Lover Beware

by Christine Feehan

  He moves up behind her, so silent she hasn’t noticed.

  “Hello,” he says.

  She turns, drawing in a sharp breath. Her eyes are wide and her red lips parted. Blue eyes made green by the yellow lamplight. Blue eyes are his favorite. They turn dark as a deep ocean when they are dying.

  She backs away slightly and swallows. “You scared the bejesus outta me, mister.”

  “Sorry.”

  He leans against the street sign. One Way. Oh, yeah. One way for her tonight. Isn’t she lucky?

  “Working?” he asks.

  “I ain’t out here for my health.”

  Smiling. “Warm night.”

  She pushes back a tendril of pale hair stuck to her cheek by sweat.

  “Could use a cigarette. Have you got one on you?” he asks.

  Looking him up and down. “Sure.”

  Her hands are shaking slightly as she digs in her purse, extracting a crumpled pack of Virginia Slims. She offers him one, then takes one for herself. Her hands are trembling too badly to handle the lighter, so he takes it from her and lights the cigarette for her.

  “Uptight, huh?” He smiles again. “Don’t blame you. Young, pretty lady like you isn’t safe out here. Not after what’s happened recently.”

  She nods and smokes.

  “How many of you has he killed now?”

  “Four. Not counting that mother and her kids.”

  “Nasty business.”

  “Ah, yeah.” She chokes out a tight laugh. “I’d say cutting off our heads is pretty fuckin’ nasty.”

  “He eviscerates them as well.”

  Frowning. “If that’s a pretty way of saying he slices them open, then yeah.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “Sorta. Haven’t been around here long.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Dallas.”

  “What brought you to New Orleans?”

  “Needed a clean break.”

  “Mama and daddy back there?”

  Nodding. Smoking. She looks up and down the dark street, then checks her watch.

  “Have you spoken with them recently?”

  “Last night.”

  “That’s good. That’s very good. Pretty young girls from Dallas should keep in close contact with their family.”

  “My mama’s birthday’s tomorrow.”

  Smiling. “Did you buy her something pretty?”

  “Said all she wanted was for me to come home.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  She shrugs and tosses down her cigarette. “Don’t have the money.”

  He reaches out and touches her hair. So very soft and pretty. Closer now, he can smell her perfume. Something floral. Like jasmine. “Tell you what, pretty little girl. I’ve got five hundred dollars in my wallet. If you’re real nice to me, I’ll give it to you. But on one condition.”

  She stares at him and he realizes with a heat of pleasure that she is even younger than he first thought. Sixteen, seventeen, maybe.

  “One condition,” he repeats. “You buy yourself a bus ticket and go home to see your mama on her birthday. Will you do that?”

  “You’re jokin’ me, right?”

  “No joke.”

  “What’s the catch?” Her eyes narrow. “You into kinky or what?”

  “Let’s just say I feel like doing you a favor tonight.”

  She finally smiles. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Promise?”

  She nods and turns away, moving toward the dark alley. He follows closely. Her smile is bright and excited as she glances at him over her shoulder.

  “What you carryin’ around in that backpack anyhow?” she asks.

  “Oh, this and that. Tools of my trade, so to speak.”

  They move into a dark courtyard, then to her apartment door. She fumbles with her keys, and he gently takes them from her and unlocks the door, stepping aside to allow her to enter first.

  She giggles. “Now ain’t you just the gentleman?”

  As he closes the door and locks it, she moves toward the bed, kicking off her shoes, unbuttoning her blouse. “So what’s it gonna be? Gotta be good, right? for five hundred bucks.”

  As the backpack slides from his shoulders, he drops into a chair. “Remove your clothes and dance for me.”

  “You want music?”

  “No.” He smiles.

  Slowly she peels away her clothes, her hips swaying, her long blond hair feathering over her upthrust nipples. He hums to himself and unzips the side pouch on the backpack. His blood is beginning to thrum, turning warm. Flesh flushing with anticipation. The arousal is there, awakening. Sweet, hot pressure that will only mount as the night progresses. With each delicate prick of his knife. With each whimper and pitiful plea for her life.

  “Very nice,” he whispers, and her smile grows. “Now get on the bed—on your hands and knees.”

  “You like it doggie fashion?”

  “Um-hm.”

  As she turns her back to him and moves to the bed, he slips his hand into the pouch and withdraws the ice pick, cups it behind his fingers as he moves toward her.

  “Are you ready?” he asks softly.

  “Whenever you are,” she says.

  Chapter 2

  ANNA WAS FBI through and through, the highest-ranked female agent to come out of Quantico in the history of the force.

  The first three years that she worked in the Criminal Investigation Division, she solved several high-profile cases, including the apprehension of three of the FBI’s Most Wanted serial killers. No doubt, she had a reputation for taking risks that went above and beyond the call of duty. Her “loose cannon” techniques too often warranted disciplinary actions from her superiors, but there wasn’t a one of them who didn’t begrudgingly respect her tactics.

  No, Anna didn’t always play by the rules.

  Anna had known Dr. Jeff Montgomery for three years, since the afternoon she’d arrived in his office buried in the bowels of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico. Not only, he informed her, did the agency require her full, patriotic cooperation in joining the Behavioral Science Unit, but she was to become only the second agent to be recruited into the Classified Parapsychology Investigations Division of the BSU.

  They’d knocked heads more times than she could count. First, over her refusing to acknowledge that her insights into killers’ psyches were due to anything more than her training and the criminal psychology degree she had attained from Tulane. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge her so-called gift. She didn’t care to be looked at like some kind of sideshow freak.

  She’d learned soon enough that she had little choice in the matter.

  Anna had despised Dr. Jeff Montgomery in the beginning. Resented him for forcing her to embrace her talent, to forge it into something solid, keen, and shining. Ultimately, however, their relationship had become one of grudging respect—at least on her part. He, on the other hand, had fallen in love.

  Oh, he hadn’t admitted as much to her—not the I’m in love with you kind of admission. Not that overt. Simply the I love ya, kid, kind of thing that passes between good friends. He wouldn’t dare admit the depth of his true feelings for her. That sort of thing was frowned upon in the FBI and got in the way of business.

  Not that he hadn’t put the hits on her early in their work relationship. Not blatantly, of course. He wasn’t the type. But he had certainly dropped enough hints that he would be interested in putting in a little overtime with her if she was game. Which, she’d pointed out, she wasn’t. Business and love were far too complicated as it was without getting mired in that kind of quicksand. Not that she wasn’t attracted to Montgomery. Who the hell wouldn’t be? The man could pass as Harrison Ford’s twin brother and more than once she had found her mind drifting toward such possibilities. But no way. She had already been down that road—loving a man whose devotion to career had made her a second priority. She wasn’t about to relive that sort of heartbreak and disappoi
ntment.

  However, there was no mistaking the bond that had formed between them. Could hardly avoid it, working together as they did. When he’d called to inform her that she had been assigned to the French Quarter serial case there had been a long moment of tense silence.

  Jeff was well aware of her past in New Orleans. Knew she’d never completely gotten over Jerry Costos, and perhaps never would. So she hadn’t been at all surprised to find a message waiting for her at the St. Louis when she checked in. CALL ME ASAP, it had read.

  She hadn’t.

  She’d showered and ordered up room service, then fell into a deep exhausted sleep until the phone had awakened her at just after midnight.

  “What’s up, Travelli? Fill me in.”

  There hadn’t been much to tell him. Wouldn’t be until she met with Costos tomorrow morning.

  Lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling with the receiver pressed to her ear, Anna listened to the silence that followed the mention of Costos’s name.

  Finally, Jeff said, “So tell me this Costos jerk is now a hundred pounds overweight and married with a passel of snot-nosed kids.”

  She grinned. “Couldn’t tell you. Didn’t really pay him that much attention.”

  Right. Sure. Like she was going to admit that Jerry Costos was even better looking today than he was six years ago. Like she was going to admit that she had made a point of looking for a wedding ring on his finger, experiencing a tickle of relief that there wasn’t one. Which was absurd and annoyed the heck out of her. If she hadn’t vaulted away all her old feelings for Costos she wouldn’t have agreed to come to New Orleans. She sure as hell wasn’t into masochism.

  “You’re lying, Anna.”

  She sighed. “Look, Jeff, we spent all of ten minutes together. He wasn’t happy to see me in the least and pulled no punches in telling me so. So if you think working with him is going to be a vacation on Fantasy Island you’re wrong. He’s as alpha male as he always was. Testosterone shooting out his ears and I DOMINATE branded on his forehead.”

  “So did you hurt when you saw him?”

  Jeff, why are you doing this to yourself? she wanted to ask.

  “I felt…annoyed.”

  “So you’re telling me you felt nothing. No spark?”

  “When a red-eyed, fire-breathing bull confronts you, the only spark you’re going to feel is the need to castrate him. Which is something someone should have done long ago as a service to all twenty-first-century females.”

  He laughed. “Okay. Call me tomorrow and fill me in on the case. And remember, I’ve got your back. Love ya, kid.”

  “You, too, Montgomery. And thanks.”

  She hung up the phone. It rang immediately.

  “Anna.”

  Speak of the alpha devil. The unexpected, deep tone of Costos’s voice jarred her. Confused her, sending her tumbling back through a time machine of memories she had tried to forget.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “There’s been another murder. A young prostitute.”

  She sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. “Same signature?”

  Silence.

  “Hey, are you okay, Costos?”

  “Bad. Real bad. Decapitation and evisceration. Christ, I think I’m gonna puke.”

  “You’re at the scene now?”

  “Yeah. Waiting for the crime scene techs and the M.E.” He paused. “You’ll meet with Captain Killroy and the detectives who’re working this case in my office tomorrow morning at ten thirty.”

  “And the detectives are…? Do I know them?”

  “Donovan and Armstrong.”

  “Michael Donovan? You’re joking, right? When did he get transferred to the Eighth Division?”

  “Two years ago. After his wife died.”

  “Donovan and I haven’t exactly hit it off in the past, Jerry. You know how he feels about the FBI being brought in on his cases. Is he going to make this difficult for me?”

  “I’ve spoken to him at length. He’s cool, Anna. He wants this guy caught, bottom line.”

  “Right.” She sighed.

  “Good night, Anna.”

  “G’night,” she said; then, “Jerry?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary to have the newspapers in on the fact that I’m here.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll keep your identity close to my office.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes drifting closed, Anna listened to the following silence on the phone. Drawing in a deep breath, she replied, “See you in the morning, Jerry.”

  Anna hung up the phone, stared at it a long moment, as if willing it to ring again…as it had years ago, Jerry calling her back immediately saying something sappily romantic like, “Had to hear your voice again. Love me, Anna? Promise?”

  She left the bed, wandered to the bathroom, and splashed her face with cool water. She made herself some chamomile tea from the hot pot the hotel provided. Sitting back on the bed, Anna held the warm cup in her palms.

  Where the hell had her head been to have returned to New Orleans? She should have planted her butt in BSU where the agency profilers normally worked on their cases. Then again, she didn’t work her cases like most of the agency profilers. Because she wasn’t like the other profilers.

  She was quite certain she hadn’t been born with the gift—if one could be so ignorant as to call it that. It had begun after the tragic accident that had taken her mother’s life and left Anna near death—a head-on collision. A semi truck driven by a man who had fallen asleep behind the wheel. She had been twelve at the time, and the sudden flashes that would come at her with no warning throughout her adolescence had been shrugged off by physicians and psychologists as PTS, post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  By the time she was eighteen, they had tapered off. Or perhaps she had learned how to block them. They had come winging at her again for a short while after her father had been killed in the line of duty. Carl Travelli, detective for the New Orleans PD Homicide Division, had walked into an ambush that had taken him down in a hail of bullets.

  Perhaps she hadn’t even realized herself just how the gift had come to affect her life until she been a field agent for the FBI for a year. Her ability to process the crime scene and investigation had brought her to the attention of her superiors. Rising in the ranks had been an easy punt.

  She had never spoken of her sight to anyone on the force. Wouldn’t dare. Then the call had come from the BSU and she had found herself transferred to the Behavioral Science Unit despite her protests. She wasn’t a fact cruncher. No sitting behind a desk for hour upon hour poring over stat printouts and case files. She lived for the streets, the adrenaline punch of the search and confrontation with the perp, just like her father.

  But she had learned soon enough that the agency’s plans for her were not the norm. Far from it. She had found herself buried into a division that was classified even from the existing BSU.

  For six months before joining the Behavioral Science team she had worked with the classified division to better develop her psychic capabilities—but only with the understanding that she would be allowed to work her cases like any other field agent. Up close and personal. She really had no choice. The flashes of images that would come to her were not premonitions of upcoming helter-skelter, but the shocking visions of the crime as it happened—but to accomplish that it was necessary for her to place herself at the crime scene.

  She was still pretty damn green. Often questioned the images that would come blazing at her from nowhere—not just images, but energy. Fear. Anger. Confusion. Yet, little by little, she was becoming more confident with each case. Trusting her judgment. Capable of discerning the difference between the gut instincts and training of a top-notch agent and those insights that were born from her special talents.

  But what might have become a blessing to the agency had become an increasing burden to her. Too often that meant reliving the victim’s horrible death. More emotio
nally debilitating, and frightening, were the too frequent forays into the killer’s psyche. Often she experienced the crime through the killer’s eyes while at the crime scene or with the victim…if the victim survived, which wasn’t often.

  Emotional and physical burnout was tapping her on the shoulder. Why else would she continue to lie here in her lumpy hotel bed after getting Jerry’s call? The sooner she could get onto the crime scene the more quickly she could utilize her so-called gift to tap into the negative energy that remained following such an act of violence.

  God, she was kidding herself. It wasn’t exhaustion that kept her sheltered in her hotel room at the St. Louis. It was facing Jerry again. Her confrontation with him that afternoon had been far more unnerving than she had anticipated. Looking into his eyes again had slammed her like a fist.

  Six years and he still had a grip on her heart, and it hurt like hell. All the weeks, months, even years of second-guessing her decision to walk away had rushed over her like an avalanche the instant she looked into his eyes.

  At twenty-six her dreams—indeed her entire life—had shone golden as the Holy Grail before her. Children hadn’t been part of the scenario. Marriage to a brilliant, kick-ass attorney and a career as an agent for the FBI had been the dream. But Costos hadn’t seen it that way. Marriage, a home with a white picket fence, and a yard full of pink-cheeked babies had been his ideal of happily ever after. He simply couldn’t handle her career as a field agent for the FBI.

  But at thirty-two, she felt her biological clock beginning to tick. No time for romance. Marriage. Or children. At some point in the last year she had begun to question her choices in life. While she felt fulfilled by her accomplishments with the agency, she wasn’t fulfilled emotionally. There was an emptiness inside her that grew more hollow with each passing month. While standing in Jerry’s presence it had yawned like an abyss beneath her.

  Anna put aside the cup of tepid tea and phoned the desk for a wake-up call, then slid under the covers. She wouldn’t let herself think about the vulnerability she had heard in his voice…. She couldn’t.

  ANNA HAD ALWAYS been obsessively punctual. Some things just never changed.

  Jerry checked his watch. Ten twenty-five. Standing at his office window, he watched Anna leave her car and make her way up the sidewalk. All business. Navy blue suit, skirt short enough to show off her incredible long legs, her mass of red hair slicked back from her face and wound in a knot at her nape as if the severe hairstyle would somehow diminish the fact that she was beautiful enough to stop traffic.