Dangerous to Touch

by Jill Sorenson

  When he got back to the hotel, Lacy was asleep. So was Sidney, judging from the sound of her soft, rhythmic breathing as he slipped on the headphones. He was supposed to let Lacy take second shift, but he didn’t. Staring at Sidney’s dark, curtain-shrouded windows, he stayed awake, listening to her breathe, finding that sound somehow more comforting than sleep.

  Like a nightmare, the knocking wouldn’t stop. Groaning, she rolled to a sitting position on the living room floor, every muscle in her body screaming in violent protest.

  Samantha was sleeping peacefully on the couch, curled up in a bundle of rumpled sheets with Marley snuggled alongside her, purring.

  “Traitor,” she muttered, crawling to her feet.

  Marc Cruz was at her doorstep. Again.

  “What?”

  “It’s 5:45,” he said. “I gave you an extra few minutes.”

  “How generous. Go away.”

  On the couch, Samantha moaned and stretched. Sidney closed her eyes, willing her sister silent, willing Marc gone, willing herself back asleep.

  No such luck. Samantha came up beside her and draped her slender arm over Sidney’s shoulder, striking a sultry pose. “Good morning,” she said, her electric-blue eyes raking over Marc’s muscular physique. Her mascara was smudged and her hair a riot of blond tangles, but Samantha made a hangover look like a million bucks. The hot-pink panties and matching lace camisole she was wearing didn’t hurt.

  Marc looked, proving himself a red-blooded man, and let his gaze linger, proving himself a shallow, horny bastard.

  “This must be the handsome investigator you told me about,” Samantha said.

  Sidney felt her face grow warm. Why did her sister always insist on embarrassing her? “Do you want to come in and wait?” she asked Marc. “I’m not ready.”

  He ogled Samantha one more time. “Sure.”

  Sidney stormed away, wishing a lifetime of miseries on them both. She was staring at her pathetic, puffy-eyed reflection over the bathroom sink when Samantha hurried in, flapping her hands with excitement. “Oh, honey, you’ve got to get with him.”

  Sidney splashed cold water on her face. “Why?”

  “So you can tell me if he’s any good.”

  She began brushing her teeth vigorously. “Why don’t you give him a test run yourself and leave me out of it?”

  “Don’t be so negative, darling. Men hate it.”

  Affecting total disinterest, Sidney shouldered past her. In the dryer, the only clothes she could find were a pair of blue terry-cloth shorts she sometimes used as pajamas. She pulled them on with a baggy T-shirt and stepped into her river-stained tennis shoes.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Samantha was horrified.

  “Why don’t I just parade around in see-through lingerie, like you?”

  “Oh my God,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “You’re jealous.”

  Sidney glared her sister into silence, motioning toward the living room.

  “He went outside to make a phone call,” Samantha explained.

  “He couldn’t have been less interested in me.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it, Sid. I think he really likes you.”

  Sidney snorted her disbelief. Maybe Marc was pretending to be her boyfriend again, like last night. She was too tired to figure out what game he was playing. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” she said to Samantha. “Get some more sleep.”

  In his car, moments later, she was uncomfortably aware of his presence, her appearance, the amount of thigh exposed by her brief shorts and the feel of her bare skin against his all-leather interior. For some reason, whenever she was with him her physical reactions went haywire, while her other senses dulled. Last night, he’d put his hands all over her face. He’d brushed his lips over hers. And yet, the only feelings she’d experienced were her own.

  Was animal attraction the cure for her condition?

  Closing her eyes, she replayed his kiss in her mind, unable to stop torturing herself with the memory.

  “About last night,” he began, pulling at his collar. “I was thinking I could have handled things differently.”

  She hazarded a glance at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I wanted to talk with Greg privately, so I misrepresented our…relationship, and put my investigation above your feelings. You can still press charges, of course.”

  “No,” she said quickly, flushing at the thought of complaining to his superiors about a harmless little kiss.

  “I should have offered you that option last night. It was selfish.”

  She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I hardly felt it.”

  “Hardly felt what?”

  “Your…” She trailed off, seeing his confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “You, pressing charges against Greg.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “What were you talking about?” His lips curved into a slight smile. “Me kissing you?”

  She felt her cheeks heat even more.

  He arched a brow. “Hardly felt it, did you? Hmm.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Guajome Lake.”

  Those two words dispelled any romantic notions she’d been entertaining.

  Guajome Lake was a small body of water along the eastern edge of Oceanside, close to Bonsall, where Sidney grew up. The lake was surrounded by a quiet camping area and RV park. A month ago, Anika Groene’s nude body had been found there, half-submerged, tangled in reeds.

  As Marc pulled his car into the shaded parking area, Sidney felt mildly nauseous. She wished she’d eaten something this morning to settle her stomach, and was glad, at the same time, that she hadn’t.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He shrugged, getting out of the car. They walked the perimeter of the lake with a flock of ducks waddling around their feet, changing the mood from macabre to bizarre. Sidney didn’t feel anything supernatural, but she hadn’t expected to. She didn’t get readings from the air, or the sky, or the soles of her shoes.

  At a clearing along the shore, she stopped. It was a dry dirt bank, close to the road, and the kind of place where a person wouldn’t leave muddy footprints. “Was she found here?”

  Instead of answering, he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking across the silent expanse of water.

  “Hold my hand,” she requested.

  His dark gaze searched her face, but he did as she asked. Closing her eyes in concentration, she grasped for an impression and got nothing more from him than she ever had. He put up a resistance around himself like a brick wall.

  Sighing, she gave up on trying to read his thoughts. Instead she felt the warmth of his skin, the slightly rough texture of his palm, the banked strength in his hand.

  “You weren’t here,” she said. “When they pulled her up.”

  It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t bother to reply. He did meet her eyes, and for a second, the wall between them fell away.

  Through him, she saw herself, not standing on the shore of Guajome Lake, but in the outdoor shower at her own home. With her head tilted back and her hands in her wet hair, every detail of her naked body was on provocative display.

  She dropped his hand from hers like it had been burned. “You saw me in the shower,” she whispered. Not only had he been spying on her, but he’d been listening in. “You heard…” Shame and betrayal stabbed through her, as sharp as a knife. She pressed the back of her hand to her trembling mouth. “How could you do that?”

  Guilt flashed in his eyes. “Sidney-”

  With a muted cry, she turned and ran, almost losing her footing on the slippery, freshly watered grass on the hillside leading up to the women’s rest room. Inside, she locked herself in the last stall, pulse beating wildly in her throat, a cold sweat breaking out on her skin.

  Night before last, he’d seen her naked. He’d heard her masturbating.

  She put her fore
head against the stall door, unable to stifle a humiliated moan. The hand she’d felt on her pillow had been his. He’d been in her house. He’d violated her sanctuary.

  Last night, he hadn’t knocked on her door because he’d been “in the neighborhood.” He’d been listening to her and Greg grapple on the living room couch.

  She stood there for a few moments, writhing with mortification, blinking back angry tears. Although she wanted to hide forever, Sidney wasn’t a coward, so she squared her shoulders, lifted her wobbly chin and walked out of the stall to face him.

  She paused at the sink with the intention of washing her hands, and maybe splashing a bit of water on her flushed cheeks.

  When she reached out to turn on the faucet, her reflection in the stainless steel mirror faded. In its place, there was a strange man, his features gaunt and steeped in shadow…

  Just thinking about her made him hard.

  He watched her sink down into the water, unable to breathe, unable to move. She was helpless. Hopeless. Mindless with terror.

  She kicked. They both had, thrashing wildly under the surface, releasing a flurry of bubbles. He witnessed her last breath.

  God.

  He was in control of her. Complete control.

  His own breathing roughened, and he unbuttoned his black jeans, freeing himself. He was pulsing, hard and hot in his slender hand.

  Hot. He was so hot.

  Moving feverishly toward release, he pictured them tied, gagged, frozen in fear. He imagined their mouths flooded with the tinny taste of it, with brackish water, with him.

  Gasping, he jerked toward the sink, squeezing his eyes closed in ecstasy, knowing the next woman who came in would get a wet, hot handful of him.

  Chapter 7

  “Sidney?” Marc listened at the open doorway of the public rest room, waiting patiently.

  He couldn’t hear anything. If she was crying, or peeing, or throwing up, she was doing it silently. “I’m coming in,” he warned. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her further, but he was worried she’d had another…panic attack.

  He found her slumped in the corner by the door, unconscious, but breathing. Cursing himself for causing her distress, he picked her up and carried her out of the stuffy rest room, barely noticing the strain in his shoulders as he bore her weight. He laid her down on the soft grass in the shade of a gnarled oak and shook her gently.

  “Wake up, Sidney,” he said, trying to force himself to stay calm. Murmuring something unintelligible, she turned her head. “Please wake up,” he urged again, surprised to hear fear quavering in his voice.

  “Marc,” she whispered, licking her dry lips.

  “You need water. Let me get you some-”

  “No!” Her eyes flew open. “He was in there.”

  A chill trickled down his spine. “Who?”

  “The killer.”

  Sitting up, he scanned the immediate area, drawing his Glock 9mm from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion.

  “He was…” She looked down at her hands. “He…”

  As a homicide investigator, and a man, Marc recognized semen when he saw it. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered in a low voice as he rose to his feet.

  With swift, efficient motions he checked every stall in both rest rooms. At the women’s sink there was more than enough seminal fluid for a DNA sample, although it appeared to be several hours old, at least.

  When he came out she was shivering, staring at her hands. Without a word he holstered his Glock and helped her into the men’s room, where she washed them repeatedly, chafing her skin with harsh powdered soap.

  “That’s enough,” he said, pulling her away gently. The trembling began again, racking her entire body, and he knew she was in shock. Under the shade of the oak, he drew her into his arms and held her there while she cried.

  “I hate you,” she said, sniffling.

  “I know.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She used it noisily, and he knew he was in trouble, to find the way she blew her nose endearing. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “He was watching himself in the mirror. Fantasizing about…them dying.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark. His features weren’t clear.”

  “He had dark hair?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Short hair?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He summoned patience. “Picture what you saw, Sidney. Study his reflection. Was he taller than you?”

  “Maybe. Or he could have been standing closer to the mirror. He wasn’t short,” she said decisively. “And he was wearing dark clothes.”

  “Okay. Good. Was he thin, fat? Round-faced? Clean-shaven?”

  “Thinner than you,” she said, studying the breadth of his shoulders. “Scary-looking. I couldn’t see much of his face. He was standing in shadow.”

  “Was he black, white, Hispanic?”

  “White. Maybe.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know,” she wailed, covering her face with her hands.

  “You were in his mind, right?” he persisted. “What was he like? What did he remind you of?”

  “A bully,” she said with a shudder. “Maybe it’s the wrong word, but that’s what he reminded me of.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about him made me think of a boy I used to know in grade school. He would pull my hair, call me a witch, stuff like that.” She ran a hand over her cap of short black hair, as if remembering. “He liked to inflict pain. Isn’t that what bullies do?”

  He took out his cell phone and called CSI, requesting they rope off the area to collect evidence. It was a logical move, even without Sidney’s vision. Violent, sexually motivated criminals often returned to the scene for physical gratification.

  Upon ending the call, he studied her carefully. It was getting more and more difficult to discredit her impressions. And impossible to control his attraction to her.

  She was facing away from him, arms crossed over her chest, head down, exposing the pale skin at her nape. Drawn to that tender, vulnerable place, he put his hand there, tracing the top of her spine with his thumb.

  She flinched at his touch, but didn’t pull away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She was silent for a moment. “I guess we’re two of a kind.” She jerked her chin toward the rest room. “Me and him.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She stared at him over her shoulder, anguish in her eyes, until he caught her meaning.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Do you get off on raping women? Torturing them? Watching them die?”

  “Of course not.”

  He wanted to shake some sense into her. “What you did, in the privacy of your own bedroom, is nothing like what he did here. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “How would you feel if someone watched you? Listened to you?”

  He dropped his hand from her neck, feeling the muscles in his own shoulders tighten in frustration. He searched for the right words to justify his actions, when there were none. “There’s no excuse for my behavior,” he said. Not only was it contrary to protocol, it was completely at odds with his moral code. “You’re beautiful-”

  She turned to face him, disbelief apparent on her slack features.

  “That’s not the only reason I did it,” he admitted, shoving his fingers through his hair. He’d invaded her privacy, and yet he was the one who felt totally exposed. Never had he been less able to govern his emotions. Had she put some kind of spell on him? “I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t look away.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “If the room had been on fire, in that moment, I couldn’t have looked away.”

  She stared back at him, thunderstruck.

  “You are so clueless,” he said softly. “How can you see everything else, and not know how much I want you?”

  Her smoky, wet-lashed eyes wandered o
ver his face like a silken caress. “You what?”

  “I want you,” he ground out, meaning the words as a warning this time.

  When she moistened her lips, as if in anticipation, he took control of the only thing he could: her mouth. He pulled her body against his, wanting to punish her for making him want her so much he’d become reckless and impulsive, the kind of man he despised.

  To his amazement, her lips parted and she kissed him back, tentatively at first, shyly touching her tongue to his. Then she moaned, flattening her breasts against his chest and lacing her fingers through his hair, driving him right over the edge from inappropriate to insane.

  Groaning, he deepened the kiss, tasting her thoroughly, plumbing the sweet recesses of her mouth. His hands, no less eager to explore, moved down to cup her bottom. With a slight shudder, he pressed close, unable to contain his excitement, or his arousal. There were advantages to her height, he discovered. He didn’t have to lift her to get her in the position he wanted. They fit together perfectly.

  He felt the soft apex of her thighs cradling his erection, and was overwhelmed by the need to have her hot, wet, naked, now. Changing the angle of his kiss, he backed her toward a concrete picnic table, seeking a flat surface on which to lay her down. When her bottom hit the table, she sat on its edge and wrapped her long, silky legs around him.

  At that moment, he abandoned common sense in favor of raw sensation.

  Desperate for the feel of her bare skin, he rode one hand up her sleek thigh and slid the other underneath her T-shirt, filling his palm with her breast. Through the thin fabric of her bra, he felt her nipple, tight with need. He circled his thumb over the pebbled tip as she cried out, twisting her fingers in his hair.

  Her small sound of pleasure rang out in the open space, reminding him of where they were. Lifting his head, he searched the deserted park for somewhere more private than a picnic table and more romantic than a public rest room.

  Across the street, Crystal Dunn’s news van was parked. One of her cronies was pointing a telephoto lens out the passenger side window, straight at him.

  Marc saw his entire career flash before his eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “Wh-what?”