by P. A. Lupton
I felt his breath against my ear as he spoke, and I inhaled a deep shuddering breath of my own. He smelled unbelievably good. His scent was an enticing, yet subtle mixture of something naturally spicy and purely male. “Please, kiss me?” I asked—or more accurately, begged—but I was too incredibly aroused to be embarrassed by the plea.
He pulled away from my ear, but only far enough to reach my lips. As his mouth closed over mine, he gently tangled his fingers through my hair. I slid my arms around his shoulders and reveled in the unexpected tenderness of his kiss.
Pulling back slightly, he whispered. “Your hair feels like silk.” Before I could respond, his mouth descended once again.
He moved his tongue along my lips so slowly, teasingly, until I parted my mouth in response. His tongue swept against mine, repeatedly, and then withdrew. It was by far the most sensual kiss I’d ever received, and it provoked a response from me I hadn’t anticipated.
Consumed in the moment, I returned his kiss with feverish desperation. I traced my tongue along the inside of his mouth and felt his body shudder in response. I released a guttural moan and crushed my body closer. It wasn’t the kiss that surprised me, but my reaction to it. I’d never before lost control like this. And I’d certainly never felt this desperate urge to tear someone’s clothes away to feel their bare skin rub against mine.
Nathan angled his head, allowing a deeper penetration. But what was even better than the way he kissed me so ravenously, was the fact I couldn’t sense his emotions. For once in my life, I was free to revel in my own feelings and experience an intimacy through my perceptions, without someone else’s clouding and overwhelming the experience. The lust I felt was mine, the arousal was mine, everything was mine alone, and I loved every second of it.
The muscles along his chest rippled under my hands as his hand moved from my neck to caress my back. Everywhere he stroked left a lingering heat like he was searing my skin. It was amazing.
I’m not sure how much time had passed, but it felt like only seconds when he suddenly sighed and took a step back. “I believe your taxi cab is waiting.” His voice filled with regret.
Still dazed from his kiss, I looked over and finally registered that my cab was in fact waiting. Then, as the reality of the situation slowly returned, I realized the mistake I’d just made. “Oh, my god. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
“Why not? You cannot deny there is something between us.”
“It doesn’t matter. You are a…a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. This can’t happen again.” I pushed him away, gently, but firmly.
“Person of interest. Is that your way of telling me that I am the FBI’s prime suspect?”
“Mr. Donovan—” He arched his brow at my formal use of his name. “Okay, fine, Nathan, it’s nothing personal. This is an investigation, and I cannot allow my personal feelings to cloud this investigation.”
“Then I welcome your investigation, Agent Reece. However, I feel it only fair to warn you—once your investigation is complete and you discover I am not responsible for the murders, I fully intend to pursue this attraction between us.” He offered a smug and purely victorious grin. “And, as you mentioned earlier this evening, I am rather accustomed to getting my way.”
“Good night, Nathan.”
“Good night, Agent Reece.”
Fifteen minutes later I was finally back in my apartment. My body was still shaking and tingling as I thought about the kiss. Truthfully, I could think of little else. Nathan Donovan had awoken passion and sexuality in me that I hadn’t really believed I was capable. I had no idea how to handle the new sensations. My life up until this point had always been so focused on my job. I was unprepared to deal with the complication. The thing that bothered me the most though, was that I knew there was something different about Nathan, but I couldn’t quite nail down what it was.
I fell asleep trying to figure it out and dreamed about Nathan that night.
Chapter 5
The next morning I submitted the credit card receipt substantiating Nathan’s alibi into evidence. Of course, I skipped telling Morrison the part where I danced with Nathan, then made out with him while waiting for a cab. That information was on a strictly need-to-know basis, and the FBI most certainly did not need to know. As it was, I was chastising myself for what happened last night. I should have better sense than that, but when Nathan was close, my head seemed to go on vacation and my body’s impulses took over.
Finally, I meet a man who makes my knees weak and stirs up feelings I thought I was incapable of feeling, and he’s a suspect. That’s just my twisted sort of luck.
Morrison donned his jacket while standing. “I’m headed back to Donovan Security to pick up the security log. You coming?”
“No. We have a lot of interviews today, and I want to take care of a few things first.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.” I couldn’t help but smile at his weak Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.
“See you later.”
Although it wasn’t exactly an appropriate use of my resources, I logged onto the FBI database to do a little unauthorized investigation of my own. My father was purposefully lying last night. There had to be some reason he didn’t want me looking for my mother’s family, which is why I intended to do exactly that.
Only twenty minutes had passed since I started my search, but the lack of progress was pissing me off. In a fit of aggravation, I tossed the pile of papers I was reading against the wall and watched them scatter to the floor.
“Damn it.”
According to every resource at my disposal, Lauren Reece did not exist. My mother never changed her name after they were married, but I tried a search for Lauren Burke anyway. That search garnered similar results. Consequently, I perused marriage licenses and again was thwarted when I found there was never a marriage license issued for James Reece and Lauren Burke. It didn’t make sense—I’d seen my parents wedding photos.
“What the hell is going on here?” I muttered with a defeated sighed.
Anger and frustration gnawed at me as every approach ended with the same dead end result. “My father doesn’t know me as well as he thinks if he anticipates a few dead ends will cause me to quit. Never.” I vowed quietly with a renewed sense of determination. I was tenacious when I wanted answers, which is what made me a good investigator. My father would have to hide a lot better than this to keep me from finding the truth. I was surprised, however, to discover he’d been lying about more than I’d originally suspected.
What else has he lied to me about? That’s when a truly frightening thought struck me. Could he have misled me about how my mother died? When?
My fingers flew frantically across my keyboard as I changed screens from marriages to deaths. And again, no record of a death certificate for Lauren Reece, or Lauren Burke. My father said she died during childbirth, so the hospital I was born at should have a record of the incident. A quick phone call revealed the hospital I was supposedly born in had no record of my birth. There was also no record of my mother’s death.
I felt sick.
Growing up, it had always been just the two of us. Both of my fathers’ parents had died before I was born and he had no siblings. The same was true for my mother’s side—or so I’d thought. On more than one occasion, I’d justified his overprotective, high-handed actions by convincing myself his behavior was a direct result of his fear of losing me. After all, we were all we had in the world.
Yet, an unspeakable thought wormed its way into my mind. Could he have kidnapped me from my mother when I was a baby? It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen plenty of similar cases. Custody battles often drove people to do crazy things. If that were true, and if he kidnapped me to keep me from my mother, that would mean she might be alive. Could it be possible? Hope blossomed as I contemplated the idea. What if my mother was alive? I’d always dreamed of meeting her.
It was achingly clear that he lied about my mother’s name, so I reluct
antly proceeded to do a background search on the man who was literally my entire world. Time was a blur, but shortly after I began the search, I found myself staring in disbelief at the information I’d compiled. It wasn’t until about a month following my birth that the name James Burke began to surface. Before that, he was a phantom—on paper anyway. His Social Security number and driver’s license were issued after I was born. There was no record of a change of name, so he must have assumed a false identity. I felt like my whole reality was crashing in. Bile rose in my throat and there was no holding it down as I raced to the trash can. emptying the contents of my breakfast.
Once I rinsed my mouth in the washroom, I returned to my desk in a daze and sat there staring at the details of my father’s fabricated existence.
He was a complete stranger to me.
As I recognized the accuracy of that thought, I became more determined than ever to uncover the truth. But to do that, it was vital I treat this with the same level of impartiality I did any other case. In other words, no more vomiting.
I had two advantages. Obviously, as an FBI agent I had access to information a civilian would not have. But I also had another skill I could use to help me sort through this mess. Now that I knew he was deliberately trying to bury information, I needed to re-evaluate conversations I’d had with my father over the years. Weighing his every emotion during those exchanges would help me ferret out exactly what he was trying to cover up, and that’s where I’d start looking.
The first questions I had: Could he have kidnapped me from my mother in some sort of custody battle? And was it possible she could be alive? Although I wanted to believe with everything in me that she might be, I had a sinking feeling she was, in fact, gone. Whenever he spoke about her, he was consumed with love—he practically worshipped her. Still, his love was always followed by sadness. And not just a little; he was utterly devastated. Judging by his feelings, it was safe to conclude that, though I couldn’t find a death certificate, she was dead. Come to think of it, I was positive he wouldn’t have hurt her, or taken me from her. He cared for her too much. There must be another explanation.
Maybe he was merely covering up the fact we were witches. Admitting that my mother and I were both witches was difficult for him. I practically had to force the information from him, but I could sense he wholly believed what he was saying. Coupled with the fact that I have a psychic gift, I was inclined to believe it as well. Yet, I also sensed bitterness and fear, and he did try to distract me when I asked for too many details. But that wouldn’t explain why he changed his name, or lied to me about hers. No, he would only do that if he wanted to disappear, or to hide from someone. But who?
Could he be running from his family? My grandparents on my father’s side were dead, and he had no siblings—I was certain he told me the truth about that. I always thought he was leaving something out, though. Still, I hadn’t sensed any fear, only regret.
It had to be my mother’s family. He was a master at avoiding all conversations involving them. And when he did speak of her family, evasiveness and fear were predominant. Or if I raised questions, his anxiety flared. Reflecting back, I had clarity only hindsight could provide—he was hiding both of us.
Perhaps they tried to get custody of me after my mother passed away, but that didn’t really explain why he was afraid. Unless... Oh, God. He’d said some witches were evil. Was my mother’s family evil?
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Morrison’s question jolted me from my thoughts.
“Um…nothing. Just the case,” I lied, tucking my list away for later.
“Oh, yeah? You come up with anything?”
“Nothing useful. What did you find out?”
He scowled. “Nothing useful,” he repeated. “The log shows Nathan Donovan was at home at the time of the first two murders, and he arrived shortly after midnight Monday night—just like he said. This clears him of all murders.” He ran his fingers through his hair and grumbled. “Damn it. He was our only lead.”
My heart practically soared at the news. Nathan had told the truth—he was innocent.
“I still think he’s hiding something,” Morrison continued.
Unfortunately, I agreed with him on that point. As much as I wanted to believe Nathan was truly innocent, there was something he was withholding. “Agreed. But for now, why don’t we start looking in a different direction and see what we can find.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
I arched a brow. I found it hard to believe this cocky FBI agent was willing to take a suggestion from someone else, let alone a woman.
“Don’t give me that insolent look. I just want to solve this murder so no one else dies.”
Every day we worked together, Morrison showed me one more reason to like him—despite his arrogance.
“Okay, first thing—I scheduled interviews with a few doctors who specialize in varying areas of forensic pathology. We need to figure out how the killer is draining their blood. Maybe they’ll have some ideas about the method our killer is using. If the killer needs specific supplies to accomplish the exsanguinations, we could conceivably track the purchase of those supplies. I can’t imagine specialized medical equipment would be easy to come by.”
“Hmm…that’s actually a good idea,” he muttered.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I chastised. “Also—this will sound crazy—but I was thinking about our interview with Monica, the witness who told us Morganna was psychic.”
“What about her?”
“Well, why don’t we re-interview some of the friends and family of the others victims to find out if any of them thought Leslie Harper or Sherri Marcone were psychic.”
“You don’t believe in that crap, do you?” he asked incredulously.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” I evaded. “All that matters is what they believed. The victim’s may have thought they were actually psychic, or perhaps their friends and family did. What if the killer is some sort of religious fanatic who thinks all clairvoyants are evil and need to be sent back to Hell? Who knows? All I know is it’s another avenue for us to explore—a possible connection.”
He let out a long patient breath before responding. “I’ll admit, I can see the merits of your argument. But, I swear to God, if the other guys start calling us Mulder and Scully, there will be retribution.”
A burst of laughter escaped me, lightening my somber mood. Morrison grinned in response.
***
The meetings with our expert doctors bore disheartening results. Five physicians, each with varied specialties, and yet, not one had a credible theory about how the serial killer was neatly draining his victim’s blood.
It was a demoralizing finish to my week.
“Well that was a waste of time,” Morrison complained on our way out of the field office.
It was late Friday night by the time we’d finished and entered our reports, and though he would never admit to it, he was trying to be gallant by walking me to my car.
“Yeah. Why do I feel like we’re just spinning our wheels? This guy seems to be one step ahead of us.” We were each inundated with files. Apparently, we both had plans of continuing at home over the weekend. “I’ll see you Monday, Agent Morrison.”
“Bye, Reece.”
Our cars were parked near each other’s so we both pulled out at the same time. A few minutes later, I realized I forgot the information I’d gathered about my father in my desk, so I headed back to the office. As I was leaving the building for the second time, a man approached me.
“Are you Agent Reece?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?” Cautiously, I unclipped my gun holster preparing for anything. God, I was paranoid.
“I have a delivery for you.” He turned toward the back of a white van and pulled a huge bouquet of flowers.
They were breathtaking. Not an ordinary floral arrangement, it was an assortment of some of my favorite tropical flowers. Yellow mango callas, hot lava flowers,
birds of paradise, and orange lilies, all bound together with an orange ribbon. When the delivery man placed them in my hand, I couldn’t help but lean forward and take in a deep breath, enjoying the intoxicatingly sweet aroma.
“Who are these from?”
“I’m not sure, but there’s a package as well.” He handed me a clip board. “Sign here, please.”
I didn’t want to open the package in the parking lot, so I waited until I got home. It was a small box—not jewelry small, but still, not large. I lifted the lid and the tissue paper inside to find...a cell phone?
I opened the phone and scrolled through the programmed information. There was nothing. Finally, I found an entry listed under contacts. It was a phone number, but where the name should have been it read ‘Call Me’.
Flooded with curiosity, I dialed. “Hello, Agent Reece. You received my package, I see.”
“Nathan?” I asked, but I knew undoubtedly who was on the other end of the phone—at least my body did, anyway. The timber of his voice sparked all sorts of nerve endings to life, even my stomach fluttered.
“You refused to give me your phone number last night, so I was forced to improvise.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Although I shouldn’t be, I was extremely flattered he’d gone to this trouble. “Always getting your way, aren’t you?” I chided, but only half-heartedly.
“I thought we had already established that fact last night,” he teased back.
“Thank you for the bouquet. How did you know my favorite flowers?”
“I had no idea they were your favorites. I sent you my favorite flowers.” The admission pleased me more than I was willing to acknowledge. “I suppose that means we have something in common.”
“I really shouldn’t be—”
“Agent Reece, surely by now you are aware Agent Morrison picked up the security log today.”
“How did you know?”
