Hunted

by Cynthia Eden

  She walked toward him and her high heels wobbled a bit on the uneven pavement of the parking lot. The lot was right in front of the dock—and the stretching, white sand beach waited to the right. The scent of the ocean teased her nose.

  “I don’t want to be your enemy,” she said and she gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. She’d practiced that smile a lot when she first started reporting. That smile had taken her from a spot in small-town Illinois to the big-league fame of a prime-time show in New York City. Her smile was warm. Friendly. Approachable. That was her deal—her producer said she was relatable. That she came across as caring.

  The truth was...she really did care. Often, far too much. She couldn’t turn off the cases that she covered, and late at night, when she was alone, they haunted her. “I’m not the bad guy.”

  “Didn’t say you were.” His head cocked as she approached him.

  “You just thought it.” She inclined her head. “And you did say I was a vulture.”

  The other reporters were clearing out. The ME had left. The body had been transferred. The sheriff was gone.

  Other than a few stragglers at the lot, she was left with Josh.

  “I’ve seen your work before,” Josh murmured. “I know plenty about you, Ms. Quinn.”

  “Cassandra,” she corrected quickly. “Or—”

  “Casey, right.”

  His expression was so hard and unyielding. He was a handsome man, but...tough. A dangerous vibe seemed to pulse just beneath his skin.

  “You don’t seem to have a lot of respect for reporters,” she murmured, though she rather thought her words were a serious understatement.

  He looked at her, considering, and then his gaze darted to the water behind her. He rolled back his wide shoulders and sighed. Some of the tension appeared to leave him. His face didn’t soften but it seemed less...angry? “You know what? It’s my baggage, and I’m sorry.”

  Wait—he was what?

  “I’m being a jackass to you, and I apologize.” He sounded as if he meant those words. “It’s been a hell of a day, and when I find—”

  He broke off, but she knew what he’d been about to say. When I find a body...

  “I’m not at my best,” Josh finished as he raked a hand over his face. “But I shouldn’t be a jerk to you, and I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said quietly.

  He gave her a quick, searching glance. “May I tell you a story, Ms. Quinn?”

  “Casey—”

  He stepped toward her and her breath caught. He was...definitely strong. He wore a white T-shirt and shorts and she knew he’d changed out of his diving gear on the boat. The muscles of his arms and chest stretched the fabric of that T-shirt. He didn’t look like the typical, straitlaced FBI agent.

  Probably because he wasn’t.

  “A few months ago, I worked a real big case over in Fairhope, Alabama. We were after the Sorority Slasher...you remember that one?”

  Her heart shoved into her throat. “Everyone remembers him.”

  “Another stupid serial killer name. Folks should have just said they were looking for Dr. Cameron Latham, the genius psychology professor who decided killing was just too much fun.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “A reporter from that area was covering the case, trying to get all the headlines and make a name for herself.”

  The breath she took seemed to chill her lungs. “I—I know what happened to the reporter.” Everyone knows. Because a story that terrible wasn’t easily forgotten.

  “No, you know what was reported. You know that Dr. Latham killed the reporter. He wanted to send a message, and she was the perfect target. That’s what people know. But I was there.” He edged even closer to her. His body brushed against hers as he lowered his head—and his voice. “I know exactly what he did to her. And everything I’m about to say is off the record.”

  She should back away. Put some distance between them. But she just looked up into his eyes. He’s trying to intimidate me. I won’t let him.

  “I saw the blood-soaked room. I saw the body. I saw the way he’d wrecked her. He enjoyed hurting her, and her last moments—they were just of terror and pain. He left her alive in that room, you see. He let her know that death was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.”

  Casey licked her lips. Her mouth felt desert dry.

  “So, yeah, I’m a little...sensitive to reporters right now. Because I think that reporter—Janice Beautfont—her death was a waste. She pushed herself into the spotlight, and he made her a victim. So when I see the reporters crowding around, wanting to spread the sick stories of this killer’s crimes...I remember Janice, and I hate what happened to her. I hate that this guy is feeding off the attention he’s getting, and I wish you would all just take a step back.”

  Her skin felt too cold. It was a summer day on the Florida coast. Cold was the last thing she should be feeling. “I’m not trying to be in the spotlight.”

  He raised one brow.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You don’t know me. I get that. But you’re wrong here. I want the focus on the victims. I want them to have justice.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he murmured. “And it’s always easier to do my job when I don’t have a reporter dogging my steps.”

  So much for having a partnership with him. Desperate, she tried again as she said, “I can help you. I’ve been talking to the victims’ family members and their friends. I know things about the victims. Maybe I can help build a profile—”

  “We have agents from our Behavioral Analysis Unit who do that.”

  He was definitely shutting her down.

  “Watch your step, Ms. Quinn,” he said again, but she knew he wasn’t talking about her high heels and the broken pavement in the parking lot. “Because you never know when a killer is close.”

  And the guy just turned and walked away from her.

  Her right foot tapped on that uneven pavement. “Casey,” she called after him. “My name is Casey. Remember it—because you’ll be seeing me again.” If he thought she was just going to give up, the guy needed to think again. She wasn’t going to be scared away.

  Giving up wasn’t in her personality.

  If Josh Duvane wouldn’t help her, well, then she’d just go find someone else who’d be ready to talk. A good reporter never gave up.

  And Casey didn’t just want to be good at her job. She wanted to be great.

  * * *

  THEY’D FOUND TONYA. He’d watched as the reporters and the authorities slowly loaded into their vehicles and left the scene. They’d found her faster than they’d discovered his last victim.

  But then, he hadn’t taken Tonya as far out this time. He’d left her closer to the shore, a deliberate choice. He’d needed to dump her body quickly and then get ready for the next kill.

  He already had a new victim in mind.

  He could see his prey right then.

  She stood in the middle of the parking lot, tapping one high heel. Her dark brown hair fell to her shoulders, a sleek style that even the humidity of Florida couldn’t seem to muss. She had on a crisp white shirt and a formfitting black pencil skirt.

  She was pretty...almost perfectly so with her fine-drawn features. He’d studied her often enough; he knew every detail of her face. Her wide-set, dark eyes, her bow-shaped mouth, her softly curved chin. He’d watched her on the news, marveling at the way she seemed to stare right at him.

  As if she could see him.

  I see you. He’d seen her all along. He’d seen everything she’d done. All the secrets she’d tried to keep. All the sins that she thought no one knew about...he’d seen everything.

  She thought she was safe. She thought no one knew what she’d done.

  But he knew.

/>   He’d always known.

  And before he was done with her, she’d be begging to tell the world her story.

  They always begged.

  And then they died.

  Chapter Two

  Casey sidled around the back of the sheriff’s station. Sure, this wasn’t exactly her best moment, sneaking up to the back of the building because she knew that the young deputy, Finn Patrick, was scheduled to get off work at eight o’clock that night. But Finn had been kind enough to share a little inside information with her before and she was hoping that he might feel similarly inclined again...

  The back door squeaked open. It was a heavy metal door, and it led from the rear of the station to the small staff parking lot in the back.

  Casey made sure her friendly smile was in place as that door opened. She stood in the shadows, waiting to see Finn’s dark hair appear but—

  Blond hair.

  Her smile froze. She expected Sheriff Hayden Black to exit the building.

  But the man who came out wasn’t Hayden. The blond hair was a little too dark.

  Josh Duvane shut the door behind him. He tensed and his gaze swept toward the right—toward the shadows. Toward her.

  He’d changed his clothes again, and now the guy looked more like an FBI agent. Khaki pants, button-down shirt and a holster. A holster that he was currently reaching for as he kept his narrow-eyed gaze in her direction.

  “Wait!” Casey called out. She hurried forward with a clatter of her—yes, still wearing them—heels. “It’s just me.”

  If anything, his expression became even darker. “Should have known you’d be skulking around.”

  “Skulking?” Casey repeated, not liking that particular word choice.

  “Yeah, skulking. Hanging around, hoping for a weak link to appear so you can get another scoop.” He put his hands on his lean hips. “I know Finn tipped you off last time.” Josh gave a sad shake of his head. “You like preying on twenty-year-old deputies? The guy is green and you know it. You got him to spill confidential information to you that could jeopardize the case.”

  Furious, she kept marching toward him. “I didn’t jeopardize anything! Finn just told me the number of stab wounds that the victims suffered—”

  “And you immediately reported it, opening the door for copycats galore to come out and play.”

  Her breath heaved out. “You don’t like me.” Were they really back to that already?

  “I don’t know you, as you pointed out earlier.” His gaze swept the dark lot. “And, lady, why would you want to be out here by yourself? You know you match the killer’s victim profile, right?”

  “I—” Yes, okay, maybe she did know that. But she was at the sheriff’s station. Shouldn’t that be the safest spot in town?

  He grabbed her wrist, surprising her. It wasn’t the quick movement itself that surprised her. Rather, she was surprised by how gentle his touch was. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and she felt the faint caress of his fingertips against her pulse point.

  A little shiver slid over her.

  “Sheriff Black gave advice for folks to be vigilant. He gave that advice to you. And what do you do? You immediately run out and find the first dimly lit, empty parking lot that you can?”

  “I know how to take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure the other victims thought that, too.” His gaze slid around the lot. “Where the hell is your car?”

  “My hotel is four blocks away. I just walked—”

  “Because you have a death wish?”

  She silently counted to ten, then said, “You are getting on my bad side.”

  He smiled at her, a quick flash that showed the dimple—no, not really dimple, more like a rough slant—in his right cheek. “When you get angry, your voice goes absolutely arctic.”

  Then she must be completely freezing him right then.

  “Finn isn’t coming out here. He’s pulling a second shift and, even if he weren’t, the sheriff just gave him orders not to speak to any reporter, including pretty brunettes who smell like candy.”

  Her eyes widened. “Smell like—candy?”

  “Didn’t realize that, huh? You do.”

  Her cheeks were burning.

  He turned away, but kept his grip on her wrist and he pulled her toward the far side of the lot. A motorcycle waited there, a big black beast of a bike.

  “I’ll give you a lift to your hotel. See, I can be a nice guy.”

  He climbed onto the motorcycle and tried to tug her on after him. Casey locked her knees and refused to budge.

  He sighed. He seemed to do that a lot around her. “Problem?”

  “I don’t like motorcycles.” Yes, she sounded prim and disapproving. So what? She wasn’t sure she liked him, either. She certainly didn’t like his ride. “They go too fast. They flip too easily. They offer zero protection to the rider—”

  “Not a risk taker, huh? Guess I pegged that part wrong about you.” His gaze dropped down her body and stopped on her three-inch shoes. “It’s the heels. When a woman wears sexy heels like that, it makes a guy think she may have an...adventurous side.”

  “Are you hitting on me? Or insulting me again?” She wanted to be clear. “Because earlier, you said I was a vulture. Now you’re saying—”

  He let go of her wrist, but only so that he could hand her a helmet. “This will protect your head and that pretty face of yours.”

  “You are hitting on me.” She took the helmet. She did not get on the motorcycle. “Your routine needs work. A lot of it.”

  “I did a little research on you since our last meeting...”

  Her hold tightened on the helmet. Don’t have dug too deep. Don’t have found—

  “You’ve won a lot of awards, haven’t you? Seems you’re the investigative journalist to watch. And you make a habit of going after the darkest killers, don’t you?”

  Her heart was drumming too fast and hard in her chest. “I go where I’m needed. You might not like the work I do, but someone has to give the victims a voice.”

  “And that’s what you do.”

  It’s what she tried to do.

  He revved the engine. The bike sounded like a giant, growling beast. “You said your hotel was four blocks away. Hardly far enough of a distance for me to go too fast on that short drive. And if you’re with me...” He gave her that slow smile again, the one that made him look a little less dangerous. Only a little. “I’ll be extra careful. I promise.”

  She looked around the parking lot. It was getting darker. A lot darker. And, yes, she did fit the victim profile; she knew it. She was the right age, a stranger, no close ties in Hope... “Don’t go over the speed limit.”

  He laughed. It was a strangely warm sound that caught her off guard. “I’m FBI. Trust me—I’ve got this.”

  She climbed onto the motorcycle. Her skirt hiked up—up much higher than she’d anticipated—and she knew she was flashing thigh. Her heels settled along the bike, finding safe purchase. She put on the helmet and then her hands kind of fluttered in the air. Should she put them behind her? There was a bar back there. She should probably just grab on to it and hold tight.

  “Hold on to me.”

  She’d been afraid he’d say that. Casey slowly wrapped her arms around him.

  “Tighter.”

  Why? “I thought you said you weren’t going fast.”

  “You still need to hold tight, Casey.” It was the first time he’d said her name. It came out rumbly and sexy and she needed to stop thinking the guy was sexy.

  He was an FBI agent working a case.

  She was a reporter.

  She might try to work him to get information, but they were not going to have any sort of real, personal relationship. She didn’t do perso
nal relationships. She kept her distance from people for many, many reasons.

  Fumbling a bit, her hands slid around his waist, but she didn’t hold that tight.

  “Tell me the name of your hotel.”

  There were several just up the road—a line of them that looked out over the beach. “West Winds.”

  She would not hold him tighter.

  The motorcycle shot forward and her arms tightened around him, holding him in a death grip and smashing her body against his. He zipped through the town, not actually going too fast but...it was strange being on the motorcycle with him. The wind whipped at her, and the motorcycle vibrated beneath her. He was strong and solid in front of her, and Casey found herself thinking that...maybe, if it were a different time, if this were a different place...she and the FBI agent might not have found themselves being adversaries.

  They might have been something a whole lot more fun.

  Too soon, he was braking in front of her hotel. Other reporters were staying at the hotel, at least five she knew from previous jobs. And both her producer and her camerawoman were there—plenty of people that she knew. It was a safe place.

  Josh killed the engine and put down the kickstand. She realized she was still holding him, and Casey let go quickly, nearly jumping from the motorcycle. Josh didn’t move, but she could feel his gaze sweeping over her. A bit nervously, Casey pushed the helmet back at him. “Th-thank you.” She hated that stutter. She never stuttered. Or at least, she worked hard to make sure she didn’t. When she’d been younger, that stutter had always come out when she’d been afraid. Back then, she’d had plenty to fear. The nightmares had plagued her every night for a solid year during college.

  He put the helmet on the back of the bike. He studied her a moment and the waves crashed in the distance.

  Should she just walk away? Probably.

  “You don’t think it’s odd?”

  “What?” She wasn’t sure she followed him.

  “All of you reporters...” He gestured to the hotel behind her and she knew he’d realized other press personnel were staying in that same location. “You all came rushing down here weeks ago to cover the Theodore Anderson case.”