by Elle Kennedy
Christ, how had he overlooked it? Flowers. No. Roses.
The puzzle pieces in Blake’s head slid into place. He wanted to slap himself for missing the connection, but up until now, they hadn’t had much to go on. The first three victims were dead. Sam was attacked in her home. But Elaine had been different from the start, the only woman who’d been transported to another location. Thank God she’d remembered such a vital scent. Flowers. The guy carved roses into his victims’ skin, for God’s sake. It wouldn’t be a stretch believing his line of work had something to do with the damn things.
He sat up straight and slammed his hand down. The sound of his palm slapping on the smooth dining room table echoed through the room. “He’s a goddamn florist,” he said with a groan.
At that moment Sam reappeared in the doorway with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Her eyes widened at his declaration. “Roses,” she exclaimed. “Elaine smelled roses in that van!”
Looking excited, she returned to her seat and set down her mug. Blake wanted to ask her to leave, let him and Rick deal with this investigation without civilian involvement, but the enthusiasm sparkling in her eyes made him reconsider. She looked energized, hopeful, and he couldn’t bring himself to send her away as if she were some disobedient child who shouldn’t be talking to the grown-ups.
“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” she demanded.
“It makes sense,” he answered, still brooding over the notion. “A florist. Landscaper maybe. Gardener. Delivery guy. Whatever it is, I’m convinced the bastard works with flowers.”
“Which,” Rick said, “could explain why Diana, Candace and Roberta opened their doors to him. If he’s a deliveryman, showing up with flowers, they wouldn’t be suspicious.”
“Candace and Roberta?” Sam echoed.
“The first two victims,” Rick explained.
“They let him in? Willingly?”
“Seems so,” Rick confirmed. “There was no sign of forced entry in their homes, which led the police to believe that the guy somehow coaxed his way inside.”
“Why didn’t we think of this before?” Blake said with chagrin. “The profilers at Quantico came up with a list of people someone might let into their home. Plumber, cable guy, Avon lady. How did they miss flower-delivery guy?”
“As I recall, the profilers believed the roses were more symbolic. They didn’t associate it with his occupation.” Rick shrugged. “And to be fair, most people just sign for flowers at their doorstep. Not many deliverymen offer to come in and arrange the damn things.”
“But this one did.”
Sam intervened. “We could be wrong about this, you know. It’s just speculation.”
“It’s the first thing in this case that makes sense,” Blake corrected.
“But we didn’t find flowers in any of their homes,” Rick spoke with a troubled frown. “Forensics combed the houses for trace evidence and came up empty-handed. If our guy showed up at their doors with a bouquet, he must have taken it back with him.”
“Not to raise the suspicions of the cops?” Sam offered. She leaned forward. “Most of the victims were married, or were living with someone, right? If their significant other came home and saw a floral arrangement that wasn’t there before, he’d tell the cops about it.”
Blake nodded, and for a moment he experienced a flicker of deep respect for the brunette in front of him. She didn’t need to be here, to listen to details about the man who’d tried to kill her, but not only was she calm and composed, she was offering real insight. He wondered if she realized her own strength.
Then he wondered if there was anything about this woman that didn’t impress him so damn much.
“What about you?” Rick suddenly asked, staring at Sam. “Did you receive any flowers the day of the attack?”
A frown creased her forehead. “The day of? No. But…” She started biting on her bottom lip in a cute way that made Blake’s mouth tingle. “A week before, I received a floral arrangement from a designer. I remember because I threw it in the trash the morning of the attack. I’d forgotten to put the flowers in water and they were a big dried-up mess by then.”
“Do you remember what the delivery guy looked like?”
She scrunched up her face, deep in thought, then released a sigh. “Honestly? No. I wasn’t paying much attention, just signed for the delivery and forgot all about it. I know it was a man, though.”
“And you’re sure the arrangement came a week before the attack?” Rick asked. He swiped Sam’s mug and took a hearty sip, a sign that he was definitely getting keyed up. Whenever Rick got excited, he had the annoying tendency to snatch other people’s drinks.
Sam didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead she nodded in response to his question. “Yeah, it was definitely about a week before.”
Rick glanced at Blake. “Goes against the profile.”
Sam looked from one man to the other. “What do you mean?”
“The impression our profiler got is that the perp is a heat-of-the-moment kind of guy,” Blake explained. “No evidence of stalking, no scouting out the victim’s home beforehand. He seems to show up—maybe to deliver flowers—and then he snaps. We don’t know why, but something seems to set him off.”
“But in your case,” Rick added, “if you’re remembering the dates right, it would seem he waited a week before acting. Maybe he didn’t want you to recognize him as the delivery guy from the prior week.” He pulled out his notepad. “You said the flowers were sent by a designer?”
Sam nodded.
“Okay, then it should be easy to find out where the flowers came from. What was the designer’s name?”
“Angelo D’ Alessio. He sent the arrangement to thank me.”
Something yanked at Blake’s insides. Was that jealousy?
Whatever the annoying feeling was, he couldn’t help but ask, “Thank you for what?”
Sam’s cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink. “I modeled the final piece of his collection, a diamond-studded G-string. I don’t usually do runway work, but he’s a friend and I owed him a favor.”
The word G-string coming out of Sam’s sexy mouth was enough to set him on edge.
Next to him, Rick coughed. Blake suffered another jealous pang when he realized that Rick had probably been picturing the same thing.
Samantha Dawson wearing nothing but a G-string below her waist.
He willed away his arousal and forced his brain back to the northern region of his body. “Okay, so we’ll compile a list of florists and people in related fields. This week we’re meeting with the task force, so—”
The ring of his cell phone cut him off. Glancing at the caller ID, he suppressed a groan. Knight. This couldn’t be good, his boss calling back so soon.
He picked up the phone, somewhat reluctant. “Corwin,” he said in lieu of a greeting.
“Turn your television to FOX. Now.” Knight hung up before Blake could open his mouth.
With a sigh, he rose from his seat and gestured for Rick and Sam to follow him into the living room. He grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and flicked on the set.
“Samantha Dawson, one of the highest-paid swimsuit models in the business, is alive.” Wayne Reynolds’s irritating voice filled the living room, making Blake curse out loud.
Holding a microphone, the reporter stood in front of Chicago General looking like the cat who’d just swallowed the biggest canary in the flock. The screen split to show Vanessa Highland, a FOX anchor. Addressing her correspondent in the field, Vanessa asked, “Are you sure about this, Wayne?”
“Yes, Vanessa. I just received confirmation from the funeral home that supposedly cremated Dawson’s body. One of the staff members there confessed that the body had never been brought to the home. He suspected all along she was still alive.”
“I’ll have that jerk fired,” Blake muttered.
“As you know, Vanessa, Dawson was attacked by the man the media dubbed the Rose Killer, who is sti
ll at large. The Rose Killer has already taken the lives of four women and Dawson was believed to be his fourth victim. Apparently, she survived the assault and was placed in protective custody by law enforcement.”
“For her own safety, Wayne?”
“Yes. My source in the Chicago Police Department informed me that the Rose Killer is a very sick, very dangerous individual.”
“No kidding,” Rick spat out.
“And Vanessa, although Police Superintendent Jake Fantana denies that any of the victims were sexually assaulted, we believe rape is a likely component.”
A soft gasp tore out of Sam’s throat. From the corner of his eye, Blake saw her sag against Rick’s arm.
“Wayne, why would Samantha Dawson come out of hiding, now of all times?”
“It could be related to the fact that Cindy Wilcox has been admitted to the hospital for complications with her pregnancy. My sources tell me that Dawson and action-star Bruce Wilcox’s wife are very close. We believe Dawson decided to risk her own life to be with her dear friend at this difficult time.”
Blake pressed a button on the remote and with a loud crackle the screen went black. He turned slowly, not bothering to fill the devastating silence hanging over the room. He noticed that Sam’s entire face had gone pale, as white as the snow covering the lawn. She trembled visibly, no longer holding on to Rick’s arm but obviously swaying on her feet.
“My dear friend?” she finally burst out. “I don’t even know Cindy Wilcox! And…sexual assault?” Disbelief turned to horror. “How could he…why would he…”
With a strangled sob, she spun on her heel and ran out of the room.
Sam was halfway up the stairs when she realized that she was acting hysterical. Sagging against the wall, she forced herself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Focus. Don’t let it tear you apart. The calming voice whispering inside her head was absolutely right. She wouldn’t fall apart. Wouldn’t let the tactless words of an overly ambitious reporter get to her. Nor would she give in to the irrational urge telling her to blame Blake and the FBI for that news report.
As her ragged breaths steadied and her heartbeat slowed to its regular pace, she walked back down the stairs and headed into the hall bathroom, where she washed her tear-streaked face over the small, porcelain sink. She wasn’t going to freak out or place blame on anyone. If anyone was to blame, it was her. Wasn’t she the one who had refused to leave the city? Real smart on her part.
She dried her face with the soft towel hanging next to the sink. Then she sank down onto the closed toilet seat and forced herself to continue breathing normally. A minute passed. Two. Three. With each carefully measured breath, she released the panic that had lodged inside her chest. There. She’d had her moment of weakness. It was time to move on.
It gave her a sense of liberation, being able to even think those words. Moving on. For so long she’d crawled inside herself, tried to pretend the attack never happened. Didn’t fight back, couldn’t find the strength to do so.
Well, she’d found that strength now.
“Sam?”
She stepped out of the washroom and found Blake in the hallway. Hesitation lined his handsome features.
“Are you okay?” His tone revealed both worry and sympathy. The former touched her, the latter only grated. She didn’t need his sympathy. She might have broken down in front of him and Rick, but her hysteria was done now.
“I’m fine. Really,” she assured, catching his skeptical expression.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.” He looked reluctant, but finally stepped closer, looking as if he wanted to pull her into his arms. A crack in that iron control of his?
“I’m not pretending.” She met his gaze head-on, unwavering. “That news segment upset me, but I got over it. No sense letting a bunch of lies tear me apart.”
“All right.” He cleared his throat. “Rick and I need to speak with you.”
She nodded. Blake’s gaze held hers for a moment, soft, concerned. Then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and took a step back.
He moved toward the dining room, but before he reached the doorway the words she hadn’t even known she’d wanted to say slipped out.
“He didn’t rape me, Blake.”
Slowly, their eyes connected again. She didn’t falter, didn’t look away, just held her head high and waited.
“I know,” he finally said.
She was alive.
Alive.
That goddamn woman had fooled him.
“Keep us posted, Wayne.” Vanessa Highland turned her snooty little face to the camera. “In case you’re just tuning in now, we have received a report that Samantha Dawson, a rising star in the modeling world, is alive. Dawson was believed to be the fourth victim of the man the media has dubbed the Rose Killer…”
With a strangled groan, he jammed his finger on the remote control. The image on the outdated black-and-white television crackled, disappeared. It left an empty screen and a deafening silence that caused his entire body to shake.
Flames of rage led a fiery trail to his gut. His insides burned. Each breath came out ragged, punctuated with the hiss of betrayal.
He charged out of the musty back room, emerging into the space crammed to capacity with the roses he’d been surrounded with all his life. The scent of the flowers prickled his nostrils, made him nauseous, dizzy. As a child he’d loathed those roses. They’d been his father’s obsession, and he’d grown up with the revolting knowledge that his only living relative loved a bunch of useless plants more than his own son.
And then he’d come home from the Gulf and suddenly those goddamn useless plants were all he had left. The obsession was now his.
He stared at the shears resting on the edge of one of the concrete planters, wanting to grab them, wanting to direct his rage toward the rows of flowers surrounding him like a pack of hungry wolves.
The uncharacteristic urge to destroy his prized possessions escalated his fury. No. The roses were not to blame. The woman was to blame.
He’d known her true identity from the second he’d seen her in the pornography she passed off as high fashion. She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t a pathetic facsimile of the woman he’d vowed to punish. She was that woman.
That’s why he’d waited for her. He’d spent a week imagining how magnificent it would feel to get his hands on her, and when the time finally came, the satisfaction had been greater than anything he’d ever experienced. He’d left the house that night knowing he’d achieved the ultimate revenge, and yet something inside him had continued to burn. So he’d taken the other girl, dragged her to that warehouse and punished her until he couldn’t see straight.
It hadn’t been enough. The satisfaction never came. And now he knew why. Because the prey he was sure he’d punished still roamed free. Breathing. Mocking him.
She’d come back from the grave to taunt him. She had come back to hurt him again, to play with his mind and flaunt her treachery.
He eyed the shears again, fingers tingling with the urge to tear each plump rose from its stem and squash the petals beneath his boots.
No. No. His fury belonged elsewhere. He would save it for the woman who called herself Samantha Dawson.
Chapter 7
Rick was already seated at the dining room table when Sam and Blake walked in, drumming his fingers against the wood. He glanced up as they entered, then exchanged a look with Blake.
“What’s going on?” Sam said carefully. Wariness climbed up her chest like a vine, coiling into a lump in the back of her throat. “Why do you two look so serious?”
Blake gestured for her to sit, and she did. Sinking into the chair next to her, he raked his fingers through his dark hair. “It’s time for you to go, Sam.”
She’d expected this, and yet the words brought a tug of desperation to her stomach. Seeing that reporter spin her pain and sensationalize her ordeal had been tough, but it only reinforced her conviction that she needed to see this through t
o the end.
If the Rose Killer suspected that she was alive, he might question the well-being of his latest victim. What if he learned that Elaine hadn’t died the night he’d left her in the warehouse? What if he came after Elaine again?
That thought sent an avalanche of rage surging through Sam’s body. She genuinely cared for the young woman, she wanted to help her, and running away again wouldn’t achieve a solitary thing. Elaine still needed her, whether Blake and the FBI liked it or not, and Sam couldn’t desert her. Not now.
“No,” she found herself responding, her voice thick with emotion.
Blake released a sigh, as if he’d expected her to be difficult. “You don’t have a choice. While you were in the bathroom, three other networks aired the story of your survival. The press is already camped out in front of police headquarters and outside the FBI field office here in the city. It’s too risky for you to stay.”
She tightened her lips. “Elaine needs me.”
“Elaine is being moved to a safe house in Indiana. Tonight.” Blake’s normally rough voice softened. “You wouldn’t be able to see her, even if you stayed.”
“Will I be able to speak to her on the phone?”
“No. I mean, it could be arranged but—”
“Then arrange it.”
“Sam—”
“I’m not leaving.” She crossed her arms over her chest, tightly, desperately. “I can’t leave. I won’t leave.” Blake opened his mouth but she silenced him with a glare. “And don’t you dare tell me I don’t have a choice. I do have a choice, Blake. The Bureau can’t force me to go into hiding.”
Neither agent answered, confirming that her words were correct.
“I won’t leave,” she repeated, a sliver of stubbornness slicing her tone.
“You’ll be safer in Florida,” Rick said quietly.
“Florida? That’s where you want to ship me off to?” She snorted. “What, so I can lie on a beach all day and pretend the bastard who tried to kill me isn’t murdering other women? No, thank you. I have as much, if not more, invested in this. I want to be here when that maniac is caught.”
