Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2]

by Felicia Forella

  Damn, if she kept this up, he'd be forced to deal with her as an equal and not a glacier queen with a royally awesome body. He wasn't used to dealing with women as equals since there'd been precious few in the Air Force Special Ops world he'd inhabited before ... before...

  Jack began a methodical review of the case on which they were about to embark, forcing Braedon to shift his focus from everything he'd lost to all he hoped to gain. The first murders occurred a little over a month ago when a young couple camping on the Appalachian Trail was brutally murdered in their tent. The pictures were enough to make him pray he wouldn't have to assist in the investigation of an actual crime scene. After tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq, he'd have bet his next erection that nothing could make him squeamish. Thank God he hadn't been stupid enough to make that bet with anyone.

  Katrina seemed totally unfazed by the gory sight. Of course not. She'd made a name for herself getting inside the criminal mind by interpreting whatever evidence got left behind. She was so good at what she did she could have been a profiler. Except that she enjoyed the challenge of being out in the field.

  He'd made a point to learn everything he could about her when he'd been informed of their partnership. The gossip mill had coughed up a great deal about her when he'd gone searching for answers last Friday.

  Landing her as a partner on his first field assignment was a coup he didn't intend to fuck up, despite his reservations about being alone with her. Not only did he have useful knowledge to bring to the case, but he'd be learning from one of the best agents not just in the Philly office, but on the East Coast. It was the main reason he'd tromped on his doubts when he'd been handed the assignment. He wasn't the same man he was before, the squadron hound dog no longer existed. Oh yeah, this was the whipped cream on top of the shitty piece of pie he'd landed in when he set down his Pave Low helicopter for the last time.

  Things were looking up.

  Braedon forced his attention back to the briefing.

  Couple two was found less than a week later, twenty miles away in a different county. The second slaying wasn't linked to the first until a third couple was discovered in yet another county. All three small rural jurisdictions realized they were way in over their heads and jointly requested FBI assistance. The crime scenes had been meticulously processed and the scant physical evidence had been sent to the lab in Washington, DC.

  The FBI had been in charge of crime scene number four, which was in the same county as the second murders. So far, they hadn't been able to discover any definitive information. In addition to Katrina and him, a second set of hikers from the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania office would be hiking back and forth, searching for something, anything, to help them stop a serial killer.

  He took this case as seriously as he'd taken any combat rescue mission. He and Katrina would succeed.

  * * * *

  Jack Griffin's cryptic call at the end of the day intrigued Braedon.

  "I need to speak with you, preferably once the floor has emptied out for the day. Are you free to stay?"

  "Certainly, sir.” He'd do whatever was asked of him.

  As he hung up the phone, Steve Doyle from the next cubicle called out as he held open the elevator door. “Aren't you going home?"

  The tall, lanky, almost geeky looking Special Agent had befriended him from the very first day. “Thanks, Steve, but I have a few things to wrap up before I head out into the field.” Braedon turned back to his computer, surfing the Internet and looking busy.

  "Alrighty then. Take care and good luck.” Steve waved as he stepped into the elevator, off to reunite with his wife and little girl.

  Continuing to read the Appalachian Trail websites, Braedon occupied his time reading the blogs and message boards searching for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might be a clue or a lead. Slowly, the sounds of the workday faded, the steady click of a keyboard, the creak of a rolling chair, replaced by the soft noise of the cleaning crew beginning their evening rounds.

  Picking up the phone, Braedon punched in Jack's extension. “Ready when you are, sir."

  "Now is fine."

  With several clicks of his mouse, he shut down his computer, turned off his lamp, and pushed away from his desk. He had only worked late a time or two and was not accustomed to the silence of the empty floor as he wound down the hall to Jack's office. What could the Special Agent in Charge possibly have to say that couldn't be said during normal business hours?

  He hadn't even lifted his fist to knock when Jack's voice boomed through the silence. “Come on in and shut the door behind you."

  This time, he sat in the chair Katrina had occupied when they'd been in this same office earlier in the day. He thought he caught a whiff of her light citrus scent lingering in the air. What the fuck? He'd never before waxed nostalgic about a woman's perfume.

  "I'll get straight to the point, Powell. It's late and we both want to go home. Some rumors have been spread regarding Boyd's integrity and job performance."

  There had? They must be some pretty high-level rumors. Not once had he heard anything but the highest praise of her work ethic and her abilities.

  "These rumors are of great concern, as they have the potential to impact the Bureau's reputation as well."

  "How much am I allowed to know about this, sir?"

  "Katrina has several unsolved murders on her desk, all suspected of being committed by the same man. It was recently learned from an agent who transferred to the Baltimore office that Agent Boyd has personal knowledge of the suspected murderer."

  It didn't take a rocket scientist to put the pieces of this kiddie puzzle together. “The agency has concerns that Katrina's job performance was less than exemplary in order to prevent suspicion from falling on this personal connection."

  "Exactly."

  "And you want me to see what I can learn while I'm working closely with her."

  "Watch her habits, her techniques. Does she investigate all leads? Does she allow some trails to go cold? That's the information I need from you. I don't think Boyd did anything wrong. I believe this is all a gross misinterpretation of the facts. But I need my suspicions backed up with fact."

  "Why would someone want to damage Katrina's reputation?"

  "I haven't been able to decipher that one yet. But I will. Can I count on you to clear Agent Boyd's name?"

  "Of course, sir. I'll do whatever it takes."

  He just hoped Jack Griffin was right and that whatever Braedon learned wouldn't cost Katrina her job with the Bureau.

  * * * *

  Braedon shrugged, his backpack thudding to the floor behind him. So, he mused as he browsed the list of names on the security panel, Special Agent Boyd did quite well for herself. The trendy section of Center City Philadelphia was safe and reasonably priced, two facts he'd learned from the realtor helping him scour the streets to find a place to call home in the city of Brotherly Love. So far, he wasn't feeling the love. He hadn't yet lucked into a primo piece of real estate like the one in front of him.

  Locating the apartment number she'd given him, he pushed the buzzer. Was she able to afford this place on her salary or had she earned a bonus by looking the other way? He shoved aside the attitude. Jack Griffin wanted him to uncover evidence to prove her innocence, not her guilt.

  "Yes?"

  The sound of her husky voice stirred some interest in his skivvies. Damn, hadn't he learned anything in the past year?

  "It's me. Powell."

  Well, his dick may not have, but he'd sure as hell learned his lesson the hard way—no pun intended. From now on, the big head controlled the show.

  "Oh, okay, I'll ring you in."

  Now he just had to convince the little one.

  Bypassing the elevator, he jogged up the stairs to her third floor condo, taking advantage of the opportunity to get some exercise. Staying in shape was much more difficult in the civilian world. He looked forward to the days of hiking and physical activity stretching in front of him, sor
t of a very scaled down wilderness survival adventure. An adrenaline junky, he'd embraced the various survival training courses he'd had to take in order to be a member of Air Force Special Operations. The wilds of the Pennsylvania portion of the Appalachian Trail presented its own unique challenges...

  Katrina was framed in the open doorway when he reached her floor.

  Whoa. Holy shit.

  Staying the hell away from Katrina Boyd being the biggest one.

  Dressed in sensible hiking shorts and a modest tank top, the woman exuded sensuality. Braedon didn't know what it was about her that stirred his interest. Maybe it was the bare feet and toenails painted a pale pink. No. Probably not. She'd captured his libido the first time he'd seen her, all prim and proper in her Special Agent “uniform.” Even the conservative suits with their knee-length skirts and practical pumps hadn't been able to hide the essence of her sexuality.

  She wasn't his usual type. She was tall, trim with only the barest hint of curves, and too smart for his own good. For as long as he wanted to remember, he liked them petite with more curves than a Grand Prix raceway and a little on the ditzy side. Okay, so there was a time when he'd liked ‘em lithe and trim and smart as all get out. But that was another lifetime ago. Now he liked his women Maxim beautiful and Playboy bunny dim.

  Oh, no, Boyd didn't fit the mold at all.

  Now was not the time to notice light brown hair and cafe au lait colored eyes. Nor was it appropriate to notice the long line of her neck, the hair brushing her shoulders, or the wrap-her-legs-around-his-waist length of her legs.

  "Did you have any trouble finding the place?” She swung her arm wide in a welcoming gesture.

  "Nope, none at all. Your directions were perfect.” He brushed past her in the narrow hallway, turning so his backpack touched her. It was safer that way. “Great place you've got here.” He shrugged the loaded backpack to the floor in the middle of her living room.

  He glanced around the room, homey and inviting, but not the least little bit “girlie.” The decor surprised him, decorated in what some of his buddies’ wives called country style. For some reason, he'd expected sleek and modern for the no-nonsense Boyd. The plaid couch and matching chair grouped around a low small coffee table. A colorful pattern snaked along the top of the walls, one of which was lined with bookshelves. French doors let in plenty of sunshine and led to a balcony with two wrought iron chairs and a round table.

  "Thanks. I lucked into it. My realtor got the listing just as I was beginning to look. One peek and I was sold."

  "I can see why.” He wanted a home, a luxury he hadn't been able to swing during his time on active duty. He'd lived in Bachelor Officers Quarters, a place to crash between assignments, nothing more. Never bothering with apartments since he was away nine to ten months out of any given year, he'd never needed a place to call his own. The urge to find one clenched at his gut.

  "Okay, what do you say we get down to business? If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

  Braedon watched as Katrina's spine stiffened. If she'd been a dog, her scruff would have been up for sure.

  Grinning, he soothed the ruffled fur. Damn, she was going to be fun to play with. His cock twitched at the thought of the games they could play. Time for some serious diversionary techniques. “Where's your backpack?"

  Spinning on a slender ankle, not something he needed to be noticing, she headed down the hall. When she returned a minute later, she wrestled with a pack almost as large as his. Was she nuts?

  "This is what I take with me when I go hiking and camping.” She dropped her load at her feet.

  "You carry that monstrosity?"

  "Of course I do. I go camping by myself. Who do you think carries it?"

  He was impressed. “I'm sure we have some overlap, things we can combine. That'll free up some weight for me, so I can carry the tent."

  The tent.

  The very same tent he'd teased her about yesterday. The very same tent they were going to be forced to share night after night until they caught the son of a bitch committing these murders.

  Fuck.

  Katrina rummaged through her backpack, dragging out the items and arranging them on the floor. Anything to keep her mind away from thoughts of that tent and the nights she'd spend in that small enclosed space with him.

  Her living room shrank with him standing in the middle of it. The air in the room thinned.

  Was her sleeping bag flame retardant? She'd never survive endless nights closed up inside a small nylon space, tucked next to him.

  Of course she would. She'd been an FBI agent since she completed her doctoral work in criminal justice. For the first five years of her career, she scrapped about, earning herself a tough as steel reputation. She'd spent the past five years proving to anyone and everyone in a command position that she deserved to be in a part of NCAVC, to be a “profiler.” Thanks to her coursework in graduate school, she had the ability to examine a crime scene with the best of the crime scene investigators and the knowledge to crawl into the depths of hell otherwise known as the minds of the criminals.

  One simple man, no matter how attractive, would not bring her down. Not as long as she kept things in perspective and kept her priorities straight.

  This case was the one she'd been waiting for to showcase her skills and abilities. She'd be able to work the investigation from all angles. Once she'd collared the sick son of a gun, she'd press her case for the new assignment. She'd find out if those hints being thrown around about “bigger and better things coming her way” were for real or if someone was just blowing smoke her way.

  No man was going to stand in her path.

  Path ... trail ... Appalachian Trail.

  Shoot. She had work to do. First and foremost, she and Powell needed to combine supplies to maximize their available space and minimize the weight they'd need to carry.

  Powell surveyed her arrangement and quirked an eyebrow. “OCD bother you much?"

  The meticulous ordering of the backpack's contents strongly hinted at obsessive-compulsive disorder. She hadn't even realized she'd grouped her camping equipment as she'd unloaded. Her mind had been too distracted, filled with thoughts of the man in front of her. Casting her gaze over the tumbled contents of his pack, she shot him a challenging look.

  "I could ask you the same question."

  "Nope, doesn't bother me at all. It's helped me survive."

  "And it's helped me nab some sick, twisted individuals."

  "Then I'd have to say it doesn't bother either of us much. I'd bet my left—my lunch money you didn't expect to have anything in common with me."

  Ouch. He had been bothered by her comment yesterday, when she requested another partner. “About what I said in Griffin's office—"

  "Don't sweat it. You spoke your mind. I admire that. From what I've heard about you, you're professional enough to move on and not let any lingering concerns distract you from the assignment."

  They leaned over, dangerously close as they began to sort out the necessities. A strong whiff of eau de man saturated her senses, and sent her hormones whirling. A clean, fresh scent, with just a touch of musk clung to Powell, intoxicating her. No aftershave, not cologne. No, nothing artificial, just one hundred percent virile man. She hoped she'd hang strong enough to prevent distractions of the oh-my-he-makes-my-head-spin kind from sidetracking them.

  Time for diversionary tactics. She might as well start to get to know her new partner. “What's the longest you've ever been hiking and camping?"

  "Voluntary or involuntary?"

  "Huh?"

  "My chopper was shot down over Afghanistan, shortly after 9-11."

  "What were you doing there?” Sure, Army and Marine Special Forces along with Navy SEALs went in after the Taliban and Bin Laden, but why an Air Force helicopter pilot?

  "Air Force Special Forces were sent in to support the ground forces in the region. I was in the shit wrong place at the worst possible time and took a grenade-launched missi
le in the belly of my bird. I spent six days in the mountains, waiting for the PJs to pick me up."

  Oh, my. “PJs?"

  "Pararescue teams. Best damn men on the face of the earth. They risk their lives to come in after fallen comrades. I was proud to be a part of that, to be a Combat Rescue Officer."

  Dark flashes, memories, clouded his eyes and marred the rugged lines of his face. Lord, but he was a handsome man. Not classically handsome or pretty boy stunning, the strong angles of his face called to her in a way no man had. He wore his dark brown hair short, a bit longer than a traditional military cut, but still above his ears and off his neck. Every time she'd seen him, he looked like he needed to learn how to use a comb. Deep furrows lined his forehead on occasion, usually when immersed in thought. Tiny laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his tea-colored eyes and lined his sensuously full lips. He had chiseled cheekbones and a strong, dimpled chin. He always looked like he needed a shave, even now, at ten in the morning.

  Good grief, what was she doing, standing around cataloging some man's physical features? Just because he looked like a soap opera actor and had the body of a Roman god didn't mean she had to gawk at him like a lust-struck groupie.

  "Is that why you don't want to be partnered with me?” A sudden wave of I-can't-even-begin-to-keep-up-with-this-man swept over her. She wasn't about to call it inadequacy.

  "When did I say that I didn't want to be partnered with you?” She didn't know what to make of the look of sheer incredulity on his face. “I'm the Fucking New Guy, remember? Why wouldn't I want to be teamed up with the best agent in Pennsylvania?"

  "You said it when we were discussing the size of the tent."

  The light of clarity lit up his face. “No. What I said was that I didn't want to be stuck crammed in our small home away from home anymore than you do."

  Oh. Ohhhh. Time to switch gears. Fast. “So, you've fended for yourself for a week?"

  "I've actually been out in the wilds for longer, if you count some of the survival courses I've been through."