According to the media, the murder weapon was found in the man’s car with his prints all over it. But the suspect, who had a prior criminal record, was claiming his innocence, saying he’d bought the gun from someone on the streets, not knowing it had been used in five murders. So far the man hadn’t been able to provide any alibis for where he was at the time of each killing. The feds were so convinced they had their man they weren’t trying to look elsewhere. And at the most recent press conference they’d pretty much told everyone they felt it was safe to resume living their lives normally.
For some reason, Striker had a gut feeling something wasn’t right with how things were going down, but it was nothing he could put a definite finger on. He’d constantly reminded himself that protecting Margo was just another job. No big deal. Whenever he got the word from Roland that it was okay for him to move on, then he would. Without looking back.
Without looking back...
Could he really do that? He would admit that lately his mind had entertained thoughts of how things might be once this ordeal was over and she no longer needed his protection. He could ask her out on a date. Take her to a nice restaurant. Enjoy a glass of wine as he got to know her better. Striker rubbed a hand down his face, knowing he was losing his mind if he thought any of that was possible. He and Margo weren’t even in the same league. She was an heiress and he was an ex-con. But what was that saying about opposites attracting? And although he wasn’t a rich man by any means, he wasn’t a broke Joe either. He worked hard and over the years had made good investments. However, that wasn’t the point. The real deal here—one he couldn’t lose sight of—was that when this assignment was over, he would go back to his world and leave Margo in hers. He knew that and accepted that. Then why was the kiss—which had been way too short—constantly on his mind? And why had he gone to bed each night since that day wishing that instead of playing around her mouth, nibbling around her lips, he had just gone for the gusto and crushed her mouth with his in a full-contact, hot and heavy, wet-tongue, tonsil-touching kiss? One that would have lasted longer, and had her groaning, purring and shuddering in his arms? He had a feeling that moment was now a lost opportunity.
All he had to do was close his eyes to imagine them standing there, body to body, mouth to mouth, with his hands plunged in her hair while his mouth seduced hers. Thoroughly. Possessively. The Striker Jennings way.
It was apparent that short, unfinished kiss had created a tense environment for them. Definitely for him. Being around Margo was pure hell. They ate breakfast, lunch and dinner together, but other than that they pretty much ignored each other. Or they tried. She seemed content to disappear into her office to work on that wedding gown. He, on the other hand, had kept busy by playing games on his cell phone, doing exercises and reading.
A number of packages Margo ordered had arrived, and only after he checked out each box had he given the okay to keep them. That had annoyed the hell out of her. But like he’d told her, he wouldn’t take any chances.
A text came in on his phone. It was from Stonewall and the text simply said,
Nothing new to report.
In a way, that was good news. He and Margo had been together inside her house for almost a week and they were about to go stir-crazy. Cabin fever was getting the best of them, and their moods and attitudes were beginning to take a nosedive. It was hard trying to ignore the sexual tension whenever they were around each other. More than once he’d caught her staring at him and vice versa. The lust between them was mind-boggling, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Hmm, maybe there was. Now that Quasar had finished up his last assignment, Striker could ask him to relieve him for a few days. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d given Roland his word to protect Margo. Not that Quasar wasn’t capable of doing it, because he was. But Striker didn’t want another person protecting Margo. So here it was, the beginning of a new day, and just like he did every morning, he needed to get his shit together before facing her.
First off, he needed to clear his mind of all those dreams he’d had last night. The ones where he’d jumped her bones a number of times. Best sex dreams he’d ever had. So what if he’d thought about being inside her body? Had imagined her calling out his name during one hell of an orgasm? His thoughts in the wee hours of the morning were nobody’s business but his own.
Standing, he headed for the bathroom.
* * *
FULLY DRESSED IN jeans and a pullover sweater, Margo took a moment to collect herself before opening her bedroom door, knowing what she would find on the other side. As usual, Striker would be there, leaning against the wall, waiting on her. And like always, she would fight to ignore the surge of desire that consumed her upon seeing him first thing in the morning. Why did he have to look so good and why did seeing him continually bring on flickers of longing and need?
And why couldn’t she forget about that kiss? It wasn’t like it had been her first, and she doubted seriously it would be her last. Why was she thinking that Striker’s short kiss ran rings around Scott’s long ones? Whoever thought all kisses were the same hadn’t kissed Striker. She didn’t want to compare him to Scott but couldn’t help it. Scott was a chauvinist and would never apologize for being one, especially when he saw it as a quality a woman should admire.
Margo had a feeling Striker didn’t have a chauvinistic bone in his body. A woman was his equal and he would protect her with his life and not try to deliberately play on her fears like Scott had done. But, on the other hand, the one thing Striker and Scott did have in common was their stubbornness. Today she was prepared for a fight after telling him she needed to leave the house. The thread that had been delivered for Claudine’s gown wasn’t the exact color she wanted and she knew of one local craft store that had what she needed. She would use the truce they’d shaken on a few days ago in her favor. He had agreed to be flexible, hadn’t he?
She would break the news to him over breakfast. Regardless of how he chose to handle things, she intended to go to that store, with or without him. As far as she was concerned, she’d been locked inside this house long enough and needed to breathe in clean, fresh air. The forecasters predicted a hard freeze at the end of the week, and she wanted to at least spend a few hours outdoors while the weather was halfway decent.
Opening the door, Margo saw Striker standing there as always. How did he always time it to exactly when she would be walking out of her bedroom? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he had ultrasonic hearing or something.
His body looked hard and muscular leaning against the wall. Feminine awareness invaded every part of her and she couldn’t help the primal reaction of her body kicking in right then. She was well aware of the exercises he did each day. She knew he was putting her treadmill and stationary bike to good use every night before he went to bed. He also jumped rope a lot. More than once she had glanced out of her workroom and seen him doing so in her kitchen, which afforded him a lot of room.
The moment their gazes met, acute recognition passed between them, stirring something hot and carnal in the pit of her belly. She couldn’t help but admire the way he filled out a pair of jeans, and that T-shirt looked real nice on his chest. And those tattoos that ran up the length of his arms were interesting and made him look so formidable but in such an appealing way. For a minute her breath wobbled in her throat. She should still be upset with him because of the way he’d all but terrified the delivery guy yesterday when he’d dropped the packages off at the back door as usual. Not only had Striker almost shoved a gun up the man’s nose, but he had searched through all the boxes before letting her accept them.
“Good morning, Striker.”
“Good morning, Margo.”
Their usual greetings were exchanged before she moved toward the stairs. Desire clawed at her as he followed. Just knowing he was a few steps behind her had more heat curling in he
r stomach. When they made it downstairs, she turned to him and said, “We need to talk.”
“Before or after breakfast arrives?” he asked.
Before she could answer, a text came over Striker’s phone. He checked it. “Our breakfast is on the way. We’ll talk while we eat,” he said.
“Alright.”
Walking into the kitchen, she headed straight for the refrigerator to get the orange juice while Striker moved toward the counter to put on the coffee. She thought about how they’d gotten into a comfortable routine in the mornings over the last few days.
While getting glasses out the cabinets, she looked over at him. His powerfully built body seemed to fill her kitchen. The muscular definition of his abs and biceps were so well outlined she couldn’t help but stare for a second.
Not taking the chance he might notice her ogling him, she quickly got the glasses, filled them with orange juice and headed for the table.
* * *
STRIKER LEANED FORWARD against the kitchen counter, trying to hide the physical evidence of his desire for Margo. Having a hard-on was a bitch but couldn’t be helped. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans, a pullover sweater and flat shoes. The woman looked good this morning like she did every morning. And if that wasn’t bad enough, then there was her scent—the scent of a woman—that was arousing him like crazy.
Moments later, after getting his body under control, he poured their cups of coffee and carried them over to the table. There was a knock at the back door. Automatically, he pulled his gun as he moved toward it. Although he was expecting the delivery of their breakfast, he never took any chances.
“Is that necessary, Striker?” he heard Margo ask behind him.
He wasn’t in the mood today. Sexual tension was eating at him, and it was taking all he had to contain it.
He glanced over his shoulder. “What does it matter when I pull out my gun as long as it’s to protect your sweet ass?” he snapped.
Refusing to engage in a verbal sparring match with Striker, especially when it was quite obvious he was in a foul mood, Margo drew in a deep, controlled breath and then stared beyond him to the sliding glass door.
Moments later she watched a man enter carrying bags. From the aroma she knew it was their breakfast. But the man who entered her kitchen was not Cisco.
“Good morning,” the man said, flashing a huge smile.
“You’re not Cisco,” she said, studying the man who was just as tall and muscular as Striker. His straight black hair that fell to his shoulders and chestnut-colored skin gave his handsome features an exotic look.
“Cisco is on another assignment. I’m Quasar Patterson. I’ll be the one delivering breakfast from here on out.”
“Thanks for bringing our breakfast, Quay, but it’s time for you to leave,” Striker said, noticing the way Margo was checking out his friend and getting annoyed by it.
Quasar broke eye contact with Margo and glanced over at Striker. “Kind of touchy this morning, aren’t you, Striker?”
“Go to hell.”
Quasar laughed. “Sounds like you might already be there.” And then he opened the door and left.
“Honestly, Striker, did you have to be so rude?”
Striker stared at her. If she knew how he, Quasar and Stonewall spoke to each other at times, often using more profanity than not, she wouldn’t make that accusation.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said, unloading the contents of the bags. “He can handle it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“And just what is the point, Margo? At least the one you’re trying to make?”
“That you were rude.”
“You said that already. In my line of work, it doesn’t pay to be nice. And has it occurred to you that I’m not a nice person?”
“If you’re trying to convince me of that, then you’re doing a good job.”
No, he wasn’t trying to convince her of that, but for some reason, today he couldn’t help it. But then, like he’d told her, he wasn’t there to be nice. He was there to keep her safe. His mood came with the territory, especially when she was a woman playing havoc with his damn libido. And that wasn’t good. After placing all the containers and utensils out on the table, he sat down, ready to dig in. “So what do we need to discuss?”
“I need to go to the store.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
Already digging into his meal, he said, “Tell me what you need and I’ll have Quasar pick it up.”
Margo scowled. “What I need is not anything that Quasar can pick up for me, Striker.”
“He can pick up anything, even feminine hygiene products, if that’s what you’re alluding to.”
Margo nearly choked on her orange juice and she felt her face redden. She couldn’t believe what he’d just said. “For your information, that isn’t it. I need to pick up a different shade of thread for Claudine’s gown. The one I ordered doesn’t match the way I thought it would.”
“Then order some more.”
“If I do that, I wouldn’t get it until Monday. There aren’t any deliveries over the weekend, and I refuse to lose two days of work waiting on thread. I’m going to the craft store after breakfast with or without you.”
He didn’t say anything, and Margo saw the way his jaw ticked as he stared across the table at her. He was mad, but she didn’t care. She needed that thread, and like she’d told him, she would leave to go get it with or without him.
Striker was about to open his mouth and tell her that hell would freeze over before he let her go anywhere without him, and that her pretty little ass wasn’t going anywhere. But then he quickly decided getting out of her house for a short excursion might not be such a bad idea. It would relieve some of their stir-craziness.
“Fine,” he snapped. “We’ll go get your thread. Tell me the name of the store so I can set things up.”
“Set what up?”
“A plan to make sure my security team has our backs.”
“Okay.”
He dug into his breakfast, thinking, hell no, it wasn’t okay. As far as he was concerned, nothing would be okay until his assignment of protecting her was over.
* * *
DR. RANDI FULLER stared at everyone gathered in the huge conference room as she paused before saying the words she knew they would not want to hear. But she said them anyway. “You have the wrong man in custody.”
Everyone looked at her like they didn’t believe she could say such a thing, and she understood why. Everything fit. They had recovered the murder weapon with the suspect’s fingerprints all over it. The man didn’t have an alibi, he had a criminal record, and he fit the description from the only eye witness they had. However, regardless of all that, she was convinced she was right.
“While we respect your opinion, Dr. Fuller, I think you’re wrong. We’re all convinced that we do have the right man.”
She held the gaze of FBI special agent Tommy Felton. This wouldn’t be the first time they had worked together on a high-profile case. And it wouldn’t be the first time they’d disagreed and he had refused to consider what she had to say. The last case had been a human-trafficking ring. If the Bureau had taken her findings seriously then, they could have captured the leader of the group. They hadn’t and the man was still out there somewhere. It seemed her presence always reminded Agent Felton of that. It didn’t matter one iota to him that the reason she was here was because, with the use of her psychic abilities, she’d helped law enforcement around the country solve a number of cases that had been at dead ends.
“And why do you think we have the wrong man?” police chief Hal Harkins asked, ignoring the glare Felton shot his way.
At least someone was willing to listen to reason, Randi thought, shifting her full
attention to the chief of police. She would have to give it to Chief Harkins—he and his team of detectives had taken her abilities seriously. Her approach to solving a crime was different than those of a number of other psychics. She didn’t just depend on her psychic abilities but also an in-depth knowledge of the case. That method was more readily accepted by the skeptics, especially those who believed their way was the only way. She had the ability to speak as both a behavioral analyst and a psychic investigator. If the people she worked with preferred thinking of her as a BA rather than a PI, then so be it.
It didn’t matter that at the age of twenty-seven she’d already assisted various police departments around the country in solving close to fifty cases, most of them unsolved murders, rapes and missing persons. She’d garnered national attention when she had helped federal agents rescue a well-known senator just moments before he was to be put on a plane to Libya for his execution by ISIS.
She knew Chief Harkins wanted to believe in her. He and a couple of his detectives had accompanied her to the five crime scenes, had made sure she had all the court records at her disposal and had set up her interview with Gus Pickett, the man who’d been arrested and tagged “Erickson’s assassin.”
“As you know, Chief Harkins, I spent most of yesterday with Gus Pickett. I had put together a psychological profile of the assassin based on where he decides to kill his victims, what evidence he willingly leaves behind and the time of day each hit was made. After my interview, as well as my visit to the crime scenes, several things stood out, which convinces me that Pickett’s not the person you are looking for. There are several inconsistencies.”
“Such as?” the chief asked.
“The assassin is a habitual coffee drinker. That’s the only real evidence he leaves behind—coffee cups wiped clean of fingerprints.”
“What are you getting at, Dr. Fuller?” Felton all but snapped at her. “Are you suggesting Pickett doesn’t drink coffee?”
Forged in Desire Page 9
