Victoria shifted in the chair, listening to the comforting creeks of the house, her skin rejoicing in the lack of disguise, yet her mind wouldn't shut down.
Reality check. She was living in 1872.
Prostitution was legal, hanging was legal and there were only a few prisons across the territory. And a train was the fastest mode of transportation. Gone were all things familiar, the con-
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veniences and advantages. Not that she missed much beyond air conditioning and fast food. Whoever said this was a harsh and rough time didn't live in a twentieth century city with street gangs, drive-by shootings, child molesters and serial murderers. She rubbed her forehead, trying to adhere to her earlier promise—not to think about her job or Becket. At least for one day. Shifting in the chair, she finished off the chocolate and set the cup on the carpet, flexing her calves and examining the bruise blackening her knee. "How did you get that?"
Victoria flinched, then twisted a look around the edge of the chair. Even in the dark she could feel him, smell him, and wet her lips as Chris moved into the glow of the fire. The air caught on her lungs. Barefoot, he wore a dark silk robe, loosely sashed at his waist. And from the clean lines of the fabric, that's all he wore.
Her heart picked up pace. "I fell in a mine shaft."
His eyes flared, snapping from her gorgeous legs to her face.
"Jesus, Tori. You could have been killed."
"I know." Repentant, ashamed.
"How did you get out?"
"Dah." She rolled her eyes. "I climbed."
He smirked and crossed the parlor to the side board.
Uncorking a bottle, he splashed a draught of brandy into a
snifter, then twisted toward her, an offer in his raised brow.
"Yeah. Maybe that'll put me back to sleep."
He filled her glass, collected them in one hand and Victoria
couldn't take her eyes off him as he crossed to her, his step
graceful, soundless. As he offered the drink, she reached, her
gaze slipping to the gaping robe, his hairless chest carved like
a granite. Her fingers itched to touch him and she pulled the
snifter close, murmuring something close to thank you. She
didn't know. She felt suddenly vulnerable and defenseless, in
his house, his living room, drinking his liquor—with his eyes
gazing at her as if he could see into her soul. [
She took a gulp of brandy, grimacing at the burn of aged
liquor and his lips curved mysteriously as he settled into the matching chair a foot away.
She was actually nervous. The notion stunned him and Chris decided this was good, very good, and as he took a sip of brandy, he studied her over the rim. A bath and sleeping away the entire day had amazing results. She looked like a just-picked orchid, sensual, exotic, and he missed her, missed the opportunity to simply look at her without a disguise and decided right then, that a man's shut and socks on this woman were as enticing as silks and lace. He wouldn't have thought this common attire would stir his blood, but then, Victoria stirred his blood dressed like a man.
"Will you quit staring?"
"No."
She flicked her hair back, but it spilled like a golden-brown waterfall over her shoulder, the darker shade framing her face like a velvet halo. Half woman, half feline predator, he thought.
"At least you're honest."
"Unlike you."
She arched a brow, taking a sip. "Are we in for a sparing
match, Christopher?"
She sharpened her claws on his name. "Depends on you."
"We had a deal."
"Ah yes." he rested his head in the oxblood leather, giving her a half-lidded stare.' 'Don't ask where you got your information."
"Yes," came carefully. She had a feeling she was kicking at a dammed up river and didn't want the rush that would follow. He looked too confident just now.
"You really expect me to just accept what you say, if you say anything, which hasn't been much."
"I have my reasons."
"That's before these came." He dug in his robe pocket and withdrew a stack of papers, offering and she leaned out, her shirt sagging open, giving him a lush view of her breasts. His throat worked. His body tensed and he nearly choked on a
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healthy sip of brandy as she swung her legs around and positioned her back to the fire, using the light to read.
Her eyes skimmed the page, glossing wet in the firelight. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Oh God!" She read one after the other. Three murders—three and all the same. He'd started again.
"You knew this and didn't tell me?" ' 'I had to confirm it, first.''
She threw the papers at him. "How much more proof do you need, Chris?"
"Tell me what you know, Victoria," came in a dark command.
Her hand shook as she drained half the brandy. Swiping the back of her wrist across her lips, she met his gaze. There was no way around this. She had to do as she promised and give him information, and she searched her mind for the first logical piece.
"Do you know what a psychological profile is?"
Scowling impatiently, he shook his head.
"In my line of work," she chose her words carefully, not ready to reveal her time travel.' 'It outlines a suspect's past, how he'd react in a given situation, confrontation, casual greeting— Stuff like that. It's a pattern of what motivates a person to commit a certain crime,"
"Such as?"
"If a woman is raped, for a while after she'd be terrified of men. If a store was robbed, the owner would be overly cautious and the next time he's threatened, he'd likely be quicker to draw a gun and shoot before calling for help." He conceded with a regal nod. "A drug addict, while paranoid—" He cocked a crooked glance. "Para-what?" "Suspicious of everything and everyone," she explained. "He'd risk more and more for the drugs, feeling fearless. The drug does that, adds to the motivation. Need drugs. Get drugs." Her hand tick-tocked as she spoke. "Need more drugs. Might get caught, still need drugs, rob or even kill for cash for drugs." She cupped the snifter in both hands. "It just gets worse.
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But killers, certain types, are different. The pattern is deeply ingrained in their past. And in Becket's case, it's his mother."
"You really expect me to believe his mother caused him to kill?"
"Come on Chris, imagine." She swung her legs off the arm and sat up, leaning forward a touch. "Just dismiss what you've believed and play along."
Chris agreed, reluctantly, and she left the chair, pacing before the fire as she spoke. "Algenon Becket is the only son of a very wealthy man, from a prominent, charitable family. His parents are jet-set—ah, they travel extensively," she corrected, waving off a list, "attend tons of parties, charity auctions, real social butterflies."
She stalled, gaging his confusion. Blank as a sheet of paper. Handsome, but blank—a tough audience.
"His father paid little attention to him, his mother none at all." She stopped and jerked her head, tossing hair from her view. "I mean none. Zip. She never held him or nursed him as a baby, never touched him, no pats on the head, no good night kisses or stories. She wasn't there to chase away the monsters when he cried at night."
"You're certain of this." He knew that before asking.
"Sure. Got it from his nanny."
He arched a brow, cynical and curious.
She flashed him a feline smile and paced again, her luscious legs scissoring across the small space. "For attention, he's now the perfect son, in appearance, his women, excels in school and athletics. He has all the girls chasing him because he's handsome and rich, but still momma doesn't see him."
Chris tried desperately to listen, but the sight of prancing naked legs was driving blood to his groin. He wanted to be be
tween them, feel them around his hips.
"Sit down, Victoria." He said tightly, pained.
She stilled, frowning, then followed his gaze to her legs. Her gaze snapped back to his and she folded her arms over her middle. The shirt hiked and Chris groaned. "Pay attention. There will be a quiz."
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He was trying, dammit.
"Becket starts getting into trouble. Daddy gets him out of it. And suddenly he's the center of his parents attention again. Trouble with the law and," she snapped her fingers, "here comes Dad, paying off judges or victims or whatever, to keep his name and his reputation perfect. But—" she held up a finger, stopping the interruption he'd no intention of making "—still, no mother. The crimes get bigger, with a higher sentence. And Daddy finally washes his hands of him. Becket's an adult with his own money and he gets himself out of the scrapes. And that's the last we hear of him. Now he's careful, crafty," she said in a sinister tone, crossing the few feet and dropping lazily into her chair. "Now he doesn't want anyone to know what he's done, no more attention. He prefers sitting back to watch the authorities scramble for an answer. The satisfaction comes from within himself." "How did you figure this out?"
Mounds of paperwork and a slightly deviant mind, she thought. "It took a while to find a common thread but, Cole, my best friend, gave me the information." "The man who died?"
"The only man Becket murdered," she clarified. "He was a private investigator. When I got a defendant to hunt, he gathered all the information. In this case, he talked to servants, old nannies, everyone who'd come in contact with Becket. Even teachers, athletic coaches." "Why?"
"So I could get inside the perp's head. I need to know what they'll do next."
"Have you ever been wrong?" *
"No," she said without missing a beat.
That didn't surprise him. Nor her lack of arrogance over her expertise.
Her eyes shifted back and forth as if searching. ' 'Where was I?"
' 'Becket likes watching the law hunt for him.''
"Oh yeah." She sank deeper into the chair, slinging one
tanned thigh over the arm. Chris ground his teeth, forcing his attention from the revealing folds of fabric. "He believes he's above the law. Becket's never seen the inside of a prison, but he's in one," she tapped her temple with a forefinger. "In here. It's like a cage, torturing him mentally, and the only relief from his private hell in his murders. It soothes him, a justification for the pain. And he thinks he's doing the world a favor. Righting a wrong he imagines was done, not only to him, but to others. But he also gets his jollies in actually killing and decorating the corpse."
"Why Velvet? He was going to sell her the Pearl."
"I know, but the night she disappeared he was talking to her outside his office."
His brows shot up. "You saw them?"
Victoria bit her lower lip, glancing briefly away. "I was inside the office."
"Jesus!"
"I didn't take anything." Except pictures. "And I'm a bounty hunter, Chris. No rules apply."
"Goddammit, Victoria," he said, thrusting out of the chair. "I ought to lock you up!"
' 'Yes, you should. No wait!,"' came laced with sarcasm. 'You should lock Clara up. She did the snooping."
"What did you find?" he gritted through clenched teeth, his fists braced on the mantle, head lowered between outstretched arms.
"A journal. He's written it all down, every detail, the murders he committed before. But I think that Vel told him she was going to see her child, the one she gave up and that set him
off."
He snapped a look over his shoulder.' 'He saw it as a personal
rejection."
Her lips curved—at least he was trying to understand. "Vel's circumstances didn't matter. Remember, his brain waves aren't smooth." He scowled and she reworded her thoughts. "He'sgot that constant torment going on his head, of feeling inadequate in his struggle to be perfect. Her innocent confession must have
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been the nudge that pushed him over the edge. Hell, he may have had another victim selected."
He faced her, arms loose at his side. "You make it sound like a grocery list."
"His kills aren't random, Chris. That tiny infraction, in his mind, is his mother rejecting him all over again. What's really scary is that it could be as common as seeing a mother refuse her child candy before supper. Just depends on his mood."
"Good God, this whole town could be in danger.' Finally Chris understood her desperation at the train, and he had to live with the guilt that if he hadn't stopped her, Vel might be alive.
"Not necessarily." Victoria stood and he watched her every
move as she crossed to him. "You can't blame yourself, Chris."
It was eerie, that she knew his thoughts. "I do."
She gripped his arms, silk slipping beneath her fingers as
she gazed into worried dark eyes. "He's sick, but he knows
right from wrong.'' And that made him sane enough to stand
trial. "When he's got a candidate, he cultivates them until
they're comfortable around him. No fear, no resistance. He's
a nice guy." A tapered brow rose sharply. "Even you liked
him."
That suddenly made Chris feel like an idiot. "He kills to save the children from the life he suffered?"
Her lush lips twisted in a smirk. "Yeah, if you call being worth ten million dollars at the age of eighteen suffering." "Now that's total fabrication."
She lowered her arms and flopped back into the chair, legs outstretched. And Chris's gaze traveled upward from the socks, across tanned marble skin, to the tail of the shirt at the top of her thighs. He clasped his hand in front of him. The woman had no idea of what she was doing to him, let alone his mind. "He came to town wounded, didn't he?" Only her gold eyes shifted and Chris nodded. "I tracked the blood trail. It was in the woods when we first met.''
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Chris scowled, waiting.
"Cole shot him after Becket shoved a blade in his chest. Becket was out on bail, but he kidnapped the daughter of the cop—ah, sheriff—who discovered the connection between the murders. Doc MacLaren had to have examined him,"
"She did, Tori. I was there. Jenna informs me of every gunshot wound. He said he was ambushed."
He's keeping details too, she realized. "Plausible. But how did he pay? For that matter, how did he have cash to get into a poker game and win the Pearl?'' "He sold a cigarette case." "Gold with his initials on it?" Chris's features tightened. "Yes."
"It didn't strike you odd that a man with gold to sell, arrived without a horse or money?" "Neither did you."
Careful girlfriend, a voice warned. You're getting into rough territory here. "Yeah, right." ' 'Care to explain?'' "No," she said to her lap.
His jaw tightened. "Even about those masks and the colored glass you can put over your eyes ... or the knapsack you protect like the U.S. Mint?"
Her shoulders tensed. "No." She flicked at a loose thread in her shirt, hating her deception, aching to blurt it all out. And what? Watch him run for the hills? If he doesn't lock you up now, that will make him throw away the key.
Chris moved quietly away from the fire, dipping into his robe pocket. He stopped before her and she looked up. God, he looked so ... wounded. But when she opened her mouth to speak, he grasped her wrist and slapped something into her palm.
"Let me know when you can spare the whole truth." He left her aione and Victoria didn't need to look at her hand. She could feel the shape of the matches she'd lost. Damn.
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Abigale wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing Christopher as she put away the dishes. He sat at the kitchen table, earing his supper without tasting it, she knew, his eyes focused on some forgotten spot out th
e window. Since she'd found him at Miss Victoria's bedside, he'd done nothing but move restlessly through the house or stare for long moments out at the mountains. He gripped his fork so tightly that his knuckles whitened and every once in a while she saw a terrible fear in his handsome face. She'd never seen him like this, glaring toward the hall, the stairs, to where Miss Victoria lay sleeping, for the second day in row, the poor dear. He wanted to wake her, Abigale could tell, but didn't, and right now he appeared as if a roar crested inside him, and doing his best to keep it from passing his tightly clamped lips. Truly, she didn't want to be near when he exploded, but ...
"She's the one, isn't she?"
Chris looked up from his plate, the fork poised at his lips. His eyes narrowed, in that way that told her he didn't want to talk and Abigale remembered when Camille jilted him, and how often she'd seen it, directed at her. But this was different.
"The one—" she swallowed, "who sent you to bathin' in the river."
His features yanked taut and he set the fork down slowly. He swiped his lips with his napkin. "Yes." He tossed the linen over his plate, then pushed it away.
Abigale came forward to take it. And Chris noticed her hands shook.
"Abby?" ,
She met his gaze. "I don't think God intended for you to always live alone, Christopher."
It was the wrong thing to say. His expression withered and the chair scraped back as he stood abruptly.
"My happiness is not your problem, Abigale."
"Yes, it is."
His brows shot up.
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"Your mother and father charged me to take care of you."
"That was England. I was a child, alone in a foreign country
then. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm all grown up. This is my
home."
"Why did you build this house here, Christopher?"
He blinked, taken back. "Land was cheap."
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