Deadly Intent

by Kylie Brant

  She brushed her teeth. Of course it was just like Kell to blow hot and cold, constantly keeping her off balance. At the Elliotts’ place, he’d kissed her before she’d walked out the door. Then earlier tonight he’d casually walked by when he had to have known what Dan wanted to talk to her about.

  Sometimes she thought he purposely tried to drive her crazy.

  Macy headed back into the bedroom. She was too tired to struggle with pajamas so she was going to crawl into bed fully clothed, something she hadn’t done since she was a child.

  But she got to the side of the bed. Stood there. Then looked toward the wall that joined the rooms. She already knew there was absolutely no chance she’d sleep, despite the exhaustion that was turning her muscles to lead. The bed held no temptation for her because the one man she wanted to see in it was giving her the distance she’d asked for.

  And wasn’t it just like the man to give her what she wanted once she wasn’t sure she wanted it anymore?

  Macy dropped on the edge of the bed, shoved her hands into the pockets of the jogging suit. Felt the crumpled paper she’d placed in one of them. Her breathing quickened. It was telling that it took far more courage to get up and walk to that door than it had to confront Alden earlier that night.

  Before she lost that courage, she went out into the hallway and knocked on the next door. And when there was no answer, she knocked again, more than a little chagrined. He was asleep?

  The door pulled open then. He still wore his jeans, and his eyes looked alert, although they were minus his glasses. He leaned against the jamb, barring her entrance. “I’m sort of tired. If you need to get undressed, maybe Travis will help you.”

  She placed a hand in the middle of his chest and shoved. It didn’t improve her mood to realize he’d moved only because he wanted to. He backed away to lean against the desk, and she closed the door behind her, her palms dampening enough that she wanted to wipe them on her pants.

  He didn’t say anything. Slightly panicked, she searched her mind for something to say. Came up with nothing. Damn the man, where was that glib charm when she needed it?

  “Um . . .” She held out her hand, showed him the crumpled note. “I came to collect.”

  He studied her gravely. “Technically, you didn’t extend me any credit.”

  “I’ve got the IOU. You signed it.” The nerves in her stomach were doing jumping jacks.

  Leaning forward, he took it from her, examining it carefully. “That does look like my signature.”

  She reached out to tap it. “Also your suggested payment.”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Macy.” He handed it back to her, his eyes intent. “I didn’t expect that to be a one-time payment.”

  Something in her eased a bit. And the pounding in her pulse was no longer due to anxiety. “No?”

  He shook his head. “Hard to believe I’m saying this, but I’m not in for the short-term repayment plan either.”

  She smiled slowly. “That doesn’t leave many options.”

  “Long-term payments, spread out over the course of years.” He reached out then, quick as a snake, and tugged her into his arms. “It requires a partnership, someone willing to help fulfill that commitment every step of the way.”

  His arms settled comfortably around her waist. And the position was much too familiar. “I guess I didn’t read the fine print.”

  “If we’re together, we’re all the way together.” The intensity in those pale green eyes was mesmerizing. “You don’t get to choose to push me away when something scares you. When this scares you.”

  All teasing vanished from her mind. Unable to look away, she only nodded mutely.

  He reached to touch one of her curls. Wrapped it around his finger. “The next time you need to prove something to yourself, I’m at your side.”

  She froze at the remark. That time was closer than he had reason to know. She might not have to meet with Castillo ever again, but she’d have to discover for herself if the man’s claims about her stepfather were true. Her stomach knotted on cue. But the thought of Kell sharing that with her eased those knots infinitisimially. “Agreed.”

  His lips on hers then were hot and deep and devastating. Her bones melted, and she leaned limply against him. “You could tell me you love me,” he suggested against her lips. “Just because a guy’s easy doesn’t mean he doesn’t need the words.”

  Macy hooked a hand around his neck, her fingertips grazing his hair. “I do.” The wonder of it was something of a shock. “I do love you.”

  “Some practice should get rid of your tone of amazement,” he decided. “Try it like this.” He cupped her face in his hands and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs as he gazed at her intently. “I love you. Inside me there’s still a ten-year-old boy looking for a warm place to call home. And I sensed it in you the minute we met.” He threaded his hand in her hair to cup her head. “Scared me to death.”

  Her lips curved as they met his. “We’ll work on that together.”

  He slammed his fist on the laptop, but the numbers on the screen didn’t change. They’d stopped decreasing. They’d stabilized. But they didn’t change.

  Fuck! The red haze of rage was crowding in, threatening reason. After all his planning. All the time devoted to this project. For a lousy three and a half million? He’d spent a million in expenses alone.

  He ended up with a third of the payoff and the girl was still alive. Her life was unimportant. But the money . . . that was hard to forgive.

  Shoving away from the desk, he took the satellite phone, the trac phone, and the distorter and dropped them in the trash compacter. Pressing the button, he listened to the pieces grind. Much like his emotions.

  This plan should have been executed with the brilliance with which it was evolved. And he knew who to blame for its partial failure.

  Adam Raiker.

  The name had his hands balling into fists. The debt the man owed was mounting. It included far more than money.

  And the only repayment that would satisfy was Raiker’s death.

  Turn the page for a preview of the fifth book in Kylie Brant’s exciting Mindhunters series

  DEADLY DREAMS

  Available April 2011 from Berkley Sensation!

  The figure did a macabre dance as flames leapt to engulf it. Screams knifed through the night shadows, hideous and agonizing. The smell of gasoline lingered strong and heavy in the air, mingling with the stomach-turning stench of seared flesh and hair. Garbled pleas for mercy interspersed the screams.

  But there would be no mercy from the watcher.

  Nude, he stood just close enough to feel the searing heat on his bare skin. The flames beckoned madly, enticing him to join them. Just a step closer, they seemed to hiss. Feel it. Share it. Make us one.

  He withstood the furnacelike blast as long as he could before moving farther away, his gaze transfixed by the writhing human torch. Fire was endlessly fascinating. Unstopped, it would gild the body, melt skin, and singe bone until it was sated. By that time, the figure would be little more than charred fragments of teeth and bone. Flames purified, cleansed the act of evil until only the motivation mattered.

  And no one had better motivation than he had.

  He flung out his arms like a preacher inciting the heavens, his form silhouetted against the brilliant glow. Justice had been a long time coming. And it couldn’t be evaded any longer.

  Marisa Chandler fought through the weight of sleep in a desperate bid for consciousness. Rolling from the bed, she immediately dropped to the floor, her limbs unresponsive.

  But the jolt yanked her firmly from dream to waking, and for that alone she was grateful.

  A bit painfully, she pushed herself to sit upright, leaning against the side of the bed. Sweat slicked her body, as if the flames in her nightmares had emitted real heat.

  It had felt real. They always did.

  She took a moment to will away the shudders that still racked her body. It hadn’t been the same
nightmare that had plagued her for four long months. She could give thanks for that, even as she fought to shrug off fear of what the vision might portend.

  Resting her head against the mattress, she closed her eyes. Dreams like this one didn’t mean anything. Not anymore.

  The recognition brought both relief and despair.

  The peal of the doorbell shrilled though her thoughts. Risa opened her eyes. Thought about ignoring it. But there was faint light edging the shades over the window, heralding dawn’s approach. Her mother would have just gotten off her cleaning shift a few hours ago. She deserved the sleep.

  The bell rang again insistently. Heaving herself to her feet, she padded barefoot to the door, checked the judas hole. The image of the stranger on the front porch was tiny, but she didn’t need a larger image to identify him as a plainclothes cop. Faintly intrigued, she pulled the door open, leaving the screen door latched in case she was wrong.

  Her instincts hadn’t been exactly foolproof recently.

  “Marisa Chandler?”

  She took her time answering, scanning first the detective shield he held up for her perusal, then, more slowly, him. Caucasian, six feet, about one eighty, all of it muscle. Black hair and eyes. Hard jaw, uncompromising chin. Only visible identifying mark was the small crescent-shaped scar above one eyebrow. And despite his lack of expression, impatience was all but bouncing off him.

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Nate McGuire, Philadelphia Police Department.” He slipped his shield inside his jacket. “I’m on my way to a possible crime scene. My captain passed along a request from the chief inspector of the detective bureau that I extend you an invite to ride along. In an unofficial capacity, of course.”

  A chill broke out over her skin, chasing away the remnants of heat that still lingered from the nightmare. “Why would he do that?”

  McGuire lifted a dark brow. “I figured you’d know.”

  She shoved her heavy mass of hair from her face and shook her head. Risa hadn’t looked up any old friends from the force since coming home four months ago. Had avoided news like the plague. That hadn’t been difficult, given her mother’s penchant for watching only game shows and inspirational broadcasting.

  “Apparently your employer, Adam Raiker, spoke to Chief Inspector Wessels about it.” His midnight-dark gaze did a fast once-over, clearly wondering what it was about the woman in faded yoga pants and an ancient Penn State T-shirt that would catch the attention of the head of the detectives. “So I was told to stop and ask if you’re interested. I’m asking.”

  She swallowed, just managed to avoid shrinking away from the door. “No.”

  He nodded, clearly not disappointed. “Sorry to wake you.” Turning, he began down the stairs, leaving her to stare after him, fingers clutching the doorjamb.

  Raiker. Damn him, her boss wouldn’t leave her in peace. Wouldn’t accept what she’d already accepted herself. Guilt, well earned, had rendered her useless. To him. To his forensics consulting company. And certainly to this detective.

  The small house didn’t have a driveway or garage. McGuire was halfway to the street where he’d left his ride, a discreet black Crown Vic. He moved like an athlete, his stride quick and effortless. She had the impression she’d already been forgotten as he mentally shifted gears to his first priority, his response to the callout.

  “What’s the crime?” For a moment she was frozen, hardly believing the voice had come from her. She didn’t do this anymore. Hadn’t for months. Likely never would again.

  But still she waited, breath held, until he hesitated, half turned to call over his shoulder, “Possible homicide. A burned corpse was found about fifteen minutes ago.”

  The air clogged in her lungs. Blood stopped chugging through veins. Organs froze in suspended animation. The figure in the dream danced in her mind again, the engulfing flames spearing skyward.

  But those dreams had become meaningless. Hadn’t they?

  Oxygen returned in a rush. “Wait!”

  McGuire had reached the car now. And he made no attempt to mask his irritation. “For what?”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  His response followed her as she turned away to dash toward the bathroom. “You’ve already used three.” So she paused only to brush her teeth, drag a comb through her hair, and shove her bare feet into sneakers. Then she headed out again, snatching her coat and purse in one practiced move as she passed the closet. Risa took a moment to lock the door behind her before jogging down the steps toward his vehicle, already regretting her decision.

  She didn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t do it anymore.

  Which didn’t explain why her legs kept moving her in the direction of the car.

  She’d barely slid inside the vehicle before he was pulling away from the curb. Shooting the detective a quick look, she pulled the door shut and reached for the seat belt. “What’s the location?”

  “Body was found in a wooded area in the northern part of the city,” he said in clipped tones.

  “So you’re from the Northeast Detective Division? Or the homicide unit?” She busied herself buttoning her navy jacket. It had occurred to her that the day was likely to be long and chilly. The temps had been unseasonably cool for May.

  “Homicide.”

  It was what he didn’t say that caught her attention. “If you’re homicide, the call must have sounded fairly certain that there was foul play involved. Or else the crime bears some resemblance to one you’re already working. Which is it?”

  Dawn was spilling soft pastels across the horizon, but the interior of the car was still shadowy. Even so, she would have to be blind to miss the mutinous jut to his jaw. “What’s your story, anyway?”

  His attitude managed to slice through her self-doubt and land her squarely into familiar territory. She was well acquainted with suspicious cops. They would be the one element of her job she wouldn’t miss if she left it. When she left it.

  “I assume Inspector Wessels told you whatever he wanted you to know.”

  The sound he made was suspiciously close to a snort. “The chief doesn’t talk to me. And Captain Morales wasn’t in the mood for details when we spoke.”

  She was sidetracked by his words. “Captain Morales? Eduardo Morales?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Surprised delight filled her. “When’d he get his bars? I hadn’t heard about his promotion.” If she’d looked up old friends while she’d been in town maybe she’d have caught up on department gossip. But first she’d been focused on recovery and rehab for the physical wounds and then . . . the thought skittered across her mind before she had a chance to slam that mental door shut.

  Then she’d been licking her emotional wounds.

  “How do you know Morales?” He did a quick right on red in an effort, she suspected, to avoid waiting for the light.

  “I was eight years on the force here before joining Raiker Forensics five years ago. Worked out of the Major Crimes Unit—Robbery and Burglary.” Amazing that the words would be accompanied by a tug of nostalgia. “Morales and I were tapped for special duty on a Violent Offenders task force for several months. He’s a good cop. How long have you worked with him?”

  “Just a couple months.” And it was clear that he was nowhere close yet to deciding if he shared her opinion of the captain. He shot her another sidelong glance. “You don’t look like a cop.”

  “Chances are if I’d been knocking at your door at the crack of dawn, you wouldn’t roll out of bed looking much like one either.” She gave him a bland smile. “Unless you sleep with your shield pinned to your . . . chest.”

  Amazingly, his teeth flashed, although he didn’t shift his attention away from his driving. “So you were on the job. But not homicide. Makes me wonder why Wessels wants you tagging along for this.”

  “My experience has broadened since leaving the force.” And now it was her turn to go silent and brooding. Nothing could be gained from this outing, unless it was ammunition f
or her ongoing argument with Raiker. She was done with this work. The only question was why her boss remained unconvinced.

  Risa recognized the area of town he drove to as one that used to be the haven of young drug users who wanted a remote place to get high. But it was deserted now, save for the police presence. The crime scene unit van was parked next to an unmarked car, and there were four other black-and-whites nearby. They got out of the car and made their way through a heavily wooded area before entering a clearing. It looked like the scene was secured and taped off, but those details were noted with a distant part of her brain.

  Her focus was fixed on the blackened corpse lying inside the police tape.

  A CSU tech was snapping photographs, and another man was kneeling next to the body fiddling with a machine she couldn’t make out from here. But those observations registered only dimly. It was the victim who consumed her attention.

  Because her palms had gone suddenly, inexplicably damp, she wiped them on her pants as she walked with more than a little reluctance to the scene. And wished once more that she were anywhere but here.

  “Which one of you took the call?” McGuire stopped outside the tape and scanned the half-dozen uniforms in the vicinity.

  “That’d be us.” Two men stepped forward, both of them casting Risa a questioning gaze. One was tall and beefy, a good six inches taller than McGuire. The speaker was several inches shy of Risa’s five-ten height. With his thick neck, skinny limbs, and sturdy torso, he bore an unfortunate resemblance to SpongeBob, of cartoon fame. “Officers Tready and Lutz.” A jerk of his thumb indicated his partner as the former.

  “Detective Nate McGuire. Homicide.”

  The flash of Nate’s shield seemed to only partially pacify the man. He was still eyeing Risa quizzically.

  “So run it down for me.” McGuire’s tone held enough of an edge that it captured Lutz’s total focus.

  “The lady who found it—Heather Bixby’s her name—was out walking her dog. Wasn’t sure what it was, but the body was still smoking when she came upon it. She called 9-1-1. Tready took her statement. She’s waiting over in the car there.”