god,” she muttered, as she unclasped the closure on one of her gloves. “I’ll do it,” she snapped, as Mac’s gaze suddenly shifted down to her hands and his eyebrows shot up. It was the first sign of emotion she’d seen since they’d left Ben’s office. Then, as Mac’s mouth opened in astonishment, Isabelle froze.

  Though her glove was already halfway off, a million thoughts rushed through her mind.

  How did we come to this so soon?

  What is happening?

  I can’t undo this.

  It could be the end.

  And before she knew what she was doing, she quickly shook her head.

  “No,” she whispered, shakily. “I won’t. Not like this. I can’t.
”

  As she tugged the fabric back up to her wrist, Mac closed the distance between them and grasped both wrists in his hands.

  “The day will come,” he said, his voice growling and low as he raised her hands up between them, “when you’ll want it.” His blue-green eyes smoldered with the same intensity as his voice. “You’ll want it more than I do,” he said, as he slowly moved her hands over her head and pinned them to the wall. “It’ll be so bad you can taste it,” Mac said, his eyes drifting down to her mouth. “And when that day arrives,” he whispered hoarsely, “and that last barrier falls.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “You’ll finally know how much I love you.”

  Then his mouth engulfed hers.

  • • • • •

  For a split second, Mac had truly thought Isabelle would read him and, to his surprise, he’d had a moment of doubt. Though he craved the reading, wanted her to be free of the gloves, he couldn’t know how she would react to the memory of Lynn–and how Ben’s plan played into his darkest fears.

  But then the opportunity had slipped away and, as disappointment and relief mingled, the nearness of her was too much. He captured her mouth in a bittersweet fervor that demanded her lips respond. She had been so close to reading him–had almost done it. Mac knew she wanted it, but now, in her lips, he felt it too. They throbbed under his, pulsing with life. Their warm press slid sensually across his, parting quickly, the invitation impossible to misread. His tongue plunged into her, stroked her mouth repeatedly, and claimed it as his.

  Isabelle sucked him inward and Mac found his chest pressing into hers, his hands still wrapped around the wrists over her head. He pressed forward, tilting his head one way and then the other, his kiss voracious, unrelenting, and his appetite for her only growing.

  Slow down, he told himself. Not so hard.