by Debra Webb
At the door, she shoved her key into the lock. She loved the pink brick and white columns that set the front facade of her place apart from the neighbors’. It was hers. Her safe haven. She had barely gotten settled, but it felt like home already. That part had come as a surprise, considering she didn’t want to be here.
Inside, she tossed her purse and keys onto the table by the door and took a deep breath, letting go of a big chunk of stress. She was glad to see this day end.
“I’ll call Steak-Out,” she offered, “the beef tips are great. How do you like yours cooked?”
“Medium.”
She grabbed the cordless phone and entered the number she had memorized. As she placed the order, she removed her weapon and shoulder holster and went into her bedroom to put both in the bedside table drawer the way she did every night. Vivian thanked the voice on the phone that assured her the order would arrive within forty-five minutes. She would have to prowl around in the fridge for a snack to tide her over; she was starved.
“The food’s going to be—” McBride sat on her sofa thumbing through a photo album. That privacy invasion sent her guard up. “Forty-five minutes.”
He closed the album, set it aside, and sank back in the cushions, the navy of his shirt a stark contrast to the white slipcover of her sofa … to the white of the wall behind it. She hadn’t realized until that moment how bland and white her space was. Everything about him seemed to stand out, left all else in obscurity. The darkness of his clothes … the shadow of a day’s beard growth. His tanned skin. And that probing gaze that locked in on her as if she were a target.
She wasn’t letting him do that to her … not here … not now with them alone. Bringing him home had been a risk, but like Worth said, the unsub was watching him. Leaving him alone in that hotel room was a bigger risk. And McBride wouldn’t have agreed to go with anyone else.
“I know what you’re thinking, Grace.” He draped his arms across the back of her sofa as if inviting her to join him.
Oh, no he didn’t. If he did, he would be arguing that a big tough guy like him could definitely take care of himself. And he could, she had no doubt. But this freak, Devoted Fan, was smart, just like McBride said. He planned his every move down to the last detail. No mistakes were made in the carrying out of those plans, which indicated there wasn’t a high level of excitement or passion involved in the execution. Determination, satisfaction maybe, but nothing so undisciplined as any of the more thrilling emotions. With this latest victim and the vague description they had from the witness, Quantico was attempting to put together a profile.
But she already knew what it would say. Obsessed. Relentless. He wasn’t going to stop until he got what he wanted. The scary part was, did he really know what he wanted? A man as brilliant as he surely had to know he couldn’t manipulate the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
That on the table, what was his ultimate goal?
“You’re thinking,” McBride picked up where he’d left off, “that you need to protect me.”
She could only imagine where he was going with this. “I know, I know. You’re big and strong.” She strode across the room, picked up the photo album, and tucked it back on the shelf where it belonged. “You don’t need protecting.”
He rose from that white background in one fluid motion and took a step toward her. “But I do.”
Without a single pause he moved directly into her personal space. Incredibly, she let him.
“I need you to protect me from myself, Vivian Grace.” He studied her face as if he had just one shot to memorize every tiny detail. Lastly, he homed in on her lips, licked his own. “You have the most—”
“Amazing lips,” she finished, her outrage going from mild to mighty in just one downward sweep of his inordinately thick lashes as his undivided attention zeroed in on her lips. “I’ve heard it before, McBride.”
His gaze linked with hers and the wicked satisfaction twinkling there incited her competitive streak.
“You’ve been bucking for a reaction from me since the moment you opened your front door and found me waiting on the other side,” she accused. “You’re not going to get what you want. You might as well give up now.”
He reached out and she stiffened, those long fingers of his twined in and trailed the length of a wisp of hair that had fallen loose from its clasp. “You should wear your hair down.”
As angry as she was, that surly, sexy voice of his still managed to make her tremble inside.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with, McBride.”
His gaze flew back to hers as she grabbed him by the shoulders and, in that instant before she pulled his mouth down to hers, she saw two things … surprise and hesitation. His reaction spurred her courage. She kissed him hard on the lips, lingered a moment to ensure he got a good taste of hers. That was what he’d harped on … obsessed about … driven her crazy over—her lips.
Just as abruptly, she pushed him away and backed up a step. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of our systems, take a shower. The food’ll be here soon. And I don’t know about you, but I want some sleep.”
As she walked away, she called over her shoulder, “Leave your clothes outside the guest room door and I’ll throw them in the wash.”
She closed her bedroom door behind her and sagged against it. Had she just done that?
Her trembling fingers touched her lips. She’d had a point to make, that was all. Then why did she feel all shaky and warm inside? That wasn’t supposed to happen. She had been aiming to back him off …
Somehow she had missed the mark, by about a mile.
10:30 P.M.
“Be still.”
Vivian froze … didn’t even breathe. The wet fabric of the tank top clung to her skin, molded to her unrestrained breasts. If she moved … if she dared to drag the dank air into her lungs he would notice.
A finger flicked across one pebbled nipple.
Her gasp was involuntary. Be still! Don’t move. Don’t breathe.
He smiled, the expression a stark, mocking contrast to the bejeweled mask covering the entirety of his face above that sneering mouth. “You like that, don’t you?”
Bile churned in her stomach. “Yes,” she lied, careful to keep her voice submissive, her eyes lowered. She would never forget those demonic eyes. Never.
The tip of that same finger trailed down her rib cage, over her belly to stop at the edge of her panties. It took every ounce of resistance she possessed not to shudder in disgust.
“On your knees,” he demanded, his voice cruel, his eyes glowing like amber coals straight from hell.
She lowered to the cold, damp stone floor. Inside, she screamed. Please make him stop. Somebody please help me. But outside, where he could see, she remained composed, obedient. His servant.
She stared at his crotch through slitted eyes; the bulge there made her jaw tighten. She struggled to loosen those clenched muscles. Had to relax. Don’t let him see the tension.
Please, please, don’t let him do this. Not again.
“Suck me.”
The savagely whispered order sent dread creeping over her flesh, sinking into her bones. Her fingers went directly to the fly of his trousers. She knew better than to hesitate. If she hesitated, even a single second, she would die. Like the others.
She opened his trousers and cautiously worked him free of his form-fitting briefs. He groaned. Her body operated on autopilot … her mind took her someplace else. Far away. So she wouldn’t have to see … so she wouldn’t have to feel.
He gripped her chin ruthlessly, tilted her face upward. The pad of his thumb smeared across her lips. There was no physical or mental response to his touch. She felt nothing now … nothing … not even the fear. She was in that place he couldn’t reach. It was her only escape. Her heart knew the truth, and now her mind accepted it. No one was coming to save her.
“Such a lovely mouth.” He forced her lips apart and dipped his thumb inside. “Make me happy, Number Thirteen. Mak
e me happy, and I’ll let you live another day.”
A scream wrenched from her throat.
Vivian bolted upward, her arms flailing. She had to get away. Had to run!
“Grace!”
Fingers clamped around her arms, shook her. Fight him! Don’t let him win!
“Grace! Wake up!”
Vivian froze. The breath was, trapped in her lungs as her eyes flew open.
The lamp on her bedside table allowed her to see that it was McBride who sat on the bed next to her, his fingers biting into her arms.
“You okay?”
For five, then ten, seconds she didn’t know how to respond.
McBride. Her bedroom. Devoted Fan.
The trapped air rushed out of her lungs.
The nightmare. She’d had the nightmare. Again.
Brain synapses fired once more. “God.” She pushed her hair out of her face, became aware of the perspiration dampening her skin and of the sheets twisted around her legs. “Sorry. I … I had a nightmare.”
“No shit.” He released her, exhaled a big breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She glanced at the alarm clock, half past ten. Why hadn’t Worth called by now?
“I don’t know about you,” McBride said as he stood, “but after that I need a drink.” He offered his hand.
In nearly five years not a single nightmare. Her first big case, her first opportunity to move to a new level in her career, and it had to start again.
Losing what was left of her battered mind or just plain old suffering from a moment of utter weakness, she put her hand in McBride’s, kicked free of the sheets, and clambered out of bed.
He led her through the dark house as if he had already committed to memory the layout of her home. In the kitchen, he flipped a switch that turned on the light over her sink.
“What have you got around here, Grace? Wine? Beer? Anything?” He released her and went to the fridge to have a look.
The Styrofoam containers from Steak-Out sat on the counter stinking up the room. She should have taken care of those before collapsing.
“I think there’s a bottle of wine under the sink,” she said when McBride emerged from his perusal of the refrigerator.
He was half dressed as usual, jeans riding low on his hips. At least they were partially zipped this time. Thankfully she had pulled on a pair of lounge pants and a camisole after her shower. Jesus, she hadn’t expected to sleep straight through to this hour of the night. She had counted on having McBride back at his hotel by dark. Mostly she had hoped to have some much-needed distance. Things were shifting into dicey territory between them and she had to stop that plummet toward disaster.
“White merlot.” He made a strange face at the bottle he had discovered, then shrugged. “That’ll work.”
When he started prowling through drawers for an opener, she said, “The one next to the dishwasher.”
He located the corkscrew, deftly opened the bottle, and snagged two glasses.
Watching those movements, knowing what they would lead to, her good sense abruptly kicked in. She opened her mouth to put a stop to his plan here and now but he hesitated right in front of her as if he had known exactly what she was going to do. “Come with me,” he ordered.
It was in that moment with him standing only inches away that the haze of the haunting dream and the confusion he made her feel cleared enough for her to remember …
She had kissed him.
Oh, dear God.
He strode to the sliding door across the adjoining living room and stepped out onto the deck.
The way he moved held her captive until another realization poked its way through her bewilderment.
He had left her door unlocked. Open. Was he crazy?
No, he wasn’t crazy. She was. Bringing him here was crazy. Kissing him was just plain dumb. Shaking her head, she took the same path he had only with wholly different intentions. If they were going to be working together for an unspecified time, she had to get some kind of boundaries back into place. Somehow, her plan to get the whole meeting-of-the-lips thing over with hadn’t exactly accomplished the goal she’d had in mind.
Her deck was awash in moonlight, which she appreciated. The lower the light, the less likely he could assess her every expression and gesture. Oh, but he would try.
She climbed into her favorite wicker rocker and curled her legs beneath her. Might as well get comfortable. Until Worth called, she had no choice about keeping him here. McBride’s lighter flashed and the fiery glow from the lit cigarette glittered as he took a long, leisurely drag.
“Tell me about the nightmare.”
No way. “That’s personal, McBride.” Where was her cell phone? “I need my phone. Worth’ll call and—”
“Don’t move. I’ll get it.” He left his cigarette in the ashtray and went inside.
She could’ve argued with him but it wouldn’t have done any good. Frankly, she wasn’t sure it was possible to set any boundaries with him. The man didn’t play by the usual rules and that left her grappling for balance and structure.
The breeze was chilly or maybe it was only because her skin was still damp from sweating out her private demons. That McBride had been in her room, was in there now, touching her phone and anything else he damn well pleased, made her shiver.
Idiot. God, she had kissed him. She was a complete, utter idiot.
She had hoped to diminish that tension building between them with that hasty gesture. Unfortunately her attempt appeared to have flopped big-time.
McBride returned, placed her cell as well as his own on the table next to the ashtray.
He settled back into the chair and took a drag from his Marlboro. “Where were we? Oh yeah, you were going to tell me about the nightmare.”
Did he honestly think she would share something that private with him? He had to be mental.
When he continued to sit there, waiting, she reiterated, “I’m not telling you anything, McBride.”
He smashed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You share your war story, I’ll share mine. I know all about nightmares, Grace.”
That gave her pause. She was tempted. Like every other new recruit, she had heard all the speculation about what happened to the great Hunter. No one knew for sure. When this assignment came up, she had read the report he had submitted on his final case, but it had been edited, declassified. Big black lines blocked out a good portion of the information. That told her there was far more to the story than the top brass wanted anyone to know.
“Sorry,” she tossed back. “No can do.”
He poured the wine, passed her a glass.
“Don’t think you’ll ply me with drink.” She laughed, the sound more brittle than she would have liked. Damned dream. She hated the way it left her feeling. Shaken and afraid. She hated being afraid.
“Let me take a shot at it,” he offered.
The hand holding the glass trembled. He couldn’t possibly know. No one did, except Worth and Pierce.
“Forget it.” She gulped the merlot, needing some form of relief that didn’t include … him. She blocked the images trying to burst through the thin barrier she used to protect herself from the past. Under normal circumstances she was very good at that.
“This incident involved a man.”
That cruel voice … the vile whispers in the dark … she had tried so hard to forget echoed in her head. “Give it up, McBride,” she tossed back, playing off his suggestion. She couldn’t let him hear the reaction in her tone, that would only egg him on.
“Took place at or during college.”
She stilled. How could he know that?
“Ah-ha. I’m right.”
“You’re guessing,” she countered, her voice way, way fragile. A dead giveaway.
“Didn’t have to guess.” He sipped his wine. “Your photo album told me.”
She bit her lips together to prevent asking how the hell her photo album had told him anything.
“Lo
ts of snapshots during high school, a few before that, and then nothing until the academy photos. That’s a sizable lump of time. Important time. College days.”
Her throat tightened and her stomach rebelled at even the idea of more of the wine. Her heart rate had kicked back up to postnightmare pounding. She should call Worth. Find out what the holdup was.
“Tell me, Grace,” McBride whispered through the darkness, his voice soft and cajoling. “It’s just you and me. Partners. You can’t possibly have any demons uglier than mine.”
Her lips quivered and before she could stop herself she said it. “Nameless.”
The word resonated through her, making her insides writhe with equal measures of fear and disgust.
The initial silence told her he hadn’t expected that.
“You were the final victim … ?”
Oh yeah. Surprise. Shock. Horror. Worth’s reaction had been the same. She hadn’t wanted to tell him, either, but Pierce had insisted. Either she told Worth or he would.
Damn Pierce. She had trusted him and he had let her down.
“But …” McBride hesitated, that too discerning mind no doubt analyzing every tiny detail he had learned about her to date. “Grace. That’s not your real name.”
“It’s my mother’s maiden name.” She had been born Vivian Taylor. Changing her name, changing colleges, it had been the only way to endure what came after survival. Living with it.
McBride stood. She tensed. He moved to the edge of the deck and braced his hands on the railing, seemingly peering out at the darkness.
A minute or two elapsed, long enough for her to squirm. She shouldn’t have told him. Major mistake.
He turned, leaned against the railing. “What the hell are you doing with the Bureau?”
“My job,” she snapped. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m damned good at it.”
“When you don’t freeze up.”
That was a low blow. She held back her first reaction to his statement, then she hugged her arms around her knees and told him the truth. “My past has nothing to do with the present. The Bureau is my life now. I’m not looking back, McBride. It isn’t healthy.” As you should well know, she considered tacking on but didn’t.
