by Karen Rock
She linked her trembling fingers. “I know. It’s just something I don’t like to think about.”
Robby fidgeted with his tie. “I understand. And it’s great seeing you again. If you’re free, how about catching a bite together? I’m finishing up, and I promise we won’t talk about anything serious.”
Nash appeared in the doorway, and Katherine shot to her feet. “I’ve already got plans. But call me, okay? We’ll get together soon.”
On impulse, she caught him in a tight hug and whispered, “I promise,” in his ear before she released him. She felt his eyes on the back of her head as she joined Nash and strode down the corridor.
“Are you using me, again?”
Katherine had to purse her lips to keep from smiling at Nash’s aggrieved tone.
He noted her effort and grinned, his dimples appearing beneath his high cheekbones.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, giving in to a smile that felt way too flirtatious.
Nash’s eyes flashed, sending a now-familiar shiver down her spine. Then he shrugged, breaking the moment. “You’re coming with me to avoid Robert. Why?”
He was too shrewd by half…brains as well as brawn.
“It’s a long story.” He didn’t know the half of it. “Besides, you asked me to dinner first. Something about hidden talents…”
Okay. That really sounded flirty.
Nash’s hand brushed hers as they strode through the club, sending frissons of awareness skittering over her skin.
“I’ve been told I’m pretty good with meat,” he teased.
“Maybe something lighter this time…like a salad?”
He arched an eyebrow and paused at the door. “Lighter or safer?”
“I plead the Fifth.” Her toes curled at the tantalizing whiff of his slightly salty, sandalwood-scented skin.
She was way too excited about going back to Nash’s condo, the scene of the most passionate moments of her life. “But let’s get something straight first. If we’re going to work together, that’s all it can be. Work.”
He skimmed his fingers down the length of her arm to tangle his hand in hers. “All work and no play…”
She thought about her chief’s urging for more balance and tucked it away. She’d find it after she collared her perp. For now, her case came first.
“I need you to be my eyes and ears in the club, talk to the dancers, customers, see if there’s anything they didn’t tell me or might be hiding.”
Nash nodded slowly, a speculative gleam entering his eyes. “I agree on two conditions.”
Her heart stuttered to a halt when he released her hand and leaned an arm on the doorjamb beside her, boxing her in. “You include me as much as possible on the case.”
She swayed toward him, nodding. “What’s the other condition?” she breathed.
“You promise not to fall in love with me.”
“Really?” Her left eyebrow rose in disbelief.
From sexy to cliché in one second flat.
Damn.
Nash grinned, unabashed. “I’ve just always wanted to say that.”
“You’re an odd one, Nash. And yes, I’m absolutely sure I won’t fall in love with you.” Amusement threaded through her sigh.
Without warning, Nash slid his fingers through her hair and her face automatically tipped to his, her eyes drifting shut.
One heartbeat. Two. She sensed Nash ease away.
Her eyes flew open, and she mentally swore a blue streak when she realized her lips were puckered.
“Still sure?” he asked, eyes gleaming.
No.
She wasn’t. At least the attraction part anyway. Nash was a powerhouse combination of playfulness and sensuality, both of which she’d been lacking for years, maybe her entire life. He messed with her thoughts and distracted her. Big time.
Exactly what she didn’t need when she had the case of a lifetime to solve.
Chapter Seven
“Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,” thundered the black-clad preacher. Each broad gesture swung his robe’s sleeves and flashed a string of prayer beads threaded between his fingers. The crowds thronging downtown Dallas gaped as they scurried by. Others paused to toss coins into his basket.
Nash placed a protective hand on the small of Katherine’s back, steering her away from the ranting man. Instead, she stopped on the edge of the small group gathered to listen.
“And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father.” Beneath the bright sunlight pouring from a cloudless sky, the preacher’s face glistened, his eyes overflowing with fervor. “She shall be burnt with fire. Punished.”
“Leviticus 21:9. Always a crowd-pleaser,” Katherine murmured, moving aside as a mother marched her daughter away, hands clasped over the young girl’s ears.
“Live a Godly life,” the minister hollered after the departing duo. “Follow me; I’ll show you the way to true redemption.” He scooped up his basket and departed through the masses, instantly swallowed by the crowd.
“Damn!” Katherine craned her neck, scanning for the minister. “I wanted to question him about Brittany.”
“He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s a fixture.” Nash eyed Katherine’s set jaw and glinting eyes.
There was a lot to like about Special Agent Katherine Bowden. He admired her bold, no-nonsense style and her unapologetic, take-charge personality—her strength a challenge and alluring as hell.
She fired up his mind and body. She put him on notice…and he noticed plenty. And not just her sweet ass and perfect breasts: small things, too, like the way her left eyebrow twitched when she was amused. Or how her eyes widened when she laughed, as though the sound surprised her. And when she meant business, her gaze turned steely and her mouth flattened, the professional woman as compelling as the passionate one.
But the dismissive way she’d treated him at the police station, as well as walking out on him without a word after their night together, still stung.
Careful.
You vowed to stick to casual relationships.
Katherine might tempt you to break your rule, along with your heart.
“I’ll follow you.” Katherine stopped next to a black sedan parked against the brick wall where they’d first kissed.
“I’m glad you’re coming over to talk about Layla.”
“I shouldn’t have shut you down at my office. I let…” Her eyes darted to the brick wall. “Things, cloud my judgment.”
“Things?”
He stepped closer and her mouth—a natural, unvarnished rose—parted slightly as she released a breath. The urge to kiss her again clapped through him like thunder. It rattled him down to his toes.
She pulled her car keys from her purse. “Things we need to forget if we’re going to work together on finding Layla.”
Despite her words, she swayed closer, moving her curvy chest into agonizingly touchable range. He remembered the erotic charge of molding her taut body against his. He wanted nothing so much as to hold her again.
But he didn’t touch her. Instead he leaned down and breathed his response in her ear. “Forgetting those things isn’t going to happen, darlin’.” He took her keys from her hand, unlocked her car, helped her inside, and shut the door between them, creating a much-needed barrier. Despite his best intentions, this woman had the power to reel him in for as long as she wanted. “See you at my condo.”
She nodded, mute, her blue-violet eyes shimmering up at him.
A moment later, he drove home, Katherine directly behind him. Was he a fool to bring her back to the place where “things,” as she put it, things he’d never forget, had happened? Probably. But she wanted his input and had offered to help with Layla. People usually thought of him as a boy toy, an object of lust. I
t felt good to have a federal agent take him seriously, to see him as more than just a male stripper. Even better, it felt good to simply see her.
He studied her reflection in his side mirror as they idled at a light. She was as starched and buttoned-up as ever. The way her eyes lingered on him at the club, especially when he’d modeled dance moves, proved her cool composure was a façade. Beneath it lurked the passionate, hedonistic woman he’d first met, and the temptation rose to peel off her suit to reveal the wanton underneath.
And he hadn’t been the only one appreciating Katherine. He zoomed off the white line, turning left, watching carefully as Katherine followed. Dallas Heat’s network installer, Robert Thompson, seemed interested in her as more than an old friend. It set Nash’s teeth on edge. He wasn’t the jealous type. So why did another guy fawning over Katherine bug him? He’d felt like a possessive boyfriend when he’d hustled her away from the chatty friend who’d made Katherine’s professional demeanor falter.
Why?
He filed the question away to ask another time. His gut sensed shared history, and not the good kind.
Thirty minutes later, at his condo, Nash stirred bubbling tomato and basil sauce on his cooktop. “White or red?”
At his question, Katherine glanced up from the case notes spilled across the table on the other side of his granite countertop. “White.”
She’d removed her suit jacket and draped it around the back of her chair, revealing another of those high-collared white shirts. His hands already itched to touch her, his fingers flexing with the effort to restrain himself from undoing each of those delectable little buttons one by one, revealing her silken flesh slowly, drawing out the anticipation…
Even if he didn’t plan to seduce her, there was always the small possibility something more could happen. She was a very attractive woman alone with him in his condo for the evening. The idea that he could touch her, taste her, make her purr with pleasure already made him twitchy.
Especially since she’d ratcheted up the temperature between them by the simple act of removing one layer of clothing.
One. Freaking. Layer.
He lived in a world of G-strings and pasties…yet somehow the more she covered up, the more he wanted to see.
And the more he thought about that, the more he seemed to think about her. She had a body that would draw any guy’s eye and serious guts to tough it out in her hard-core profession. And the way she was peering at him through her lashes right now…she had him ready to sweep her off her feet and carry her to his bedroom, or the sectional, even the kitchen floor would do….
With a groan, he forced his heated gaze away and set a kettle of water to boil. He poured the wine, grabbed a beer for himself, and joined her, his fingers lingering against hers as he passed over her glass.
“The fact that Brittany was last seen at a club, out with girlfriends, is a glaring similarity with all the victims, including Layla—a crucial part of the behavioral sequence of the crime.” Katherine swirled her wine, lifted it to her mouth, and sipped it. “The killer chooses his victims based on their desirability rather than their vulnerability.”
Foam spilled down the sides of Nash’s beer the instant he popped its top. “What about accessibility?” He mopped up the spill. “How is he able to abduct his victims so easily and without any witnesses?”
“He’s charismatic, disarming, gains women’s trust easily.”
Nash nodded as he drank.
“Also, he hunts in places where he’s expected to be seen, so he doesn’t stand out, doesn’t appear on anyone’s radar. Our killer frequents the downtown club scene, but not as a clubgoer. He has a purpose there that makes women think he means them no harm when he offers them rides or approaches them.”
Nash lowered his bottle to the table. “He works there.”
“It’s possible.”
Water bubbled over the side of the pot and hissed on the heated burner. It pulled a reluctant Nash from his chair into the kitchen where he dumped in spaghetti and a sprinkle of salt. An electric buzz fired though him, making his body hum. He enjoyed brainstorming with Katherine, seeing how her clever mind worked, the sense of camaraderie growing between them.
“Behind the scenes, the unsub’s signature is the prolonged and intense torture of women. It satisfies some psychological need…what is it?” Katherine mused aloud.
“Positioning the victims’ bodies, leaving them on display for shock value, says this guy wants to humiliate and shame his victims.” Nash tasted the red sauce, sprinkled in more basil, and stirred the simmering brew.
“He’s acting out a revenge fantasy,” Katherine added, joining him in the kitchen. “And this looks amazing.” She handed him his beer, smiling, and his heart nearly knocked out of his chest.
Look. Don’t touch, he cautioned, at war with himself, wanting to make love to her again when he needed to act professional. She’d shut him out if he crossed the line.
“The killer’s also a narcissist,” Nash observed. “He’s seeking attention by disposing of his victims in a way that demands public attention. It’s basically his way of saying, ‘I’m presenting my trophy here. Screw you, law enforcement. Try to catch me if you can.ʼ”
“True.” Katherine shot him an admiring look, her approval stoking to life something he hadn’t felt in a while. Something hard to name…. Pride? Self-respect? A sense of being exactly where he was meant to be—of finally occupying the space that’d been waiting for him all along? They worked well together, fed off each other, mentally and physically. If he was a detective, this would be his life.
“Displays are usually directed at the authorities,” Katherine continued. “Posing tends to be more personal. This killer’s doing both. He’s an egotist who doesn’t fear capture or detection, a man filled with rage and hostility toward women. He takes trophies from his victims to relive his depraved acts. And he’s done this before, but not here, not until recently. Tammy Win, an agent at my former unit in Quantico, is looking into unsolved murders with similar signatures, but so far, nothing.”
Nash dipped a wooden spoon into the sauce, blew on it, then held it to Katherine’s lips.
Her lips closed around the spoon. “So good.” All the blood in his head rushed to his groin at her moan of pleasure, an excruciatingly torturous sensation. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Like I said, I’m a man of many talents…”
Her eyes dropped to his bulging zipper. “I’ll say.”
“And my neighbor’s an eighty-four-year-old Italian grandmother who teaches me a thing or two in exchange for running errands.”
“That’s sweet of you.” Her hand briefly rested on his arm, the simple touch turning him inside out.
He cleared his strangled throat. “Before Nonna Giovanna, I thought pesto was an insecticide. Believe me, I’m getting the better end of the deal.”
“And I’m benefitting from it.” She released him and raised her wineglass. “To Nonna Giovanna and you for this wonderful meal. I haven’t eaten more than peanuts and protein bars in days.”
Nash pulled a spaghetti string from the water and bit its end. “Do you like your pasta al dente or soft?”
“Al dente, though I’ll eat it any way. I’ve even nibbled on it out of the box when on the run. I’m a pasta fiend.”
“Me, too. Although I usually wait to cook it first.” White steam billowed when Nash dumped the spaghetti into a strainer set in the sink.
“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.” Behind him, cabinet doors creaked open then closed. “Is this pasta bowl okay?”
He turned and the sight of Katherine, rosy-cheeked and smiling as she held out the pottery piece, knocked the breath out of him. She looked at home in his kitchen—in his life—and it scared him a little. How would it feel when she left again?
Empty.
“Fine.
” Nash poured the spaghetti into the bowl; Katherine ladled sauce over it. “I called Layla’s friend. She confirmed Layla dyed her hair before they went out. Said it slipped her mind.”
Katherine’s eyes swerved to his, her mouth tipped down in the corners. “A big detail to forget.”
“Would it have made a difference in finding her sooner?”
“If you hadn’t brought Layla to me, she might have stayed lost.” After a brief pause, she hurried to say, “Not that you wouldn’t have found her…. It’s just I have more resources, and her abductor is a clever son of a bitch.”
“So am I.” Nash opened his fridge and peered inside, lingering to let the frigid air cool his overheating body. “Is Romano okay?”
“Parmesan is just a poor man’s Romano,” she said, a smile in her voice.
He fished out the block, grabbed a cheese grater from his drawer and grinned back at her. “Exactly.”
Katherine leaned over the pasta bowl, sniffing. “It’s still not clear why we haven’t found Layla, posed and displayed, like the rest.”
Pungent, cream-colored flakes drifted over the pasta as he grated the cheese. “He was proud of those kills. Maybe he wasn’t proud of Layla.”
She nodded, tapping the side of her wineglass with her fingernail, lost in thought. “Layla wasn’t a natural blonde—something he would have discovered when he brought her home or wherever he keeps his victims.”
“And she’s not from the right side of the tracks. His other victims all come from privileged families.” He nodded to a newspaper on his countertop. A headline blared: Inside the Lives of a Serial Killer’s Victims. “He resents women he perceives to be powerful. He gets more gratification when he wields power over them.” Nash grabbed a warm, crusty loaf of Italian bread from the oven and dumped it in a breadbasket.
Katherine’s brow scrunched in thought. “But how would he know their social status unless…”
“Unless he stalked them before grabbing them. Something he didn’t do with Layla. She was an impulse grab, not his originally intended victim.”
Nash carried the pasta bowl to the table, Katherine behind him with the bread and her refilled wineglass, a fresh bottle of beer for him thoughtfully tucked under her arm. “He prefers to learn about them, first. He uses the knowledge when he tortures them,” Nash theorized as he scooped pasta into their bowls.
