by Rita Herron
“But—”
“Protective custody,” he barked. “We can’t trust anyone right now.”
She swallowed, shoving aside the wine, his tone a firm reminder that he was right. She couldn’t trust anyone. If it served his purpose, Craig would hide things from her in the end.
And she couldn’t trust herself, either, especially when it came to wanting him.
CRAIG GAVE JERRY RENARD a skeptical once-over as he entered, automatically disliking the scrawny man. Not only was he a reporter with a jaded slant to his articles, especially any piece involving the government, but he’d personally written derogatory articles about Craig’s father. And his latest piece about the Savannah Suicides had painted a picture of the locals and feds as being incompetent.
He also wanted Olivia.
The smarmy smile on his face was obviously meant to be charming. The sleaze had even brought a bouquet of flowers, balloons and a box of chocolates.
“I come bearing gifts,” Jerry said as he greeted Olivia with a kiss to her cheek.
“I can’t believe you did this.” Olivia’s surprise seemed sincere, although the smile that lit her eyes proved she was flattered. Score one point for Jerry.
Jerry held out the gifts. “Everyone at the paper was worried about you.”
“Thank you.” Olivia wrapped the string of balloons around the edge of the desk chair, placed the flowers in a glass of water, and ripped open the chocolates. “You shouldn’t have done this. You know I’m trying to give them up.”
Renard laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that suggested intimate secrets, and Craig ground his molars. Fisting his hands by his side, he cleared his throat, jerking attention to him.
“I’m addicted to chocolate,” she explained. “Breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
Craig moved closer to her, aware he was acting territorial. He told himself it was his job. He was simply protecting Olivia.
“Carter says to take all the time you need,” Renard said. “We have things under control at the paper.”
“Tell Carter I’m working, too.” She wiped a drop of the dark truffle from her mouth, then laughed. The sound took Craig off guard—she certainly hadn’t laughed with him. Although it was a good thing. The sound heated his blood to a fever pitch.
“Do you have a story yet?” Renard asked.
“No,” Craig answered for her.
“Do you know who tried to gun you down?” Renard asked.
“Not yet,” Olivia said. “But I will. And soon.”
Craig’s phone trilled, and he frowned, hesitant to leave Olivia alone with her co-worker. But Detective Black’s number appeared, so he stepped into the kitchen to answer it.
“Agent Horn, we’ve got another one,” Detective Black said. “Twenty-six-year-old male. Shot himself with a .38.”
Damn. “Where?”
“Skidaway Island.” Black recited the address.
“I’ll be right there.”
OLIVIA COULD BARELY force herself to pay attention to Jerry for wondering who had phoned Craig.
“I’ll be glad to pick up the slack for you, Olivia—”
“Excuse me, Renard, you have to go.”
Olivia swung around as Craig strode into the room. His gray eyes cut a scathing path toward her. Predatory. Possessive. Demanding. Like some kind of male animal drawing a battle line in the sand.
She started to protest. “But—”
“I’m sorry,” Craig said, cutting off her protest. “Olivia, you need to rest.”
She glared at him. “I’m perfectly capable of deciding when I need to rest and when I don’t.”
He gripped her arm. “I promised the doctor I’d watch you, and I intend to follow through.” He gestured toward the door. “You can let yourself out, Renny.”
“It’s Renard,” the man said.
Craig shrugged, but Olivia pulled away from Craig, offered Jerry an apologetic look and walked him to the door. “Thanks for dropping by.”
He brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I meant what I said, Olivia. If you need anything, call.”
She gripped the handle, uncertain whether she trusted his motives. And she certainly didn’t trust or understand Craig Horn.
Furious with his Machiavellian conduct, she turned, ready to blast him, but he cut her off.
“There’s been another suicide, Olivia,” he said in a clipped tone. “We have to go.”
She exhaled slowly. So he hadn’t been making a statement about her at all. Disappointment slammed into her, although she didn’t understand why. She didn’t want Craig acting possessive over her, making demands. “I see. So I’m going with you?”
“I sure as hell can’t leave you here. You’d probably put an announcement in the paper and lead the killer
Irritation crawled through her. “I’m not an idiot, Craig.”
He gestured toward the chocolates. “No, neither am I. And I don’t trust your co-worker.”
Olivia raised a brow, but he didn’t elaborate.
“And remember the deal. You can go with me, but you can’t print anything until I give you the go-ahead.”
She nodded and followed him outside, pulling at her clothes as the stifling heat matted them to her body. She wanted to ask Craig why he’d taken such an instant disliking to Jerry, then wrote off his behavior as the Iceman. He didn’t need friends.
Didn’t want her as one or as a lover.
Shutting out the thought, she rode with him in silence, her mind ticking over the details of the case, searching for anything that might help them. Twenty minutes later, they surveyed the exterior of the crime scene, a small bungalow on the corner of Skidaway Island. Heat melded her hair to her forehead, the wind bringing the pungent odor of salt and fish. Craig was aloof, businesslike, back to his brooding self. But at least he hadn’t forced her to remain in the car, although, as he donned protective clothing before entering the house, he ordered her to stay close by the local detectives and refused to allow her entrance.
Olivia balked, but then spotted a woman in jeans and a T-shirt crying on the sidewalk. She headed toward her to find out what she knew.
OLIVIA THORNBIRD MUST HAVE nine lives.
He blended into the backdrop of trees bordering the Rucker property, a chuckle building in his chest as he watched the slew of health-care workers, FBI and cops swarming the small bungalow, scurrying around to figure out the reason for this rash of suicides.
The fact that the CDC was on the case proved they’d caught on to one thing though—the deaths weren’t exactly suicides.
Then again, they couldn’t prove anything yet. And even when they did, his hands were clean. The disease had actually driven the victims to take their own lives.
The perfect murder.
Olivia Thornbird would be next.
Had she received the little present he’d sent her?
One truffle would be enough to infect her. Several, and her health would rapidly deteriorate.
Ironic—Special Agent Craig Horn had taken her into protective custody to keep her safe, yet she’d probably die right in his house with him watching.
Feeling helpless. Guilty. Responsible.
But unable to do anything to prevent it.
Chapter Ten
As Olivia approached the woman, Detective Clayton Fox stepped toward her. “Miss Thornbird, we don’t want the press here—”
“I’m here with Agent Horn.” She gestured toward Craig. “Ask him. We made a deal. I get the story, but I won’t print anything specific until he clears it.”
Detective Fox radioed his partner, Detective Black, who thankfully confirmed her story. Still, he stood nearby, his eyes glued to her like a hawk as she introduced herself to the woman.
“Miss, my name is Olivia Thornbird.”
“I’m Tanya Miller. Are you a cop?”
“No, ma’am, I work for the newspaper.” Olivia joined her on the curb, lowering her voice to a sympathetic pitch. “I’m sorry for your loss. How di
d you know Mr. Rucker?”
Tears streamed down her chubby cheeks like twin rivers. “He was my…fiancé.” Tanya shoved red hair from her face and took a shaky breath, then knotted her hands in her lap. “I don’t understand why Alvin would kill himself. We were going to be married in three weeks.”
Olivia’s heart squeezed at the anguish in her voice. Only two days ago, she’d sat in this woman’s place. She reached out and rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry, Tanya. I understand what you’re going through. I…lost my father to suicide like this, too.”
Tanya jerked her eyes toward Olivia. “He’s the man I read about in the paper?”
“Yes.” Olivia still couldn’t believe he was gone. And fatigue was setting in although she fought it. “Did you notice anything odd about your fiancé’s behavior lately?” she asked quietly. “Was he moody? Depressed?”
Tanya wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and Olivia retrieved a tissue from her purse and stuffed it in her hand.
Tanya’s chin wobbled. “I thought maybe it was the wedding, that he’d gotten cold feet. When I tried to talk to him about it, he snapped my head off.”
“Had he been physically sick?”
“Not that I know of.” She dried her eyes. “Well, although now that you mention it, he did complain of headaches. And he had a strange rash on his arms and chest.”
The same symptoms as her father and the other victims.
Tanya sniffed. “And last night when I called, he was acting odd. He kept ranting about a government conspiracy, that people were after him.”
“What did your boyfriend do for a living?”
“He was a construction worker, so what he said didn’t make sense.” She wadded the tissue in her hands. “He was going to build our first…house.”
Olivia patted her again. All the more reason to find out who was behind his death and put a stop to it.
Grateful her left shoulder had been shot instead of her right, Olivia removed a pen and pad and jotted notes, uncertain if anything would help at this point. But they couldn’t discount any clue, no matter how trivial it appeared to be at the time.
Tanya dried her eyes again, then seemed to becomeaware of her surroundings. Her face scrunched with worry. “Why are all those people wearing protective clothing?”
Detective Fox had been watching, listening to her conversation. Olivia knew he’d already questioned the woman and had probably tried to abate her concerns, but Tanya obviously realized something was being kept from her.
“It’s just a precautionary measure,” Olivia said, although the sight of the health-care workers definitely would incite panic if a photo of them appeared in the paper. Her reporter instincts kicked in. She was tempted to call for a cameraman, wanted to warn the public that they might be dealing with a deadly virus, that the cops had no idea how people were being infected.
But Craig Horn exited the bungalow, his unnerving gaze sliding toward her, and a shiver rippled through her. The memory of their kiss returned. The deal they’d cut. The cold, unforgiving way he acted most of the time. The scent of his body on his pillow.
The feel of his lips on hers.
A web of worries, questions and emotions tangled inside her, followed by exhaustion.
Could she keep the promise she’d made to him and remain quiet?
WHEN CRAIG EXITED THE HOUSE, he removed the protective clothing and mask in the area designated for the health-care workers, then scanned the perimeter, silently grateful they’d been able to keep the press away from this crime scene.
His gaze zeroed in on Olivia. She was standing next to the dead man’s fiancé. Asking questions. Doing her job.
He hated her work, but he admired her drive.
And God help him. She looked tired and needed rest but he wanted the woman. Bad.
Maybe more than he ever had another female.
Would she keep her vow not to publish the story until they had time to find the answers, or had she lied?
He spotted the contact from the CDC and made his way toward the man. “Dr. Carrington?”
“Yes?”
“Special Agent Horn. FBI. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, nice to meet you.”
“What do you think we’re dealing with here?” Craig asked.
Carrington scrubbed a hand over his cap, thick curly gray hair protruding from the edges. “I wish to God I knew.” His accent was Midwestern. “Hopefully my team will have answers about the virus soon.”
Craig nodded. “I’m going to CIRP tomorrow to question Thornbird’s co-workers.”
“If you get a copy of his research, fax it over. Any findings he had, even strains he’d eliminated, would expedite our process.” Carrington hesitated. “I spoke with Oberman from the DPS. The last of the soil and water samples came back clean.”
Craig agreed to stay in touch, said goodbye and headed toward Olivia. It was past midnight, the fatigue l on her face reminding him that she was recovering from a gunshot wound and a near fatal drug-induced heart attack, not to mention she was still grieving over her father.
There was nothing more he could do here tonight. The locals were canvassing the area, questioning neighbors. Others patrolled the beach behind the bungalow, but so far they’d discovered no one suspicious. He’d even phoned the psychologist, Dr. Janine Woodward, to see if Rucker had been a patient, but he hadn’t, so that eliminated the only connection they’d found so far.
How had four different people from four different walks of life, four parts of the city with no jobs or friends in common, contracted this virus?
“Remember the mail-bomb scare a while back?” he said to Detective Black. “Maybe we’re dealing with something like that now.”
“I’ll have officers collect any mail the victim received and we’ll check it,” the detective assured him.
Craig nodded, explained that he’d visit CIRP the next day, then went to take Olivia home before she passed out.
Or before she said too much and asked more questions. Questions he didn’t know how to answer.
OLIVIA STRUGGLED TO STAY awake on the ride back to Craig’s, but the few sips of wine she’d consumed at dinnertime combined with the aftereffects of her surgery and exhaustion claimed her.
“Olivia?”
She roused and reached for the door handle, but felt herself being lifted and carried toward the cabin.
“Craig, I can walk.”
“Hush. I’m tired and I don’t want to wait on you to drag yourself out of the car.”
She grumbled but thought she detected a note of teasing in his voice and wondered if she was delusional. A few minutes later, she stirred as he placed her on the bed. Cool air brushed her shoulders as he lifted her arm from the sling and started to remove her shirt.
“No.” She clutched the sling, suddenly self-conscious. A feeling she didn’t like.
“I’m just trying to help, Olivia.”
She placed her fingers over his. “I can undress myself.”
He hesitated, his hands stilling on her shoulders, his breath brushing her cheek. The air felt sultry, the scent of his masculinity teasing her nerve endings. She imagined him peeling away her clothes, tracing his finger over her bare skin, and shivered. But she had an ugly wound now…
“Are you sure?” he asked in a gruff voice.
No, she wasn’t sure of anything. Except that she wanted him to kiss her again. To touch her and soothe away the pain of the last few days.
“Yes, I’m sure. But thanks, Craig. You’ve been…kind.”
He growled a protest. “You’re the stubbornest woman I know.”
She smiled into the dark and waited until he lft the room to collapse onto the bed. As much as she wanted to undress, she was too tired to struggle through the motions. Besides, her shoulder was throbbing like hell.
But she’d never admit it to Craig.
Because if she did, she might reveal her true self and admit that she wanted him to lie down beside her, to make
her forget that a serial murderer or terrorist was killing unsuspecting people. That he’d killed her only remaining family member. That he was after her.
And that being alone frightened her more than death itself.
FOUR PEOPLE had died now.
Four people too many.
Craig hardened himself against the reminder, the guilt weighing him down. If he’d done his job, it would have stopped at one. But he was missing something.
Something right under his nose.
Frustrated and unable to sleep for thinking about Olivia in his bed, from imagining her naked and doing things to his body that would make him forget his job, at least for one night, he booted up his computer and forced himself to focus on the case. The occasional breeze fluttering through the window from the bedroom brought her scent to him, enticing him to forget his research and join her in bed. He imagined the subtle curves that lay beneath her clothes, the slope of her back and spine, the tender skin where he would kiss her and make her squirm.
Irritated, he stood, grabbed a beer and forced the images from his mind as he typed in her father’s name. Thornbird had a degree from Harvard, had completed postdoctoral work at Emory Medical Center, had worked for various research companies before joining CIRP.
Several references to a doctor named Fulton popped up, the same man who was working the case now, studying Thornbird’s files. Fulton had been given a medical discharge from the service after injuries sustained in a recon military mission years ago and had worked on government projects since. Hmm, could he be working on germ warfare research?
He turned back to the file. Thornbird had no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. According to recent articles, he had received an award for work he’d conducted on infectious diseases, had worked on researching Agent Orange as well as identifying two strains of viruses brought in from other countries that had characteristics similar to SARS.
So far, nothing shady to indicate the man would have sold a germ virus to a foreign country.
Except for his wife’s death.
He read further and learned that Ruth Thornbird had researched germ warfare long before it became a hot topic. On her last mission, she’d supposedly traveled to Egypt to eradicate polio and help educate other countries on proper vaccinations. One journalist speculated that the trip was a front, that Ruth had discovered a rare and unusual virus that the government had been working on at the time, a project called Y-3X which the government had refused to discuss. The paper had been sued for the story; the reporter had been fired and then he had disappeared.