Forged in Desire

by Brenda Jackson

  “What I’m getting at, Agent Felton, is that Gus Pickett only drinks his coffee with cream. Coffee residue on the cups left at the murder scenes did not show traces of cream in the coffee.”

  “And how do you know what he puts in his coffee?” Harkins asked, curiously.

  She glanced over at him. “I gave him a cup during our interview session. When I offered him some sugar, he said he only uses cream in his coffee. And another thing. Pickett is almost a neat freak. He would not have left those cups behind, littering the place.”

  “We know why they were left behind, Dr. Fuller.” Another special agent spoke up, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “His motive was quite obvious. He wanted to toy with us. He dropped hints and got caught.”

  Randi knew she was wasting her time trying to convince them of any theories other than those they’d come up with. These were Felton and his boys. FBI old-school. Although they could support behavioral analytical findings in most situations, since the FBI used them to crack a lot of cases, she knew when it came to psychics they were nonbelievers.

  She placed her report on the table. “Here is my final evaluation as both a psychic investigator and behavioral analyst. I suggest everyone read it and weigh in on my recommendations, especially the one where I’m requesting an interview with Erickson.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to interview Erickson,” Harkins said, rubbing his face. “The man is an asshole.”

  “I’ve dealt with assholes before. No problem,” she said, forcing herself not to look over at Felton. “My report pretty much covers everything, including a psychological profile of the person you should really concentrate on finding. The real assassin is still out there.”

  “The real assassin is just where we want him. Behind bars,” Felton snapped, tossing her report to the other side of the table. “We got our man.”

  Randi forced a smile. “In that case, my services here are no longer needed. Good day, everyone.”

  She walked out the door, thinking that when the shit hit the fan like she knew it would when the real killer resurfaced, at least she would be on a much-deserved vacation.

  Glendale Shores was an island owned by her family that was the most beautiful of the Sea Islands off the South Carolina coast. And she couldn’t wait to get there.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I THOUGHT YOU only came here for thread.”

  Margo suddenly felt heat on her neck, and she knew why. Striker was breathing down it. She wished he would back up a little and not stand so close. However, even when she turned around, he made no move to do so. He was determined to stick to her like glue. “Yes, that was my original plan, but I saw other things I needed.”

  He glanced around, the way she’d seen him do several times since they’d set foot inside Sandy Lee Craft Shop. There wasn’t a single person who those sinfully dark eyes hadn’t sized up, analyzed and scrutinized.

  “At least I’m in the checkout line.”

  “Lucky me,” he said sarcastically.

  “You really are. I’ve never come here and been out in less than an hour. I could spend all day in here.”

  He peered down at her, seemingly bewildered. “Why?”

  “Look around. What do you see?”

  “Stuff. Too much stuff. All over the place.”

  Margo couldn’t help but grin. She’d gotten practically the same response from her uncle when she’d talked him into coming here with her one day. It had been the first and last time he’d done so.

  After the cashier rang up her purchases and Margo paid for them, Striker walked her to the car. Like in the store, he studied their surroundings and stuck close to her. Too close for comfort, as far as she was concerned.

  He’d told her that her uncle had decided to keep Striker on as her protector for another week. If no additional killings occurred, they would assume the right man was behind bars. She certainly hoped so.

  “Can we go someplace for lunch?” she asked him.

  Striker shook his head as he pulled out of the parking lot. “No. Quasar is bringing us lunch.”

  “He wouldn’t have to if we stopped and grabbed something.”

  “No.”

  “Why are you being difficult, Striker? What happened to you agreeing to be more flexible? Bend a little?”

  “I did bend. You got a trip to that craft store, didn’t you? Don’t push your luck with me, Margo.”

  On some days she could ignore his attitude. Today was not going to be one of them. This was her first time out in a week, and she was in no hurry to go back home. “I have a taste for a hamburger.”

  “No problem. I’ll have Quasar bring us one.”

  “There’s a hamburger place ahead on the right. What harm would it be to stop?”

  “I could be placing you in danger. For some reason, you refuse to accept that you still might be.”

  How could she not accept it when he was with her practically 24/7? Striker’s presence was a constant reminder of how her peace of mind had been stolen the moment Erickson made his threat at the trial. If at any time she was tempted to downplay the danger, all she had to do was remember those five innocent people whose lives had been taken away from them.

  She looked back over at him. “But you will admit they might have the right guy since there haven’t been any more killings?”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Margo. The real assassin could be in hiding somewhere.”

  “Until when?”

  “Who knows? Personally, I think he’s waiting for the best time to hit again. I’m sure the feds are trying to figure out what orders Erickson gave the assassin. I understand Erickson isn’t talking and the man they arrested is claiming his innocence. Erickson sees this as nothing more than a game to show he’s still in control. People’s lives mean nothing to him.”

  “That much was proved during his trial, which is why he got the sentence he did.” Moments later Margo was surprised when Striker pulled the car into the parking lot of the hamburger place she’d told him about. He proceeded to the drive-through lane. She smiled. For the second time that day he had been flexible. Grudgingly or otherwise. “Thanks, Striker. They have the best burgers.”

  “So you say.”

  * * *

  STRIKER WONDERED IF he needed to have his head examined for giving in to Margo’s request. His only saving grace was that she’d been right. This was the best burger he’d ever eaten. He’d decided to park so they could eat in the car. They were in a good area, and he had a clear view of their surroundings.

  Still, sitting here in a parked car with her felt too personal and intimate. Like they were on a date or something, when that definitely was not the case. Hadn’t he given himself a get-real talk this morning that he and Margo would never date? So why was he thinking such things?

  Probably because they were here and for the time being they had called a truce. And there was the possibility that if the right guy was in police custody, then his days with Margo were numbered. More than anything, even if it was for just a short while, he wanted to get to know whatever he could about her. He wasn’t sure why that was important to him; he just knew it was.

  Striker had a feeling that if he didn’t take advantage of the time now, he would one day see it as a missed opportunity. One he would regret.

  With that thought in mind, he decided to get the conversation going by asking, “How did you find out about this place?”

  She looked at him. “Uncle Frazier. Once in a while he loses the shirt, tie and Armani suits and replaces them with regular duds and lives like the rest of us.”

  Like the rest of us? Had she forgotten she was practically an heiress? “So the two of you come here often?”

  “A few times but not often. We haven’t done anything together since he hooked up wi
th Liz.”

  Striker recalled the woman’s name from when it had come up before. It had been during a conversation she’d had with her uncle that first day. He’d picked up then the same thing he was picking up now, that Margo and this Liz person didn’t get along. The dislike in Margo’s voice was obvious. “I gather Liz isn’t one of your favorite people.”

  “Hardly. She sees me as a threat.”

  “A threat?”

  “Yes.” And then as if she’d realized she might have said too much, Margo quickly asked, “What do you think about the fries? Aren’t they delicious?”

  “Yes, they’re good,” he said, popping one into his mouth. He had watched her eat and, as usual, had gotten turned on from merely seeing her chew her food. There was something about her mouth that he found so damn desirable.

  “It was nice to get out. I almost hate going back.”

  He looked over at her. “What happened to you wanting to jump into working on Claudine Bernard’s wedding gown?”

  “I’m sure that even you would admit getting out of the house for a while is a relief.”

  He would have to agree it was nice. Cabin fever was the pits, especially when his mind was centered on lust.

  “So, Striker, what do you enjoy doing in your spare time when you’re not working? Any hobbies?”

  “No hobbies, although I love taking my bike out.”

  “Bike as in motorcycle?”

  “Yes. I have a Harley.”

  “Ride it often?”

  “Every chance I get.” No need to tell her that on a day like this he would have ridden it on a long stretch of highway, loving the feel of the wind whipping his face.

  Margo removed her sweater, and the blouse she was wearing showed a lot of her cleavage. He could tell she had firm breasts. The kind he would just love to press his face in the middle of before swiping his tongue across the nipples.

  Once he had agreed to take her to that craft store, she had raced upstairs and changed her shoes to a pair of boots. They complemented her outfit. They complemented her. She complemented them. He doubted there was an outfit that she didn’t look good in.

  “Why don’t you like the name Lamar?”

  He shifted his gaze from her chest to her face. There was nothing in her expression to denote she had noticed his interest in her breasts. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “You said so. Were you lying when you said it?”

  “No.” He then took a sip of his iced tea.

  “Well then, why don’t you like it? I think it’s a nice name.”

  Striker watched while she sipped more of her milk shake and had to shift in his seat to relieve the pressure of his erection against his zipper.

  “Well?” she asked, licking her lips as if she was enjoying her milk shake and was oblivious to all that lust torpedoing through his body.

  “Well, what?”

  “What’s wrong with the name?”

  Wasn’t it his plan to be the one asking the questions? To appease his curiosity and use this opportunity to find out more about her? Then how had she turned things around on him and asked him about his hobbies and now about his name? Was there ever a time she thought that perhaps she asked too many questions? Apparently not.

  “I don’t like the name because Lamar was also my father’s name,” he finally said.

  She blinked, confused. “You had a problem being named after your father?”

  If only she knew just how big a problem he had with it. “Yes. My mother named me after him for spite.” Gathering up their trash to put into a bag, he continued, “He refused to marry her when she told him about her pregnancy. And on top of that, he refused to give me his last name. So she thought she would get even by giving me his first name.”

  “Oh. You and Wade didn’t have the same father?”

  “No. Five years later Mom met and married Ray Jennings. He adopted me and gave me his last name. He was also the one to nickname me Striker. For obvious reasons, he didn’t like the name Lamar any more than I did. And before you ask, the reason he decided on Striker was because as a kid I was good at football but lousy at baseball. The pitcher would strike me out nearly every time.”

  She chuckled. “I can tell from the sound of your voice that you and your stepfather are close.”

  Striker couldn’t repress the smile that touched his lips. “We were. Ray Jennings was a good man. He treated Mom like a queen and provided for his family. Unfortunately, he was taken away from us too soon.”

  “How?”

  “Car accident. He left for work that morning at the water plant and never came home.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was fourteen and Wade was nine. We took his death hard. Like I said, he was a good man.”

  Deciding he’d told her more than she needed to know, he checked his watch. It was one in the afternoon. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to her place any more than she was. Although he would never admit it to her, he was enjoying this time sitting in the car and talking to her...although he did have an ulterior motive for doing so. He couldn’t help noticing that away from her house she seemed more relaxed and at ease. However, it was up to him to make sure neither of them let their guard down, even if the authorities thought it was a closed case.

  Still, they could risk a little more time out here. He eased back the seat to give his legs more room. He had backed the car in to get a clear view of what was happening in front of him. The lunch crowd was still coming, even more than before.

  He glanced over at Margo. She was finished with her milk shake. He was glad of that since he wasn’t sure how much longer he could have sat there watching her mouth on that damn straw, wishing it was his lips. His mind was filled with all kinds of naughty thoughts. Thoughts he was better off not having. So he decided to go ahead with his questions.

  “So, Margo, you’ve managed—and quite nicely, I might add—to once again dig into my business, so it seems fitting for me to dig into yours. Fair play and all that.”

  She looked at him warily as she shifted in her seat as if to get comfortable as well. “Depends on what you want to know.”

  He would start with what was really burning inside of him. Namely, her relationship with Scott Dylan. Why he was so curious about it he wasn’t sure, but he would admit inwardly to envying any man who’d been privy to her smiles. Her kisses. Her bed.

  “I want to know about you and Scott Dylan. What happened? After almost a year together, why did the two of you break up?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MARGO STARED AT STRIKER. What gave him the right to think he could ask her anything? But then, hadn’t she been doing that for the last fifteen minutes? Drilling him for things she’d wanted to know about him. She would be the first to admit that she probably knew more about him than he knew about her. Although he hadn’t wanted to, he had shared a lot with her, and she had a feeling there was more he wasn’t sharing. But why did he want to know about Scott?

  “Ask me about something else, Striker.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to talk about Scott.”

  “Why not?”

  When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Okay, I get it.”

  She lifted a brow. “You get what?”

  “The reason why you don’t want to talk about Scott. The breakup was painful for you.”

  Did he really think that or was he just fishing? Should she let him believe what he liked or should she straighten him out on the matter? She preferred the second option to straighten him out. “Trust me. My breakup with Scott didn’t cause me any pain.”

  “So why did the two of you break up? You’re not the kind of woman a man would easily give up.”

  Was that meant to be a compliment? If so, it
caught her off guard. Trying not to appear overly pleased by his assessment, she asked, “And why do you think that?”

  He took another sip of his iced tea before responding with his own question. “Have you taken a good look at yourself in the mirror lately?”

  “I do every day after I get dressed.”

  “Well, you evidently don’t see what most men would. And don’t ask me to expound because that will take us away from our topic of conversation. So why did you and Scott break up?”

  Should she answer his question? Doing so would keep the conversation going and therefore prolong their outing. It was a beautiful day, the first week in February, and she’d desperately needed to escape the confines of her home, especially with him in it. She was convinced that being around him in such close quarters was damaging her brain cells. More than once, while sitting across from him sharing a meal, she’d ached for a repeat performance of what had gotten started in her kitchen. That kiss they’d shared had been everything she’d imagined and more. And it had given her a pretty good idea of just how skillful he was when locking lips with a woman. And his taste... The sampling had been too short but oh so sweet.

  It didn’t take much to recall the heat that had surrounded them, remember how just touching his hand had brought out combustible energy of the most erotic kind. Granted, the confines of this car were still generating heat, but it wasn’t like it was back at her house. Here they had people around and a lot of traffic driving by.

  “Margo?”

  Had she been sitting there all this time just staring at his mouth? “Yes?”

  “Why did you and Dylan call it quits after a year? Tell me.”

  Margo swallowed deeply. She heard a gentle plea, rather than a direct order, and that did something to her. This wasn’t the first time she wondered how someone could be so dominantly aggressive one minute and then filled with such tenderness the next. How could Striker Jennings have such an unsettling effect on her at times? Was she letting her guard down because the police thought they had their man? Although she considered the risk to her to be at a decreased level, she was well aware that Striker was viewing it just as elevated as before.