“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he said.
Rylan narrowed his gaze. “You look—”
“What?”
“Flushed.”
Crap. Griff scowled, pointedly glancing toward Rylan’s wristwatch. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
“Fine.” Rylan held up his hands in defeat. “But don’t blame me if Jaci cuts off your supply of blueberry muffins.”
Griff was genuinely horrified. Jaci’s blueberry muffins were works of art. Moist and sweet with tart bursts of flavor from the berries.
“She wouldn’t be that cruel,” Griff protested.
Rylan’s lips parted, but before he could speak, Griff’s phone went on another buzzing rampage.
Griff muttered a low curse, in no mood to appreciate Rylan’s sudden chuckle.
“You might give Ms. Jacobs a call back,” Rylan told him. “Any woman that persistent is worth the trouble.”
Griff folded his arms over his chest. “Ms. Jacobs and trouble are two things I don’t need.”
Rylan shrugged, turning to head toward the side gate. “Take care,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll see you for Christmas dinner.”
“Annoying ass,” Griff breathed, snatching the phone off the table before he headed into his house.
Twenty minutes later he was on his favorite stretch of beach, jogging away his frustrations.
Breathing deeply of the salty air, he cleared his mind as his feet pounded against the hard-packed sand and a layer of sweat covered his skin. This was the best part of living on the coast. The early morning solitude when it was just him and the ocean and the beat of his heart.
Hitting the five-mile mark, he turned to stroll back at a leisurely pace. The slower speed not only allowed him time to cool down, but he could actually appreciate the view.
He climbed the steps to the parking lot, his mind already starting to turn to the work that was waiting for him at home. A mistake, since his distraction meant that he didn’t notice the woman who was leaning against the hood of his red Tesla.
Not until he was less than a few feet away.
Crap.
His ex-girlfriends were right. He was too wrapped up in his inner thoughts. Otherwise he would have spotted the woman while he was still on the beach and taken evasive maneuvers.
Certainly, no other man in the area was so oblivious to the sight of Carmen Jacobs.
The swelling crowd hustled toward the ocean, many of the men coming to a halt to gawk at Carmen’s slender body, which was curved in all the right places beneath her jeans and tight cashmere sweater. A few of them even managed to tear their gazes from the sweet swell of her breasts long enough to admire the silver-gold curls that brushed her shoulders and framed the delicate features of her face.
He knew what they were thinking. It was every man’s fantasy to lure the sweet, innocent girl into his bed and thoroughly corrupt her.
It’d been his fantasy six months ago. For an entire week he’d shared his morning run with Carmen, stupidly assuming it was fate that had crossed their paths. He hadn’t suspected the truth even when she started to question him about his work. Or when she acted as if she was fascinated by every word that left his lips.
It wasn’t until he’d been reading the morning paper and ran across an article that featured Carmen Jacobs’s lecture series at a local college that he realized there might be something dodgy about her sudden interest in him.
Digging into the pocket of his shorts, he pulled out his keys.
“Don’t say a word,” he warned, refusing to meet her gaze. He’d been sucked into those glorious blue eyes once before. Wasn’t happening again. “Just get off my car and walk away.”
“Hello, Griffin.”
Her voice was as light and feminine as the rest of her, brushing over him like a caress. Griff clenched his teeth.
“What part of don’t say a word wasn’t clear?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her flinch. Had she expected him to do backflips at the sight of her? Probably.
“I need your help.”
“Tough.” He moved to open his car door.
She quickly hurried to stand in his path. “You have to listen to me.”
He instinctively lifted his eyes at her fierce plea, a jolt of awareness blazing through him as he met the clear blue gaze. It was as swift and potent as the first time he’d seen her on the beach.
Annoyance sizzled through him.
“I don’t have to do a damned thing,” he growled.
“Please,” she whispered, lifting a hand as if she intended to touch him.
Griff stepped back. “I’m sure you’ve been able to flash your dimples and get what you want your entire life, but they don’t work on me,” he informed her, giving a sharp motion with his hand. “Now get out of my way.”
She folded her arms around her waist. Not surprisingly she didn’t move.
Obstinate female.
“Look, I know we didn’t get off to the best start,” she said.
“Really?” He released a sharp laugh. “Which part? When you stalked me?” he demanded, referring to the mornings he’d found her waiting on the beach for him. “Or when you lied to me?” he asked, reminding her that she’d teasingly told him her name was Jane Doe. “Or when you tried to use me?” he concluded his indictment.
“I didn’t . . .” Carmen’s words trailed away as she took in his grim expression. Apparently, not even she could look him in the eyes and deny her sins. Not after she’d hounded him for weeks with endless calls trying to interview him for a new book. Then, when he’d bluntly refused, she’d decided to use the old “incognito” ruse. Pretty woman. Teeny, tiny bikini. Casual meetings on the beach. No doubt she hoped she could seduce him into blind lust before he could realize who she was. “I need your help,” she repeated.
He snorted in disbelief. “Searching for some new victims you can exploit to create a blockbuster book for yourself?”
She paled, as if he’d hit a raw nerve, but her expression remained determined.
“This has nothing to do with my career,” she said.
“Right.”
With jerky movements she reached into her large purse, which was sitting on the hood of his car, and pulled out a manila envelope.
“I think a copycat is killing women and sending me the evidence,” she said, shoving the envelope into his hand.
Griff froze. Had he heard her right? Did she say she was getting mail from a serial killer?
He studied her pale face, absorbing the brittle tension that vibrated around her before he opened the envelope and reached in to grab a stack of pictures.
Polaroids? Unusual.
Then he turned them over and his breath was jerked from his lungs.
Holy . . . crap.
“If this is some sort of joke, then it isn’t funny,” he breathed, shuffling through the rest of the pictures before shoving them back into the envelope.
He felt tainted.
As if just touching the disturbing photos was enough to infect him with evil.
“Of course it isn’t a joke.” Her voice was hoarse, her hands clenched into tight fists.
It was hard not to believe her. She projected a fierce sincerity that would be difficult to fake.
Still, he wasn’t a total idiot. He’d been fooled by this woman before.
“Then you should take them to the cops, not me,” he told her, shoving the envelope back into her hand.
She grimaced. “I tried.”
He felt a small surge of relief. If the cops knew about the pictures, then surely they were investigating.
“And?”
“And they’re no more fond of me than you are,” she said.
“Imagine that,” he said, then instantly regretted the words when she abruptly turned her head, as if trying to hide her hurt expression.
Okay, he was still pissed, probably more pissed than was reasonable, but he wasn’t a cruel person.
“W
hich means that I need proof to convince them to take this seriously,” she told him.
Griff sucked in a deep breath, his gaze lowering to the envelope. The images of dead women remained branded in his brain, making him wonder how any cop could need more proof.
“What did they say to you?”
She scowled. “They think the pictures are a promo stunt because the paperback edition of my book is coming out in a few days.”
Ah. Well, that made sense. They lived in a world where people would set themselves on fire to gain attention.
“And is it?” he bluntly demanded.
“What?”
“A publicity stunt?”
Her eyes flashed blue fire. “I know it’s hard to believe, but my book sales did just fine,” she snapped. “I don’t need stunts to be a successful author.”
He held up his hands. “This has nothing to do with me.”
He didn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t for Carmen to abruptly drop to her knees in front of him.
Tilting back her head, she sent him a defiant glare. “Do you want me to beg?” she demanded. She pressed her hands together, as if she was saying a prayer. “To grovel at your feet?”
Griff ’s brows snapped together. He didn’t need to look around to know they were becoming the center of attention. The tourists were no doubt craning their necks to see if she was a prostitute about to do her business in a public parking lot, while the locals had their phones pressed to their ears as they called 911. The neighborhood was upscale enough to resent having people making spectacles of themselves in broad daylight.
That’s what reality TV was for.
“Ms. Jacobs—”
“My name is Carmen,” she interrupted, her eyes suddenly damp as her lips trembled.
Griff swore beneath his breath. He’d just told her that he was immune to her dimples. And he was. At least in theory. But he was no match for tears.
Crap, crap, crap.
Bending down, he hooked his fingers around her upper arm and urged her to her feet.
“Get up,” he commanded.
She stumbled upright, swaying toward him before she regained her balance. Griff ’s hand slid up her arm, careful not to grip too tightly.
She was so fierce, it was easy to forget just how small and delicate she was. He had no intention of accidentally bruising her.
“Will you help me?” she demanded, standing close enough he could catch the crisp, citrus scent that clung to her skin. Her soap? Lotion? He sucked in a deep breath before he even realized what he was doing.
He shook his head in frustration. “Do I have a choice?”
“No,” she assured him.
“Great.” He glanced around the parking lot, which had filled to the limit over the past few minutes. “Where’s your car?”
“I took a cab from the airport.”
“You were that certain I would be here?”
She hesitated before giving a small shrug. “You’re a creature of habit.”
Creature of habit? Griff grimaced. Just great. She made him sound as exciting as a house slipper. An old, ratty house slipper.
With brisk steps he rounded the hood of his car and unlocked the passenger door.
“Get in.”
She scurried to slide into the low-slung car, keeping her lips shut as he took his seat behind the wheel and switched on the engine. There was a low purr of power as he pulled out of the lot and headed across the highway toward the narrow road that zigzagged through the local neighborhood.
She at last broke the thick silence. “Thanks.”
He sent her an annoyed glance. “Don’t thank me. You were starting to attract attention,” he informed her. “Just say what you came here to say.”
She wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans. It was the only visible indication that she was anything but cool, calm, and collected. Then, with a concise attention to detail, she started to speak.
She told him about staying at the remote cabin and finding the envelope on the porch. She skimmed over her horror at pulling out the Polaroids, but he didn’t miss the way her fingers curled into tight fists.
He didn’t interrupt and she quickly moved on to the fact that the law firm that’d supposedly sent the envelope claimed they weren’t responsible. Something that might have been a clerical error, until she revealed that the messenger company that delivered the package didn’t exist.
She finished up with her trip to the sheriff’s office, where she met with a deputy who’d immediately decided she was playing some sort of sick game.
From that, she’d decided the authorities weren’t going to believe her without some real proof.
Whatever that meant.
He pulled the car into his long driveway, halting at the side of the house. Remaining silent, he climbed out of the vehicle and watched as Carmen hurried to join him. She had her purse slung over her shoulder and the envelope clutched tight in her fingers.
As soon as she reached his side, he led her to the back of the house to enter through the kitchen door.
He crossed the tiled floor to the sink to splash cold water on his face. Later he would hop in the shower, but for now he needed to clear his brain.
Plus, it gave him a perfect excuse to put distance between him and the woman who he’d never expected to see again.
He reached for a dish towel to wipe off the droplets that clung to his heated skin, and then, turning around, he braced himself to tell Carmen he couldn’t help her, only to discover he was alone in the kitchen.
His heart missed a painful beat.
She was gone.
Chapter Four
December 21, California
Carmen drifted around the spacious living room that was filled with overstuffed couches and chairs clearly designed for comfort, and the driftwood shelves that held rows of leather-bound books that were scuffed from use.
There were tall windows that allowed the morning sunlight to pour into the room, and bright hand-woven rugs on the planked floor. Across from her was a stone fireplace for the rare nights that it was cold enough to need heat. And in the corner was a large Christmas tree covered with a mishmash of decorations that looked as if they’d been handed down over the years.
On the walls were two oil paintings. She crossed to study them, a genuine envy tugging at her heart. They were original Turners. One of her favorite artists.
Both canvases had ships battling the elements as they struggled to cross a stormy sea.
Hmm.
Beauty amid chaos.
She didn’t know if it was a glimpse into Griffin Archer’s complicated brain or not.
The man was quite simply impossible to read.
From the minute she’d uncovered the fact that Dr. Franklin Hammel, the second serial killer profiled in her book, had been caught because of software invented by Griffin and his partner, she’d been fascinated.
Her first book had centered on killers. How cool would it be to write a book about the people who caught those killers?
But not the usual cops and sheriffs and detectives. They had hundreds of stories that spoke about their heroism. No. She wanted to delve deeper into the way technology was altering the way police tracked down criminals.
Unfortunately, Griffin Archer refused to even take her calls. That was the only reason she’d decided to use a different approach. If he wouldn’t talk to her over the phone, then maybe she could convince him face-to-face. And the perfect opportunity had offered itself when the local college had requested she do a series of lectures.
When she’d traveled to California, she hadn’t intended to try to fool him. Not consciously. But from a young age she’d trained herself to become a woman who never accepted the word no. How else could she succeed? So she’d used her journalistic skills to discover Griff ’s routine, and decided to approach him during his morning run.
The last thing she’d expected was to be knocked so off-balance by Griff that she forgot her own game.<
br />
He was nothing like she’d expected.
Okay, he was brilliant. That was a given. And clearly obsessed with his work.
But he was also gorgeous. The dark curly hair that made her fingers itch to run through it. The finely chiseled lines of his face. A slender nose. A wide brow. A strong jaw that added a stern masculinity to his features.
His eyes were velvet brown and he had a boyish, crooked grin that melted her heart.
Then there was the lean, sculpted body that made women stumble when he jogged past them.
She wasn’t a nun; there had been men in her life. But none of them had made her brain shut down when they glanced in her direction.
In all honesty, it was supposed to be the other way around.
She smiled, sometimes she fluttered her lashes, and they did what she asked.
Was it any wonder she’d so badly blundered her attempt to lure him into giving her an interview?
“Making yourself at home?” a dark voice drawled from behind her.
She abruptly turned to discover Griff standing in the doorway, his expression stern.
“I’m sorry, I’m just naturally curious,” she said, trying not to notice the awareness that sizzled through her. The last time she’d approached this man she screwed up everything by allowing her raw attraction to cloud her thinking. She couldn’t afford to let it happen again. “You have a lovely home.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “You sound surprised.”
“I suppose I am,” she admitted, her gaze skimming over the cushy furniture. The place reminded her of her grandparents’ home in Indiana. Warm. Inviting. Lived in. “I saw your partner’s condo featured in a magazine. This is nothing like it.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like feeling I’m living in a fishbowl. This is much more . . .”
“Comfortable,” she said when his words trailed away. “The condo is a showroom. This is a home.”
Something flared through the dark eyes before his lips flattened. Had he reminded himself that she was the enemy?
“Tell me why you came here.”
She studied him. Was this a trick question?
“I told you. I need to convince the police these are real,” she reminded him.
What Are You Afraid Of? Page 4
