Torn (Second Sight)

by Hunter, Hazel

  Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

  Mac cut off her view.

  “There’s no need for you to see this,” he said, his voice tight and strained. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

  Angela’s knee had been completely open, as though a dissection class in high school had been at work. Blood pooled all around her lower body, maybe as deep as an inch, nearly cresting the low metal rim of the operating table.

  “Sergeant,” Mac said over her head, as he wrapped her in a hug. “Call Sharon so she can let the Caras family know.”

  Special agents in suits began to arrive, pausing at the doorway as the sergeant had done. Mac moved Isabelle out of the operating room, her hands still clamped over her mouth. The forensics team, in their white jumpsuits, passed them as well. She shut her eyes but all she could see was Angela’s lifeless face. Mac hugged her tight to him and she finally took her hands from her mouth only to begin sobbing. She buried her face in Mac’s chest and clung fiercely to his back.

  “I know,” he whispered.

  It had never even occurred to her that they wouldn’t succeed. Without knowing it, until this moment, Isabelle had envisioned a rescue scene. It had been just like finding Esme but with Angela substituted.

  “Mac?” Dixon said. “I think you should see this.”

  But Mac didn’t respond. He just held her and gently caressed her hair and then her back. With an effort, Isabelle finally managed to stop crying. She wiped her eyes and sniffed as Mac let her go.

  “Are you okay?” he said quietly. There was a flurry of activity behind him and Isabelle nodded her head yes. “All right,” Mac said. “Wait out here.”

  She quickly nodded again. The mere thought of going in that room made her shudder. As she hugged herself and moved further away from the doorway, she found the nearest wall and leaned against it.

  Oh my god, she thought. Angela is dead.

  Isabelle wiped her eyes again, her gloves wet with tears. Police officers joined the group of onlookers and flashes from a camera popped, illuminating their faces. Their expressions were grim, hard, and instantly angry. And none of them turned away, especially not the way she had done.

  Mac pushed through their midst, leaving the operating room and heading toward her, followed by Dixon. In his hand, Mac held a large, clear plastic bag with something inside it. Something was wrong. The tense look on his face made her stomach tighten and, as he raised the bag so she could see what was inside, she felt a sense of dread that nearly took her breath away.

  But inside there was just a stethoscope. It looked brand new, the metal of it glinting in the harsh light as Mac turned the bag. But as the back of the stethoscope came into view, Isabelle realized that the paper inside wasn’t like the object tags that she’d once seen in the evidence room. This piece of paper had her name handwritten on it.

  “What…” she started, tilting her head, staring at it.

  “I think he’s left you a message,” Mac said.

  • • • • •

  Mac watched Isabelle’s face as realization dawned and she recoiled from the bag. Reading the stethoscope was the last thing he wanted her to do but if the Chameleon had left any clue, anything at all, intentional or not, that could lead to his identification, his capture, then it had to be done.

  But Isabelle knew it too. Mac could see that. Though she’d put her back against the wall, she pushed away from it now. With her lips set into a thin line, she began to remove one glove.

  Forensics had already determined that the stethoscope and paper were devoid of prints, though the metal diaphragm appeared to have been damaged–like everything else in this place. Whatever mistake Mac was hoping the Chameleon would make, especially given the ‘operation,’ leaving prints was not one of them. As Isabelle tugged her glove free, Mac opened the bag. But the fact that he’d specifically left something behind was yet another indicator he was getting cocky–very cocky.

  As she reached her bare hand into the bag, it trembled. With one, last, hissing inhale, she touched one of the earpieces. Light from the floodlights set up by forensics spilled into the hallway and lit Isabelle’s face from the side. The one eye that Mac could clearly see unfocused immediately as though she were staring right through his chest.

  Suddenly her eyes widened, her eyebrows flew upward, her mouth dropped open, and then she screamed.

  “Isabelle!” Mac yelled, yanking the stethoscope from her grip.

  Isabelle began to fall backward, her body as rigid as a board, the scream suddenly cut off. In an instant, Mac had flung the bag toward Dixon and lunged forward. He caught her in both his arms as she’d been about to collide with the wall behind her.

  “Isabelle!” he yelled again as he lowered her to the floor, her open eyes staring at the ceiling. “Isabelle!”

  Slowly, her eyes blinked and, as her entire body went limp, her head lolled back. An EMT had appeared at his side and supported her head as Mac gently laid her on the ground. All around them officers and agents were gathering.

  “Isabelle,” Mac said, leaning over her. “Can you hear me?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the EMT, a man in his mid-thirties pick up Isabelle’s arm and feel for a pulse at her wrist.

  “Don’t touch her hand,” Mac snapped at him, only to realize the man was wearing latex gloves.

  “Here,” Dixon said from behind him, extending Isabelle’s glove to the paramedic. “Put that on her.”

  “Mac?” Isabelle whispered shakily.

  “Right here,” he said, taking her other hand in his and leaning down close. Her eyes moved toward his voice and, as she blinked, he could see them focus. Just as they did, though, tears welled up. “What?” he said. “Isabelle, what is it?”

  “He’s coming for me,” she said in a choked voice that was barely audible. “I’m next.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Isabelle hadn’t been able to get into the shower fast enough. It was bad enough that she’d lain on the filthy floor of Linda Vista but what she really needed to scrub off was the stench of the operating room. As she turned off the hair dryer, she could hear Mac’s voice in the living room. He’d been on the phone almost non-stop: with Ben, with Sharon, with Sergeant Dixon. As always, he was in control, sure of himself, though clearly he’d been worried about her.

  As she set the dryer down and looked at her reflection, it wasn’t her face that she saw, nor even Angela’s–it was the Chameleon’s. His voice echoed in the bare operating room.

  “Next time, Isabelle,” he yelled as the pain in her hand radiated up her arm. “It’ll be you!”

  She gripped her wrist, staring down at the clenched fist and willed it to open. But her fingernails bit hard into her palm, building on the pain.

  “Oh god,” she muttered, prying each finger open, both hands shaking.

  Though she’d half-expected a burn mark, only the red indentations of her nails were there.

  “Isabelle?” came Mac’s voice from just beyond the closed door. “Are you all right?”

  She jumped a little at the sound.

  “I’m fine,” she said, quickly, tightening the towel around her and then slipping on a fresh set of gloves, though her hands trembled. “I’ll be right out.”

  Mac stood in the hallway, waiting for her. Though his eyes quickly went to the towel tucked in at her chest, his eyes quickly focused on her hands. Gently, he took them in his.

  “Since when does ‘fine’ include hands that shake?” he asked quietly. “You know, it’s all right not to be fine.”

  She looked down at their hands, trying not to cry again, but failing. He put a finger under her chin and lifted it.

  “I just got off the phone with Ben,” he said. “I told him about us.”

  She blinked at him and felt the tears slip down her cheeks.

  “You what?” she managed to get out.

  “He wasn’t happy about it,” Mac said, with a tight smile. “But he’s not actually my boss and he’s n
ot going to say anything to my boss–though I will.”

  Isabelle had been about to protest.

  “Look,” Mac said, grasping her at the shoulders. “I’m not going to hide our relationship any longer. I don’t care what Ben thinks, or the FBI. You mean too much to me.”

  “But–”

  He put his index finger to her lips.

  “It’s done, Isabelle,” he said, the deeply blue-green eyes gazing calmly into hers. Now his smile was genuine. “And I’m glad.” His finger drifted lightly across her lips, then slowly back along her jaw, as he leaned toward her. “Aren’t you?”

  Even through the tears, she couldn’t help but smile at him.

  “Yes,” she breathed, as his hand slipped to the nape of her neck and his lips found hers.

  • • • • •

  Unlike the frantic collision of yesterday, Mac’s kiss was slow and soft. She closed her eyes to the feathery feeling of it, trying to put the awful images of the day behind her. His lips gently suckled hers but when they moved to her cheek, she knew he was kissing away the tears that continued to fall. The feel of it was so incredibly tender and nearly as devastating as his frenzied passion. And as his mouth slowly returned to hers, she realized her lower lip was quivering. Mac must have felt it too because his lips closed around it and his hands slid up her back and lightly held her close.

  There were so many sides to Mac: the agent in control; the all-male animal of passion; the profiling analyst; the gentle lover. The image of removing her gloves and touching his chest burst into her mind with a force that was like a blow. He’d told Ben about them.

  Wasn’t that commitment?

  And as Mac’s tongue slowly stroked her lower lip, Isabelle saw with sudden clarity that it wasn’t Mac who was not ready for the reading.

  It was her.

  Who is the dark-haired woman who filled him with grief? Do I really want to know? Would knowing mean the end of this?

  With a start, Isabelle realized that Mac was no longer kissing her and she quickly opened her eyes.

  “You’re tired,” he said lowly. “Maybe it’s time for bed.”

  “No,” she blurted out, louder than she’d intended. “I mean, yes.” She forced herself to stop and took a deep breath. “What I mean is that it’s time for bed but not to sleep.”

  • • • • •

  Inwardly, Mac kicked himself.

  I should never have let Isabelle see the crime scene.

  She was a civilian for god’s sake and he had somehow managed to overlook that. And he knew exactly how. Standing there with nothing but a towel on, it’d taken every bit of willpower he could muster not to just pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. But she was obviously shaken and for good reason. The pain in her eyes was clear.

  Without a word, he simply wound his arms around her petite frame, shorter than usual without the high heels, and held her to him. He stroked her silky hair as she lay her face on his chest and slipped her arms around his waist. He’d do anything to quell that pain. It called to the protective part of him–the part he knew all too well.

  “What you saw today would frighten anybody,” he whispered. “It’s a natural reaction.”

  For several moments she didn’t say anything but then her arms gripped him tighter and she slowly shook her head.

  “That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

  Mac frowned at that and pulled back to see her face. She was crying again.

  “Isabelle,” he said. “How can that be? I just said that I told Ben about us.”

  In answer, her hands moved to his chest and as she stared at them through the tears, he looked down as well to see the gloves that he hardly noticed any more.

  It was the gloves again, and the readings, and her insistence that they weren’t ready for that. He’d ignored it at first, seeing how much it upset her. Well maybe now was the time to settle it once and for all. But as the tears once again slipped down her face and her lower lip quivered with emotion, he knew now was not the time. In fact, there weren’t any words that he hadn’t already said. Instead, he did what he’d wanted from the start. He bent and picked her up, feeling her arms tighten around his neck and her body curl against his chest, and he carried her to the bedroom.

  • • • • •

  Though Mac released her onto the comforter and began to stand, Isabelle didn’t let him go. She clung to him as though she were drowning.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, sitting on the bed to face her. “Wild LAPD helicopters couldn’t drag me away.” She tried to smile at the lame humor but the lopsided attempt only emphasized how awful she must feel. A sharp stab of pain and regret lanced through his chest. “Isabelle,” he whispered, caressing the side of her face.

  Her gloved hand immediately covered his and she tilted her head, pressing her face to his hand, still trying to smile. As she did, the long, dark strands of hair that had covered her opposite shoulder fell behind the graceful curve of her neck. Slowly but steadily, he leaned into her and lightly placed his lips on her bare shoulder. He hesitated, waiting for some reaction, but when there wasn’t one, he moved his mouth toward her neck and lightly kissed her again. A sigh whispered shallowly from her lungs. As he moved higher, he allowed the tip of his tongue to trace the short route before he paused again and softly sucked at her satin-smooth skin.

  “God, that feels good,” she breathed, her voice still quaking. And now Mac realized her entire body was trembling.

  Again he moved higher, tasting her, feeling the warmth just below the surface. She tilted her head to accommodate him and his lips landed on the side of her neck, suckling the offered flesh with a firmer press of his lips. He took his time, willing the quiet quaking of her body to stop, moving slowly and deliberately. Another low breath escaped her and his mouth sensed some of the tension in her relax. One delicious bit at a time, he moved up her neck along her jaw and then finally to her mouth. Her full lips were already parted, her eyes already closed, and he took three, soft and lingering kisses to cross her mouth. The beautifully swollen lips responded by kissing him back, equally lightly, but trying to follow him.

  But as his hand gently kept her face from turning, his mouth slipped under her jaw, to the front of her throat. Her chin tilted up and he took the opportunity to move closer, let his hands slip to her back, and he leaned her backward.

  • • • • •

  Isabelle felt Mac’s warm breath, moist against the skin of her breasts as his mouth moved steadily lower. Slowly, the images of Angela’s body, the memory of her pain, even the grimacing face of the Chameleon began to fade as Mac’s unending and insistent kisses demanded she stay in the present. And as her heart began to beat faster, she knew her body was responding to a demand that was far more than that.

  His strong arm wound beneath her as he leaned her further back, followed quickly by a small tug on the towel and the feel of the fabric falling away. Cool air drifted over her body but the sensation didn’t last long as Mac’s wet tongue wound its way quickly down her breast. Her body tensed in anticipation, not helped by the gnawing bite of his lips. She pushed her fingers into his thick hair as he let her settle back onto the bed. But as he moved onto the comforter with her and she spread her legs to allow his hips between her knees, she realized he was still dressed.

  “No,” she whispered. His lips stopped their gentle massage and he looked into her eyes. “Your skin,” she said reaching for the first button on his shirt. “I need to feel it next to me.”

  A little smile formed on Mac’s beautifully curved mouth and with a final, light kiss, directly on her nipple, he got up. Isabelle gasped at the sensation and, as she watched him undress and put on a condom, the peak of her breast shivered erect. Just the sight of him–the bunching of his thick pectorals, the taut cords that wrapped the tops of his hips, his long, powerful thighs, his engorged arousal�
�was enough to send a flood of warmth between her legs. His eyes swept over her as he came back to the bed and, at the edge, he paused. As though he were committing her to memory, he took in every inch and she squirmed under his intense gaze.

  Finally, though, he climbed onto the bed and she felt the hair roughened skin of his thighs between her knees, his warm chest covering her mound, and his moist mouth on her breast, just above her nipple. She closed her eyes at the tingling sensation of his tongue lapping at her, his lips gnawing into the sensitized flesh. Slowly, he worked toward the tightening tip and her hands gripped his hard shoulders. His tongue traced a hot, wet circle around the sensitive peak, over and over, grazing the stiff nub. Isabelle felt her own hips gyrate in a tiny circle, unable to keep them still. But when his mouth closed on the aching center of her breast, her hips pulsed and a shuddering gasp escaped her.

  Something like a growl rose from Mac’s chest, moved into his throat, and then vibrated inside his warm mouth around the peak of her breast. A wild tingling erupted on the engorged tip, electric in its intensity, as her other nipple hardened in empathy. They both throbbed with desire as Mac suckled the one thrusting point. He teased it, tugging gently. He sucked the tortured peak, taking the entire quivering tip into his amazing mouth. Isabelle squirmed under his weight as Mac’s mouth paused and her entire world focused on what he would do next.

  Lightly, his tongue whisked the pebble-hard point.

  She moaned, releasing the breath that she hadn’t realized she’d held.

  He whisked the tip again and then again, back and forth, and her moan turned into a high-pitched whimper. But when Mac took it between his teeth and lightly bit, Isabelle quickly inhaled and felt her back arch wildly, utterly beyond her control. Though the weight of his chest kept her hips from bucking, she arched herself completely off the bed, and felt her breast tug free of Mac’s mouth. An anguished moan was torn from her throat and her fingers dug hard into his bunching shoulders.