What Are You Afraid Of?

by Alexandra Ivy

  He sent her a brief glance. “Not even your publicist? The one who forwarded the pictures to you?”

  Another shake of her head. “No one.”

  He returned his attention to the flowers, leaning forward to read the card that was stuck on a plastic holder.

  “Until we meet again. The Professor,” he read out loud.

  Carmen hissed, feeling as if she’d just been hit with a sledgehammer.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed.

  “The Professor.” He turned his head, studying her horrified expression with a searching gaze. “That’s one of the killers you profiled in your book, isn’t it?”

  She licked her lips, struggling to think through the instinctive fog of fear that clouded her mind.

  “Yes. Dr. Franklin Hammel,” she said, her voice hoarse. “He’s the one your program helped to capture.”

  “I wasn’t given any details about the case.” He studied her with a steady gaze. “The software was designed so any agency could put in data from a specific suspect and use it to predict their movements. Tell me about him.”

  “He was an unemployed English professor who was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe. He kidnapped coeds from college campuses in Baltimore and held them captive before he would dispose of their bodies with a copy of Poe’s ‘The Raven’ lying near the body.”

  She grimaced, recalling the time spent with Hammel. Behind the protective glass that had separated them, he’d looked like a slug. A big, bulbous head that was shaved smooth. His long face, and the lanky body that’d been covered by a white T-shirt and white pants.

  Unlike the other killers he hadn’t tried to manipulate her with sob stories of painful childhoods, or protests of innocence. The Professor had been an arrogant, self-absorbed psychopath who’d believed that his superior intelligence assured him the right to abuse women. They were, after all, lesser beings in his mind.

  “Carmen?” Griff ’s soft voice penetrated the macabre memories.

  She shivered. The room felt like an icebox. “When I interviewed him he told me that he was searching for his perfect muse,” she said. “No woman could give him the satisfaction he needed to create his masterpiece.”

  His jaw tightened. “Where is he?”

  “North Branch Correctional Institute, dying of prostate cancer,” she said. Hammel had already known he was sick when he’d agreed to speak with Carmen.

  She assumed that’s why he’d been so candid during their interviews. It was his last gasp to obtain the fame that had eluded him in his literary endeavors.

  Griff nodded. “So he’s probably not responsible for sending you flowers.”

  “No.” Another shiver raced through her. “It has to be the copycat killer.”

  His attention returned to the vase of flowers. “Why roses? Why not a copy of ‘The Raven’?”

  Carmen considered for a long minute. Various possibilities shuffled through her mind before a sick dread twisted her stomach into a knot.

  “He’s telling me he’s going to Baltimore,” she rasped.

  Griff frowned. “How?”

  “The Poe Toaster.”

  “Toaster? Wait, I’ve heard about him,” Griff said. “It’s some mystery person who goes to Poe’s grave on his birthday, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, the person cloaks themselves in black and makes a toast at the original gravesite with a glass of Martell cognac, and then leaves the bottle along with three red roses.”

  He immediately followed her train of thought. “The grave is in Baltimore?”

  “Yes.”

  Pulling out his phone, he moved around the vase in a semicircle, taking pictures of the flowers as well as the card from a dozen angles.

  “I need to let Nikki know,” he said.

  “Nikki?”

  “Nikki Voros.” He turned the phone and tapped on the screen, sending the photos into cyberspace. “She’s my FBI contact.”

  Carmen didn’t protest. He could contact all the FBI agents he wanted. Hell, she would be happy if he flashed the Bat-Signal.

  They could use all the help they could get.

  Waiting until he slid the phone back into his pocket, she glanced around the shabby space. A nasty chill inched down her spine.

  “Do you think the killer was in this room?”

  His eyes darkened, then without warning he was moving to grasp her hand.

  “Let’s find out,” he said.

  Carmen found herself tugged out of the hotel room and back into the frozen night air.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “To speak to the manager,” he said.

  She scurried to keep up with his long strides, her gaze darting around the nearly empty parking lot. Was the killer somewhere out there watching them? Savoring the fear that he was creating?

  Keeping close to Griff ’s side, she stepped into the office. She grunted at the suffocating temperature. Did the manager hope to convince any stray traveler that whatever the hotel might lack in elegance it made up for in sheer heat?

  There was a loud creak as the reclining chair was pushed upright and a large male form wrestled its way out of the cushions to shuffle toward the counter.

  The night manager was a man in his late fifties with a small fringe of gray hair and a large, soft body that moved at the pace of a drunken snail. His round face was wreathed in a welcoming expression, although there was a hint of pain in his pale eyes. As if the mere task of standing made his bones ache.

  “Evening, folks,” he said in a hearty tone. “Can I get you a room?”

  Carmen stepped forward. The room was in her name. Which meant she would have to take the lead in questioning the manager.

  “Actually, I’m already a guest,” she said. “I’m Carmen Jacobs in room seven.”

  “Oh, yes.” His gaze shifted to Griff. “And you, sir?”

  He wrapped an arm around Carmen’s shoulders. “I’m with the lady.”

  Despite her raw nerves, Carmen felt a blush stain her cheeks. Not at Griff ’s implication that they were lovers. But at the pleasure that the mere thought stirred deep inside her.

  “I see.” The man heaved a disappointed sigh. “Is there something you need?”

  “I want to know if you let anyone into my room,” she said. “I recently returned to discover that someone had left me roses.”

  The man scowled before he gave a snap of his fingers.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “There was a deliveryman who came about an hour ago. I tried to have him leave the flowers at the desk. I don’t like entering a guest’s room, but he insisted that the person who’d ordered them had been very specific that the flowers be given directly to you, Ms. Jacobs.” The man’s face twisted, as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “The driver all but implied he thought we couldn’t be trusted to see that you received them.”

  Carmen frowned. Had the killer masqueraded as the deliveryman?

  Griff pulled out his phone. “Do you remember the name of the flower company?” he demanded.

  “Yep.” The man began sorting through a messy stack of papers. “I made them leave a card in case something wasn’t right.”

  He finally located a black business card that was embossed with gold lettering and handed it toward Carmen.

  “I’ll check it out.” Griff reached out to pluck it out of her fingers. He was dialing the number as he paced away from the desk.

  The manager cleared his throat. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Carmen sent him a strained smile. “I’m just trying to find out who sent the flowers.”

  The older man shrugged. “Some secret admirer, no doubt.”

  Carmen’s mouth went dry. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ten minutes later they were back in Carmen’s hotel room.

  Griff had reached the flower shop listed on the business card and had a confirmation that yes, they’d received an order earlier that day for the roses to be delivered to Ms. Ja
cobs at the hotel. Yes, it had been a man. Yes, he’d insisted the flowers be delivered directly to Ms. Jacobs’s room. Yes, he’d paid by credit card and added a hefty bonus to ensure the delivery was made despite the icy roads. And yes, the driver had been with the store for the past six years.

  Which meant that it wasn’t the killer who’d entered the room.

  Ignoring the manager’s curious stare, Griff hustled Carmen out of the office and back to her room. If the killer had left a paper trail, Griff could follow it.

  Or at least that was his assumption.

  As he sat on the edge of the bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, his confidence took a severe nosedive.

  Shit.

  It had been a simple matter to trace the invoice for the red roses to a credit card. And to discover that the mystery person tormenting Carmen was not only cruel, but fiendishly clever.

  “The flower shop is legit, but the credit card is bogus,” he growled.

  She moved to stand next to the bed, her face pale in the muted light.

  “How can you be sure?”

  His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “The name on it is Frank Hammel.”

  She jerked in shock. “It couldn’t be the real one.”

  He gave a decisive shake of his head. It wasn’t impossible to manipulate the world from behind bars. But Frank Hammel wasn’t a part of a Mafia organization, or the member of a loyal gang. From what Carmen had told him the man was a loner, like many serial killers, without connection to friend or family. Plus, there was no way he could possibly have known that Carmen was at this hotel. Not when his computer search had just revealed the older man was lying comatose in a hospital bed.

  “No, it wasn’t Hammel.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. “It’s just another part of the game.”

  “Yes.” He set aside the laptop and rose to his feet. “We need to find someplace for you to stay where you can be protected.”

  She tilted her chin, her features settling into a defiant expression.

  “I’m going to Baltimore.”

  Baltimore? Had she lost her mind?

  “No way,” he snapped. “That’s exactly what the maniac wants. You need to go to a safe house.”

  “I’m not going into hiding while innocent women are being stalked and killed.”

  “What do you expect to accomplish if you go to Baltimore?”

  She blinked. Apparently, she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “I’ll go to the police,” she at last said.

  He held her mutinous gaze. “What do you expect them to do?”

  “I don’t know.” She gave a frustrated lift of her shoulder. “Put out extra patrols. Maybe warn women not to walk alone near a college campus.”

  He reached out to grasp her upper arms, as if worried she might bolt out the door and drive to Baltimore tonight.

  She was stubborn enough to take that risk.

  “You can call them,” he told her. “From a safe house.”

  She sent him a frustrated glare. “And just where is this mythical safe house?”

  “You could stay with me.” The words were flying out of his mouth before he even realized he was thinking them.

  Her eyes widened with shock. “Griff—”

  Seemingly in the grip of some sort of madness, Griff didn’t try to explain his offer for her to share his home. Instead, he kissed her.

  Just like that.

  He had a brief memory of when he was seven years old. An older boy had dared him to jump off the fire escape of their apartment building. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about the consequences. He’d simply climbed onto the edge of the iron railing and leaped into the Dumpster below.

  This was the same thing.

  One second he was watching her lips part, and the next he had them covered in a kiss that blazed with a need he’d been battling for hours. Hell, maybe for months.

  She tasted just like her scent implied. Crisp, clean, and a little tart.

  His arms wrapped around her tiny waist and he hauled her hard against his body. She grasped his shoulders, her lips parting in silent invitation.

  He didn’t hesitate. Dipping his tongue into the warm temptation of her mouth, he allowed his hands to slide beneath the hem of her sweatshirt. She shivered, but she didn’t make any move to pull away.

  Griff made a sound deep in his throat. He’d fantasized about this woman a hundred times, but reality was so much better than his dreams.

  Her lips were softer. The curve of her hips beneath his searching hands was sweeter. The tentative stroke of her tongue against his was even more erotic.

  He was instantly hard and aching.

  With a low groan, he turned his head to brush his lips over her heated cheek.

  He heard her suck in a raspy breath. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He nuzzled his mouth against her temple, savoring the citrus scent of her skin.

  “Convincing you to come to California with me,” he said.

  She released a shaky chuckle. “You have a lot of faith in your kisses.”

  “It’s not faith, it’s fate,” he corrected in thick tones. “I knew it would be like this from the first minute I saw you standing on the beach.”

  He felt her stiffen.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest from the start. I thought . . .” Her words trailed away on a sigh. “I don’t really know what I thought. I just wanted to meet you so I could try to convince you to let me interview you. Then I kept putting off telling you the truth.”

  “The past is gone,” he said. “This moment is all that matters.”

  For a blissful minute she snuggled against him, all soft and warm and yielding. But even as his fingers stroked up the curve of her back, her hands moved to press her palms against his chest.

  “Wait,” she muttered. “You’re not going to distract me.”

  Griff swallowed a curse. As much as he wanted to toss the woman on the nearby bed and forget the world outside the tiny hotel room, he needed to be certain she wasn’t going to do something crazy as soon as his back was turned.

  He lifted his head to glare down at her upturned face. “You can’t go to Baltimore.”

  Something that might have been pain tightened her features. “If I don’t, and women start turning up dead, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

  His lips parted, only to snap shut.

  He wasn’t a psychiatrist, but he knew what this was about.

  Carmen hadn’t been able to save her mother all those years ago. Now she refused to have any more deaths on her conscience.

  December 23, Kansas

  Carmen managed a few hours of sleep. She’d offered the bed to Griff, but he’d refused, instead grabbing a spare blanket and pillow and lying on the floor near the door.

  She tried not to feel guilty at the fact he had to be miserable on the nasty carpet.

  She’d told him to go home. After an hour of arguing about her trip to Baltimore, she’d pointed toward the door and ordered him back to California. But he’d stubbornly refused to go.

  Instead, he’d settled on the ground and turned his back to her.

  End of conversation.

  By seven the next morning they were both up and dressed. Griff had run to the nearby diner for coffee and doughnuts while she showered and put on the same clothes. At some point she was going to have to hit a store. Or a laundromat.

  In the meantime, she was on her second cup of coffee and her third doughnut as she paced the floor while Griff silently worked his magic on his computer. At last he glanced up from the bed, his expression impossible to read.

  “There’s nothing.”

  She frowned, trying not to notice how very fine he looked in his flannel shirt and faded jeans. His dark hair was rumpled and his jaw was dark with his unshaved whiskers.

  Deliciously male.

  “There has to be something,” she insisted.

  He glanced up from the laptop. �
�The only tickets available would mean flying from Kansas City to Detroit to Atlanta to Baltimore. Over ten hours with layovers. That’s always assuming there’s no delays, which would be a miracle.” He glanced toward the window where the snow was beginning to flutter from the gray sky. Big, puffy flakes that looked pretty until they were coating the runway. “It will be faster to drive.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the holiday season.”

  She couldn’t argue. Finding plane tickets this close to Christmas was like mining for gold.

  She blew out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. I’ll drive.”

  His eyes narrowed. “We’ll drive.”

  “Griff.” Her protest was cut short by a sharp ding, ding, ding. She blinked, her gaze lowering to the computer he had perched on his knees. “What was that?”

  His slender fingers were already flying over the keyboard. Like a piano virtuoso. If it was her, she’d already have busted the keys. She tended to treat a computer like it was an old-fashioned typewriter, smashing her fingers against the letters as if she could somehow transfer her emotions to the words on the screen.

  Maybe it had something to do with being a journalist.

  “Someone just tried to hack into one of your accounts,” he said.

  She felt a stab of surprise. “How do you know?”

  “I’m using one of the programs I designed to alert us if anyone attempts to trace you in cyberspace,” he said. “I filtered out the random searches. You’re a celebrity, so your name gets a lot of traffic.”

  She ignored his reference to being a celebrity, moving to settle on the bed next to him.

  “So what triggered the alarm?”

  “It looks like a search on your credit card,” he said, his gaze on the computer screen as files flashed by at a speed that made her dizzy.

  “Identity theft?” she demanded, already searching her mind for what she had to do to cancel her card.

  What a pain.

  “No.” He lifted his head, his expression tense. “I think the stalker is using your credit card to follow your movements.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. She’d used her card to buy her plane tickets. And then again to rent the car that brought her to this hotel.