by Elle Kennedy
The idea that the Rose Killer had done this in the hopes of learning Sam’s whereabouts was more frightening than the time Blake had gotten lost in the woods during a family vacation when he was seven years old. He’d felt helpless then, powerless, unable to protect himself from the strange noises and forbidding shadows surrounding him in that forest. Fortunately, his father had found him before night had settled in, and over the years Blake had learned to protect himself from the dangerous killers he hunted for a living.
And now he had to protect Sam from another one of those dangerous killers.
His entire body tensed, his jaw so tight his teeth started to hurt. Anger filled his veins at the sight of the red petals strewn across the snow. If that bastard planned on getting his sadistic hands on Sam again, he had another thing coming.
“Blake looked angry,” Sam said, her gaze straying to the doorway for the hundredth time that hour.
She kept expecting Blake to walk through the front door, stroll into the living room and tell her it was a false alarm. Nope, the Rose Killer hadn’t tossed roses all over her old yard, just the local gardener hoping to bring some color to the neighborhood.
You are definitely losing it.
She tried not to sigh. God, maybe she was losing it. Of course the roses had been delivered by the madman who’d attacked her. Who else would be that sick and twisted?
Next to her, Special Agent Melanie Barnes, a tiny waif of a woman with a blond pixie cut, offered a reassuring smile. She wrapped her fingers around the cup of coffee sitting on the kitchen table in front of her. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not always this intense, you know. He’s under a lot of pressure, that’s all.”
“Rick said the same thing to me a few days ago,” Sam admitted. “But to be honest, I can’t see Blake not being this intense. I think intensity is part of his genetic makeup.”
A faint smile crossed Mel’s face. “You’re probably right. But trust me, I’ve seen Blake let loose a time or two. He was engaged to a profiler out in Quantico, who used to drag him out of the house whenever he got too moody.”
“She died, didn’t she—the woman he was involved with?”
Mel looked surprised. “He told you?”
“Not a lot. I only know she died.”
“Did he tell you how?”
Sam swallowed. “No.”
“Three shots to the back.” Mel’s voice was curt, but the pain in it was unmistakable. “By a serial killer Blake had been tracking.”
Sam wrinkled her forehead. “I thought you said she was a profiler. Do profilers usually go into the field?”
The blond agent shook her head.
“Then why did—”
She was interrupted by the sound of the front door creaking open.
Mel was on her feet just as Blake strode into the kitchen. “Rick’s waiting for you outside,” Blake told his colleague.
Mel shot him a questioning glance but he gave a slight shake of the head. “Rick will fill you in.”
With a nod of her own, Mel turned to Sam. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
She offered a genuine smile. She really had enjoyed spending the last couple of hours with Melanie. It had been so long since she’d had some female company. “Could you let Elaine know I’ll call her tonight?”
Mel returned the smile. “She’ll appreciate that, Samantha.”
After the blonde left, Blake headed for the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t say a word as he sipped the hot liquid. She noticed that his shoulders looked stiff under the black sweater stretching across them, his strong jaw taut with displeasure.
“Well?” she asked. “Do you think it was him?”
There was a moment of silence. Blake finally nodded. “Nobody saw a damn thing, but yes, I think it was him.”
A sigh slipped out of her chest before she could stop it. She couldn’t seem to stop her next words, either. “Don’t look so upset.”
“You expect me not to be upset?” he returned, his voice laced with steel. “The bastard was at your house, Sam.”
“If anything, that’s a good thing.”
He swiveled his head to shoot her a look swimming with disbelief. “Are you serious? Don’t you realize what this means? He knows you’re alive. He wants you to know he can come after you again.”
“And if he does, you’ll be waiting for him.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this, Sam. You should be worrying about your safety.”
She gave a humorless laugh. “I am worried about my safety. As long as this maniac is out on the streets I’ll always worry about my safety. I’m simply pointing out the positive.”
“I’m afraid I don’t agree. There’s nothing positive about this.”
“He must be furious that I’m alive, Blake. So furious that he made the mistake of showing up at my old house in broad daylight. Yes, nobody saw him, but the next time he makes the same mistake he might not be so lucky.”
“And what if next time he doesn’t make a mistake? What if next time he finishes what he started the night he attacked you?”
His voice, thick with worry, sent a wave of emotion surging through her. He cared about her. She’d never doubted it, but the urgency in his tone told her that Blake Corwin’s feelings for her ran much deeper than he’d ever admit.
She thought about the kiss they’d almost shared last night, the one they had shared the night before that, and something warm and tender rolled inside her like a balmy summer breeze.
“As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine,” she said quietly.
He gave her a sideways glance. “You sound sure of that.”
“I am. I have faith that you’ll keep me safe, Blake.”
The silence that followed was broken by the whistling of wind against the kitchen window. She shifted her gaze and saw fat flakes in front of the glass, falling harder, thicker, as each second ticked by.
“Looks like the blizzard that never came last night decided to make an appearance,” she remarked, hoping the change of subject would ease the tension hanging over the room.
Blake gestured to the doorway. “Let’s sit in the living room. You’ll have a better view of the blizzard from there.” His mouth quirked. “I know how much you love watching the snow fall.”
Smiling, she followed him into the cozy living room, touched that he was trying to make her feel better about being cooped up indoors by offering to sit by the window and watch the storm with her.
He sank down on the leather couch and sipped his coffee again. His hair fell onto his forehead but he didn’t seem to notice or care enough to brush it away, and her fingers tingled with the urge to slide through all that thick dark hair.
She hesitated in the doorway. “I wanted to talk to you about last night,” she found herself blurting.
His shoulders instantly stiffened, his face became unreadable.
Dammit. Why was he fighting this? She knew he felt the same hum of awareness she did. Sooner or later he’d have to deal with it, accept that there was…something…between them. And since a blizzard was about to rage outside this house, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to bring the attraction between them out in the open.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked in a soft voice.
“I’m not doing anything, Sam.”
“That’s exactly the point.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “You were going to kiss me last night.”
He fixed that familiar steady gaze on her. “It would have been a mistake.”
She sagged against the doorframe, fighting the urge to yell at him. Though there was a good five feet between them, she could feel the heat emanating from his body. The spicy, male scent of him teased her senses and made her want to close the distance. But she knew he’d only shut down if she pushed him too far.
Taking a deep breath, she played with the hem of her sweater, gathered up bits and pieces of the courage she’d once possessed but lost after the attack. “Blake�
�I’m attracted to you.”
He blinked in surprise. Even from where she stood she could see his pulse thudding in his throat.
“You want me to take you to bed, is that it?” His voice was low with both challenge and hesitation.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Chapter 9
Her answer surprised even her, but the second she said it Sam knew she meant it. She wanted her life back, and in order to do that she needed to stop letting fear rule her. She didn’t know why Blake had gotten under her skin like this, but he had, and either she could hide from her desire or she could face it head-on.
She glimpsed the brief flash of lust in Blake’s eyes, but to her disappointment his expression quickly sobered. “It doesn’t bother you that you don’t know a thing about the man you want to go to bed with?” he said coolly.
“I know I trust you. I know you’ll do anything you can to protect me.”
He gave a sarcastic laugh. “The last woman I promised to protect wound up dead, Samantha.”
She swallowed. Startling as his admission was, at least they were getting somewhere here. “What was her name?”
His features twisted with pain. “Kate.” He cleared his throat. “Her name was Kate.”
“Tell me what happened to her.” She knew from the bare details Mel provided that Kate had been shot, but she found herself needing to hear it from Blake. Needing to understand the pain that had driven him to decide he didn’t “do” relationships anymore.
His handsome face donned a faraway expression. “That’s another story for another day.”
A frown tugged her mouth down. “Fine. But what about today, what about right now? What about this—whatever this is between us? You can’t run away from it, Blake.”
He rubbed his temples, a gesture she now associated with frustration. “What I don’t get is why you’re not running away, Sam. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’d be the first man you were with since the attack.”
“Yes.”
“So why push it? Why do you want me?” He let out a heavy breath. “Is this one of those extreme circumstance syndromes? I’ve seen it happen before, you know. People caught up in dangerous, stressful situations, needing to get physical in order to feel alive.”
She stared at him, incredulous. How wonderful. Here she was practically propositioning this man, and he was accusing her of having a syndrome.
“Trust me,” she said in a dry voice. “It’s not that. Remind me to tell you about the time I was shooting a bikini layout in the dead of winter in Alaska. That was pretty stressful and I don’t recall jumping the photographer to make myself feel alive.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes, but it was short-lived. “Why do you want me, Sam?”
“Because…” Her voice drifted.
A wave of restlessness washed over her, driving her toward the window. Outside the blizzard grew stronger, piling the street with mounds of blinding-white snow. The wind rattled the house, howling like the crack of a whip against the thick window of Blake’s living room.
It was the kind of storm that brought lovers together, sent them rushing to a big warm bed to lose themselves in each other’s arms. Not her and Blake, though. No, they had to dig up old wounds and revisit raw memories.
She turned to face him, leaning against the cool glass, shutting out the powerful display of winter behind her. “I’m going to tell you exactly why I want you, Blake. I’m going to pour my heart out to you. And then, then you can decide if you want to go forward.” She faltered. “Or if you still want to push me away.”
She moved back to the center of the room, this time sitting at the edge of the large glass coffee table in front of the couch. She heard his intake of breath at her nearness but he said nothing. Just looked at her with unreadable eyes.
“I know you saw the crime-scene photos from my house,” she began, trying to ignore the fingers of bitterness clawing up her throat. “But those were just pictures, words compiled to form a tidy little report for your profilers to analyze.”
As if he sensed where she was going, he said, “Sam, you don’t have to—”
“He tied me up, facedown, to my own bed. He tore off my dress and I lay there naked, convinced he would not only rape me, but slit my throat.” She paused. “You never found the knife, did you? Not in any of your pictures because he took it with him. But I saw it, Blake.”
She stopped again, willing every morsel of strength she possessed to keep the pain at bay, far enough away so that she didn’t break down.
“It was steel, big and sharp and it shone in the little bit of light coming through the window. He held it to my throat, dragged it over my body instead of using his fingers. I told myself that if I ever survived I would never let another man touch me. But I let you.”
“Sam, please—”
“Then he dug the blade into my skin. I was crying, the pain was so excruciating. I passed out from it, but woke up just as he made the first cut in my left wrist.”
“Goddammit, Samantha—”
“He sliced my other one. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him standing there and watching me. Watching me bleed.” She never took her eyes off Blake’s. “I told myself that if I survived I’d never let another man look at me that way. I’d never be vulnerable again, never give anyone the opportunity to make me vulnerable. But you did, Blake.”
She rose slowly, reaching for the hem of her sweater before pulling it over her head. She wore a pink lace bra underneath and Blake’s dark eyes darted unmistakably to her chest and rested on her covered breasts.
“I want you because you make me feel alive. Because I trust myself to be vulnerable when I’m with you. And because I trust that you can look at this and not be disgusted.”
She fought for air, closing her mouth before the sob in her throat could slip out. And then she turned around and gave him a candid eyeful of the eight-inch scar on her back.
Sam could feel his gaze burning into her skin and was grateful that she couldn’t see his expression. The scar had healed nicely. No longer the angry red slashes that formed together to create a rose. Just faded pink lines that would one day become white, or disappear entirely if she chose to undergo the surgery the doctors had suggested. None of that mattered, though.
To her it would always be a sickening reminder that a madman had branded her. An ugly symbol of the night that had changed her life.
“It’s not pretty, is it?” she whispered.
She heard his pants rustle as he stood up. Her first thought was that he would walk away in horror, and that caused a chill to sweep up her body and tighten like a vise around her heart.
“It’s beautiful.”
Those two soft words broke through her fears. “What?”
She felt him come up behind her, and then his big warm hands were touching her exposed skin. He traced each line of raised tissue with his fingers, replacing the chill with a pulsing heat that spread over all he touched. His caress was gentle, erotic, and in response her knees trembled, buckled beneath her.
Strong hands gripped her waist, keeping her steady. She nearly keeled over again when something hot pressed against her shoulder. His mouth. A cross between a moan and a whimper slid out of her throat. Her skin quivered under his lips. He kissed the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, then kneeled down and dragged his mouth lower. Ran his tongue languidly over the rose carved into her.
“You’ve got a war wound, Samantha,” he said huskily, slowing moving up her body and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He pressed his lips to one side of her neck. “You could have given up and died that night, but you didn’t. You fought like hell to stay alive, didn’t you?”
Her eyelids fell closed as he took her earlobe in his mouth and suckled it. “Yes.”
“That’s what that rose represents to me,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a symbol of your strength, Sam.”
He didn’t let her answer, simply whirled her around and crushed her in his embrace.
Their mouths found each other with little difficulty, their tongues danced together as if they’d done this hundreds of times before.
He rested his hands on her bare back, sending heat pulsating down to her most intimate place. Her knees buckled again and this time he cupped her bottom and lifted her up against him, never tearing his mouth from hers.
Somehow they found their way upstairs to Blake’s bedroom, though everything became a blur to her. His lips were too intoxicating, his hands too skilled. Her entire body was on fire, hot with pleasure and heavy with need. She didn’t object when Blake gently placed her on the bed.
He reached for the button of her slacks, then paused and met her gaze. “Do you want to stop?” he murmured.
“Do you?”
“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted, an answer she could even be satisfied with, but it was enough for now.
A shiver sprung up her spine as he pulled down her slacks and exposed the pink cotton panties underneath. She suddenly wished she’d worn sexier lingerie. She wanted to feel beautiful, wanted to look beautiful for Blake, but her insecurities diminished when his dark eyes widened at the sight of her barely clad body.
“You’re gorgeous,” he muttered, running a finger over her lower thigh.
He removed his shirt, revealing a wall of solid, tanned muscle, a chest so spectacular her breath jammed in her throat. She found herself reaching out to touch him, skimmed the light feathering of dark hair that tunneled down and disappeared into the waistband of his pants. She stroked him for a moment, then awkwardly moved her hand, suddenly uncertain.
“It’s okay to touch me.” He chuckled quietly.
“I…” She bit her lip as trepidation bubbled inside her. “I’m scared, Blake.”
The way his features softened with empathy frustrated her. Dammit. Why was this happening? She’d been so sure just moments before, so certain she wanted to do this. Now as she lay in front of him, exposed and vulnerable, her fears rushed back and the only thing she could think of was the night she’d discovered a killer in her bedroom.
