by Sandra Owens
“No,” Laura gasped. “Oh my God, we can’t show this to her. This woman is dead.”
Not just dead, but murdered. Which raised a new question. What was the connection between Taylor’s mother and their case? “We don’t have a choice.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Laura said.
Nate swallowed bile as another thought entered his mind. What if the killer knew who Taylor was? He was going to find the man and kill him. “Hold that up.” He took a picture of the Polaroid and then emailed it to Court, following it up with a text that he wanted a meeting in the morning before the one already scheduled with the team. That done, he strode over to Taylor. “What did you want to show me?”
Taylor frowned at the sharp edge in Nate’s voice. She narrowed her eyes as she studied his face. Rage vibrated from him. “What happened?”
“I think our man was watching us.”
“Seriously?” She didn’t like how his eyes shifted away from her. He was hiding something. “And?”
He leveled his gaze on her. “And we need to talk, but not here.” He glanced at the car coming around the corner of the store. “That’s the M.E. Show me what you found and then let’s get out of here.”
Something about Nate’s demeanor made her nervous, but she shook it off. “Look here.” She knelt next to their victim’s head, picking up a section of hair shorter than the rest. “Someone cut off a piece of her hair. I almost missed it.”
The M.E. walked up, and Taylor switched her attention to him. “Hey, Reg. Check this out. We need to know if the other women had any hair cut off. It would have been easy to miss since we didn’t know to look for it. If we find the same thing, then he’s keeping souvenirs.”
“The first body was claimed by the family and cremated, but the other two are still in the morgue.” The M.E. bent over, studying the hair Taylor held. “Sorry for missing that.”
“I only noticed because of the way her hair had parted.” Taylor stood. “Give me a call tomorrow and let me know what you find.” She tugged off her rubber gloves. “We need you to put a priority on the autopsy.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.” She glanced over at Nate, not liking his troubled eyes. “Ready?” When his gaze flicked to Laura, she caught some kind of message passing between them. What the hell was going on? She waved to Laura and Jerry, the other crime scene tech, then followed Nate to her car.
“Okay, spill,” Taylor said when they were at her place. Nate had refused to tell her what was on his mind on the drive back—had, in fact, gone into silent-brooding mode.
He glanced at the empty fish tank. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
“You’re scaring me, Nate.”
Instead of reassuring her, he poured a glass of wine, setting it on the table. “Sit,” he said, pulling a chair out for her, and then taking a seat across from her. He clasped his hands, resting them on the table.
“Stop staring at your knuckles and start talking.” She’d never seen him like this. Yeah, he was sometimes a moody man, but whatever this was, it had to do with her, something he dreaded telling her. She couldn’t imagine what would have him this rattled, but his silence sent her heart to pounding, and not in a good way.
Black eyes lifted to hers, pity swirling in them. “Our killer left something at the scene. A picture . . . a Polaroid, to be exact.”
“And?” she said when he paused. She still didn’t know what this was about, but suddenly, she was sweating. Realizing she still had her FBI jacket on, she tugged it off, tossing it on the chair next to her.
“I should have called Rothmire with this first.” He motioned at her wine glass. “Maybe you should drink some of that.”
“Dammit, Nate, I’m about three seconds away from shooting you. Talk. Now.”
“Yeah, it’s just that I don’t know how to tell you this.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, already showing the beginning of a beard.
When he’d picked her up—how many hours ago? It seemed like days now—she’d noticed that he’d shaved, but she liked his scruffy-faced look best. And why was she even noticing that his beard was already growing back in when she was sure he was about to turn her world on its end? Why else was he having trouble looking her in the eyes if that wasn’t the case?
“Nate,” she practically growled.
He reached over, putting his hand on top of hers. “He left a photo of your mother.”
She stared for a moment at his big hand covering hers—as if in some kind of protective gesture—confused as to what he was trying to say. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, tiger. It must have been taken right after she was murdered. I think our bad guy was your mother’s killer, or he’s been in touch with whoever was.”
His voice was so soft, so filled with compassion, that in that moment she hated him. She yanked her hand away, resenting his pity. “I don’t believe you.” It wasn’t possible.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry.” She pushed away from the table, and in six steps she was standing in the middle of her living room. The walls were closing in around her, and for the first time, she wished she had a bigger apartment. Enough room to pace, to breathe. Nate walked up next to her, but as if he understood she couldn’t bear it, he didn’t touch her.
“I want to see the photo.”
“No, you don’t. You’re going to have to take my word for it, at least for tonight. When you’re calm, if you still do, then I’ll show it to you.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” She poked him in the chest, fury burning a searing path through her. “I’m a part of this investigation, and that’s evidence, which I have a right to see.”
“I’m sorry, Taylor, but I’m taking you off the case.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “The hell you are.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nate wanted to punch something. The rage that lived inside him burned hot, threatening to consume him. From the moment he’d seen that Polaroid, it had been bubbling like molten lava, ready to spew.
He walked away, not wanting to give Taylor even a glimpse of what he was capable of. On the pretense of getting a glass of water, he sought calm. Using a trick that sometimes worked, he imagined the rage was a ball of fire in his stomach. Then he visualized it traveling up, past his chest and into his throat. He opened his mouth, giving it an escape hatch. He let out a sharp breath, and the fire with it, and then took several calming breaths. Once he was sure he was in control again, he drank the water. At the sound of her footsteps coming up behind him, he inhaled one more deep breath before facing her.
“Please, Nate. Don’t do this.” She steepled her hands, touching her fingers to her lips as if begging him.
He leaned back on the counter, and as much as he wanted to give her anything she asked for, he refused to let those pleading blue eyes get to him. “Consider it done. And there is no way in hell you’re going to pose as a hooker. Not now.”
She lowered her hands, fisting them at her sides. “I hate you.” She pressed her lips together, her jaw clenching after slinging those words at him.
Hearing her say that cut like a knife straight through the center of his heart, but he managed not to flinch. “Better you hate me than I mourn you.” Yeah, she was pissed, but he didn’t care. Whatever it took to keep her safe, he’d do.
“I want you to leave.” She walked to the door, opening it. “Now.”
Why couldn’t she understand that the game had changed? First thing in the morning, he’d call their profiler, but for now, he’d give her time to think things through. She was a smart woman, and once she calmed down, she would see that he was right.
“And just so you know,” she said as he walked past her, “I’m going to Rothmire in the morning. We’ll just see if I’m off this case or not.”
He stilled, a thousand responses running through his mind, heavy with regret that what had been one of the best nights of his life was ending this way. He doubt
ed she would ever forgive him.
Keeping his back to her, he said, “I’m the lead on this, and my word is final. I’m sorry, Taylor, but that’s just how it is.” He left it at that, although he could have reminded her that going over her team leader’s head was never a good idea. Or that if the situation were reversed, she would have done the same thing. Or that he knew—and had ignored his own warning to himself—it was a mistake for them to get involved. Yet, even though he should, he didn’t regret that last one.
He walked out to the door slamming behind him. As he unlocked his bike, he made a mental list of things he needed to do before the morning team meeting. High on that list was to call Rothmire, get to him before Taylor had a chance to.
He rode to the entrance of her complex, pulling into a parking space. There was no way he was leaving her unguarded now if there was even a remote possibility that Taylor could be a target. But sitting on his bike the rest of the night wouldn’t fly. He called Alex.
“Yo?” Alex said, his voice rough with sleep.
“Need you to bring me the car and then ride my bike home.”
“It’s four-fucking-o’clock in the morning, bro.”
“I know what time it is. Get your ass out of bed and just do it. I’m at Taylor’s. And bring me a thermos of coffee.” He hung up.
Never a patient man, he paced while waiting for Alex. The rage was still there, and with it came the memories. He’d gotten good at keeping them at bay, except when the fire burned. And right now, the fire was out of control.
He’d learned about pain and disillusionment at an early age at the hands of his sire. The old man was a master at teaching his boys those things. Nate never once regretted pulling as much attention as he could onto himself and away from his brothers. Yeah, there were days he could barely walk after a beating, days he seriously considered running away. He would have if not for Court and Alex, too young to take with him and too helpless against their father’s heavy hand to be left alone with the bastard.
Then the day had come when he’d almost killed the old man. Not that he’d never fantasized about it. He had. Many times. But when he’d come upon the son of a bitch beating Alex with the buckle end of his belt—the scars from that day were still on Alex’s back—his baby brother unconscious, his skin a bloody mess, Nate had lost all reason. If not for Court trying to pull him away, and then Alex coming to, bleeding like a stuck pig as he wrapped himself around Nate’s leg, begging Nate not to go to jail while tears stained his cheeks, Nate would have killed his father without remorse. But Alex’s words had penetrated the red haze. If he went to juvie, possibly even prison if tried as an adult, his brothers would have been sent to foster homes.
He’d been sixteen at the time, already bigger than his sire. That didn’t stop his father from getting his revenge. Taylor had wanted to know about the burn marks on his shoulders, and she’d made no comment about the ones on his legs, but he’d felt her touch, knowing the moment she’d discovered them. Fact was, he was ashamed to admit that his drunk, lousy excuse of a father had managed to tie him to his bed while he was sleeping, catching him unaware. No, his father hadn’t let his oldest son’s rebellion go unpunished. He’d had his fill of fun with the burning end of a cigarette.
The boy he’d been had learned to hate, had welcomed the rage, had let it consume him. No, he didn’t trust himself to have a wife or children. If he ever lost his temper around his own child so badly that he used his fists, he’d put his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. Better not to even go there. But if the man who’d left that Polaroid for them to find was standing in front of him right now, he’d have no problem tearing the bastard apart limb from limb. That he could live with.
Headlights from an approaching car landed on him. He stepped in front of the black SUV that he recognized as his, the vehicle coming to a stop six inches from his knees.
“Dude, you have a death wish?” Alex said, sticking his head out the window.
He did, but not for himself. “Back it in next to my bike.” Once the SUV was parked, he slid into the passenger seat, knowing Alex wouldn’t leave without an explanation.
“Why are we sitting outside Taylor’s apartment?” Alex asked.
“We aren’t. You’re going home.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Our man struck again, only this time he left the body behind a store in Hialeah.” He brought Alex up to speed, the fury that had been riding him since finding the photo still running high.
“Man, that’s not good. Not good at all,” Alex said when he finished. “You’re gonna pull her from the investigation, right?”
“Already did, and she’s not a happy camper right now. She can still work on the case behind the scenes, but that’s it.” He opened the container of coffee, pouring some in the cup. “You can go home now.”
“Nope, I’ll hang for a while.” Alex took the cup out of his hand. “You’ve been up all night. Grab a catnap, and I’ll keep watch.”
Baby brother was as stubborn as they came, and knowing it would be useless to argue, Nate reclined his seat. “Wake me in an hour.” Although he was tired, he doubted he’d be able to sleep, but he’d give it a go.
“Up, Sleeping Beauty. Your woman’s on the move.”
Nate yawned as he blinked his eyes open. “What’d you say?”
“Taylor’s backing out of her space.”
“This early, she’s probably heading over to Rosie’s.” He and Alex slid down in their seats as she drove by. His bike was fortunately parked on the far side of his car, out of sight. The sun was just now coming up, so she was heading out earlier than usual. It didn’t take much thinking to know she wanted to be at their field office before Rothmire arrived so she could ambush him the minute he walked in the door.
“Out,” he said.
“I saved you some coffee.” Alex handed him the container. “You’re welcome.”
“Sorry. Thanks.” He jogged around to the driver’s side, but paused. “Seriously, thank you, brother.” Nate tossed him the bike keys.
Alex saluted him. “Anytime.”
It didn’t take long to catch up with Taylor, and she was definitely heading to Rosie’s. He pulled over a block away, and while he waited for her to come out, he called Rothmire. The conversation went the way he’d expected. The boss agreed that she needed to stay in the background and would back Nate up on his decision.
Taylor was going to be royally pissed, but Nate could live with that. He couldn’t live with anything happening to her.
The bag swung back her way, and Taylor punched it again—a hard one, two—visualizing that it was Nate. Still furious after her meeting with Rothmire, she figured she had two choices. Go on a rampage at the office or head straight for the gym, taking her frustration out on the heavy bag.
How could Nate do it? Even though he knew how much this investigation meant to her—that catching the bastard killing these poor women, and who had maybe killed her mother, was something she needed to do—he’d pulled her off the case. And worse? He’d gotten to Rothmire before she could, convincing their boss that her butt should be parked behind a desk for the duration.
She was a highly trained federal agent, perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Apparently, it didn’t matter that she could outshoot most of her fellow agents, could physically fight them and win, and could outthink them. Nope, she was just a silly girl who had to be protected by the alpha men in her life. Well, they could just go eat dirt.
She’d been too young to save her mother, but she could save women like her who had no one else who cared enough to fight for them. The bag came her way again, and Taylor twisted in the air, back kicking it, sending it soaring in the opposite direction. Take that, Nate.
“Impressive.”
Taylor eyed the man standing off to the side. She’d seen him at the gym a few times, mostly walking on the treadmill. He was maybe ten or fifteen years older than she was, and his hazel eyes were kind.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“You need a sparring partner?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
Her gaze slid over to Nate, leaning against the wall as he watched them. It was as if they had some kind of psychic connection; she knew when he was within fifty feet of her. If looks could kill, the nice man talking to her would fall over dead this very second. She tore her gaze away from Nate.
“Not today, but thanks for the offer,” she said, offering her hand. “Taylor Collins.”
He stared at her outstretched hand for a moment, as if surprised. “Wade Tillman.” He wrapped his fingers around her hand, giving her a firm shake.
She liked that about him, that he wasn’t afraid of hurting her like some men whose handshakes were limp, as if she were a breakable doll. Little did they know. From the corner of her eye, she caught Nate’s scowl. Well, screw him.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Tillman. See you around.” She walked away, needing to get out of Nate’s line of sight. Even furious with him, his eyes on her sent a jolt of desire streaming through her body, her girly parts not caring one bit about his betrayal.
Last night had been amazing, right up until Rothmire had called, telling them another woman had been murdered. It went downhill from there, and she wasn’t ready to face Nate after he’d gone behind her back.
And that hurt. He could have at least told her he was going to talk to Rothmire. The fact that those hours he’d spent in her bed were amazing—mind-blowing, if she were honest with herself—no longer meant anything to her. And she’d keep telling herself that until she believed it.
How was she supposed to act around him now? Pretend last night had never happened? If nothing else, she’d learned a valuable lesson. Never fall in love with one of her fellow agents. Even if it wasn’t an office rule, it was now one of hers.
In the gym’s shower, she scrubbed herself raw, ridding herself of all traces on her skin that Nate had left behind. And when the last scent of him was gone, she leaned her forehead against the tiles and cried. Her tears were for her mother, for the women left with no choice but to sell their bodies, and for something she couldn’t name, only that it had to do with Nate.