by Cynthia Eden
“The bastard profiled Daniel Haddox,” Bowen said.
Yes, she feared that was exactly what he’d done.
“He found the perfect victim for Haddox, and then he waited to see what would happen.” He took a step back. “He profiled you.”
Her heart lurched in her chest. “What?”
“He knew you were looking for Haddox. Knew you were studying victims, always searching for a kill that could be Haddox’s. Our perp knew you’d bring Gale’s murder to the attention of the team. He was counting on it.” He gave a low whistle. “He wanted us here. He wanted you here. Whatever he’s doing, I think the bastard is just getting started.”
That scared her, and FBI agents weren’t supposed to be afraid, were they? They were supposed to be the ones always ready to act. The ones eager to find the danger and stop the monsters.
But the more she learned about the monsters out there, the more she feared them.
The human monsters are far worse than any fairy-tale nightmare that children fear.
“We should get some sleep, Mace.” Bowen’s voice had become even rougher. “Something tells me tomorrow is going to be another long day.”
Right. Sleep. Too bad that when she closed her eyes, Macey saw all the things she didn’t want to face. The Doctor is finally gone, but nothing is better. “Good night, Bowen.”
He turned away and paced back toward the door, but then he stopped. Tension seemed to fill the air between them. In the next breath, he’d spun back to face her. “We’re not going to talk about it at all, huh?”
Her lips parted.
“I’m not supposed to bring it up? Supposed to act like things are normal between us?”
She wasn’t sure things had ever been “normal.” That was a bit of a stretch. Things had always been a bit strained between them. The awareness—that primitive attraction—had always been there simmering just beneath the surface.
“Nothing to say, Macey? That’s not like you.”
She swallowed. “I wasn’t...myself last night.”
“Really? Because I sure thought I was fucking you.”
Macey flinched.
He swore. “That’s not what I... Hell. I don’t ever say the right thing with you. Don’t ever do the right thing with you.”
She thought he’d done things pretty right last night. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and tried to explain things better. Macey figured he deserved an explanation. “Daniel’s death...it messed me up.”
“Understandable.” He stalked toward her.
“I felt like I was being torn apart on the inside.” Her voice had dropped to a husky whisper. “I wanted to escape the pain. You were my escape.”
A beat of silence. The uncomfortable kind, and then he asked, “Is that all I was?”
Her cheeks burned, and she was glad he wouldn’t be able to see her blush in the darkness. “You’re my partner. You’re my friend.” One of the few friends she had because Macey had learned not to let people get too close. If you let the wrong person close...
His hand lifted and his fingers slid over her cheek. “I am your partner. I am your friend.” His hand curled under her chin. “And I’m your lover.”
One night. Just one.
“Remember that,” he said as his head came toward her. She thought he was going to kiss her. Macey tensed but she didn’t back away. I want his kiss. I want his mouth.
I want him.
“Remember that,” he whispered. “When you need someone to take away the pain again.”
Then he let her go and he backed away. Bowen walked off the balcony and went back into the cabin. Macey waited a few moments, pulling in deep breaths of that crisp, mountain air before she crept into the room. Her steps were almost sluggish. She turned off the lights. She climbed into the bed.
She closed her eyes—
She saw death.
* * *
HE WAS A fucking idiot.
Bowen glared at the darkness above him. He was stretched out in the bed—a king-size four-poster. He’d stripped. He’d crashed. He should be asleep.
Instead, he was wishing he’d put his mouth on Macey.
Fucking. Idiot. Her lips had parted. He’d heard the little catch in her breathing, the slight moan. She’d wanted to be kissed by him.
Why did I walk away?
His hands were fisted beside his body. And he ached. His cock was hard and swollen and Macey’s sweet scent was in his head. She was in his head. The woman was making him crazy.
The floor creaked. The faintest sound near the door. In a flash, he was up, the bedside lamp was on, and he grabbed his weapon from the nightstand.
And he had that weapon aimed—at Macey.
Macey in her sexy T-shirt, the soft cotton clinging so well to her curves. Macey with her shorts skimming the top of her gorgeous legs. Macey with her eyes so wide as she stared at him.
“Sorry,” he rasped, aware that his voice was far too rough. That was how he often felt around her—too rough. “Reflex.” A by-product of the job. Sometimes he just couldn’t turn things off. He lowered the gun and put it back on the nightstand.
Macey took a step closer to him. “I can’t sleep.”
Because she’d had one hell of a forty-eight hours. Seeing the bastard who’d tortured her again...finding the guy’s body. He knew that had taken a toll on her. Then today—shit, the explosion had been far too close for comfort and—
“I keep thinking about you.”
Bowen shook his head, sure he hadn’t heard her right.
“One night was supposed to be enough.”
He’d never thought one night with her would be enough. Not with the voracious hunger he had for her. He wanted his hands on her body. Wanted his mouth on her. Wanted his cock in her. But he was trying to play by Macey’s rules.
“But I want more.” She took another step closer.
His body felt as if it had turned to stone.
He watched her as she closed the distance between them, and then her soft hands were rising to press against his chest. “I know we’re crossing lines.”
They were destroying lines.
“But it’s just you and it’s just me here right now.” She licked her lower lip. His cock jerked. He wanted to be the one licking. “And I really need you tonight.”
She was using him. He got that. Macey wanted the rush she felt in his bed to banish the darkness around her. He might not have as many fancy degrees as Macey or Samantha did, but he understood people. He understood criminals and he understood victims.
Macey rose onto her toes and her lips pressed lightly to his.
His hands clamped down on her hips. “Wait.”
A shudder went through her body and he realized just how hard this was for her. Did the woman think he’d actually turn her away? Her?
Fuck, no.
“Want to make sure I’m clear on this...” His voice was even deeper. Closer to a growl now. “During the day, it’s hands-off.”
“If the FBI brass finds out we’re together, we won’t be partners any longer.”
No. They’d be separated.
“So, yes.” She swallowed. “Hands-off during the day. But at night...”
Her words had trailed away.
“Anything goes?” His hands tightened around her hips. He knew his hold was probably too hard, but he couldn’t help it. When a guy held his wet dream in his hands, he was going to hold on tight. And never let go.
“Anything goes,” she whispered back, and he was done. He took her mouth, his need for her clawing to the surface. The kiss was hard, desperate—because it had truly been one bitch of a day. Adrenaline still rode him hard with the kind of charge that even three showers hadn’t been able to cool. In the dark, he’d thought far too much about what could have happened in that gasoline-soake
d cabin.
He could have lost her.
His tongue thrust into her mouth. He loved her taste. Sweet and wild at the same time. Her little tongue flicked against his, and he lifted her up against him, carrying her to the bed. The first time wasn’t going to be soft and gentle, wasn’t going to be long.
Something was different that night. He was different. His control was barely in check.
She could have died. Fucking died right beside me.
He lowered her onto the bed, and her legs dangled over the side. Bowen grabbed the top of her shorts and he yanked them down.
No underwear.
“You’re trying to make me insane.”
His hands went to her thighs and he shoved them apart. Then he was touching her, stroking her clit and sliding two fingers into the hot heaven of her sex. Her hips arched against him, and she moaned. He worked her with his fingers, making sure she was ready, needing her to be wet and open for him. His fingers drove in and out, in—
“I want you inside when I come.”
He grabbed a condom and rolled it on. She still had her T-shirt on and her long legs still sprawled over the edge of the bed. It was a high bed, putting her at just the perfect location.
He yanked her hips a bit closer to the edge of the mattress. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and he plunged deep, standing up as he took her that way. His hands slammed down, locked with hers, and he pinned her hands to the mattress. In and out he drove, thrusting deep because he could fill her so completely from that angle. Her moans broke into the air, her hips shoved up against him, and her sex closed greedily around him.
Tight.
Hot.
Fuck.
She came—a fast, hard release that had her nearly screaming his name. He kissed her, taking her mouth even as he took her body. Her climax had her inner muscles contracting around him, and he let go. He drove into her and held nothing back. Wild and deep. Again and again.
His climax ripped through him, a release heavy and hard, and he didn’t think it would ever fucking end.
When it did, when the pleasure ebbed and he could suck in a deep breath, Bowen stared down at Macey. He was still holding her hands in his. Still buried balls deep in her.
“Again,” she whispered.
Fuck, yes.
* * *
SHE SLIPPED FROM his bed before dawn. Bowen let her go, keeping his eyes closed even though he’d woken the instant she’d pulled away from him.
Bowen could hear the softest rustles as she dressed. Then the creak of the stairs as she slipped back to the loft. When he was sure she was gone, his eyes opened.
The day was coming. That meant...
Hands off.
His jaw locked.
For now.
CHAPTER SIX
“I NEED TO see Patrick’s remains,” Macey said as she stood in front of Henry Harwell’s desk the next morning. A line of dark shadow coated the young captain’s jaw and the shadows under his eyes testified to the long night he’d had.
“Wish I could help you with that, ma’am,” Harwell replied as he rubbed his hand across his jaw, making a faint scraping sound as his fingers hit the stubble. “But the body isn’t ready. Hell, what’s left of the body. The medical examiner just got it about an hour ago. The firefighters and arson investigators wouldn’t let anyone close to the scene before that. We just... I’m sorry, but I’ll get you access as soon as I can, all right? It’s just going to take some time.”
Time was something they didn’t have, and that issue was why Macey was already at the police station, even though it was barely seven a.m. Time was not a luxury they could afford to waste. Not with this perp. He’d already shown he didn’t have any sort of cooling-off period between his crimes, and Macey knew he would be taking another victim.
“We’ll be creating a task force,” Bowen said, his voice smooth and deep. “The FBI will be taking point. Based on the evidence at the scene last night, we strongly believe the death of Patrick Remus is linked to the recent murder of Daniel Haddox.”
“Linked...” Harwell squeezed his eyes shut. “I know who you and Macey are, all right? I know what team you work for at the Bureau. You’re thinking a serial is hunting, aren’t you? Here. Shit, shit. Here, in my town.”
“We have two bodies so far,” Macey said. The nails were what linked them. And, after she’d left Bowen, she hadn’t been able to sleep. So she’d been doing research online and she’d come up with some chilling possibilities. “We want to make sure there aren’t more bodies out there.” Or that there wouldn’t be more.
“We’ll be working with your department,” Bowen continued as his dark eyes narrowed. “With the fire investigation team, with the ME... We’ll need all hands on deck on this one. Cooperation is key.” He nodded toward Harwell. “Let me be clear. This isn’t a pissing match. We want to work together so that we can find the perp that we are after.”
“And who is this guy? I mean, do you have any clue?” Captain Harwell rose and began to pace around his office.
“We’re developing the profile.” Bowen’s reply was measured. “The more we know about the victims, the more we learn about the man committing the crimes.”
“And that’s why I need access to the body as soon as possible.” Access to the body and she’d want to talk with Lydia again, too. Lydia would be key for Macey.
“The victims, huh?” Harwell’s lips tightened. “From what you told me, the victims are two killers. Hardly like we’re going to have a line of grievers for them.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t think you all realize...tourism is a very, very big deal in this city. We were named as the number one family destination in the US by one of the big news shows a few months back. You can’t say that a serial is hunting in a place and keep it the number one destination. You’ll scare people and they don’t need to be scared.” The faint lines near his mouth tightened. “I mean, hey, he’s not even after regular folks, now, is he? Is that what your profile is saying? If he’s only hunting killers, then everyone else is safe. We need the people in this area to feel safe.” His gaze slid to his desk and the phone there. “The mayor spent an hour on the phone this morning telling me that very thing.”
Macey’s shoulders had tensed. “We’re not saying that everyone else is safe. We can’t make that sort of leap with the intel we possess.”
Harwell’s dark brows rose. “Seems like we can make the leap. I mean, the perp took out two sadistic—”
“The fire last night could have killed two federal agents.” Bowen’s voice was tight, striking like a whip. His face had hardened and his eyes glittered. “That single act tells us that our perpetrator isn’t concerned with collateral damage. Innocent targets who get in his way will be taken out.”
The captain’s Adam’s apple bobbed. A trickle of sweat had collected near his temple.
“He’s a very dangerous man,” Bowen continued darkly. A muscle jerked along his clenched jaw. “And, yes, we believe we are looking for a male.” His gaze slid to Macey’s and she nodded. They’d worked out this part together before coming to the captain’s office. “We’re looking for a white male, fit, probably between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. It would be someone who knows the area, someone who has a background in criminal investigation. A real crime buff. He would—”
“How do you know this stuff?” Harwell squinted at him. “How can you tell what race the guy is just by the way he killed? I mean, seriously, that’s just crazy. That’s like voodoo, psychic shit. You don’t know that.”
“Not all serial killers are white,” Macey responded, as she walked toward the window and glanced outside. “Serial killers span all ethnicities but...in general—actually, by a very, very large percentage—murder victims are the same race as their killer.”
“Ninety percent of the time,” Bowen added.
&nb
sp; And since all of their victims had been Caucasian, then they had a real high chance of being after a Caucasian killer.
“We’re looking for a male,” Macey said. “Obviously, we saw a male on the ATV, but we’re looking for a male who is fit. One who is physically strong enough to transport Patrick Remus. It is possible that the killer had an accomplice but...”
“Serials don’t usually work together,” Bowen finished for her. “That’s rare.”
Right. She exhaled. “That’s why we said he was fit—Patrick Remus was a big guy, and moving him wouldn’t be an easy task. If the perp wasn’t in top shape, it wouldn’t be possible.”
Harwell nodded, slowly. “And he knows the area because he was able to get away so quickly last night.”
“On an ATV.” Bowen rolled back his shoulders. “He was comfortable on the ride, indicating that he’d probably gone through the mountains that way before. He knew where the trails were so he knew exactly how to vanish.”
“He’s smart.” Macey had no doubt of that. “He’s what we call an organized killer.”
A furrow had appeared between Harwell’s heavy brows.
“Organized killers have higher IQs, and they tend to plan out their attacks in advance. They have controlled crime scenes.” She ticked through the list. “They don’t leave a lot of physical evidence behind for the authorities to find. When they aren’t murdering, organized killers can blend in pretty well with everyone else. They’re the killers you never see coming because they’ll have normal jobs, be in relationships and maybe even have a spouse or children.”
“In other words,” Bowen said, “they look just like everyone else. They don’t kill in some furious rage. Instead, they plan out everything. They can stalk their victims. They can hunt for days, weeks or even months.” He inclined his head. “Considering the timing of both Daniel Haddox’s death and Patrick Remus’s murder, it’s obvious this perp has been planning his attacks for a while. He moved his game pieces into play, and then he sprang his trap.”
Harwell was quiet for a moment, and then he muttered, “Guess you two... Guess you know your killers.”
